#how is Rumple any worse?

[theballadofharkness]

She’s with the Director

Masterlist

Pairing: Maya Mason x fem!reader

Summary: When Hollywood’s strangest new director begins quietly shopping her next script, Matt Remnick loses his mind trying to find her. Mysterious, brilliant, and barely reachable, she’s the kind of director that could give him his Rosemary’s Baby… if he can track her down.

Maya Mason isn’t worried.

Because the strangest woman in Hollywood that the studio is chasing? She already has her.

Word Count: 9K

Warnings: explicit smut, strap-on use, MDNI

A/N: This is just a quick little Maya fic I wrote while catching up on The Studio finally, I definitely want to write more Maya so any suggestions would be great xo

Matt Remick bursts into the conference room like he’s just come from war… or worse, a breakfast meeting with Griffin.

He’s got that look. Wide eyes, rumpled blazer, the smell of overpriced oat milk clinging to him like defeat. But he’s grinning like he just found the last golden ticket in Hollywood. “Big news,” he says. “Huge news.”

The team’s already waiting, Sal is sprawled in his usual seat with a breakfast burrito and a hangover, Quinn tapping away on her tablet with one AirPod in, and Patty Leigh sipping tea like she’s three seconds away from biting someone.

Sal doesn’t look up from his phone. “You always say that and it’s never huge man.”

“No,” Matt says, too pumped to be insulted. “No, this is real.”

Patty sighs and sets her tea down with careful grace. “What is it Matthew? You look like you’re about to wet yourself.”

Matt drops his phone on the table, screen facing up. It’s paused on a still from Wolves at the Well, that shot, the one with the lake and the antlers and the girl screaming underwater. Instantly recognizable. Instantly iconic.

“She’s looking for a studio,” Matt announces, reverent. “She’s looking for a studio.”

Quinn looks up. “Who is?”

Matt lets the silence drag just long enough to be dramatic. “Y/N Y/L/N.”

A pause.

Quinn straightens. “Wait. Seriously?”

Patty’s brows raise, skeptical but intrigued. “She’s leaving her indie? I thought she was some kind of cursed forest nymph who only works with companies run out of moss-covered cabins.”

Matt is glowing now. “Nope. Word is she’s looking for a studio. Not an indie label, not some moody investor with a fetish for Icelandic grief dramas. A studio. She wants scale. Reach. And after Wolves exploded? She’s got leverage. She wants to tell bigger stories and still keep control. We can offer that.”

Patty leans back, calculating. “How sure are you?”

“I’ve got three sources,” Matt says. “And her agent’s being cagey, which means it’s real.”

Quinn stares at him. “She’s the biggest thing in film right now. Her movie’s still breaking streaming records. If she’s even considering going big…”

“She is,” Matt says. “And I want her here.”

Silence.

Patty lifts a brow. “You really think she’s going to give up witchy obscurity for a studio boardroom?”

Matt grins. “Not for any studio. But this one? If we pitch it right? We can blow A24 out of the fucking water.”

Patty leans back, amused. “And who, pray tell, is going to convince her?”

Sal whistles low. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s the plan?”

Matt points around the room like he’s handing out weapons in a war room.

“Quinn- I want everything. Press, panels, podcast interviews. Get inside her head. I want to know what she wants before she does.”

“On it.”

“Sal- find out who else is sniffing around. What they’re offering, who she’s talking to. No one moves without us knowing about it.”

Sal nods, already typing on his phone.

Matt turns to Patty. “You’re producing the pitch. She’s not a ‘take her to lunch and flatter her’ type. She’ll want vision. Integrity. Respect. Sell her on what we aren’t.”

Patty gives a slow, dangerous smile. “I do love a challenge.”

Then Matt turns to Maya.

And the energy shifts.

She hasn’t spoken. Head to toe in Louis Vuitton streetwear, tight ponytail, three rings on each finger, legs crossed like she’s not even paying attention. But her jaw tightens at the sound of your name.

She’s already read your new script. She read it in bed while you lay next to her, legs tangled with hers, chewing the end of a pencil and asking if she thought the ending was too kind. She didn’t answer. She kissed you instead.

“You marketed Wolves at the Well,” Matt says. “She loved that campaign. She said it was the only time her work didn’t feel… diluted.”

Maya says nothing.

“She trusted you,” Matt continues. “You get her tone. You get her weird, terrifying mind. If anyone can figure out how to bring her in, it’s you.”

Maya exhales slowly. “She doesn’t do meetings. She doesn’t do people.”

Matt shrugs. “Then don’t make it feel like a meeting. Make it feel like whatever the hell she needs it to be. We just need her to talk to us.”

Maya tilts her head. “You want a horror film with a ten-minute silent sequence where a woman stares into a mirror and rips her teeth out one by one, and you think I’m the key to selling it?”

Matt grins. “Exactly. And I think you’ve still got a line to her.”

Her eyes narrow. “What makes you think that?”

Matt shrugs. “Because if I were her, and I trusted anyone in this hellhole, it’d be you.”

A beat.

Maya leans back in her chair, her expression unreadable.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she says.

~

The boardroom becomes a war room.

Matt’s pacing again, sleeves rolled up like that helps him think. He’s surrounded by stacks of folders, half-eaten pastries, open laptops, and a terrifying number of Post-it notes.

“We can’t find her,” he says, hands in his hair. “I mean, what the fuck, we cannot find her. Where does she go when she disappears between projects?” he demands. “Nobody just vanishes anymore.”

“She does,” Quinn says, flicking through a spreadsheet. “She doesn’t have a personal Instagram, hasn’t been seen at a public event in eight months, and there’s literally one known address on file, some cabin in Northern California that may or may not exist.”

“She’s not completely off the grid,” Sal argues, waving his phone. “She liked a tweet two weeks ago.”

Matt spins on him. “What tweet?”

“It was about practical effects in horror. But the tweet got deleted, so…”

“So she’s alive, but elusive.” Matt pinches the bridge of his nose. “Great.”

Sal doesn’t even look up from his screen. “No publicist, no assistant, no active socials. Her website is literally a black screen with a Latin quote and a candle that burns out if you hover over it too long.”

“That’s performance art, not contact information!” Matt snaps.

Patty sips her tea. “She’s a ghost with awards.”

Matt slams a file down. “I promised Griffin we were talking to her this week. I called her the next big thing. The anti-Marvel. The future of smart cinema. He said, and I quote, ‘We need her in the building before A24 eats our souls and pisses out another Oscar.’”

Patty doesn’t blink. “And you told him you had this in the bag didn’t you?”

“I panicked!” Matt throws his arms up. “And now we’re screwed.”

He turns, wild-eyed, to Maya, who’s lounging in her chair with one knee up, chewing on the end of a pen and looking like this is the most fun she’s had in months.

“You marketed her last movie,” Matt clings to the one link he has to you. “You got her. You understood her. You got into her head. If anyone knows where she might be, it's you.”

Maya stretches slowly, deliberately, and shrugs. “Maybe she’s just… busy. Maybe she doesn’t want to be found.”

Quinn blinks. “Isn’t she developing something?”

“She’s always developing something,” Sal mutters. “The question is where. And with who.”

Matt’s pacing again. “We’re talking about the woman who made a horror movie about intergenerational trauma and demonic taxidermy and made it a hit. She’s brilliant. She’s unstable. She’s perfect. And she’s missing.”

Patty tilts her head. “She’s not missing. She’s choosing not to be seen.”

Matt points at her like she just unlocked the final puzzle piece. “YES. Exactly. She’s choosing. And we need to give her a reason to choose us. We need bait. Blood in the water. Something that says, ‘We get it. We’re not like the others. We won’t sand down your edges.’”

Sal sighs. “You’ve got a weird artsy cinephile boner for this woman haven’t you?”

Quinn looks toward Maya. “Seriously though… no leads at all?”

Maya shrugs again, slower this time. “Maybe I didn’t leave the door open far enough.”

Matt groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh my god. We are so fucked.”

Maya just smiles. Calm. Knowing. Not offering anything. Not rushing. Not helping. Not yet.

Hours pass.

The conference room gets darker as the sun goes down, but no one bothers with the lights. The glow from laptops and phones and half-dead chargers is enough. A shrine to failure, if you asked Maya, which, blessedly, no one does.

Quinn ks scrolling with the intensity of someone hacking into the Pentagon. “Okay, I found a podcast she did anonymously five years ago under a fake name. I think it’s her because she mentions a childhood fear of mirrors and references a book no one else ever talks about-”

Matt cuts her off. “Is there an email?”

“No,” Quinn says, without missing a beat.

Sal’s got three tabs open: Reddit, IMDbPro, and a very messy spreadsheet titled WITCH LEADS. “Someone swears they saw her in Prague. Someone else thinks she’s living in a commune in upstate New York.”

Matt looks physically ill. “I told Griffin we had momentum.”

Patty snorts from where she’s taken up residence at the head of the table, reading over a dog-eared draft of one of your old scripts. “She is actively avoiding being found. This is artful silence. Intentional disappearance. She’s not playing hard to get. She’s playing divine to be untouched.”

“She has to want something,” Matt insists, like he’s trying to manifest you. “People don’t vanish unless they want to be chased.”

“Or left alone,” Quinn offers gently.

Matt groans and flops into a chair. “Why does she have to be like this?”

Maya, still perched like a cat on the edge of her chair, flips her pen between her fingers. “Because if she wasn’t like this, you wouldn’t want her half as much.”

The room stills for a beat.

Matt narrows his eyes. “You’re enjoying this.”

Maya lifts a brow. “A little.”

“You know something,” he says, sitting up straighter. “You’re being weirdly calm.”

“I’m always calm,” she lies.

Quinn glances over. “Seriously, Maya, no old contacts? No secret email? No unlisted number?”

Maya yawns. “If I did, don’t you think I’d have used it by now?”

Patty side-eyes her. “Would you?”

Maya doesn’t answer. Because the truth is: she hasn’t even tried. Not really. She could send one message. Just one. And you’d answer. But where’s the fun in that?

~

Three long, caffeine-stained, sleep-deprived days since Matt declared, loud and confident, that you were in play.

You were not in play. You’re hovering above like a spectral deity, ignoring every pitch deck and soft outreach like none of it matters, which, to you, it probably doesn’t.

Griffin is starting to hover. “Any updates?” has turned into “When will I see something?” and now it’s morphing into That Tone—that sharp, glossy warning that means the countdown has started.

Matt is in executive hell.

So he does the only thing he can do to cope: gets drunk and high with Sal and spirals through someone else’s movie.

Before the film, though, they hit up a spot Sal swears will “cure all emotional disease”, a high-end Italian place in West Hollywood that’s all mood lighting, rich velvet, and wine lists the size of novellas.

They meet at a high-end Italian place with dark velvet booths, moody jazz, and wine lists thicker than a studio script rewrite.

“I can’t believe she’s ghosting us,” Matt says, sinking into the booth. “Us, Sal. She makes one demonic deer movie and suddenly we’re not worthy of her divine witch vibes?”

Sal takes a sip of red wine and shrugs. “You knew what you were getting into. This is why I date Pilates instructors.”

Matt ignores him. “You know what the worst part is? It’s not even rejection. It’s- it’s nothing. She hasn’t even acknowledged we exist. It’s like trying to cast a fucking spell and getting static.”

Sal leans back. “You’re mixing your metaphors, man. You need carbs. Or a Xanax.”

Matt raises his glass. “Or both.”

Matt waves for a martini like it’s a sedative. “She’s out there somewhere. I know it. And we’re gonna lose her. I can feel it.”

Sal shrugs, flipping open the menu. “Then let her go. Find another terrifying gay auteur.”

Matt glares. “She’s the terrifying auteur. There is no one else.”

But before Sal can mock him further, something shifts in the room.

Matt glances up and freezes. There, in a deep velvet booth lit by a golden sconce, sits Maya Mason.

All sharp cheekbones and matte lipstick, black Gucci suit jacket slung over her shoulders, wine glass in hand. Her posture says I’m relaxed, but her eyes are calculating, ever so slightly narrowed.

Matt freezes. Elbows Sal.

Sal glances over and lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Didn’t peg her for this level of bougie.”

Matt perks up. “Oh my god. Maya’s here. Should we go over?”

Matt starts to stand.

And then… you appear.

A soft, sudden presence moving through the space like perfume flitting over from the bar like a dream or a hallucination or some kind of punishment designed specifically for Matt’s crumbling sanity. You’re wrapped in silk and leather, a drink in one hand, your expression easy and unhurried.

You’re glowing under the amber light, glass in hand, lips glossed. You walk toward the booth without a second of hesitation. You slide in beside Maya, lean in, and press a kiss to her cheek. She murmurs something, barely audible, but her arm wraps around your waist. You settle into her side like it’s yours. Like it’s always been yours.

Matt’s mouth falls open. He grabs Sal’s arm, white-knuckled. “Is that…?”

“That’s her,” Sal breathes. “That’s her.”

“She’s been in the city this whole time?”

“In Maya’s lap.”

Matt blinks rapidly. “She’s the mystery of the industry. The director no one can contact. She communicates in riddles and metaphors and one-word emails and now she’s just… she’s just- here?!”

They both duck slightly behind the wine rack like two deeply uncool spies.

“Do we go over there?” Sal whispers.

“I can’t,” Matt hisses. “I’m wearing H&M.”

He peeks again. You’re laughing now, soft and warm, gently nudging Maya’s shoulder as you sip something golden from a heavy crystal glass. Maya says something and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear. You smile up at her like she built the sky.

Matt slumps back down, clutching his drink. “We’re dead. Griffin’s going to turn me into a chair.”

Sal mutters, “Holy shit.”

Maya glances up and sees them. Her smile drops a millimeter. Her eyes narrow. Fucking hell. She takes a long, slow sip of her drink. Not because she’s thirsty, but because she needs a second to breathe through the coming wave of Matt’s voice, emails, frantic walk-and-talks, and existential screeds about visionary cinema.

You tilt your head. “Are you okay?”

Maya smiles at you, soft but thin. “Yeah. Just spotted something annoying.”

You turn, casually following her gaze, eyes landing on the two stunned men standing by the maître d’.

You clock them instantly.

Maya exhales, like this is exactly the kind of nonsense she’d been trying to avoid. She rubs your thigh under the table, gently, grounding.

“Listen…” she mutters. “Continental studio… Matt and Sal over there, they want to make your next movie.”

You blink again, surprised but not rattled. “They do?”

“They’re fucking gagging for it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “Is that why they look like they’re about to pass out?”

“Yup.”

You giggle softly and kiss her cheek. “How flattering.”

Maya sighs, resigned. “So much for a quiet night.” She holds Matt’s gaze for a beat. Then lifts her glass.

A quiet, unreadable toast.

Across the restaurant, Matt stares into the middle distance like he’s experiencing ego death. “I’m going to throw up,” Matt mutters.

Sal raises his wine. “To lesbian espionage.”

You’re halfway through dessert, some ridiculous tower of hazelnut praline and dark chocolate that Maya ordered “because you deserve nice things”, when the shadows shift beside your table.

You glance up.

Matt Remick is standing there, eyes wide, smile tight, like he’s just come face to face with a god and doesn’t know if he should bow or cry.

Sal’s with him. Two steps behind. A little too much wine, a little too confident.

“We’ve been trying to reach you!” Matt says, breathless.

Maya groans under her breath.

You blink. “Clearly.”

Matt laughs nervously, motioning at the booth. “Can we- uh- join you? Just for a minute. We don’t want to interrupt. Well, we are interrupting. But we don’t want to.”

You glance at Maya. She doesn’t say anything, just leans back, arms crossed, watching with the calm of a lion in tall grass.

You nod and gesture to the other side of the table. “Go on then.”

They slide in like two college freshmen sitting down with the headmistress.

Matt clears his throat. “First of all, let me just say… we’re huge fans. Everyone at the studio is. Your work is… it’s revolutionary.”

You give a polite, noncommittal nod. Maya sips her drink, unmoved.

Then Sal leans in, far too casually. “Didn’t know you were a lesbian!” he says, grinning. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that- I mean, honestly it’s my most searched porn tab.”

Matt physically recoils.

You blink. Once. Slowly.

Maya does not react. At all. Just shifts, placing her hand casually on your thigh under the table.

Sal keeps going, like a man joyfully flinging himself off a cliff. “No, seriously. I mean, it’s hot, right? You two together. Power couple. You got that dark academia meets streetwear vibe. Like if The Craft had a PR department.”

You raise an eyebrow, tilting your head ever so slightly. “This,” you say flatly, “is who wants to make my movie?”

Matt slaps Sal’s shoulder hard enough to shake the table. “Ignore him. He’s… he’s not usually like this.”

Maya leans in then, finally. “Oh, no,” she says, voice syrupy with sarcasm. “He’s exactly like this.”

Matt’s smile stretches thinner. “We just wanted to let you know- if you’re developing something new, we would love to talk. No pressure, obviously, but our door is wide open.”

You study him for a moment, sipping your drink. You don’t answer right away. You just… let the silence grow. It stretches long enough that Matt starts to visibly sweat.

Then finally, you look at Maya. “I thought they were gonna be taller,” you say.

Maya snorts into her glass.

~

Maya’s been smirking the whole ride back. She kicked her heels off in the car, feet in your lap, your fingers tracing slow circles against her ankle while she casually recounted every second of Matt and Sal’s implosion over dinner like it was the highlight of her year.

“‘Didn’t know you were a lesbian!’” she says, mimicking Sal with a cartoonishly terrible voice. “‘It’s my most searched porn tab!’ Babe. Babe. I almost choked on my fuckin wine.”

You laugh softly, leaning your head against the leather seat. “You loved it.”

“Oh, I loved watching you scare the shit out of them. I could feel Matt’s soul trying to exit through his eyeballs.”

You hum, smiling to yourself. “He really looked like he was meeting the cryptid he’s been chasing for years.”

Maya grins, sharp and smug. “And she was just sitting in my lap the whole time.”

Later, at home, you’re curled up in bed together. Maya’s shirt is unbuttoned, her skin warm against yours, one arm thrown over you like she’s never letting go. The lights are low. The city hums far below the windows.

She’s scrolling idly on her phone, probably reading headlines about someone else’s PR failure, when you shift closer, pressing your cheek to her collarbone.

“Maya?”

She hums in response, not looking away.

You trace your finger along the inside of her wrist, gentle. “Want me to pick your studio?”

That gets her attention. She lowers the phone and looks down at you.

Your eyes are soft, wide, full of something quiet and real. “Give you complete control over the marketing?” you ask, voice like silk. “Let you run the campaign. Do it your way. No committee. Just you.”

Maya stares at you for a moment. “You’d do that for me, baby?”

You nod, nuzzling into her like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Of course I would.”

She exhales, long and slow, like she wasn’t expecting that to hit her so hard.

“Fuck,” she mutters, more to herself than to you. “I really got you, huh?”

You nod again, smiling, utterly gone for her.

She kisses your forehead, her lips lingering. Then she pulls back just enough to look down at you with a slow grin. “Yeah?” she murmurs. “Alright, baby girl. I’ll set up the meeting.”

You smile, nodding, and then lean in again, just a little, just enough to brush your lips along her collarbone.

She freezes for a second.

You press another kiss, soft and slow, just below her throat.

“Baby,” she says, voice a warning, a whisper.

You don’t answer. You just kiss higher, up the slope of her neck, the angle of her jaw, your breath warm against her pulse. You feel the way her arm tightens around you, like she’s trying to stay cool, trying not to let on that she’s already halfway gone.

Then she turns her head, catches your mouth with hers. It starts soft, slow and indulgent, her fingers slipping into your hair as your lips move against hers in lazy, exploring rhythm. You tilt into her, pressing yourself closer, one hand slipping under the open edge of her shirt to rest against her stomach.

Maya deepens the kiss like she’s claiming it, her hand sliding down your back, pulling you more fully into her lap.

She breaks away just long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to yours. “You get like this when you make big promises?” she murmurs, smiling against your mouth.

You smile back, lips brushing hers. “Only for you.”

She kisses you again, hungrier now. Less patient. You’re still curled into her lap, fingers splayed across the bare skin of her stomach under her unbuttoned shirt, your lips brushing slow, reverent kisses up her throat like you’re praying to her body with your mouth.

She lets you.

Lets you worship her like this, patient and slow, kisses trailing higher, deeper, lips barely parting, breath warm against the spot just below her jaw that always makes her shudder. And when she does, when her fingers tighten in your hair just a little, you smile against her skin.

“Fuckin’ brat,” she mutters, voice thick, but she’s already tilting her head to give you more.

You kiss her jaw. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth.

Then you pull back just enough to whisper, soft and saccharine, “Want you.”

Her hand slides down to your throat, not rough, just there. Just holding. “Yeah?” she murmurs, thumb brushing under your chin, tipping your face up to meet hers.

You nod, lips parted, eyes wide and open in that way that always makes her lose her fucking mind.

“Want me to take care of you, babygirl?”

“Please.”

She kisses you hard this time, no patience, no softness. Just heat and teeth and tongue. Her grip on your throat tightens a little as she pushes you back into the pillows, climbing over you, her knee parting your thighs with practiced ease.

“You offering me your film and this sweet little body in the same night?” she growls, voice low and dangerous, mouth dragging down your neck now. “You trying to kill me, baby?”

You gasp as her teeth catch your collarbone. That makes her laugh, deep and warm, before her mouth returns to your skin.

“You’re mine,” she whispers, hot against your chest. “Mine to kiss, mine to fuck, mine to show off when the studio begs for your name and you’re sitting in my lap.”

Your fingers dig into her back, hips rising to meet her. “Yes, Maya…”

“You gonna be good for me?”

“Yes/ yes, I’ll be so good… ”

“You are good,” she purrs, trailing her hand down between your thighs, fingers slipping under your panties like you were made for her. “Always so fuckin’ good for me.”

And when her fingers finally slide into you, slow and deep, you cry out for her, high and sweet and already undone, and Maya grins like she just won. Because she did.

Her fingers are already inside you, deep and slow, dragging along that perfect spot that makes your thighs tremble and your breath catch in your throat. Maya’s body is draped over yours, shirt half-off, hair falling over her face as she watches you like she’s memorizing the way you fall apart.

“You’re so fuckin’ wet for me,” she murmurs, lips brushing your jaw. “So sweet, baby. Can’t believe this perfect little thing belongs to me.”

Your hips rock up to meet her hand, helpless and greedy. “Maya…”

She curls her fingers just right and you gasp, eyes fluttering closed, head tipping back against the pillows. “Uh-uh,” she says, voice sharp, dominant. Her free hand comes up to cradle your jaw, forcing you to look at her. “Eyes on me.”

You do. Because how could you not?

Her smirk softens at the edges. “Look at you,” she whispers. “So powerful out there. Untouchable. And now you’re under me, legs shaking, begging to come.”

You nod, desperate. “Please- please, Maya…”

“I know, baby,” she coos. “I’ve got you.”

She fucks you with deliberate, punishing strokes that make your back arch, your nails claw at the sheets, your voice turn to broken little moans that only she gets to hear.

“Who makes you feel this good?” she demands, her mouth at your ear now, her pace unrelenting.

“You do,” you gasp. “You do, Maya!”

“That’s right.”

She doesn’t let up. Her thumb finds your clit, circling in slow, sinful rhythm as her fingers thrust deeper. You’re close. So close. And she knows it. She feels it.

“Come for me,” she commands, voice low and dangerous. “Now.”

And when you do, it crashes over you like fire, white-hot and consuming, your whole body shaking as you sob her name. She holds you through it, fingers still moving as you writhe beneath her, overstimulated and soaked.

You’re gasping, lips parted, body trembling and she still doesn’t stop.

“Again,” she says, quieter now. “I want one more.”

“M-Maya…” You’re already wrecked, legs weak, tears in your lashes.

But her hand doesn’t leave you. Her mouth kisses your throat, your cheek, your lips. Her eyes stay on yours.

“You said I had control, didn’t you?” she whispers.

You nod, crying out as she thrusts again. “Yes- yes- fuck- yes!”

“Good girl.”

You’re shaking.

Your chest is heaving, thighs soaked, voice cracked open into raw little gasps. And Maya still hasn’t let up. She hasn’t stopped touching you, hasn’t moved from where she’s curled against your body, fingers still inside you, lips still on your neck.

“Fuck, baby,” she murmurs, voice low and wrecked with praise. “You’re so good for me. So perfect like this.”

You can’t speak. Your throat is raw from moaning, your body so sensitive that even the smallest movement makes your hips twitch. But Maya isn’t finished. She licks into your mouth when you try to cry out again, muffling your moans with her kiss, letting your broken little sounds melt into her tongue as she keeps her rhythm steady.

“Come on, babygirl,” she says, voice molten. “One more for me. Just one more. You can do it. I’ve got you,” she purrs. “You’re gonna come for me again, aren’t you?”

You nod, tears spilling over as your eyes squeeze shut.

“That’s my girl,” she says, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Fucking take it.”

Your climax hits harder this time, like lightning, like something primal cracking loose inside you. You sob her name, the sound helpless, wrecked, as your body arches into hers and the pleasure rips through you like fire.

Maya doesn’t stop. Not until you’re trembling, gasping, pleading for her mouth instead of her fingers. She finally slows, eases her hand out, kisses your cheeks, your wet lashes, your trembling lips.

“Shhh,” she whispers, wrapping herself around you. “I’ve got you, baby. You did so good for me. So fucking good.”

You collapse into her, boneless and broken and safe. She pulls you close, her hands now stroking soft and slow down your back, murmuring against your hair, “I’ve got you. I’m here. I love you.”

The room is still hazy with the aftermath, your body soft, spent, sprawled across Maya’s chest as she strokes your hair with slow, possessive fingers.

You’re trembling in that delicious, floating way. Your skin feels fever-warm, your lips swollen from her kisses, your thighs aching from being held open so long. Every inch of you is humming, fucked out and fully hers.

And Maya?

Maya looks like a goddess. Lipstick smudged, eyes heavy-lidded and gleaming with satisfaction.

She presses a kiss to your hairline.

You breathe out her name like a prayer. “Maya…”

She hums, low and amused, fingers still stroking your spine. “That was sweet, baby. You took it so well.”

You nod, nuzzling closer. “Wanted to be good for you.”

“I know,” she murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “You were. You always are.”

There’s a pause. Then her fingers tighten a little in your hair, not enough to hurt, just enough to hold. “But I think someone forgot her manners.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs instinctively press together.

“You gonna thank me properly?” she purrs, tilting your chin up to meet her eyes. “Or you gonna make me ask again?”

You whimper. “Want to. Want to thank you.”

She smiles, slow and dangerous, and shifts onto her back, guiding you between her thighs with the smooth confidence of someone who already knows what you’ll do. Who owns what you’ll do.

“Show me, then,” she says, voice all velvet and command. “Show me how grateful you are.”

You settle between her legs, kissing her thighs reverently, softly at first, until she threads her fingers through your hair and tugs you where she wants you.

She’s soaked for you. Already aching. And when your tongue finally drags over her, slow and sweet, she lets out a low, shuddering moan that makes your heart stutter.

“That’s it,” she murmurs, voice shaking now. “My good fucking girl.”

You lick into her like she’s holy, like this is your altar, and your worship is earned. You’re gentle, focused, letting her control the rhythm, her hand guiding your mouth, her hips twitching up against your tongue as she gets louder, messier, more desperate.

You moan against her, the sound sending vibrations straight through her.

“Fuck… fuck, yes- don’t stop, don’t you dare- ”

She comes with a sharp, broken cry, thighs clenching around your head, her voice shattering into a gasp of your name like it’s the only word she knows.

You stay there.

Kiss her through it. Lick her clean. Keep your mouth soft and open on her until she’s twitching, panting, tugging your hair to pull you off with a sharp hiss.

You look up at her, eyes shining, and whisper: “Thank you, I love you.”

Maya groans. “Fuck. Come here.”

She pulls you up, kisses you filthy, tasting herself on your tongue and rolls you into her arms, both of you ruined and radiant in the glow of it.

Sunlight spills through the curtains, warm and golden, casting a soft glow over your skin as you stretch slowly beneath the sheets.

You’re still a little sore. Your thighs ache in that perfect way, your lips are swollen from kissing, and there’s a faint, delicious hum still rolling through your muscles, reminders of everything Maya did to you last night. How she took from you. How you gave her everything.

She’s already awake.

Propped against the headboard, hair mussed, one arm lazily draped around your waist as she scrolls her phone with the other hand, wearing only her open silk robe and a smirk that spells danger.

You blink up at her, sleep-heavy. “What’re you doing?”

She doesn’t look away from the screen. “Texting Matt.”

You groan and bury your face in her hip. “Poor man.”

She grins. “He’s fine. I’m giving him the gift of hope.”

You peek up. “What’d you say?”

Maya hits send with a little flourish, then turns the phone toward you.

<Maya: You’re getting your meeting. Wear something that doesn’t scream ‘desperation.’>

You burst into sleepy laughter, curling closer to her. “You’re so mean,” you mumble against her skin.

She strokes your hair. “He’ll live. Probably already printing t-shirts that say I Met Y/N Y/L/N and Survived.”

You giggle again, then go quiet.

Maya glances down. “What?”

You look up at her, eyes soft. “I’m glad it’s you.”

She pauses. Smile fading into something warmer, deeper.

“I know,” she says, brushing a kiss to your forehead. “Me too.”

Then her phone buzzes. A message from Matt.

<Matt R: OH MY GOD. WHEN. HOW. WHERE. WHO DO I CALL. I’M READY.>

Maya sighs dramatically and locks her screen. “This is what I get for letting the masses know you’re mine.”

You hum, smug. “You love me.”

She kisses you. “I fucking do.”

~

The conference room is spotless. Brighter than usual. Like someone turned up the lights to overcompensate for the impending dread.

Matt Remick is pacing again.

Quinn’s at the end of the table, calm on the outside, but absolutely sweating through her blouse. Sal’s already had two coffees, half a croissant and is fidgeting so hard the table rattles.

And Maya? Maya’s lounging in her chair like this is a boredom exercise, one leg crossed over the other, iced coffee in hand, sunglasses still on even though they’re inside. Her expression is unreadable, cool and calm, the faintest smirk playing at her lips.

“She’s late,” Matt says, not for the first time.

“She’s not late,” Maya replies, not looking up. “She’s theatrical.”

Quinn eyes the door like it might explode open at any second. “Do we stand when she comes in?”

Matt actually considers it. “I don’t know, do we?!”

“She’s not the fucking Pope,” Maya mutters.

Sal’s bouncing his knee. “I think I’m gonna throw up. What if she hates the pitch? What if she says nothing and just leaves?”

“She won’t leave,” Maya says, now finally pulling off her sunglasses, revealing that infuriating glint in her eyes.

“How do you know?” Matt asks.

And that’s when they all hear it: the elevator ding.

Everyone freezes.

Maya uncrosses her legs slowly, deliberately. “She’s here,” she says.

Sal stands so fast he knocks his chair back.

Matt smooths his blazer, then immediately un-smooths it, then just gives up and wipes his palms on his trousers.

The footsteps echo down the hallway.

Quinn breathes out, once. “Okay. Show time.”

Maya leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee from her obnoxiously big Stanley cup like the goddess of chaos she is. “She’s gonna eat you alive,” she says, deadpan.

Matt doesn’t know if she’s joking.

And then the door opens. You enter the room like a shadow falling over water, quiet, poised, the kind of still that makes people hold their breath without realizing it. The moment you step through the door, the air shifts. Matt bolts upright. Quinn straightens her notes. Sal tries to stand but mostly fumbles his coffee.

Maya’s already sitting back in her chair, legs crossed, wearing a black Gucci hoodie layered over a YSL T-shirt, obscenely expensive sneakers up on the edge of the table like this is a meeting she couldn’t care less about. But her eyes don’t leave you. Not once.

You take the head of the table. Say nothing. Let them sweat.

Matt starts first, of course. “We are thrilled you’re here. Honestly, this… this means a lot.”

You blink.

He keeps going. “We’ve been talking internally about what kind of slate makes sense for where film is heading, where you’re heading. And your voice? We think it defines the next era.”

Quinn jumps in. “Your work doesn’t compromise, and neither do we. You’d have creative control, a team that gets the tone, the language, the darkness.”

“We’ll protect your process,” Matt adds quickly. “We want to empower you, not get in your way.”

“We’ll give you whatever you want,” Sal says, before realizing how that sounds. “I mean, not whatever, but like… most things. Within reason. Or- outside reason, if it’s, like, cool.”

You stare at him.

Maya pinches the bridge of her nose.

You sit at the head of the table, spine straight, legs crossed, eyes focused on a fixed point in the distance like you’re seeing something no one else in the room can.

The others: Matt, Sal, and Quinn, are still mid-pitch. Words flying, ideas piling up on top of each other, offers and promises and desperate energy all funneled toward you.

And you’re still.

Maya clocks it immediately. She hasn’t said a word since you walked in. Just sat quietly off to the side in her usual luxury streetwear combo, arms folded, eyes locked on you.

But when your fingers twitch on the armrest, barely, like a flicker of static, she moves. Not dramatic. Not showy. Just real. She stands, walks over, and places her hand on your back. Palm flat. Warm. Steady. Her other hand rests on your forearm. No words. No looks exchanged.

And you exhale.

Barely a sound. But Maya feels it.

Your shoulders loosen. Your eyes slip closed. Not all the way, just enough to quiet the noise. You lean into the touch. Just a little.

And that’s when Quinn sees it.

It clicks, not in some cinematic, revelatory way. Just quietly. All at once. You’re not mysterious because it’s your brand. You’re not untouchable because you’re trying to be.

You’re just… different.

Your silence isn’t curated. It’s instinct. The long pauses. The blank stares. The way you drift just slightly outside the rhythm of a room. You’re not avoiding them because you’re a diva. You’re avoiding them because you’re anxious.

Quinn glances at Maya who is now gently running her thumb along your arm, still facing forward like she doesn’t want to make a scene, and sees it for what it is.

This isn't a strategy. It’s care. Maya’s anchoring you while the others scramble to impress you. And it’s working.

Matt hasn’t noticed. He’s still going, talking fast, trying to pivot into something with buzzwords. Sal keeps jumping in with half-formed ideas.

But Quinn watches the way your lips part just slightly, like you’re finally able to breathe again.

And Maya? Maya just mutters, quiet enough for only you to hear: “You’re good, baby. They’re just noise.”

You don’t respond.

You don’t have to.

Matt is mid-sentence, something about festival reach and global rights, his voice hitting that slightly manic pitch of a man dangling off the edge of a dream.

“- we’d leverage the marketing momentum of Wolves at the Well, of course, but frame this next project as your arrival. The next evolution of your vision, scaled but intact, and-”

“Matt,” Quinn says, calmly but firmly.

He falters. “What?”

She holds up a hand. “Just… give me a second.”

Sal blinks. “Wait, what-”

“No, seriously,” Quinn says, her eyes never leaving you. “Let’s stop. Right now.”

Everyone turns.

You haven’t moved. Still sitting there, Maya’s hand resting gently against your arm, your fingers now loosely curled into hers beneath the table. Your eyes are half-lidded, face soft but unreadable.

Quinn sees it again, the stillness, the disconnect, the focus. But also the touch point. Maya’s presence. The grounding.

Quinn leans forward, lowering her voice like she’s speaking across a sacred line. “We don’t want to pitch at you,” she says. “We want to work with you. However that looks.”

You blink slowly.

Matt looks confused. Sal is squinting like he’s missed half a conversation.

Maya says nothing. Just lets her thumb glide against your wrist again.

And that’s when you speak.

Quiet and measured like every word has to come out slowly, or else you’ll lose your nerve. “I want Maya to have everything she wants.”

Matt frowns. “What?”

You lift your gaze. Steady now. Direct. “I want her to have whatever she wants.”

A beat.

“I know you want me,” you continue, voice calm but unwavering. “But I only trust her.”

Silence. Not dramatic silence. Loaded silence. The kind that settles into every corner of the room and stays there.

Matt runs a hand through his hair, laughing, just once, like it escaped him. “Okay. Okay. Fine.”

Maya squeezes your hand under the table.

You sit there, spine straight, Maya’s hand still tucked gently over yours on the table. Matt looks stunned. Sal’s blinking like he missed a scene. Quinn is unreadable, but watching, always watching.

Then Maya clears her throat and stands. “Now give us the room.”

Matt blinks. “What?”

She jerks her head toward the door. “Out. Five minutes.”

Quinn nods immediately, dragging Sal by the arm. Matt hesitates, glancing at you one last time before sighing and following.

The door clicks shut.

And no one hears footsteps retreating because of course they don’t leave. They stay just outside. Pressed up against the glass wall like they’ve got a right to any of what’s about to happen.

Inside? Maya turns to you, arms crossed, eyes soft, but still sharp enough to cut.

“You were fucking incredible,” she says, quiet and sure. “You know that, right?”

You don’t answer. Not with words. You’re up before you know it, rising from the chair like you’re being pulled to her.

Maya barely gets her arms open before you’re on her, hands in her hair, mouth on hers, kissing her like you need it to live. It’s not graceful. Not curated. It’s messy. Desperate. Honest.

She catches you easily. One hand on your waist, the other fisting in the back of your shirt as your mouth moves hot and hungry over hers.

You mumble against her lips, voice cracking, “I was shaking. I was shaking, Maya.”

“I know,” she says, kissing you again. Slower this time. “But they didn’t see it. You held the room. You made the call. You were fucking brilliant, baby.”

Your hands are everywhere, cupping her face, grabbing her shirt, trying to climb into her skin. “I hate meetings,” you breathe. “I hate rooms like this.”

“I know.”

“I just wanted to hide.”

“I know,” she says, grounding her palm at the small of your back. “And you still did it.”

She kisses you again, rough and claiming, and you melt into it, letting her hold your weight like she always does. Her hand slides up your spine, holding you tight, kissing you like she’s proud. Like you’re hers. Like you always have been.

Outside the door, Matt whispers, “Are they… are they making out right now?”

Sal nods, reverent. “I think she just cried on her a little.”

Quinn’s smirking. “She chose Maya, not us.”

And inside?

Maya breaks the kiss only to murmur against your lips, her voice hoarse.“You want me to tell them you’ve made your decision?”

You nod, breathless. “Yeah,” you whisper. “Tell them I’m yours.”

Maya grins. “Oh, they know.”

The door swings open.

Maya strides out like a woman who’s just pulled off the heist of the century. She’s grinning. Smug. Unbothered. Lips a little redder than they were ten minutes ago.

Sal looks up, stunned. Quinn raises an eyebrow, already clocking the lipstick situation.

Matt shoots to his feet. “Well?”

“She said yes,” Maya says, without ceremony. “You can unclench now.”

Matt nearly wilts with relief. “Holy shit. Okay. Amazing. What do you need? What do we need to-”

“I want a proper budget,” Maya cuts in, already gathering her bag like she’s about to leave a crime scene. “None of this pretend-support bullshit. I want a full team, proper spend, launch runway, and I want control of the marketing. Not a taste. Not a ‘collaborative’ voice. Control.”

Matt nods, fast, desperate. “Yes. Fine. Whatever she needs.”

“Good,” Maya says, slinging her bag over her shoulder, grin spreading. “You can tell Griffin she’ll be in touch with a script by the end of the week.”

Sal blinks. “She’s already finished it?”

“She’s already writing a sequel,” Maya says, breezing past.

“And where are you going?” Quinn asks, voice amused, arms crossed.

Maya flashes a wicked grin as she opens the door. “I’ve got a meeting with Mackie and Ron Howard at the Sunset Tower in twenty. And then I’m taking my girl home.”

Matt’s jaw drops. “You’re- wait, what?”

But Maya’s already gone.

And behind her? You trail after her quietly, your fingers brushing hers. Head down. Lips kissed raw. You don’t say anything to the room as you leave.

You don’t need to.

Because Maya already said it all.

The SUV is silent, the tinted windows shielding you from the chaos you just left behind. The studio’s glass façade disappears behind you like a fading mirage.

Maya’s sitting beside you in the back seat, legs wide, arm slung lazily along the backrest behind your shoulders. Her other hand rests firmly on your thigh, thumb stroking slow, idle circles through the fabric of your trousers.

You haven’t said much since leaving.

You don’t need to.

She breaks the silence first. Voice low. Warm. Slightly smug. “You were a fucking machine in there.”

You laugh softly, head dropping to her shoulder. “I was shaking.”

“And still owned the room,” she says, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You didn’t just say yes to the deal, you dictated the terms. You looked Matt Remick in the face and said, ‘I trust her, not you.’ You could’ve spat in his latte and he still would’ve thanked you.”

You smile against her neck, quiet and dazed.

“I was just trying not to cry.”

Maya scoffs. “Yeah, well. You made me want to cry. Proud tears. Or maybe power-hungry tears. Still unclear.”

Her hand squeezes your thigh, harder now.

“Seriously, though,” she says, glancing at you. “That was the hottest shit I’ve ever seen.”

You hum, eyes fluttering shut. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

Then her voice drops even lower. “You know what happens to good girls who hand me entire marketing budgets and creative control?”

You lift your head slowly, lips parted, already feeling the heat crawl up your neck.

“What?”

Maya leans in, grinning like the devil. “They get fucked stupid.”

~

The house is quiet when you get in.

Your shoes are off before you realize it. Your hands are a little shaky, your breathing shallow like you’ve just finished running, but it’s not fear. It’s the come-down. The crash after the biggest high of your life.

You’re going to direct your film. With a real budget. With real backing. And with Maya’s studio. You’re going to make your movie. And you didn’t cry. Not once.

You’re in the middle of the living room, fingers pressed to your lips like you’re still trying to convince yourself it’s real, when you feel her behind you.

Maya slides her arms around your waist from behind, her mouth at your neck. “You did it,” she whispers, low and sure.

You nod slowly. “I didn’t cry.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I talked. I said what I wanted. I told them to trust you.”

“You were perfect,” she says, and there’s no hesitation in it.

You turn in her arms to look at her, eyes wide and glossy. “I didn’t think I could-”

Maya cuts you off with a soft kiss. Then another. And then she pulls back, eyes dark. “You didn’t just do it,” she says. “You owned it. You handed me a whole fucking studio’s trust, like it was nothing. And you know what, baby?”

You shake your head, dizzy with her voice.

“I’m gonna make you feel everything tonight.”

She kisses you again, slower now, hands moving down your back to squeeze your ass as she walks you backward toward the bedroom.

“You trust me?” she murmurs.

“Yes.”

“Good. Strip.”

Your breath catches.

Maya steps back just enough to pull her gucci hoodie off. Her bra’s black, expensive, perfect. Her eyes never leave yours.

You pull your shirt off slowly, fingers fumbling slightly, body humming. By the time your clothes hit the floor, she’s already reaching into the drawer by the bed.

When she turns back, she’s got the harness on, low-slung, black leather, heavy with promise. Her eyes burn into you as she adjusts the straps, slow and practiced.

You’re already trembling.

“Get on the bed,” she says. “Hands above your head.”

You obey.

You always obey for her.

She climbs on top of you, straddling your hips, kissing you deep, one hand cupping your jaw, the other tracing down your throat. “Still with me, babygirl?”

You nod, lips parted. “Always.”

And then she takes her time. Mouth on your neck. Then your chest. Her tongue curling around each nipple, licking and sucking until you’re whining, arching up into her, begging already and she hasn’t even touched you where you need it.

“You gonna let me fuck you slow?” she whispers, kissing down your stomach.

“Yes… please… ”

“Gonna let me take care of you?”

“Yes, Maya…”

She kisses your thighs reverently. Then slips a hand between them, parting you gently. She leans down, kisses your clit once, softly. Then again. Then sucks it just hard enough to make you gasp. By the time she slides the tip of the strap into you, you’re already panting, needy, hands gripping the sheets. And still she moves slowly. Inch by inch.

“You’re so tight for me, baby,” she murmurs, watching you fall apart. “So fucking wet.”

You moan, high and desperate. “Please- please, Maya…”

“I know, babygirl. I got you.”

She fucks you with long, deep strokes, no rush, no teasing. Just possession. Her hand on your stomach to hold you down, her strap dragging against every perfect spot inside you as she watches you lose yourself beneath her.

“You’re mine,” she whispers, pressing her forehead to yours. “Say it.”

“I’m yours…I’m yours, Maya- fuck!”

“That’s right,” she growls, picking up the pace just slightly, her hips rolling into you in smooth, relentless rhythm. “All fucking mine.”

And when you come, crying out her name, back arching off the bed? She doesn’t stop. She kisses you through it. Fucking you deep and slow until you’re trembling, overstimulated, wrecked. Only then does she slow down, hands soft again, kisses returning to your chest, your face, your lips.

“Breathe, baby,” she murmurs. “You did so good. My perfect girl.”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut as you collapse beneath her.

Safe.

Home.

And completely hers.

~

The room is low-lit and warm, wrapped in the kind of stillness that only comes after. After the chaos. After the fight. After the fuck.

You’re both in bed.

You’re curled into her side, skin bare but for the threadbare Stevie Nicks tee you stole from her weeks ago and never gave back. Legs tangled under the sheets, arms wrapped around her waist like you’re anchoring yourself to something real.

Maya’s already half reclined, propped against a velvet pillow, silk YSL pyjamas buttoned down just enough to flash the edge of her collarbone. She’s got a facemask pulled up on top of her head like she forgot she meant to use it. Her phone’s on the nightstand. She hasn’t looked at it in an hour.

The only light comes from the old black-and-white horror film flickering across the flatscreen, The Haunting, or maybe Carnival of Souls, something you love with too much reverence for anyone else to touch.

You’re transfixed. Eyes wide. Body relaxed in the way it only ever is when Maya’s hand is resting between your shoulder blades, fingers moving in lazy, absent circles.

She watches the screen for a minute. Watches you watch the screen. Then she laughs softly under her breath. It’s affectionate. Disbelieving.

“Jesus,” she murmurs, lips ghosting against your hair. “I’m dating the next big name in cinema and she’s still just a little cryptid watching ghost films in my bed.”

You don’t even look at her. “I heard that.”

“I meant it.”

You hum, small and smug.

She shifts slightly, brushing her nose against the crown of your head.

You’re not talking. But your hand’s curled into the silk at her waist, absentmindedly twisting the fabric between your fingers like you’re grounding yourself there.

It makes her chest ache.

There are meetings waiting in her inbox. Contracts to finalize. An entire launch strategy to sketch out for a movie that doesn’t even exist on paper yet.

But none of it matters right now.

Because you, her strange, brilliant, batshit little artist, are asleep in her arms, breathing slowly, dreaming vividly, probably whispering storyboards in your head as you drift.

She smiles, slow and full, and tightens her arm around you.

And for a moment, just a moment, Maya Mason, queen of twenty-city press runs and million-dollar deadlines, just lies there. Holding her girl. Breathing in your soft weirdness. Letting herself be still.

And as the film plays on, grainy and echoing with ghostly screams, you mumble something into her neck. Something half-formed and sleepy.

“Fog machines…”

She stifles a laugh.

“Yeah, baby,” she whispers. “You can have fog machines.”

[captain-huggy-bear]

Fishbowl Blues

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, talk about blood/injuries

Summary: You're more stressed and worried over Quinn's busted lip than he is.

Notes: I really hope we're all wrong when we're speculating that Quinn is feeling self conscious of his lip because he is handsome all the time, and he's too good a captain to feel self-conscious. I also hope he heals quickly because I bet its a bitch to eat with.

Also i'm on X-Mas holidays from teaching sooooo feel free to send me your Quinn (and maybe also Jack) thoughts.

You're right at the glass when it happens, a front row seat to the way the stick smashes into his face and the way Quinn slams into the ground in response. Your hands press to the glass urgently as you try to look around the bodies on the ice to see what the damage is. Even as the jumbtron jumps between filming him on the ice and filming you at the rink side. It's not the first time he's been injured on the ice, but usually he pops back up almost immediately, has a sarcastic word for the linesman or complaint and then continues on. Shrugs it off as if its nothing. A few bruises, a little cut, nothing more, nothing less.

Not today.

Today all you see is Quinn down on the ice for longer than he should be, a puddle of bright red, oxygenated blood contrasted against white ice. You push to the side until you can see him clearer as he pushes to his feet, mouth bleeding, hand pressed to cover it. Your eyes lock through the plexi, yours wide, worried, his grimacing in some sort of attempt to reassure you as he skates away across the ice and down the tunnel. It was not, in fact, very reassuring.

It's the worst 15 minutes of your life so far, you feel physically sick knowing you can't follow him, but wanting desperately to, to know if he's okay. Your mind thinking up 101 different possibilities for how damaged he might be. Had he lost teeth? Was it his lip that was split? Was his nose broken? A jaw? A cheekbone?

When he finally skates back out on the ice, fishbowl on, you're worry dials back a step or you think it does, that underlying buzz is still there under your skin. You no longer feel sick as you watch him skate confidently across the ice, score a goal and keep pushing through the rest of the game. The worry doesn't disappear entirely though, you're still unsure what the damage is, but know its enough for them to want him to cover his face from any more harm.

You also know your boyfriend, you know what he's like. He'd keep playing even if his arm was hanging off, it's just the way he is, so the fact he's skating fine doesn't actually reassure you. If anything it worries you more that he's hiding how hurt he is.

When the game ends you're one of the first to rush to the locker room, bouncing on the balls of your feet with nervous energy until you see him. Beanie back in place to cover his curls, suit more rumpled than it was when he arrived at the arena hours prior.

"Quinn..." The buzz of anxiety and adrenaline comes back full force under your skin, your hands shaking as your leg bounces.

"I'm okay..." It's mumbled, barely audible, he winces at the pull on his lip as he tries to talk, stitches stark against his lip. He's swollen, bruised, and clearly in pain but still tries to reassure you as you gently cup his face in your hands. He doesn't want you to worry, can see it in your face, the way our hands shake as they hold him so gently like he might actually break apart from a single touch. He hates it, hates feeling so fragile when he's normally your rock.

"Stop talking, you're going to pull your stitches." You scold him even as your eyes well with tears at how painful it looks. His chuckle at your teacher voice coming out quickly cut off by a hiss of pain, stopped short before it can grow. It's worse than you thought, his lip split in two, held together by a line of stitches. There's bruising under his nose, across his cupids bow and his mouth is swollen to the point where even that looks sore.

He wants to reassure you but talking hurts and he knows you just need to fuss over him, so he lets you brush your thumbs across his cheeks, lets you kiss his nose and chin gently. He lets you lead him out to the car, but refuses to let you carry his equipment.

"I'm driving," you hold your hand out expectantly, waiting for the keys, and he just raises a brow before opening the passenger side door, holding it open for you and waiting. He loves you, but he's not incapable of driving and as much as he'll support your fussing to a point, he'll draw the line here. Especially when he can see you're still shaking as much as you try to hide it.

"Quinn, you got the shit beat out of your face, just let me drive home!" Your hands make their way to your hips, brown furrowed as you glare at him. He can imagine that's the same look you give your high school students when they're being particularly difficult, but it's not working on him.

"No, not happening. Get in, sweetheart." It still hurts to talk and maybe he's a bit quiet with it, trying to move his lip as little as possible, but he's not spending the next god knows how long mute.

"Quinn..." The worry on your face is so clear that he almost considers giving in, you're nervous, you're worried, hell, he might even say you're scared. But, he knows he's okay, or at least, okay enough to drive. He's trying not to think about brushing his teeth or eating dinner right now. Fuck, he just wants a burger and he knows that's an impossibility...or some salty fries...fuck.

"I split my lip. I'm not an invalid." It's the shortness of his tone, the annoyance starting to breach the surface that has you giving in. You want to fuss, but you can see it, this is the hill he'll die on and you can compromise on this. For him. You can compromise for him, if it helps him keep a sense of strength, a sense of masculinity after a shitty day.

"Okay..." you slip into the passenger seat and let him do your seatbelt for you, knowing he needs to feel useful and not being entirely sure you'd manage with how much your hands are shaking. You try not to watch him as he drives, but still find yourself looking from the corner of your eye. You catch each wince, each grimace and it only makes it harder for you not to fuss. Makes that panic in your chest start to rise again as the minutes tick by, the drive feeling so much longer than it is.

Still, you resist talking, resist fussing, even as you can feel the tears welling again because fuck, you'd been absolutely terrified tonight. It's as Quinn pulls into his parking spot that your head presses back into the headrest behind you, eyes blinking back tears as you stare the roof of the car. Hands clenching and unclenching in fists in your lap as you try to will the tears back.

He's watching you from your peripheral vision, hand reaching out to tuck your hair behind your ear, even as you bite your lip hard to try to keep the tears at bay. You fail absolutely spectacularly.

The tears come streaming thick and fast down your cheeks, quicker than you can brush them away as you start burbling on. The fear, the worry, the anxiety and stress of the game finally boiling over in the safety of the parking garage.

"This is so stupid, you're the one who got hurt...you s-should be crying, n-not me." You feel ridiculous, even as you can't stop the tears from coming, "why am I c-crying, this...this is s-so s-s-stupid..."

If it's possible it makes Quinn love you even more, the way you love him so much that a high stick to the face has you more stressed out than him. He doesn't love the tears, but fuck, he loves how much you care.

"Hey, hey..." it's a soft murmur, interspersed with a few hisses of pain which don't help your tears any, even as he pulls your face towards his, fingers brushing the tears from your cheeks and rubbing softly across your bottom lip which you've bitten nearly to bleeding point. "It's okay, i'm okay...eating'll suck for a while and fuck, i'm going to miss kissing you, but i'm okay, baby..." He actually might be most upset about the fact he can't kiss you when he comes to think of it. He can handle soup for weeks, can handle mint toothpaste stinging his lip, but not kissing you? An actual crime against him.

"B-but, what...what i-if you..." You're stopped in your tracks by him lightly smushing your cheeks together.

"No. No...we're not doing what ifs, not happening, sweetheart, okay?" He lets your face go, fingers combing through your hair, brushing gently across your forehead and down your jaw.

"I..." you're still inhaling sharply with every word, almost hiccuping, the panic still there, if slowly easing down. He hates it, that you're this upset over it. It makes him want to wear a stupid bubble all the time, just to avoid how you're looking at him right now.

"Look at me." There's a pause where he waits for your breath to ease a little, the sharp inhales starting to smooth out with each brush of his fingers , "I'm okay and i'll be okay next game and the next and the next...sure i'm about to get reallllll grumpy without being able to kiss you and, sure, i'm going to be a pain in your ass for a few weeks, but that's not worth your tears, baby."

"I c-can...I can still kiss you though, right?" It makes him huff out a laugh, the way your wet, wide eyes look at him like you're only just realising that you too are going to be punished without kisses from Quinn for weeks.

"Yeah, baby, just, avoid the lips, yeah?"

"O..okay, I can do that." You nod your head to yourself as if you're considering the logistics of it all, which you are. You're contemplating all the places you can kiss him pain free: his forehead, cheeks, nose, jaw, chin...

Quinn watches you for a minute, the redness of your eyes, the way your chest has stopped heaving and for a minute he forgets it all.

"Let's go instead, yeah? I'm okay."

It's quiet, the way you sort yourselves out for the evening. You potter about to reheat some soup you made the other day for him, while he changes into comfy clothes. You eat quietly together, you watching him intently as he eats, every wince noted but the panic isn't there this time. You can breathe, you still hate the fact he's hurt, but the feeling of impending doom is gone, the dread, the fear, it's been eased by his insistance that he's okay.

Quinn navigates brushing his teeth, it takes him twice as long because of how careful he has to be, but he manages. Finally, lying down next to you and pulling you into his arms feels like a reward. The way you curl into him, pressing soft kisses to his shoulder and jaw as you tuck your head under his chin, it makes him feel normal for the first time since he took a hockey stick to the face.

The remaining adrenaline of the day slips away with every rub of his palm against your back, every rise and fall of his chest underneath you, every steady thump of his heart. He's okay, and maybe you're scared he won't be next time, but you knew what you signed up for when you started dating a hockey player. Besides, he's worth every single second of fear.

[imgae-insertshockedgasps-16]

humans are space orcs

imagine someone with chronic joint pain, whose dream their whole lives has been to go to space and meet the aliens and be a scientist and learn

so they look up the requirements as a kid and go "fuck."

they wouldn't make the cut.

their dreams are dashed. hopes ruined. lifelong dre destroyed.

except....

they've never really said a whole lot about their pain. they don't particularly like doctors, and they think that they've been managing just fine, so they never saw the point.

so maybe... maybe if they just don't say anything, they can make it to space.

they spend all of their time training. doing physical therapy exercises so that their joints aren't so loose, soaking up as much scientific and mathematical knowledge as they can, teaching themselves to push through the worst of it in pursuit of their dream.

and they make it.

they make it to space! it was gruelling, tortuous work, but they made it!

their first mission is an exploratory one, with a diverse crew which only has one other human.

they're thrilled.

they have dozens of alien friends and acquaintances. they spend hours learning and researching alien planets and cultures. it's everything they've ever wanted!

but

it's exhausting.

they're in more pain than they've ever been, more frequently than they ever have.

they keep up their exercises as best they can, but even those are often too much.

they smile when asked if they're alright, tell everyone that "i'm fine! just tired."

but they need a break. they can't imagine going or being sent back to earth, this is their home now, with these people, on this ship. but they don't know how much longer they can take this.

one day, on their day off, a fellow researcher comes and knocks on their door.

"are you here?"

"not today islith."

"but we've been called! there are some exciting new discoveries that need further cataloging and investigation, and carlmoth thought you would enjoy the task!"

"i can't today, islith."

"are you ill?"

"...kind of? but i'll be right as rain tomorrow. it's my day off anyhow."

"nonsense! you should go down to medbay!"

"i'm alright, i promise."

"you get out here right this minute or i'll report you to medbay myself!"

"no!" there's a series of crashes and thumps, and then they open the door.

"oh, you look awful. come on, you really must need medbay, what if you're contagious." islith tries to grab them but they shy away.

"i'm not contagious, i promise."

"how can you possibly know that? what if you picked it up from a sample, or, or, garfon has been sick recently! humans can't survive cerian sicknesses-"

"i didn't catch something from garfon, islith," they sigh and open the door wider. "come in and let me explain."

"alright, but if i think you should go to medbay afterwards then i'm taking you there."

"sure, islith."

islith enters, notices the piles of clothes, rumpled bedsheets, the lights are off and the port window shut.

"what's wrong?"

they sigh again, "my body doesn't work like it's meant to, islith."

islith is wildly alarmed, "and you said there was no need for medbay?!? come with me right now and-"

"no! i can't, islith, you don't understand."

"then explain it to me."

"i've... always been this way, although it's gotten worse as i've gotten older. my body, it just isn't built quite right, there's something wrong with it that makes it not work properly and hurt often."

"you're right, i don't understand. why can't you go to medbay?"

"i'd... be thrown off the ship."

"what?!?"

and so they tell islith a story about a young child whose dream was to touch the stars.

"and now, it's too late. i'd get in huge trouble for lying to the government, especially for so long."

"well- but- but humans are so resilient! you hear all the stories!"

"not every human is the same, islith. some of us are born disabled, and some of us get hurt in accidents, just like any other species."

"well, then, well there must be something we can do?"

they look up in shock, "we?"

"of course we, you ridiculous creature," islith said with a fond sigh. "you didn't think i'd leave you to suffer, would you?"

"but, you could get in so much trouble!"

"that's alright, i don't mind. what else are friends for? and, anyway, we don't have to tell your government, we can tell mine."

"but i'll-"

"we don't have any rules like that. any of us who are disabled can still manage in space just fine with the right support, and i bet you could too."

"i- islith- i don't-"

"don't worry, we'll all back you when it comes down to it. you're out teammate, our family. no one on this ship wants to watch you leave because of something you can't control. now come on, let's talk to glidlep in medical, she'll understand."

and for years, things continued on that way, until eventually it was an open secret that the human with the exosuit was disabled and not technically allowed onboard.

and down the line, when nasa found out and was furious, the entire ship and more stood by their side.

[kingkat12]

the truth about Roman Godfrey (roman godfrey x reader)

WARNINGS: piv sex, fingering, face-sitting, dub-con, semi-public sex, angst, edging, teasing, creampie, cum-play, unprotected sex, dry-humping, physical violence, Roman is a manipulative ass, it gets very very dubious ouf

summary: it's been two weeks since the night you parted. it's been torture, it's been hell, it's been two weeks in a perpetual state of agony-- but to make matters worse, the upir you once called your boyfriend has no intension of making your time apart any easier.

word count: 15,851 (making up for the angst oop)

← previous chapter | next chapter →

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･seven minutes in heaven masterlist

a/n: hopefully I won't have to have the ambulance on standby this time like I did for the last chapter;) JKJK this was SO fun to write, MWAH TO Y'ALL, I LOVE YOU!! <3

Roman once complained that I made him feel. He used to go on about it endlessly, that being conscious was a curse, that feeling anything at all was a fate worse than eternal damnation, and honestly? I had never completely understood any of it, as I had been preoccupied with feeling happy whenever he would give me these speeches in the middle of the night, with his arm wrapped around me as he let me rest my head on his bare chest-- he smelled like cigarettes. Cigarettes and sex. That was one of his favorite bands, too... not that he would ever admit to it, of course.

Roman Godfrey hated the entirety of Britney Spears' catalog. Roman Godfrey loved vintage car magazines.

Roman Godfrey hated people who insisted on riding their bicycles during traffic rush hour. 

Roman Godfrey loved me.

What the fuck was I supposed to do with all of this knowledge stored in my head? What use did it have now? Two weeks had passed since we broke up, but I had only needed an hour or two to finally understand what Roman was getting at all those times he complained about feelings-- it truly felt like a fate worse than death. 

This whole situation had put me in what felt like a comatose state. I had no idea how I was still pulling my ass out of bed to go to school, yet life went on, whether I wanted it to or not.

The hallway buzzed with life around me, but everything felt distant, muffled, like cotton stuffed between my ears. Letha's voice drifted through the haze, bright and animated, as she rattled off about something I should've been listening to. Really, after all she had done for me, I owed her that much... right? Her hands fluttered as she spoke, her freshly manicured nails catching the light in small glimmers. 

I nodded at all the right moments, but I wasn't really there.

I never was, anymore.

Instead, my eyes stayed fixed ahead, locked on the far end of the hallway with a look of longing smeared on my face-- in moments like these, I couldn't control it.

Roman sat on one of the low windowsills, half-reclined, legs spread wide. A cigarette dangled lazily between his fingers, unlit, seeing as we were inside. His head was tipped back against the wall, watching the ceiling like it might split open. Maybe he hoped it would? The collar of his shirt was rumpled, the buttons uneven, like he'd gotten dressed in the dark and hadn't bothered to fix it. A girl, probably a cheerleader, stood next to him, leaning in close, too close-- her hair spilled over his shoulder as she whispered something into his ear. 

Roman didn't flinch. He just smirked, slow and lazy, before flicking his cigarette between his fingers, keeping himself occupied. The cheerleader giggled (what would this be, his twelfth?) and tucked her hair behind her ear, her fingertips ghosting over his knee.

And just as I thought I would buckle over and throw up right in the hallway, I felt Letha's fingers tighten on my arm, pulling me back-- she had saved me from walking straight into Justin Montgomery, the leader of the track team; "Jeez," Letha mumbled, sending Justin a nasty look as she put her hand on my shoulder. "These brutes don't know how to watch where they're going."

"It's fine," I squeaked-- my intrusive thoughts were telling me to shut my brain down before she gained powers to read my mind and found out why I hadn't watched where I was going. That would've been severely incriminating, after all the times I had assured her I was over Roman by now. 

... Liar.

Letha smiled; too sweet, too patient. "Anyway, what do you think?"

I blinked. "About...?"

It didn't take her long to piece together that I hadn't been listening. Letha sighed; "Don't be bothered by him," she tried, motioning towards Roman at the end of the hall with a nod. "He's been doing this since the day you broke up. You know it's a show."

"I know,"

"Then why do you care?"

"I... don't,"

Letha sighed again, patting my arm. "Anyway, so, I was talking about the party at Jasmine's next Friday. You'll come with me, won't you? We always used to have fun, you and I!"

Jasmine? I hadn't heard that name in a while. "I thought she was dead," I mumbled.

Letha scoffed; "Girl, she's not dead! She was just concussed for a while, but it makes sense that you didn't catch any of this... You were still with Roman when she came back to school, and you could barely focus on anything except him,"

My stomach turned. Nothing had changed, then.

I couldn't help but sneak another peek; Roman was laughing now-- low, breathless. The girl was leaning in even closer now, fingers brushing up his thigh. His eyes stayed pinned to her face, but for the briefest second, I saw it; the flicker, the glance. 

He knew I was watching.

He wanted me to.

Fucker.

"Please?" Letha's voice cut through the fog again, pressing right against my ear. Her breath was warm against my neck, making me flinch. "I'm desperate to go, even though she turned out to be a fucking hag... she always knew how to throw a good party, though, and I think it will be fun!"

I swallowed hard, eyes still glued to Roman. He leaned back further against the wall, stretching out like a cat in the sun. His smirk grew wider, hungrier. He whispered something back to the girl, just loud enough that I could hear the murmur of his voice, but not the words.

My heart thudded painfully in my chest; "Fine," I breathed. "I'll be distracted there, at least..."

Letha's smile widened like I had passed some kind of test. She looped her arm through mine, warm and possessive. "I knew you'd come around! I'm so glad we're friends again, honestly,"

"Me too," I mumbled, looking away.

I didn't want to go to some party, especially not Jasmine's after what she had done to me. However, I felt like I owed Letha my attendance-- she had helped me with the whole Roman-is-a-upir situation, after all. 

It was odd to be friends with her again. It was odd to be acting like this, like we had forgiven each other. It was like I had been catapulted back three or four months when I was running around secretly crushing on Roman-- I had stepped back to square one. 

Something felt wrong about everything that was going on. 

Everything was wrong.

The cheerleader flirting with Roman right now had no idea who she was currently feeling up. She had absolutely no idea at all, not the faintest clue whatsoever. It was so, so wrong, on all levels, yet there he sat, smug off his ass about the fact that he could flirt with every living thing to gain some leverage in our breakup. I knew him well enough to know he saw this as yet another competition he could win. 

Roman Godfrey hated talking about his family. Roman Godfrey loved rambling about space.

Roman Godfrey hated losing. 

Roman Godfrey loved me. 

｡���•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

... But first and foremost, I think Roman Godfrey hated losing me.

It became obvious with every day that passed-- that's why he surrounded himself with all these girls.

Roman stood by the vending machine in the cafeteria the next day, leaning against the wall with one shoulder. He was halfway turned away, letting some girl I barely recognized twirl a strand of her hair around her finger while she giggled at whatever he was saying. His smirk was lazy, his eyes hooded like he was barely paying attention, like none of it really mattered to him either.

Except when my gaze locked onto him. 

Roman immediately looked up-- he had been keeping an eye on me, and he was giving it away too easy. Way too easy. It was only for a second, a flicker of green cutting through the noise, slicing right into me. My chest got tight as my breath caught on the edges of his stare.

But then, as always, his eyes dropped, flicking away like I wasn't even there, like I was nothing.

For two weeks straight, he had done this almost every day. Roman had conveniently placed himself in my eyesight, and for two weeks, I had let it get to me. I had let it squeeze all the blood out of my heart, let it keep me up at night, and I had let it drive me mad. 

And... today was no different.

I tried to concentrate on my food. Tried to move the broccoli around on my tray, twirling my fork between my fingers in order to pass time while I waited for Letha to come and join me. My whole body burned with the knowledge of what he was and what he could do-- but the more I thought about what he could possibly do with his upir powers, the more I thought about what he could also do with his fingers. 

If I closed my eyes, I could see it, feel it, hear it. 

Roman's voice would get low, dripping with a dangerous mix of seduction and patronizing teasing as his fingers curled inside me; "Someone's getting worked up, hm?"

"Fuck-- Fuck off," I would squirm in his lap, breathing heavily into the crook of his neck as he fingered me. He used to enjoy getting me off like this when he knew I'd had a bad day, he used to get the biggest fucking rush. 

Because he liked me, Roman would go slow. Because he adored me, he'd kiss my cheek and allow me to grind up against the heel of his palm. Because he loved me, he'd pull me away from his neck with his free hand and kiss me. Over and over, he'd drag his tongue across my bottom lip with teasing licks, listening to my breath hitching.

Over and over.

"What, you want me to go?" Roman purred, pumping his fingers into me deeper while he kept a steady rhythm. "You want me to leave you like this, all pretty and needy?"

I could only whimper; "Don't--"

"Don't what?"

"Don't leave-- A-Ah--"

God, how I loved him. It was impossible not to. 

Sex with Roman had turned into something I never thought it would-- it became a form of saying all the things we couldn't say. Making each other feel good, every tug of the others' hair, every kiss, every stolen whimper or moan, was just our way of saying I love you, I love you, I love you. I knew that, now.

"Aw, that's sweet," Roman's green eyes had shimmered so, so bright that day. "I would never leave you."

I snorted at the memory, and it brought me back to present time. I realized I had crossed my legs, clenching and unclenching to relieve the heat building between my thighs. Fuck. Feeling my cheeks burn with arousal and embarrassment, I glanced back at Roman, but he wasn't looking anymore. He was leaning in closer to the girl now, saying something low against the shell of her ear. My stomach clenched. He didn't even like girls like that... or had he lied?

Roman was doing this on purpose. I tried to tell myself that over and over.

He wanted me to hurt, just like I had hurt him by turning him away.

And in my mind, Letha's words echoed;  "I told you," The more I thought about her warnings, the more her perfume flooded my nose. "He's not the same anymore. You know who he is underneath everything! You just didn't want to see it before... but remember that I'm here for you through all of this. I'm your best friend, am I not?"

I swallowed hard, gluing my eyes to the floor. I couldn't look at Roman anymore; I had already seen too much. I had seen what he could become, what he was, when he nearly choked and beat Daniel half to death at prom. The hunger, the darkness-- everything Letha had whispered about in hushed warnings when no one else could hear. I had read about it in that stupid book, and traced my fingers over the pages until they'd crumpled under my touch, but none of that was what haunted me.

It was the look in his eyes the night he left. 

The broken, wrecked thing hiding beneath all that anger.

Maybe that was the worst part... That even now, with Letha's voice in my ear and his green eyes haunting my every moment, I still missed him. I still loved him. I was afraid I would do so forever, just as I had promised him. 

It was time to fight it.

I stood up from the table, harshly kicking away my chair-- I saw Roman react in the corner of my eye, watching me as I stormed out. His eyes rounded out as he snapped out of his act and stepped away from the girl.

It's on.

Roman Godfrey hated spinach. Roman Godfrey loved the smell of diesel leaking from his red jag.

Roman Godfrey hated old people-- he always said they were gross.

Roman Godfrey loved me. 

And I needed to stop loving him, stat.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

I had hoped that my thought-through schemes were a thing of my past. They had led me down several bad roads before, but it seemed I hadn't learned anything at all; because now, I was hatching out my new masterplan.

How to fall out of love with a upir; the ultimate guide.

... That would certainly be more entertaining than the other book about upirs that I knew way too well. 

Anyway, I started with the small things. I finally decided that I would change his name in my contacts from Romy Schneider to simply Roman. There was no need to sit around and wallow in the memory of old nicknames, right? 

I decided to do this at school, when I was walking to my new class. It didn't feel so ceremonial, then. I made my way up a narrow staircase packed with students squeezing past one another, the air thick with stale heat, and I kept my head down as I removed the nickname whilst trying to disappear into the stream of bodies.

And it was right at this moment that my first efforts of falling out of love fell apart.

It was almost ironic that the second I finished my job and glanced up, I saw him halfway down the stairs, moving in the opposite direction.

Roman.

My heart slammed into my ribs, breath catching painfully in my throat. He was talking to Peter, the two of them tucked close together in the slow-moving crowd. Peter murmured something low, barely audible over the noise, and Roman's lips curved into a smirk-- the kind that always made my stomach flip, once upon a time.

I shouldn't have been looking. I knew that, but I couldn't help it. My eyes traced the line of his throat, the sharp cut of his jaw. He was different now-- colder. His hair fell messily into his face, the shadows under his eyes carving deep into his pale skin. Still beautiful. Still Roman.

And then, like he felt me watching-- his gaze flicked up.

Fuck.

Within one aching second, our eyes locked.

I froze. Everything around me fell away, the rush of voices fading into muffled static. I could feel the burn of his stare pressing into me, pinning me where I stood. 

Even better, was the moment I caught Roman's breath visibly catching. Was he maybe finally feeling guilty too?

It made something twist deep inside me, something small and cruel and hungry. Proof that I could still make him feel something-- that maybe I wasn't the only one unraveling under the weight of all this silence.

He recovered quickly, masking the flicker of vulnerability by keeping the same slow pace down the stairs. Peter was still talking, oblivious, but Roman's eyes stayed on me; he didn't look away this time, and neither did I.

I don't know how long we stared at each other. A second, maybe two, or a fucking eternity for all I know, before someone brushed past me, nudging my shoulder hard enough to break the spell. I clutched my phone tighter before I started putting it away into my pocket, forcing my feet to keep moving.

I thought I had gotten away, I really did, but when I glanced back over my shoulder, Roman was... turning?

And then he called my name.

It sounded more like a reflex than anything thought through, torn from him without permission. His voice cut through the crowd, like a signal made for my ears only. 

I should've kept walking. I should've pretended not to hear him, but some stupid, aching part of me stopped and turned around. 

That was all the invitation Roman needed. He had stopped in the middle of the stairs, looking back at me with those piercing green eyes I was sure I'd never forget-- I would never forget the night they were filled with tears either, as he begged me on his knees not to let him go. My heart ached as I dared to glance a look at Peter who stood by his side, clad with an awkward smile. Poor guy, caught in the middle of this.

"Hey," Roman tried, letting out a shaky exhale.

I couldn't breathe. I really, really couldn't, no matter how hard I tried. Roman could've easily mesmerized me to stay in my place and not move, but as I wiggled my fingers to check for any unusual sensations; nothing. I was standing here of my own free will, and that was somehow worse. 

No, actually-- the worst part was when Roman started reaching for me, and his sleeves gathered beneath his wrists, unveiling the two hair ties I had given him months ago. He was still wearing them. He was still wearing them.

I was so distracted that I had let Roman's fingers catch against my wrist, barely a touch, barely there at all, but it was enough to send a shiver racing up my arm.

"Can we?--"

Talk?

No, no, no!

I yanked my hand back like I'd been burned and let out a high-pitched squeak of terror. My mind kept screaming at me that Letha had warned me he was dangerous, that he was a upir, that I shouldn't have ever let him come anywhere near me in the first place-- Roman's eyes widened as the crowd around us suddenly stopped to stare.  

Horrified, I shoved my way through the masses of people, heart hammering in my chest. My whole body was shaking, nausea pooling in the back of my throat. I could still feel the ghost of his fingers on my skin, still smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes. I couldn't believe he was still wearing my hair ties, even after flirting with all those girls to get my attention.

He didn't follow me. He couldn't, not with Peter and everyone else right there, watching.

I heard Peter's voice cut in; "Let's go, man,"

Roman didn't answer. I didn't dare look back, but I could feel it; the weight of him standing there, anchored to the spot like he'd been punched in the stomach.

"Roman..." Peter tried again, quieter this time. "Come on, people are looking."

A pause. Then, the faint scrape of shoes against linoleum filled the hall as they started moving again.

I kept walking until the burn in my throat turned into something sharper, something wet. I bit down hard on the inside of my cheek, trying to steady my breath.

I had a masterplan. I had steps to follow, I couldn't get distracted by an incident like this! 

... Even if it was the first time we had interacted in about two weeks. My heart swelled with unnameable feelings, unsure how to differentiate between the hurt and the satisfaction of hearing Roman's voice again. I couldn't believe he had been the one to initiate a conversation after how I had shot him down. How broken down must he be?

I tried not to think about it. 

Roman Godfrey loved fast cars. Roman Godfrey hated liars.

Roman Godfrey had a weird aversion to green peppers.

Roman Godfrey still loved me, didn't he?

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

Thankfully, Letha was happy to let me air out the thoughts I had been stifling when we met up for a study session the next day;

"It was so fucking rude," I whispered, angrily flicking through the pages of my history book. "He's been flirting with every single girl at this school in front of me, and suddenly he wants to talk to me? He has no right to even say my name!" I had no other way of processing my hurt than through anger; my body would break if it carried any more pain. 

Letha sighed, glancing around in the numbing silence of the school library. She seemed anxious about my antics, anxious that I would suddenly raise my voice-- she sat across from me, flipping through her notes with quiet, practiced flicks of her fingers. Her voice was a soft murmur, just loud enough to puncture the hush. "Typical Roman... I told you to be prepared,"

"But people are talking about it!" I shot in. "Are they not? They all heard me whimpering to get away from him, it was so embarrassing!"

Letha's eyes were round with sympathy as she reached forward and put her hand on top of mine, stopping my rapid attack on my history book. "Let them talk," 

"But I!--"

"No one can know the real reason you broke up anyway, so what's the point?" she tried, her voice soft. "If Roman wants to play games, he needs to learn that things have consequences. It's not like his mom taught him that lesson, so... it seems you will be the perfect example."

I kept my eyes fixed on my textbook as I retracted my hand, pretending to read. The words blurred together, meaningless. The more I thought about Roman and his antics, the more I wanted to disappear. "Everything just... hurts," I mumbled. "I know I shouldn't be saying it, but I miss him."

Letha sighed once more, nodding to herself as she watched me drown in my thoughts. "Even though he's flirting with the cheerleaders again?"

"Yes," It was a painful confession; a pathetic one, at most. "He's obviously not into them, he just has no other way of retaliating."

"Retaliating?"

"Obviously? Roman's pissed, this is how he functions," I sucked in a sharp breath, absentmindedly tracing the words in my history book. "I doubt he's sleeping with them though, that's for sure."

Silence.

After a few seconds too long, I glanced up at Letha through my brows. My heart painfully skipped a beat, kicking at my ribs; "You don't think he's?--"

"You don't?" Letha bit the inside of her cheek, crossing her arms over her chest as she leaned back into her chair. "Flash news! My cousin's a whore."

"He's not!" 

"He is,"

"Not-- Not anymore!"

"Once a nympho, always a nympho,"

"Not after therapy!" A beat. Two. "Okay, Roman hasn't been to therapy, but he's not a!--"

"Nympho? Totally," Letha said with a snort. 

"Not anymore! He's not sleeping with them!" I hissed. "He loves me!"

Letha's shoulder slumped, and she had a peculiar look on her face; come on. "He said that?"

"Yes! I told you this!--"

"Then he's a liar as well," Letha snapped. "Get it in your head, for once." Within a snap of a second, she leaned forward, scooping all her books into a heap while speaking with a lowered voice; "The quicker you understand that being involved with a upir puts you in danger, the quicker you will feel better!"

My temper was coming to a boil. "We were good before I knew, though! Maybe it would've been better if you'd never confirmed it to me in the first place?!--"

"Grow up!" Letha hissed. "Stop taking your anger out on me, and start focusing on staying out of the mess you've made instead!" With that, she stuffed her books into her bag, breathing heavily in and out of her nose to keep calm. Her next words seeped out from between her gritted teeth; "I've done nothing but help you, even after you pulled all that shit behind my back. It wouldn't hurt you to be just a little grateful."

I had half the mind to throw a book at Letha when she turned around, but the further away she got, the more I knew I'd miss. Hesitation one-oh-one. 

The other half of my mind came to the clearest conclusion I'd had in a while; the Godfreys were a crazy fucking bunch, and they were certainly not good news. I tried telling myself that Letha was simply looking out for me, and that her harshness could be explained by everything that had happened between us-- that was understandable, after all. If she hadn't harbored any animosity after everything, it would've been weird, right? And if I was having such vivid images of throwing books after her, I couldn't be completely free of animosity either?

Going back to studying after everything that had gone down was a hard task in itself, especially when I felt people all around me whispering. It was either that they had caught onto the fight between me and Letha, or it was the usual-- isn't that Roman Godfrey's girl?

Not anymore, fuckwads.

And just as I was about to wallow in more self-pity, I felt a rather harsh tap on my shoulder, hard enough to make me flinch and turn around to glare at the perpetrator. 

... I really shouldn't have.

I looked right up at my math teacher, Mr. Warrens, who was now looming over me with a coffee cup in one hand and a clipboard in the other. He wasn't exactly the scariest teacher in school, but right now he had a damning look on his face which alarmed me; this could certainly not be good news?

"I see this is where you spend your free time, miss?" Mr. Warrens said, raising a brow. "Didn't imagine you were the type to sit around and study anything at all."

I let out the most anxious giggle of all time, blindly closing my history book as I cracked a polite smile. "You'd be surprised,"

"Oh, I am," Mr. Warrens took a sip of his coffee with a presumptuous look in his eyes; "Have you ever considered assorting any study time to maths instead?" 

This was mortifying. "I was-- I was planning on doing my math assignment after this, sir,"

He didn't seem particularly convinced by my lie, but with a scoff, he moved on from it; he was the kind of man who could sniff out unfinished homework from across the room. "It doesn't matter. Because you, miss, are particularly lucky today,"

"Oh?" 

"Since you're so eager to spend your time sitting around glaring at books without actually understanding the words, I figured this would benefit you more than anyone, so... you're about to become the library's newest unpaid intern,"

I sputtered out my words-- "What?!"

Mr. Wren shrugged, but he couldn't hide the glee burning in his eyes. I bet he had been waiting for a moment to punish me for being a bad maths student. "Godfrey's got detention. You've got missing credits. Think of it as... killing two birds with one stone,"

No. 

There was no way.

"... Godfrey?!"

It wasn't until I glanced around that I saw him. Roman stood with his hands stuffed in his pockets, leaning against a shelf of books a little further away, looking utterly bored, as if he had been summoned here against his will-- the same way he was always summoned everywhere. He barely glanced at me, his gaze fixed on a crack in the floor.

Was this what Roman looked like when he wanted to disappear? It was a satisfactory sight.

Mr. Warrens' eyes flicked between us. "Both of you. Sorting books alphabetically. Now. The restricted section is a mess, so I expect you to be thorough. You'll report back to me when you're done,"

"We have a librarian for that!" I snapped. "Why do we?-- I didn't even do anything, sir, I was just minding my own business here! If Roman's got detention, why am I joining?!--"

"Enough!" With one particularly angry slurp, Mr. Warrens downed his coffee and slammed his mug next to my books. "The librarian can't do everything alone, and I can easily stop giving you the passing grade you most certainly don't deserve!"

I swallowed hard. I needed that fucking grade. 

I glanced at Roman again, who still wasn't looking at me-- I couldn't believe that Mr. Warrens was unknowingly sending me into close proximity with a upir, the most dangerous carnivore on the planet. Hopefully, Roman wouldn't get the urge to suck me dry of blood for rejecting his confession of love when the doors closed behind us.

Mr. Warrens saw my rebellion drain from my eyes. Did he catch the fear? "Pack your stuff and come with me,"

My pulse quickened as I put my books in my bag and got up, dragging my feet as I followed Mr. Warrens down the library-- it felt like I was walking to a guillotine, my death. It didn't take long before I heard Roman's long steps behind me, the sound of his expensive shoes echoing through the library. "Cute," he muttered under his breath. "Forced labor."

I had to hold back a snort, and I didn't have to look at Mr. Warrens to sense he was rolling his eyes-- "One more word from you, Godfrey, and I schedule a meeting with your mother to discuss your lack of attendance in my class,"

That was enough to make Roman bite his tongue. He didn't want his mother involved with anything, I remembered that much.

The restricted section was tucked away behind locked doors, where the dim lighting made the room feel smaller. Dust floated in the air, illuminated by the yellowish lamps overhead. Rows of tall shelves loomed, lined with battered, forgotten books-- the kind no one could borrow anymore.

Mr. Warrens gave us both stern looks, dangling the keys in his hands. "Don't steal anything, and be done in an hour or so. Got it?"

Roman snorted as he shoved his hands in his pockets again, scanning the books around us; "Unless the school is storing Playboys here, you can rest assured that nothing will be stolen,"

I grimaced, rolling my eyes. "Ew, Roman,"

I couldn't believe this was our first verbal interaction in weeks.

Mr. Warrens didn't seem very pleased either, but he decided to let it go for now-- he turned around on his heel, and the door clicked shut behind him.

I wished I hadn't argued with Letha. Maybe we would've left together instead and gotten ice cream? Maybe Mr. Warrens would've picked someone else? Why couldn't we have studied at Letha's place, like in the good old days? Everything seemed to be going wrong for me today.

I scoured the shelves, not daring to meet Roman's eyes just yet-- there were mostly books the school had deemed inappropriate after buying them, along with some outdated science books from the nineties. I couldn't imagine how we'd manage to sort all of this in one hour.

However, Roman being Roman, he couldn't stop himself from saying the first thing that came to his mind; "You look good," he purred, scanning me up and down from behind with that usual hungry look in his eyes. "There's no need for Playboys when you're here, that's for sure."

I couldn't anticipate how deeply I blushed. Roman never failed to say something nasty, and it never failed to work on me. It was disgusting how easily he could get to me with the worst of methods, even when I was scared. "Stop that," I mumbled. Finding the courage to face Roman, I slowly turned to him as I prayed to all entities of the galaxy that he wasn't standing over me with his fangs ready for me in the dark.

Alas-- 

He stood leaned against the nearest shelf, dragging a lazy hand through his hair. His green eyes met mine, neutral, certainly not pouncing on me yet. Roman bit back a smirk, clearly happy to be locked in here with me. "What, are you gonna report me for harassment?"

"I might,"

"Shut up, you like it when I'm nasty,"

I did, but he didn't need to get it confirmed. More than ever, I wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, so I thought I'd hit him where it'd hurt; "What'd you do to deserve this, then?"

Roman blinked. "Which part? You leaving me, or detention?"

Ouch. My heart thudded with pain-- my attempt at hurting him had backfired like Daniel's dad's car. All the times I had promised Roman that I'd never leave him flashed before my eyes-- all the promises, the repeated assurance. It became clear to me that his little act of confidence was just that, an act. My voice was meek when I managed to speak, a mere whisper; "Detention,"

Roman crossed his arms over his chest, tsking. "Existing," His voice was low, bored, but there was something sharp beneath it.

"I see..." I knew that it either involved skipping class or being caught smoking behind the school. Typical Roman behavior, really. 

The air felt thick. I couldn't breathe. Not only was I in danger, being alone with a upir like this, but I felt also felt unbelievably guilty. 

I dropped my bag on the floor, already reaching for the first book on the shelf, doing anything to keep my hands busy. Waiting for Roman to say something meaningful after he had insisted on talking to me yesterday on the stairs, I remained quiet as I flipped the book open. My fingers trembled against the paper with anticipation, yet-- nothing.

For a while, none of us spoke. The only sounds were the shuffle of pages and the soft thud of books being placed back onto shelves. Every so often, Roman would reach past me, brushing against my shoulder or the curve of my waist; fleeting, accidental touches that made my heart lurch painfully inside my chest with both fear and suppressed excitement.

It felt like some twisted punishment. To be this close to him again, close enough to smell the faint trace of cigarette smoke clinging to his jacket, but not close enough to say any of the things clawing at the back of my throat.

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore; "Are you really not going to say anything?"

Roman stopped, holding up a book mid-air. It was at this moment that I caught a glance of my hair ties still hanging around his wrist. "Say what? I feel like I've said enough,"

"You... wanted to say something yesterday,"

"Oh," he mumbled, putting away the book in the correct alphabetical order. "Just wanted to check if you were alright."

"... What?"

"I saw you storming out of the cafeteria the other day. Just wondered if I was the reason,"

The feeling I'd had when I nearly threw a book after Letha a few minutes ago returned, and I caught myself gripping the book I was holding tighter as my body anticipated flinging it at Roman. However, I restrained myself and turned away from him. "Would it satisfy you if I told you that you were?"

Roman didn't miss a beat-- "No,"

For fuck's sake. 

"I won't ever be satisfied," he continued. "Not until you wake up and get it in your head that I'm supposed to be with you, and no one else."

My heart was in my throat, and I placed my hand on the shelf in front of me to steady myself. My knees had gone weak, threatening to give up on me. I couldn't breathe. Hearing Roman say that made me dizzy beyond reason-- or was that the dust? I had to get myself together. "Actually, my head has never been clearer than after figuring you out, thank you very much," I snapped. "Flirt with all the cheerleaders in the tri-state area. Do whatever you want, Roman. At least I know I won't have to see any of it after we graduate next summer."

His expression remained unreadable up until my last sentence, as something flickered behind his eyes, dark and wounded. "You think I like this?"

My hands stilled around the book I was holding. "I think you're trying to hurt me," I whispered.

Roman stepped forward, just a fraction-- it made me turn around to face him. Standing with my back to him didn't feel very safe. Roman got close enough that I could feel the ghost of his breath on my temple. His fingers brushed against the shelf beside my head, trapping me in place without touching me; "Yeah?" His voice was quieter now, almost dangerous. "Is it working?"

My whole body was close to trembling, torn between wanting to slap him across the face and wanting him to kiss me. It was giving me the biggest deja vu to seven minutes in heaven all those months ago-- the dim lights, the close proximity, the danger of the situation.

It was sick, how badly I missed it all.

Roman's eyes flicked down to my mouth. "Speak,"

Fuck. "No,"

"Liar,"

"Me?!"

"Who else?"

I gasped; "So I'm the liar? Says the secret upir!"

Roman reacted like I had pressed hot iron to his skin. With a knee-jerk reaction, he turned away, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek like he'd caught himself making a mistake. He picked up another book, pretending like nothing had happened. 

Now that his back was turned to me, I pressed the palm of my hand to my face-- that was too harsh, wasn't it? A meek sorry slipped past my lips before I could stop it. Why was I apologizing?

"Let's just get this over with," Roman mumbled, flickering through the book that had caught his fake interest. 

Seeing him like this made me want to walk up to him and give him a hug from behind. I hadn't done enough of those when I'd had the chance. There were many things I should've done when I still had him-- I couldn't believe I wasn't going to get the opportunity to kiss the beautiful tip of his nose anymore. 

The more I dwelled on the past, the more it hit me that Roman was still a person despite the fact that he was also a upir. He had laid his heart out to me that night those two weeks ago, so maybe it was fair to show him that I was hurting as well? 

God, how I wanted him to be okay. 

Which is exactly why I allowed myself to pose the question; "Are you really sleeping with them?" The words slipped out before I could stop them, soft and fragile.

Roman froze halfway through reaching for another book. His knuckles went white around the spine. For a long moment, he didn't look at me. "What?"

My stomach twisted; "The cheerleaders. The girls you've been... flirting with. Are you sleeping with them?"

He was still for so long that I thought he might not answer at all. Then, slowly, he set the book down on the shelf, deliberate, controlled, before turning to face me. "Why do you care?"

My breath caught in my chest-- what a stupid question.

Imagining Roman having sex with any of those girls made me sick, that's why I cared. Thinking about him kissing them like he used to kiss me, touching them like he used to touch me, made me want to slam my head into the bookshelves around us to crack my skull open. How would he talk to them? Would he call them sweet names, like he used to call me? Would he groan into the crook of their necks as he came, would he talk them through it when they did as well?

I needed to shut my mind off before I threw up.

Roman's mouth curved when I didn't answer, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Right..." He nodded to himself, letting it sink in that I cared, that I saw. The tension in the room stretched thin, vibrating between us like a live wire. "I'm not sleeping with them," he eventually said. "If that helps you sleep at night."

I wanted to call Letha and yell at her that I was right, that he wouldn't go so far to prove his point. Not when our breakup was this fresh, anyway. "Thanks," I mumbled. 

Roman insisted on the subject; "Maybe I should, though? Maybe that would make you come back running?"

I was two seconds from buckling over and barfing all over the outdated science books. "You're an ass,"

"Are you surprised?"

"Nope," I huffed. "Just wondering whether you'd actually be able to."

"Able to...?"

With a tiny smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned my back against the shelf. Like this, I could size Roman up properly, and I felt I had some sort of defence with my attack; "Y'know, like... get it up, and all,"

Roman snorted, visibly offended. "What the fuck are you on about?"

"I don't know, Rome, like you'd ever want to fuck anyone else after having been with me?"

Hearing his old nickname, he froze, his green eyes widening as the initial shock seeped out of his lungs. "That's not how dicks work," he mumbled. "If there's a possibility to have sex, it will be ready, believe me."

I scanned him. Properly. All from the way he was breathing, from the way his eye twitched with retained frustration. Roman was two seconds from cracking, and I knew it. He was lying. "Okay, discarding my seemingly limited knowledge of how dicks function, would your conscience be okay with it?"

Roman needed a minute to let his brain churn through the question, weighing all possible answers. While thinking, his eyes scoured the room, moving on autopilot as he held his breath-- it didn't take long for him to find an outdated book on anatomy, and he held it out for me to take. 

I snorted. "Funny," I mumbled, accepting the book. "Answer the question, Roman."

"No,"

"No?" I watched as he walked away from me again and started trying to organize. "Don't be like that, just answer the fucking!--"

"No, I wouldn't be okay with it," 

Silence.

Roman let out a sigh as he leaned his forehead against a shelf, shutting his eyes as he tried to steady his breathing. "I still love you, whether I want to or not. There's nothing I can do but wait for it to go away, so until then, I think it'd kill me,"

... Oh.

I couldn't feel my fingers. It felt like my heart had sunk into my diaphragm, beating low in my stomach. There was nothing I could do when my eyes welled with tears except press the anatomy book to my chest, hoping to relieve the pain. For a second, I forgot that I was afraid. When the second stretched to many more, I even forgot that Roman was a upir. 

For about a minute, Roman was simply the man I had fallen in love with.

"Rome?"

He didn't turn his head to me, not fully, but I could see the bitter tears forming in the corner of his eye.

"Rome, do you... can you hear my heart?"

I knew he could. I knew his upir senses allowed him to hear it clear as day. 

And Roman nodded, so faintly I could barely see it. "I can hear that you're scared, if that's why you're asking," he mumbled. "I'm not stupid."

I swallowed hard. I shouldn't be initiating this conversation. Letha said it was dangerous, the book said it was dangerous, my mind was screaming at me to stop-- but my heart... my heart bled for him. "That's not fear,"

With slow moves, Roman turned his head to properly look at me. He saw the way I pressed my back up against the shelf behind me, how I clutched the anatomy book like it would protect me from my feelings. 

"Whatever you feel for me, Rome, I can assure you... I feel it for you a million times more," 

It was the truth, nothing more.

"I don't think we're soulmates. I don't believe that meeting you was some sort of divine intervention, because then you wouldn't be what you are. But I can be certain that this wasn't pure chance either, because... I willed this. Ever since I first saw you, I felt ready to go through whatever I needed to do to get to you,"

Roman's lips parted, his pupils dilating as his green eyes rounded out. 

"I love you," I breathed. "And I should've said it that night, because I've always loved you. I love you with every bit of conscience I was born with. I love you, Roman."

Finally.

I exhaled.

My shoulders sank with the weight that was relieved off my soul. 

Finally, he knew. Finally, I had said it.

There was a quiet gasp, a sharp inhale, followed by a silent tear rolling down Roman's cheek. His lower lip quivered as he spoke in a whisper; "Then what the hell are we doing?"

That was not the response I had expected-- not that I had thought this through, of course, but that was certainly not it. Seeing him upset like this reminded me of the night of our breakup, and it made me freeze in my spot. Had we not suffered enough? 

"If you love me, and I love you, aren't we... supposed to be together? Isn't that how this works?"

"Not always," I breathed, slowly turning to put away the anatomy book I had been clutching. "There are millions of stories of people who love each other but can't be together... Look around."

Roman smeared his tears into his skin. "I don't want to be one of those stories,"

"We were never supposed to happen in the first place," I mumbled. "Maybe if we stop fighting the fact that we should be apart--"

"But I don't want to be apart from you," It seemed to be dawning on Roman how serious this conversation was, how final it felt. "And if you love me as you say you do, shouldn't you want to be with me?"

"It's not that easy!--"

"So, what then? You're saying you don't want to be with me because it's not easy? You love me, but you give up?" Roman's fists clenched and unclenched as he tried to remain calm, yet his efforts didn't pay off. His words came out with his next exhale, relenting to the pain of his confusion; "Why can't we just be together?"

I swallowed hard. "You know why, Roman,"

"No, I don't," Roman stepped closer, too close, his breath falling hot against my cheek. "I don't-- I don't fucking get it anymore."

This confrontation felt like a punch to the chest.

"You say you love me," His voice was low, pleading. "Not even my own fucking mother loves me, so I know that love is a heavy thing, and I know that you can't just--" He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair. "You can't just turn that off!"

My heart was trying to twist itself out from between my ribs as I looked up into Roman's big, green eyes. "I know," I breathed. "I can't turn it off. Believe me, I've tried."

"I've tried too," Roman whispered, inching closer. "But at the end of the day, I only want you."

My throat closed up. He seemed so sincere, so utterly desperate-- I kept wiggling my fingers to make sure they weren't tingling, that he wasn't using his powers on me, because I felt more and more overcome by the emotions I had been suppressing these past few weeks. "Even after flirting with all those cheerleaders?" I breathed, giving in to a pout.

Roman's gaze narrowed with a look of come on as he placed his hand on the bookshelf behind me, locking me in again. Instinctively, I pressed my back against the shelf, swallowing over and over-- how had I let him get so close? "You're not who I thought you were," I whispered. 

Roman flinched, his jaw tightened, yet he didn't back off. "I'm still me,"

"You're barely human,"

"I'm still me," His voice broke open, hoarse. "I'm still the same guy who kissed you in a shitty closet during seven minutes in heaven."

God, that was a hundred years ago. My heart cracked straight down the middle-- I could still feel that night like it was stitched under my skin. "But you're not safe," My voice was barely above a whisper. "I'm not safe with you around."

Roman sighed, his lashes falling heavy over his eyes; "With that logic, you were never safe in the first place. But when have I ever put you in danger? When have I ever harmed you? I kicked a fucking car away from you, and mind you, it was coming at you at about a hundred kilometers an hour! If I'm willing to do that, you have to understand that I would never hurt you!"

My chest heaved. This was too much. 

"Don't listen to Letha," he pleaded. "I'm not even a full upir yet, I'm less dangerous than a fucking hippo!"

Wait.

... What? 

He wasn't... a full upir?

It felt like I had been sucker-punched in the stomach. My eyes sprung wide open, staring at Roman and his exasperated expression-- it quickly fell apart as he scanned his mind with a grimace, his gaze turning to the ceiling as he pondered how to rephrase it. "Actually, hippos are really fucking dangerous, aren't they?" he mumbled mostly to himself. "I don't know, okay, who's like... moderate on the scale?"

I couldn't breathe. "Roman--"

"What about those small hippos? The ones that only bite people's knees and stuff?--"

"Roman, you're not a full upir?!"

He stopped his rambling, adjusting his stance as he scanned my face. He blinked. Once, twice. "No...?" His words were slow, trying, as he tested the waters. "Letha didn't tell you that?"

"Letha has nothing to do with this!" I lied, trying to catch my breath.

"Letha has everything to do with this," Roman grumbled. "I'm not fucking stupid. You were wearing her clothes that night, and you smelled like her incense for rich schizos! If you think you're not being manipulated here, think again!" 

"Letha is my best friend!" I choked out. "She is trying to keep me safe!--"

"From what?!" Roman huffed, raising his voice as his frustrations rose. "From me? I don't even have venom!" 

My heart stopped. It was true.

If Roman hadn't died before, he couldn't be venomous.

If Roman hadn't died before, his urges were mostly dormant.

If Roman hadn't died before, he... wasn't really a proper upir.

Yet.

This changed everything.

My lips parted in shock as I looked away from him, my chest rising and falling with every shaky breath. It didn't help anything when the dizziness kicked in. "I feel like I'm going to faint," I mumbled, changing my weight from one foot to another. 

"You're not," Roman adjusted the hand he had on the shelf behind me, getting ready to catch me if I were to crumble to the floor. "Not to freak you out, but I would've sensed your blood pressure dropping."

"I know," I breathed. "I remember that from the car crash."

"Ah," Roman kept trying to read me, kept trying to understand what had just happened in my mind. "Look, why do I have a feeling that... this changes things?"

"What does?"

"That I'm not... that thing, fully,"

I swallowed hard, daring to meet his green eyes-- they were so heartbreakingly full of hope. "I still can't trust you,"

Roman dared to lean down further, the tip of his nose nearly touching mine. "Then let me prove to you that you can," he whispered against my lips. "Let me show you that I have control."

"But--"

"Let me," he begged. "Please."

I couldn't breathe, not when he was this close. Suddenly, it felt like my whole body was on fire, just like it had been before. 

Roman's chest was heaving.

He was so, so close.

I knew I was putting my life on the line for this, but... it felt worth it.

Roman's breath fanned across my lips, his presence overwhelming. The weight of his promise lingered between us, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't sure if I was fighting against him or surrendering entirely.

I barely had a second to consider before his lips brushed against my neck, featherlight, barely there-- it was enough to set every nerve in my body alight. I sucked in a sharp breath, fingers clutching at the bookshelf behind me as if it were the only thing keeping me grounded. The heat of his mouth lingered, sending a shiver down my spine, but the sharp sting of fangs never came. He stayed, lips parted against my skin, just breathing me in.

I didn't realize my hands had let go of the shelf until I felt them against his chest, my fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. I could feel his heartbeat against my palm-- steady, real. For all his inhuman traits, for all my fear and hesitation, he was still a boy standing in front of me, waiting for me to believe in him. My boy.

"See?" he murmured, his lips still hovering over my pulse point. "There is nothing to be scared of."

I was trembling, but not from fear anymore. The realization hit me all at once-- I had missed this, missed him. Before I could think better of it, my hands slid up, over his shoulders, around the back of his neck. His hair was soft beneath my fingertips, and when I tugged, just slightly, his breath hitched. 

That was all it took-- he knew what I wanted.

Roman's lips met mine with a desperation that burned through every hesitation I'd tried to hold onto. There was no doubting, no second-guessing-- it was raw, breathless, words of longing condensed into the way his mouth moved against mine, how his hands found my waist and pulled me flush against him. He kissed me like he was trying to prove something, like he was trying to rewrite everything that had happened between us, like nothing had ever happened at all.

I moaned against Roman's lips, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tilting his head to claim more of me. My legs felt weak, my was head spinning, but I didn't stop; I couldn't. My fingers tangled in his hair, his name slipping from my lips between kisses, and I felt him groan in response-- a low, needy sound that sent a thrill down my spine.

Then, the tension snapped like a live wire. One moment, I was standing, and the next, gravity had me. But it wasn't clumsy, wasn't an accident, it was something deeper, something inevitable-- the bookshelves groaned under our weight as we slid down, slow and spiralling, our descent fuelled by tangled fingers, desire, and unspoken longing. The world outside the restricted section ceased to exist, and Roman's hands were everywhere, threading through my hair, gripping my waist, pulling me closer with desperation.

By the time we hit the floor, breathless and entwined, the air between us was electric, charged with something neither of us could name. Roman hovered over me, eyes dark, lips swollen, his thumb brushing over the curve of my cheek.

"Fuck," I cursed, shivering-- I was losing control, spiralling with every sweet touch. What was I doing? What was I thinking? I shouldn't be doing this. Roman was still a upir, full or not. My mind went haywire with conflicting thoughts as he leaned down to kiss me again, and I bunched the fabric of his shirt between my fingers. 

Roman groaned against my lips, like he could feel me slipping and wouldn't allow it. His hands tightened, fingers splaying against my waist, dragging me closer until there was no room to think, only to feel.

"I love you," he murmured, breath warm against my skin as his lips traced the edge of my jaw, down the curve of my throat. His voice was lower now, almost coaxing, like he knew exactly what was holding me back, and he was determined to make me forget.

I should've stopped this. I should've pushed him away. But when his teeth grazed my pulse, a sharp gasp escaped me, my body arching before I could think it through properly. My grip on his shirt tightened, nails digging into him as if he were the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth.

"Tell me to stop," Roman whispered, lips hovering over the hollow of my throat, his breath shaky, uneven. His restraint was a fragile thing-- I could feel it in the way his fingers flexed against my skin, the way his whole breath trembled with need.

I opened my mouth, ready to say it, ready to end this before it spiralled further...

But those words never came. 

Instead--

"Don't," I whispered. "Don't stop."

I dragged him back to me, crashing my lips against his like he was the only thing in the world that could keep me breathing.

Roman groaned into the kiss, a sound so raw it sent a bolt of heat down my spine. "You drive me insane," he rasped, and before I could think, before I could remember why I was supposed to stop, his hands were sliding beneath my shirt, fingertips burning against my skin. 

And I let him.

I let him wry my shirt off.

I let him drag my pants off. 

I let him kiss my thighs, let him press a kiss to my clit through my underwear, let him kiss his way back up my stomach, and to top it off-- I was quite sure I ripped a button off his shirt to get it off of him.

Fuck. Had I lost my mind?

"I'm so screwed," I mumbled, clutching onto Roman's hair as he sucked a hickey into the skin of my shoulder. "I have no control when it comes to you." Closing my eyes, I relished in the fact that there'd at least be a mark left behind from this like a reward-- I'd have remnants of Roman on my shoulder for at least a week, if this was the last time we ever did this. It couldn't be. Could it? 

Would I never feel Roman like this again? It made my heart ache as I tugged his hair harder, like it would make us stay in this moment forever. 

Roman hummed against my skin before he raised himself, hovering above me. His lids were heavy over his green eyes, darkened with lust-- but in the midst of the want, there was love, shining down on me with the clearest ray of sun. "I'll lend you some of mine then," he murmured, before getting off of me.

What? 

What was happening right now?

I laid on the floor, my brows drawing together in confusion as my eyes followed him-- what was he doing, lying down next to me?

It wasn't until Roman smiled at me, the first genuine one in a while, that I got an inkling of what he was thinking. "Sit," he said.

... Sit? 

Now I was unsure again.

I scrambled to my knees, wondering what on earth he was planning to do. "Rome, what are you?-- Ah!"

Roman wasted no time hooking his strong arm around my leg, dragging me towards him like I weighed nothing as I yelped. With a quick manoeuvre, I was somehow straddling his chest as my cheeks burned. "Giving you control," he murmured, now pulling me towards his face. 

... Oh God.

"Sit,"

My hand shot to the bookshelf, keeping myself steady as Roman's darkened eyes urged me to use him, to do whatever I wanted to him, while he slowly pulled my underwear to the side. "Ro-- Roman, I--" 

All the air in my body caught in my throat as he leaned forward off the floor, dragging me down with him as he covered my mound with his mouth, sucking me in. My legs gave in to a tremble, letting out a broken moan as I instinctively let go of the edge of the shelf-- this couldn't be real. This couldn't be happening. 

But when Roman sucked down on my clit with the gentlest of pressures, just how he knew I liked it, I knew I wasn't imagining it. 

For the love of all things holy, I hoped Mr. Warrens wouldn't walk in on me like this, straddling Roman's face. He'd fail us both, and possibly get us expelled-- a big part of me wanted to just disappear and die, but the other only wanted more. 

I had no idea what came over me when I grabbed Roman's hair to anchor myself and rolled my hips into his face. It felt rough, too commanding, too much like I was taking advantage, all until he let out a happy hum; this is what he had wanted, for me to feel in control. 

It felt too good to stop, and it only made me tug his hair harder-- he seemed to like that, as usual. Waves of pleasure coursed through my body as Roman swirled his tongue around my clit, only to later seal his lips around it, moaning, sending vibrations all throughout my system. It became too much to bear when I felt closer and closer to the edge a little too soon, and I let out a squeak of clear overstimulation before I raised myself from his mouth, letting my quivering thighs bring me back to the floor again. 

I tried to catch my breath as I stared back at Roman in disbelief, where he lay on the floor with parted lips and a satisfied look on his face. He slowly turned to me, my slick glistening around his mouth; "Still scared?" he purred. 

Yes. 

Yes, yes, absolutely yes.

"It seems like you're the one struggling with control," he continued, not bothering to wipe the victorious smirk off his face. "You can't stay away from me, can you?"

I swallowed hard. My body felt like it was on fire, my mind screaming at me to stop, to run, but I couldn't move.

Roman propped himself up on his elbows, his gaze heavy-lidded with satisfaction; "No matter what you tell yourself, you'll always come back to me. That's what you're really scared of, isn't it?"

"No!" I breathed, shaking my head. "That's not-- not true!--"

"Isn't it?" Roman tilted his head, watching me like a predator that had already caught its prey. His smirk didn't fade, but something in his expression darkened, sharpened, like my denial had cracked through his amusement. "You don't sound convinced." 

He sat up slowly, moving with an unbearable grace as he reached for me-- not roughly, not desperately, but deliberately, fingers tracing over the inside of my knee before drifting up, light as a whisper.

Roman watched my every move with precision as he dragged the tip of his thumb across my bare skin. "You're nervous," he observed. "But not because you're afraid..." His smirk deepened as I tensed under his touch. "I can feel you, y'know. Hear you. Your heart doesn't lie."

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. I couldn't speak. 

Roman leaned in closer, slow and unhurried, his lips ghosting over my ear as he exhaled a warm breath.

"You can fight it all you want," he continued, his voice like silk laced with something richer, something darker. "Tell yourself whatever you need to, but we both know the truth, don't we?"

Roman's hand drifted higher, his fingers brushing over the fabric of my underwear-- he wanted them off.

"You'll always be mine,"

Goosebumps appeared across my skin, my body betraying me once more. How was it possible to fear someone so much, but to want them even more? Why couldn't I pull myself together?

I didn't have time to think about it; with a swift, fluid motion, he lunged forward and had me on my back. My breath hitched as the floor was suddenly beneath me, Roman above me, caging me in. His hand splayed over my hip, holding me down, his body pressed flush against mine. 

Then, when he kissed me, it wasn't soft. It wasn't gentle. It was a claim, fierce and unrelenting, his mouth crashing against mine as if he was starving for me. Heat surged between us, my fingers tangling in his hair before I could even think. There was no space, no hesitation, no room for anything except the sharp, dizzying pull of him dragging me under.

Roman kissed me like he wanted to consume me, his lips hot and desperate; his sharp teeth grazed my lower lip, making my whole body jolt. His fingers dug into my hip, keeping me flush against him, his other hand fisting into my hair to tilt my head back, deepening the kiss until I couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

I should've stopped him.

I could've stopped him.

But I didn't.

Instead, I arched into him, my nails dragging over his bare skin as I let him press me harder into the floor. Roman groaned into my mouth, the sound vibrating through my body, and it sent something wild through me-- something I couldn't control, something that made me wrap my legs around his waist without thinking.

That was all it took.

Roman cursed under his breath, his hand sliding down my thigh, gripping tight as he ground against me, slow and deliberate, making sure I felt all of him. His breath was ragged, his control slipping, and the worst part was how it wholeheartedly thrilled me.

"I need to have you," he rasped, his lips dragging down my jaw, my throat. "I need you."

My pulse pounded in my ears, my body burning everywhere he touched. I wanted to deny it. I wanted to tell him he was wrong. But when his teeth grazed my neck, a gasp tore from my lips, and I knew I was completely, utterly lost. "Here?" I breathed. 

Roman smirked against my skin, his breath hot as he traced the faint mark his teeth had left with the tip of his tongue. "Here," he said-- "Now." 

I shivered beneath him, every nerve in my body betraying me, bending to his touch, to his voice, to him. I hated it. I craved it.

Roman's hips rolled against mine, slow, torturous, and every time the outline of his hard cock lined up with my clothed clit, I arched into him without thinking. He let out a low, satisfied hum, dragging his nose up the side of my neck before pressing his lips to my ear.

"See?" he murmured, his voice thick with triumph. "You need me too."

I did. I did.

When his mouth slanted over mine again, hot and demanding, I kissed him back just as hard, My fingers twisted into his hair, body surging against him, desperate and reckless and lost. Roman groaned against my lips, his hands tightening around my waist as he dragged me closer, as if even the press of our bodies wasn't enough; it would never be enough. 

"Do you--" I could barely speak, nor pull away. "Do you-- Condom?"

Roman's heavy breath fell against my mouth, pressing his clothed cock against my clit harder, watching me whimper. "Nope," he said. "But we're still gonna fuck."

Christ. 

This was the stupidest idea ever. 

But the more I looked into Roman's eyes, the more I realized he was searching mine for a sign of permission, waiting for a green light despite his confident rouse. I gave in to my desire; "You might want to get my underwear off, then," I mumbled, biting down on my lower lip to stop it from quivering-- my adrenaline was shot.

With a proud huff, Roman gave my cheek a quick kiss, a sweet one, before he propped himself up on his knees, hooking his fingers around my underwear. "Up," he ordered, and I submitted to his command with no further thought. Lifting my hips, I let Roman pull my underwear down my legs, and just as I thought he was about to throw them away, he... tucked them into the front pocket of his jeans?

"Hey!" I whined. "I need those, I'm wearing pants today!--"

"Don't care," 

And suddenly, Roman leaned forward, grabbing my chin to keep my eyes focused on him with a firm hold. His thumb brushed over my bottom lip, his grip firm but not unkind, and his smirk deepened as he tilted my chin up, making sure I had nowhere to look but at him. "You don't need them right now, do you?"

I swallowed hard, shaking my head.

Roman held back a laugh before he shifted back, his eyes dropping between my legs. The hunger in his gaze made my stomach flip. He spread my thighs wider, running his fingers up the inside of one, slow, teasing, until his knuckles brushed against my sex.

"God," he breathed, slipping his fingers through the slick heat between my legs. He pulled back just enough to watch my face as he dragged them over my clit, rubbing lazy circles that made my legs tremble. "You're fucking soaked."

Why was he surprised? Roman had literally manhandled me to sit on his face three minutes ago. I clenched my jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "Shut up," I mumbled, but my voice wavered when his fingers pressed against me firmer.

Roman only grinned as heat flushed through me-- I tried to turn my head away, but his grip on my chin tightened. "Nuh-uh," he murmured, voice thick with amusement. "Oh, don't go shy on me now."

Fuck it.

I grabbed the collar of his shirt and dragged him down into a kiss, rough and impatient. Roman groaned against my lips, pressing his fingers inside me in one smooth motion-- I gasped, my body arching into him as he curled them just right, sending sparks up my spine. I was so screwed.

"That's it," he breathed, kissing down my jaw, my throat, my collarbone. He dipped his fingers deeper, filling me at a sweet pace. I let out a choked gasp, my body betraying me, hips lifting to chase more friction.

Roman groaned, his forehead falling against mine, but his smug grin never wavered.

"Fuck, you're gripping me so tight, baby," He curled his fingers, hitting that spot that nearly made me see white-- the spot I never managed to reach on my own. "Like you're scared I'll leave, or..." His breath ghosted over my lips; "Like you're scared you'll never get this again."

I whimpered, fingers tightening in his hair.

"That's it, isn't it?" His voice was almost sweet. "You think I'm some monster, but here you are... Letting me have you anyway." Roman's grin softened, and he would've almost seemed affectionate if it weren't for the sharp, possessive glint in his eyes. "Because you love me."

I jerked, but he caught my chin again, keeping my gaze locked in his; "Say it,"

I shook my head. Deny, deny, deny. Was I really gonna give it to him this easy?

"Say it," he repeated, the demand a breath away from my lips.

My chest heaved. I wanted to fight it, but I was drowning in Roman, in the way he touched me, in the way he knew--

"I love you," I choked out, moving my hips to meet his fingers. It felt too good. I couldn't think. I couldn't function. I couldn't, I couldn't, I couldn't. 

Roman's cocky smirk faltered. He watched me give in, watched me crumble, and just for a second, he almost looked relieved that it was real, that it wasn't something he had made up. But then it came back, slow and satisfied, like he had just won. "Yeah, you do," he purred, letting go of my chin. Roman yanked his belt open, shoved his jeans down just enough; "And you're gonna let me fuck you, even though you're scared of what I am." He ran the tip of his cock through my slick folds, teasing, dragging out my torment. "Because you love me too much to stop yourself, don't you?"

I bit down on my lip, eyes squeezing shut-- was this really happening? Was I about to get fucked on the library floor by the one person I had told myself to avoid? My every breath felt painful, yet satisfactory. Fucking masochist. 

"Look at me," Roman ordered, voice low with want.

I forced my gaze up, and he looked like he melted at the sight of me-- wrecked, desperate, completely his, like I would always be. "Fuck," Roman groaned, his fingers tightening against my thigh. "Look at you." He reached down to tap the tip of his cock on my clit, making me squirm beneath him with a broken moan. His smirk was positively sinful; "You're shaking, baby."

Of course I was. Asshole. Every nerve in my body was burning with need, with anticipation, with the unbearable weight of Roman's unrelenting teasing.

"So needy," he murmured, almost like he was in awe. "You keep telling yourself this is wrong, but look at where you are..." He gave a shallow thrust, barely pressing inside before pulling back, a cruel little preview that had me gasping; "Letting the big, bad upir fuck you in the back of the library, hm?"

I whimpered, fingers clawing at his arms. I had lost. I had lost. 

Roman hummed, pleased with my reaction. "Yeah... that's what I thought," He rocked forward again, just enough for the head to push inside, stretching me open. "You keep fighting me, keep pushing me away, but when I've got you like this? When I'm about to fuck you stupid?" He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear; "You let me do whatever I want."

I moaned, humiliated by how true it was. I should have ran from him, should have stayed away, but here I was, legs spread for him, letting him win once again.

Roman chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. His hand dragged down my stomach, fingers pressing lightly against the bulge of his cock just barely inside me. "Feel that?" He pushed in another inch, making me gasp. "That's not even half of me, baby. You're already losing it."

I grabbed at his shoulders, desperate; "Roman--"

"What?" he taunted, dragging out every syllable. He eased out completely, making me whimper at the loss, before pressing back in achingly slow. "You want more?"

I nodded frantically, arching against him.

Roman groaned, eyes darkening. "Yeah? You want me to fill you up, baby? I have a feeling you missed me," His cock pulsed against my entrance, teasing, teasing, teasing--

I was about to break. "Please," I begged. "If we're gonna fuck, let's-- do it properly."

His smirk widened; "Properly?" 

I knew I had messed up by the sound of his words.

Roman held back a mocking laugh-- I could feel it. 

"Fine,"

Then, without warning, Roman's fingers dug into my hips as he pulled me further onto him, filling me to the brim. I cried out, my back arching clean off the floor, my entire body tightening around him. Panicked, I grabbed his hands, trying to find some comfort.

And comfort, I got. Roman groaned, dropping his forehead against mine, and it allowed me to wrap my arms around him instead. "Shit--" He stayed still for a second, like he was savoring the feeling of my embrace. His breath was ragged, his cock twitching inside me.

Then he pulled out halfway and pushed into me again, harder this time, knocking the air from my lungs. "That's it," he muttered, setting a slow, deep rhythm that had me seeing stars. His lips found my throat, sucking a mark against my skin, branding me over and over. "Still scared of me?" he panted, dragging his teeth over my pulse.

I was. I was terrified--

But not of this.

Not of him inside me, of the way he stretched me open, of how good he made me feel. Instead, I was scared of how badly I needed him, how even now, knowing what he was, I couldn't pull away. "I just want you," I whispered.

Roman already knew. He always did.

I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, could only take what he gave me. Deep, slow, dragging thrusts that had me clenching around him, struggling to hold back the cries of pleasure threatening to escape. His hand clamped over my mouth as he rocked into me harder, faster, the slap of skin against skin echoing through the restricted room of the library.

"God, you really are fucking mine, aren't you?" Roman's voice was thick with something twisted, sinisterly happy. His hand tightened over my mouth, keeping me quiet as he thrust deep, his cock dragging against every sensitive part of me. "You should be running from me... you should hate me."

A broken sound tore from my throat, muffled by his palm-- something told me he hated himself more than I could ever hate him.

"But instead--" His pace slowed, teasing me, fucking me so deep I could barely breathe. "You're letting a goddamn upir fuck you."

I shuddered violently, my nails raking down his back.

Roman's free hand trailed down my side, slow, possessive. Then he pressed his palm flat against my stomach, feeling himself inside me. "I'm not so dangerous right now, hm?" His voice was almost mocking. "Never was, never will be."

Maybe he had a point? Or maybe I was just too horny to function. Something must be wrong with my brain to risk my life for one more quick fuck.

Roman smirked against my skin, listening to the sound of my muffled moans against the palm of his hands. "You love me so much, you'll let me do whatever I want to you," He pulled out almost all the way, making me whimper, before snapping his cock back inside me, and I cried out against his hand. "You can't even help yourself, can you?"

I was falling apart. Why was he so spot on?

His hand loosened over my mouth just enough for me to gasp; "Roman--"

"Shh," he hushed me, his nose brushing against mine. "We have to be quiet, remember?" As if to mock me, he thrust harder, making me bite my lip to swallow my cry. "Wouldn't want to risk getting caught, would you?"

Tears pricked my eyes. "No," I breathed.

"Mmm," he hummed in approval, smug. "There you go, someone's learning... Good girl." Like a reward for my compliance, Roman propped himself up on his knees, guiding my legs over his thighs-- his hand slipped between us, thumb finding my clit, rubbing slow, lazy circles that contrasted the harsh pace of his thrusts. 

I gasped, the pleasure building so fast it was unbearable. "Shit, shit--"

"Shh, I got you," he cooed, voice dripping with amusement. "Just let me take care of you, yeah?"

My body trembled, and my vision started going hazy as Roman continued circling my clit with the nicest of pressures, making my toes curl. It didn't matter that every moment felt stolen, like we had borrowed it from the universe and needed to give it back yesterday, nothing mattered-- only this. 

I forced myself to breathe, to melt into the feel of him, and when I shifted my hips, taking him deeper, Roman let out the filthiest groan; "That's it," he purred, pulling back just enough to thrust forward again, pushing all the way in until I was full, stretched to the limit. "God, you feel so fucking good--"

I could only whimper, clenching around his cock; "Fuck, Ro-- Rome," My back arched off the floor as I tried my best to fight the incoming wave. How was I supposed to let this end, how was I supposed to let him go? I didn't want this to end, didn't want him to stop; "I don't-- I can't--"

"Yes, you can," Roman cooed, his thumb continuously rubbing steady circles around my clit. "Gonna come for me?"

All my words of protest became one mumble of sounds-- my hand shot down to grab his wrist in an attempt to stop him, yet it simply laid over his hand. I couldn't halt it, not when it felt this good, not when I knew this had to be the last time I felt his hands on me. 

There was no way for me to delay it anymore, not when Roman's green eyes locked with mine. His smirk was razor-sharp, knowing, as if he could see every thought unraveling in my head. "That's it," he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. "Let me feel how much you love this... how much you love me."

I whimpered, my whole body tightening, teetering on the edge. Roman's hand on my clit was relentless, coaxing me toward oblivion, and I couldn't hold back anymore when he said the cursed words of the day; "I love you... so, so much,"

My breath hitched, and then I shattered, pleasure crashing through me in waves so intense I thought I might break apart completely.

Roman groaned, his grip on my hips tightening as I clenched around him, dragging him with me. His thrusts turned erratic, desperate, until he buried himself to the hilt with a deep, shuddering gasp. His forehead dropped against mine, breath hot and ragged as he spilled inside me, his entire body trembling from the force of it.

For a moment, there was only silence, except for the sound of our heavy breathing. Roman's hand remained on my stomach, possessive, like he was holding the moment in place, refusing to let it slip away just yet.

... Fuck.

How had I let this happen? How could I have done this? Drained, my lips parted as I stared up at the ceiling with a dead look in my eyes. I was so, so deeply screwed-- for real.

Somehow, I found the strength to embrace Roman, feeling how warm he was against me. I wanted to kiss his cheek, say something sweet, tell him he did good as well, but I couldn't. I listened as he let out a slow sigh, hiding his face in the crook of my neck. His cock was still buried deep inside me, twitching as he pulsed with the aftershocks of his release, and I could feel it-- the way he was still savoring this, still revelling in the fact that he'd won.

Reality hit me all over, like a slap to the face. I had just let him do this. And on top of everything, that fucker came inside of me.

Panic clawed up my throat, and Roman felt the shift immediately. He pulled back slightly, eyes searching mine, his smirk already creeping back. "Running again?" His voice was softer now, but the smug amusement was impossible to miss.

"This was a mistake," I whispered. 

Roman's smile flickered, just for a second. It was long enough for me to see the crack, the flash of something raw beneath it, but then it was gone, buried under something colder. "A mistake," he echoed, his tone flat. His fingers twitched against my stomach, pressing down slightly like he was reminding me, reminding both of us, that what we had just done was very real, very irreversible.

Then, he scoffed, shaking his head. "Right... Of course,"

Roman tilted his head, considering me. Then, with agonizing slowness, he pulled out, and I gasped at the loss, my entire body left throbbing and sore. He watched me, his eyes dark with satisfaction, as if he was committing to the sight of what he'd done to me, how I had trembled beneath him, completely ruined.

Then, with a wicked smirk, he brought his fingers to my core, pressing against the mess he'd left inside of me like he was trying to push it deeper-- I whimpered, grabbing at his hands to stop him, yet he wafted my hands away with precision. 

"Messy, messy girl," he cooed, shaking his head, pretending to be disappointed. "You even let me cum inside..." His grin widened, sharp as a blade; "Think you'll ever be clean of me again?"

I shivered violently.

Never.

Roman exhaled, watching me with a look I couldn't place; it was somewhere between pride and something deeply possessive. He continued to slowly pump his fingers into me like he wanted me to feel just how deep he had gotten, how much of himself he had forced into me. "You're really gonna lie there, all fucked out and dripping with me, and say it was a mistake?" Roman let out a breathy laugh, but there was no humor in it. "That's cute."

I swallowed hard, but my throat was too tight to speak. I should've run when I had the chance. Now, I could only whimper, torn between shame and unbearable pleasure.

Roman's smirk was gone now. Whatever amusement he had left was fading fast, replaced by the hurt beneath the tough act. His jaw ticked, and for a moment, he just stared at me, his expression unreadable; "Say something," His fingers curled inside me, pushing, teasing, coaxing me back to the edge. He was trying to drown out my thoughts, make me forget. 

Fuck. "This was a mistake," I echoed, speaking the truth brewing in my chest. "Wait, don't-- Wait--" My hands tried to reach for his once again, to get his fingers out of me, but to no avail.

Frustrated, Roman's free hand shot out, gripping my jaw-- not rough enough to bruise, but firm enough to hold me there, to force my eyes to his. It immediately made my heart jump with fright; his pupils were blown wide, his irises burning with frustration. "Are we really going back to me flirting with the cheerleaders and you staring from across the hall?" he hissed. "We can't. You can't. You love me."

My eyes welled with tears, and my hands gripped the arm Roman had on my jaw in protest. I could hear the hurt in his voice, hear the plea behind the tough words. However, when he curled his fingers inside me, fingering me with the mess he had left inside, my stomach twisted like a phone cord, tangled and knotted. "This was a mistake--"

"Stop," he snarled, voice low and sharp; "fucking saying that."

Roman's fingers curled inside me again, pressing against a spot that made me shudder despite the shame clawing at my chest. He was punishing me, making sure I felt everything, making sure I couldn't ignore the way my body betrayed me.

"No-- no," I whimpered, turning my face away, but Roman caught my chin, forcing my gaze back to him. His expression was unreadable now, somewhere between wanting to break me and needing me to stay whole. "You think you can just go back to pretending none of this happened?" His breath was warm against my lips, mocking me with its closeness. "That you can just walk away, run back to your sad little life of being obsessed with me, and pretend we don't belong together?"

My stomach twisted violently at the words, and my heart hammered against my ribs. "Please, no--" I whispered, but even I could hear how weak it sounded. I was too overstimulated, too broken. "I don't-- I don't have another one in me--"

"No, you do," he commanded. "You do, baby, you do."

No. 

No, no, no.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips. "You can fight it all you want," he murmured, his voice dark with satisfaction. "But you forget how well I know you."

I shook my head-- or at least, I tried to. Roman's grip tightened, holding me in place, forcing me to meet his gaze. I clenched my jaw, fighting against the pleasure, fighting against him, but Roman's grip didn't ease. If anything, the weight of his hand on my jaw only grew heavier, more possessive, more suffocating. His fingers were still buried inside me, still stroking into me with a deliberate, cruel precision on the library floor, despite my pleas.

"You need me," he said, like it was a fact, like it was already written in stone. "And I need you, and we need to be together." His fingers pressed deeper, drawing another helpless whimper from my lips.

Despite my efforts to stop him, it was torturously good being filled over and over by Roman's fingers, the warmth of his cum still sending shivers up my spine. "I need time!" I cried, squirming at the edge of my impending orgasm. "I need to-- think!--"

"Think?" 

"Decide!" 

Roman's smirk widened. His fingers moved in slow, devastating strokes, teasing, coaxing, forcing my body closer and to the edge whether I wanted it or not. "You can't be without me," he murmured, pressing a soft kiss against my jaw. "You don't want to be without me. What is there to decide?"

"That's not!--" My voice broke as pleasure crashed through me, my back arching despite my best efforts. "Roman, please!"

Finally, he relented. 

"Fine... fine,"

He had gotten what he wanted, after all. 

For me to think it over, to give us another chance.

"You get a week," he challenged, his thumb pressing down on my clit in one slow, cruel motion as a reward for my cooperation.

My legs gave in to a tremble, and my body churned with pleasure and anger; I was beyond overstimulated. "You son of a-- manipulative piece of shit, motherfucker!--" I had no idea what came over me when I balled my fist and slammed it against his chest, losing control over my senses. "Fuck-- you, fuck, fuck!--"

Roman's hand on my chin tightened, pushing me down to the floor with harshness I hadn't seen in him before; I felt like a dog getting trained to not misbehave. "Take it," he hissed, pressing harder against my sweet spot, the sound of his fingers fucking his cum deeper into me filling the room along with my cries. "Take it." It got to the point where he let go of my chin and covered my mouth with his palm, drowning out my sobs of pleasure. 

I tried to fight it, I really did-- but Roman's fingers worked me open, pushed me higher, until the tension snapped and I was falling, tumbling over the edge for the second time with a ragged, broken sob.

Roman watched me the whole time. He didn't let up, didn't stop until I was gasping, shaking, completely undone beneath him. Then, and only then, did his touch slow.

My orgasm had brought me to tears. Big, heavy tears. They burned in the corner of my eyes, and I wished for them to burn into his brain as well, until it hit me that Roman got off on this. I knew this. I knew he liked this. He had simply been nice with me up until now.

In silence, his hand left my jaw, sliding down to rest against my throat, his fingers brushing against my racing pulse. They lingered there, light but possessive, feeling the frantic rhythm of my heartbeat beneath his touch. Roman's breathing was uneven, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something, but the words never came. Instead, he just watched me, watched the way my body trembled, the way I gasped for air, the way my tears streaked down my heated skin.

Roman's thumb ghosted over skin, and this time, there was no cruelty in the motion, no smugness. Just something quiet. Something careful. 

"Shh," he murmured, barely above a whisper. "You're okay."

I flinched at the softness in his voice, and at the way his other hand brushed a damp strand of hair from my forehead. It felt too much like comfort. Too much like care. And maybe it was... but it was also so twisted. Because it came from him. From the person who had just broken me apart and put me back together in the way he wanted.

Roman's touch trailed down my cheek, hesitant now, like he was treading carefully over thin ice. His fingers stroked away a stray tear, and for a moment, I thought I saw regret flicker in his eyes. Or maybe I was just desperate to see it?

"You don't have to cry," Roman murmured, like he didn't understand. 

The words made something snap inside me.

My hand moved before I could think. A sharp crack echoed through the room as my palm struck his face, the impact snapping his head to the side.

Silence.

Roman didn't move. He didn't touch his cheek, didn't flinch, didn't even breathe for a moment. His jaw tightened, and his hands curled into fists at his sides, but he didn't strike back. He would never. Instead, he just sat there, staring at me, his expression unreadable.

My chest heaved, my whole body trembling, but I didn't look away. I couldn't look away.

We sat here like that-- neither of us speaking, neither of us moving, just locked in this unbearable, suffocating silence.

And then Roman licked his lips, slow and deliberate.

"Okay," he finally said, voice low and even. "Okay."

Now, he understood. Something told me he was even waiting for me to do it again.

But...

My chest heaved with my incoming breath, and I gave in to the sobs building in my body while I looked around to check where my clothes were. I wanted to get dressed. I felt too naked like this, too visible, too vulnerable.

Roman let out a slow breath, his tongue swiping over the corner of his mouth where my slap had landed. His cheek was flushed, the shape of my palm still burning against his skin, but he didn't move to retaliate. Instead, he shifted closer, his hand reaching out-- not forcefully, not possessively, but gently. Like he wanted to soothe me, like he hated that I was hurting.

"Baby--"

"No, you don't talk right now!" I snapped, jerking away before he could touch me. The cold air of the library hit my bare skin as I scrambled to sit up, my legs unsteady beneath me. My whole body ached from him, from everything, and I felt raw, exposed. I needed to get away.

Roman didn't try to stop me. He just watched as I grabbed my clothes, slipping them on with stiff, shaking hands. My movements were jerky, fuelled by the overwhelming storm in my chest. I let out a groan as I realized I had forfeited my underwear-- was his cum going to be dripping down the leg of my jeans all day?

"You got what you wanted," I spat, not looking at him. "I'll think about it. You win."

Roman swallowed hard as he pulled his pants up, fixing his belt. His throat bobbed, and his jaw clenched, but he didn't argue. "You wanted this too," he mumbled, almost like he was trying to convince himself. "... Right?"

I ignored him, pulling on my shirt and yanking it down over my thighs before shoving my feet back into my shoes. I just needed to get out of here, away from him, away from the heavy scent of him still clinging to my skin.

But before I could storm out, Roman called out my name; "I love you," he echoed. "And you love me. Think of it as simple as that."

I should have kept walking, I should have ignored him, but something in the way he said my name, so quiet, so desperate, made me freeze. "I didn't want to make you feel like this," he admitted, his voice rough, almost ashamed. "I just... I don't know how to be without you."

That was the problem. Neither of us did.

I turned halfway, my pulse hammering. If only that was simple. Roman's eyes were on me, dark and unreadable in the dim light of the library, but I could see it clear as day; the relief flickering beneath the guilt. Because despite everything, despite how fucked-up this was, I was still here. I hadn't run away. I hadn't told him to go to hell. And that meant there was still a chance, right?

I hated that. I hated that I was standing on the edge of something dangerous, something that could ruin me all over again, or even worse, get me killed. 

But the worst part?

I wasn't sure if I wanted to step back or let myself fall.

"You might not have to be," I breathed, before reaching for the door.

I had a week.

I had until next Friday.

One week.

Roman Godfrey hated hanging up the phone after talking past midnight. Roman Godfrey loved comparing the size of his hands with mine.

Roman Godfrey hated being apart from me.

Roman Godfrey loved me.

(a/n: MY GOOOOOOOD WHY IS ROMAN SO STUPID😭 someone save my boy istgggg😭 ANYWAY, thank you for reading all of this if you got this far, MWAH🥹💕)

← previous chapter | next chapter →

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･seven minutes in heaven masterlist

loveliest taglist of all time:

@mentallyscreamingsincebirth @putherup @corawithfanfiction @vladsgirlxx

@iamaslytherin0 @sexualparkour @the-universe-is-complicated @heavenly-bratt

@lafemme-nk @namiusedbubble @useyourwandbro @strmborns @literally-lani

@virgosapphire79 @star-girl-04 @veyzus @ddipotassium @pecxiebu

@mil88691 @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @katifefe @sn0wybowie-blog

@lilithskywalker @likecherriesinthespring @sadheartjellyfish @vadersangel

@shehangsbrightly @burningmiraclekingdom @dollforaswan @austinswhitewolf

@nico-velvet @shiiiii-okayyyy @theantagonistalwaysdies @blackbluerose666

@obexes @rosecoloureddudez @amoure020 @itsaeasykill

@succubustacy @carmillavalentine @scarledy @chaneloberlin62727

@belovedmoony @lokitargaryen @vienneviennaxx @ellie1725

@taintandviolent @sweatyconnoisseurstrawberry @amidthechaos

[thejukeboxzero]

Finals are still kicking my ass, but that's neither here nor there, Pt.5 mon amis-

_____

It’s been a few days since Dean got laid out by a guy who buys his kid light up sneakers and he’s built a fun list of lies to tell customers when they inevitably ask about the bruise that’s blossomed across his cheekbone. 

So far his favorite choices have been ‘an angry drunk guy tried to start a fight after closing’, ‘Sammy”s massive ego bumped into me’, and- much to Ellen's appallment and Jo’s amusement- ‘it was a sex thing’.

Because, really, when you’re a bartender you really can’t have people knowing that some scruffy professor in a rumpled trench coat took you out, then people will start thinking they can take you on when you cut ‘em off or toss them to the curb.

“I don’t blame him for hitting you right across the kisser,” Ellen grumbles after Dean tells his newest tall tale to the deliveryman just passing through, “I wanna’ do the same right about now.”

“I thought you loved me.” He asks with feigned sadness.

Ellen had gotten the truth out of Dean within the first five minutes of his shift, which was no surprise for either of them, she knows when he’s lying and how to get God's honest truth outta’ him. It’s infuriating.

“I love that you know when to stop pushin’ your luck.”

“Touche.” He goes back to wiping down the counters, biting back any more snarky remarks in the process.

It’s early in the day now (well, early for him), a little after 3pm, which means there’s barely anyone in the building, just the day drinkers who insist they can stop at any time, Ellen and Dean getting the bar ready for another evening of college students trying to pass off fake IDs made of printer paper, and Jo milling around the dining area, stocking napkins and condiments and whatever else she does (Dean doesn't know, and he doesn't want to, you couldn’t pay him to be a waiter, he’s happy behind the bar).

The front door opens with a brassy jingle and Dean snaps his head upwards only to be sorely disappointed at the sight of the Ash stumbling in, probably running off zero sleep and a liver-killing amount of energy drinks.

“Why’s Dean lookin’ at me like I just kicked his puppy?” Ash asks no one in particular, plopping down in the stool nearest to him as Dean picks his cleaning back up, “And what happened to your face?”

Dean turns around with a cocky grin, ready to make up the most obscene excuse he can possibly dream up, but Jo beats him to it.

“Some crusty old professor kicked his ass ‘cos he abducted his kid.” 

“He’s not crusty or old!” Dean throws his rag down on the worn wooden bar top with a wet ‘thwack’, “And I didn’t ‘abduct’ shit!”

“Top notch priorities there,” Jo chastises, sitting between Ash and Dean with a pile of unrolled silverware, “Defend his looks then your innocence.”

“It’s not like that, Jo.”

Jo leans towards Ash and whispers dramatically, “Dean has a man-crush on the…” She takes a breath, feigning a swooning motion, “strong blue-eyed academic.”

“I do not!” He feels heat creeping into his cheeks, “And- I- I never called him that.”

“No,” Jo agrees with a smug grin, “You just said he had ‘one of the hardest punches you have ever felt’ and that ‘his eyes just drilled into your soul’, which is way worse, in my opinion.”

“That sounds like a man-crush.” Ash confirms, accepting the glass of water Ellen silently slides him.

“I do not have a man-crush!” Dean turns his back to the peanut gallery, busying his hands by getting a new towel from the bleach bucket they keep under the counter, “Besides, wouldn’t it just be a normal crush? I mean, what’s the friggin’ difference if it’s a dude or a chick, right?” They’ve all gone quiet so he deems it safe to face them again, “It doesn't matter, because I do not have a-”

“Hello, Dean.”

“A man-crush…” He hopes his jaw isn’t too far on the floor, because Novak is standing right there, across the bar,  staring at Dean and his fucked up little group of merry men awkwardly, “Professor Novak!”

“Please don’t- only my students call me that.” He mumbles uncomfortably, pinning his gaze to the ‘no drinking under 21’ sign above Dean's head, “My name’s Castiel.”

“Castiel…” Dean mutters under his breath, trying to get a feel for the weird, clunky name, “Okay then. Well, Castiel, you wanna’ park it or you just gonna’ stand there?”

“I already parked outside,” Castiel answers but, thankfully, he strides over to the stool right across from Dean, “But I suppose I can sit.”

“Awesome, man, make yourself comfy.” Dean looks off to the side and see’s Jo and Ash both staring at Castiel.

Ash seems somewhat uninterested, like he’s just trying to match Dean's description of Castiel to the one in front of him, but Jo’s eyes are bugging out of her head as she looks from the professor to Dean, finally mouthing ‘he took you out?’.

Dean waves a dismissive hand in her direction, “What can I get you, Castiel?”

“I’m not sure, I don’t really drink.” He admits and Dean kicks himself.

Not everyone is eager to go for drinks, Winchester, should’ve just asked to meet him over coffee or something.

Dean tries to think of what they have that won’t be too harsh on the guy's palette, “Tell ya’ what, you like apple cider?”

“I believe so…” Castiel nods after a moment of thought, “My brother makes it every year in the fall and I quite enjoy it..”

“Well, this ain’t homemade and it’s got some alcohol so don’t go chugging it,” He bends down to retrieve a can from the mini fridge built into the wall, “But there’s this brewery a few counties over that makes some real good stuff, recently did this- ah what’s it called?” Dean squints at the can, “Honey-blackberry cider, you might like it.”

“Thank you,” Cas watches with intensity as Dean cracks the drink open and pours half of it into the nicest glass within arms reach. He accepts it when offered, taking a hesitant sip before a faint smile finds its way onto his face, “This is quite pleasant.”

Damn… He has a really nice smile.

No, focus on the task on hand.

“Glad you like it,” He can feel the distinct burn of three pairs of eyes staring at him and Cas, “And- uh- I’m glad you came by.”

Castiel finally makes eye contact with Dean, eyes still as piercing as their first meeting, though not nearly as homicidal (Hell yeah, progress), “You are?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because I physically assaulted you.” Man this guy is blunt.

“I kinda deserved it,” Dean leans his forearms on the bar, leveling himself with Castiel, “Besides, who doesn't love a good battle scar, they make you sexy.”

Jo takes that as the perfect time to interject, “No they don’t!”

Dean ignores her, “Seriously though man… I’m lucky you didn’t do more, if I’d been in your position and thought I’d lost Sammy…” He chuckles and shakes his head, “Probably would be in police custody for manslaughter.”

“Yes well,” Castiel cocks his head and Dean really wants to know if Jack learned that from Cas or vice versa, “Jack is insistent that you caused no harm, if you had…”

He lets his threat hang in the air.

“Yeah, I get it,” Dean mumbles, hanging his head in shame, “How is Jack? Is he okay? I didn’t traumatize him, did I?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Castiel takes another sip of his drink, “It appears I was more distressed than him, though I don’t think he understands the gravity of what could have happened.”

Dean feels a weight being lifted off his chest, one he didn’t know he was even carrying, but he’d just been so fucking worried he’d scarred that kid for life.

“How are-” Dean cuts himself off quickly, still painfully aware of the audience they have, Dean just knows he’s going to be the subject of endless teasing after this, “How are you doing?”

“Me?” Castiel squints at Dean like he misheard.

“Yeah, it’s just, I guess losing your kid might be stressful-” ‘You guess??? Fucking smooth, Winchester’, “And uh… Sorry about that, you know.”

Castiel stares at Dean with a pinched expression for a couple beats, “If that was supposed to be an apology for causing me emotional damage, it was terrible.”

Ellen lets out a bark of laughter from where she is definitely just focused on counting the till and nothing else.

“Not my finest…” He mumbles out, pushing away from the bar like the few extra inches of space will keep Castiel from seeing how red his face has no doubt gotten.

They slip into an uneasy silence, Castiel sipping at his cider while Dean hovers near, not too close, not too far.

“I am sorry.” He tries again, once Cas has emptied his glass and chosen to stare through Dean with those shocking eyes.

“I know.” Castiel states it like a fact, slowly standing up, “And I thank you for wanting to make sure my son is okay, it seems you are not as careless as I first assumed.”

“Jeez man, thanks.” Dean can’t help the gooey grin that creeps onto his face at the compliment (or, at least, he guesses it’s a compliment).

Cas nods in response and only then does Dean realize what’s happening, that his cup is empty and now he’s walking right back towards the door; It makes something in his chest twist painfully.

“Wait just- uh- fuck-” He nearly trips over himself trying to get out from behind the bar, ripping an old receipt off the cash register as he scrambles for Cas, who stops and regards Dean with a tilted gaze, “We didn’t get off on the right foot-"

“Understatement.” 

Dean would be offended by the short response, but there's a hint of amusement in the man's tone that makes it soft, almost like he’s trying to be sarcastic.

“I know, I know,” He fishes a pen out of his back pocket and scribbles out his number, shoving the crumpled paper into Cas’ hand before he can chicken out, “But if you ever want another drink or somethin’ just let me know and I’ll tell you when my next shift is.” Then, he hastily adds, “It’s the least I can do.”

Castiel looks down at the old receipt, the corners of his lips quirking upwards.

The scrap is carefully tucked away in the pocket of Cas’ well-worn trench coat, “Thank you, Dean.”

“Of course, Cas,” He claps his hand against the professors- very firm- bicep and gives him his signature Winchester-grin, “Don’t be a stranger.”

_____

<<First│<-Prev│Next->

[meiguicha]

Breaking - University student so down horrible divine intervention is needed

Phainon x Reader - Uni AU

In the middle of the night and desperation, Phainon prays to any god that will take his plea to help him get closer to his neighbour and crush.

Masterlist - Next

“If there is anyone who can hear, anyone who can help me, please–”

Through heavy curtains and wide windows, maybe if he had been placed in a better room, Phainon would’ve been able to say that the moonlight was giving this fixation of his some much needed light. 

Campus crushes are meant to stay campus crushes, not turn into infatuations that last for months and months on end. Then you went back for the end of year break and he thought, maybe, just maybe what feelings he had would die on its own—

—And a week later he’s back home dreaming about what it would be like to hold your hand while you bitch about the cafeteria food. It only got worse from there, how he’d impress your parents, the ring he’ll give you, what names your children will have, which schools they’d go to, the house the both of you will live in when you’re old and wrinkly. 

Only a novice would daydream about the simple things, Phainon wants it all. Kissing? Hugging? Walking you back from lectures? The only thing he hasn’t thought about is how he’ll tell your grandchildren how you met. 

He’s thought too much about this, dedicated so much brain space to the delusion of being with you that now that the semester has started anew and he sees you wandering around campus ground, he physically feels ill. 

There was an opportunity given to him when the first floor meeting started and everyone had the chance to meet their neighbours, but then he got sucked into a conversation and all he could do was watch in futile, as you left the room switching between your native language and English.

Were you fluent enough to teach your children the ones you know? Maybe he’ll try to pick it up one of these days. 

Phainon wouldn’t particularly say he’s religious, or superstitious. The only outside force he believes in would be the acts of other humans, but if only six months gets him three instances of running into you, he’s willing to beg any being, divine or not, for the chance to talk to you again. 

The carpet is rough against his forehead, but he repeatedly bows and begs and pleads, “Please give me a chance to talk to (y/n) again.”

“Anything, I’ll do anything to talk to her.” Quietly, he mutters under his breath as he hears doors outside slam close. 

His knees hurt a little bit, skin digging into the carpet as the air-conditioning blew a light breeze over him. He can’t hear anything now, the revelry from earlier having seemingly died as easily as his hope. His upstairs neighbour paces and something clatters onto the ground, someone scurries across the courtyard downstairs and nothing is happening. 

Someone knocks, a quick rap of knuckles hitting wood twice before silence settles once more. Then, they knock again, more hesitant, knuckles lingering against the wood. Scrambling to his feet, he rushes to the door to peek through the peephole, his whole frame pressed against it to look. 

It isn’t, of course it isn’t. All he finds is empty carpet and white walls, it’s not even his door that the knocking is coming from, more like his neighbour’s. 

With a heavy sigh and heart, he drags himself back to bed and flops onto rumpled sheets and a too-soft pillow. Well, he can’t say he didn’t give it a try. At the very least he can think about how he’s going to start timing his laundry runs so he can run into you at the laundry room. Fridays,he needs to start leaving his room around lunch time on Fridays if he wants to run into you. 

Tonight, he dreams of what he’ll tell you when he sees you again. He’d run into you in the hallways and he'd keep the elevator doors open for you, as anyone would, your nails would be painted that pretty red again and you’d type your social media handle into his phone. And maybe you’d offer to walk with him until you have to leave for your class. 

Well, he thinks you asked him to, it's a little hard to hear when the moment you opened your mouth, his alarm started blaring out. Though, that is way better than the surprise that awaited him when he wakes up to the sun streaming in through the window and his blanket half thrown off the bed. Yes, anything would have been better than waking up and realising that he doesn’t have thumbs anymore, or the ability to even stand up straight!

In an uncoordinated mess of limbs and tail, Phainon flings off the bed and attempts to turn off his alarm but paws don’t particularly have the facilities for small button pushing. It takes him minutes just to shut it off, nudging with paw pads and claws until it finally quiets down.

Rushing to the mirror in his room, all he sees reflected back at him is not a human in shorts and an old t-shirt, but a large, white fluffy dog staring back at him. His (???) ears twitch at the revelation, and no matter what he does, all gets back is a smiley expression beady dark eyes blinking in what he hopes is his pure and utter confusion. 

This isn’t what he meant when he said he wanted to talk to you again!! He can’t even talk!

Is he meant to get adopted by you? Pets aren’t even allowed in the dorm!

Well, if he’s going to a dog for the rest of his life, being your dog doesn’t sound too bad…

It takes an embarrassingly long amount of time for him to figure out that he isn’t going to be drinking from sinks or gnawing on bones for the rest of his life. But the horrifying revelation that changing forms doesn’t mean his clothes change with him was probably a little worse. 

Safe to say, his prayer has definitely not been answered. Instead, he gets traumatised and now he’s late for his morning lecture. 

Which also means that he doesn’t get to have his meet cute with you in the elevator, forced to run out onto campus with nothing but more daydreams to keep his hopes up. 

The summer sun sears onto his skin, bright rays of light filtering through leaves as a few wandering students pass him by. In the distance, he spots a familiar messenger bag with a few clacking charms attached to it. You’re walking with that hastened pace as usual, head bobbing along to whatever song is playing in your earphones as you alternate between glancing at your phone and the path ahead of you. 

He wants to catch up to you, maybe point out the plush dog keychain bouncing with your step or compliment the pearl earrings framing your face, yet for some reason he can’t bring himself to approach you. So he settles for trailing a few steps behind, like a stalker, which is definitely what Mydei would say. Castorice would say he’s just walking extremely close behind. Which is still stalking but he doesn’t have the time to debate the creepiness of the situation. 

While stewing in his despair once more, Phainon notices the way you perk up, your fingers moving to turn off your phone before he suddenly gets a glance of your awestruck expression, eyes glittering with longing as they follow along something he can’t quite see. Even your steps grow slower, as if you’re trying to catch someone’s attention.

Is there someone else? Did he actually lose his chance before he even got it? 

The thought of it sours in his chest. He’s never been one to butt in where he’s not needed but, these feelings you can only spur inside of him, crash against every rational thought he’s ever had the pleasure of knowing. 

Frantically, he tries to follow your gazing path but can’t quite seem to figure out who you’re looking at. Your eyes shift again, lower this time and even as you continue forward, your gaze still lingers until you must physically turn your head to keep looking. 

‘Little boy.’ He can vaguely make out what you mouth. You mouth it out again, eyes crinkled in joy as a wide smile pulls at your lips.  ‘Little boy.’

He looks again, and walking along the brick path is a woman on her morning walk, holding a bright blue leash of a large labrador walking in pace. And as your paths separate ever the more, you return to your usual walking pace, a slightly bouncier pep in your step as your keychains collide into each other a little more. 

A thought pops into his mind, one perhaps only fueled by how beautiful delight presents itself on your face. 

This is an opportunity that only he has. If whoever has granted him this ‘blessing’ as a response to his prayer, then so be it. 

If winning your heart means getting pets and being called a good boy, as long as you give him that joyous expression and cooing voice, nothing is off the table. 

[ceilidho]

prompt: vegas wedding (ghost/reader)

-

Your fingers trail over to the other side of the bed and touch something solid.

It jolts your body back into itself, mind awake when you register the heat of warm skin where there shouldn’t be skin. Not next to you in bed. The other side of your bed is usually cold to the touch, the sheets still pressed and tucked in place, undisturbed because you tend to stick to your side. They’re rumpled now, the sheets; tented under the body next to yours. 

You open your eyes only to instantly shut them. There’s an ache in your forehead that throbs when the sunlight filtering in through the gap in the windowblinds hits your eyes. You remember drinking the night before, but not much more than that. Actually, you don’t remember much from the night before besides getting dressed up in the hotel room with your friend before parting ways in the casino. 

Getting out of bed feels like it takes every ounce of energy left stored in your poor, aching bones. You turn on your side ever so carefully before shimmying out of bed, woozy enough when you stand up that you have to grab onto the bedside table to keep from crumbling into a ball on the floor. 

It sparkles in the light when you happen to glance down. One big, gaudy rhinestone in the centre and then a band of diamonds all the way around. It’s heavy on your finger, accentuated by the emotional weight and repercussions of it that threaten to actually make you topple over this time. 

“No, no, no, no,” you whisper to yourself, trying to pull it off and wincing when it doesn’t budge past your knuckle. Too small. You must have really shoved it on the night before. 

You wince at the thought of how much work it’ll be to take it off. Surprisingly, it doesn’t hurt though—it catches around your knuckle, but rests perfectly when you push it back down to sit on your finger like a ring should. 

The man under the covers—it’s an assumption, you’ll admit it as you don’t know for sure that it’s a man—makes a noise, shifting in his sleep. Your blood coagulates in your veins as your head whips over your shoulder to watch him carefully for any sign of wakefulness. For the first time since waking up, you get a glimpse of the man probably wearing a ring matching yours and he—well, he really takes up his side of the bed. 

The big lump under the covers doesn’t move as you stare at him. You don’t allow yourself more than a glance, charting the slope of his back muscles and the top of his dirty blond hair. He lies on his stomach, cheek pressed into the pillow facing away from you, obscuring his face. Probably better for you.

Still fighting the urge to scramble out of the hotel room with your things, you allow yourself one smug moment. He’s handsome, whoever he is—you’ve certainly pulled worse. More to your credit, you somehow talked him into getting hitched in Vegas. His back rises with every breath; you stare for a while and wait for the periodic soft, gruff noises that he makes in his sleep. When he turns over onto his back, you muffle a squeak when the covers tent under his barely covered morning wood and slowly back away and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

The shower doesn’t help at all; it just prolongs your panic attack that worsens every time you glance at the door and imagine the man sleeping in your hotel bed waking up on the other side. It does feel good to wash off the grime from the night before, however, scrubbing every nook and cranny of your body. 

He’s sitting on the edge of the bed when you come out, only a complementary hotel robe wrapped around you. You freeze. Big shoulders undulate when he rolls them back, stretching them out after a long night’s sleep. When he stretches an arm up to scratch his upper back, you almost whimper at the way his arm bulges. 

“Thought you could sneak out, is that right?” he grunts, his accented voice rippling down your spine. You hadn’t expected it to come out of his mouth, not this large, blue collar-looking man with his muscled pectorals and the bit of pudge around his middle, softness that comes with labour and not vanity. He drags his hand over the scruff growing on his face, only slightly darker than the hair on his head.

“…I’m not really sure what to say,” you blurt out, reflexively tightening the belt cinching your robe in place. Conscious that your day-old clothes are still sitting in a pile on the bathroom floor, nothing underneath your robe. 

The man stares at your chest like he knows it too. “‘Course you do, love. Probably would’ve skipped off if I hadn’t gotten up, tail tucked between your legs.” His stare flicks down to your legs then, eyes growing heated, half-lidded. You frown.

“That’s how this goes, isn’t it? We, uh, do…this…that…last night or whatever,” you stutter out, face hotter than you’re comfortable with it being, “and then we go our separate ways. That’s what I’d expect from anyone.”

“‘Anyone’ isn’t wearing my ring on her finger,” he points out, tilting his chin towards your hand. You hide it behind your back. 

“That was an…” you clear your throat, “unfortunate detail. I can fix it though, I swear, just…just give me your email or something and I’ll send you the papers.”

This is precisely the most uncomfortable moment of your life. Thus far, anyway. You’ve had worse things happen to you, but as far as uncomfortable things go, little else comes close to subtly implying that you’ll serve a man whose name you don’t even know divorce papers. It’s certainly not what you expected from a weekend girls’ trip to Vegas.

He tilts his head, eyes locked on you. “Don’t worry about all that, love.”

“Why? Do you—I can give you my email address instead, if you want to…if you have a lawyer friend that’ll help.”

“No. Don’t need help with something that isn’t gonna happen.”

You can feel your temper getting the better of you. This whole weekend is shaping up to be a bigger headache than just the hangover you’re nursing. “A divorce—I’m talking about getting divorced, if that isn’t clear.”

“It is. It just isn’t happening.”

He’s being far too casual, unconcerned with your fists clenching at your sides, eyes lazily sweeping you up and down. He yawns like a big cat. 

“What are you talking about?” you hiss, taking a step towards him. Trying to seem intimidating even though your heart is beating erratically in your chest. “You can’t just say no. This shit happens and then—why wouldn’t it happen? It’s just a divorce!”

“Don’t believe in divorce, love. I gave my word.”

His words hit you so hard that it briefly rocks you out of your headache. “That’s so—that’s so stupid! It’s practically an annulment anyway! We didn’t even, you know—” your voice drops to a whisper, embarrassed, “—consummate it.”

“Maybe didn’t get to the whole course, but we didn’t do nothing,” he teases. A subtle thing, barely a twitch of his lip to let you know that he’s toying with you. Men like him toy with their prey like cats with a mouse. 

He probably isn't wrong. You might remember it with time, but he looks like a man that’s seen you naked. It’s an infuriating look. 

“Look, I’ve got—my friends are probably wondering where I am anyway.”

“Give ‘em a call; you can tell ‘em you spent the night with your husband.” No mistaking it now, the heat in his eyes. Nor the blankets bunched in his lap in lieu of his clothes, a fact you’d been carefully not letting yourself focus on for fear that you’d wind up just staring at his crotch. 

Like you are now, helpless to do anything as he drags the sheet away, letting it slip off the bed. His thighs are dusted in dark, coarse hairs, wide enough that you could comfortably sit on one of them. He gives one a pat too, beckoning you towards him. 

“Come back to bed,” he suggests, dick resting red and heavy against his stomach, big enough that you know you would’ve remembered having that inside you even if you’d blacked out. “Let me wake my wife up the right way.”

[thisapplepielife]

Written for @steddieholidaydrabbles.

Lay the Table With the Fancy Shit

Prompt Day 13: Family Dinner | Word Count: 1000 | Rating: T | CW: Language | Tags: Future Fic, Established Steddie, Open Secret Relationship, Guess Who's Coming to Dinner?, It's The Harringtons, And Uncle Wayne

Eddie peeks through the curtains, and so far, the driveway is still empty. 

"Anyone?!" Steve hollers from the kitchen.

"Not yet!" 

This is the first Christmas that they're having both sides at their house, and it's a little nerve-wracking. They didn't think the Harringtons would accept the invitation. Historically, they haven't. They've always been in Spain. London. Hawaii. 

Anywhere, except where their perfect only child and his weird shadow have been.

And even if Steve's never shown it, Eddie knows that's been disappointing, though not unexpected. 

But, Steve kept extending the offer.

And this year, they said they'd come. 

Eddie doesn't trust it. He's more scared they'll no-show than he is that they'll show up and be assholes. Assholes? Assholes, Eddie can handle. But deliberately getting Steve's hopes up just to hurt him? Unforgivable. 

Steve's drawn from his rich kid upbringing, and set the table fancier than it has ever been in their house.

Eddie hears a door slam. He peeks out: Wayne. 

"It's just Wayne," Eddie yells, and that sounds wrong. Wayne has never been just anything. His love and presence is constant. Him showing up is not news, it's just any other week, holiday or not. 

Eddie hears a second car pull in, and it's them. 

"They're here!" Eddie screams, and Steve appears in the doorway to the kitchen.

"Really?" he asks, grinning. 

"Really," Eddie confirms.

Steve is smoothing down his sweater, as if it might be rumpled, but it's definitely not. He's perfectly put together, as always.

Eddie's slightly concerned about Wayne being out there alone with them. Wayne's not gonna take any shit, and definitely won't forgive as easily as Steve has always been willing to, that's for damn sure. If they so much as look at either of them wrong, Eddie's sure Wayne will be willing to start an all out war. 

Steve goes to the door and opens it before anyone has the chance to even ring the bell.

It's not like Eddie hasn't met them. He has. In short, very controlled bursts. They call Eddie Steve's roommate, and honestly, it could be worse. If they want to pretend that's all he is to Steve, Eddie can live with that, if Steve can.

They have a support system, more than most are lucky enough to have, and if the Harringtons can't get on board, then so be it. Steve's mother kisses both of Steve's cheeks, and his father shakes his hand, and so far, so good. 

They've made it inside without any bloodshed. 

Steve takes his mother's coat and introduces them to Wayne, who gives the bare minimum of a greeting, and Eddie feels frozen to the spot.

Why this year? Why now? 

He's suspicious, and scared. Terrified, honestly. 

Are they going to try and put a wedge between them? Do they have the perfect, marriageable girl that they're going to try to sell Steve on? Finally tired of this unacceptable detour that is a life with Eddie "The Murderer" Munson?

Anything is possible, and Eddie hates that he's expecting the worst.

It might be fine.

He hopes it'll be fine.

Eddie doesn't know what to do with himself. Roommate Eddie, reporting for duty.

The first chance he gets, after the forks go down, he excuses himself and flees.

Eddie is sitting on the bed in their bedroom. There's a familiar knock and Wayne steps in, closing the door behind him.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," Eddie says, and he is. Just uncomfortable. "What's going on out there?"

Wayne laughs, "Polite conversation."

Eddie grins towards the floor, and Wayne sits next to him. 

"It'll be fine, kid."

It will. Eddie knows that. They'll leave, and life will go on.

"Does Steve seem happy?" Eddie asks, because that's all that matters. 

"Yeah," Wayne answers. "How 'bout you, kid?"

"I'm good," Eddie says.

"You sure?"

He's pretty sure. He just wants Steve to be happy, and wants him to have a good relationship with his parents. Even if that means he's the roommate in the most unconvincing lie ever told.

Wayne has left him alone, and Eddie is still sitting there, when he feels eyes on him. He looks over, and Mrs. Harrington is standing there looking at him through the cracked door. 

Eddie freezes. 

She comes inside and shuts the door with a heavy click.

Eddie swallows.

"Eddie," she says, and he nods, as if he's confirming that he is, in fact, Eddie. 

He's suddenly hyper-aware of their bedroom. Specifically, their co-mingled shit all over. They didn't clean up, because that felt like it'd be an unspoken bad omen for them not showing up. Either way, Eddie doesn't have a fake bedroom down the hall. It's just this. His stuff on one nightstand, Steve's on the other.

She sits next to him.

Eddie sits up straighter, ready to take whatever she's about to dish out. He'll take it, if that means Steve won't have to.

"They're watching the game," she says.

"Good," Eddie replies with a nod.

"We know, you know?" she asks bluntly, and Eddie wants to bolt. He has to force himself to stay. Eddie assumed, though. Steve's not dumb, and they aren't either.

"Yeah," he says.

"We're waiting for him to tell us," she says, and Eddie is flabbergasted. 

"Huh?" he says.

She laughs, and it makes him feel a fraction more at ease.

"He can tell us," she states, plain as day. There's no beating around the bush, "It took a bit, but we're ready now. Whenever he is."

Eddie hopes that's true. Fuck, does he ever.

"Thank you," he says, and feels kind of dumb, but he is thankful. Big time.

"He was a sad child," she comments, seemingly changing the subject. 

And Eddie stares at her. Steve? Sad?

"Lonely. He learned to fake contentment," she clarifies, turning to look at Eddie, smiling ever so slightly, "But I don't think he's faking it anymore."

Eddie bows his head, smiling to himself.

He made Steve Harrington happy. How the fuck did that happen?

If you want to write your own, or see more entries for this challenge, pop on over to @steddieholidaydrabbles and follow along with the fun! 🍽️

Notes: Title from Tolerate It by Taylor Swift.

[eggcompany]

Zosan except

Zoro was pretty sure he'd marry Sanji. And live together forever. And make their own little family and grow old together and die together and spend eternity together. They'd been together since they were 15, they were each other's first everything.

First kiss, first make out, first to all sex. Zoro liked it, about to turn 20, about to get into the work force and provide for his dear Sanji. He loved life. He liked having sex with Sanji every few days, he liked eating his food, he liked coming home and seeing Sanji there. He didn't... expect it.

Sanji leaving. Just... disappearing without a trace. Zoro went to work as usual, leaving with a kiss to Sanji's forehead, and when he returned... Nothing. His cookware was gone, his clothes, his awards, his paperwork, everything was gone except for his cellphone on the counter.

Zoro had been in ruins for weeks. He just felt like a shell. His friends noticed, they were just as upset, but they could see he was worse. Zoro thought... he thought everything was ok. He thought they were good, their apartment, their bed, their- their everything. They'd been together and had done so much together and why would Sanji leave? What did Zoro do?

It took years for Zoro to become as close to whole as he could be again. He didn't date. Couldn't. But he went out with Luffy and the gang, he smiled, he... he lived.

He still sat up at night, looking at his ramshackle kitchenette in his studio apartment, remembering how happy Sanji had been when he got those big sets of pans for one Christmas. They were cheap but... he'd been so happy. He can still remember the sound of Sanji fussing at him when he stood by the stove and ate food before it was plated. Zoro always smiled, because they were so young, so happy.

Zoro was leaning against the brick wall of the club, his employee shirt snug over his chest. He was just standing in the alley, phone in his hands as he mindlessly scrolled around, his break a welcomed thing. He only looked up when he felt someone looking at him, standing just in the shadow of the building, someone was there farther down the alley.

"Hey, you alright? Need a taxi?" Zoro asked, thinking it was someone who'd stumbled out from the club, maybe too much to drink. But the person stood there, eyes wide, staring at him, skinny, lanky. Zoro pushed himself up off the wall, moving towards the person. Were they high? Maybe someone with mental problems? Did they need-

"Z-Zoro?" That voice, the way the name fell, it felt familiar. Zoro stepped closer, the person curling in on themselves, arms crossing over their chest. Zoro really looked the darkness making it difficult, the hair hanging over their face, hiding them away.

But there was no one else with those eyes. With that sunlight hair, as long and flowing as it was.

"Sanji?" Zoro asked, hands shaking slightly as they reached towards the blonde man, his arms were hairy where his sleeves of his black shirt were rolled up. Zoro really looked and there was no mistake. Even with dark pits around them, even with his patchy facial hair and his rumpled black outfit, Zoro would know Sanji in any way.

Sanji looked away, ashamed. But Zoro couldn't care. He wrapped his arms around him, his heart racing a smile breaking across his face without his permission. He felt everything else melt away, because he had his Sanji back. His. He pulled back, hands going to Sanji's long hair, gentle as he held his jaw, thumb going over his jaw under his dark eye.

"Sanji. You're here." Zoro said, the words making something break apart in his chest because he was right there. Right there. After years. Finally his missing piece was right there.

"Can you- Would you help me?" Sanji said, the words shaking as he said them. Suddenly Zoro felt less joy. Of course. Sanji would never come crawling back to him without reason. But he still- he still would do anything.

"You don't need to but... I'm in some trouble. Not- Not money. It's not money I promise. I just..." Sanji started but then a side door opened, slammed open. Sanji jumped, eyes going wide again, this time in fear. An enormous man walked out, followed by two others.

"Blondie! Get your ass back in there! Smoke when you're done with the client. Do you want the kennel again?" The man said ignoring Zoro's presence completely. Sanji shot him one last glance before turning and going back into the club, the man smacking his ass on the way in.

Zoro didn't care if Sanji- If Sanji left because of another guy. Or if he was unhappy, or if he felt trapped or anything else. Because he finally had a chance to get him back. And Now is the only thing that mattered.

[ddejavvu]

hotch hiring spencer to tutor his (college aged) daughter, and hes so impressed with how much theyve been studying and how hes helped her grades, until one day he walks in on one of their "study sessions," but they're not really studying at all.....

Aaron knew there'd be no better person to turn to than Dr. Spencer Reid when his daughter began struggling with her college course load. You're having trouble studying efficiently, you spend so much time at your desk scribbling down ineffective notes that you forget to eat, sleep, and take care of yourself. He's worried about you, his heart aches for his baby girl, so he asks Spencer to start coming over on Saturdays to help you.

It works great. Not only do your grades skyrocket, but your mood does too, no longer sullen from having no free time or sleep schedule. You're back to your old self, maybe even happier now, and Aaron can't hold back the smile on his face as he ascends the stairs, an array of your favorite snacks in hand.

Spencer's inhumanly obsessed with cheez-its, and your own snack of choice is held in his other hand. He thinks the least he can do to thank Spencer is feed the man, seeing as he's so skinny sometimes his snug sweater vests are loose. You swing the door shut during your study sessions, at Aaron's own request, because he couldn't hear the television downstairs over the sound of your chatter. He doesn't think to knock, he's sure the creaking of your door's old hinges will be enough of a sound to break you out of your study stupor.

"Y/N, Spencer, I brought- oh my god."

Your dad's voice nearly goes down a full octave, sending your stomach swirling. He speaks low when he's mad, and watching you scramble out of Spencer's lap and straighten your wrinkled top, you're sure he's livid.

"I- uh, Hotch," Spencer babbles, but you smack the back of his hand to get him to shut up. He runs his fingers through his hair instead, combing out the strands that you'd mussed while licking over his bottom lip.

"Dad!" You chime, "Um- I'm sorry, we- I didn't know you'd come in. We just- we were studying, but then, I- I got distracted, really, it wasn't Spencer's fault, we- I just- I-"

"Stop." Aaron shuts his eyes, snack bags now shoved carelessly onto your bedside table as your dad brings a hand to his face. You're sure this is scarier than any situation Spencer's ever faced before, including aggravated unsubs and near-shootings.

Your dad buries his face in his hand, one large enough to cover his features. It's almost scarier not seeing his stern face; you wonder if his eyes are glowing red.

"Hotch- sir, I'm so sorry." Spencer tries again, and your dad holds up his free hand to silence him. He doesn't need to be told twice, or- thrice, and he closes his mouth.

"How long have you two been doing this?" He asks, muffled by his hand in front of his face.

"Only two weeks. Or- Saturdays, only two days. Just- this time, and, uh, the last time."

"It started last week?"

"Yes." You confirm, nodding even if he can't see.

"Are you studying?"

"Yes." You promise, smoothing out a rumpled study guide and hoping he can't hear it, "Uh- this is our- well, my break."

"Fantastic." Your dad drawls, finally dragging his palm down his face and looking you dead in the eyes. It looks like it almost hurts him to do so, and you feel residual pain in your stomach, churning away again.

"I suppose there are worse people you could be doing that with." He muses carefully, "Though I wish you weren't doing it at all. But you're in college."

"I am," You nod.

"And you're an adult."

"I am."

"And I can't tell you what to do anymore."

You stay silent, not wanting to push your luck.

"Okay. There's nothing I can do," He decides, face still more stoic than when he'd entered, intent on giving you snacks. If he'd had known you'd been eating Spencer's face, he would have saved them for later.

"Don't do it here." He pleads, "At least not while I'm here. And- and while I'm here," He warns, looking at Spencer this time, "This door stays open. Understand?"

"Yes, dad." You nod, and Spencer echoes it with 'sir' as a replacement.

"Study." Aaron narrows his eyes at the both of you, pointedly jamming the door stop beneath the door until it's practically punching a hole through the wall where the knob hits, "If your grades drop again, this is over."

"Yes, dad." You call again, waiting until he storms off down the stairs to even breathe in Spencer's direction.

"Oh my god," Spencer groans, burying his face in his hands, "Oh my god, that was- that was awful."

"He didn't say no!" You point out, grinning at the blushy man beside you, "That went, like, a thousand times better than I was expecting."

"At least I don't have to hide it anymore. Do you know how hard it was for me to pretend I wasn't putting the moves on his daughter while we were in Dallas this past week?"

"I know how hard it was to pretend I wasn't tonguing his agent during dinner last night," You shrug, grinning at Spencer who looks like he's not quite ready to be relieved yet, "No more secrets for either of us, pretty boy."

[super-ion]

It Starts With a Kiss

(Part 1?)

My story begins with a kiss.

At least in the sense that any story has a beginning. I suppose you could say my story began the day I was cursed or the day I was born or the day three-hundred-some years ago when one of my ancestors made an ill fated deal with one of the fae.

But that's not the story I want to tell you.

So maybe for the most accuracy, I should settle for: this story starts with a kiss

I wake from the enchanted sleep with the taste of someone else's breath on my lips. The very first conscious thought is one of violation and revulsion. My eyes snap open and…

Oh…

My breath catches, my heart begins to race, and a horrible alien feeling settles into the heart of me.

An aching, longing feeling blooms in my chest and it is so, so much worse than the kiss.

“Oh fuck,” I mutter, the very first words to pass my lips in over a hundred years.

He blinks in confusion. He was already looking at me like he didn't know what was supposed to come next, but now he looks genuinely lost.

I suppose I ought to describe him… I do apologize, I do tend to focus more on feelings than physical descriptions of things.

To be perfectly honest, he is rather plain, even by my standards.

Not that I have standards, mind you. I spent much of my teenage years utterly baffled by how my peers would moon over burly workmen or dashing court officials. All I was able to intuit was that there did seem to be some correlation between the most popular of them with the body types depicted in the heroic romantic portraits that were in vogue when I was young.

All this to say that the person who has kissed me certainly did not match my vague notions of what a handsome heroic figure was supposed to be.

His hair is unkept. He is scrawny. His clothes are rumpled and stained, slightly too large for him.

He has the bearing of a wet cat, miserable and pathetic. He holds himself as though he is wholly uncomfortable in his own body.

But the thing that strikes me most is the haunted, melancholy expression in his face.

I take all of this in and am met with a whole torrent of emotion. There is the curse of course, the awful surge of alien affection that goes against my very concept of self. But beneath that, there's a certain amount of gratefulness that he has broken the curse, though I suspect the curse itself may have played a part in bringing him here. And beneath that is a current of concern, possibly pity. He is very clearly miserable and despite my innate lack of attraction, I still care for the wellbeing of others.

“Good knight,” I say, furiously trying to keep my voice level, lest an awful simper brought on by the curse leak in. “I thank thee for… awakening me from my cursèd slumber. I am called Lyssa. Prithee tell me thy name?”

He hesitates.

He tells me his name. It slips from his lips like it is something painful.

I won't actually repeat it here out of respect for her… but, oh dear, I'm getting somewhat ahead of myself.

[littlebearnation]

oscar being jealous when lando acts all flirty/slutty w someone else in the club (ib that gifset n ur amazing mind)

inspired by THIS gifset

lando norris/oscar piastri, suggestive, jealousy, 464 words

Oscar knew it was stupid, getting this upset. Lando was a free man, able to do as he pleased and if that meant sitting on one man's shoulders whilst hugging another, then so be it.

But Oscar felt sick and stupid and dumb. Stomach churning, head spinning, anger bubbling. All of it. He couldn't escape it. It was like no matter where he went, Lando was there, hugging up to or dancing with or flirting with or doing something that left Oscar feeling worse with a new guy each and every time.

Maybe he was imagining it. Going insane. But Oscar knew that wasn't true, not when Lando came over to him mere moments later, clothes rumpled, hair tousled, and cheeks pinker than Oscar's old Alpine gear.

"Osco, my Osco. Why, where..." Lando trailed off with a giggle as he collapsed into Oscar's arms. Oscar sighed, bundling his boyfriend close to him. His heart rabbited in his chest but he swallowed it down, bitter and meek and foolish.

"You having fun?" Oscar said. The annoyance in his tone was obvious, even to him. Lando whimpered and looked up at him, mouth parted slightly. A soft scent of something fruity filled Oscar's nose and his brows furrowed further. Lando was tipsy. That explained everything. Didn't make Oscar's jealousy fuck off though - not much could.

"What's wrong?" Lando whined. He pawed at the front of Oscar's top like those exact same hands weren't just wrapped around another man's shoulders. Like those exact same hands hadn't been the cause of Oscar's perma-glare all evening. Oscar huffed and shoved his face into Lando's neck, biting down on the skin before sucking it gently.

Lando moaned sweetly, clutching at Oscar's biceps as he tilted his neck to one side for Oscar. It was too public, too risky, too insane for either of them to be doing it, but they were. Oscar didn't care much any longer. He was sure Lando didn't either.

"Finally remembered who you belong to, huh?" Oscar all but snarled, his teeth latching onto another part of Lando's neck. Lando moaned again, his hands moving up into Oscar's hair. He tugged and pulled and whined, moaning so loud Oscar was sure he'd be heard over the music.

"O-osc. Let's get out of here," Lando whined. He pushed away from Oscar's insistent marking, his skin flushed in a deep red hue. Oscar smirked when he realised just how fucked he'd made Lando appear. That possessive, needling energy within him felt momentarily satiated. "Please."

Oscar let Lando grab his hand before he was unceremoniously dragged from the club. Oscar felt everyone's eyes on them but he didn't care. Let them stare. Let them see. Let them know exactly who Lando belonged to.

Him. Oscar Piastri. No one else.

© all rights to littlebearnation 2025.

[likeumeanit9497]

ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴇᴛᴛᴇʀ | ᴄ.ꜱ. |

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴ

series masterlist here

summary: Eleanor moves through the world like a shadow searching for light, and Chris burns too brightly, as if trying to outshine a buried grief. When they collide on a night filled with a mutual self-loathing, something quiet but insistent begins to grow between them — a pull that they never dare speak of, yet orbit in harmony nonetheless. Their bond deepens quickly, shaped by vulnerability, near-misses, and the ache of things left unsaid. As their lives pull and blur at the edges, they learn that what they are for one another in the moment may matter more than how it ends. 

warnings (throughout the series): smut; angst; addiction; family trauma; depression; heavy drinking; mentions of death; mentions of abuse; 18+

The dream woke her in pieces.

At first, it was just the smell — clear spirits and cheap lilac perfume, twisted together in a nauseating spiral. Then it was the sound — the hollow echo of a fist slamming against wood, growing louder and louder. Then her mother’s voice, slurring and pleading, ripping through the seams of sleep. “Eleanor, baby — just open the door — I swear to God, I’m fine — I just need —”

Eleanor sat up so fast the world tilted. Her sheets clung to her like second skin, humid and unclean. Her chest felt tight, breath sharp and uneven, as if she had been underwater and only just broken the surface. She pushed her hair off her clammy forehead and stared at the ceiling like it had all the answers.

By the way the sun was shining through her curtains, beaming it’s hot rays into her eyes, it must have already been early afternoon. She was a morning person — always had been — yet for the past two days she couldn’t seem to pull herself from her nightmares any earlier than noon.

Dragging herself upright, she made her way to the bathroom; ignoring Claire’s concerned glance her way as she passed the living room. She locked the door behind her and when she glanced at the mirror, it was not kind. Eyes sunken in, skin pale, her face worn thin by the kind of exhaustion that sleep couldn’t touch. She turned on the shower without thinking, peeled of her soaked t-shirt, and stepped in before the water could heat.

It was a punishment, in a way. A jolt to keep herself tethered. The cold struck her bones and made her breath catch, but it felt better than numbness.

Afterward, she wrapped herself in a still-damp towel that had been left on the floor the night before to grow all sorts of bacteria, and crawled back into bed; unbrushed hair soaking her pillow. Her phone buzzed once on the nightstand — an email reminder about her thesis meeting next week — and she silenced it without looking. She didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Not right now. Not with the memory still replaying behind her eyes over and over again.

She hadn’t told Chris what had happened, had just sent a few vague texts: Hey, I’m okay. Sorry I had to leave so suddenly.He hadn’t pried. That made it worse somehow. The kindness of it. The knowing patience that she wasn’t sure she deserved.

She was on the edge of sleep again, fingers curled against her tattered lips, when the knock came.

Not the front door, her bedroom door.

She stayed silent, hoping that Claire would just leave her alone.

“El?” His voice was soft. Chris.

She sat up, every nerve waking with a jolt. She didn’t answer at first. Then: “Yeah.”

The door opened slowly, softly, and there he was — hoodie, sweats, sleep-rumpled hair, concern etched in every soft line of his face.

“Did I wake you?” He asked.

She shook her head. “No I…just got out of the shower.”

He lingered in the doorway. “I just wanted to check on you. I—I know you said you were okay, but I haven’t seen you in a few days and…and I needed to be sure.”

She looked away. Shame swelled behind her ribs like a tide. “I don’t really want to talk about it, Chris.”

“I know,” He said, “I’m not asking you to.”

That undid her. Not the softness of his voice. Not the offer. But the restraint. The way he didn’t try to fix it, didn’t try to drag it out of her. She felt her throat grow dry, felt her eyes glaze over with tears.

“Can you…” She hesitated, fingers gripping the blanket and pulling it open; her request wordless.

He nodded once and closed the door behind him. He crossed the room slowly, like he didn’t want to scare her. She shifted, keeping the blanket open, and he slipped in behind her.

He didn’t speak, just pulled her back against him; wrapping his left arm gently around her towelled frame. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t desire. It was the weight of another body anchoring her to reality. And so she melted against him, letting her bones forget how to hold themselves upright. She rested her cheek against the pillow, closing her eyes and just letting herself feel the rhythm of his heartbeat syncing to the tremor in her breath. His presence — real, solid, kind — drew something loose in her chest.

And then the tears came. Slow. Silent. Just a few hot trails down her cheeks that she she tried to hide — but tears are stubborn things. They carve through skin like a knife. He shifted slightly, his hand moving to stroke her hair. Still no words, no asking why. She hated how comforted she felt. How safe.

That was what made her reach for him.

She turned slowly, nestling her face into the warmth of his neck, breathing in the vague scent of his cologne, his skin. There was something so steady about him — like he existed in a world untouched by the chaos that had flanked her own. She wanted that. Wanted to dissolve into it, or him, or anything that wasn’t this screaming ache pulsing just beneath her ribs.

Her hand slid up his chest, fingers hesitant but deliberate, pausing at the base of his throat. She pressed a soft kiss just below his jaw. He stiffened, though said nothing. So she kissed the same place again. Her touch trembled slightly with the desire to change the shape of the moment, to rewrite this vulnerability into something she could understand. Something she could control.

She hated crying in front of people. Hated the feeling of being cracked open and exposed. This — this she knew how to do. This was easier. There was no need to talk, no need to explain. There were just bodies and the opportunity to escape.

“Eleanor,” He murmured, voice low. His hand had paused its movements in her hair.

She felt the need swirling within her now as though caught in a windstorm. Her fingers slipped beneath the hem of his hoodie, against his skin. Looking for a ledge to hang onto as her mind collapsed.

“If I could just forget for a second,” She whispered as she ran her lips against his neck. Her voice was hoarse, barely audible, “Just for a second, Chris, please.”

He pulled back slightly, enough to see her face in the light. She couldn’t meet his eyes, but she knew that they would be filled with anguish.

“I know what you’re doing,” He said gently. There was no judgment, no accusation. A small breath left her lips, almost a laugh. Broken and bitter. “Yeah, well, so do I.”

He touched her face with both hands this time, his thumbs warm against the line of her jaw. “This isn’t what you need right now.”

“I don’t care,” She whispered, her bratty words laced with a silent plea.

“I do care,” He returned, still maintaining serenity, “Because it won’t help you at all. It won’t make what you’re feeling go away.”

Her shoulders dropped as if she’d just remembered the weight she was carrying. Her mouth opened to argue, to insist, but she struggled to find the words. Finally, she found them.

“I just — I can’t just sit still in my head anymore, Chris. I feel like I’m gonna break.”

Her eyes finally found his, and they were filled with a kindness that made her want to sob. “Then break. There’s nothing wrong with that. You’re safe here.”

It hit her like a slap, the rawness of it. She wanted to scream. At him. At her mother. At the whole world and all of its darkness. But instead, she crumpled into him again, her breath catching on the edge of sobs that never quite arrived. He held her tighter, one hand against her back and the other stroking her hair. Letting her fall into the comfort of his grasp and feel what she needed to feel until she drifted into a heavy sleep.

—

When she woke again, the room was the colour of tea left too long in a cup — amber and dusky, with the golden tail end of the sun dragging long shadows across her walls. The air was warm and still, making the world feel paused. She blinked into the quiet, slightly disoriented from the peaceful sleep, until she felt the weight of Chris’s arm still slung loosely around her waist.

As if he sensed that she had awoken, he stirred not long after, breathing in shallowly before lifting his head from the pillow. His eyes found hers in the fading light.

“What time is it?” He rasped.

“Almost five,” She murmured after checking her phone, voice dry and still thick with sleep. She shifted to sit up, and he let her go without resistance. Her joints ached, heavy from a deep sleep, but it felt easier to carry now that she had let herself fall apart.

“I need air,” She said, strategically pulling a pair of sweats over her bare legs followed by an oversized hoodie without letting her towel fall. “You mind?”

He shook his head, of course he didn’t mind, and followed her into the empty kitchen. She reached for her pack of cigarettes on the counter and paused, before grabbing a red lollipop from the always-stocked candy jar on the shelf and held it out to him without comment.

He grinned softly as he accepted it, unwrapping it as she slid open the balcony door.

“I don’t know if this is bribery to get me outside or just you being nice,” He said, the lollipop already tucked into the side of his cheek; staining his lips bright red.

“Maybe a bit of both,” She replied with a soft chuckle, lighting a cigarette with ease.

The balcony was small and narrow, rusted a little at the corners, but the distant view of the city made up for it — glittering skyline, gentle hum of traffic, palm trees swaying in the cool breeze. They leaned against the railing, shoulder to shoulder, in heavy silence; Eleanor smoking slowly, Chris crunching the candy between his teeth.

She exhaled through her nose, the smoke curling around her face.

“She showed up drunk,” She said suddenly, turning to watch his profile, “My mom. The other night.”

Chris turned to look at her, expressionless, and didn’t say anything.

“She flew across the country,” She continued, “I don’t even know how she paid for the flight. Claire said she was banging on the door nonstop for like thirty minutes, like she was trying to punch through it. Kept saying she just needed to borrow a couple hundred bucks.” Her voice didn’t shake, but there was an edge to it.

“She’s been like that my whole life,” She said, flicking ash over the railing, “It used to be a little bit of everything, but now it seems like she sticks to vodka. I left right after I graduated from high school.”

Chris shifted against the railing, turning his body slightly so that he was facing her more directly. “And your dad?”

“Left when I was eight,” She shrugged, “I had a little brother. Still have him, I guess. His name’s Reid. We don’t talk unless there’s something going on with my mom. I had to raise him myself until I couldn’t anymore. He was thirteen when I left. I begged him to come with me.”

She didn’t elaborate. Chris didn’t press.

“I think I thought that if I could just…get far enough away, she’d stop being able to reach me,” She added after a long pause. “But she always, always finds a way.”

“I get that,” Chris said finally. He said it not with sympathy, but with solidarity. “My dad’s an addict too. He’s…around, kind of. He’s working on getting better. We just don’t talk very much.”

Eleanor turned her head slightly, surprised by the admission.

“That’s why I don’t drink or smoke or whatever, same with Nick and Matt,” He added, tapping the stick of the lollipop against the railing. “I’ve seen what it does to people. Not just the person hooked on that shit, but everyone who loves them.”

She studied him in the fading light. There was no pity in his expression, no performative empathy. Just a quiet knowing. In just a matter of minutes a mirror was held gently between them, the darkest parts of themselves finding solidarity in one another.

“Thank you,” She said, voice cracking. His lips curled into a smile. “For what?”

“For coming.” She replied, though in that moment, that was far from the only thing she was thankful for.

He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side as his gaze returned to the horizon. “I didn’t want you to feel like you were alone.”

And for the first time in days, she didn’t feel like she was.

She took a final drag of her cigarette, snuffed it out in the chipped ceramic pot beside the railing. She let her head fall once again against his shoulder, watching as the sky turned lavender and then blue.

After a long silence, she allowed herself to release a deep exhale, throwing all of the weight from the past few days to the breeze. “I’m really glad you’re in my life, Chris.” She whispered.

He didn’t respond with words. He didn’t have to. Because she knew that the tie that she felt to him, the undeniable pull that tethered them to a complicated yet somehow simple friendship was mutual. So when she felt him let out a quiet breath and pull her closer into his side, she knew without him saying so that he understood.

͏𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 ❤︎ ͏ ͏

tags: @slvtf0rchr1s @pip4444chris @oopsiedaisydeer @switchstvrns

a/n: ughhhh i remember writing this chapter and wanting to scream i loved it so much. i hope u all love it too!!! <333

[booksooks]

Oh oh!! Shiggy w/ a gamer gf but shes also super social?

(𝑵𝑶𝑻) 𝑺𝑶𝑪𝑰𝑨𝑳

Author's note: this was a request from an anon (🩸anon hi sorry this took so long) im not sure if this is where you wanted this to go but! here we are :)

Content: Shigaraki being jealous and a little manipulative, oops.

Word Count: 1342

Summary: Shigaraki doesn't like it when you talk to other people.

Shigaraki watched you chatter to someone over your headset in annoyance from across the room. Whoever you were talking to must have been the most interesting person in the world, he thought, because otherwise why were you straight up ignoring him? You were supposed to be paying attention to him. Were you mad at him? Were you trying to send him some weird, wordless subliminal message by keeping your back turned to him, talking to anyone but him? (To be fair to you, you had never done anything like that before, you were fairly good at communication.) 

Shigaraki shuffled his feet awkwardly behind you, trying to get your attention via vibrations in the floor that you… most definitely didn’t feel. Your feet were tucked underneath you on the legs of the chair, and even if you were solidly against the ground, it was not. Enough. 

Was he not enough?

The thought squeezed at his heart, hard, and he didn’t like it. It made his neck itch, made his hands feel like they were being torn apart from the nails and - oh wait, that was just him, picking at hangnails. Your giggle, quiet but still bright and bubbly, broke him out of his thoughts. He looked down at his fingers, red and raw and irritated, and he shook, trying so hard to not bring his hands up and itch and itch and itch and itch- 

Fuck it, he decided, nails digging into the soft, scarred flesh of his throat. This couldn’t be worse than you ignoring him. He didn’t like feeling this way, this anxious, this… left out. How the hell did you stand talking to people like that anyway? It wasn’t fair; if he couldn’t get the damn words out in real life, how could you? Over the internet? It wasn’t fucking fair. 

Shigaraki paced around in the minimally empty space behind his gaming chair, because at least you had the decency to come to his room, to play those stupid, attention-stealing games, (under any other circumstances he would tell anyone, who would have the lack of common sense to ask, that those were some of his favorite games and why in great detail). But you were still ignoring him, it wasn’t fucking fair, and he wanted to throw something. 

Actually. 

Not a bad idea. 

Shigaraki looked around his room for something to toss at you, something that wouldn’t hurt, necessarily, but something that would grab your attention. A pen sat on his rumpled bed sheets for whatever reason. Perfect. He snatched it up carelessly and chucked it at the back of your head. Only it didn’t hit the back of your head, it hit the back of his chair, making the fabric bounce ever-so-slightly before it smoothed out. You briefly turned around to look at him, curious, and still yapping. 

“Hold on,” you mumbled to whoever was on the other end. Shigaraki saw you hit the mute button. “What’s up? Need something?” 

Yeah, you. Need your attention, your touch, your scent, your-

“What? No.” 

You stared at him for a bit longer, suspicious but not enough to deter you from turning back around and unmuting yourself. “Sorry about that.” 

Shigaraki saw red as he faintly heard a guy’s voice on the other end, laughing. At him. Indirectly, of course, there was no way he knew what he was laughing at, but still. Shigaraki wanted to press all five fingers against the monitor, against your headphones, the tower, fucking everything just to get, and keep, your attention on him. Why hadn’t he said he wanted your attention when you asked? Because it was fucking pathetic, that’s why. No grown man should have to beg for attention from his partner. That would be ridiculous, childish, and Shigaraki was damned if he’d turn into some pathetic, sniveling, begging wimp just because he couldn’t handle you talking to someone else. 

He was scratching again. The sound of his nails, clipped but still sharp, against his skin was overwhelming, the dull, hrrrgtz hrrrgtz hrrrgtz making his stomach churn. No, it didn’t, he was lying. What made his stomach churn was the fact that you were so easily chattering away to someone online when you had a perfectly good boyfriend, right there! For all your wants and needs. 

Fuck you. 

Shigaraki stormed as quietly as he could over to you, and without thinking,  yanked his chair away from the desk. You yelped, outraged, as your headset was ripped from your ears, and your ass slipped forward and off the chair, landing on the hardwood floor. 

“Woah, what was that? You good?” Came the voice over- fucking Christ, was that Discord? You weren’t even playing a 1v1 a fucking one-round-only piece of shit game with some shmuck, and he hadn’t even noticed. That had to change. Shigaraki slammed his hand flat against the screen and watched in delight as it started to crumble from the inside out, the other person’s voice dying out from the inside of your headphones. He only felt minimally better. 

“Tomura, what the hell?” You asked, sore of ass and indignant of attitude. “What the hell was that? I was talking to someone.” 

“Yeah, some fucking idiot,” he snarled, picking you up from the floor under the arms, carefully, he didn’t want to decay you afterall, and just about threw you on the bed. You were too surprised to even fight back, only letting out a small, “woa-mfh?” when you landed. You glared up at him, confused and disoriented and-  fuck you were cute. 

Shigaraki smiled, he knew it was nowhere near comforting, and crawled into bed with you, pushing you back onto the pillows before collapsing on top of you with a satisfied hum. He felt you, stiff and full of apprehension beneath him, and that just wouldn’t do. 

“Fucking relax, would you?” He huffed, trying to bury his face deeper into the crook of your neck. It was safe, there, dark and warm and it smelled like you. So yeah, safe. “You’re stiff as a board.” 

“Are you going to explain what the fuck just happened?” You asked, disbelievingly. “I was talking to someone-”

“Yeah, like I said, a fucking idiot. He doesn’t deserve your time.” Shigaraki was pouting, he knew he was, but he didn’t care. He deserved your attention more than anyone else. 

“And you think you do? After the stunt you just pulled?” You were angry. Or at the very least annoyed as hell. 

Shigaraki stayed quiet for a moment. “Yeah.” 

“Fucking hell.” 

Things were silent for a few minutes, the only sounds being your breathing and his, mingled together. Shigaraki had even started to relax, letting his eyes fall closed when you spoke up again. 

“You can’t- Tomura, you can’t just demand my time and energy when I’m busy, and expect me to drop everything for you.”

Shigaraki felt his lip curl. “Why not? I’m your boyfriend, I should be your top priority.” 

“Okay, but I have a life, and friends. You get to talk to your friends, why can’t I?” 

Oh. Shigaraki hadn’t thought of that. Especially not in the way you had framed it. Was he in the wrong here? Should he apologize? Shigaraki scrunched up his face and thought back to all the visual novels he had ever played, all the manga he had read. Usually, when someone fucked up, for lack of better words, they apologized. That’s right. So…

“I’m sorry,” he grunted out against your neck. “For… being so aggressive.” 

He felt you shift beneath him, tilting your head one way and then the other in thought. “Just… don’t do it again, okay?” 

Shigaraki nodded subtly, wanting nothing more for the whole apologizing part to be over and done with.“Fine.” 

It was another few seconds before he felt your arms wrap around his shoulders, and he sighed softly, feeling you loosen up and melt into his mattress. Finally. He felt, more than heard you utter a quiet, “love you,” before you settled back into silence. 

He had your attention. “Love you too.”

End Notes: thanks for reading!

AO3 Link

ABSOLUTELY NO ONE HAS MY PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WORK TO ANY SITE.

[radioactivatedspider]

Stress Tested

Main Masterlist Big Sky Masterlist

Pairings; Beau Arlen x reader

Genre; Domestic, humor, fluff, slice-of-life

Warnings; angry yn in dairy section

Summary: Yn is in a constant state of anger, will Beau stay, or get tired of it?

1169 words

Beau Arlen had wrestled drug runners to the ground, survived a shootout in a ditch with nothing but a sidearm and a busted radio, and once chased a mountain lion off a hiking trail with a flare gun and a half-empty can of beer.

But nothing—and he meant nothing—prepared him for dating you.

Not because you were cruel. Not because you were unpredictable. Not because you were high maintenance or manipulative or difficult in any kind of relationship-red-flag way.

No, you were just… furious.

All the time.

Constantly.

At literally everything.

This morning it was coffee. Yesterday it was your socks. Two nights ago, it was how the fitted sheet kept popping off your side of the bed like it had a personal vendetta. And it wasn’t like you were aggressive or violent about it. It was more like a constant, tightly wound pressure inside you—one tiny annoyance away from explosion at all times.

Right now? You were standing in the kitchen, glaring at the coffee maker like it had insulted your entire bloodline.

“Why is it scorched?” you snapped, holding the coffee pot up like evidence in a murder trial. “I put in the exact same amount I always do. It’s burnt. It tastes like if despair and asphalt had a baby. I can’t function like this, Beau!”

Beau, standing barefoot in jeans and a rumpled tee, leaned against the doorway and calmly sipped his own mug of very drinkable coffee. “Maybe the coffee machine’s just having a bad day.”

“Oh, so now it’s sentient?”

“Would explain the sass.”

Your eye twitched. He watched it happen in real time.

“Beau,” you warned.

He held up both hands, mug still in one. “Hey, hey, hey. No judgment. Just saying maybe it knows how much you hate mornings and decided to fight back.”

You were vibrating with rage, but also—reluctantly—leaning into him when he stepped close and looped an arm around your waist.

He nuzzled your temple. “You’re really cute when you’re mad.”

“I’m always mad.”

“And yet—still cute.”

You exhaled like it hurt your soul to admit he calmed you down. “My hair’s going to dry wrong,” you muttered, voice muffled against his chest. “I showered too late, so now it’s going to frizz. And I have a meeting in two hours, and the lighting in the office makes my under-eyes look like I’ve done time.”

“You haven’t,” he said.

“Yet.”

Beau chuckled low, rubbing slow circles into your back. “You’re gonna be fine.”

You didn’t believe him. But you let him hold you anyway.

Beau should’ve known better than to go grocery shopping with you. But you’d casually asked if he wanted to come and “grab a few things,” and he—like the fool in love he was—had said yes.

It started small.

“The hot dog buns,” you growled, “are on the exact opposite side of the store from the hot dogs.”

He blinked. “Yeah, I guess they are.”

“WHY?” you snapped, loud enough that an elderly woman in the cereal aisle jumped. “What kind of psychological warfare is this? They do this on purpose, I swear. They want us to give up and eat a banana instead. They want us to FAIL.”

Beau tried very hard not to laugh. “Okay. Let’s make a plan. I’ll go get the hot dogs, you grab the buns, and—”

“No. If I leave you alone, you’ll get the wrong kind.”

“I’ve bought hot dogs before—”

“Last time you got the cheddar-filled ones, Beau.”

“I thought they were fun.”

“They’re an abomination,” you hissed.

He put a calming hand on your shoulder. “Hey. Let’s breathe.”

You stared at him like he’d just told you taxes were optional. “You’re not a yoga instructor, Beau.”

He smiled. “Just your boyfriend. Who likes you even when you're on a warpath over processed meat.”

You flinched a smile—barely. “I like you. A little. Maybe.”

He kissed your forehead in public, and you let him, even though people were staring.

Progress.

It got worse in the dairy section.

“Where’s the yogurt with the goat on it?” you demanded, scanning the shelves with twitchy hands. “Not the sheep, not the cow, the goat. The one with the silver lid.”

Beau squinted at a dozen identical containers. “Babe… they all kinda look the same to me.”

Your nostrils flared. “It’s not here. Oh my god. What do I do now? Get a different brand? You want me to compromise my principles?!”

He gently slid the basket out of your hands before you threw it. “Let’s do this. Pick the second-best yogurt. I’ll personally apologize to the goat later.”

You looked betrayed. “I don’t want second-best.”

He kissed your cheek. “Too bad. You got me, didn’t you?”

“Touché,” you muttered, grabbing a reluctant container.

By the time dinner rolled around, the world had calmed down—but your brain hadn’t. You were pacing in his living room while he cooked, gesturing wildly as you told him about your day like it was a war story.

“…And then Carol had the nerve to suggest we switch the meeting time to after lunch. AFTER LUNCH, Beau. That’s when my crash hits. That’s when I can’t think, and she knows that! And she brought in gluten-free muffins again. I swear, I’m two spreadsheet glitches away from going full ‘Office Space.’”

Beau flipped a quesadilla in the pan and hummed. “Want me to slash her tires?”

You paused. “You’d do that for me?”

“Babe, I’d go to jail for you.”

Your face softened. Just for a second.

Then: “We’d need to wear gloves. And use different shoes so they can’t trace prints.”

He grinned. “That’s my girl.”

Bed was your favorite time. Not because the day was over, or because it meant sleep. But because it was the only time you weren’t actively trying to stay upright in a world that was always teetering. Beau’s bed smelled like him. His arms were warm and heavy and safe. And somehow, here, you didn’t have to be on fire all the time.

You were curled up next to him, one of his t-shirts drowning your body, your hair slightly frizzy and your skin still warm from the shower.

He had one hand behind his head, the other lazily drawing circles on your back.

“You know you’re kinda terrifying to most people, right?” he murmured with a grin.

You huffed. “Good. They should be scared.”

He laughed. “You ever think maybe the stress is just… adrenaline with nowhere to go?”

You rested your chin on his chest. “You trying to psychoanalyze me now?”

“Nope. Just saying—I’ve seen you fight through things that would buckle other people. You keep going, even when you hate everything. That’s strength, baby.”

You frowned at him. “Stop being sweet. It makes me suspicious.”

He grinned. “I like you angry. But I love you quiet like this.”

Your voice dropped. “I love you, too.”

Beau kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips.

“Even if I threaten to burn down the cereal aisle?”

“Especially then.”

[soloroomies]

lifemate (Chapter 12/ Sakusa x f!reader)

summary: the aftermath of your argument with him word count. 3.4k cw. marriage pact au, smut, fluff a/n. hi guys! it's finally the end of the story! thank u for everyone who's been waiting and enjoying this first fic of mine bc I really enjoy writing this, too!<3 see u on my other fics! ♡⸜(˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝

Masterlist

As you slowly regain consciousness, the first sensation that hits you is the dull throbbing in your head. The room is dimly lit, and you squint against the soft light seeping through the curtains. Your mouth is dry, and there’s a sour taste lingering from too much alcohol. Your body feels heavy and sluggish, weighed down by the remnants of the night before. You blink a few times, trying to orient yourself. Fragments of last night’s events start to trickle back. Right. This is Tami’s hotel room.

You hear a sound from the bathroom, then Tami steps out. “Hey, you’re awake! Wait,” she says, grabbing a water bottle from the desk and fetching something from her bag. She hands you the water. “Here, drink this.”

She orders room service for breakfast, then sits next to you and places an ibuprofen on the desk beside you. “After you eat, if your head still hurts, you can take this, okay?” You nod while drinking from the water bottle she gave you. Your head is still throbbing. “Do you have a makeup remover?” you ask. The makeup on your face feels uncomfortable and greasy, and you can sense a breakout looming. Can’t wait to clean this all up.

“Yes. It’s all in the bathroom. There are also some toiletries from the hotel. You can use those,” Tami replies.

“Thank you.” You quickly get up from the bed and head to the bathroom. Removing your makeup, washing your face, and brushing your teeth, you feel a relief within you. Taking a shower would be refreshing, but you remember you didn’t bring any clothes and you don’t want to wear the same dress after showering. So, you decide against it.

When you step out of the bathroom, breakfast has arrived. You and Tami start to eat together. Thank goodness the throbbing in your head begins to subside. You sip on the coffee while zoning out, lost in thought. There’s too much to think about, and your mind feels cluttered with last night’s events and the lingering emotions.

Tami clears her throat and looks at you.

“You,” she begins. 

“What?” you stare at her dumbfounded.

“Do you want to tell me something?” she asks, her eyes searching your face for answers.

You press your lips together, considering whether to tell her or not. Well, she noticed that something’s wrong anyway. 

"I’m sorry for last night. I didn’t mean to be irresponsible like that,” you say, sighing and covering your face. “We were supposed to just have fun.”

Tami looks at you, concern written on her face. “Look. You can tell me anything. I’d be happy to help…” She holds your hand. “Kiyoomi contacted me last night. He’s worried about you.”

Shit. Kiyoomi. Taking a deep breath, you decide to tell her everything. Starting from the moment you got closer to him as a friend, to when you began sleeping together, meeting his family, your encounter with his past hook-up, and the arguments that followed.

Tami listens attentively, commenting occasionally, raging when she hears about what that woman said to you, and frowning when you confess your guilt about ‘potentially’ having romantic feelings towards him.

“Girl,” she sighs, “Don’t say ‘potentially’. You do have feelings for him.”

You groan. “That makes me feel worse, honestly.”

“And why do you have to feel worse?” she asks, confused.

“I just… That complicates everything. How am I supposed to be okay with him being with another girl?” Frustration oozes out of you. “I guess I was okay before with our rules. But now…” You rumple your hair with your hand.

Tami squeezes your shoulder. “Hey… He might return your feelings, y’know?”

“Tam. It’s just… I’ve never seen him like... have 'feelings' with anyone before. I don’t know what’s in me that might change his way.” Tears start to well up in your eyes.

“Don’t say that!” Tami hugs you. “There are tons of reasons,” she mumbles against you. 

Stepping back, she observes your face. “I’ll tell you this honestly. With everything you’ve done, he really might return your feelings.”

“I don’t know, Tam. I feel bad. I– I should’ve controlled my feelings better,” you say, looking away from her.

“No, really. Listen to me.” She looks you dead in the eye. “You can’t avoid him forever, right?”

You shook your head.

"It won't be easier too if you choose to completely let go of your feelings for him. So…" Tami continues. You take a deep breath, preparing yourself for whatever Tami is about to say. “Before you decide anything further like divorcing him,” you widen your eyes at that. That actually is an option. But, for whatever reason that just feels so wrong. “Just tell him how you feel.”

Instantly, you close your eyes and huff. 

“Hey! He knows that you feel weird about something. Maybe he has his own assumptions, too. If you tell him, there’s one possible outcome that you might like.”

“Yeah, but there are other outcomes too,” you counter.

“Even if he doesn’t return your feelings, what’s the worst that might happen? You really think he could be that mean to you?”

At that, you can’t say anything. She’s right.

“This is Kiyoomi you’ve known since high school,” she reminds you.

You remain silent, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. This is Sakusa Kiyoomi—someone many label as blunt and insensitive. But you know him better than that. He has never harbored ill intentions. If anything, the last six months of your marriage have further shown you just how understanding he is, how you can rely on him for so much. Every quiet gesture and every quiet word of reassurance.

“I’m not trying to force you or anything. Just… think about it.”

“No… you’re actually right, Tam,” you say. 

“Wait,” you froze as you remembered something. Something important. Suddenly, you’re on your feet.

“What?!” Tumi hurriedly followed you to get up.

“What time is it?” Urgently, you look for your phone, and find it on the desk beside the bed. It’s fucking dead. You pull your charger from your bag and charge it quickly.

Tami takes her phone, “It’s almost 1.”

“Fuck. His match.” You grab at your hair in frustration.

“Wait, I fucking forgot too! When is it?!”

“It’s at 1pm,” you say with resignation.

“We can still go there! Let’s–”

“Shit! I forgot.”

"What again?!" she looks at you incredulously.

“I’m fucking stupid. His match is at 11am today.” You unlock your phone, seeing his missed calls and texts, and drop to your feet. How in the hell could you forget this? For whatever reason everything seems to be getting worse. 

Tami crouches down beside you and puts her hand on your shoulder. “Hey, I'll take you home. At least you'll be there when he comes back,” she says, helping you up. Then, Tami starts to quickly pack up her things, checking out from the hotel, and you both get in her car.

On the way home, the weight of missing his match settles heavily on your chest. It just further validates that something is wrong. Doubt gnaws at your thoughts, whispering that perhaps you are blowing things out of proportion. 

When you finally reach home, you embrace Tami in a hug. She will return to her town as soon as she drops you.

“Thank you so much, Tam,” you say.

She nods and hugs you back. “I just hope everything turns out fine for you.”

You smile at her. “I’ll definitely keep you updated.”

As soon as you enter the apartment, you realize that Kiyoomi isn’t home yet. Quickly, you get in the shower, washing everything from the night before, trying to calm your mind. Afterward, you head to your room, put on some clothes, and start drying your hair with a towel while checking the news about the match on your phone.

It turns out that MSBY lost. 

However, the good thing about this V. League Division 1 match is that the team who lost will not be eliminated immediately. Every team will have the chance to compete with each other. The standings are ranked by total points, and so far, MSBY is expected to qualify for the playoffs. Their score is quite superior. But, you understand that a loss is a loss and Kiyoomi is very ambitious about this. You’ve even seen how he reacted the last time they lost. Coupled with the little quarrel between you both that you’ve caused, you really feel bad for him. You had decided to confess to him, but seeing the situation now… postponing it seems like a better choice.

You walk out of your room, intending on snacking from the fridge when you notice Kiyoomi’s gym bag in the living room. Shit. It wasn't there earlier. You look closer to confirm it. Why didn’t you hear anything? A sudden panic washes over you as you quickly turn to head back to your room, only to find Kiyoomi standing before you, his expression inscrutable. Is he angry? You wrestle with the dilemma of explaining your absence or consoling him about his match. Frozen in the moment, mouth slightly agape, you struggle to find anything to say to break the silence. Anything.

Suddenly, Kiyoomi runs to you and hugs you tight. Your eyes widen. Out of all the reactions you predicted from him, this is not one of them. Your hands are still in the air, frozen, trying to process his action. He steps back and looks at you in the eye, his hand caressing the side of your hair, eyes exuding warmth and concern. He grabs both of your hands and kisses them. “Please,” you hear him mumble between the skin of your hands. You’re about to ask what he means when he continues, “Please don’t leave me like that.”

You stare at him, feeling guilty about sneaking out and not coming home last night. “I…” you try to explain yourself, but still can’t find your words. He holds your face gently.

“I’m sorry about the other night. I didn’t mean to say anything to hurt you,” Kiyoomi says, gazing intently at you, eyes glistening.

The truth is, Kiyoomi can't seem to think straight about anything other than you. Despite just losing an important match, it feels like a mere afterthought in his mind. He wants to berate himself for his lack of focus during the game, but how can he when your absence is what truly feels like a glaring mistake? This one match may be important, but his urgency lies in returning home to see you. He aches to beg for your forgiveness and release the pent-up feelings he's kept hidden. And now, you're here. In your shared home, the place that used to be his sanctuary, now feels incomplete without you. It's not just a living space—it's a home because you're in it.

You bite your lip, the emotions you’ve been trying so hard to conceal start to spill. “No, Omi. I’m just…” you begin, breaking into tears.

Kiyoomi guides you to the couch, where you both sit face to face. Considering all your options, you decide to confess. Right. Now.

“I want to be honest with you,” you finally muster up the courage to confess, your voice trembling with emotion. “I was jealous. I was jealous of that woman the other night. And I’m sorry if I’m jealous when I’m supposed to allow you to be with anyone you want but…” Tears start to well up in your eyes, the weight of your emotions becoming too much to bear.

Before you can finish your sentence, Kiyoomi silences you with a tender kiss, leaving you bewildered.

"I don't want anyone else but you," he interrupts, his eyes filled with sincerity. He takes your hand, placing it gently against his cheek as he continues, "There's nothing between me and her. It's always been you that I want. Just you."

As his words sink in, you're left speechless, your mind reeling with disbelief.

"I thought I wasn't enough for you. That’s why I initiated the rules," Kiyoomi admits, his vulnerability breaking down the walls between you. You’ve never heard him like this before—he always seemed so sure of himself in everything. “You kept trying to date other people not too long before New Year,” he continues, pain evident in his eyes. “I didn’t want you to feel trapped with me.”

The realization hits you like a ton of bricks. You both had been struggling with the same insecurities, trapped in a web of misunderstandings and doubts. Tears fall from your eyes as you wipe them away. 

"Omi, that's how I feel about you," you finally admit, voicing the unspoken thoughts that have plagued your mind. “I just don’t want to burden you with me as your option.”

“What?” he mumbles in disbelief.

You nod, a soft giggle escaping your lips as you lean in to kiss him.

As you both kiss, what started as a slow, tender embrace gradually intensifies into a passionate exchange. His lips move from yours to your neck, sending shivers of pleasure down your spine. Gasping for breath, you grip his side, silently communicating your desire. Catching the unspoken message in your eyes, he lifts you effortlessly into his arms, carrying you bridal style to his room.

You both continue to kiss with you sitting on his lap, your hands trembling slightly as you undress him. He reciprocates, removing your clothes with a fervor that sends shivers down your spine. His hands find your breasts, kneading them hungrily before his mouth latches onto your sensitive skin. You whimper, your fingers tangling in his hair. "Omi..."

He hums in response, his voice a low, comforting vibration against you. He gently lays you on your back, eyes never leaving yours as he slides your pants and panties down. His fingers slip inside you, each movement deliberate and electrifying. He peppers kisses along your neck. “How do I deserve you?” he mumbles as he earns another moan from you, your back arching off the bed.

“Omi. I want you. Please. Now.”

His gaze is intense as he replies, "Anything you want," before kissing you deeply, his hands swiftly removing his own pants. Kiyoomi is about to grab a condom from his drawer when you stop him.

“No condom,” you whisper, smiling softly at him, not knowing the effect you have on him.

Ensuring you're ready, he slides his fingers into you again, making you gasp. He then begins to stroke himself, positioning at your entrance. "Please, Omi," you babble, barely coherent. As he finally enters you, a harmonious moan escapes both your lips. It always feels so good—you're no stranger to it. His stamina, coupled with his blessed size… he can always make you feel heavenly. But there's something about feeling him with nothing between you, being able to feel him fully, that sends waves of raw emotion crashing over you. You grab his face, pulling him closer until your noses touch.

“Omi, you feel so good.”

“You too, baby. Always so tight and warm,” he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. His eyes lock onto yours, as he increases his rhythm. Each thrust pushes you closer to the edge.

"I'm close, Omi," you say, breathless, your body trembling beneath him.

He sucks his thumb briefly before rubbing your clit with it, your moans escalating. "Ah! Omi!"

"Good, baby," he mumbles, his words punctuated by tender kisses. Your body tightens, and with a final cry, you come hard around him. 

You hold his face while he continues to thrust. This is the first time he feels you raw, and the moment he enters you, he’s afraid he’ll combust right away. Thankfully, he doesn’t. But you just feel so good and look so beautiful beneath him. He can’t believe his luck at being able to love you this way. Love. He feels it prickling on his skin. He’s never been one to cry during sex, but he feels like crying now. 

You caress his hair, your lips finding his neck, and it’s enough to send him over the edge. He pulls out just in time, his release spilling onto your stomach. The two of you lay there, panting and spent, the room filled with the quiet aftermath of your shared intensity.

Kiyoomi lifts you gently, carrying you to the bathroom with him. He cleans your body thoroughly, keeping his touches innocent while kissing you occasionally. You’re still drying your body with a towel as he steps out of the bathroom. 

When you return to his room, you notice he’s changing the bed sheets. He pulls you back onto his bed as he finishes, keeping your body flush against his. It’s funny how he used to maintain such a distance, but now, he can’t keep his hand off of you. 

Kiyoomi looks at you adoringly. “Hey.” His voice is soft, pulling you from your thoughts.

"Hey." You shift your whole body to face him, tangling your legs with his.

He looks at you with a mix of adoration and regret. "I’m sorry for not being clear with my feelings all this time."

“Me too," you admit, your fingers tracing patterns on his chest.

"I guess sometimes I do feel afraid at how fast my feelings escalate with you," he confesses, his voice tinged with vulnerability. "I… I think I love you, ___."

Your eyes widen, the unexpected declaration taking your breath away. He quickly adds, "You don’t have to say it back. I just want to put that out there." He caresses your hair as he gazes at you like you hold the moon.

A tender smile spreads across your face. "I think I love you too, Omi." Realizing how new this is for both of you. He has never felt anything remotely close to this, and neither have you. 

The joy in his eyes are unmistakable. Kiyoomi pulls you closer by the waist and kisses your shoulder. “I’m sorry too for making you upset with what I did with Hiyori,” he mumbles against your skin.

You sigh, the memory doesn’t sting as much now. "I guess it’s alright. I didn’t know better either, choosing to avoid you when I should’ve been honest."

“Are you jealous of the fact that she used to be with me?” he asks, genuinely curious.

“Um. Not exactly. I mean, everyone has their past, right? It’s more about the way she leaned close to you and touched you? It’s just… I know for a fact that you’re really particular about your personal space except with those you’re very close with.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize that,” he says, frowning in disappointment with himself.

"It’s okay, Omi. You used to be close with her before, so you might not have noticed. I was just insecure because I didn’t know how you felt about me." You look away, feeling embarrassed.

He gently holds your chin, turns your face back to his, and kisses you tenderly. "I’m sorry. I’ll be better," he promises, wrapping you in his arms.

Then, out of nowhere, he says, "We should have a honeymoon."

Surprised, you giggle. “Really?”

He hums in agreement. “And restart our wedding night too.”

You look at him incredulously. “How?”

"Maybe you can try on that white lingerie gift first," he suggests, his eyes twinkling.

You gape at him and swat his arm playfully. “What the hell?! You remember that?”

He chuckles, kissing your cheek. “Matter of fact, I really want to see you in it.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Okay, baby. Tonight,” you agree, kissing his lips.

The next morning, you receive texts from Tami.

Tami: hey   Tami: are u feeling better??   Tami: is everything good?

As you read the messages, Kiyoomi pulls you close, kissing your shoulder from behind.

You: so much better   You: everything’s good   You: thank u sm, Tam. I owe you tons   You: also   You: it’s late but   You: thank u for the wedding gift. he loves it.

Not even a minute later, you receive her replies.

Tami: OMGGGG   Tami: TOLD U!

You giggle at her response. Kiyoomi peeks over your shoulder, smiling at the texts. You put your phone down and turn to him, marveling at how right everything feels. Seeing him in the morning like this is something you’ll never get used to. If you told your high school self about today, she would laugh. There’s no way you could have predicted this outcome. Making a marriage pact with your high school friend and actually doing it, only to find a love you thought you’d never experience. It’s one of the best decisions of your life, no matter how crazy it sounds.

Kiyoomi kisses your neck and looks you in the eye. “So?”

"Hm?" you murmur, still lost in your thoughts.

“Does Maldives sound good for our honeymoon?” he asks.

You lean in, kissing him softly on the lips. "It’s perfect, Omi."

Taglist: @wolffmaiden , @fiannee , @nightlydream , @choizzn , @peachyaeger @crxm-dollx , @marisabel14 , @yunskook, @reimiiko, @megumuro