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empath-bunny · 3 days ago

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Touched By An Angel... Drained By A Succubus (Roman Godfrey X Reader)

A/N: This oneshot is an anon request. Alsooo I’ve mentioned before how Katie McGarry’s books influenced me and I think it’s only right we get Roman’s POV for this one! (think S1 when he’s upir but doesn’t know it yet and just has this “ugliness” inside of him.)

Summary: Roman thinks you’re innocent—which, to be fair, isn’t entirely wrong. But once you cash in your V-card, he quickly realizes he seriously underestimated you.

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, fluff, loss of virginity, explicit sexual depictions, oral, light bondage, foul language, alcohol/drug use, maybe some angst? back at it with religious/angelic references (sorry to the anon who requested this but you can’t bring up an innocent virgin and expect me not to make it a religious experience), Reader is insatiable and Roman will never know peace again.

Word Count: 15.2k uhhh… so yeahhh it definitely got a little out of hand here.

Roman

Letha’s been talking about angels again.

Some dream she had. She says it felt real—holy, even. Like a sign. Archangel Gabriel visiting Mary type of shit. She talks about it like it was beautiful. Like it meant something.

I think she’s cracked.

I’ve only ever set foot in a church for funerals, and even then, I waited outside most of the time, smoking instead of wasting my breath on prayers no one’s listening to. God’s never shown up for me. Can’t say I blame him.

She walks next to me through the halls of Hemlock High, still wrapped up in her fantasy, her voice all lit up like something’s watching over her. But the lights above us flicker like they’re about to burn out, and the whole building hums with decay. If angels exist, they’re not here.

It’s the first day back after summer break, and everything already smells like sweat, stale ambition, and whatever cheap cologne’s trending this week. The eyes are back too. Watching. Whispering. Letha gets the saint treatment. I get the devil in designer clothes.

She smiles at people. I don’t.

We pass the trophy case, and some underclassmen part like we’re royalty. Or poison. Same difference.

She keeps talking about the dream. Her voice is light, almost reverent. Like she’s trying to keep something sacred alive in a place that only knows how to kill it.

“Do you think it means something?” Letha asks, glancing up at me like I might actually say yes.

I let out a short laugh, running a hand through my hair. “Means you need to lay off the NyQuil before bed, cuz.”

She doesn’t laugh. She just keeps walking, flicking her blonde hair over her shoulder in a way that makes it obvious I’ve hit a nerve.

The halls buzz with that familiar cocktail of hormones and insecurity. Girls pretend not to look at me; their boyfriends pretend it doesn’t bother them. But it does. I see it in the clenched jaws, the stiffened posture, the way their hands clamp just a little tighter around their girlfriends’ waists—like that’ll stop her eyes from wandering.

I can’t help but smirk.

I’d almost feel bad for them—if I didn’t get such a kick out of watching them squirm.

Letha’s voice pulls me back in, still going on about angels and signs like she’s some kind of prophet, but I’m way past giving a damn. The halls are a tired mess of whispers and sideways glances, and I’m just counting down the minutes until my next cigarette.

“You really don’t believe in anything, do you?” she asks, almost pouting.

“Sure I do.” I smirk, deciding to have a little fun with it. “I believe in nicotine, in fucking like I invented it, and the last time I heard angels sing, Brooke Bluebell was begging me not to stop.”

She scrunches her face in a full-on grimace. “Ew, Roman!”

I can’t help it—I burst out laughing and reach for her shoulder, trying to steady myself. The look on her face is too good, like I just personally offended God.

The bell slams through my laughter—a brutal reminder that the day’s begun and summer’s officially over. I let out the last of it with a breath, still grinning as the hallway stirs back to life.

The crowd breaks apart, scattering like crows at the sound of a shotgun. Letha rolls her eyes and shakes her head at me, but there’s the faintest trace of a smile before she turns and disappears into her English class.

I walk a few doors down and slip into History, the grin already fading. Back to reality.

The classroom door feels like a cage snapping shut behind me. I slide into my usual spot—back corner, where nobody bothers me. The teacher drones through roll call, the list of names a litany of wasted potential. I zone out, counting ceiling tiles, running my fingers along the scuffed edge of my desk.

Then the door opens again.

She walks in like she’s not sure she’s allowed to. Cheeks flushed, eyes down, arms folded like she’s trying to hide inside herself. It’s subtle, but the whole room shifts. People notice.

So do I.

Dark hair falling neatly around pale skin. Winged eyeliner sharp as a knife. Oversized sweater swallowing her small hands. And her eyes—icy blue, wide and uncertain. Like someone who still expects the world to be kind, even when it proves otherwise.

She’s beautiful.

Not in the obvious, desperate way most of the girls in Hemlock are—no heavy makeup, no fake-ass smile, no push-up bra screaming for attention.

She’s the kind of beautiful that doesn’t know it yet. The kind that doesn’t try; doesn’t have to. Cute, quiet, shy. Soft around the edges in a way this place will eat alive.

And under that oversized sweater—unbuttoned just enough to tease—is a shirt that hugs every curve. Tight waist, long legs, and yeah… amazing tits. But she’s not putting them on display. It’s like she doesn’t even know they’re a weapon yet.

That just makes it worse. Or better. I haven’t decided.

“Take a seat next to Roman,” Mrs. Rowe says, pointing vaguely in my direction.

I’ll be damned. Maybe God’s finally throwing me a bone—a fragile, porcelain one, in the shape of a teenage girl.

For a split second, I let myself believe it.

But then I remember—god doesn’t give a damn about guys like me.

I huff out a laugh, low and sharp, and shove the thought down before it even has a chance to take hold.

Damn. Letha really got in my head this morning.

She walks slowly, quietly, like she’s afraid even her footsteps are too loud. Her arms wrap the sweater tighter around herself. She doesn’t meet anyone’s gaze, not even mine. And when she sits down beside me, it’s like a ripple goes through the room—except I’m the only one who feels it.

She smells like strawberries.

The real kind, not the fake candy version girls here usually drown themselves in. Something softer. Natural. Sweet.

And fuck, she looks just as sweet as she smells.

I stare straight ahead, trying to pretend I’m not already thinking about her—those lips, that body, the way her fingers might feel if she touched me. Trying not to care. Trying to bury whatever this is. But the ache is there, low and hot, curling in my gut like a secret I don’t want to get out.

I steal a glance—just one.

She’s got her head down, doodling in a notebook like the paper’s safer than people. Her lip is caught between her teeth, her hands still hiding in her sleeves.

Like this, she almost looks breakable.

And all I can think is, I shouldn't be anywhere near her.

Not with the things I think. The things I want.

Not with the way people like me ruin everything we touch.

Still, she’s here.

Looking innocent in a way that makes my chest ache and my pants tighten.

Fuck me.

Maybe Letha’s right. Maybe angels do exist. But if so, this one’s already fallen—and now she’s sitting next to the worst kind of sinner.

Reader

Everyone in this school has a staring problem.

Not the normal, curious “oh, new girl” kind of stares. No. These are different. Lingering. Pinning. Like they’re trying to dissect me without saying a word. Like I walked into their perfect little snow globe world and knocked something off the shelf.

I pull my sweater tighter, wishing it could swallow me whole. Like maybe if I hide deep enough in the folds, I can skip this part. The part with the burning stares, the awkward first lunch, the low-grade humiliation that clings to every second of being new.

Because it’s not just the stares. It’s the silence between them. The whispers that stop just a second too late. The way everyone already seems to know each other, like their roles have been carved in stone since freshman year, and I missed the casting call.

But I made it through three classes.

That’s something.

And, okay—maybe I made a friend.

Letha Godfrey. Ethereal. Effortlessly kind. The kind of girl who makes you want to believe genuine friendship still exists. She sat next to me in chemistry, complimented my eyeliner, smiled like she meant it, and told me I could sit with her at lunch.

Just like that.

And now here I am, walking toward the cafeteria, trying to pretend I don’t feel like I’m about to throw up. I suck in a breath, hold it for a second. I can do this. I’m sweet—charming, even. People like me. I can make friends, no problem. I just have to get past the shyness first.

I spot her almost immediately. Long blonde hair, shining like she stepped straight out of a Pantene commercial. My nerves twist themselves into knots. She’s already at a table near the center of the room, surrounded by people who look like they’ve never had an awkward phase in their lives.

And next to her—

Slouched.

Legs spread.

Looking like he owns the school and might burn it down out of boredom—

Roman Godfrey.

His eyes meet mine before I’m even halfway across the room.

Green. Sharp. Unwavering.

And suddenly I forget how to breathe.

Roman was the first person I noticed staring at me today. First period, History. He sat in the back corner like the class didn’t matter—like nothing really did. I was assigned a seat next to him, and his eyes kept drifting toward me when he thought I wasn’t looking. Not in that gross, obvious way most guys stare. His glances were slower. Measured. Like he was trying to figure something out.

And if I hadn’t been so busy trying not to blush under the weight of it, I might’ve enjoyed it more.

Now, under his gaze, my skin prickles with heat. I want to look away, but my feet keep carrying me closer—to Letha, to their table, to him.

Letha waves me over, smiling like this is the easiest thing in the world. Like we’re already friends and not two people who just shared a lab table and some small talk.

I try to smile back, but it feels shaky at best. I probably look like I’m about to cry, throw up, or spiral completely. Honestly, I’d prefer to do none of the above. Fingers crossed I can hold it together through lunch.

Roman doesn’t blink.

His gaze hooks into me like he’s waiting to see what I’ll do next. And I hate how aware I am of it. The way his lips tug at the corner like he’s got a secret. The way his fingers toy with a silver ring on his hand like he’s bored—but still watching. It only makes the churning in my stomach worse. Whether it’s nausea or butterflies, I honestly can’t tell. All I know is he’s hot. Like, stupidly hot. And it’s making me feel jittery, off balance, and way too flustered to think straight.

I take a breath. Then another. My heart’s punching against my ribs like it’s got somewhere better to be. I remind myself that it’s just lunch. Just a table. Just a girl who’s being nice to me.

Just a boy who makes it hard to think.

No big deal… right?

Letha’s smile brightens as I reach the table. She leans forward and pats the seat across from her. I slide in, setting my binders and books down with a soft thump. My sleeves slip down over my hands again as I fold them in my lap, fingers immediately fidgeting with the fabric—anything to distract myself from Roman’s eyes.

Letha leans in, her voice soft like we’re sharing a secret. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Me too,” I say quietly. “You kind of saved me from eating in the bathroom.”

She laughs, bright and warm. “That is the alternative for most new kids, yeah. But now you’ve got me, so you’re safe.”

Roman doesn’t say anything. He just leans back in his seat with that half-lidded, unreadable look, still spinning his ring with slow fingers. I don’t look at him, but I feel him. Every shift. Every glance. Just like in history class.

“So,” Letha starts, turning to me like this is the part she’s been waiting for, “Ashley Valentine’s throwing her annual back-to-school party this Friday. It’s at her lake house—massive bonfire, music, keg, regrettable decisions—standard high school chaos.”

My stomach dips again. I’m not really a party person. Too many people, too much noise, and way too much opportunity to humiliate myself.

“I don’t know...” I start, already wincing at how lame I sound.

“You should come,” Letha says, cutting off my hesitation with a grin. “Seriously. You can stick with me the whole time. No pressure. But it’s kind of a thing here, and it’s a good way to meet people without the awkward ‘what class are you in?’ crap.”

“She doesn’t seem like the type,” Roman cuts in, quiet, like a thought he didn’t mean to say out loud.

I glance at him, caught off guard, and there they are again. Those eyes. Striking, magnetic. God, they're beautiful. No—he's beautiful. And distracting. Effortlessly so. His slicked back hair is just tousled enough to look like he ran his fingers through it, and I can't help but wonder what it would feel like tangled in mine.

The thought barely forms before I rein it in and arch a brow. “And what type is that?”

Letha groans. “Ignore him. He’s allergic to manners.”

Roman shrugs. “I’m just saying. You seem like the ‘stay home with a book’ type. Classic good girl.”

Heat flares in my chest. Good girl. Like that’s a bad thing. Like he’s already put me in a box and closed the lid.

“You don’t know what type I am.” I say, sharper than I intended.

Something shifts in his expression, so quick I almost miss it. But it’s there. Interest sharpening. Like, I surprised him.

“I’m figuring it out,” he says.

And just like that, my mouth goes dry.

Letha glances between us, eyebrows raised like she’s watching a movie and isn’t sure if it’s a rom-com or the setup to a psychological thriller. “Okayyy… weird tension noted,” she says, half-laughing. “Anyway, please come. Seriously. It’ll be fun, I promise!”

I hesitate. My brain’s still stuck on the way he said it—I’m figuring it out. Like I’m a challenge. A Rubik’s Cube he’s just picked up, already twisting pieces into place to see how I work.

And somehow, that makes me want to go more.

“Yeah.” I say, “I’ll come.”

Letha beams. “Yes! Perfect. You can come to my house first. We’ll get ready together, raid my closet, all that girly stuff!”

Roman doesn't say anything. But he doesn’t stop looking at me either.

And when Letha turns to someone else, pulling them into a conversation about the party playlist, I glance at him—just a flick of my eyes.

He’s still watching.

And this time, he smiles. Just barely.

But it’s there.

Roman

The bass is already rattling the floorboards, beer-soaked air thick with sweat, smoke, and teenage hormones. Someone spilled a drink two songs ago, and the floor’s still sticky. The back deck’s full of people making bad decisions in the dark, and inside, at the beer pong table, I’ve been on a winning streak for half an hour.

Lightweight girls teeter on the edge of drunk, squealing every time the ball bounces, like it’s their first party and they’ve never seen a ping pong ball before. I’ve already taken forty bucks off two guys who thought backwards hats and letterman jackets made them legends—like they’re destined for frat greatness and this is step one.

The ball lands in the last cup with a clean plunk.

The guy across from me groans, dragging a hand through his hair like I just ended his career. Technically, I ended his wallet.

I flash a grin around the rim of my Solo cup, tilt it back, and drain the last of the beer. Victory tastes like pouty little douchebags and easy money.

I hear Letha’s laugh, and my eyes flick toward the door.

Backlit by porch lights like some twisted teenage holy vision—raven hair glowing at the edges, bare shoulders catching the light in the most distracting way. Legs for days. The dress is hugging her like it’s afraid to let go. She’s trying to look like she belongs, but the nerves are stitched into every inch of her posture.

She’s ditched the sweater. Good. It was hiding things I’d like very much not to be hidden.

My heart stalls. Just for a second.

Letha and her fucking angels.

That’s what she looks like, anyway—otherworldly, uncertain, too soft for this party, and too pretty not to cause a scene. The room stills when she walks in. I feel it. That breathless pause. Heads turn. Voices lower. Even the music feels like it dips.

She doesn’t notice the whole world stopped just for her—okay, maybe just my world.

She’s too busy clinging to Letha’s arm like it’s a life raft in a sea full of sharks.

And I don’t blame her. Every guy here won’t stop staring, circling like they’ve just caught a whiff of fresh blood.

Too bad for them; I won’t be letting anyone close enough to even breathe in her sweet, strawberry scent, let alone taste her.

I lean back against the table, arms crossed, letting the world slowly start moving around me again. I don’t move. I just watch. Make sure none of these dumbfucks try anything.

I can’t believe she actually showed up. She looked like she was going to be sick when Letha even mentioned this party. I figured she'd come up with some excuse, blow the whole thing off.

But she’s here.

And I can’t take my fucking eyes off her.

The music swells again—some shitty remix with too much bass. I barely notice. Because she’s still looking around the room, still smoothing invisible wrinkles from her dress, still holding her breath like she’s waiting to be swallowed whole.

Letha spots me first. Her teal eyes narrow, like she already knows the gears turning in my head. Knows I’ve already made a decision she’s not going to like. She leans in, says something to my angel, and steers her toward the beer pong table.

I wait until they’re within earshot before speaking. Smooth. Confident. A hint of challenge beneath the tease.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

She jumps. Just barely. But I catch it. That flicker of surprise before she straightens, trying to play it cool.

“Guess I’m full of surprises.” Chin up. Shoulders squared. Like she’s daring me to push.

Cute.

Letha shoots me a look as Ashley Valentine starts to pull her away. The kind that says, Behave. The don’t-you-dare-flirt-with-my-new-friend kind.

I ignore it.

“I’d say you look amazing, but that feels like underselling it,” I say, eyes flicking down, then back up. She always looked beautiful in school but now, in that dress, it’s like words don’t even come close.

I watch as her cheeks go pink, and I like it. I like knowing I can make her blush—make her breath catch with just one compliment. Makes me wonder what other reactions I could pull from her… if she let me.

I bite my lip, fighting a smirk, watching as she shifts her weight from one leg to the other, fingers brushing down the front of her dress like she needs something to do with her hands.

“Thanks,” she says, quiet but sincere. Then, after a beat, her gaze lifts to mine again. “You look... good too.”

I raise an eyebrow, teasing. “Just good? Not damn good?”

She ducks her head, laughing softly, and it sounds like something rare, like something she doesn’t give away easily.

“Okay, fine,” she says, blue eyes sparkling. “You look damn good. Happy?”

“Very.” I grin, leaning just slightly closer. “I knew you'd admit it eventually. And lucky I for you, I like being admired.”

Her eyes go wide for half a second, then she rolls them, trying to hide the blush creeping up her cheeks.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she mumbles, smiling despite herself.

“Too late,” I say softly, just loud enough for her to hear over the music.

She opens her mouth, but before she can say a word, someone behind us calls my name, loud and impatient. Time for the next round.

I let my gaze linger. Hold her there a second longer. Let her feel it. Then I push off the table, grabbing the ping pong ball from a red cup and spinning it between my fingers.

I take another drink, letting the beer wash over the wicked thoughts clawing at the back of my mind.

Because if she’s an angel, then damn me—I’m already halfway to hell just for wondering how fast I could clip off her wings.

And maybe how soft they’d feel in my hands.

Reader

The party drags on—louder, sloppier. Music warps into one endless, thumping heartbeat, and the living room starts to feel too full, like the walls are closing in on me. Somewhere between someone throwing up in the sink and a girl crying over a Snapchat story, Letha laces her fingers through mine and tugs me outside.

“Bonfire’s this way,” she says with a knowing smile, like she can tell I’m two seconds from bolting.

The night air hits my skin like a lifeline—cool, pine-scented, and quiet in a way the house isn’t. The yard stretches into a clearing where a crackling bonfire kicks shadows across everyone’s faces. People sprawl out on blankets or sit in collapsible chairs, red Solo cups tipped lazily between their fingers.

Letha and I find a spot on a log near the edge, and someone passes us both drinks of spiked cider, syrup-sweet and deceptively strong. I sip it slowly, hoping it’ll smooth the nerves out of my hands.

But my thoughts are stuck.

Stuck on Roman. Stuck on the moment his voice dipped low, smooth like velvet but rough around the edges, saying I looked amazing like it was a fact. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world—something I should already know about myself. Could he really think I’m that beautiful?

I’ve replayed it in my head at least ten times since.

The way his eyes dragged over me, slow and focused. The way his smirk curled just at the corner, like he knew something I didn’t. It was too much. And still… not enough.

And that scares me.

Because he’s the guy girls warn each other about. The first thing I heard about him, before I even knew his name, was he’s a player. A heartbreaker. The kind of beautiful that causes pain. The human version of a rose—gorgeous, but built to bleed you if you get too close.

I should know better.

But still… there was something different in the way he flirted with me. Like I wasn’t just another girl at another party. Like he wasn’t just bored and looking for a distraction. Like, somehow, it meant something. Like I meant something.

God, I want it to mean something.

I’m probably being stupid.

I’m definitely being stupid.

A guy claps his hands by the fire, dragging me back to reality. “Let’s play a game,” he says, grinning.

Groans and cheers ripple around the fire.

“It’s like Never Have I Ever,” he explains. “Five fingers. You hear something you’ve done, put one down. The last person with fingers up wins. Losers drink.”

A few people laugh and raise their hands without question. Letha lifts hers with an easy smile and nudges me until I raise mine too. I do it slowly, still half-trapped in the haze Roman left behind.

The first question comes quickly:

“Put a finger down if you’ve ever smoked weed.”

Letha drops one immediately, no shame in the smirk she tosses me.

I glance at her, wide-eyed. “Really? You told some guy no earlier.”

She shrugs, laughing. “It was one time! Roman convinced me! I didn’t even inhale right.”

A few people laugh, but I keep my finger up. Letha gives me a mock-scandalized look.

Another question:

“Put a finger down if you’ve ever lied to your parents about where you were.”

That one’s easy. I drop a finger and sip my drink.

“Put a finger down if you’ve ever hooked up with someone at a party.”

More laughter. More fingers fall.

I hesitate, then keep mine up.

The fire pops and shifts. Sparks spiral into the sky like dying stars. And then the guy running the game looks at me and grins.

“Put a finger down if you’ve had sex.”

My stomach does this weird swoop, like I missed a step. Around the circle, fingers fall. Some hesitantly. Some proudly.

I don’t move.

My hand hovers in the air—four fingers raised, standing out like a neon sign.

Still a virgin.

I try not to overthink it. Try not to feel like the world is caving in on itself. But then—glass shatters. Someone threw a bottle into the fire, and the sharp crack jolts through me.

And that’s when I see him.

Roman.

From across the fire, half-shadowed, cigarette dangling from his fingers, his eyes are locked on me. Not mocking. Not smug. Just… focused. Curious in a way that makes my stomach tighten.

His lips are slightly parted. His head tilts—like something about me just got a lot more interesting.

Like the information just told him something he didn’t expect. Or maybe something he hoped for.

The moment stretches—soft, slow, suspended in the smoke between us.

Then someone laughs and throws a marshmallow into the flames. The circle shifts again, attention moving on. But not his.

He’s still watching.

I glance away fast, cheeks warm. I stare down at my drink, pretending to be fascinated by the amber liquid in my cup. But my fingers are still trembling, like they know something I don’t want to admit.

That I want him to look at me like that again.

That I want him to mean it.

Even if I know better.

Roman

This bathroom is too pristine for what I’m about to do.

Marble countertops. Gold fixtures. Probably costs more than my Jaguar. I stare at myself in the mirror for a second—eyes red, jaw tight, every inch of me vibrating with the need to shut everything up. The dull thump of the party hums through the walls; muted bass and bad decisions soaked into every square inch of the house.

I twist the cap off the little vial.

As the powder spills onto the counter, my mind flashes—not to the party, not to the noise outside—but to her.

Four fingers raised.

She hasn’t had sex.

She’s untouched—pure. Holding onto something that half the people at this party threw away the first chance they got. And yet, there she was—chin lifted, cheeks burning, owning it like it meant something.

It does mean something.

It means I should stay the hell away from her.

It means I won’t.

Because I can’t stop thinking about what it would feel like to be the first.

To be the one she lets take that soft, wide-eyed version of her and unravel it slowly.

To see how far she’d let herself fall before the halo slipped.

God, I’m so fucked up.

I grind the edge of the credit card into the powder and exhale through my nose. My chest’s already tight, pulse already skipping.

I shouldn’t want her like this.

But I do.

I want to see if she’d let me in—not just the physical part, not just the body, but the trust. The surrender.

Would she lean into it? Would she fall for real? Would she look at me like I was worth it?

Fuck, I want that more than I’ve wanted anything in a long time.

To be the one she chooses when she’s ready to give that part of herself away. Not because I talked her into it. Not because I played it right. But because it was me.

Because she saw something good in me no one else ever has and said, yes.

I want to be good enough to hold her without making her regret it.

I lean down, inhaling just as the door creaks open behind me.

I hear the gasp before I see who it is.

Shit. Too late to play innocent.

I glance up, still hunched over the counter, wiping at my nose like it makes a difference now.

And there she is.

My porcelain-perfect angel.

Frozen in the doorway like she walked into a crime scene. Her eyes are huge, dark lashes fluttering as they dart from the counter to me, then back again—like she’s trying to make sense of it. Like she initially thought better of me.

Her lips part, but nothing comes out.

Fucking perfect. Just what I needed. The girl I want more than anything to be good enough for, looking at me like she just stumbled into the devil’s den. I straighten up, slow and stupidly casual. Like, if I move too fast, I’ll spook her.

“Well,” I say, smirking through the sudden throb of shame in my chest. “Didn’t expect an audience.”

She blinks, color blooming high on her cheeks. “I—I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“No lock.” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my face like I can wipe this moment off me. “Homeowners mistake.”

Her eyes flick to the line still waiting on the counter. She looks like it’s physically painful to stare at it, but she can’t help herself. Like it’s a car crash and she’s stuck in the passenger seat.

“I’ll just—I’ll go,” she says quickly, backing up a step.

She turns to leave, and before I can think better of it, my hand shoots out and catches her wrist.

She stiffens.

Great. Now I’m the asshole who grabs girls in bathrooms after snorting coke.

“You don’t have to.” I say, voice so quiet I barely recognize it as my own.

She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me like I’m some strange insect she’s never seen before, something unsettling, but not worth screaming over just yet.

“…Unless you have to get back to Letha.” I add, trying to sound unaffected. Like the thought of her running from me doesn’t make something crawl under my skin.

But I don’t let go.

Her throat moves as she swallows. “You’re doing coke.”

“Yeah,” I say. Then, with a bitter smile, “You deserve a gold fucking star for that observation.”

Her blue eyes widen, and regret hits me instantly. I didn’t mean to be a dick, the words just slipped out, sharp and defensive. I want to take them back the second they leave my mouth. But I can’t, so I clench my jaw and say nothing.

“You don’t seem like the type,” she says, softer now, like my words actually hurt.

My stomach twists. I look at her for a second too long, then drop my gaze, ashamed. I let out a dry laugh, tongue tracing the inside of my cheek. “Funny,” I mutter. “Looks like we both misread each other this week.”

Her brows knit. “I just thought—” She cuts herself off.

Thought I was better than this.

She doesn’t have to say it.

“You ever tried it?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.

She shakes her head. Quick. Automatic. Like the question physically unsettles her. “Of course not.”

Of course not.

Because she’s a good girl. Way too good for someone like me.

The kind of girl who smells like fresh strawberries and wears sweaters to hide her body. The kind who blushes when you compliment her, who avoids eye contact and plays with the sleeves of her sweater when she’s nervous. A virgin, for fuck’s sake.

I didn’t want her to see this part of me.

But she’s here, and there’s no hiding it anymore.

“Good,” I say after a second, softer. “Don’t.”

She looks up at me, confused. “Then why do you?”

I almost tell her. Almost say it helps. That it shuts everything up. That sometimes I don’t like the way it feels to be in my own skin, and this is the only thing that makes it tolerable.

But I don’t.

Instead, I give in to the one urge that might drive my angel to run, as if she’s just glimpsed the serpent in the garden. But I can’t stop, not when the forbidden fruit hangs so close, just within reach.

I step in, closing the distance between us until she’s backed against the door and I’m right in front of her. The air shifts—charged and electric, like a storm about to break.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

“Because I already fucked up the parts of me that could’ve been good.” I whisper, finally giving an answer to her question.

Her eyes search mine like she’s looking for something to hold on to. Something redeemable. She won’t find it.

“I don’t believe that for a second, Roman,” she says, soft but certain. “I can see the good in you… even if you can’t.”

And fuck—something in me cracks.

Because she just said the one thing I’ve been dying to hear my entire life.

My hand twitches at my side, aching to reach for her. But I don’t. I shouldn’t. I can barely breathe with how close she is—blue eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising in quick little stutters like maybe she feels it too.

“Don’t say shit like that,” I murmur, gaze flicking down to her mouth. “Not when I’m trying so fucking hard not to want you more than I already do.”

And even with those words she doesn’t push me away, doesn’t pull back.

So I give in. Just a little.

I lean in, slow, like I’m reaching for something I know could burn me, and stop just before our lips touch. Hovering. Waiting. Giving her time to change her mind. Praying to a god I don’t believe in that she doesn’t.

But still she stays perfectly in place.

And that’s all I need.

I kiss her.

Soft at first, like maybe I don’t deserve it. Like maybe I’m still waiting for her to pull away.

But then she kisses me back.

And it’s not shy.

It’s real. Deep. Hungry.

Her back hits the door with a soft thud as I close the space between us, one hand braced beside her head, the other curling around her waist dragging her in, locking her against me like I need her to stay upright. Like I'll fall apart if I don't feel every inch of her pressed against me.

She's soft against me in all the ways that count, and when our bodies align—it's not just contact. It's collision. It's a threat. A promise. Every inch of her is heat and temptation and I'm barely holding it together. My breath hitches, my heart races, and I can feel the hard evidence of how she affects me pressing insistently against her stomach.

She gasps into my mouth, and I take it—suck it down like oxygen l've been missing too long. I chase it deeper, turn the kiss hotter, rougher. It's not just desire. It's desperation. It's been building all night. Maybe longer. Maybe my whole goddamn life.

Her fingers fist in my shirt like she's trying to keep herself grounded, but all it does is drive me closer to the edge. Her nails drag across my chest, her body arches into mine, and when her hips roll—slow, deliberate—I lose track of everything but the feel of her. The pressure. The fire.

My brain goes blank. My body takes over.

There's only her.

Only this.

The heat of her breath. The shape of her lips, soft and swollen. The way her chest rises and falls against mine. And the ache—fuck, the ache—of her grinding into me like she knows exactly what she's doing.

Is this girl sure she’s a virgin?

I pull back just enough to see her face—flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide like she's on the edge of something dangerous and divine. And hell, maybe she is. Maybe we both are.

My hand slides lower, settling on the curve of her hip, my thumb moving in slow circles over the fabric. She shifts again—barely—and that single movement sends a shock straight through my spine. My grip tightens. And fuck, if she isn’t the most sacred thing I’ve ever touched.

Because in this moment—her, me, the drugs on the counter, and the taste of her on my mouth—I’m not sure if I feel more like the devil she walked in on…

…or a boy who just got saved.

Reader

His mouth is on mine again, and I can’t think—I can barely breathe.

It’s like something inside me snapped the second he kissed me. That quiet, careful, disciplined part of myself—the part that would normally tell me to stop, to slow down, to breathe, and to think this through—no longer exists within me. She’s gone. Silenced. Drowned beneath the weight of his mouth on mine and the way his hands know exactly where to touch without even trying.

I don’t know what’s gotten into me.

I’ve kissed before. I’ve dated before. I’ve had boyfriends, been alone in bedrooms, and felt the brush of wandering hands under my shirt. But it never went further than that. I never let it. I never wanted it to.

Until now.

Until him.

And now here I am, pressed up against a bathroom door with Roman’s mouth on mine, his hands burning paths across the fabric of my dress, my body rolling into his like it’s something I was made to do.

And maybe that's what's throwing me the most.

Because I barely know him.

It's only been five days. Five days since I even learned his name. Since we sat next to each other in class, and he looked at me like I was something worth noticing. Since everything shifted.

That should matter. It should be the thing shouting at me right now: This is reckless, this is fast, you don't do this.

But that voice is silent now.

Completely, blissfully silent.

Because he's not like anyone I've ever met. I've heard the stories. I know what people say about him. He's dangerous. He parties too much. He’s been with more girls than I could probably count on two hands.

He’s everything I’ve always been told to stay away from.

And yet…

The way he looks at me—like I matter. Like I’m something holy, something worth worshipping. Like, I mean more to him than he wants me to know.

God, I've never felt anything like this.

It’s both terrifying and intoxicating.

Because deep down, something about him feels familiar. Like I’ve seen him in my dreams before I ever knew his name. Like I’ve been waiting for this moment—for him—without realizing it until now.

His hands slide over the curve of my hip, skimming under the hem of my dress, and I gasp into his mouth without meaning to. My whole body feels hot, like my skin is too small for everything inside me. My hands grip the front of his shirt, holding tight, trying to ground myself, but it's hopeless.

I'm already gone.

He groans into the kiss, low and rough, like he's barely holding on. His lips move from my mouth to my jaw to my throat, trailing heat that makes my knees go weak. I tilt my head instinctively, giving him more, craving the way it feels to be seen, touched, and wanted like this.

I don’t even recognize myself right now.

But I don’t care.

Because I want him. I want this.

And maybe it's insane. Maybe it's too fast. But it doesn't feel wrong.

It feels right. So, so right.

Roman's hands are everywhere. My breasts, my waist, squeezing my ass before trailing down to the backs of my thighs, and before I can even think, he’s lifting me—effortless, like I weigh nothing—and setting me on the marble counter. My dress rides high, my legs falling open just enough for him to step between them. He fits there like he belongs.

Like he was always meant to be there.

I feel him—all of him—hard against me.

Needy.

His mouth crashes back to mine, rougher now, and I meet it with everything I have. My fingers tangle in his hair. My hips roll into him. My body stops caring about rules or time or how little sense any of this makes.

Because I’ve never felt like this with anyone before. I’ve never wanted to be touched like this. I never wanted to give up control, to let someone see me so fully, so close.

But with Roman, I want all of it.

And more.

I want to give him more.

His tongue slides into my mouth again, slow at first, then deeper—hungrier—like he's tasting something he doesn't ever want to give up. I moan softly into him, and it seems to ignite something in both of us. The kiss turns urgent, messy, and full of heat and tension that's been building since the second our lips touched. The way his tongue moves against mine sends a hot rush straight through me, dizzy and sharp, until I can't think of anything but him. Just the taste of him. The feel of him.

His hands trail down, rough and warm, then slip under the hem of my dress like he has every right to be there. His fingers skate along my thighs until the fabric gathers high around my hips. My skin burns where he touches, and when his palms finally land on the bare curve of my waist, I can't help it—I arch into him, a moan escaping me.

I'm trembling, desperate, melting into every inch of his body pressing against mine. My hands fist in his shirt like I'm holding on for dear life, but the truth is I'm already falling. My body has completely surrendered—no more logic, no more caution, no more control. Just need. Just him.

His fingers trace along my waist, pressing just enough to spread the fire already burning beneath my skin. Slowly, they drift higher, my dress lifting further as they glide over my ribs, each light brush sending a delicious shiver through me. Then, with a deliberate slowness that makes my breath catch, his fingers curl around the band of my bra—firm, teasing, and full of promise—setting my pulse racing and leaving me breathless.

And then—

He stops.

Like someone hit pause on the moment.

The sudden stillness of his hands—his mouth—feels like a cruel twist, leaving me burning, breathless, and aching for more. He presses his forehead against mine, his chest heaving like he’s just run a mile, every breath rough and ragged between us.

I blink, dazed and breathless, the spell half-broken. “Roman…?”

He exhales slow, like it physically hurts to pull back. His thumb drags across my hip in one last, lingering touch, gentle and almost reverent, before his hands fall away completely.

“I don’t want this to be how your first time goes,” he says, voice rough and low. “You shouldn’t lose it in a bathroom at a party.”

His words land softly, but they cut deeper than I expect. Coming from the boy who tried to tell me there was nothing good in him—no redeeming qualities—only proves I was right to trust him anyway. Because he cares. He cares enough not to rush me, not to let this be a moment I’d regret. He’s offering me a choice, an out. Most guys would have seen the green light and kept going without a second thought.

But Roman’s not most guys. He’s different, unlike anyone I’ve ever met. I’m starting to wonder if he’s even the same person all those rumors and warnings were about.

I stare at him—this beautiful, complicated boy with the cocaine still sitting on the counter beside us and guilt swimming behind his eyes—and something rises up inside me that I didn’t expect.

“I don’t care…” I whisper, reaching up to touch his cheek, my fingers trembling a little as I turn his green eyes back to me. “I just want you.”

I don’t say it to be reckless. I don’t say it because I’m drunk or trying to prove something. I say it because it’s true.

In this moment, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything more than I want him.

Roman runs a hand through his hair, fingers dragging slow and shaky through the dark mess of it, like he’s trying to get a grip on himself. His hand lingers there for a beat too long, his jaw clenched, his eyes now fixed somewhere over my shoulder like if he looks at me again he won’t be able to stop himself from touching me again.

Then, under his breath, almost like it slips out without permission, “Fuck.”

He drops his hand. Green eyes on me again.

There’s a war in his eyes—hunger and restraint battling it out in real time—and I don’t breathe until he moves. His hands return to my hips, gentle now, careful. He tugs my dress back down slowly, smoothing it into place like an apology. His fingers brush the outside of my thigh as he steps back, not far, but just enough to see me fully.

“You make it really hard to be the good guy,” he says quietly. His voice is still rough, but there's a softness in it now.

He doesn’t see it, but he is good. So much better than he thinks.

My last boyfriend never would’ve stopped like this. He barely knew how. Half the time, I had to push him off and pretend like I wasn’t shaken after. Roman, though? Roman stopped. Not because I asked. Because he chose to.

He licks his lips, hesitating. Then he says, “If you’re really sure… we can go back to my place. My mom’s not home. We’ll have the house to ourselves.”

The words make my chest flutter. I feel the smile rise before I can stop it, soft, but the excitement’s there. I nod a little too quickly, take his hand and let him help me off of the counter.

His fingers stay wrapped around mine as he leads me out of the bathroom, through the haze and hum of the party, past bodies pressed too close and music too loud. No one even notices us. The moment feels small and private, like we’re moving through a world where we don’t exist to anyone.

Outside, the air hits me fast and cool, like a splash of water across overheated skin. The porch light catches on the sleek curves of Roman’s car—the cherry-red Jaguar parked at an angle on the driveway. It fits him perfectly. Expensive. Bold. Too beautiful to be safe.

He opens the passenger door for me and I slide inside, the leather cool and smooth beneath my thighs.

While he walks around to the driver’s side, I pull my phone out. One unread text from Letha:

You good?

I hesitate. My thumbs hover. And then I type:

Hey, I wasn’t feeling great so I left. I’ll text you later <3

I stare at the screen for a second before hitting send, guilt blooming quietly in my chest.

She’s the first real friend I’ve made since moving to Hemlock Grove, and now I’m lying to her. But what could I possibly say?

Hey Letha, I’m leaving to go lose my virginity to your cousin. Hope that’s cool xoxo

Yeah. Definitely not.

I lock the phone and drop it into my lap just as Roman starts the engine. The car hums to life, low almost like a purr. He eases the Jaguar out of the driveway, the convertible top sliding back smoothly. A rush of cool night air washes over us, and I shiver, partly from the chill, partly from the fluttering nerves that won’t settle. It feels good, though, like something waking up inside me.

Then, a song starts playing from the speakers, Sugar for the Pill. I recognize it immediately and reach over to turn the volume up. “I love this song,” I say, smiling.

Roman glances over at me, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “It’s one of my favorites too.”

“What else do you listen to?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light, hoping to distract myself from overthinking what I’m about to do.

He shrugs, eyes locked on the road. “Depends. Sometimes I go for something dark and heavy—usually alternative. Other times, softer and ambient. I like the mix.”

I nod, curious. “Any favorites?”

“Deftones. Ethel Cain. Whirr. And if I’m in a rap mood, usually Mac Miller or 6lack”

My jaw drops when he says Ethel Cain. “Oh my god, I love Ethel! Have you listened to Chelsea Wolfe?”

Roman’s eyes flick to me, a slow smile playing on his lips. “Oh, I’m all about my goth girls. What’s your favorite song of theirs?”

Without hesitation, I say, “Definitely Dust Bowl by Ethel and Feral Love by Chelsea. You?”

He smirks. “Both solid picks. I’m torn between Inbred and Punish for Ethel, and 16 psyche for Chelsea.”

If I wasn’t already into him, that just sealed the deal.

We fall into an easy rhythm, trading bands and songs as the street lights blur past. The music pulls us closer, the words bridging the gap between us.

After a few minutes, Roman turns into a long driveway, and I blink, caught off guard. He never mentioned he lived here.

The house ahead is massive. Three stories of brick, tall windows framed by ivy crawling up the walls. It’s beautiful and a little intimidating.

“This is your house?” I ask softly, almost in awe.

Roman nods, killing the engine. “Yeah. Wait here.”

He climbs out and walks around to open my door, his hand steady as he helps me out. We move toward the front door together. Inside, the marble floors gleam under the soft light of crystal chandeliers. Polished wood lines the walls, and everything feels pristine—elegant, but cold.

He takes my hand leading me towards the spiral staircase just on the other side of the entryway. As we climb, my eyes drift to the old family portraits lining the walls. One catches my attention—a woman with long dark hair (she’s absolutely stunning), with a small boy on her lap. I know immediately it’s Roman.

“Oh my god, you were so cute!” I say, the words slipping out before I can stop myself.

Roman freezes mid-step, glancing at me, then following my gaze to the painting. His eyes widen a little.

“God, I hate that picture. Hated sitting for it even more,” he mutters, a faint flush creeping up his cheeks. “Come on. We’ll have a lot more fun in my room than wasting time with these stupid ass portraits.”

I bite back a laugh as he takes my hand again. For someone who acts so cocky, he’s surprisingly cute when he’s embarrassed.

At the top of the stairs, he opens a door, and the room feels like a different world—messy, warm, personal. Posters cover the walls, books and records are scattered on shelves, and there’s a bar at the corner of his room.

This room, this space, it’s Roman. Not the polished mansion on the other side of the door, but the messy, complicated boy I’m falling for.

The door clicks shut behind us, and my heart beats so hard it feels like it might break free. I want this. I really do. But I’ve never done anything like this before.

Roman’s experience dwarfs mine in comparison, and the questions start tumbling through my mind. What if I’m not what he’s expecting me to be? What if I’m not sexy enough? What if I do something wrong and ruin this?

Almost as if he can sense how nervous I am, Roman reaches out, grabbing my hand and turns me around to face him. He smiles softly, his upper lip curling into it, “You can change your mind.” He says, voice low, almost a whisper. “I need you to know that.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and smile back, small but certain. “I don’t want to change my mind.”

He leans down, his breath warm against my cheek. “We’ll take it slow, okay? And if anything hurts, just tell me. I’ll stop.”

My voice is barely steady. “okay… it’s just—I’m sorry if I’m bad at this.”

He chuckles softly, lips brushing mine teasingly. “That’s not possible.”

I don't have time to respond before he closes the space between us, lips fully pressed to mine now. He kisses me slowly at first, careful, like he's still not entirely convinced I could actually want him. There's this hesitation in him, like he's afraid to take too much, too fast. But I don't want careful.

So I kiss him back, fingers curling into the back of his neck, pulling him down closer to me, like I need him to feel how badly I want this. How badly I want him. The second I lean into it, something shifts. His hand tightens on my waist. His mouth parts against mine, and suddenly the kiss is no longer tentative. It's hot. Messy. Starved. It's like something we've both been holding back for too long, and now there's no going back.

He steps forward, guiding me backward with gentle insistence. I move easily, letting him lead, until the backs of my knees hit the edge of his bed. He doesn’t move me onto it right away; instead, we stand there kissing a moment longer, his hands sliding beneath the hem of my dress, teasingly skimming over my clothed sex, turning my legs to jelly almost instantly. I gasp into his mouth, my fingers threading through his hair, tugging just slightly and he responds with another soft groan, like he's barely holding himself back.

He eases me down onto the bed, his body following mine, bracing himself on his forearms to keep most of his weight off me. But I don't want distance; I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him flush against me, and the heat that flares between us is enough to make my whole body tremble.

"Fuck," he whispers against my throat, kissing down along my jawline, then lower, to the soft curve of my neck. "You have no idea what you're doing to me."

"I think I might," I whisper back, sliding my hand down to feel just how badly he wants me. He lets out a soft moan again at my neck, and my breath hitches as he finds that one sensitive spot just beneath my ear and sucks gently.

His hands roam with more confidence now, pushing my dress higher, fingers tracing the lace edge of my underwear. He doesn't move past it yet, but the promise is there. My skin burns under his touch, my whole body aching for more, and it's all I can do not to beg for it.

He pulls back slightly, his eyes searching mine. "You're still sure this is what you want?"

I nod, but that's not enough. I want him to know that I won’t change my mind. "I want you," I whisper, steady, certain. “So fucking bad.”

That does it.

Roman doesn't hesitate. He leans back down without a word, pressing another kiss to my lips. It's immediate and insistent, and our mouths fall into perfect rhythm, like muscle memory. I feel the soft scrape of his teeth as he catches my bottom lip between them, a teasing bite that sends a shiver down my spine. A moan slips out—raw, involuntary—half pleasure, half relief, like I've been holding my breath without realizing.

I feel him smile into the kiss, that subtle curve of his lips giving away just how much he’s enjoying every little sound he’s able to pull from me. It makes me wonder—do other people make these kinds of sounds too, or are they something only virgins make? Because with every touch, every kiss, he draws out something new from me, like he’s unlocking parts of me I didn’t even know were there.

He breaks the kiss only to pull the dress over my head. He’s gentle taking it off, and I giggle when he tosses it aside. I like how excited he is, how badly he wants this. Wants me. It only makes the wetness between my legs grow. I watch as his shirt comes off next, his eyes dragging down my body like he's starving, and I swear he says my name like a prayer before lowering his head again.

He kisses down my neck to my chest, fingers sliding beneath my back, and I feel the clasp to my bra pop open. Roman doesn’t waste any time pulling that off of me as well. His mouth moves to my breasts, sucking one nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling, teasing, while his hand works the other. I arch into him, gasping, my body already trembling with how badly I want him.

“God,” he says, breath hot against my skin, voice thick. “You’re so beautiful.”

I can't speak. I can only smile, hips rolling up against him, chasing any friction I can get. He keeps moving lower, leaving a trail of warm kisses down my stomach, past my hips. When he reaches the spot where I need him most, he lightly grazes over my panties.

His mouth finds the inside of my thigh, and I gasp, the first brush of his tongue sending a jolt straight through me. The warmth of him, the slow, deliberate drag of his tongue so close but not quite there—it's maddening.

He chuckles softly at my reaction, and the sound is pure sin, vibrating against my skin. His breath is hot and teasing, and when he speaks, his voice is low and rough. “This will help to warm you up.” His lips graze the sensitive skin just beside where I need him most. “Make it feel better for you later.”

Warm me up? How many virgins has Roman dealt with?

My thoughts start to spiral again, and then my breath stalls when I realize what he means. I try to breathe again, but it’s still shaky, not from doubt—but anticipation laced with a hint of fear. The stories, the warnings—it'll hurt at first, you'll bleed, just get through it—echo in my mind.

He feels it in my body, the tiny way I tense beneath him.

"Hey," he murmurs, looking up at me, his emerald eyes soft but serious. "We don't have to. Not unless you're ready.”

"I want to," I whisper, and I mean it. "I just... I'm a little nervous. Everyone says it hurts the first time."

His expression shifts—something protective in it, but still gentle. “It might. But it doesn't have to be awful.” He kisses my inner thigh again, slower this time. "Let me take my time with you. Make it feel good."

I nod, and he doesn't move right away. He watches me, waiting, checking. When I slide my fingers into his hair and push gently, guiding him back down, then he moves.

He presses one more soft kiss against my inner thigh before his fingers clasp around my panties, pulling them down with slow, careful ease. The fabric slides from my hips, then down my legs, and the air kisses my skin as he peels them away. He drops them beside the bed without looking, his focus entirely on me.

For a moment, he just takes me in, eyes dark and reverent, his breath shallow. His fingers trace along my thigh, featherlight, before returning to rest against my hips, grounding us both.

“You look exactly as I imagined,” he says quietly, almost in awe.

Oh? He’s imagined me naked?

The heat rushes back to my cheeks, fierce and sudden. I want to be embarrassed—I feel like I should be—but instead, I’m even more turned on than I was before.

My pulse pounds in my ears. I feel exposed in the best way, vulnerable and completely safe. My fingers flutter up to his cheek, and he turns his face into my palm, pressing a kiss there before lowering himself again.

He starts slow, pressing his lips gently against the inside of my thighs. Each kiss is soft and careful, never rushing, as if he's memorizing every inch of my skin. The heat from his mouth spreads quickly, making my muscles tense and my breath catch.

When he finally flicks his tongue across my clit, I gasp sharply at the sudden, intense contact. My fingers find his hair, pulling him closer without hesitation as he moves his tongue in slow, measured circles. His eyes meet mine, dark and steady, full of quiet hunger.

“God, Roman, that feels so… ahhh…”

Roman lets out a low, satisfied sound, the vibrations only increasing my pleasure as he continues to move his tongue against my clit. The rhythm is patient but firm, coaxing my breath to quicken and my hips to press against him.

His hands slide from my thighs to my hips, holding me steady as he continues. Every touch, every movement, is focused on making me feel good, making me feel safe.

He doesn't rush. Every flick, every stroke is deliberate, like he's learning exactly how to undo me. And God, he is. I can feel it building, fast and hot, my body straining toward the edge.

He sucks lightly, his tongue pressing harder, faster and I fall apart. My vision blurs, back arching, fingers tangling in his hair as he slips a finger inside me, curling it just right. I let out a rather loud moan as he adds another, the sting of it barely registering in the pleasure I’m feeling.

God, if his fingers feel this good, I can’t wait to feel him inside me. The nervousness I felt earlier is almost completely gone as my pleasure builds, bringing me closer to the edge. My body clamps around him, tight and aching, and I can't hold back the noises spilling from my throat—soft, broken, desperate.

"That's it, baby," he murmurs against me. “Come for me.”

And I do.

The orgasm hits me like a tidal wave—sudden and overwhelming. Tears of pleasure brim my eyes, my breath shatters, and I cry out his name as everything inside me clenches and pulses. He keeps going, licking me through it, drawing every last tremor from my body until I'm limp and trembling.

When he finally lifts his head, his mouth is slick, his green eyes dark with heat, and the faintest, satisfied smile plays on his lips. He looks wrecked in the most beautiful way—flushed, breathless, proud.

And he should be.

My body's still trembling, heart racing, but the only thing I can think about is getting him closer. I reach down, fingers clasping his chin, and pull him toward me.

He comes willingly, his weight pressing into me as his mouth meets mine in a kiss that's nothing like the first. This one is deeper than before—more desperate on my end. I taste myself on his tongue, and instead of hesitation, there's only hunger between us now. My legs part for him instinctively, wrapping loosely around his waist, keeping him close.

He groans softly into the kiss, one hand bracing beside my head, the other trailing up my ribcage, fingertips brushing the underside of my breast before resting over my heart, like he needs to feel it pounding beneath his palm.

"Tell me what you want," he says, voice low and rough, lips brushing mine.

"I want you," I whisper against his mouth, pulling him closer, pressing my body into his. "All of you."

I kiss him again, slower now, savoring the feeling of skin against skin. My hands move down his back, then to the waistband of his pants. I quickly move my fingers to the front, fumbling with his belt. Fuck me, why is this shit so hard to undo?

I bite my lip, frustrated but trying not to break the moment with laughter. The leather is stubborn, and my fingers feel clumsy, slick with sweat.

He catches my struggle with a quiet chuckle, his warm breath brushing against my ear. "Here," he says softly, sliding his hands over mine as he moves to his knees, now straddling me. His touch is steadying and patient, and when he takes over, the buckle clicks free in an instant.

I let my head fall back down against the pillow, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. "I swear it's not nerves," I whisper. "It's your ridiculous belt."

His grin is slow, teasing. "Sure. We'll blame the belt."

He slides off of me, standing now. His hands move to push down his pants, the soft rustle of fabric the only sound between us. My eyes follow the motion—slow, careful—drinking in the sight of his sculpted pecs, the defined lines of his abs, and the veins pulsing along his arms. Then my gaze lingers on the way his briefs cling to him, outlining every hard inch of him and leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

I bite my lip. I'd felt him through his jeans—hard and insistent—but seeing it now? It's more than I expected. He's more than I expected. And for a beat, the nerves creep back in, curling low in my stomach.

God, I hope I don’t bleed. That would be—embarrassing. No, humiliating. Honestly, devastating to my ego. Totally not sexy—tragic to say the least.

I watch, lifting myself to my elbows as he moves to his nightstand, opening the drawer and pulling out a condom. He pauses for a second before turning back to me, holding it in one hand.

“Last time asking, I promise,” he says, voice low but sincere. “Are you still sure it’s me you want to do this with?”

I can’t help but smile. Like there was ever a chance I’d change my mind. Like he hasn’t already had more of me than I ever gave to anyone else. He’s so good for me, and he doesn’t even know it. “Positive.”

My eyes follow Roman as he sets the condom on the nightstand—close enough to grab easily. Honestly, I was a little nervous he might be one of those guys who say, “Oh, but condoms kill the feeling,” thank god he’s not.

He moves back onto the bed carefully, his eyes never leaving mine. His hand rests gently on the pillow beneath me, steadying himself as he leans in slowly. His lips meet mine again with the softest pressure, and any worry of pain or bleeding disappears.

My fingers curl into his hair again, pulling him down onto me. The heat of his skin against mine only makes me want him more—closer, impossibly close, like even skin to skin isn’t enough. His tongue moves gently against mine, teasing and tasting, and when I deepen the kiss, I feel his cock press between my legs.

His mouth trails to my ear, teeth grazing my earlobe before he nibbles gently. “Can you feel how badly I want you?” he whispers, voice low and rough. “This… us?”

“I want you too,” I breathed, my body shuddering against him, and fuck, his words lit something inside me—something raw and ravenous I didn’t know was there until now, starving for affection, for touch, for him—every throbbing inch. “So fucking much.”

My hand instinctively went down to the band of Roman’s briefs, dipping beneath them, wrapping my fingers around his cock, and stroking gently, silently praying I’m able to make him feel as good as he’s made me feel.

As his lips trace a slow path down my neck, sucking gently on the sensitive spot just below my ear, my prayers are answered when I feel his hips shift against my hand, every hard, pulsing inch of him pressing insistently beneath my touch. His skin is warm, taut with need, and the subtle throb of him matches the rapid beat of my heart. A low, ragged groan escapes him, thick with want and surprise, as he whispers against my skin, "Fuck, you do that so well."

I bite my lip, smiling as I continue stroking him, but Roman doesn’t melt under my touch. His lips are back on my neck, his teeth grazing the hickey I’m sure he’s just made. The sharp, teasing pressure made my breath hitch. His fingers slide down my stomach, light as a feather, sending tiny shivers across my skin, making me squirm in response. But that reaction was nothing compared to the way my hips bucked up as his fingers began rubbing circles against my already sensitive clit once more.

I couldn’t help it—the pressure was overwhelming. My hands flew up to Roman’s back on their own, nails digging in as he continued working those maddening, slow circles with his fingers. Every motion sent sparks through me, and I was powerless to stop the tremble that shook my body.

"P-please, Roman—" I stammer, breath hitching as another flick of his fingers sparks a sudden rush through me. “I—ah—ahh…”

My voice breaks, but this time he slows, his touch more deliberate, more teasing.

“Can’t wait any longer?” His voice is low, full of lust—want.

I try to speak, but his fingers moving against me blur my thoughts, making words impossible to find. Instead, I shake my head, a whimper escaping my lips. The desperation in my eyes is raw and unspoken, practically begging him to give in—to finally take me.

"Good." His voice is thick with need, husky and urgent, making my pulse race. His hand moves from me to the waistband of his briefs, sliding them down with a quickness I’ve never seen before. “Neither can I.”

His next moves were quicker now, knees settling between my legs as he leaned over. With a swift motion, he grabbed the condom from the nightstand, tearing the wrapper open without hesitation. With a practiced hand, he slid it on, then looked back down at me—his green eyes filled with nothing but adoration.

Roman leaned back down, his mouth finding mine in another slow, heated kiss. His plush lips moving against mine with perfect rhythm. As he lowers himself between my thighs, his body presses into mine, all heat and weight and tension.

His cock drags against my slick folds, pressing right against my clit—thick, hard, deliberate—and the contact sends a sharp jolt of pleasure through me. I gasp into his mouth, hips arching, chasing more of that friction.

He smiles against my lips, like he knows exactly what he's doing to me, and he's not in any rush to stop. His hips begin to move, smooth and steady, his cock sliding between my folds, dragging over my clit with precision—each thrust sending a pulse through me that leaves my body aching for more.

My hands clutch at his back, fingernails digging into skin, desperate for something to anchor me as the friction builds—slow, torturous, perfect. With every roll of his hips, I grow wetter, aching more with the need to feel him inside of me.

"Roman..." I whisper, barely a breath, more plea than name.

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, a smirk playing on his lips. "Think you’re ready?" he asks, eyes sparkling with excitement.

I nod, breath shaky but sure. His hands trail down my sides, steady and grounding, before one wraps around his length. He guides himself to my entrance, the thick head of his cock pressing into me with the slowest of strokes.

My breath hitched at the stretch, a subtle burn blooming as he pushed deeper. My hand shot up, fingers gripping his hair, needing something to hold onto. I winced, just slightly, but masked it with a moan as his thick length gently worked me open, slow and careful.

Roman hovered above me, muscles tense, like he was holding back. His eyes flicked down to where our bodies met, then back to mine. He moved carefully, each thrust controlled, watching for even the smallest sign of pain.

"Fuck," he breathed, eyes closing briefly in pleasure. "You feel like heaven."

My head tipped back against the pillow, breath coming in shallow, trembling heaves against Roman’s shoulder. “Roman,” I whimpered, barely able to say his name. “You feel so—“ I couldn’t finish the sentence. I hadn’t expected the way it would feel—hadn’t expected the way my whole body lit up like a live wire. Every nerve felt raw, awake, and desperate.

Being filled up by Roman wasn’t just overwhelming—it was consuming.

My first time was nothing like I’d imagined.

But also everything I’d hoped for.

It felt good—so, so good. It felt right, in a way that made my chest tighten and my breath catch.

A soft moan escaped me as his cock slowly pushed deeper, filling me inch by inch. My body clenched around him, reacting instinctively, overwhelmed by the fullness and the warmth. There was a tenderness in the way he moved, a kind of reverence, like he knew exactly how much I could take and wasn't willing to give me anything more than I could handle.

Roman let out a shaky breath, maintaining a steady, gentle rhythm—one I could tell took effort. He was holding back, resisting the urge to move rougher, faster, like he probably would with girls who weren’t virgins.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, eyes searching mine even as his hips moved in careful strokes.

“No… ah—no, not at all.” I smiled, enjoying the feeling of him inside of me.

“Good.” He breathed, continuing to fill me at a sweet pace. “Ready for the rest?”

The rest? There’s more?!

“You—you mean that’s not all of it?”

Roman’s eyes met mine again, and he bit his lip—clearly trying not to laugh at the panic in my voice. “I hate to break it to you,” he started, voice thick with restraint, “but I’m only halfway in.”

My eyes widened before I could stop them, a flicker of panic rising in my chest—then I reminded myself that panicking definitely wasn’t sexy. Besides, I did say I wanted all of him.

So I swallowed hard, forced a breath, and nodded. “Yeah, okay,” I said, my voice a little shaky. “I’m ready.”

I braced for the sting, the sharp stretch—I thought it would hurt worse than before. But as he pushed deeper, the pain never came.

Just the kind of pleasure that made my back arch and my breath catch.

Every inch of him filled me perfectly, sliding in and out with a rhythm that had me clenching around him, needing more. It wasn't gentle anymore—it was all-encompassing, and God, it felt so good I could barely think.

My legs wrapped tighter around his waist, needing him closer, deeper—all of him. I was losing myself in it, in him, every thrust unraveling something inside me I didn't even know was wound that tight.

Roman groaned low in his throat, his rhythm faltering just slightly as I clenched around him again. "God," he let out a satisfied sigh, pressing his forehead to mine. “You feel… fuck, you feel unreal…”

I couldn't speak. Could barely breathe. My nails dragged down his back, needing something to hold on to as pleasure coiled low in my belly, sharp and fast, building with every snap of his hips.

I finally understood why people did drugs.

Because this—sex with Roman—was addictive in a way that felt dangerous. The way his cock moved inside me, deep and deliberate, like he was trying to brand me from the inside out—it was the kind of pleasure that blurred everything else. My thoughts, my breath, even my name.

Each thrust sent sparks through me, my body tightening around him, hungry for every second, every inch. The friction, the pressure, the stretch—it was pure bliss, and I never wanted it to stop.

My breath hitched, ragged and raw, spilling into frantic moans that filled the room as the heat inside twisted tighter and tighter, winding me up until I was trembling on the edge, barely holding on.

"Roman," I gasped, my voice breaking, the sound trembling with need, my fingers clawing at his back as waves of pleasure began to crash.

And then—everything shattered.

My body shook as I came, thighs trembling, every muscle tensing and releasing around him in tight, rhythmic pulses. I clung to him, nails digging into his back, breath stuttering as the climax ripped through me in hard, relentless waves. My chest rose and fell fast, lungs struggling to keep up with the pleasure still rolling through my body.

Roman gripped my hips tighter, fingers digging into my skin as his pace faltered. His breath was ragged in my ear, hot and uneven, and I could feel the way his control was slipping. His thrusts grew rougher, deeper, and more desperate, and the way he groaned told me he was right on the edge.

"Fuck" he breathed, voice low and strained, like he was barely holding himself together. His body tensed above mine, the pressure building between us thick and electric. He was close—so close I could feel it in every thrust, every sound he made, and every way his hands tightened around me like he wasn't ready to let go.

And all I could think, through the haze of heat and friction and bliss, was, God, don't stop.

Because I'd never felt anything like this. And now that I had, I didn't think I could stop.

Roman

Okay, I was wrong.

She’s no angel.

A succubus, maybe.

Or the girl from The Exorcist, right before she starts levitating and screaming about my mother sucking cock in hell.

Hasn’t happened—yet.

But with the way she’s moving, the way she looks at me like she’s already planning round six? It’s only a matter of time.

I’m flat on my back, chest heaving, lungs wrecked, heart stuttering like it’s thinking of tapping out. Sweat’s slick down my spine, muscles pulled tight and trembling like I just survived a car crash. I can’t even feel my legs. Honestly? I’m pretty sure she dislocated something I didn’t even know could move.

Yeah. Definitely not an angel.

Whether or not she was actually a virgin beforehand is also up for debate.

Because no virgin drags a guy through this many rounds in one night and still looks like she’s barely broken a sweat. No virgin bites and scratches like she’s marking territory, like she’s been waiting her whole life to leave someone completely wrecked.

And let’s get one thing straight—I’m no stranger to going rounds. Girls don’t walk away from me—they stagger. You don’t get a reputation like mine by being gentle and forgettable. I leave them wrecked. Legs shaking, voices hoarse, minds blown.

Most girls don’t even make it to round three by the time I’m through with them.

But her? She’s something else. She’s relentless, insatiable, like every touch only winds her up tighter instead of wearing her down.

She's propped up on one elbow, sheets tangled around her legs, skin still glistening from the last round. There's a softness to her face now—almost innocent, like the last two hours never happened. Like she's just some sweet girl catching her breath after her first time.

But her fingers tells a different story.

She’s dragging slow, lazy circles across my chest, over the sweat-slick skin and fading nail marks she put there. Innocent motion. Devilish intent.

I’m still half-dead, lungs burning as I struggle to pull in steady breaths; each inhale shallow and ragged, every exhale a slow surrender. My nerves feel raw and frayed, twitching beneath my skin like exposed wires.

And she just hums. Light, content, like this is a lazy Sunday morning and not the aftermath of an exorcism I somehow volunteered for.

Then, softly—barely above a whisper—she says, “You okay?"

I give her a look that says, What-the-hell-do-you-think? And let my eyes linger on her for a moment. Goddamn—how could someone look so innocent and still have me flat on my back like this?

There's still that sweetness in her eyes. Concern, even. The kind that almost makes me think she means it.

Almost.

"Yeah," I rasp, voice ruined. "Eventually.”

She bites her lip like she's trying not to laugh. "I'm still..." Her eyes flick down, then back up through her lashes. "Kind of aching.”

I blink. "You're aching?”

She nods, slow and shy. "In a good way." But still..."

Her fingers drift lower. I flinch. She smiles.

"I could maybe go again."

I let out something between a cough and a laugh. "You're joking."

She leans in and presses a kiss to my jaw, soft and sweet.

"Come on," she murmurs. "I'll even get on top this time. Do all the work..."

Her lips ghost over mine as she whispers the rest, syrupy and sweet:

"You can just lie back. Be my pretty little pillow princess. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Excuse me?

Pillow princess?

She's teasing me now?

A few hours ago, this girl was stammering through kisses like she'd only ever read about sex in books with flowery covers. All wide eyes and trembling hands. Now she's hovering over me like a goddamn apex predator, talking to me like I'm the plaything.

I should be insulted.

Instead, I'm getting hard.

Her eyes catch the twitch under the sheets. Her smile widens, just a fraction. No gloating yet, but it's there. Lurking. Like she knows.

"You really are easy," she whispers, voice sweet, dragging her nails lightly down my chest again, right over a fresh scratch. I flinch, not from pain—no, from the way my body reacts, heat pooling fast, dizzying.

"Not easy," I say, my voice hoarse. "Just trying not to look like a bitch—even if it kills me.”

Her hand finds me under the covers, fingers wrapping around me with a slow, possessive grip that makes my breath catch in my throat. She strokes once, deliberately, watching my face the whole time.

"Still alive," she says softly. "Still hard. I'd say you're doing fine."

Her thumb teases the head, smearing pre-come like she's playing with her favorite toy. I bite down on a groan, hands clenching at my sides.

She continues to stroke me as her mouth moves down, over my throat, and across my collarbone. She bites this time, just enough to sting, then soothes it with her tongue. My hands twitch, wanting to grab her, flip her, and remind her who she's dealing with.

But I don't.

I can’t.

Because she's moving lower, slow and dangerous, kissing every inch like it's hers to claim. She continues stroking me, pressing a kiss against my hip before her other hand pulls the blanket down, exposing me completely.

Then she smiles. Slow. Confident. Mischievous.

Her tongue flicks out, teasing the head first, a light flick that makes my hips twitch. Then she licks a long, deliberate stripe from base to tip, like she's savoring me.

A soft moan escapes before I can lock it down. It rolls out of me, unguarded, and I swear she glows at the sound of it.

She hums, the vibration sending another jolt straight through me. "There it is," she whispers against my skin, her voice like honey, her tone triumphant. "Knew you had more in you."

Then she wraps her lips around the tip, slow and sure, her hand still working the base. Her mouth is warm—so warm—and wet, and she takes her time, easing down with a patience that feels like torture.

I grip the sheets. Hard. My thighs tense, muscles locking up like I'm about to snap.

She pulls back, just slightly, letting her tongue swirl before sinking down again—deeper this time. Her hand slides to my thigh, holding me down, like she knows I'm seconds away from losing it and she's not ready to let me go just yet.

I can't even speak. Can't breathe right. My head's tipped back, mouth half-open, and I'm making sounds I don't even recognize as my own.

And all the while, she takes her time. Tongue twirling around every inch of me like she’s sucking on her favorite hard candy.

She pulls off with one last flick of her tongue that nearly makes my vision white out, then draws back completely, letting the cool air hit me where her mouth had just been. I groan—half frustration, half disbelief.

She glances up at me, all innocent eyes and flushed cheeks, and then, without a word, she slips off the bed.

I lift my head slightly, chest still heaving, watching her move—still naked, unhurried, like she's got all the time in the world and every ounce of control.

My eyes are locked on her as she bends down and picks up my pants from the floor. What the fuck is she doing? Her fingers curl around the waistband, then slip my belt free from the loops, and for a second, I just stare.

Wait.

Is she…?

No. No way. She wouldn’t—

My thoughts are cut short when she climbs back onto the bed with that same quiet, dangerous confidence. Straddles my hips, belt in hand, and gives me a look that's somehow both soft and merciless.

“Hands up,” she says, casual as anything.

I blink, trying to process what the hell I’m witnessing. “Seriously? You can’t possibly—”

“Mmhm,” she hums, cutting me off as her fingers wrap around my wrists, guiding them above my head with a softness that doesn’t match her intent. “I’ve always wanted to try this.”

Freak.

Absolute freak.

The good kind. The kind that ruins you and smiles sweetly while doing it.

The leather bites gently into my wrists as she threads the belt through and cinches it tight against the headboard. I pull against it—just to see—and yeah, it holds. Too well.

Which is weird, because earlier tonight, she couldn't even get the damn thing off me. I had to help her—her fingers were all over the place, fumbling with the buckle like she was afraid it might bite. She laughed, blushed, and stammered through it. And now? She ties me down like she's done it a hundred times.

Where the hell did that girl go?

She smiles as she works the belt, a little breathless but glowing, flushed with power. There’s something different in her eyes now—something bold. Like she just found a part of herself she didn’t know existed, and it likes having me beneath her.

“I thought you said tonight was your first time,” I mutter, voice filled with disbelief and something dangerously close to admiration.

She leans down, her lips brushing my ear as her breath ghosts warm across my skin.

“It was,” she whispers. “But from the way girls at school talk... you’re not exactly known for giving up control.”

Her hands slide back up the belt, tightening it a little more—just because she can.

“This way,” she murmurs, “it’ll be a night of firsts for both of us.”

Then her hand slips between us, trailing down my stomach, moving with that same unshakable calm. Her fingers wrap around my cock again, and I flinch beneath her, hips twitching instinctively at the contact.

She grins, just a little.

Still watching me, she lifts her hips, lining us up with a slow, practiced precision that shouldn't be possible for someone with as little experience as she claims to have. And then—smooth, steady—she sinks down onto me.

It's not rushed. It's deliberate. Controlled. Like she's taking her time on purpose, letting me feel every second of her sliding onto me, and fuck, she’s tight.

My breath catches—hard. I let out something between a groan and a curse, my spine arching against the restraints. The belt holds.

She gasps too, a quiet sound that tightens around my ribs. But she doesn't stop. Doesn't falter. She just keeps going until she's fully seated, until I'm completely inside her, and she's got her palms flat against my chest like she's staking a claim.

And fuck me—she fits like she was made for this.

For me.

She rocks her hips once—slow, deliberate—and I can't help the way my body reacts, jerking up toward her, needing more. But before I can get even half the motion, her hands press harder against my chest, pinning me down with more force than I expect from someone so soft and sweet-looking.

"Ah-ah," she says, soft but sharp. "Pillow princess, remember?”

There's a flicker in her eyes—something wicked and bright. She's enjoying this. Enjoying me like this. Bound, straining, aching, helpless beneath her while she takes exactly what she wants, how she wants it.

She rolls her hips again, slower this time, grinding down in a long, measured arc that makes my eyes roll back in my skull. She's tight, wet, and perfect—and she knows it. She's not rushing, not even close. She's savoring the way I come apart beneath her, her lips parting slightly as she watches my mouth fall open in a raw, unfiltered moan.

"That's better," she whispers, circling her hips once more, deeper now. "Just stay there and let me do the work.”

She leans forward, palms sliding up my chest, fingers tracing every twitch of my muscles, every breath I can barely catch. Her thighs tighten around me as she picks up a rhythm—slow, rolling, steady—like she's riding a wave and dragging me under with her.

And I'm gone. Totally hers.

Every stroke pulls a sound out of me, low and wrecked, and she drinks in every one like a woman dying of thirst.

Her hands move again—one braced on my chest, the other sliding down between us. I watch her shudder as her fingers find her clit, and her hips falter just slightly before she picks the pace back up, riding harder, more urgent, grinding down like she's chasing something just out of reach.

She leans over me, dark hair falling around her face, lips parted. Her breaths come faster now, matching the rise in mine, and the heat between us is almost unbearable. Every movement hits deeper. Harder. She's losing control but not giving it up.

And when she finally breaks—body trembling, soft gasp catching in her throat—it undoes me.

I curse, loud and broken, as the heat crashes over me all at once. My hips jerk despite the restraint, lost to instinct as I spill into her, muscles locking, chest arching, the whole world narrowing to just her—tight, wet, shaking around me, dragging every last drop out of me.

She collapses onto me, breath ragged, forehead resting against mine. Neither of us moves for a moment. Can't.

Her skin is flushed, slick against mine, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven bursts. I feel her heartbeat thudding where we're pressed together—fast and wild—but controlled. Like the rest of her.

Her hands slide up to my face, slow and tender, a contrast to what she just put me through. Her thumb brushes across my cheekbone, featherlight, like she's grounding me after everything she took.

And then, with a grin curling at the edges of her mouth, she murmurs:

“Round seven?”

Her voice is silk, soft, and smooth, but sharpened at the edge like a blade you don't see coming until it's already under your skin.

I let out something between a breathless laugh and a groan, eyes closing for a second as I try to remember how to breathe.

I shake my head, barely. "You're insane.”

But my hips twitch beneath her—a weak, broken jolt I don’t have the strength to stop. My body’s already giving in, moving on instinct, on hunger, while the rest of me is unraveling. Every muscle is trembling, overworked and useless, my chest rising in ragged, uneven gasps like I’ve been drowning for hours. My lungs are screaming, my head’s spinning, and somewhere in the back of my mind, what’s left of me is still begging—no fucking way.

But the truth is, I'd let her ride me straight into oblivion if she asked nicely enough.

Hell, even if she didn’t ask at all.

Because whatever the hell she is—angel or succubus—she’s got me pinned, breathless and wrecked, right where she wants me.

A/N: I’m actually foaming at the mouth—I had no idea how badly I needed sex from Romans POV. Anon, you are a saint. 🙌🏻

Sweetest lil taglist:

@vadersangel @muchwita @malenoradgn @fish-eyes-png @ch404 @voidpixies @peachesinto @a-differentbrandof-beans

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empath-bunny · 4 days ago

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Superior Spider-Man OUH YEAH OUH YEAH

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empath-bunny · 6 days ago

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People need to get over this phase of abandoning fandoms so fast. There are 70 year old women still into Spirk and you people can’t hold onto a man for a month. Shape up and stop abandoning your gently used blorbos in wet cardboard boxes on the side of the highway after a week

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empath-bunny · 7 days ago

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spoiler alert: you’re going to get through this, look back, and understand why some things went the way they did

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empath-bunny · 9 days ago

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rafechella where rafe nd reader get stopped by an influencer just to interview for tt asking couple questions and they go viral bc rafe literally worships the ground reader walks on nd theyre just cute overall (add some cute fun moments😭)

RAFECHELLA 2025

you’re mid-sway, half-drunk off tequila, music, and the desert sun when a girl with a mic stops you.

“hi! are you up for a quick couple interview for tiktok?”

you’re already nodding before rafe can say no. a he sighs, visibly annoyed, but doesn’t let go of your hand. “c’mon,” you whisper, grinning. “you’ll survive.”

“not the point,” he mutters, but he doesn’t leave either.

the camera rolls.

“names?”

“y/n.” your voice is sweet as honey, smiling cheekily towards the camera.

“rafe.” his voice is gruff and short, his eyes glued to you.

“and how long have you been together?” the girl smiles, asking the question to you.

“almost two years,” you say.

rafe tilts his head. “one year, seven months.” you blink up at him dumfounded. he shrugs, eyes still on you. “i remember shit.”

“first impression of each other?”

you grin while your fingers dance along his bicep. “i thought he was super hot…and also a dick.”

he huffs a laugh. “i thought you talked too much.”

you elbow him.

he smirks. “still do.” but his hand is resting low on your back, fingers slipping under the hem of your top.

“favorite thing about her?”

rafe doesn’t answer right away. his jaw works and his thumb traces circles into your skin.

“she’s…herself,” he finally says, voice lower. “loud, messy, stubborn, but she’s real. she doesn’t try to be anything she’s not.”

your heart stutters and the interviewer actually sighs.

you blink up at him. “you like that i’m annoying?”

“i like that you’re mine.”

the interviewer pouts, “ok, this is making me feel extra single.”

you choke on a laugh, but he doesn’t even flinch.

“biggest ick?”

you smirk, hitting him lightly. “be careful.”

rafe doesn’t even hesitate. “she leaves half-full drinks everywhere. like…every surface; car, nightstand, kitchen, bathroom.”

you gasp. “you literally do that too.”

“yeah, but mine aren’t in wine glasses at 9 a.m.”

you glare. “it was one time.”

he raises a brow but you glare harder. he grins, just barely.

the video ends with you dancing off, pulling him back into the crowd. he doesn’t smile for the camera, doesn’t say much. just walks behind you, hand tucked in your back pocket, sunglasses low, jaw sharp, attention completely on you.

and it blows up.

the comments are going insane:

“the way he looks at her omggggg”

“this is peak ‘grumpy bf, sunshine gf’”

“he said so little but i’m SWEATING”

“he looks like he’d kill someone for her and then carry her purse after”

“how do i apply for one like him??”

you show him the tiktok the next morning, scrolling through the comments while you sit in his lap, your phone between both of you.

“they think you’re obsessed with me,” you tease. he doesn’t look up. just presses his lips to your shoulder.

“they’re not wrong.”

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empath-bunny · 9 days ago

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TEHRE WAS A PART 3????? I WILL READ IT HIS WEEKEND HOLY SHIT I CANT WAIT

Say It Loud

navigation | main masterlist | rules

join my 500 celebration!

James Potter x Slytherin!reader

synopsis: James Potter is in a secret relationship with Y/N, but things spiral when someone mistakes Regulus Black for Y/N’s boyfriend and spreads the rumor around Hogwarts. How far will he go before he can’t take it anymore?

wordcount: 2,624

note: 16+ fluff. last part for this series. kudos to this request.

part I. part II.

James Potter stumbled down the Gryffindor boys' dormitory staircase like he was half-dreaming, half-dazed, and one hundred percent very recently kissed stupid. His tie was hanging through the collar of his shirt loosely, hair even messier than usual, and there was a pink flush creeping into his neck that no amount of cold morning air could erase.

Remus was waiting in the common room with a book tucked under his one arm and a cup of coffee in his hand, looking put-together as usual. His eyes were trained on James before his eyebrow slowly shot up.

James didn't notice. He was too busy suppressing a moonstruck grin, humming something off-key under his breath.

"You look different," Remus deadpanned once James was beside him.

James looked at him. "What?"

"You're glowing."

"I am not," James replied, voice suspiciously high-pitched.

"You're literally blushing."

James coughed and tried to compose himself. Putting on his best neutral face, but it still didn't work. Remus was about to add something when James immediately cut him off.

"Where's Pads and Wormy?"

"Already outside, waiting for your arse to come down."

James rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks deepening to a red hue. "Overslept."

"Hmm," Remus nodded while sipping his coffee. "Overslept or... overloved?"

James almost choked on the air. "What?"

Remus simply smirked. "Nothing. Just wondering why you're walking like your knees don't work."

"Because I almost tripped on the stairs!"

"Riiight," Remus drawled. "Must've been a hell of a staircase."

James grumbled and busied himself by fixing his tie. The two began walking towards their classroom, and James tried not to think about what Remus had said earlier, but he still couldn't stop taking glances at him from time to time.

Remus noticed, and his smirk widened.

James's brows furrowed. "What?"

"You look like a lovesick fool."

"I do not," James muttered, straightening up his posture like it would do something.

"Evans finally said yes to a date?"

"I didn't ask her out."

Remus blinked. "Really?"

"Yeah. I don't know why everyone keeps assuming that!" James threw his hands in exasperation.

"Maybe because you spent years infiltrating her?"

"So?" James huffed. "Is it unbelievable that I just... stopped?"

"Yeah, Prongs. Very."

"Well, she isn't the reason why."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"So... was it Y/n, then?"

"Yes!"

Silence.

The two stopped dead in their tracks.

James froze as if he had been hit by a full-body Petrificus Totalus. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened and then closed. Opened. And closed it again.

"...Moony."

Remus sighed deeply. "Since when?"

James stammered. "Six— six months ago— how did you—?"

Remus slung an arm over his shoulder, guiding them back to motion. "Did you know your ears go bright red when you're jealous?"

"They do not!"

"And your wand hand? Twitchy. Like it's about to launch a full-scale magical assault every time someone mentions Regulus Black."

James groaned, stopping again from walking. He buried his face against his hands. "I— I proposed it, you know? Keeping it a secret. Thought it would be easier that way. House rivalry and all that. But Moony... I love her."

Remus offered a tight-lipped smile. "You know, Prongs, for what's it worth, I was more surprised that you lasted six months keeping it hidden when we know your mouth is relentless."

James grumbled. "I don't even care that she was a Slytherin. Didn't matter when I met her. Didn't matter when she was in the same house as that slimy, smelly, Snivellus or that platinum-haired Malfoy.. And I know we vowed to make the Slytherins' lives miserable but— she made me realize how stupid that was. And I'm just... scared, mate. Scared of what people will say. Scared she'll be the one getting crap for it. What if Sirius finds out and gives her a thirty-minute dramatic monologue about betrayal?"

"Pads does have a thing for theatricals."

"I just— I just want to tell people, but I don't know how."

Remus turned, offering a warm smile. "You're the bravest person I know, Prongs. The same bloke who challenged seven-year Slytherins to a duel because they said McGonagall played favorites. The one who tried riding a Hippogriff during Care of Magical Creatures class because 'you felt a connection.'"

"That was one time."

"My point still stands. Don't worry about us. You're our mate, and we'll stand by you. Pads will be mad for like... 3 hours. 5 hours max. Then he'll get over it."

James nodded slowly, thinking about it. And the two started walking again.

"Besides, if you don't say something soon, someone will ask her out. Like Regulus. Again."

James immediately frowned.

"I hate that smug little—"

"Then act like a Gryffindor, mate. Stake your claim before someone else does."

Just as James puffed his chest like a man preparing for war, Sirius and Peter came bounding down the hall, both looking disheveled and full of chaotic energy.

“What’s taking you two so long?” Sirius barked.

“You two planned a prank for Snivellus without us?" Peter asked.

“We didn't." Remus calmly grabbed Peter by the collar and started dragging him down the hall. “You’re on a roll today, mate. Let’s save that energy for class.”

“Wait— what? Moony, I can walk!”

James stared after them, then turned back to Sirius with determination burning in his eyes.

“I’m telling her today,” He said.

Sirius blinked. “Telling who what?”

"Her." James ignored him and marched off, heart pounding, tie still a disaster.

Peter nudged James in the ribs for the third time in under five minutes. "She's looking at you again," He hissed, barely masking his grin.

"No, she's not." James quipped, not even looking up from his parchment.

"She is," Peter insisted. "Left corner, three rows down, red hair— ringing any bells?"

"I don't care," James grumbled under his breath.

"She's twirling her hair."

"Maybe it's her habit."

"She's twirling it while looking at you. And she just bit her lip."

James groaned and finally looked up, just in time to catch Lily looking away, a pink hue dusting her cheek.

"Mate. She wants you."

Sirius, who had been fighting sleep next to Remus, yawned and leaned forward to join the conversation.

"Who wants who?"

"Lily," Peter whispered too loudly. "She's looking at Prongs like she wants to tutor him. If you catch my drift."

Remus rolled his eyes. "Please shut up."

"Well, well. Look who's finally getting attention from his lifetime crush." Sirius grinned.

"Was." James corrected immediately. "Was my lifelong crush."

Peter gawked at him. "You're moving on?"

"Moved."

"With who?" Sirius asked, suddenly alert. "Do we know her?"

James coughed. "Focus. Minnie is watching."

But that didn't stop the torture.

Once McGonagall dismissed the class, James immediately stood up, with three boys trailing behind him. Just as they were about to round the corner, Lily immediately showed up.

"Potter," She said, immediately stopping them dead in their tracks. "Can I talk to you for a sec?"

He stiffened. But before he could answer, Sirius was dragging Peter and Remus by their collars.

"We'll be waiting there." He said, smiling sweetly.

"Is this about Head duties?" James asked.

"Oh, Merlin, she's talking to him." Peter whispered, elbowing Remus, as they all peek out their heads to look at James and Lily nearby.

"No— no," Lily huffed out a smile while shaking her head softly. "I was just wondering if you're planning to go to Hogsmeade this weekend? You usually go with your friends, but... thought maybe you'd want a change."

James blinked. Wait— what? Was this Lily Evans asking him out? Oh, no. It's too late because he already had a perfect, lovely, incredibly sexy, secret girlfriend who just last night—

"I'm actually... not available this weekend." He said, glancing down his parchment.

"Oh." Lily's face fell. "Got plans?"

James coughed. "Yeah, plans. Private plans. Secret ones. Very private. Very secret."

Peter and Sirius's faces contorted into a confused one as they watched Lily's smile faded. Remus sighed, clearly knowing what was the reason.

Lily blinked, trying to regain her composure. "Well... let me know if anything changes." She said before turning away.

James shrugged before going to where his friends were, and Sirius wasted no time in grabbing the back of his robes and cornering him to the wall.

"What the bloody hell was that?!" Sirius asked, throwing his hands in the air.

James blinked. "What?"

"Evans was flirting with you!"

"I... noticed."

"And you turned her down?!"

"Why not?"

"Why—" Sirius closed his eyes and tried to calm himself for a second. "Why not?!"

"Prongs... are you sure you're okay? I mean, that was Evans. The love of your life—!" Peter added.

James frowned deeply. "She's not the love of my life!"

Sirius's mouth opened. Then closed. And opened again.

"Okay, what?" He asked.

James looked at Remus for silent help.

"Prongs here... wants to tell you guys something." Remus walked beside James and patted his shoulder for encouragement.

James sighed deeply. "I've been dating Y/n."

Silence.

More silence.

"Slytherin Y/n?" Sirius clarified.

"Yes."

"Hot, terrifying, definitely has-a-dagger-in-her leg, Y/n?"

“Yes.”

"Intimidating-walks-like-a-queen-and-slays-men-with-her-eyes, Y/n?"

"...Yes."

Sirius looked at him, bewildered. "And you didn't tell me?!"

"I thought you'd be mad!"

"I am mad!" Sirius yelled. "Mad that you pulled a Slytherin goddess and didn't give me any heads up?! What kind of best mate are you?"

"What—"

"You, a certified tosser, bagged someone like her?"

"I am not a tosser!"

"You are a first-class, deluxe tosser with curly hair!"

"I am very hot, thank you very much."

“Hot? HOT? Prongs, you look like a broomstick that rolled through a pile of dung and developed a personality.”

James lunged, and within seconds, he had Sirius in a headlock, aggressively messing up his already disheveled hair.

Peter clapped and smiled widely. "Yeah, get him, Prongs!" He cheered.

“Take it back!” James shouted.

“Never!” Sirius wheezed, struggling against James. “You're a mediocre seven at best!"

“I’m an eight point five! And my mum thinks I’m handsome!”

Remus, who thought this would be a calm conversation, shook his head and left them alone. "I hate my bloody life."

The Great Hall was in its usual evening chaos— floating candles, plates clattering, murmurs and laughs flying in the air. You sat at the Slytherin table, elegantly picking at a piece of corn while Narcissa talked about her love adventures. Both of you two refused to eat without Andromeda, who had been late because she's tutoring a third-year student.

"I've already picked a location," Narcissa gushed. "The Astronomy Tower at sunset. I know it's going to be good. And Lucius said he has a surprise planned. Can you believe that?"

"A surprise? What's he going to do? Part his hair in a different way than usual?"

"Hey!" Narcissa lightly slapped your arm. "You take that back. Lucius is thoughtful, romantic, and regal."

"He's got an emotional depth of a teaspoon." You reminded her.

"Well, at least someone's taking me out on Valentine's Day."

You frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You're seeing someone, aren't you?" Narcissa's eyes narrowed at you. "I've seen the way you disappear after curfew hours and then go back the next morning with that dazed, post-snogging look. Is it Regulus?"

You choked. "What the hell are you talking about?!"

Narcissa shrugged. "I just assumed because he's your type."

You opened your mouth to say something, but someone caught your line of vision. From across the hall, sitting at the Gryffindor table, was James. James, who had been looking at you with such intensity that it made your stomach flip.

You offered him a smile— a barely noticeable one from the eyes of the masses. But it still made his heart flutter. That small act from you seemed to relax his nerves, the tension from his shoulders lifting off slightly.

At the Gryffindor table, Remus had also noticed it. He gave James a subtle nudge. "Go on, mate. It's your time. You should ask her out now."

James blinked. "Right— right now?"

"Go on, it's almost Valentine's Day. Go full cliche like the man you were."

James chewed on his lips, clearly nervous. He had been doing this for years with the wrong girl, and he should've been used to it. But right now, almost all of his courage was gone, which was shocking because he's James bloody Potter.

"Five o'clock," Peter whispered dramatically. "Baby Black has entered the scene."

"Bloody hell," Sirius's brows furrowed. "He's holding a flower. What the bloody hell is he doing with a flower?"

"Where would he go— ooohh— is he going for Y/n?" Peter asked gleefully, too happy to stir the pot.

James didn't waste a second. He stood up so fast he almost knocked Peter out of the chair.

The entire Great Hall paused, but James didn't care. He walked— practically stormed— towards the Slytherin table.

Time went slow around him, and the background faded into a blur. All he could see was you looking at him with wild, confused eyes and a small plate of corn in your hand.

Be brave, James. He told himself. Be brave.

Once he reached the Slytherin table, he could feel his heart thrumming against his chest, that he almost thought it would burst right there and then. People were staring at him like he was mad— and maybe he was utterly, truly, mad for you. Even the professors craned their necks, and Dumbledore had even paused mid-sip of his tea, clearly entertained.

Narcissa was the first to break the silence.

"Can I help you with something, Potter?" She asked, placing a hand under her chin.

James stammered. "I— I need to talk to your friend."

You blinked. "James— I mean, Potter— what are you doing?"

"The right thing." He said, sighing deeply. He turned to examine the room, whose eyes were placed on him like hawks. He dramatically placed his hand on his chest. "I have something to say and it's very important!"

Everyone fell silent.

"Yes, I'm a Gryffindor. Yes, I don't like most of the Slytherins. Yes, I said I'd rather kiss a Niffler than a snake..." James inhaled deeply. "But life is weird. Love is weirder. And sometimes you fall for someone who threatens to hex your eyebrows and steals your pudding without asking."

You couldn't help a wide grin breaking at your face despite the whispers around you.

James pointed at himself. "So, yes. That's right! I'm a big dork and I listen to emo muggle music..." He turned, tugging you lightly and wrapping an arm around your shoulder. "...And I'm dating her."

Chaos erupted.

Regulus stepped forward, flower forgotten. "Potter— what...?"

James shot him a glare. "Do you have a problem with that?"

Regulus blinked. “I—”

“She’s mine.”

“You’re—”

“MINE.”

James wrapped a possessive arm around your waist like he was claiming treasure. Then the two of you walked from the Great Hall despite the loud whispers and eyes around you.

“I think I need a drink,” Sirius muttered.

“Can we all pretend that never happened?” Remus sighed.

Andromeda, who just walked in, cluelessly pointed at the two of you. "What the hell was that?" She asked Narcissa.

In the corridor, you turned to James, pouting. “Love, I really appreciate your whole dramatic, publicly-declared love monologue thing. It was very sweet. But I haven’t eaten yet.”

James grinned, smug. “It’s okay. Moony packed us food in the kitchen.”

Your eyes lit up. “Really?”

“And,” James added, pulling you closer, “Maybe after dinner… we can do what we did last night again? Hmm?”

You laughed genuinely, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Then you kissed him so hard it stole the air from his lungs.

Somewhere in the castle, Sirius Black screamed into a pillow.

©kjhbsies

taglist: @dearmy-diary @kmhbygss @ladycaramelswirl @mao-nuwang @alwayslatetothefandoms @niceskyler @sunflouer04 @donaldsonsgirl @chaevvonders @belle-blue @thegoddessofnothingness @nikt-wazny-y @littlepippilongstocking @spirit-of-a-b1tch

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empath-bunny · 11 days ago

Note

hi!! ik this is a weird request but maybe after the animagus reader shifts back into a human they have sharp canines like in cat form but in human form and sirius and the boys are surprised by it and keep trying to ask the reader about it and inspect them?

Sirius has long since known the bite of your feline fangs, several pinprick scars on his body telling those stories. But he's never quite noticed that you retain the sharpened canines after transforming back to your human form, and he rather unceremoniously grabs your jaw to inspect his findings.

"Holy shit," He announces, cutting off what you were saying both with a hand grabbing your jaw, and the way that he talks over you, "You've got fangs, Y/N!"

"Aah! Yes, I've got- fangs," You huff, wrenching your jaw out of his grip, "And I've got the rest of my story to tell, too, if you don't mind!"

"I do mind," He waves away your indignance, "Prongs, come look't this!"

James is all-too-happy to squat where Sirius sits beside you on his bed, peering quizzically into your mouth, "Bloody hell, you're right! Y/N, have your teeth always been this sharp?"

"Yes," You gripe, as James reaches in between your lips to feel the point of your canines, "But I'm sure they could be even sharper if I bit you all for sticking your fingers in my mouth."

"Careful, Prongs." Sirius urges, tugging James's hand away from your mouth, "She's bit me before- in both forms. Those things hurt."

"S'funny," Remus muses, splayed out on his bed with a record player between his legs, "She's never bitten me before. Might be because I don't put my fingers in her mouth, or cut off her stories."

"Thank you, Remus." You sigh, free to enjoy your own personal space now that James and Sirius have sequestered themselves on the former's bed, surely fearing a rabid attack, "I'm glad there's one sensible person living in this dorm."

"Sensible is no fun." James and Sirius recite like a mantra, and you're surprised the pair hasn't gotten it tattooed as a life motto, "Now get ready, Y/N, we're gonna hunt down some cardboard so we can see how well you'd function as a hole-punch."

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empath-bunny · 14 days ago

Text

Fuuuuuuuck I haven’t read thighs fucking in yearrss

This is a fantasy

blanket monster

synopsis. with your radiator broken, you either freeze to death or borrow a blanket from your roommate mattheo. what happens when a badly planned thievery causes you to be trapped with him under his blanket? beneath the covers, there are no rules: just heat, hunger, and a monster with your name on his tongue.

pairing. roommate! mattheo riddle x reader

content/mdni. fem!reader, roommate!au, cocky!mattheo, pervert!mattheo, sleepy!mattheo, tit play, dry/wet-humping, clit stimulation, thigh-fucking, neck kissing, a lot of tension, teasing, praise, begging, dirty talk, name-calling (good girl, baby), messy, unprotected p in v (although matty preaches safe sèx), a lot of restraint, quite soft ngl, a ton of plot

word count. 3.8k

a/n. i am still not fully back, but i managed to write this! y’all already know i have strangely specific plots. hope you enjoy it tho! feedback and reblogs are extremely appreciated

after a weak push, the door creaked open with a high-pitched hum, slowly revealing mattheo’s room. surprisingly, it was drowned in silence — his pc was shut down, his phone locked and tucked away in his nightstand, only visible thanks to the shimmering white of the charger.

his window was closed, but his curtains were wide open, allowing the beautiful shine of the moon to spill into the chamber and gloss all over its constituents.

including mattheo’s sleeping form.

he was submerged under a fluffy blanket, sprawled across the bed on his side. only his curly tuff of hair was visible, the rest of his body completely covered by the thick covers.

“mattheo.”

you whisper-yelled his name as you inched closer and closer to him, trespassing into his room without his permission yet again.

in your defense, you first gave him a warning of your arrival on his phone, but he seems to have disregarded any sort of message from you to sleep.

“mattheo.”

you tried again, this time with a sharper tone, a bit annoyed that he was not stirring awake from your first call.

he was as unwavering as a log, maintaining his initial position under the covers. his breath was stilled and controlled, only small snores leaving his probably parted lips here and there.

mattheo could have been robbed in his sleep and he would have had no idea.

“matty, c’mon.”

you were bolder now, bending at your waist above the bed and urging him to wake up in a louder voice.

the new, proximal position allowed you to see his face clearly — peaceful, no crease or wrinkle on his sleeping expression. his lips were indeed open, but thankfully no drool slipped away between them. his beautiful chocolate eyes were covered by heavy lids and sealed away by his thick lashes. his curls were partly sticking to his forehead, skin heated from the warmth of his slumber, partly spread all across his pillow in a confusing mess.

“this fool is sweating while i am freezing to death.”

that's why you came to his room — you needed to borrow another blanket as yours did little to nothing to help with the low temperature in your room. your radiator broke during the day and, despite mattheo’s generous offer to sleep in his room, you stood your ground and decided to face the cold on your own.

big mistake.

not even your thickest pajamas and a mountain of blankets did the trick.

“mattyyyyy.”

elongating the vowel at the end of his nickname, you called out to him one last time. you even put on your sweetest voice, somehow sure this time you will succeed in waking him up. and to make odds be in your favour, you even scrunched up the long sleeves of your blouse and poke at his cheek with your bare finger.

once.

…

twice.

…

thrice.

…

“ugh.”

you puffed, annoyed beyond compare when mattheo did not budge. there was no point in pestering him further; you’d only get angrier at his lack of reaction.

promptly straightening your back, you turned around and took a step away from his bed.

maybe you should search for a blanket on your own.

it’s not like the room was in complete darkness, the moon shining brighter than ever through the window. plus, the only logical place for mattheo to store a spare blanket was his wardrobe.

it would be easy to find.

but you completely underestimated mattheo and his dirty pig attics.

his wardrobe was a total mess. his clothes were barely folded, thrown into any drawer — multiple drawers, even. and when you tried to pull something that looked like a blanket, all soft and fluffy, the entire mountain of clothes twitched.

“hell nah.”

you immediately abandoned the so-called blanket, shoving the material back in and rapidly closing the door. challenging the monstruous wardrobe was a bad move on your part; if that thing collapsed on you, you’d have been buried in mattheo’s mess until the end of time.

should i just take the blanket he has on him now?

a devious thought crossed your mind as you were staring at the mirror-like surface of the wardrobe, shamelessly eyeing the blanket covering mattheo.

a devious thought that sounded like a splendid idea.

it wasn’t like mattheo would wake up because of it. he would most likely sleep soundly until morning, and only then he would realize someone robbed him of his precious covers. moreover, that fucker is a walking radiator himself, generating heat and burning like a fire. you’d be more appreciative of his blanket than him.

so, after making up your mind, you drew closer to his bed again. your legs inched quicker and quicker with feather-like steps, and thanks to your long pants, catching underneath your feet, any sort of floor creaking was prevented.

all that commotion with the wardrobe did nothing to mattheo — he was still fast asleep, in the same position in which you’ve found him at the beginning of your intrusion. almost drowning in the covers, it was fortunate that the blanket seems to not be trapped under him.

assessing the position of the blanket and the strange entanglement of limbs that could be lying underneath, you decided that pulling from the very middle of the material would be the best choice. dipping your body downwards, you carefully grasp the edge of the blanket, securing a good chunk of it between your grabby fingers.

and you pulled it towards you. slow. calculated.

a cheeky smiled spread on your face when the blanket slowly began to budge from its place, gliding across mattheo without perturbing his deep slumber. you could already feel the way this very blanket will solve all your issues and give you the best sleep known to man.

you barely managed to peel the blanket halfway when movement halted abruptly. you tugged and tugged at the material, some sharper tugs, some gentle tugs, but nothing happened.

“it’s stuck?”

you whisper-yelled at the sudden realization, terribly infuriated by this stupid impediment. did the blanket catch onto one of mattheo’s pillows? or was it perhaps his leg or arm?

leaning over the bed to scout the area with your eyes, you momentarily lessen your grip on the covers. mattheo was surely too far gone into dreamland to notice your looming figure, so you could survey the area in peace and decide your next move.

yet, with your guard lowered down, a new, foreign arm joined in.

sneaking fastly around your torso and dragging you into the bed, underneath the blanket.

“fuck!” a mere curse word managed to escape from your lips before the strong pull stole your breath away. “you awake?” a half-muttered rhetorical question left your mouth immediately after, your entire body twitching and turning in mattheo’s lazy grasp, trying to escape and assess the new situation.

“shhh, too loud.”

a deep, rumbling voice broke your exasperated protests, snapping you out of your frenzy and bringing your entire attention back to the person next to you. and the proximity between you two.

he was awake. and really close.

“settle down.”

mattheo’s voice was heavy with sleep, his words half-murmured against your forehead. you could feel the warm breath fanning across your face, and if you tried hard enough you could feel his lips themselves brushing over your skin.

“no, let me–”

your little complaints began again, this time fueled by the dangerously short distance between your two bodies. to make matters worse, you were facing each other; mattheo’s face was resting a bit higher than yours, yet still too close to your liking.

you were burning with embarrassment, struggling to free yourself, while he was still as serene as ever.

“–go.”

despite his gentle expression and his half-lidded eyes, true signs of drowsiness, mattheo sharply disobeyed your commands and tightened his grasp around your waist, pulling you even closer.

“ah, wait.”

you had no time to react, your nose bumping into his hard chest in mere seconds. his warm body instantly ignited your cold one, and you subconsciously buried your face deeper, nuzzling against his skin.

��skin?

skin.

bare, hot, unmistakable skin.

you abruptly stopped, face slowly backing away from his body to confirm that he was indeed shirtless — to confirm that your poor tired mind was not playing tricks on you.

“matty?”

you whispered his name, testing whether he has already succumbed to the heaviness of sleep. if he did, there was no point in confronting him. you’d just sneak away and back into your roo–

“hm?”

but he was still awake. his hum of approval was low, barely above a whisper, but thanks to your closeness, you felt the vibrations of his vocal cords shoot through his chest.

“you’re shirtless.”

you hoped a reminder of his bare torso would make him back off, instill some distance between you two. heck, maybe even make him let you go. but mattheo only smirked at your statement, a slight peek of his marble teeth shining together with the moonlight.

contrary to your expectations, mattheo dipped his head downwards, traversing from your forehead lower and lower and lower. his lips made a short stop right above your mouth, and that’s when panic surged inside you.

what is he thinking?

your arms, which were peacefully resting alongside your body, sprung upwards and landed right onto his chest. palms flat against his hot skin, you pushed mattheo with all your might, trying to regain some distance.

but he wouldn’t move.

“mattheo, what–”

he continued his journey, trailing lower, totally ignoring your baffled state. leaving your lips empty, he settled down right against your ear. and, with a low whisper, he corrected your previous sentence.

“i’m naked.”

oh.

your hands completely stilled on his chest. no. your entire body froze up, too stunned by the revelation. only your eyes widened in shock, eyebrows jumping upwards and curving into two crescent moons.

“no. nonononono. no.”

whether he was joking or not, you did not want to stay further and find out. mattheo was your roommate, for fuck’s sake, and even the fact that you were in bed with him was bad. but if he was indeed naked??

you had to get away fast.

pushing at his chest and twisting around, you managed to turn your back to mattheo and even sneak one of your legs outside the blanket.

mattheo might be strong, but he was still sleepy — if you act fast enough, you’d surely escape from his arm.

your plan was good, and with the way your second leg was flying away from the clutches of the blanket, you were sure it will succeed.

sadly, you did not take into consideration mattheo’s second arm.

his other arm dropped across your middle, gliding across your sides like a snake and securely gripping at your body. and slowly, any sort of progress you made dissipated, your body now dragged back in its initial place.

“why run, baby?”

he chuckled against your cheek, low and wrecked with sleep, sending a pulse of heat straight to your core.

“you wanted warmth, no?” his voice was full of arrogance, and you could feel the way his lips curled against your skin in a devious grin.

with both of his arms nicely wrapped around you, mattheo pulled you into him fully. your clothed back hit his chest, all warm and fuzzy, while your lower body made contact with his solid crotch.

something sheltered itself between your asscheeks, and by its twitchiness, it was definitely not his leg.

“i will make you warm all over.”

it was a mistake to tiptoe into his room. it was a mistake to steal his blanket.

it was a mistake to underestimate a sleeping mattheo.

now you were at his mercy.

“ah, matty…”

being engulfed by his warm body did make your hotter. suddenly, your long-sleeved pajamas were too much; the material was itchy and suffocating, making you pant and whine for your clothes to be discarded.

nonetheless, the raising in temperature was not solely due to the covers and mattheo’s body heat — it was also due to your own lustful desire stirring your insides, making you boil with need.

“yeah, baby?”

mattheo knew. he could feel your body quivering against him, he could feel your ass involuntarily pushing against his cock. he could feel the way your hands clutch at his, desperately guiding them underneath the hem of your blouse.

fuck, his sweet roommate needed him.

his hands slid upwards underneath your blouse, warm calloused palms gliding across your tummy all the way to your bare chest. his fingers touched around attentively, waiting for a positive cue from you.

and when a small needy whimper left your lips, he fully cupped your tits in his hands.

“shit, so soft.”

he groaned against your neck, voice all gravel yet honeyed, half-sweet, half-sinful. his lips peppered open-mouthed kisses across your skin, wetting every exposed patch in his wake. his digits, skillful and eager, pinched and pulled at your nipples, teasing them into stiff peaks.

your cute moans of pleasure only stirred him on, and with each and every squeeze of your tits came a snappy thrust of his shaft into your meaty ass.

“you getting warmer, baby?”

each word was punctuated by a short nibble of your skin, his teeth grazing at your neck, hard enough to pleasure, yet not enough to hurt.

he didn’t need an actual response, really; he could feel your body heat — now matching his own temperature — and he could also feel arousal bubbling inside you.

“y–yes.”

your answer was weak, drowned in breathy whines, too overwhelmed by mattheo and his restless attacks. his palms continued their ministration on your boobs, fondling them to his very whim, while his cock drilled faster and faster against your pajama pants, getting them all sticky and wet with precum.

the back of your pants were not the only ones drenched. your panties were long ruined, arousal pooling into them wave after wave from the moment mattheo pulled you underneath the covers.

at the beginning, you tried to resist temptation, but right now you were fully succumbing to lust, clenching your thighs together and pushing back into your roommate.

“m–more.”

you needed more. you needed to feel his hands touch all over your body, to ignite every inch of your skin.

to make you burn raw with desire.

your plea, oh so tiny and broken, made mattheo’s hips jut upwards into your ass faster. a plethora of curses escaped his wet lips as he slowly but surely realized how you had him wrapped around your finger.

your wandering hands reached his own underneath your shirt and, with delicate moves, you now guided them downwards to the hem of your pants.

and, to seal the deal and make mattheo complete putty, you threw the prettiest blown-out eyes at him, silently asking for him to go further.

“f–fuck, baby, i can’t resist you.” his voice cracked against your skin, as even saying the words cost him restraint.

his fingers fumbled at your waist, clumsily pushing the waistband of your pajamas down to your knees. when the pads of his digits encountered your panties, they were immediately hooked and dragged lower too, joining your pants.

“oh, baby, oh, baby, oh, babyyy.”

he started chanting the pet name like a mantra the moment his eyes got a hold of your glistering pussy, all warm and sticky, and so so inviting. and he gladly took the invitation, glossing his fingers between your folds and gathering your arousal, only to stick up his hand and admire the web-like formation of precum.

“so fucking wet, d–damn.”

he breathed it like a prayer, forehead dropping against your shoulder for a moment, so aroused by the reactions of your body. but he had no time to soak into the feeling as he felt your plush, naked ass press against his own bare cock, so impatient and needy.

“mattyyy.”

your mind was foggy, clouded with the thought of immediate release. your hips shifting back into mattheo so deliciously was a clear bodily reaction, and he could see that as well.

as much as he wanted to thrust right into your sloppy hole and fuck you senseless, he couldn’t.

“c–can’t, baby. i don’t have a condom.”

it was difficult to hold back, it really was. to have his gorgeous roommate in his arms, half-naked and begging for dick — that was his ultimate fantasy. yet here he was, cock heavy and throbbing against your ass, refusing to fuck you without a condom.

“but matty–”

“safe sex is ah–… important, baby.”

fuck safe sex, you wanted to scream at him, the achiness between your legs growing stronger and stronger. but mattheo took you by surprise once again, repositioning his wandering hand back on your cunt and slowly circling his digits over your pulsing clit.

“but i will take care of you.”

the sensation was so powerful that your head was thrown back against his chest, a sharp moan elicited from your previously pouting lips. no longer pursed in dissatisfaction, your mouth hanged open, overflowing with whines and moans.

“it feels good, baby, hm?”

“yes, yes, yes, ahhh…”

your voice was high and ruined, hips rutting mindlessly against mattheo’s hand as he played with your swollen bud. his pace was sloppy and wavering, his concentration deterring because of his own needs. his cock, leaking with precum, was still chasing relief between your asscheeks.

but he too wanted more.

“got you all messy and wet…” he mumbled, ragged breath fanning on your skin. “yet i can’t even fuck you properly.”

the arm around your torso tightened, dragging you closer to his crotch. his ministration on your clit got rougher, now matching the desperate ruttings of his own hips.

he wanted so bad to move your leg to the side and just plunge in. he wanted so bad to twist you around and have you spread open across his bed, legs dangling off his shoulders as he restlessly pounds into you.

his cock continued to bully the fat of your behind, leaving a sticky shimmery trail all over it, as he keeps imagining the many ways he could have you if only he had a condom on him.

if only there was an alternative to–

there was.

“baby, let me fuck your pretty thighs.”

he rasped quickly, short of breath, proud of his genius idea. his fidgety hand immediately jumped on your thigh, fingers digging into the plush fat and making it jiggle slightly.

“they’re warm and soft… i will rub your clit, make you cum together with me.”

his other hand resumed its movement on your cunt, poking and prodding at your clit in an attempt to convince you to accept his offer.

“o–okay.”

you hiccupped, voce hazy and dripping with need. you slightly parted your thighs, inviting mattheo to insert his cock. and he wasted no time, thanking you for your cooperation and sliding between your thighs swiftly.

and when you closed them around his cock, squishing it nicely, he though his body ascended to heaven.

“my gooood girl.”

mattheo groaned low at the friction your soft skin provided, hugging his shaft tight and warm. then he moaned louder, his cock grazing past your drenched folds and your quivering hole. he almost gave up and changed the angle, pushing into your cunt, but he stilled himself and completed his thrust, his tip peeking out, red and dripping, on the other side.

“you’re amazing, fuck.”

and with that, mattheo started a stable rhythm of his hips, pulling and pushing against your thighs and using them like a cunt. he also kept his promise, rubbing your pretty little clit and giving you that well-deserved pleasure.

“mattyyy.”

his urgent and sharp thrust affected you as well. you were sobbing now, teetering on the edge, your whole body trembling from the pressure on your clit and the constant bullying of mattheo’s cock against your folds.

“i know, baby, me too.”

he only cooed at you, speeding up his thrusts between your thighs, fingers rubbing with more vigour against your clit.

but it wasn’t sufficient.

you needed more.

you needed him inside.

“matty– inside–… i need you inside.” you babbled between sobs, twisting your neck to gaze at him and enchant him a second time that night.

“r–raw, please, raw.”

his entire body shuddered at your plea, arms stiffening tightly against you. he resisted you the first time, but now? with his own release so close?

fuck.

he cursed viciously under his breath, his self-control on the verge of snapping completely.

“y–you sure? i w–won’t be able to stop.”

if you agree, he will conform. and he hoped you–

“please, matty. i need you.”

with a feral growl, mattheo shifted, guiding the fat head of his cock to your soaking entrance. and he pushed in without a second thought, the tip stretching you out deliciously, warmly welcomed by your hungry cunt.

both of you moaned — loud, primal, shameless.

he bottomed out in one long, shaking thrust, his hips drawn to yours like a magnet. your gummy walls latched onto him like a vice, sucking his cock and hardly letting it go.

“so fucking good, baby. fuckfuckfuckk.”

he pulled out only halfway before slamming back in, setting a brutal pace that had your thighs shaking. your hands were clawing at the sheets, hanging onto them for dear life.

you were close.

you were both so close.

he only had a few more thrusts in him — he could feel it building up in his gut, tightening unbearably.

“gonna fill you up, baby.”

mattheo groaned into your shoulder, hips jerking faster, harder. his fingers were also frantic against your clit, wishing to push you off the edge at the same time.

“please, want you in me.” you whimpered, arching into him, voice broken yet sweet.

his body trembled — a half-muttered call of your name managed to get out before his sturdy hands grabbed your hips, digging his fingers hard into your skin to keep you still.

you gasped together as he buried himself deep, cock splitting you open one last time before spurts of cum spilled inside you. your pussy fluttered around him like it wanted to seal in every last drop, joining his orgasm.

for a few moments, the world was just panting, sweaty skin, tangled limbs, and the slow, sticky drip of him leaking out of you.

mattheo didn’t pull out. he couldn’t.

he just wrapped himself around you tighter, peppering you with lazy kisses.

"warm enough now, baby?" he murmured against your skin, cocky even in his exhaustion.

you could only giggle weakly, shortly glancing at the blanket that started all this, half-hanging off the bed, forgotten.

"yeah, matty," you whispered, settling back into his embrace. "more than enough."

tags: @downbad4reid, @cafechichay, @lov3notts

3K notes · View notes

empath-bunny · 14 days ago

Text

Wrong train

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

⌗ train, posthog, strangers, drawing

word count: 526

note: hello

1889. Swiss-French border.

You weren’t supposed to be in this compartment.

But the train was late, snow fell in thick flakes, and your ticket — third class, hard seats, the stench of cheap tobacco — suddenly didn’t matter. The conductor waved you off: "Sit wherever there’s space." And so here you are, in a half-empty first-class carriage, sketchbook on your lap, paint still clinging stubbornly under your nails.

The door slides open.

"Is this seat taken?"

The voice is low, polite, an accent you can’t quite place — British, maybe, or something older. You look up and see him: tall, wrapped in a black coat, his face like something carved from an old portrait — sharp, pale, too beautiful to be kind.

"Yes," you say, "if you don’t mind risking charcoal stains."

He smiles — not with his mouth, just his eyes — and sits across from you.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

You sketch. The mountains outside the window, flickering station lights, the trembling shadows cast by the ceiling lamp. He watches. You feel his gaze on your hands, the line of your jaw, the place where your blouse has loosened at the collar from the heat.

"Are you an artist?" he asks.

"No. I just like staining paper."

"I’m a collector."

"Of paintings?"

"Of all sorts."

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

You don’t know why talking to him feels so easy. Maybe because a

train is a place outside of time. Here, you can be anyone.

"Let me draw you," you say suddenly.

He goes very still.

"Why?"

"Because you have a face worth remembering."

He laughs — soft, as if to himself.

"Flatterer."

But he doesn’t refuse.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

You draw. He sits motionless, but you catch details: the way his fingers tap faintly against his knee, counting seconds. The shadow his lashes cast on sharp cheekbones. How he looks not at you, but through you — somewhere far away, a place no one is allowed.

"Are you always this quiet?" you ask.

"Only with those who deserve it."

"And do I?"

He leans slightly closer, and you catch his scent — rain, old books, something cold and distant.

"You’re drawing me. So yes."

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

Near dawn, you finish the portrait. He studies it — too long, too intently — then says:

"You’ve made a mistake."

"Where?"

"I’m not this... soft."

You open your mouth to argue, but the train jerks to a sudden halt. Outside, a dimly lit station. He stands.

"Is this your stop?" you ask.

"Yes."

He adjusts his gloves, takes his cane (you hadn’t noticed it before — slim, black, with a silver handle). Then, almost as an afterthought:

"May I keep this?"

He means the drawing.

You nod.

He tears the page from your sketchbook, his fingers brushing yours. Cold.

"Thank you," he says.

Then he murmurs something else — words you don’t understand, syllables that curl like smoke in the air between you.

"Obliviate."

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

You wake to the lurch of the train moving again. The compartment is empty. A page is missing from your sketchbook.

You don’t remember what was on it.

But sometimes, in dreams, you see a face — beautiful, pale, with eyes that look straight through you.

168 notes · View notes

empath-bunny · 14 days ago

Text

ferrari

as part of a social visit, you spend a fortnight at an English politician's estate with his god-awful son (politician's son!theo x american socialite!reader)

a/n - this fic took sooo long im so excited to publish it!!! also im such a sucker for the trope where one half of a couple is THE most insidious hater with absolutely no chill but then halfway through they start feeling like...why's the other person kinda........hmmmmmmm (p.s. this started off inspired by the song by the neighbourhood but idk if i would call this a songfic ehehe enjoyy)

tropes/warnings - enemies to lovers, forced proximity, fluff/banter, mildly british-phobic, incorrect descriptions of ferraris as manual (god i researched too much about ferraris against my will also i apologise for the inconsistencies car/f1 girlies)

word count - 5.8k

taglist - @kandralice @justme989898 @iamheretoread1234 @allie-sturns @hzdhrtss @friedfreyfries @bushnellswife @rose-of-the-grave @thaliashifts @pariahsparadise @babene-e @fratbrochrisgf @user089167

A car.

A yellow car.

A bright, disgusting, honest-to-god canary yellow Ferrari was peeling into the driveway at the ungodly hour of a quarter to 7 in the morning.

You rubbed the sleep from your eyes. Most of yesterday had passed in an exhausting blur, given how jet-lagged you were, but this took the cake. You blinked, opening your eyes further. The car was still there, as loud and insecurely showy as it had been at first glance.

Perhaps your eyes hadn't adjusted to the English countryside gloom. Yes, that had to be it. You were sure that in proper daylight, the car would appear a luxurious cream, or perhaps even an elegant taupe.

Once you had dressed and crept downstairs, shivering in the early morning chill that blanketed the vast estate, a butler informed you that Master Nott would be down shortly to join you for breakfast. But it wasn't the genteel, elderly man that had welcomed you and your father the day before that walked in.

"Apologies for my absence yesterday," said the man walking towards the breakfast table, fiddling with a button. "I hope my father wasn't too boring. I was occupied with some other business. Theodore Nott. Junior."

He stuck out a hand at the last bit, and you eyed it with a restrained distaste. Perhaps it was just the cynic in you, but something about his demeanour felt politically calibrated to dazzle you. The apple clearly didn't fall far from the tree - Theo Nott Jr. was every bit his father's son. However, this Theodore appeared more charismatic and charming, whereas his father seemed more reserved and cordial.

And yet, there was something untrustworthy about his smile. What kind of business did he occupy himself with?

"So, Theodore," you asked as you buttered a piece of toast, "what do you like to do for pleasure?"

"Nothing much out of the ordinary - golfing, collecting art, skiing. I enjoy a good holiday every now and then."

Your lips quirked a little at that. Calling it 'a little holiday every now and then' was putting it lightly, you decided. Theodore Nott Jr. had a reputation that could easily rival any of your more scandalous counterparts. It seemed like all he did was travel, jet-setting from one location to the next, finding ever-brilliant ways of dragging his father's name in the mud. Given his father's staunch refusal to comment on his son's debaucherous behaviours, you guessed there was no love lost between the two.

"Oh, and cars," Theo continued obliviously. "I do like cars."

You placed your toast down, frowning.

"Your business yesterday. It wouldn't have had anything to do with that...you know...the yellow..." you trailed off, motioning with the butter knife.

Theo looked surprised. The mildly curious look on his face felt miles more genuine than his unscrupulous smile just minutes ago. The curve of his lips hinted at something - like a smile, but not quite.

"Your bedroom does overlook the driveway, doesn't it? But yes - I was in town yesterday afternoon to pick up my new car." Misreading your curiosity as interest, he probed further. "Why? Do you like it?"

You thought back to the grotesquely gleaming vehicle. You barely held back from pulling an unbecoming face.

"Car is...a strong word for that monstrosity."

Theo's lips parted, giving you the impression that he had a dozen replies on the tip of his tongue, but no voice for any of them.

"Well. You Americans have the strangest ways of describing classics."

You raised your eyebrows. "Classic? Little Women is a classic. That...is a Colleen Hoover book at best."

Theo watched you curiously, uncomprehending.

"What? You're not up to date on contemporary unfeminist literature?"

From the blank look on his face, the quip was clearly lost on him. Merlin, was he going to be this slow the entire visit?

"When Father mentioned contacting a translator, I assumed he was having a laugh," the boy said, prying open a tiny jar of honey. "Now, I'm not so sure."

The two of you endured a painfully awkward meal and you excused yourself at the first available opportunity, taking care not to seem overly eager to leave the room. Behind you, you heard a faint clink of china and a muttered, sardonic echo.

"Monstrosity."

You didn’t intend to play. That much you wanted to make perfectly clear.

After spending the morning occupied with other business, Theodore's father had invited you and your father for afternoon tea and a game of lawn polo with Theo and his friends - all carefully groomed hedges and intimidatingly pressed uniforms. You had been under the mistaken assumption that you'd be on the watching end of things. When Theo invited you to join the game, you offered a tight-lipped smile.

"I'm afraid I didn't pack any riding clothes," you said apologetically. It was true, you hadn't, but your worries had more to do with the fact that you hadn't ridden since you were 12.

Theo turned towards you, his hair sun-tousled with a sly slant to his eyes that promised nothing good for you.

“Whatever you’re wearing now is more than fine.”

You looked down at your blouse and loose linen trousers, uncertain.

"Unless, of course," he continued, dropping his voice, "you don't feel up for the game?"

You glanced up, reading the challenge in his words. He was goading you, and you knew better than to fall for it. But you just couldn't stand the idea of him holding this over your head, subtly or otherwise, for the rest of your visit. And so, as utterly infuriating as it was, you took the bait - hook, line, and sinker.

"Don't be ridiculous," you muttered through clenched teeth, taking the helmet he held out for you.

And so you awkwardly mounted a dapple-grey gelding under the watchful eye of yours and Theo's fathers, pretending you weren’t one misplaced pebble away from sliding off your horse, face-first. Theo carelessly introduced his friends from boarding school - Mattheo Riddle and Blaise Zabini. They waved at you good-naturedly, and you nervously smiled back. They seemed friendly enough, but then again, so had Theo.

The game started fast - faster than you were comfortable with, if you were being completely honest. Within minutes, you were hopelessly lost while Theo, unsurprisingly, was in his element. He rode like he’d been riding all his life, and he probably had - back straight, jaw tight, eyes narrowed with something more intense than friendly competition. Meanwhile, you struggled to keep up, your hands slick with sweat on the reins.

Theo whirled past you on his stallion, calling over his shoulder, “Next time, try aiming for the ball.”

The others laughed, well-mannered, while Theo smirked with a special kind of malice, as if he were all too aware of the heat crawling up your neck. You smiled through it, chin high, your thoughts drifting to violent fantasies of bashing his perfectly sculpted face in with your mallet.

He wasn’t just fast; he was precise. Every time you neared the ball, he was there, cutting you off with easy, practiced turns or thundering by close enough to rattle you. Not enough to technically break the rules, but enough to make you painfully aware of how out of your depth you were.

At some point, the teasing and missteps began to chip away at your carefully composed expression. Your lips thinned. Your jaw locked. The linen blouse that once felt effortlessly chic now clung to your back.

You glanced around the lawn irritably when one of his friends caught your eye from across the field. Blaise, if you remembered correctly. He gave the subtlest flick of his wrist, adjusting the way he held his mallet. You mirrored him instinctively, and almost immediately, your wrist felt less strained. Stunned, you shot him an appreciative look.

A few minutes later, Mattheo came riding up beside you at a slower pace, his horse snorting softly.

“Alright, New York?” he asked with a lazy grin.

That piqued your attention. Although you currently lived in LA, it wasn't exactly common knowledge that you were born and brought up in New York City. Still, you weren't sure how much you could trust either of them. They were Theo's friends, after all.

“Just peachy,” you replied coolly.

He leaned a little closer, and you felt mildly jealous and how effortless he made it seem.

“You know, Theo only acts like this when he really hates someone.”

You raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Or,” he added casually, as he gathered his reins in one hand, “when he really likes them.”

The implication hit only after he had steered his horse away. You blinked, before seizing your own reins with a newfound determination. Whatever game Theo thought he was playing, you weren’t about to let him win it.

With your grip improved and your instincts finally catching up, you started anticipating the ball's path. Your swings grew sharper, more confident. You manoeuvred around Theo once, twice, three times.

At the final play, it was all heat and desire for vengeance. You galloped forward, timing your swing just as the ball veered to the left. Your mallet connected with a satisfying crack, sending it cleanly rolling between the makeshift goal posts.

The applause was courteous but audible; your father's a little more effusive than was strictly polite.

You trotted past Theo, heart still pounding, your smile flushed and wicked.

His face remained as impassive as marble. “There are less showy ways to win, you know” he said, voice neutral.

You leaned in. “But hardly half as satisfying.”

You dismounted and handed off your reins to a stablehand, still floating on the high of your victory.

“A play like that deserves its own prize,” Nott Sr. said with faux formality. “Perhaps a small trophy. Or a drink named after you in the club lounge.”

You nodded graciously, murmuring something demure.

But your eyes flicked to Theo as he dismounted a few paces away. His jaw was tight. His shoulders tense. The bad-tempered flick of his brow as he handed off his helmet was the clearest reaction you’d seen all day.

And, if you were being completely honest, that little crack in his perfectly constructed exterior was the best trophy you could’ve asked for.

"Bored out of your skull, aren't you?"

You jumped, startled from where you had been resting your head for a brief shut-eye. This afternoon, the Notts were hosting you, your father, and some Ministry officials at an art gallery. With considerable effort, you lasted about half an hour before you excused yourself to the car outside Even now you had to contend with a humidity that made your hair stick to the back of your neck. It had been drizzling incessantly since morning, introducing a dampness to everything.

"Understandably so," Theo continued in a smug tone that made you kick yourself for letting him catch you unawares. "It's all a little dry for me, and I grew up with this stuff."

You straightened in the passenger seat, resisting the urge to nervously fix your hair, smoothing out whatever scrap of dignity you had left.

"I don't know what you're talking about. The tour was highly intriguing. I was just in here looking for my...my sunglasses." You peered into the glove compartment. What had left your lips as a fib was now becoming a rather real problem, actually - where were your sunglasses? You were too distracted to notice Theo climbing into the driver's seat beside you until the door shut. You closed the glove box, defeated, thinking hard about where you last saw them.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked. "Or - what would that be for you? Dollar for your thoughts?"

"Cent."

"Are you sure? With these exchange rates?"

For what felt like the hundredth time since the beginning of your trip, you shot Theo a dirty look. Not that it seemed to upset him.

"Nice weather we're having," he tried again.

You shrugged, glancing up at the clouded skies. "I guess. Does it never get fully dry here?"

You regretted opening your mouth as soon as you saw the ill-disguised amusement on his face. Clearly, you had just said something wilfully ignorant of the place. It wasn't your fault. Who had the time to vacation in dreary old England when the rest of Europe seemed so warm, colourful and dry?

"'Fraid so. You must understand, we're quite a bit of ways from Californ-yuh."

You grimaced.

"Was that your attempt at an American accent?"

Theo grinned. You had been around your fair share of good-looking people, but when Theo smiled - genuinely smiled, full of mirth or adolescent mischief - it almost hurt to look at his beautiful face.

If only didn't come attached with that insufferable personality.

"Come on. It wasn't that bad."

"It didn't even sound like English."

"It did - and what's more, that is exactly what you sound like."

You gasped, appalled. This miscreant was supposed to be the well-bred progeny of an English Ministry official? The mocking and teasing you could put up with, but outright insults were where you drew the line.

"Is not!"

"Is too."

"Is - " you stopped yourself, giving Theo a dirty look. He looked hardly apologetic; if anything, he seemed awfully pleased with himself for successfully having roped you in some inane, childish spat.

"You know what? You're right. The day's wasted just sitting around."

Theo didn’t wait for you to respond. He turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life.

You froze.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking you for a spin," he said casually, as if it were nothing. “You clearly need to get out more, get some fresh air in those lungs.”

"The hell I do - Theodore, no."

But he was already reversing, one hand on the wheel, the other behind the passenger seat headrest. The car jerked at a hard turn, gravel spitting beneath the tires. A moment later, he punched it forward, the sudden acceleration slamming you back against the seat.

“I am not dying in a British clown car,” you hissed with a white-knuckled grip on the door handle.

Theo didn’t even look at you. “It’s Italian,” he said smoothly, switching gears like it was muscle memory. “And she likes to be pushed.”

He turned towards you, peering over his sunglasses with his startlingly dull eyes.

"Though I have to warn you, if you insult my car again, I'm not above leaving you at the side of the road."

You could barely process the words before he was tearing down a narrow country road, weaving between bends. The hedges blurred into a smear of green. Your stomach lurched with every curve he barely braked for, the car swinging wide, tires shrieking with every corner he turned too fast.

“You're a lunatic!” you shouted, clutching your seatbelt, as the speedometer soared past any sane number.

“And you’re too uptight,” he said coolly, shifting gears with a little flourish. “But here we are.”

The tires skidded slightly as he made another turn. Raindrops streaked the windshield. Your fingers frantically fumbled along the seat. Seatbelt. Seatbelt.

“Jesus - Theo - SLOW DOWN.”

But he didn’t. If anything, the Ferrari sped up, surging forward like it had something to prove.

You felt it in your chest, in your teeth, adrenaline flooding your veins. Your heart was beating so fast it hurt.

“I swear to God, if you kill me—”

“Oh, I’d never. Imagine the paperwork.” His smile widened as the road narrowed. “Besides, this car is worth considerably more than your life.”

“You are such an asshole.”

Theo clicked his tongue, entirely unbothered. “Language,” he rebuked. “Bit unladylike, don’t you think?”

You'd have had your hands around his neck by now if he wasn't the one driving this death trap machine. Your stomach flipped as the car surged forward again. The car lifted slightly as it hit a bump, just enough for your breath to catch in your throat. When it slammed back down, you swore you felt your bones rattle.

“This isn’t fun,” you said, voice ragged.

“Not for you, maybe.” Theo downshifted just to hear the engine snarl. You were going to throw up. Or pass out. Or both.

All of a sudden, you felt the car slowing down. You looked up, dizzy with relief, just as Theo slowed to a stop outside the gallery. He looked invigorated by the ride, and also as though he was trying not to laugh. Delicately, he pulled down the sunglasses that you had stuck in your hair earlier that morning.

"Found them," he said, far too cheerfully.

But you were at your limit. You finally snapped.

You stepped out of the car on wobbly legs, slamming it closed just as your father and a couple of Ministry officials were exiting the gallery.

"Which way to the estate?" You asked crossly, interrupting their conversation. Your father looked between yours and Theo's faces, alarmed.

"What h- "

"Which. Way. to the estate."

Your father hesitated in his reply, clearly appalled by your bright red face. Or perhaps the state your hair was in.

"That way. But Y/N, honey, if you take one of the cars - "

"I'm walking."

"All the way back, darling?" he asked fretfully. "At least let Theodore drive you."

This was clearly the wrong thing to have said, if your aggravated shriek was any indication. You gracelessly turned and started walking back to the manor, uncaring of the scene you were making. And as for Theo -

Well. You didn't care to even spare him a glance.

"It was awful, Vee. He's awful. He just does whatever he wants whenever he wants, consequences be damned." You were lying on your room's window seat, fresh out of a shower after the hike back, talking to a friend on the phone while staring hatefully out the window at the blissfully peaceful sprawling grounds. Stupid England and its stupid politicians and their stupid sons and its stupid mud.

Your gaze drifted sorrowfully towards your boots, which hadn't survived the walk home. "And Daddy calls me spoiled," you sniffled.

You heard a familiar crunch of gravel and looked out to see a disgustingly familiar car pulling in. You glared at it as Theo killed the engine and stepped out. You watched him scan the exterior, presumably counting windows until he met your gaze. He waved at you, motioning for you to come downstairs. For a moment, you indulged in the fantasy of flipping him off and drawing your curtains.

"What?" You started crossly as you walked out to the porch, still too peeved to even pretend at civility.

Theo just tilted his head, leaning against the car, eyes hidden behind his sleek, rectangular shades. "You know, I don't think I've seen you smile once your whole trip. Is everyone in America always this discontent?"

"I don't know. Is everyone in England always this unpleasant?"

Theo had the decency to look a little embarrassed. "Touché."

He cleared his throat and stood up a little straighter. Prick. He probably liked the idea of you having to tilt your head upwards just to look him in the eye.

"I really am sorry about this afternoon. It's just - sometimes there's no stopping me when I really get going. Especially if it has anything to do with my father."

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "So that's it? I'm just a pawn for you to use to get back at your dad?"

"No, that's not - " Theo ran a hand through his rougishly dishevelled hair. He took a deep breath.

"Let me start over. My behaviour has been...rude, and disrespectful, and you didn't deserve any of it. So..."

Theo turned and picked something up from the passenger seat - a navy blue, velvet box. You eyed it skeptically.

"What's this?"

"Peace offering."

You stared at the box for a while before you caved in out of curiosity. You grudgingly accepted the box and opened it. You felt your mouth go dry. Nestled in the thick, rich fabric was the most delicate, exquisite set of diamond earrings you had ever seen. They glittered as if in slow motion in the late afternoon sun. This was no American brand - Cartier, perhaps?

"Truce?"

Your head snapped up, and you remembered why you were here, and who you were talking to. You traced part of the earrings' outline longingly. Damn. With diamonds like these, he could have a truce and then some.

"Yeah. I mean, fine. Truce, I guess," you stammered out disinterestedly, trying to hide how the gift had rendered you speechless.

You had specific tastes. You didn't shop excessively but precisely. It was why you could never take to a personal shopper - no one seemed to understand your tastes or preferences as well as you did yourself. Until today, that is.

With considerable difficulty, you shut the box. After all, it would be rude to reject such an expensive gift. You didn't even know if they did returns in this part of Europe. Why should you begrudge yourself such a fine piece of jewellery just because he decided to be an ass?

"Is that all?"

"Mostly. How did your boots hold up?"

You stayed resolutely silent, but something on your face must have given it away. Theo wrinkled his nose sympathetically. "Thought so. We have a cobbler a little way in the town. I can drop them off for you, if you'd like. They should be done by the time I get back."

"Back?"

It was only then that you noticed the trunk propped up in the backseat of the car.

"I'm visiting Normandy for a few days."

You raised your eyebrows, unimpressed but not surprised. "Didn't you just get back from Italy?"

"This one's more of a house call. Speaking of, I really should get a move on." "So, your boots?"

You hesitated. These were your Manolo Blahniks. Your babies. Could you really trust a man as vile as he was with them? Then again, it didn't look like they could get much worse.

While you deliberated, Theo rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever. Keep your boots. Just wait for the mud to dry and then brush it off. That should get most of it."

With that, he stepped back into the car and fastened his seat belt. He looked up to where you were still staring at him mistrustfully.

"Well, I'm off. Feel free to direct some of that snark towards my father while I'm gone."

You numbly watched him reverse out the gate and turn into the main streets, the gift weighing heavily on your mind.

You hadn't anticipated how quiet the manor could be without Theo. Did he really occupy so much space that the manor felt incomprehensibly vast and cold without him? You whiled away your days at dinners and luncheons and how you usually occupied yourself on these kinds of alien social vists, but it just wasn't the same without anyone your age. You were starting to get so bored, it almost felt like you were beginning to miss him.

It was almost a week since you last saw Theo. You were in your room, making plans to go into town, when you glimpsed a figure near the perimeter of the estate's front lawn. You opened your window. There was something familiar about the carelessly sun-kissed crop of curls.

Looking closer, you realised you were right. You didn't know he was back, but it was most certainly Theodore Nott in the black suit - Merlin, that had to be uncomfortably warm - glinting cufflinks, purposeful stride. He looked stiffly formal in a way you’d never seen him. Polished and imposing with his usual languid gait replaced by something far more measured.

Theo's gaze drifted up the estate until his eyes met yours. You leaned against the windowsill and gave him a look, brow arched, lips parted, and he...nothing. Theo had absolutely no reaction to you. His eyes were on yours, but it was as though he was seeing straight through you. Just a tiny, barely there tick in his jaw before he looked away.

That was when you noticed the foreign dignitary following closely behind, dressed as sharply as Theo. You propped your chin up on your hand, watching with renewed interest. Ah. Hosting, are we?

Really, he only had himself to blame for you turning it into a little game. He should have known it would be dull as tomes without him. Every time his gaze wandered towards you, voluntarily or otherwise, you waved brightly, blew him a kiss or two, and the like, all while he did his best to keep a straight face and look away.

His posture changed. Stiffened. A flick of his shoulder. A twitch of the hand. A slight turn of his head as if fighting the urge to look again. You could see him biting the inside of his cheek. At one point, he even coughed. This all only further encouraged you.

Eventually, Theo turned away from you fully, his mouth moving as he muttered something to the dignitary. His face was mostly hidden now, but not before you caught the faintest curve of a smile biting into his cheek.

Victory.

You watched them retreat to the cool indoors. You stayed at the window watching the stray sprigs of dandelions toss their heads in the faint breeze until you ran out of patience. You hurried downstairs, determined to vex him for being away for so long. Theo apparently had a similar idea and you nearly ran smack into him as you turned the corner on the spiral stairs.

"How was Normandy?" you asked in a breathless rush, his hand warm at your elbow.

"Terribly pleasant without you constantly looking down on everything." Up close, he looked a little more bronze, a little more rosy than when you last saw him. Or maybe that had to do with him running up the stairs.

The hand Theo had stuck out to stop you from running into him had regrettably fallen. "Mother sends gifts." Then, as if his body couldn't physically handle being nice to you, he added, "Clearly, she's never met you."

Your lips twitched. "Clearly."

You let Theo lead you down to the living room, where there was no dignitary but only a fabulous spread of French cheeses, smiling at him prettily as he somewhat sarcastically offered you a seat. You took a sip of the wine he poured you, watching him pretend not to watch you back. The two of you spent the rest of the afternoon lazily picking at the variety of French cheeses Theo had brought home, talking about any and everything under the sun, from his trip to the summer camps you used to go to.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me you were back," you said an hour later, when the two of you were beginning to run out of things to talk about.

Theo gave an exaggerated wince as he refilled your glass. "Please. I came here straight from the jet, I promise you."

You rolled your eyes.

"Well, next time, you can tell your mother that I loved the - er, hang on...fromage de bois?"

"What?"

Theo sat up, watching your mouth intently. Your face was starting to feel a little hot, probably from all the wine.

"Say that again?"

You cleared your throat. "Um, fromage de bois?"

Theo shook his head. "Again."

You repeated yourself a little haltingly. French had never been your strong suit. Theo stared at you, brow furrowed, mystified.

"You are doing strange and unusual things with that tongue of yours...and none of it is right." He looked enthralled. Fascinated. Tipsy. You rolled your eyes. "Your accent is...in a word, abysmal."

You nibbled at the cheese you apparently couldn't pronounce right. "Sorry, Mr. Intercontinentally Educated. Some of us have to contend with the Ivy League legacies we were born into."

Theo busied himself with another wheel of cheese. You thought back to the foreign dignitary from that afternoon.

"I thought you didn't do your father any favours," you asked. It was a risky topic to broach, but you could always blame it on the wine.

Theo chewed for a long while.

"Usually, I don't."

"But?"

"But my mother thinks I should be less hard on him."

"Oh."

"And I think she's starting to forget what he's like."

Theo dusted his hands with a wry smile before reaching over you towards the crackers, broad-shouldered, close enough for you to feel the heat radiating off him. Too late, the thought to lean back crossed your mind, but by then Theo was already back in his seat, turning over the empty dish and eyeing you with mock disapproval.

"Someone's finished all the crackers."

You smiled innocently, crumbling the few crackers left in your hand as you watched him call for more.

It was your last night at the estate. There's no place like home, but it saddened you to leave this quaint slice of English countryside in the middle of nowhere. You were curled up on your window seat, trying to focus on a book you weren’t actually reading. You should have gone to bed hours ago, but something was keeping you up.

You were so sure he'd show up. One last time. Just for you.

You finally snapped your book shut, admitting defeat, and swung your legs into bed with a sigh. Then, you heard it - the low, unmistakable growl of a stupidly expensive sports car.

You hurried over to your window, shivering with anticipation. There Theo was, dressed down in a soft black sweater and slacks, leaning against that yellow Ferrari. You never doubted him for a second.

You padded downstairs with ill-disguised excitement.

"I'm here for your big send-off."

You raised your eyebrows. "Send-off?"

"Yeah. What kind of host would I be if I didn't give you the right send-off?"

Your eyebrows disappeared into your hair. The levels of hypocrisy of this man were astounding.

"You left the country for a week while we were here. Or have you forgotten?"

Theo was starting to look annoyed.

"Do you want a big send-off or not?"

"...okay."

You were in the passenger seat for barely ten minutes, cruising through narrow, moonlit country lanes, before Theo pulled into an empty side road.

You blinked at him. Maybe you trusted him too much, too quickly. Was this how you died?

“Why are we stopping?”

Theo walked over to your side of the car, opened the door and held out the keys. You eyed them distastefully.

"Please don't tell me you're giving me the car. Respect for other people's property is the only thing stopping me from driving this off a cliff."

"I'm not giving it to you," he said, as your fingers curled uncertainly around the metal. You relaxed.

"I'm teaching you how to drive it."

You laughed. Then stopped laughing.

“You’re serious?”

You were glad it was the middle of the night with nobody around, because you were gaping at him rather unbecomingly.

"Dr - drive this? Are you crazy?"

"I'm picking up a pattern here. I'm starting to think you have a very low bar for insanity."

"This cannot be legal. You guys don't even drive on the right side of the road here."

"Relax. I'll walk you through it."

And so, Theo eventually wheedled you into getting into the driver's seat, fastening your seatbelt and switching on the engine.

"Okay, so, foot goes on the brake, hands on the wheel - " For a moment, Theo's large warm hands enveloped yours, pulling them up to 10 and 2, and you felt your heart flutter. " - and, try not to kill us, yeah?"

You shot him a glare. "You're so funny," you deadpanned.

Theo grinned. You wiped the smile right off his face as the car lurched forward, nearly concussing him on the dashboard.

"Gentle, gentle," he wheezed.

The drive that followed was a mixture of cautious lurches and unexpected smooth patches. Theo’s instructions were teasing but not unkind. He guided you through each shift, each turn, with his voice low and amused. At one point, when you stalled the car trying to reverse out of a hedgerow, you noticed his shoulders shaking with suppressed mirth. You gave him the silent treatment for five blocks until he effusively and somewhat mockingly apologised.

When the two of you had had enough excitement for one night, Theo gave you directions back to the estate. Even in pitch dark, Theo knew the network of roads surrounding his family home like the back of his hand.

You pull into the driveway and kill the engine. A deafening silence settles over the two of you.

"So? How was I?"

Theo takes his time responding. "You did better than I expected."

You make a show of twirling your hair. "So you think I'm a natural."

Theo's oddly quiet. You can't make out his expression in the shadows.

"I think you're something," he says quietly. He leans forward enough for his expression to take shape in a sliver of moonlight. You feel your heart hammering in your chest.

All of a sudden, you don't want to go up to your room, knock out, and leave in the morning. You want to sit here in this god-awful Ferrari with Theo and his windswept hair and his bedroom eyes and the look on his face like he really wanted to kiss you.

"Theodore - "

"My friends call me Teddy," he murmurs, barely managing to force the words out before his mouth covers yours.

It’s not careful or practiced like most things Theo does. It’s a little desperate, a little clumsy - like he’s scared to hesitate. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth as he tilts his head slightly, deepening it enough to make you blush with the intimacy of it.

When he pulls back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours. You can feel how uneven his breathing is. How unsure.

You blink at him, stunned.

"Your friends don't call you Teddy."

Theo laughs shakily, and you realise that that isn't the most sensible reaction. For the first time in your trip, you laugh with him.

"What? You think I'm some idiot that doesn't notice what your friends call you?"

"You're right. They don't," Theo agrees with a breathless laugh. His breathing evens out. "But I was hoping you might."

You shake your head slightly, feeling a flush creeping up your neck.

"I can't believe I ever thought you were cool. You're so lame."

"And yet," he says softly, nudging his nose against yours, "you still haven't run for the hills."

You don’t answer. You don’t move. Not for a long, long while.

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