kinda obsessed reader

There are a million different ways that a situation can end. There's a million ways to raise a son and to earn his love. But none of the ways his mother used makes sense to him. Not one. Now he’s had a taste of your love, he can’t imagine thinking his mother loved him, at all actually. 

The morning starts like a routine for Roman, next to you. His days look very different to the way they were just a few months ago. For once he has been responsible for something good instead of evil. You are a piece of his humanity he never expected to find or even knew existed. 

Roman doesn’t know how he got here. Not even a little bit. Sure he can name the steps he took. But the fact that you said yes to going out with him, having a label attached to him. He is completely baffled by it. But more than grateful for it. He had prepared for rejection, he even had a plan of how to change your mind. But he didn't need it. You were in, long before you knew you were. 

His eyes begin to flutter open, a little sore from waking up and having to fall back to sleep, again over and over, mostly making sure you’re still there. But, against all odds, Roman is completely sober by choice. No high to come down from, no alcohol left diffusing in his system. No revolving door of women. His head is actually clear. 

The light doesn’t really register with him because there isn’t much of it, his dark curtains only allow strands of light to enter the sanctuary that is his home. Not a house. Home. A foundation for him to build something solid on, stability for the first time in his life. Not rooted in money or control but something kinder. 

He isn’t used to this yet. Feeling. Not running.It's an odd sensation for him to register until he looks down and remembers why he wants to do this. His girl. He lays on his back and you are the prettiest mess he’s ever seen. You’re laying on his stomach, he can’t see your face but he knows you’ve drooled on him. Your hair is all over him and somehow all over your bare shoulders. Your hands hold him gently. Even in your sleep, you treat him with care and it makes him feel more…emotional. This is the complete opposite of how you both were just a couple of months ago and it catches him off guard. 

Being this close to you, he doesn’t have to imagine a single thing. It’s all right there. He doesn’t have to steal anything or indulge in a fleeting moment. It is all so strange. He always has this feeling to run. Dodge a bullet he’s still sure is coming but you’ve trusted him with something he can’t name and regardless of his instincts. He plans to protect it. 

He reaches down to touch your hair, unapologetic. Not trying to hide the touch, though he is trying to savour it. He tries to savour all of it. Even the itch on his stomach because of your hair. You begin to stir, momentarily elbowing him in the stomach until you settle again now laying on your back, not even acknowledging his existence. The change in position has readjusted his shirt that basically swallows you. But your shoulders still stick out, your skin touches his and he doesn’t have to pretend to hate it. 

By instinct he places a kiss on your shoulder, chaste, sure. It feels a lot like the moment he first realised he was a monster with feelings. Feelings that he has had to fight to access, while you have stood at the front row silently cheering him on. 

He closes his eyes, lips still on your addictive skin. He kisses again and again until eventually he places a gentle kiss on your neck. He doesn’t have to observe anymore. He can live. 

He rests his head on your shoulder, letting his eyes close. Memories begin playing behind his content eyes, he actually gave up the position of CEO. He gave up the Godfrey institute. Gave it to Norman who insisted that Roman keep the fortune but he’d take the business. Who was Roman to argue? He planned to let his girl have expensive taste. Then the drugs stopped, he went through hell. He questioned if every sweat was worth it, that’s when he’d end up in his bed, the sheets unwashed since you last slept in them. Then the alcohol stopped. That’s when he had to stop running. Running away from who he is. Away from his love for you that he had convinced himself wasn’t real or was the bi-product of his additions or his trauma. His love had been beyond loyal even when his actions couldn’t be. 

He exhales, opening his eyes again.Though Roman can't help but slip into the old habit because he does have one last observation to make. It’s a simple one, not an emotionally complex one. You’re a fucking mircle he had never prayed for. He initially wanted you for a distraction from the world. But now you are the world. He can not believe his luck. 

Your eyes begin to open in reaction to the light. You know Roman is awake, you can feel him on your shoulder. You turn your head to him, opening your eyes fully to get a good look. He's staring right back at you, focused and present. It always catches you by surprise. 

“Rome?” you mumble still staring at him 

His eyes light up at the nickname “Hmm?” 

“You’re staring again” you poke his nose, and he scrunches it in response. “So what if i am, you’re my girl” he shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world, but it makes you feel special. 

“You don’t have to do it every morning Roman, I’ll still be your girl” you amaze him, in a way that money and fancy cars can’t. The reassurance hits him, he’s still not used to receiving it. His eyes become a little tearful and he blinks slowly trying to control it. “I know, you’ll always be my girl” 

You’d probably kill him if you ever found out he’d been watching since before you were together, but those are for him and him only. 

He tucks your hair behind your ear, carefully like you're fragile. He knows you aren’t but something in him still is. “Are you hungry?” he begins sitting up, adjusting the blankets so you’re completely covered by them. 

“Depends who’s cooking it?” Roman drops his head in his hands, still ashamed of the breakfast he cooked you. 

“I’ll let Anna cook it, I won't touch another piece of bacon again I swear” you burst out laughing when roman crosses his heart and hopes to die. And he has never heard a sweeter sound in his life. 

“Alright, alright, I’ll have bacon and eggs then” you begin to sit up so you can go down stairs but roman stops you. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” his eye brows furrow with genuine confusion. “You’re having breakfast in bed.” He doesn't leave room for argument so you settle back down giggling at how silly this all is, how impossible it all seemed. 

He places a kiss on your forehead, then disappears downstairs. You look at the photo on the bedside table, the one Roman placed there without having to be prompted. It's a simple picture that Anna managed to capture, one of you and him. Sitting in the kitchen eating takeout, after Roman had somehow burnt the pasta you were cooking. It was your first real date. It went wrong but everything felt more than right. 

Roman may have his morning observations but you’ll be sticking to daily understandings, where you can help Roman be a better version of himself, better than he ever believed he could be but you always knew existed.

A little scrap of paper lands on your desk, and you flatten your palm over it reflexively before peeking at the handwriting through your fingers.

You look pretty when you’re concentrating.

You feel a smile threaten to tug at the corners of your mouth, and you press your lips into a hard line to stop it, knowing he’s watching you from across the room. You won’t give him the satisfaction, when you know he’s teasing.

“Mrs Blake! Mrs Blake, they’re passing notes.”

You freeze, your fingers curling around the offending paper on your desk as you lift your eyes and find half the class and your teacher staring at you.

“Is this true?”

You open your mouth, then close it again.

“I saw it. Martin threw a piece of paper to her, there was writing on it.”

“Simon,” Mrs Blake sighs. “It isn’t nice to tattle.”

Simon wrinkles his nose. “But passing notes is against the school code of conduct. Section four, paragraph three. Passing notes in class is disruptive to other students and disrespectful of your teacher’s time.”

“You’re such a fucking spaz,” Martin says, and Simon’s cheeks pink.

“That isn’t a nice word. And I’m not spastic, I don’t have any of the neurological conditions that cause involuntary muscle spasms. I have Aspergers Syndrome.”

“Martin, go to the principals office.” Mrs Blake sounds exasperated by everybody involved at this point. “You know that language isn’t acceptable.” She doesn’t demand he apologize to Simon, and you huff a quiet laugh under your breath.

“Nor is finding amusement in the misbehaviour of others.” She looks sternly at you, and you slink down in your seat.

“She should be sent to the principal as well.” Simon spares you the tiniest of glances before fixing his wide, unblinking green eyes on Mrs Blake again. “She broke the rules.”

“Why don’t you just-“

“That’s enough.” Mrs Blake raises her voice an octave, and you flinch. She never raises her voice, and you know with a sinking sense of dread that your squabbles with Simon have gone too far this time. “I’m sick of the two of you fighting like cats and dogs week in, week out. It’s time you learned to get along.”

“No,” you say.

“Impossible.” Simon says at the same moment.

Mrs Blake rolls her eyes. “Alright, everybody. Time for a little physics lesson. She walks back to her desk, plucking up two white and red magnetic blocks. Every magnet has a north and a south pole. Two like poles will repel each other,” she holds the red ends together, demonstrating the way they push each other away. “But opposites attract.” She presses the red end of one against the white end of the other, and the magnets snap together with a little click. “For our summer projects, I’m going to pair you with the person in the class I think most represents your opposite. I’ve gotten to know you all quite well over the course of the year, so I think I’m up to the task.”

There is a general ripple of grumbles around the room, but nobody dares to complain. Not with the smug smirk on Mrs Blake’s face, and the looming threat of being sent to the principal. She levels a finger at you, and you feel the dread settle heavy in your bones before she even opens her mouth. “Pack up your things. You’ll be sitting with Simon for the rest of the semester.”

*

“You’re kicking me.”

“I’m not.”

Simon makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “Yes, you are. Your foot is touching the leg of my stool, and every third kick it brushes my calf.”

“So?”

“So I want you to stop it.”

You huff, rolling your eyes as you cross your legs in the opposite direction. “You’re such a baby.”

“I’m not a baby. I was born 1990.”

“You’re always so goddamn literal.”

Simon’s brows furrow as he glares at you. “Of course I’m literal. Am I supposed to be figurative? Nothing you say makes sense.”

You stick your tongue out at him, and Simon wrinkles his nose as he leans as far away from you as he can get.

The assignment isn’t difficult; define natural selection, find an example in nature, and write a paper exploring it. The only thing making the project impossible was the thought of working with Simon. You drum your fingers against the desk as Simon runs his finger down the page on his textbook.

“You can’t possibly be reading that fast.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t be taking any of it in.”

“Yes, I am. I’m much smarter than you.”

You scoff, reaching for his book and yanking it out from under his hand. “Hey!”

Simon’s fingers close around your wrist, and you’re so shocked at the contact that you drop the book back to the desk with a clatter. “You’re touching me.”

Simon releases your hand so fast he almost topples off his stool. “No, I didn’t.” There’s a pretty pink blush creeping up over his face, and you feel your stomach do a little flip at how uncomfortable he looks. Serves him right, actually.

“Martin is going to be so mad at you for getting him in trouble.”

Simon shrugs, relieved you’ve changed the subject. His palm itches from where he’d pressed his hand to your skin, and there’s an unfamiliar churning low in his stomach that he doesn’t want to think about. “He broke the rules.”

You roll your eyes. “Always with the rules, Simon? You’re so boring.”

Simon flushes a deeper red, feeling a thickness in the back of his throat like he might cry. He hates that you have this effect on him. He’s hated it since the moment he met you, and he’s hated you almost as long because it’s easier to hate you than it is to address… whatever you make him feel. “It isn’t boring to be a good citizen. Rules keep us safe.”

He’s so condescending. He’s so condescending and he’s so smug. You look at the slight rounding of his shoulders, the way his perfectly combed hair sits against his forehead, the zipper on his hoodie done all the way up to the top, and you hate him. You want to push him off the stool. You want to run your fingers through his hair until he looks fucked.

Instead, you slide your hand off the desk and drop it onto his thigh. “Being safe isn’t fun, Simon.”

All his words leave his brain as all his blood rushes south. You’re touching him. You’re touching him there, just inches from the rapidly thickening length of his cock in his pants. He shifts underneath your hand, but you don’t move it. This is both a blessing and a curse, because if you wiggled just a little higher you’d feel his erection, which would be BAD. But if you won’t release his thigh, Simon won’t be able to stop his cock from throbbing with how badly it wants you to touch it.

Simon isn’t in the habit of referring to parts of himself as working outside of his consciousness, but he’ll make an exception for his cock because he really, really doesn’t understand it. Getting hard in Biology because you’re touching him is mortifying. It’s a betrayal of his intelligent, logically thinking mind. He grips the edge of the desk until his knuckles go white, taking short, shallow breaths in through his mouth.

“You look a little flustered.” You whisper, and Simon feels your breath on the side of his neck. It makes his skin crawl. It makes his cock throb.

“I’m not. I don’t like to be touched.”

You lean forward, dropping your eyes to the prominent jab of his cock against his jeans. “Liar.”

“I’m not a liar.” Simon’s face is so red its burning, he can hear the thunder of his heartbeat in his own ears as your fingers lift from his leg for a fraction of a second and then… press down into a squeeze.

The sound that comes out of Simon is another thing he won’t claim as a part of his consciousness, because it’s squeaky and embarrassing.

Your eyes widen, clit throbbing at the needy, slutty little moan he releases. “What did you say?”

“I…” Simon swallows, tongue licking over his lips as he tries desperately to string a sentence together. “I don’t like to be touched.”

You hum, dragging your palm over his thigh and up and… oh, no. Oh no, your fingers graze against the bulge in his pants and Simon’s nails dig so hard into the desk he leaves little crescent indents in the lacquer on the wood. “I think maybe you do.” You whisper, leaning in close enough for his hair to tickle the tip of your nose. “Or at least, you do by me. Isn’t that interesting?”

You withdraw your hand, leaning back on your stool and picking up your pen like nothing had happened, and Simon takes a full minute to recover his breathing enough to release the table from his grip. His fingers ache, and there’s a sensory nightmare of sticky precum damp in his boxers. “I think we should look at mimicry in butterflies.” You say conversationally. “The pattern on the Monarch is really-“

Simon almost falls off his seat in his haste to get away. He leaves his book open on the table, dipping to scoop his messenger bag from the floor before he bolts from the room. Mrs Blake turns to you, frowning. “What did you do?”

You shake your head and shrug, the picture of innocence, but something that might be guilt gnaws at your insides as you look at the empty seat beside you for the rest of the period.

As the bell rings to signal the end of the period, Simon is sitting in the library because it’s his safe place. On campus, at least, where he doesn’t have access to his spaceship or the familiar four walls of his bedroom. The books and the enforced silence of the library help to muffle the chaos a little bit, and the librarian doesn’t ever bother him or expect him to talk to her.

He’s erratic and panicky as he turns through the stacks, coming to rest in the astronomy section and picking a shelf at eye level. Simon runs his fingers over the spines of the books, reading the title and author of each one. The routine of it calms him down, he knows every book in this section by heart. He’s read them all over and over again.

He smells you before he sees you, and something icy twists in his stomach as he listens to the soft thud, thud of your footsteps. “Simon?”

“Go away.”

“I… we need to work on the project.” You’d meant to apologize. You really, really had, the words had been on the tip of your tongue but then you’d seen him and he’d told you to go away and the irritation that always flared up in his presence had surfaced.

“I don’t want to work with you. I will tell Mrs Blake to switch us.”

You lean against a bookshelf. “She won’t do it. Working with our… opposites is part of the project.”

“You’re not my opposite.”

“Yeah?” You push off from the shelf and close the distance between your body and his. Simon is much taller than you, all gangly awkward limbs. You poke him in the stomach, surprised at the hard press of muscle, and wonder what he might look like underneath his ill-fitting hoodie. “What am I, then?”

“You…” Simon swallows, eyes flicking to your mouth and lower, to the swell of your breasts against your shirt for a moment. “You’re annoying. You… you’re rude to me. You think you know everything but you don’t.”

You hum. “You think you know everything, Simon.” You walk your fingers up the closed zipper on the front of his hoodie, pinching the slider and dragging it down to reveal the soft cotton of his shirt beneath. “But you don’t.”

Simon’s brain is on fire. You’re too close, and there’s an insane impulsive part of him that wants to pull you closer. He presses himself back against the shelves, feeling the bite of the metal against his shoulders and his spine, but it does nothing to relieve the anxiety of feeling so trapped. “I don’t like you.”

You nod. “I don’t like you, either.”

Simon knows this. He doesn’t know why it stings to hear you say it out loud. “Viceroy butterflies evolved to resemble the visual patterns of the monarch, a toxic species.”  

“I don’t need Batesian mimicry explained to me, Simon. I picked the topic, remember?”

“I know. But did you know that recent studies have proven that it isn’t Batesian.”

You frown, releasing his zipper and taking a half step back. “What do you mean?”

Simon licks his lips, feeling the grounding calm of reason flooding through him as he recites the learned information. “Recent studies have shown that the viceroy butterfly is also toxic to predators. It isn’t a harmless species mimicking a toxic one. It’s just a different type of poison.”

“Müllerian mimicry, then,” you say quietly. “I didn’t know that.”

Simon feels emboldened by your retreat, and he takes a step forward, bracing his hand on the shelf beside your head and leaning in closer than he’s ever voluntarily been to anyone who wasn’t a blood relative. “You’re like the viceroy. Everybody thinks you’re harmless, but you aren’t. You’re dangerous and I’m the only one who sees it.”

With him leaning over you your eyes are almost level with his mouth, and you watch his plush, full lips form the words with a growing arousal coiling in your stomach. He’d never spoken to you like this. He’d never looked so… predatory. And for the first time ever you were noticing that Simon was actually kinda hot. Interesting.

*

“Shut up.”

Simon groans against your hand, his hips bucking helplessly as your thumb rubs mercilessly over the sticky head of his cock. You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, watching as his pupils dilate and his tongue licks at the palm you have pressed over his lips to muffle his moans. Simon’s bedroom is weird. The red and blue outfit he wears to school every single day is only an extension of the rest of him, because everything in his room is red and blue too. There’s an oil drum in the middle of the room that he won’t talk about, and you aren’t really interested enough to care. Not with Simon’s cock in your hand. Not with the glassy look in his eyes.

It hadn’t been hard to get him to this point, once you’d decided to push his buttons. He was so tightly wound already, he’d been hard from the moment you sat on his bed and ran your fingers up the inside of his thigh. Your books lay forgotten on the floor, but that doesn’t matter either. You’d already written the assignment and would just add Simon’s contributions before submitting it.

Simon whimpers as you drag your slick thumb down over the ridges of his cock, gripping him hard at the base. “Shut up, Simon.”

Simon really tries to. He really tries to keep his mouth shut, but the feeling of your hand on his cock is both the best thing he’s ever experienced and the worst kind of overstimulation. His skin is on fire, electricity itching in his veins, but there’s a deep, throbbing pleasure radiating out from the point where you’re jerking your fist up and down his cock and he’s pretty sure he’ll cry if you stop.

Your breasts press against your shirt, the thin cotton of your bra and the thinner cotton of your shirt providing little padding. Simon can see the little stiff peaks of your nipples through the fabric, and his cock twitches in your palm at the sight. He’d imagined you. Another thing his conscious mind wouldn’t claim, of course, but he’d done it. Pictured your face, your breasts, the thick plushness of your thighs on the few occasions when he’d jerked off at night.

You remove your hand from him, and Simon makes a pitiful sound of protest as you lift your hand to your face and spit into your palm. “If I let you go, will you scream?”

Simon shakes his head, though he’s not actually sure he won’t. You remove your hand from his mouth, and he licks the salt of your sweat from his lips. It should be gross. It is gross. “Spitting is a dirty habit.”

You scoff, wrapping your saliva-slick hand around his cock and jerking his length with a brutal rhythm. “I’ll show you a dirty habit.”

Simon sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, hands fisting the sheets either side of his thighs desperately as his hips begin to fuck up into your fist. “I can’t-“

“Tell me about viceroy butterflies.”

Simon looks at you, a confused, irritated expression on his pretty face. “I’m not doing the project for you, you’ll have to go to the library and-ahhh,” he breaks off with a breathy groan as you squeeze and twist the head of his cock in your palm before increasing your pace on his shaft. “Vi-viceroy catepillars consume p-p-poisonous plants.”

“Mmhmm,” you hum, shuffling closer so you can lift your hand to brush his damp hair away from his sweaty forehead.

“But they don’t- ah,” he whimpers, hips lifting rapidly as his long fingers twist in the sheets. “They don’t get sick. They store the poison until they… transform.”

You lean in, brushing the tip of your nose against his shoulder. Simon smells like shampoo and fabric softener. It’s babyish, and your core throbs in response. “The picture of innocence.”

Simon sobs, his bottom lip wobbling as he desperately tries to stave off his orgasm. It’s not that he’s enjoying this, not exactly. But the thought of coming like this, of spilling white and sticky over your hand and his thighs… it makes him sick. He’d never live such a thing down.

“Until they… they store it until they…” Simon chews his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down hard enough to taste the metal of his blood as he watches your fist become a blur against his cock. His precum and your spit glisten on your fingers, and Simon’s stomach rolls over as the coil in his lower abdomen winds tighter and tighter.

“Until they’re consumed,” you whisper. You cup his jaw, turning his head and coaxing his mouth to yours so you can press your lips against his. Simon’s mouth is just as soft and warm and lovely as you’d expected, and he whines against your tongue as his release washes through him.

Simon’s hips jerk up violently as you suck his tongue into your mouth and bite down on the sensitive flesh. He can taste your gum, and it’s the best and the worst thing he’s ever felt. But then his cock is spurting thick ropes of cum and he feels the splashes against his thighs. You begin to pull away, and Simon can’t let you see what he did. His hands lift from the sheets and tangle in your hair instead, the soft strands looping easily around his fingers as he holds you close and massages your lips with his own.

The hand on his cock slows down, stroking him carefully through the aftershocks of his orgasm, and you sigh into his mouth. His cum is cooling on your fingers, and you release his cock with a parting squeeze before pulling away from the kiss to examine the slick dripping off your knuckles. “Well.”

“Don’t.” Simon says softly. His face is pink, his expression pained.

“You don’t know what I was going to say.”

He swallows, tucking his softening, sensitive cock back into his underpants and lifting his hips to pull his jeans back up. “I do. That I shouldn’t have done that. Made the mess.”

You tilt your head to the side. “I liked that, Simon. Don’t get me wrong, you’re the most infuriating know-it-all on the planet. But I liked that. I liked touching you. I liked making you cum.”

Simon groans, squeezing his eyes shut as you bring your fingers to your mouth and lick his cum from them one by one. “Shut up.”

You huff a laugh, reaching out to ruffle his hair aggressively. Simon yelps, shuffling away from you and further back onto the bed. “Stop it! Why did you do that?”

You shrug. “I just always wanted to, I guess.”

Simon shakes his head, shifting uncomfortably with the cum drying on his thighs and the awful sparkle in your eye. “I don’t like to be touched.”

You crawl onto the bed, and Simon’s thighs part automatically as you settle between his legs. “I think maybe you do.” You whisper, leaning in close enough for his breath to tickle the tip of your nose. “Or at least, you do by me. Isn’t that interesting?”

The doctor steeples his fingers against the closed folder Roman had pushed across the desk. “Miscellaneous expenses. Things cost money, Roman. More money than expected, sometimes. Not a concept I’d expect you to have much understanding of, considering your personal financial background.”

“Get to the goddamn point, Pryce.”

“The point, Mr Godfrey, is that we do not all have the luxury of a trust fund. Some of us need to have contingencies in place to avoid unnecessary delays in the acquisition of vital supplies.”

“What’s the Morpheus project?”

The polite smile on Pryce’s face drops, his eyes slipping to either side. To the suited men with stern faces sitting around the table. He looks back at the smug, jumped up prick masquerading as his CEO, and sighs. “One of our more… interesting projects. We’re working on a treatment for one of the most common and troublesome ailments plaguing mankind. The humble insomnia. With around 35% of the US population experiencing bouts of the condition, a treatment would be… wildly profitable.”

This is the word the men at the table need in order to switch off, nodding and humming and shuffling their papers.

Roman’s expression tightens. “Then you won’t mind showing me, will you?”

“You’re going to be just fine.” Dr Blinksy offers you a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and you swallow. You don’t believe him, but you don’t much care either way anymore. You’re so unbelievably tired. Tired of sleepless nights, of jolting out of drowsiness with your heart hammering against your ribs and your sheets soaked in sweat. Tired of jumping at the creak of the door or the sound of the wind. Tired of living with an intolerable level of anxiety that never, ever lets up.

“Sure.” You close your eyes and let the rhythmic beeping of the machine you’re hooked up to lull you into sleep. Unconsciousness comes easy enough, with how exhausted you are, but your dreams are plagued by the shivering shape of him, just in the edges of your vision.

“Go away!” You call out. Your lips part around the silent words, your eyes flickering behind your lids as the digital display reading your brain lights up. His shadow thickens, solidifying as he steps into the light, and you drop to your knees and scream.

“That one.” Roman presses his fingers to the glass, eyes fixed to the body tossing and turning on the narrow hospital bed. “What’s wrong with her?”

Pryce pulls your details up on his tablet. “The patient believes she’s being haunted by a ghost or an entity of some sort. It’s affected her sleep and severely limited her ability to engage in every day activities.”

Roman tilts his head to the side, observing the pinched look on your face and the way you your fingers curl and uncurl in the sheet. “You think she’s got a ghost problem?”

Pryce scoffs. “An interesting thought, but no. I think sleep deprivation and an undiagnosed psychotic condition has lead her to some very vivid hallucinations. The important thing is that she certainly believes it. That’s what we’re interested in here. In locating and isolating the source of her cerebral overactivity so we can determine a way to… neutralise it.”

“She looks like she’s in pain. Or like she’s getting fucked.”

Pryce presses his lips together to avoid grimacing. “I suppose to you there’s little difference in the two.”

Roman knows he’s being goaded, but he lets the words roll off him. He’s fixed on you, on how your lips part around soft moans as whatever you’re dreaming about consumes you completely. “What’s she saying?”

Pryce sighs, pressing a few buttons on the keypad beside the door. Your voice fills the room, filtering out of the speakers above. Not words, just sweet little whimpers and sobs. Roman feels his cock stiffen at the sound, and he wonders whether you’d replicate those same pretty noises with his tongue in your cunt.

“Are you making progress?”

“Baby steps, Roman.” Pryce says carefully. “We’re just compiling research at this stage. She’s one of a dozen subjects we have with us at the moment, and we’ll need several more rounds to gather enough data to start looking at patterns in-“

“With her. Are you making progress with her?”

Pryce blinks, assessing the situation from a new angle. Roman Godfrey was unpredictable. He was a wild card, a loose cannon and a general pain in everybody’s ass. But with his child in the wind and Shelley out of reach, the young CEO needed something to distract him. Watching Roman watch you, Johan makes a decision. A sacrifice, for the greater good. “I don’t think we’ll be able to do anything for her. I’ll likely dismiss her in the morning.”

Roman runs his fingers down the glass, the friction leaving a squeak against the surface. “I’ll tell her. I mean, it’s my company. Should come from me.”

Pryce has dismissed about a thousand unsuitable subjects from his trials over the years, and Roman hasn’t so much as glanced at the paperwork. But for you, he’d make an exception. To see your eyes open, to hear what your voice sounded like when you said his name.

“I don’t… understand, Mr Godfrey.” You twist your hands in your lap, a nervous gesture that had developed along with several other tics to cope with your anxiety. “Did I do something wrong?”

Roman shakes his head, pushing out of his seat to step around his desk. He sinks into a crouch beside your chair, and you chew your bottom lip into your mouth as you stare at your knees. “Dr Pryce doesn’t think he can help you anymore. He’s a prick.”

Your eyes lift at that, and Roman feels a fluttering in his chest at just how pretty they are. “It was a long shot.” You sigh, untangling your fingers and lifting a hand to brush through your hair. Roman catches the scent of your shampoo, something warm and clean, and he licks over his bottom lip like he might be able to taste you on the air.

“He’s a prick.” Roman repeats.

“He tried.” You swallow, shaking your head as the absurd urge to cry stings your eyes. “It was stupid to get my hopes up.”

Roman should let you walk out of here. He should let your crazy ass leave and go back to running the shit out of his damned company. “I might be able to help you.”

Roman can’t bring himself to regret the words when your face lights up and you brush tears from your cheeks with shaking fingers. “Really?”

He watches you wipe your fingers on your jeans with regret, imagining how fucking good your tears would have tasted if he’d grabbed your hand and sucked your fingers into his mouth. “I know a thing or two about… you know. The supernatural.”

It’s the understatement of the fucking century, since Roman himself is the supernatural, but that part doesn’t matter. Destiny Rumancek will have a book, and if she doesn’t there are a dozen other witches he could try in the city. Hell, he could hit up the local church if he gets really stuck.

“You’d… I mean you’re a busy man, Mr Godfrey.”

Roman drops his hand to your knee and you jump. “Roman.” He says softly. “Call me Roman. And I wanna help you. Wanna do some good.”

It isn’t completely a lie, even if Roman’s cock is stirring to life in his pants at the pink tinge under your skin and your wide, watery eyes.

*

Roman’s thumbing through the book, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell of the yellowed pages when his phone rings.

“Tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”

Roman hums. “I’m not jerking off right now. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Destiny makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “Why am I hearing that you bought a demonology book from the wiccan store downtown.”

“Why does Hemlock Grove even have a wiccan store? I think that’s a more pertinent question.”

“Roman.”

“Destiny.” He mimics her tone. “Peter told you?”

“He’s worried about you. And now I am too. I mean, what do you really know about this girl?”

“She’s haunted by a ghost or something.” Roman shrugs, though Destiny can’t see him. “And she’s fucking hot.”

“There it is.” She sighs heavily into the receiver. “Look, if she’s really possessed by something, you’re out of your depth, Roman. Bring her to me.”

Roman considers it. He’d considered it right away, actually. But then he’d have to share you, and both Rumancek cousins were roguish little sluts and Roman doesn’t want the competition. Not when a small but very vocal voice in the back of his head is telling him that he wouldn’t win, anyway.

There’s a knock at the door, and Roman runs a hand through his hair as he crosses to answer it. “I gotta go, she’s here. Don’t call me again unless you wanna hear her screaming my name.”

Destiny starts to say something, probably something hateful and entirely untrue regarding the size and scope of Roman’s cock, when he ends the call and shoves his phone into his pocket.

You’re standing on the front step, looking small and scared. Your knees actually shake, and Roman feels a pang of protectiveness wash over him as he steps aside and invites you into his house.

You take a seat on the wide leather couch, barely making a dent in the surface like you’re terrified to take up space. “Nervous?”

You bite your lip and nod. “He… it gets angry. It’s dangerous.”

Roman feels a little skitter of fear at the absolute dread in your voice. If you’re faking it, you’re a damned good actress.

“He? You said he.”

You sigh, lifting a hand to rake back through your hair. “I think it… I mean I don’t know. I’ve never actually seen… whatever it is. But three years ago my ex-boyfriend died.”

Roman takes a seat beside you on the couch, extending his arm along the back of the couch. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Your voice takes on a hard edge, harsher than he’d ever heard it. “He wasn’t a nice guy. The night he died he was coming to my house. To force me to reconsider the split. To… teach me a lesson.” You tangle your fingers together in your lap again, squeezing the digits bloodless. “He taught me lessons a lot.”

Roman’s stomach flips over at the ugly thought of it. “How’d he die?”

“Car accident.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “I didn’t cry when they told me. I didn’t go to his funeral or anything.”

Roman shuffles closer, closer than he even means to. “No one could blame you for that.”

You look up at him with grateful, wet eyes, and Roman’s heart skitters over a beat. This isn’t what he thought was going to happen. You’re not what he thought you were. And the wide-open sincerity in your face has him believing you, actually.

“Things started to… happen about six months later. I went on a date with a guy from one of my classes. It was all fine, we were having a good time. And then his coffee just tipped over, spilling right into his lap. He asked if I’d kicked the table or something and I swear I hadn’t. I don’t know if he believed me. Then when we were leaving, he held the door open for me and it just slammed shut on his hand. Broke three of his fingers. I said it must have been the wind, but there wasn’t so much as a breeze. He didn’t call me again after that.” You laugh bitterly. “Not that I expected him to.”

“So you think you’re being… haunted? By your exes ghost.”

“I know.” You mumble, cheeks staining a deeper shade. “I know how it sounds.”

“Sounds lonely.”

Your head snaps up, and you shuffle closer to him. Nobody has ever come so close to believing you before. You’d heard stories about Roman Godfrey, none of them good. But the man sitting across from you on the couch, the man who had taken an interest in helping you and invited himself into your life… well he didn’t seem so bad. He seemed good, in fact.

“It is.” You whisper. “Anytime someone tries to get close… he makes them leave.”

Roman knows something about people leaving. About people seeing the baggage and deciding he isn’t worth the hassle. “Maybe we should make him leave then, huh?”

You huff a laugh. “I’d try anything.” You lick over your lips, bracing a shaking hand on Roman’s thigh. “Anything.”

The plan doesn’t come together so much as unravel. Roman’s cock is stirring because he’s desperate and he’s sick and your fear is turning him on. But the plan makes sense, now he knows what you’re dealing with. “We have to piss him off.”

You’d tilted your head to the side, looking bewildered and cute, and Roman had almost lost it. “What do you mean? He’s always mad.”

“He gets worse when you’re with a guy, right? Like, stronger? Makes his presence known?”

You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth for a moment. “Not just… any guy.”

“No, I know.” Roman says, his lips curling into a smirk. “But maybe we could recreate the… specific circumstances.” If you’re right, the ex will manifest himself and Roman will be able to add poltergeist to his growing collection of personal curiosities. If you’re batshit crazy, at least he’ll get laid. It’s a win-win situation, far as Roman can see it.

“You’d do that for me?”  Your voice is low and breathy, and Roman’s cock twitches visibly as it strains against the front of his pants. He twists a single, fat lock of hair back into place and off his forehead, eyes dropping to your mouth.

“Like kissing a pretty girl is a sacrifice for me? Of course I’d do it for you. For you, to you… with you.” He leans in, brushing his mouth against yours, and you exhale shakily against his lips. Your breath tingles on his mouth, and Roman presses his lips more firmly to yours as his hands lift to cup your jaw and hold you closer.

His tongue licks into your mouth and you moan softly, little jolts of arousal pulsing through you at the wet, rough caress of his tongue against yours. You close your eyes, drowning in the sensation of his strong hands on your face. You don’t notice the lights flickering, but Roman does.

He drops one hand from your face to your waist, caressing the skin over your ribs before walking his fingers up to curl around the curve of one breast.

You’re still making pretty little sounds, the wet smack of your lips on his sending him half crazy as he focuses on the flickering lamp on the table beside you. You pull away from the kiss, pecking his lips over and over as Roman cups your breast more fully. “I don’t think it’s working.”

Roman shakes his head, using his free hand to press lightly against your shoulder and guide you back against the couch. “The lights are flickering. It’s working. Maybe we need to give him a little more.”

You blow a breath out through your mouth slowly, feeling your heart accelerate. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Roman.”

Roman crawls over you, pressing his thigh firmly between your legs as he dips his head to press open-mouthed kisses over your throat. “I’m willing to take the risk.”

You moan quietly at the feeling of his thigh grinding against your core, and your hips begin to shift in time, rocking you against the rough denim of his jeans. There’s a whooshing sound, and Roman ducks just in time to avoid a braining as a vase is launched over the couch to shatter against the kitchen island on the other side of the room.

Your eyes fly wide and you try to rise, pulling yourself up against his shirt, but Roman eases your hands out of the fabric and pins them above your head. “It’s working. He’s getting pissed now.”

“He broke something.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Roman soothes, pressing his weight into your wrists as he lowers over your body and ruts his hard bulge against your center. “It’s just stuff.”

Tears are pooling in your eyes, and Roman dips his head to lick at the trails as they break free and run into your hairline. “How do we get him to go away?” You whisper, heat aching in your core at the feeling of his tongue on your skin.

“That comes later. Need him even more pissed off first.” Roman mumbles, his free hand pushing between your bodies to undo the button on the front of your pants. “Need to get him blind with it.”

You moan as Roman pushes his fingers into your underwear, the long digits probing against your wet folds as he searches for your clit. You gasp when he finds it, pinching the sensitive bud between two fingers and encouraging it to swell under his expert touch.

You focus on the building sensation as the coil in your stomach winds tighter. Roman isn’t looking at you, and that makes it easier. Because you know your face will be scrunching up with the pleasure. Your ex used to say it made you look ugly, and you’d hate for Roman to see that. You’d hate for him to see that and stop and decide you’re not worth the hassle. His fingers are working circles against your clit almost absently as he scans the room. There’s a flicker of something in his periphery vision, and Roman stretches his fingers to push his middle inside you. You gasp, spine arching into him, and Roman lets out a satisfied hum at the tight, wet heat of you clenching around him. “You’re going to feel so good on my cock,” he coos, pumping his finger in and out of you. “I’ll fuck you better than anyone else ever has.”

You know he’s baiting the ghost, but your body reacts as though this is all for you anyway. You moan, grinding helplessly down against his hand as his finger curls inside you.

“He never…” you gasp, panting hard. “He never… I never c-came with him,” you gasp. Roman stills his hand for a moment, looking down at you with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Never?”

“He didn’t… care about whether I did or not.” You lick your lips self-consciously.

Roman scoffs, pulling his hand out of your underwear and sitting back to suck your arousal from his fingers. “Well that’s fucking bullshit. He lifts his head, glaring at his own reflection in the wide expanse of black glass lining the wall. “You hear me? That’s fucking bullshit, man.”

The lamp on the table beside the couch explodes, plunging the room into darkness.

You scream, and Roman drops his body protectively over yours. You feel his cock twitch against your stomach and it sends a bolt of adrenaline-laced arousal through you. “You okay?”

Roman looks down at you, lips pulling to the side in a lopsided smirk. “I’m gunna make you cum. I think that’ll get this piece of shit to show himself.”

You swallow thickly. “I don’t know if I can, Roman.”

Roman frowns. “You don’t want it?” He rolls his hips down against you.

“No! I mean,” you sigh, “he told me I was… broken. That I couldn’t do it.”

Roman feels an uncomfortable twisting in his stomach at how sad and small your voice is.

He dips his face low, nuzzling his nose against yours. “That’s bullshit, okay? Let me show you it’s bullshit.”

You tilt your chin up to connect your mouth to his, sucking his plump bottom lip against your teeth, and Roman groans low in his throat as his cock leaks precum into his boxers. “Okay,” you whisper against his lips. “Okay, Roman.”

Roman sits back on his heels, brushing his hair away from his forehead as he tugs your pants down. You have to twist your feet so he can pull them off completely, and a little bubble of embarrassed laughter spills from your lips. Roman grins, catching your wriggling foot and pressing his lips to your ankle. “Just relax. It’s just me and you here, right?” He looks around the room. “Nothing else.”

You hum as he trails kisses up the inside of your leg, his hand splaying wide over your inner thigh to stop you from closing him out as he licks the damp patch on the front of your panties. You whimper, covering your own mouth with your palm to stifle the sounds.

“Don’t do that.” You look down to meet Roman’s hungry green eyes. “I want to hear you.”

You nod, biting harshly on your lip as Roman’s mouth returns to suck against your covered core. His eyes remain fixed on yours, and the intensity in them makes your clit throb with how much you need him to touch you. “Please, Roman,” you whisper. “I need…”

Roman pulls back enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties, peeling them away from your soaked center. You glisten before him, the room lit only by the light coming from the upstairs hallway. He wishes he could see you better so he could catalogue every minute expression on your face as he unravels you against his mouth, but he’ll settle for the little gasps and moans you make and the hot, wet slick of your arousal pooling on the couch under your ass.

Roman’s eyes flicker closed at the taste of you the moment he presses the flat expanse of his tongue against your clit. You pulse and quiver, so alive and vibrant and rich that Roman thinks he might cum just from this. Just from the drag of his cock against the couch and the taste of you drowning out everything else.

There’s an awful sound, more smashing from the kitchen, and you turn your head and reach down to push against Roman’s shoulders. Roman grunts a warning, wrapping his arms around your thighs and pinning you against his mouth. “Roman something is- happening-“ you gasp the words between shaky moans as Roman’s tongue pushes inside the tightness of you, his nose nuzzling sharply against your clit as he probes against your sensitive walls.

His hair is damp with sweat and hangs in his face, a little too long to stay styled when he’s so wrecked. Your fingers twist in the luxury, thick fabric of his sweater and you wonder what he looks like underneath the sensible layers.

There’s another crash, and Roman does look up then. His expensive wine bottles are smashing against the tiles in the kitchen, one by one. Like the piece of shit is taunting him. Luring him away from you. “Roman,” you whisper. “We should stop. He’s going to break all your-“

“I have a wine cellar with a hundred bottles better than those.” Roman says, dipping his head to lick a slow stripe up from your entrance to your clit. “I’m not gunna let you go until you’ve cum on my face. Let him throw his supernatural fucking tantrum about it.”

Your eyes roll back and your head drops to the couch as Roman’s finger snake up the inside of your thigh and push into you, curling back against the sensitive, spongy spot inside you as he flicks his tongue against your clit. “God, oh, Godddd,” you moan, hips lifting to meet his face as you grind against his mouth. “I think I’m-“ you break off with a high-pitched cry as your release washes through you, curling your toes and whiting out your vision as you jerk and writhe against the insistent press of Roman’s tongue and the in and out of his fingers.

Your head rolls to the side in the aftershocks, and your heart stops at the shimmering, almost corporal form hovering just beside the couch. “ROMAN!” You shriek, and Roman turns his head. He knows what he’s going to see, considering the sheer terror on your face, but the sight of the apparition still takes him a little by surprise.

“Fuck you, Casper.” He spits, pulling his hard cock from his jeans and dropping over you again. “You wanna terrorize her? Didn’t get enough of that when you were alive?”

He pushes into you, and you moan and clench around the intrusion even as your eyes roll wildly back and forth between the living, breathing man on top of you and the dead shadow of hatred shivering just to the side.

“He’ll… stop,” you sob. Roman doesn’t. He pulls half out and pushes back in, and the shape on the edge of the couch seems to thicken, swirling like smoke.

“You’re okay,” Roman whispers, dropping to kiss your lips just once before pushing back up. He hooks his arms around your thighs and presses you back, fucking you hard into the couch. At this angle the head of his cock bumps your cervix, and you let out a low whine. “I’ve got you. Just me.”

You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth as you whimper. Your hands reach up to wrap around his neck, tickling at the hair tucked into his collar, and Roman hums.

“Has anyone else… since him?” He asks, his breathing becoming labored with the force of his thrusts.

“No,” you whisper, fluttering your muscles around his cock just to watch his face contort with the pleasure of it. “You’re the first.”

Roman smiles, a faint dusting of pink spreading across his cheeks. “I’m claiming you.” He turns his head then, watching with clinical fascination as the shape solidifies into something more strongly resembling a body. “She’s mine. You’re not welcome in her space, or in her anymore. She’s mine.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, terrified to watch and terrified that Roman has badly misjudged the danger of the situation. Because there’s no way it’s that simple. It just can’t be.

The smoke leaks onto the couch, wrapping around Roman’s throat, and his eyes bulge wide. “Shit, shit!” You squeak, wriggling out from underneath him and trying uselessly to pry the smoke from his neck. “Shit, go away! You’re banished, you’re nothing! Leave him alone!”

The smoke leeches away from Roman, crawling up your thighs and caressing against your bare core in a hideous mimicry of a touch. “Did he give you anything?” Roman asks, his voice rising in pitch along with his panic as the smoke wraps possessively around your legs.

“Aside from trauma?”

“Yeah. I mean, a gift. Did he ever give you anything that-“

Roman cuts himself off as his eyes drop to a thin, gold chain at your throat. “Tell me that’s not from him.”

Your hand flies to your throat, to the tarnished, cheap heart pendant resting against your sternum. “Oh god.”

“Give it to me!” He shouts, reaching across to snatch it from your neck. The thin chain snaps under the pressure, and Roman rummages in his jeans for his lighter before holding it to the cheap pendant.

Metal shouldn’t catch the way the pendant does. Within seconds, Roman’s holding a rope of pure fire, and he drops it on the floor with a hiss as his skin is singed. The smoke seems to shudder, vibrating back into the convulsing shape of a man before it, too, catches alight.

You stare in wide-eyed horror as the apparition that had been haunting you for more than two years burns up into nothing.

The silence in the wake of it is deafening. Roman sucks his fingers into his mouth, nursing the hurt, and you move mechanically to pry them from his mouth and inspect the damage. There are blisters already forming, but the burns are superficial.

“How did you know to do that?” You ask quietly. You think you might go mad if you raise your voice.

“Supernatural.”

“What?”

“I watched that fuckin show. Supernatural. With the two brothers who hunt demons and shit.”

You blink at Roman. “You’re kidding.”

Roman shrugs, dropping his head back against the couch. “Was worth a shot.”

“What…” You blink at him, feeling a surge of actual rage flush through you. It’s unfamiliar, but you welcome it. You welcome anything that isn’t the low-level haze of anxiety you’d been living through since the arrival of your ghost. “What was the plan if it hadn’t worked?”

Roman rolls his head to look at you. “I don’t know. Keep giving you orgasms until he got bored, I guess.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “That… I mean… he wouldn’t have just-“ You cut yourself off with a frustrated growl, climbing into Roman’s lap and impaling yourself on his cock. He’s still hard despite almost being murdered by a malevolent supernatural entity, and you wonder what exactly that says about his mental state as you rock back and forth on his cock.

“Shit.” Roman huffs, hands dropping to your hips to help you set a rhythm. “Oh shit.”

You flutter your muscles around him, gripping his cock hard in your tight, wet heat, and Roman’s head drops back again, exposing the pale expanse of his throat. You lean in, pecking kisses up his neck and nipping at the sharp line of his jaw, and Roman moans as his cock twitches inside you.

“Thank you, Roman.” You purr into his ear. “You saved my life tonight. You… you have no idea,” you push up on your knees and drop back down heavily, sending a bolt of pleasure through you at the hard thrust of his cock so deep inside you. “No idea how grateful I am.”

Roman whimpers, fingers digging harshly into your hips. “I have some idea.”

“No,” you mumble, swiveling your hips to massage his cock against your walls as you reach a hand up to tug at the loose hair falling over his forehead. “You’ve… released me.” You lean in, your sensitive nipples chafing against his sweater as you lick into his mouth. “You set me free.”

Roman feels you whisper the words against his mouth, and his cock twitches hard inside you once, twice before he cums, spilling thickly against your cervix and filling you up as you flutter around him. You’re so dominant all of a sudden, like exorcising the ghost has burned away the fragility Roman had been so drawn to. And whilst he’ll miss the mousy little girl who blushed at his touch, he can’t bring himself to mourn too hard. Not when you’re riding him like a pro, your fingers in his hair and your teeth biting at his lips like you’re so desperate for him you can’t stop.

You moan throatily, grinding your clit against his pubic bone as you writhe in his lap, and Roman decides that this is better, this is so much better than before. Even if you’re possessed by a hunger he can’t keep up with. Even if you’re a new kind of demon intent on sucking his soul out through his cock. He’ll learn to keep up. He’ll learn to keep you fed. He’ll embrace this haunting like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, actually.

The doctor steeples his fingers against the closed folder Roman had pushed across the desk. “Miscellaneous expenses. Things cost money, Roman. More money than expected, sometimes. Not a concept I’d expect you to have much understanding of, considering your personal financial background.”

“Get to the goddamn point, Pryce.”

“The point, Mr Godfrey, is that we do not all have the luxury of a trust fund. Some of us need to have contingencies in place to avoid unnecessary delays in the acquisition of vital supplies.”

“What’s the Morpheus project?”

The polite smile on Pryce’s face drops, his eyes slipping to either side. To the suited men with stern faces sitting around the table. He looks back at the smug, jumped up prick masquerading as his CEO, and sighs. “One of our more… interesting projects. We’re working on a treatment for one of the most common and troublesome ailments plaguing mankind. The humble insomnia. With around 35% of the US population experiencing bouts of the condition, a treatment would be… wildly profitable.”

This is the word the men at the table need in order to switch off, nodding and humming and shuffling their papers.

Roman’s expression tightens. “Then you won’t mind showing me, will you?”

“You’re going to be just fine.” Dr Blinksy offers you a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, and you swallow. You don’t believe him, but you don’t much care either way anymore. You’re so unbelievably tired. Tired of sleepless nights, of jolting out of drowsiness with your heart hammering against your ribs and your sheets soaked in sweat. Tired of jumping at the creak of the door or the sound of the wind. Tired of living with an intolerable level of anxiety that never, ever lets up.

“Sure.” You close your eyes and let the rhythmic beeping of the machine you’re hooked up to lull you into sleep. Unconsciousness comes easy enough, with how exhausted you are, but your dreams are plagued by the shivering shape of him, just in the edges of your vision.

“Go away!” You call out. Your lips part around the silent words, your eyes flickering behind your lids as the digital display reading your brain lights up. His shadow thickens, solidifying as he steps into the light, and you drop to your knees and scream.

“That one.” Roman presses his fingers to the glass, eyes fixed to the body tossing and turning on the narrow hospital bed. “What’s wrong with her?”

Pryce pulls your details up on his tablet. “The patient believes she’s being haunted by a ghost or an entity of some sort. It’s affected her sleep and severely limited her ability to engage in every day activities.”

Roman tilts his head to the side, observing the pinched look on your face and the way you your fingers curl and uncurl in the sheet. “You think she’s got a ghost problem?”

Pryce scoffs. “An interesting thought, but no. I think sleep deprivation and an undiagnosed psychotic condition has lead her to some very vivid hallucinations. The important thing is that she certainly believes it. That’s what we’re interested in here. In locating and isolating the source of her cerebral overactivity so we can determine a way to… neutralise it.”

“She looks like she’s in pain. Or like she’s getting fucked.”

Pryce presses his lips together to avoid grimacing. “I suppose to you there’s little difference in the two.”

Roman knows he’s being goaded, but he lets the words roll off him. He’s fixed on you, on how your lips part around soft moans as whatever you’re dreaming about consumes you completely. “What’s she saying?”

Pryce sighs, pressing a few buttons on the keypad beside the door. Your voice fills the room, filtering out of the speakers above. Not words, just sweet little whimpers and sobs. Roman feels his cock stiffen at the sound, and he wonders whether you’d replicate those same pretty noises with his tongue in your cunt.

“Are you making progress?”

“Baby steps, Roman.” Pryce says carefully. “We’re just compiling research at this stage. She’s one of a dozen subjects we have with us at the moment, and we’ll need several more rounds to gather enough data to start looking at patterns in-“

“With her. Are you making progress with her?”

Pryce blinks, assessing the situation from a new angle. Roman Godfrey was unpredictable. He was a wild card, a loose cannon and a general pain in everybody’s ass. But with his child in the wind and Shelley out of reach, the young CEO needed something to distract him. Watching Roman watch you, Johan makes a decision. A sacrifice, for the greater good. “I don’t think we’ll be able to do anything for her. I’ll likely dismiss her in the morning.”

Roman runs his fingers down the glass, the friction leaving a squeak against the surface. “I’ll tell her. I mean, it’s my company. Should come from me.”

Pryce has dismissed about a thousand unsuitable subjects from his trials over the years, and Roman hasn’t so much as glanced at the paperwork. But for you, he’d make an exception. To see your eyes open, to hear what your voice sounded like when you said his name.

“I don’t… understand, Mr Godfrey.” You twist your hands in your lap, a nervous gesture that had developed along with several other tics to cope with your anxiety. “Did I do something wrong?”

Roman shakes his head, pushing out of his seat to step around his desk. He sinks into a crouch beside your chair, and you chew your bottom lip into your mouth as you stare at your knees. “Dr Pryce doesn’t think he can help you anymore. He’s a prick.”

Your eyes lift at that, and Roman feels a fluttering in his chest at just how pretty they are. “It was a long shot.” You sigh, untangling your fingers and lifting a hand to brush through your hair. Roman catches the scent of your shampoo, something warm and clean, and he licks over his bottom lip like he might be able to taste you on the air.

“He’s a prick.” Roman repeats.

“He tried.” You swallow, shaking your head as the absurd urge to cry stings your eyes. “It was stupid to get my hopes up.”

Roman should let you walk out of here. He should let your crazy ass leave and go back to running the shit out of his damned company. “I might be able to help you.”

Roman can’t bring himself to regret the words when your face lights up and you brush tears from your cheeks with shaking fingers. “Really?”

He watches you wipe your fingers on your jeans with regret, imagining how fucking good your tears would have tasted if he’d grabbed your hand and sucked your fingers into his mouth. “I know a thing or two about… you know. The supernatural.”

It’s the understatement of the fucking century, since Roman himself is the supernatural, but that part doesn’t matter. Destiny Rumancek will have a book, and if she doesn’t there are a dozen other witches he could try in the city. Hell, he could hit up the local church if he gets really stuck.

“You’d… I mean you’re a busy man, Mr Godfrey.”

Roman drops his hand to your knee and you jump. “Roman.” He says softly. “Call me Roman. And I wanna help you. Wanna do some good.”

It isn’t completely a lie, even if Roman’s cock is stirring to life in his pants at the pink tinge under your skin and your wide, watery eyes.

*

Roman’s thumbing through the book, wrinkling his nose at the musty smell of the yellowed pages when his phone rings.

“Tell me you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”

Roman hums. “I’m not jerking off right now. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Destiny makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. “Why am I hearing that you bought a demonology book from the wiccan store downtown.”

“Why does Hemlock Grove even have a wiccan store? I think that’s a more pertinent question.”

“Roman.”

“Destiny.” He mimics her tone. “Peter told you?”

“He’s worried about you. And now I am too. I mean, what do you really know about this girl?”

“She’s haunted by a ghost or something.” Roman shrugs, though Destiny can’t see him. “And she’s fucking hot.”

“There it is.” She sighs heavily into the receiver. “Look, if she’s really possessed by something, you’re out of your depth, Roman. Bring her to me.”

Roman considers it. He’d considered it right away, actually. But then he’d have to share you, and both Rumancek cousins were roguish little sluts and Roman doesn’t want the competition. Not when a small but very vocal voice in the back of his head is telling him that he wouldn’t win, anyway.

There’s a knock at the door, and Roman runs a hand through his hair as he crosses to answer it. “I gotta go, she’s here. Don’t call me again unless you wanna hear her screaming my name.”

Destiny starts to say something, probably something hateful and entirely untrue regarding the size and scope of Roman’s cock, when he ends the call and shoves his phone into his pocket.

You’re standing on the front step, looking small and scared. Your knees actually shake, and Roman feels a pang of protectiveness wash over him as he steps aside and invites you into his house.

You take a seat on the wide leather couch, barely making a dent in the surface like you’re terrified to take up space. “Nervous?”

You bite your lip and nod. “He… it gets angry. It’s dangerous.”

Roman feels a little skitter of fear at the absolute dread in your voice. If you’re faking it, you’re a damned good actress.

“He? You said he.”

You sigh, lifting a hand to rake back through your hair. “I think it… I mean I don’t know. I’ve never actually seen… whatever it is. But three years ago my ex-boyfriend died.”

Roman takes a seat beside you on the couch, extending his arm along the back of the couch. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Your voice takes on a hard edge, harsher than he’d ever heard it. “He wasn’t a nice guy. The night he died he was coming to my house. To force me to reconsider the split. To… teach me a lesson.” You tangle your fingers together in your lap again, squeezing the digits bloodless. “He taught me lessons a lot.”

Roman’s stomach flips over at the ugly thought of it. “How’d he die?”

“Car accident.” Your voice is barely above a whisper. “I didn’t cry when they told me. I didn’t go to his funeral or anything.”

Roman shuffles closer, closer than he even means to. “No one could blame you for that.”

You look up at him with grateful, wet eyes, and Roman’s heart skitters over a beat. This isn’t what he thought was going to happen. You’re not what he thought you were. And the wide-open sincerity in your face has him believing you, actually.

“Things started to… happen about six months later. I went on a date with a guy from one of my classes. It was all fine, we were having a good time. And then his coffee just tipped over, spilling right into his lap. He asked if I’d kicked the table or something and I swear I hadn’t. I don’t know if he believed me. Then when we were leaving, he held the door open for me and it just slammed shut on his hand. Broke three of his fingers. I said it must have been the wind, but there wasn’t so much as a breeze. He didn’t call me again after that.” You laugh bitterly. “Not that I expected him to.”

“So you think you’re being… haunted? By your exes ghost.”

“I know.” You mumble, cheeks staining a deeper shade. “I know how it sounds.”

“Sounds lonely.”

Your head snaps up, and you shuffle closer to him. Nobody has ever come so close to believing you before. You’d heard stories about Roman Godfrey, none of them good. But the man sitting across from you on the couch, the man who had taken an interest in helping you and invited himself into your life… well he didn’t seem so bad. He seemed good, in fact.

“It is.” You whisper. “Anytime someone tries to get close… he makes them leave.”

Roman knows something about people leaving. About people seeing the baggage and deciding he isn’t worth the hassle. “Maybe we should make him leave then, huh?”

You huff a laugh. “I’d try anything.” You lick over your lips, bracing a shaking hand on Roman’s thigh. “Anything.”

The plan doesn’t come together so much as unravel. Roman’s cock is stirring because he’s desperate and he’s sick and your fear is turning him on. But the plan makes sense, now he knows what you’re dealing with. “We have to piss him off.”

You’d tilted your head to the side, looking bewildered and cute, and Roman had almost lost it. “What do you mean? He’s always mad.”

“He gets worse when you’re with a guy, right? Like, stronger? Makes his presence known?”

You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth for a moment. “Not just… any guy.”

“No, I know.” Roman says, his lips curling into a smirk. “But maybe we could recreate the… specific circumstances.” If you’re right, the ex will manifest himself and Roman will be able to add poltergeist to his growing collection of personal curiosities. If you’re batshit crazy, at least he’ll get laid. It’s a win-win situation, far as Roman can see it.

“You’d do that for me?”  Your voice is low and breathy, and Roman’s cock twitches visibly as it strains against the front of his pants. He twists a single, fat lock of hair back into place and off his forehead, eyes dropping to your mouth.

“Like kissing a pretty girl is a sacrifice for me? Of course I’d do it for you. For you, to you… with you.” He leans in, brushing his mouth against yours, and you exhale shakily against his lips. Your breath tingles on his mouth, and Roman presses his lips more firmly to yours as his hands lift to cup your jaw and hold you closer.

His tongue licks into your mouth and you moan softly, little jolts of arousal pulsing through you at the wet, rough caress of his tongue against yours. You close your eyes, drowning in the sensation of his strong hands on your face. You don’t notice the lights flickering, but Roman does.

He drops one hand from your face to your waist, caressing the skin over your ribs before walking his fingers up to curl around the curve of one breast.

You’re still making pretty little sounds, the wet smack of your lips on his sending him half crazy as he focuses on the flickering lamp on the table beside you. You pull away from the kiss, pecking his lips over and over as Roman cups your breast more fully. “I don’t think it’s working.”

Roman shakes his head, using his free hand to press lightly against your shoulder and guide you back against the couch. “The lights are flickering. It’s working. Maybe we need to give him a little more.”

You blow a breath out through your mouth slowly, feeling your heart accelerate. “I don’t want you to get hurt, Roman.”

Roman crawls over you, pressing his thigh firmly between your legs as he dips his head to press open-mouthed kisses over your throat. “I’m willing to take the risk.”

You moan quietly at the feeling of his thigh grinding against your core, and your hips begin to shift in time, rocking you against the rough denim of his jeans. There’s a whooshing sound, and Roman ducks just in time to avoid a braining as a vase is launched over the couch to shatter against the kitchen island on the other side of the room.

Your eyes fly wide and you try to rise, pulling yourself up against his shirt, but Roman eases your hands out of the fabric and pins them above your head. “It’s working. He’s getting pissed now.”

“He broke something.”

“I don’t give a shit,” Roman soothes, pressing his weight into your wrists as he lowers over your body and ruts his hard bulge against your center. “It’s just stuff.”

Tears are pooling in your eyes, and Roman dips his head to lick at the trails as they break free and run into your hairline. “How do we get him to go away?” You whisper, heat aching in your core at the feeling of his tongue on your skin.

“That comes later. Need him even more pissed off first.” Roman mumbles, his free hand pushing between your bodies to undo the button on the front of your pants. “Need to get him blind with it.”

You moan as Roman pushes his fingers into your underwear, the long digits probing against your wet folds as he searches for your clit. You gasp when he finds it, pinching the sensitive bud between two fingers and encouraging it to swell under his expert touch.

You focus on the building sensation as the coil in your stomach winds tighter. Roman isn’t looking at you, and that makes it easier. Because you know your face will be scrunching up with the pleasure. Your ex used to say it made you look ugly, and you’d hate for Roman to see that. You’d hate for him to see that and stop and decide you’re not worth the hassle. His fingers are working circles against your clit almost absently as he scans the room. There’s a flicker of something in his periphery vision, and Roman stretches his fingers to push his middle inside you. You gasp, spine arching into him, and Roman lets out a satisfied hum at the tight, wet heat of you clenching around him. “You’re going to feel so good on my cock,” he coos, pumping his finger in and out of you. “I’ll fuck you better than anyone else ever has.”

You know he’s baiting the ghost, but your body reacts as though this is all for you anyway. You moan, grinding helplessly down against his hand as his finger curls inside you.

“He never…” you gasp, panting hard. “He never… I never c-came with him,” you gasp. Roman stills his hand for a moment, looking down at you with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Never?”

“He didn’t… care about whether I did or not.” You lick your lips self-consciously.

Roman scoffs, pulling his hand out of your underwear and sitting back to suck your arousal from his fingers. “Well that’s fucking bullshit. He lifts his head, glaring at his own reflection in the wide expanse of black glass lining the wall. “You hear me? That’s fucking bullshit, man.”

The lamp on the table beside the couch explodes, plunging the room into darkness.

You scream, and Roman drops his body protectively over yours. You feel his cock twitch against your stomach and it sends a bolt of adrenaline-laced arousal through you. “You okay?”

Roman looks down at you, lips pulling to the side in a lopsided smirk. “I’m gunna make you cum. I think that’ll get this piece of shit to show himself.”

You swallow thickly. “I don’t know if I can, Roman.”

Roman frowns. “You don’t want it?” He rolls his hips down against you.

“No! I mean,” you sigh, “he told me I was… broken. That I couldn’t do it.”

Roman feels an uncomfortable twisting in his stomach at how sad and small your voice is.

He dips his face low, nuzzling his nose against yours. “That’s bullshit, okay? Let me show you it’s bullshit.”

You tilt your chin up to connect your mouth to his, sucking his plump bottom lip against your teeth, and Roman groans low in his throat as his cock leaks precum into his boxers. “Okay,” you whisper against his lips. “Okay, Roman.”

Roman sits back on his heels, brushing his hair away from his forehead as he tugs your pants down. You have to twist your feet so he can pull them off completely, and a little bubble of embarrassed laughter spills from your lips. Roman grins, catching your wriggling foot and pressing his lips to your ankle. “Just relax. It’s just me and you here, right?” He looks around the room. “Nothing else.”

You hum as he trails kisses up the inside of your leg, his hand splaying wide over your inner thigh to stop you from closing him out as he licks the damp patch on the front of your panties. You whimper, covering your own mouth with your palm to stifle the sounds.

“Don’t do that.” You look down to meet Roman’s hungry green eyes. “I want to hear you.”

You nod, biting harshly on your lip as Roman’s mouth returns to suck against your covered core. His eyes remain fixed on yours, and the intensity in them makes your clit throb with how much you need him to touch you. “Please, Roman,” you whisper. “I need…”

Roman pulls back enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties, peeling them away from your soaked center. You glisten before him, the room lit only by the light coming from the upstairs hallway. He wishes he could see you better so he could catalogue every minute expression on your face as he unravels you against his mouth, but he’ll settle for the little gasps and moans you make and the hot, wet slick of your arousal pooling on the couch under your ass.

Roman’s eyes flicker closed at the taste of you the moment he presses the flat expanse of his tongue against your clit. You pulse and quiver, so alive and vibrant and rich that Roman thinks he might cum just from this. Just from the drag of his cock against the couch and the taste of you drowning out everything else.

There’s an awful sound, more smashing from the kitchen, and you turn your head and reach down to push against Roman’s shoulders. Roman grunts a warning, wrapping his arms around your thighs and pinning you against his mouth. “Roman something is- happening-“ you gasp the words between shaky moans as Roman’s tongue pushes inside the tightness of you, his nose nuzzling sharply against your clit as he probes against your sensitive walls.

His hair is damp with sweat and hangs in his face, a little too long to stay styled when he’s so wrecked. Your fingers twist in the luxury, thick fabric of his sweater and you wonder what he looks like underneath the sensible layers.

There’s another crash, and Roman does look up then. His expensive wine bottles are smashing against the tiles in the kitchen, one by one. Like the piece of shit is taunting him. Luring him away from you. “Roman,” you whisper. “We should stop. He’s going to break all your-“

“I have a wine cellar with a hundred bottles better than those.” Roman says, dipping his head to lick a slow stripe up from your entrance to your clit. “I’m not gunna let you go until you’ve cum on my face. Let him throw his supernatural fucking tantrum about it.”

Your eyes roll back and your head drops to the couch as Roman’s finger snake up the inside of your thigh and push into you, curling back against the sensitive, spongy spot inside you as he flicks his tongue against your clit. “God, oh, Godddd,” you moan, hips lifting to meet his face as you grind against his mouth. “I think I’m-“ you break off with a high-pitched cry as your release washes through you, curling your toes and whiting out your vision as you jerk and writhe against the insistent press of Roman’s tongue and the in and out of his fingers.

Your head rolls to the side in the aftershocks, and your heart stops at the shimmering, almost corporal form hovering just beside the couch. “ROMAN!” You shriek, and Roman turns his head. He knows what he’s going to see, considering the sheer terror on your face, but the sight of the apparition still takes him a little by surprise.

“Fuck you, Casper.” He spits, pulling his hard cock from his jeans and dropping over you again. “You wanna terrorize her? Didn’t get enough of that when you were alive?”

He pushes into you, and you moan and clench around the intrusion even as your eyes roll wildly back and forth between the living, breathing man on top of you and the dead shadow of hatred shivering just to the side.

“He’ll… stop,” you sob. Roman doesn’t. He pulls half out and pushes back in, and the shape on the edge of the couch seems to thicken, swirling like smoke.

“You’re okay,” Roman whispers, dropping to kiss your lips just once before pushing back up. He hooks his arms around your thighs and presses you back, fucking you hard into the couch. At this angle the head of his cock bumps your cervix, and you let out a low whine. “I’ve got you. Just me.”

You nod, sucking your bottom lip into your mouth as you whimper. Your hands reach up to wrap around his neck, tickling at the hair tucked into his collar, and Roman hums.

“Has anyone else… since him?” He asks, his breathing becoming labored with the force of his thrusts.

“No,” you whisper, fluttering your muscles around his cock just to watch his face contort with the pleasure of it. “You’re the first.”

Roman smiles, a faint dusting of pink spreading across his cheeks. “I’m claiming you.” He turns his head then, watching with clinical fascination as the shape solidifies into something more strongly resembling a body. “She’s mine. You’re not welcome in her space, or in her anymore. She’s mine.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, terrified to watch and terrified that Roman has badly misjudged the danger of the situation. Because there’s no way it’s that simple. It just can’t be.

The smoke leaks onto the couch, wrapping around Roman’s throat, and his eyes bulge wide. “Shit, shit!” You squeak, wriggling out from underneath him and trying uselessly to pry the smoke from his neck. “Shit, go away! You’re banished, you’re nothing! Leave him alone!”

The smoke leeches away from Roman, crawling up your thighs and caressing against your bare core in a hideous mimicry of a touch. “Did he give you anything?” Roman asks, his voice rising in pitch along with his panic as the smoke wraps possessively around your legs.

“Aside from trauma?”

“Yeah. I mean, a gift. Did he ever give you anything that-“

Roman cuts himself off as his eyes drop to a thin, gold chain at your throat. “Tell me that’s not from him.”

Your hand flies to your throat, to the tarnished, cheap heart pendant resting against your sternum. “Oh god.”

“Give it to me!” He shouts, reaching across to snatch it from your neck. The thin chain snaps under the pressure, and Roman rummages in his jeans for his lighter before holding it to the cheap pendant.

Metal shouldn’t catch the way the pendant does. Within seconds, Roman’s holding a rope of pure fire, and he drops it on the floor with a hiss as his skin is singed. The smoke seems to shudder, vibrating back into the convulsing shape of a man before it, too, catches alight.

You stare in wide-eyed horror as the apparition that had been haunting you for more than two years burns up into nothing.

The silence in the wake of it is deafening. Roman sucks his fingers into his mouth, nursing the hurt, and you move mechanically to pry them from his mouth and inspect the damage. There are blisters already forming, but the burns are superficial.

“How did you know to do that?” You ask quietly. You think you might go mad if you raise your voice.

“Supernatural.”

“What?”

“I watched that fuckin show. Supernatural. With the two brothers who hunt demons and shit.”

You blink at Roman. “You’re kidding.”

Roman shrugs, dropping his head back against the couch. “Was worth a shot.”

“What…” You blink at him, feeling a surge of actual rage flush through you. It’s unfamiliar, but you welcome it. You welcome anything that isn’t the low-level haze of anxiety you’d been living through since the arrival of your ghost. “What was the plan if it hadn’t worked?”

Roman rolls his head to look at you. “I don’t know. Keep giving you orgasms until he got bored, I guess.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “That… I mean… he wouldn’t have just-“ You cut yourself off with a frustrated growl, climbing into Roman’s lap and impaling yourself on his cock. He’s still hard despite almost being murdered by a malevolent supernatural entity, and you wonder what exactly that says about his mental state as you rock back and forth on his cock.

“Shit.” Roman huffs, hands dropping to your hips to help you set a rhythm. “Oh shit.”

You flutter your muscles around him, gripping his cock hard in your tight, wet heat, and Roman’s head drops back again, exposing the pale expanse of his throat. You lean in, pecking kisses up his neck and nipping at the sharp line of his jaw, and Roman moans as his cock twitches inside you.

“Thank you, Roman.” You purr into his ear. “You saved my life tonight. You… you have no idea,” you push up on your knees and drop back down heavily, sending a bolt of pleasure through you at the hard thrust of his cock so deep inside you. “No idea how grateful I am.”

Roman whimpers, fingers digging harshly into your hips. “I have some idea.”

“No,” you mumble, swiveling your hips to massage his cock against your walls as you reach a hand up to tug at the loose hair falling over his forehead. “You’ve… released me.” You lean in, your sensitive nipples chafing against his sweater as you lick into his mouth. “You set me free.”

Roman feels you whisper the words against his mouth, and his cock twitches hard inside you once, twice before he cums, spilling thickly against your cervix and filling you up as you flutter around him. You’re so dominant all of a sudden, like exorcising the ghost has burned away the fragility Roman had been so drawn to. And whilst he’ll miss the mousy little girl who blushed at his touch, he can’t bring himself to mourn too hard. Not when you’re riding him like a pro, your fingers in his hair and your teeth biting at his lips like you’re so desperate for him you can’t stop.

You moan throatily, grinding your clit against his pubic bone as you writhe in his lap, and Roman decides that this is better, this is so much better than before. Even if you’re possessed by a hunger he can’t keep up with. Even if you’re a new kind of demon intent on sucking his soul out through his cock. He’ll learn to keep up. He’ll learn to keep you fed. He’ll embrace this haunting like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, actually.

…

It wasn’t his best scheme, and even Clark himself could admit that, but it needed to happen.

(Or so he convinced himself. As one might guess, Clark Olofsson could be a stubborn bastard, and that included refusing to drop his own ideas, even when they were poorly thought out, and even when no one had challenged him on the matter.)

He was short on cash, and how the hell else was he going to get it? By working? Please.

He’d been monitoring this particular street in this particular town for a while now, incidentally passing by the same storefronts and seeing which ones were less busy, which ones might have unlocked doors at night… or during the light of day, if he got lucky, and the owners of those places were negligent enough.

But there was one in particular that seemed the easiest target, because every time he traversed the streets, peering in through the wide windows, there weren’t many people inside. It wasn’t so abandoned that he thought there wouldn’t be adequate money in the cash register, but it was largely quiet each night, and not to mention looked to be genuinely deserted every day around noon. Must have been the singular employee’s lunch break.

And best of all? There was a back door, one that would be easier to enter through, and it wasn’t as obvious as breaking a window— it could take a long while before someone even realized the place had been robbed at all.

The decision was easy. It didn’t require any sitting and planning; all he had to do was just waltz in through the back entrance and be on his way.

And instead of doing so at nightfall, which was what his initial impulse had been, Clark would wait until the middle of the night, when the streets would be absolutely cleared of people, and he could do it carefree, without a chance of being seen.

Sure, it would give him less time to get away, but what did it matter, if no one was around to see him? That problem took care of itself.

The one problem he hadn’t taken into account was that the shopkeeper herself, who lived in the loft above the store, would be around to hear all of this. And, unbeknownst to him, wasn’t a heavy enough sleeper to miss it, nor naive enough to write it all off as part of a dream.

…

You liked being in charge of your own quaint business. It was infinitely better than having to answer to a bunch of stuffy higher-ups or even a singular boss with a stick up his ass, regardless of whether you were making less money for it.

Working for someone else, in some larger company in a more populated city rather than just a little storefront in a modest neighborhood, would be suffocating.

This way, you could actually talk to people, recognize the faces that came into your store as more than customers, but neighbors, or occasional friendly tourists who appreciated the variety of products your corner store had to offer.

The only problem was the miscreants who were intent on taking advantage of you in one way or another. Apparently you weren’t an intimidating enough woman to keep young boys from trying to shoplift, or local ladies who presumed a mutual friendship just because you were as polite to them as any other patron, and tried to sweet talk you into giving them bullshit discounts or, as you saw it, free shit.

What those shoplifters and sweet talkers had in common was that they did not succeed. Never.

You weren’t egotistical, not when you only had this small store to your name and nothing else, but you were just prideful enough to not take any of that kind of disrespect.

You knew well enough that you were considerably stronger than they thought you looked, but you didn’t want to have to resort to physical altercations with petty thieves, and that was precisely why you procured a firearm to point any time a young rascal thought they could walk out of your store without paying for whatever was in their hands. They’d instantly shit their pants and run back to their friends, coming up with better excuses as to why they failed to rob you so that they still looked cool by the end of it.

Every damn time.

No one had ever broken and entered, or attempted any actual burglary of the shop.

Of course, that streak was broken the night you heard a scuffle and slam from downstairs, audible enough to rouse you from sleep and make you sit up in bed.

You’d thought for sure you’d built enough of a reputation for yourself to keep any imbecilic locals from trying this kind of shit with you, but apparently not.

Shit.

You rubbed your eyes.

At least you were prepared for this.

Here we go.

…

Clark had been in the middle of emptying the cash register when he heard the creaking upstairs.

Of course, he had seen that the building had two levels— anyone could see that from standing in front of it outside— but never did it occur to him that someone would be lurking up there past midnight.

He tried to hurry up, but thought better of it when the noises didn’t stop, and the sound of footsteps only grew louder.

His eyes darted to a baseball bat, but he couldn’t just fight whoever it was when he didn’t know whether they had a weapon or not.

(Clark had been banking on the fact that there would be no security, that no one would be getting paid to guard a shop this small, but maybe he had been wrong.)

Perhaps, if he only took the money he already had stashed in his pocket, whoever it was wouldn’t see an empty register and realize any cash was missing at all? That was a bad idea, but he didn’t have time to think because someone was running down the stairs and into the storefront—

He couldn’t even dart back out the door he had come from without passing the steps, and risking whoever it was seeing him, and being able to identify him later even if he managed to outrun them.

Without another thought, Clark ducked behind a row of sporting equipment on display, tucked between two tiny aisles as that was just about all the little building had room for. The damn thing was shorter than him, so he dropped to a crouch to stay out of sight as the click of shoes against the stairs stopped and gave way to a tentative voice.

“Hello?” The voice called at first, and it was definitely feminine— but that was all Clark could gather, as there wasn’t much emotion in the single word, though his best guess would’ve been confusion.

A moment of silence passed, as he stayed entirely still and didn’t make another sound.

“Whoever you are,” the voice continued, “I have a rifle!” And this wasn’t a hesitant call into the darkness, this was an announcement.

Clark couldn’t see the stranger for himself, but if the woman wasn’t lying, he may or may not have been royally screwed.

“And I know how to use it,” the stranger's voice— your voice— added, and Clark sat up a little straighter behind the display. “Never been afraid of a little blood,” you continued, and you were unmistakably confident.

Huh. Was he in actual danger, right now?

Clark, obviously, wasn’t scared, he didn’t get that way, but he was tensing up within his hiding spot.

From your perspective, however, this was less harrowing and more infuriating. Some coward had tried to steal from you, and apparently was too chickenshit to even come out and show their face.

When another moment passed and it was quiet enough that you could hear a pin drop, and still you got no response, you sighed with frustration.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath.

Maybe they had already left. And gotten away with god knows what.

You were down the rest of the stairs in a flash, darting behind the counter to check the cash register, and sure enough, when you ran through the bills in your hand, you were short far too many for this to be a trick of the mind. Someone had definitely taken from you, as that cash had definitely been there earlier this evening.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are, you little shit,” you demanded, raising the rifle up and pointing, at various angles, and settling at different points within the store. You were hoping to hear the catch of someone’s breath if you aimed it in just the right direction and made them nervous, but nope, nothing.

This standoff (if you could call it that, when it was feeling very one sided) went on for another minute or two, but when nothing here moved, and you were the only source of noise, you sighed again. This time, it was much more reminiscent of a sigh of defeat.

Turning around, you eyed the empty cash register, and the side of the building to your right where usually only you were permitted.

You should probably check the back door, as that might have been where the thief had entered and subsequently exited— but there were still places someone could hide in here, still corners tucked in shadow and away from the moonlight that someone could have hidden behind— like the display racks.

Clark had chosen that exact moment when your back was turned to make a break for it. He leapt up, heading for the door which was only a few agonizing feet away, but of course it made a cacophony of noise, especially as he slammed his shoulder into the glass in his rush to get out.

“Hey!” You shouted, whirling around behind the counter and raising the rifle you thankfully hadn’t been ready to set down yet.

The tall stranger threw open the door and flew out it, but you hauled yourself up over the desk, jumping right after him.

He hadn’t made it far on the road, as you could see him just down the sidewalk the moment you made it outside, observing his dark hair and darker jacket.

Usually the people who tried to steal from you were kids, but this wasn’t a young boy, this man looked like he was your age— and it wasn’t just his height you had to go off of, you got a good glimpse as he was momentarily struggling to get himself out the door— and you honestly didn’t know if that made it better or worse. Either way, you still thought he was pathetic as you pursued him down the street.

Clark didn’t even look back, just ran, but not so quickly that he’d trip and fall on his ass here on the stone walkway.

If he’d known you were there, and that you had a rifle on hand, no less, he might not have picked your store.

However, hindsight didn’t matter, as you were gaining on him, and he couldn’t let himself get caught by you. It would be absolutely devastating for his ego.

You thought, in the split second before you hopped off of the sidewalk and into the air, that if you caught him, the satisfaction would be even better than retrieving the stolen cash.

And, to Clark’s alarm, you threw yourself at him, not caring if you also got hurt along the way as you tossed the firearm in your hand to the side, and tackled him to the ground until he was face-down on the sidewalk.

You ignored the very undignified noise of pain he shouted as you pinned him there, sitting over his back and reaching one hand into his right pocket to find some of the missing money.

“Aha,” you mused, admiring the bills in your hand even as the man beneath you was actively trying to snatch it back.

You grabbed hold of one of his squabbling hands, grasping his wrist and twisting his arm so that he hissed in surprise at the sudden hurt.

But he wasn’t deterred, as he could tell you didn’t have a gun anymore, and so he tried to kick at you, although it was certainly an odd angle to try to kick someone from when his legs were sprawled out and he was still struggling to at least turn over on the ground if he couldn’t get all the way up.

Still, he had long legs, and that gave him some leverage— you got up, scrambling a couple steps back, made him think he was winning for a second, and then just as he flipped over you were pointing the rifle at him again. That was your real rationale for standing up, and letting him change his position so that he was lying on his back instead.

And— oh shit. He was hot.

Clark blinked up at you, eyeing the firearm in your hand, and not resisting when you lowered yourself back down to sit atop him, plucking the rest of the cash from out of his other pocket.

“That’s better,” you muttered under your breath, the irritation still audible in your tone even as your possessions had been returned to you.

The man beneath you grinned.

“I’m sorry,” he breathlessly chuckled, “I did not realize I was stealing from a beautiful young woman.”

You did not take his shit.

“Maybe,” you gritted out, tightening your hold on the gun, “if you had to support yourself with only a small business, you wouldn’t go around robbing random stores in the first place. At least take from someone rich,” you complained.

And… you had a point.

Clark decided he liked your attitude.

He tried to half-sit up, but you pointed the rifle just under his chin again.

“Careful,” you warned. “For your own good, I’d suggest that you don’t try anything.”

“Nothing, I’m trying nothing,” he laughed again, smiling far too wide for the situation, you thought.

But… that wasn’t a bad look on him.

“I am so sorry,” he insisted again, but he still looked all too amused, and there was no question that he was being insincere.

Yet he flashed that smile of his again, and oh, this was… fuck.

“Apology not accepted,” you sweetly smiled back at him, though you had no doubt the young man underneath you didn’t care about, or simply didn’t catch the insincerity of your smile.

He shook with laughter again at your sarcasm, writhing on the sidewalk, and licking his lips as he tried to get himself under control and he glanced up at you again.

“You’re lucky I haven’t used this,” your remark was just as scathing as you gestured towards him with the gun again, and you were still sitting above him, almost right on top of him, and the closeness was making him fidgety and restless.

“You’re right,” he said, “I am. Very lucky,” he agreed, meeting your eyes meaningfully.

And you couldn’t help the way your body reacted to the implications of this thief, this attractive thief lying on the stone ground below you.

“Who are you?” You demanded.

He blurted his actual name before he could think better of it.

“Clark.”

At least it had just been his given name, and not his last name, too.

“Clark,” you hissed, “give me one good reason why I should let you go.”

“You can’t shoot me,” he instantaneously answered, “I’m too pretty.”

And you were wickedly smiling now, not at his stupid attempt at self-flattering humor, but at what lied beneath it.

“Alright,” you leaned in, “I won’t call the police on you, if you promise not to run the moment I let you get up—” and Clark was already excessively nodding before you were even finished, “— and as long as you make it up to me.”

Oh?

“You mean forgiving me is a possibility?” He raised an eyebrow, and his lips curved up into another smile. “One within reason?”

“Oh, I’ll forgive you,” you assured him, “I just need you to do one little thing for me.”

“Anything,” Clark mischievously grinned up at you.

And you knew this was wrong, but you saw your chance and took it.

You pulled him up by the hair, leaving him gasping in surprised pain again—

“You’re gonna do whatever I ask, and you’re not gonna run off until I tell you we’re done.”

Bingo. Jackpot. Win-win, all of the positive expressions ever.

Clark beamed at you, already forgetting how dizzy you’d only just made him and the sting as you’d pulled his hair.

“Do we have a deal?” You questioned, a sly smile playing on your own lips.

Nodding, Clark was still grinning, though it looked more like a smirk on his mouth by the end of it.

“Deal,” he said.

You nodded back, approvingly.

“Perfect,” you slung the rifle over your shoulder, allowing Clark to push himself up and onto his feet without the gun pointing at him.

Nevertheless, as you led him back to the shop, you aimed it in his direction once again, just to keep him in line and make sure he didn’t abandon your deal and dart off into the night.

But he didn’t, because Clark couldn’t believe his luck.

Flirting his way out of trouble had always been a skill of his, but never had it worked out quite this well.

When you made it back to the storefront, Clark walked in like he owned the damn place as you lingered after him, shutting the door behind you.

“What do you want?” He asked. “How can I earn my forgiveness?”

“Hm,” you considered it. There were no shortage of options running through your head, it was just a matter of choosing which was the best one, which one you wanted to start with.

“Begging,” you said, pacing over to the counter, “beg for forgiveness, and maybe you’ll earn it.”

“But—” Clark caught himself. “Please,” he began, “how? Tell me precisely how.”

You had no trouble hopping onto the front desk, just like you’d had no trouble leaping over it earlier— it wasn’t excessively tall, it was shorter than the other half of the counter, at just the right height— and spreading your legs.

“Come here,” you directed him, beckoning with your pointer finger.

Clark eyed the rifle which was still nearby, on the higher, neighboring counter, but not far out of your reach if you still wanted it.

“Am I going to have to do all of this at the point of a gun?” He nervously laughed.

“Maybe, if you take too long,” you smirked.

His eyes darkened at just the thought of it, even if you were merely joking.

Clark crossed the store until he was standing directly in front of you.

“On your knees,” you told him, and oh, this night couldn’t get any better.

Clark got to his knees, and you parted your own to make room for him as he lowered himself to the floor.

“Show a little remorse, Clark,” you teased, slipping down your pants and underwear as he crawled closer to you to properly reach you, “make me… forgive you,” you breathed out, as he was already panting excitedly, his heart quickening its pace.

He licked you, slowly, one long stripe up the length of your center, before he was simply burying his face in your pussy, no hesitation.

You were somewhat caught off-guard at just how eager he was.

Clearly he had been flirtatious, like, extremely so, but this was absolutely something else as he was lapping against you until you were dripping into his mouth, over that insistent tongue of his.

And he wasn’t just eager to do the work himself, he was eager to be used, for you to pull him impossibly closer, holding the back of his head in place as you rutted your hips up against his face.

Groaning, Clark didn’t just allow it, he actively enjoyed it as you smothered his every sound against your folds, and yet you still seemed to feel each vibration of pleasure over every inch of your skin.

“Ah, that’s it,” you told him, “just like that.”

When you slid over him, Clark made a point of nuzzling against your clit, and you jolted, momentarily stilling him in place as you dug your fingernails into his scalp.

Clark didn’t mind the scratch of your nails, he just opened his mouth against you and sucked, and it was almost too much, and you were gasping— you didn’t want to be the one making undignified noises now, because fuck that, this was supposed to be Clark’s punishment for trying to steal from you, his repentance, not you praising him as an apology for your own rash behavior, even if you had threatened him with a rifle, in all fairness.

But there was no room to feel sorry for any of it as Clark kept it up, and you were just grateful you had him right here like this, regardless of the circumstances that had brought him here.

Maybe it had just been too long since you’d last gotten laid.

You bucked your hips again, thrusting up against his mouth where Clark was still insistently trying to swirl his tongue over you, even if it was sloppy and poorly aimed because of how quick you were at it.

He didn’t try to forcibly still you, he waited for you to pull him towards you once more, and once he had the opportunity, used that closeness to reach your clit again.

“Good boy,” you said through clenched teeth, trying to keep yourself rigid for a second, but you couldn’t help yourself— you fisted your hands in his hair and went back to rubbing off against his face.

Clark took the hint, letting you work him but simultaneously trying to tongue you still.

One of his hands moved from gripping your thigh for balance to brushing over your clit, where he could only lightly grip you when you were fucking up into his mouth fast enough to leave him breathless.

You grabbed his wrist in your own hand, trying to help him along as you kept hold of him with your other hand, and eventually reached a good rhythm where you could still grind your hips up to meet his tongue as he swallowed every drop of your arousal that he could, while simultaneously thumbing over your clit, dragging you closer.

“Fuck!” You snapped as Clark had applied more of that suction again, and your eyes were squeezed shut as Clark’s efforts had nearly gotten you off.

He hummed into you, nose bumping against curls of your hair as his lips were already wet from servicing you like this, slick dampness no doubt dripping down his chin at this point but he didn’t give a damn when he was so close to getting you there, getting some measure of your forgiveness in the process, too—

He was good at this. And it wasn’t just his cocky overconfidence talking.

If there was any indicator that he was good at this, it would have to be your reaction right now, as a hand slipped from his hair to the side of his face as you brushed against his cheek, fingers tightening around his jaw as the clenching sensation within you left you tightening your grip on him with your other hand.

“Mm,” you hummed, “you’re so good for me.”

And the next thing you knew you couldn’t form coherent speech as you pushed up against him, and Clark could only mouth at you for a second more before making you come over his face.

You fumbled to grasp onto his hair, and scratched methodically at his scalp again when you found it.

Panting, you worked your way through the dizzying high, and the world seemed to burn white as you didn’t even have to think any more, floating except for that point of contact with the man on the floor below you— perhaps the only subconscious thoughts in the back of your blissed out mind were of him.

Or at least Clark himself assumed that was the case as you’d dragged him closer to you.

He certainly didn’t mind you coming on his face like that as you jerked your hips just one more time, not at this point when there was already a layer of wetness over his face as it was.

It wasn’t enough to just lick his lips when you were done, which he could get away with sometimes, when he gave considerably less messy head to girls who didn’t fuck his face, grab at his hair, use him like this, but after how into it you’d gotten, Clark might’ve let himself get carried away as well.

He wiped his face, smeared with your arousal and his own saliva, trying to get the mix of drool and come off of himself, especially if he would be leaving this place anytime soon.

But he was forgetting one key detail of your arrangement as you came down from the white hot high of your orgasm and sat up straight on the front desk again.

Until you gave him express permission to leave, Clark wouldn’t be going anywhere, not if you could help it. Not when you had this beautiful stranger right where you wanted him.

Clark looked up at you from where he’d lowered himself closer to the floor again, still seated atop his knees and ignoring whatever soreness he’d find in them when he could properly sense things again, and he wasn’t too numb with pleasure to feel his own legs.

“Well,” you breathlessly huffed, swiping a strand of stray hair out of your face, “that was a great start to your… remorse.”

“Start?” He repeated.

And then, of course, he remembered the terms of your little agreement.

“Oh,” he slowly broke into a smile again, the understanding dawning on him. “I see.”

Clark wiped his hands on his shirt, getting off his knees and pulling himself into a standing position if only to help you stand as you got up off of the desk you’d been sitting atop.

Of course, you didn’t need the assistance— there wasn’t the same boneless exhaustion you might’ve otherwise felt after coming, not when there was still so much adrenaline coursing through your veins.

“And how should I beg for my forgiveness next?” Clark chuckled, looking you up and down, and somehow, despite his taller height, he didn’t appear at all intimidating as he was all too happy to have bent himself to your will.

“Huh,” with a slight laugh of your own, you eyed where he was still visibly hard in his pants, “why don’t you just lay back and let me take care of it?”

Clark looked skeptical for a moment. Perhaps he was suspicious of your implications, as if it was too good to be true, when this was still supposed to be some sort of punishment, was it not?

But before you could wonder what had him furrowing his brows, he spoke up—

“The floor?” He asked.

Suddenly chuckling again, you inclined your head in a couple of nods and you stepped towards him.

“Yes, Clark,” you darkly chuckled once more as you pushed him back with your hand to his chest, “on the floor.”

“Ah… alright,” he shrugged, nervously tittering as he lowered himself to the ground again, obediently laying down on his back and splaying himself out for you.

“Perfect,” you muttered under your breath, “perfect.”

You placed both hands on his thighs, spreading his legs a bit more as you got between them.

“Pants down.”

Something about the demanding simplicity of your words had Clark hardening even further, despite the way he restlessly licked his lips.

He didn’t say a word, just feverishly nodded as he unbuckled his belt and slid off his dark pants just enough so that you had access to his cock.

“That’s it,” you told him, smiling wickedly as you crawled over him, much like you had on the street outside, only you were much closer this time. Agonizingly so, actually.

Clark could feel the heat of your breath on his neck as you teased him, deliberately not touching him at all where it mattered but trailing your hands just about everywhere else along his body, lightly kissing at his neck all the while.

You allowed one hand to graze down his stomach before pulling his shirt up, just brushing his cock in the same hurried motion, and hearing Clark unmistakably catching his breath at even the slightest hint of contact.

At his sharp inhale, you grinned down at him.

“So eager to be of use?”

He was evidently too flustered to offer a clear response— Clark was merely muttering curses under his breath, which only grew more furious when you properly took him in hand, working him up so he was fully hard for you and what you were about to do with him.

You settled yourself even closer to him, grinding your hips against his.

He clenched his teeth, trying to contain a gasp as you sat up over him and gave his cock a squeeze in your hand.

“Alright?” You confirmed, flashing him a smirk that could rival his own.

Clark couldn’t complain about your spunk, no matter how breathless he was— he hoarsely laughed and nodded again, meeting your gaze.

“Oh yes,” he sighed.

With that permission, you were just as quickly bracing yourself over him and then sliding down onto his full length right away.

Clark instantly groaned as you grabbed at his shoulders.

Foolishly, thoughtlessly, he bucked his hips up, already searching for friction as he was apparently unable to wait a millisecond for you to move.

You pressed one of your hands harder against his chest to stay balanced and slapped at the side of his ass with the other, seemingly startling him as his eyes widened and a muffled sound caught in his throat.

“Stay still,” you growled, trying to use what leverage you had to keep him down where you sat on top of him.

He whined at your order like he was in pain, but Clark, at least momentarily, stilled below you.

You knew your scolding had no guarantee of keeping down an unpredictable man like him, however, and so you hurried things along— you were still so wet, you didn’t mind the slight pressure as you rolled your hips, pressing him up deeper inside you as Clark himself was groaning again.

And that was all the warning he got before you were grabbing onto him for balance, fingertips digging into the dark fabric of his jacket as you thrust your hips as fiercely as you could.

A moan tore itself from his throat as you kept at it, trying to be quick about this to satisfy the urgent throb of arousal at your center once more, but still hitting deep inside you instead of torturing the both of you with shallow thrusts.

You angled yourself just right and properly bounced on him, and for a moment or so it was perfection before Clark’s hips suddenly stuttered as he tried to push upwards, and he groaned yet again as he was already coming when you’d only just got started with riding him like this.

Your jaw dropped in disbelief for a second, watching his eyes squeeze shut and his face contort with pleasure and bliss as he worked his way through it, but the second he was gasping at the overstimulation of your warmth around his softening cock, you scoffed without trying to hide your disappointment.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You blurted, not doing him the courtesy of pulling off slowly as you staggered to your feet, looking down at him on the floor like Clark was the most pathetic thing you’d ever regarded with your two eyes.

His jaw was slack like he was caught off guard, and maybe even a little offended.

“I didn’t mean to,” he tried, but you weren’t having it as you bent back down to his level. “I—”

You cut him off as you grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled.

Gasping with pain, Clark almost missed what you were saying to him as you sneered at him.

“That’s no way to get yourself forgiveness,” you’d huffed, and the rest of your haughty talk was too fast and his senses were too dulled after he’d only just come and he could barely hear himself think. “… bitch, get over here and I’ll show you how.”

“What?” Clark hummed.

“Over here,” you beckoned him, pulling him towards the counter you’d been sitting on minutes before, and letting Clark catch his breath for a moment as you headed to one of the small displays near the back of the shop.

Lucky that your corner store sold sporting goods.

Clark was still facing the wall as he braced himself against the desk, so he didn’t even see the paddle in your hand right away.

“You’re too tall,” you muttered under your breath, “I’m getting a chair,” you declared.

“Oh?” Clark turned, standing up straight again as you dragged a chair out from behind the front desk, sitting down in it and parting your legs just a bit, and now that he noticed the instrument in your hand, Clark could see why— when you accordingly tapped your thigh with your spare hand, he eagerly paced over.

Upon seeing the falsely innocent smile on your lips, his cock twitched in his pants again— he’d hastily pulled them back up, but now he was just as hastily pulling them back down.

“Oh,” his eyes were still alight with mischief, regardless of the slight nerves he had at the prospect of being paddled, “are you really so naughty?”

You huffed with laughter.

“No, I’d say you’re the one that’s been naughty,” you slyly smiled, momentarily setting down the paddle so you could guide him, “come here.”

Clark stopped just in front of the chair, grinning down at you and directly meeting your eyes despite the distance currently between the two of you.

“And how would you like me?”

“Sit down,” you motioned for him to turn around, and Clark seemed a little unsure of himself as he was chuckling under his breath again.

“We won’t break the chair?” His mouth slanted into a grin once more.

“No,” you allowed yourself to laugh for a moment as well, “just… here,” you grabbed his hips where he still stood so close to you, trying to guide him down to your lap.

Clark was still confused about how this positioning was possibly going to work— he was just about to get on his knees again when you held him firmly in place.

“The chair can hold both of us for a second,” you assured him.

Shrugging, Clark tried to climb into your lap, but he still fully expected the damn thing to break underneath the combined weight of you both on it, and there was no way he’d ever earn your forgiveness by properly crushing you.

But you knew what you wanted, and you pushed him to the side of the chair, trying to manhandle a very confused Clark who was still taller and stronger than you after all, but who eventually realized you wanted him to turn around, and it was awkward for a second there before you smacked the small of his back and he doubled over, less in pain and more in surprise—

Finally, you managed to get him bent over your knee with his legs spread obscenely wide.

“Oh,” Clark seemed to realize all over again just how persistent you were about making him degrade himself, apparently— not that he was complaining. He just hadn’t expected to be bracing his hands on the floor with his backside in your lap and his long legs spread out over the arms of the chair, as you tried to force them further apart.

“That’s it,” you mischievously dissolved into laughter again, and trapped as his cock was in this odd position, Clark was throbbing when you’d praised him instead of scolding him that time.

He hummed, impatient, and you took that as a sign to pick up the paddle again.

You admired the shape of his ass from this point of view, dragging one hand over the curve of his cheek as Clark himself shuddered.

“You want it?”

“Yes.”

His voice had been nothing but a desperate whisper, and how could you say no to that when this was a discipline he was so excited to take?

You considered the amount of money he’d tried to make off with, the embarrassingly short amount of time it had taken him to come when you were nowhere near finishing again, and figured you didn’t want to overdo it when you were, despite yourself, undeniably charmed by this clumsy criminal of yours.

“Five will do,” you decided, and with that, you spanked him with the pale wooden paddle.

Clark nearly toppled out of the chair and onto the floor with the way his whole body shook under the harsh slap, and he gasped in surprise.

“Another?”

“Oh, yes,” he tried to angle himself for more somehow, and you had to laugh at Clark’s boldness.

“Right away? I just want to make sure you can take it,” you purred, running your free hand down the right side of his ass.

And Clark seemed to take that as a challenge because he huffed and arched into your touch best he could.

“I can take it,” he hissed, “do you think me… weak?” He breathlessly searched for words, “an amateur?”

Your lips curled into another rather sly smile.

“No, Clark,” you teased, “I hardly think you anything, I only just met you.”

“But you know me so well now,” Clark quipped, deviously smiling as he tried to look back up at you, and before he could properly laugh again, you hit him with the paddle a second time and he cried out.

That was certainly one way to wipe that cocky smirk of Clark’s off of his face.

“I know you like that,” you said instead, and with a little laugh, you added, “I suppose that’s all I need to know about you.”

“Please,” he begged, tilting his backside further up as he was still bracing his hands against the floor, trying to somehow give you an even better view of his ass. “Please.”

You promptly smacked him again.

“What did I say about staying still?” You asked.

Still groaning, Clark tried to keep himself from shaking at all so you could give him the last couple of slaps.

“Good,” you hummed, clutching the paddle tighter in your hand, and you offered the last two in quick succession, enjoying every sound he made and the impression it left on the perfect curves of his ass.

“Ah,” Clark was still panting, “that’s it?” He questioned.

You couldn’t help but laugh once more.

“I want to be sure you can still walk out of here,” you grinned, but with that being said, you grabbed hold of his legs, pushing him out of your lap swiftly enough to flip him over so that Clark was laying on his back upon the floor again.

He must not have minded if the wide smile on his face was any indication, however.

Clark looked up at the ceiling, chest heaving as he couldn’t quite catch his breath with you still so close— all of a sudden you were out of the chair and standing above him again.

“Hello,” he dumbly said, smirking up at you.

“Hello,” you teasingly echoed.

“Do you want to come again? I can do better this time,” he happily offered.

Somehow, you didn’t trust his overconfidence.

“We’ll see,” you murmured, but nevertheless you lowered yourself to the floor.

Clark exhaled in relief, trying to tangle one of his hands in your hair as you were diving in to suck kisses into his neck again, but to no real avail as you kept moving down lower, pulling down his shirt to press your lips against his chest as well. You wanted him to remember this after he left— sure, the marks wouldn’t stay forever, but the better he recalled this night, the better chance you had of not having to chase him out of your store with a rifle again. Surely even he wouldn’t be dumb enough to try to steal from the same place twice.

Presently Clark moaned, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Is there something more you want me to do?” He tried, pushing back the pressing need he himself felt and trying to focus on the task at hand; fucking his way out of trouble so you wouldn’t change your mind and call the cops on him.

“Just stay right where you are, pretty boy,” you grinned down at him once more.

Clark simpered right back.

He could do that. He could definitely handle that.

Of course, you didn’t have to wait when Clark had already been hard throughout the entirety of the spanking you’d just given him, and he was no less aroused now that you were looking directly into his eyes again as you positioned yourself atop him.

You didn’t want to be overly optimistic about how long he would last this time, but you were happy to fuck him over and over again until you came, if that’s what it would take, regardless of whether he ended up orgasming more than you over the course of the night. As long as you got to watch him unravel every time, the thought of it wasn’t unappealing.

Yet once you were seated over his cock again, you rocked your hips, and even as his eyes rolled back, Clark wasn’t completely wrong about being able to make you come this time.

He let you dig your hands into his hips as you rode him— let you use him as you so seemed to enjoy— but he thrust his own hips up to hit at that sweet spot inside you which made you pant and dragged you closer.

You sped up, thinking that alone could make you come, but your hips stalled for a moment when one of Clark’s hands gripped at your waist and the other suddenly dropped lower.

It was rather nice how quickly he could find your clit, and have you thrusting up against his hand for more as he lazily smiled up at you like it was the most casual thing in the world. Sleeping around had given him no shortage of experience— perhaps that was one of the few benefits you could enjoy in fucking someone who was as much of a manwhore as Clark.

Still, you were intent on doing most of the work yourself, getting back to the rhythm you’d found earlier as you fucked yourself on his cock, but letting Clark feel helpful as he occasionally thrust up when he wasn’t so absorbed with rubbing at your clit despite how you refused to stay put.

“Ah,” he whined, “are you close?” He asked, clearly because he was close himself.

But to your own surprise, you weren’t lying when you said yes.

“Definitely,” your mouth curved into another smile despite how you were panting at the exertion of keeping up the fast pace, especially when your hips jerked unexpectedly towards his hand when Clark dragged his thumb over you.

You grabbed for his shoulders again, trying to angle yourself better, and, to your pleasant surprise, your combined efforts of grinding your hips up against each other and Clark thumbing your clit did get you to come.

“Jesus,” you gritted, “fuck.”

Clark felt you clench around him, and he was delirious from the sensation of your pussy squeezing around him, squeezing every last drop of release from him as he sobbed through his own orgasm.

Tears, tears of pleasure, of course, pricked the corners of his eyes, and when you were finished and snapping your eyes open again, the visual of Clark looking absolutely wrecked beneath you was well worth the stupidity that had gotten you here in the first place— as far as you were concerned, even if he had made off with some money, if you still ended up like this, it would have been a price you were all too happy to pay.

You weren’t about to tell Clark that, of course.

You braced your hands on his chest, pulling off of him.

“I suppose,” you teased, “that was good.”

“Was it?” Clark hopefully peered up at you.

You leaned down to his level.

“Yes. Consider yourself forgiven, you were… quite a good boy when you had to be,” you chuckled against his ear, playfully licking the lobe.

Exhausted but satisfied, Clark giddily laughed all the same.

The two of you stayed on the floor for a moment, breathing up against one another and savoring the feeling of proximity, but soon enough you were each staggering up into standing positions.

And fuck, it felt like you were only just chasing him down the road, but more time must have passed than you realized, because judging by the color of the sky, soon enough the sun would be coming up now.

“Well, Clark,” you continued, “you have my permission to leave.”

“No cops?” He confirmed.

You barked another laugh.

“No cops,” you reassured him, “you’re free to go.”

Adjusting his leather jacket over his shoulders, Clark breathily sighed, feeling quite pleased with himself as he stared at you. A tough, no-nonsense woman apparently, but one who had been willing to forgive him (once he had done what you asked of him, of course).

He stepped towards you.

“Thank you,” he said, “for your, ah, understanding.”

You smiled a self-satisfied grin.

“Anytime.”

Clark wet his lips, grinning and edging backwards, but before he could actually go, you grabbed him by the white undershirt he was wearing.

“Just don’t think you can pull this shit again.”

Chuckling, Clark stepped back to retrieve his discarded pants.

“What,” he joked, “you wouldn’t want to see me again?”

You looked him up and down, admiring the shape of his ass again before he pulled his pants up and over his underwear.

“We’ll see,” you said, for the second time that night.

Still smiling all the same, Clark had fixed his belt and nodded, and just like that he was out the door and disappearing down the street as he turned the corner he hadn’t quite reached earlier (thanks to you) and leaving you alone with the purple and grey painted sky.

The sunrise was on the horizon, you could see it if you squinted, just like you had seen Clark’s shadow cast against the stone before he left— but probably not for good.

He knew where to find you

…

Tagging: @lunaskye999, @coryoslut, @scarletpresentoldprofilename, and @thedevotchka, thanks for being interested in my Clark bullshit ahahah. <33

Clark smirks, undeterred by your usual, cold demeanour. “What can I say? I’m entranced by your beauty. I don’t bank here, but I wish I did.”

You tilt your head to the side. “I’d be happy to assist you with opening an account, but you’d have to give me your name for that.”

Clark leans in, lowering his voice and glancing side to side before dropping his eyes to your mouth. “I’ll tell you. Just you. But you must promise me something in return.”

You lick your lips unconsciously, and Clark’s cock jumps in the tight confines of his pants. “I know better than to make promises to strangers.” There’s a teasing edge to your voice, and Clark can almost taste the sweet edge of victory.

“Clark. Clark Olofsson. Remember that name, pretty. You’re going to be hearing it on the news one day.”

You roll your eyes, but heat curls low in your stomach at the way he’s looking at you. “Perhaps I will, Mr Olofsson. If you’d give me your personnummer also, I could have an account opened for you, just like that.”

Clark chuckles, glancing down to where your fingers rest on the counter before sliding his own under the partition to lace with yours. “Clark Olofsson is more than a number, älskling. Come to dinner with me tonight, I’ll show you.”

Your eyes drop to Clark’s fingers, to the way the long digits engulf your smaller ones, and you swallow. “I’m not easy, Mr Olofsson. If that’s what you’re thinking you can forget it.”

Clark’s smile is wide and genuine as he releases your fingers. “I’d never think so, not for a moment. I just want to spend the evening in the company of a great beauty. You wouldn’t deny me that, would you?”

You roll your eyes even as a blush stains your cheeks. “Well no, I suppose not.”

“You know my name. And I,” Clark taps his fingers playfully on the glass in line with your nametag. “Know yours. So we’re not strangers anymore, are we?”

You smile then, despite the lingering feeling of apprehension in your gut. Clark is disarmingly charming, and more forward than anyone has ever been. You’d denied him three times in the past two weeks, and yet he’d come back again and again, undeterred. So you tell yourself it’s just to get him to go away. You tell yourself it’s just to help him move on from his strange fixation on you. But when Clark Olofsson flashes you a boyish grin and a wink, your stomach fills with butterflies and a desire that you won’t let yourself acknowledge.

*

“And you’ve been with the Handelsbanken for… how long?” Clark skewers a piece of chicken and brings it to his lips, chewing animatedly.

“Two years,” you say, cutting your meatballs into little pieces. Clark has never seen anybody do that before, and he finds it hopelessly endearing. “I’d like to manage accounts, one day.”

Clark nods. “You’re smart enough to do it.”

“Tell that to the manager.” Your voice raises in pitch, a blush staining across your cheeks as you stab aggressively at a piece of meat on your plate. “He doesn’t believe women should ever leave the checking counter. Pretty faces for the customers.” You scoff, and Clark watches this tiny display of heated rebellion with rapt attention. A way in.

“You’re much too smart for that. Smarter than him, I’d bet.”

You look up then, offering him an embarrassed but genuine smile. “You’re kind to say so, Clark.”

Clark. Clark likes the way you say his name, the lilt you put on the single syllable like a song. He watches you pop a little piece of meatball into your mouth and he considers how your lips might look stretched around his cock. It hadn’t been part of the plan, to seduce you, but then you were a pretty girl and he was Clark fucking Olofsson, so really he should have assumed it from the beginning.

“Have you ever been into the bank at night?”

You frown. “Not after work. There’s a security guard, but otherwise the place is deserted. Why would I?”

Clark shrugs. “I’ve always wondered what it’s like, behind the glass and the pretty girls.”

Your smile returns. “It isn’t so glamorous. There’s the manager’s office, a staff canteen. Oh and the vaults, of course.”

The vaults. Clark leans in. “Tell me something secret, älskling. Something only an expert would know.”

If you think the question odd, you don’t say so. Clark pours you another liberal glass of wine whilst you mull over the question. “I suppose… do you know how the vault works? I think it might be the most impressive thing in the whole building.”

Clark has to really fight to keep his smile small. You were perfection, a few glasses of wine and you’d opened exactly the door he’d hoped for. The only promise sweeter now was the warm wetness between your legs, and it wouldn’t be long at all until Clark could bury his tongue and his cock inside you.

“I assume it works as all safes do. A code, a little dial to click, click, click.” Clark cranks an imaginary knob, and your eyes light.

“No, you see! Everybody thinks so, but it’s so much more complicated than that. For one, the door itself is impossibly thick. You couldn’t drill through it with any drill ever invented.”

“What about a bomb?” Clark teases. “Stick some explosives to it and…” he leans in, his hand finding your knee under the table. “Boom.”

Slick heat pulses in your core at the touch of his fingers against your skin, but you don’t dare move a single muscle even as your heart hammers in your chest. “Wouldn’t work. Too thick.” Your words come out breathy, and Clark walks his finger down the inside of your knee, brushing against the flushec flesh of your thigh. “Plus there are hidden deadbolts, and a series of mechanical locks that work on a timer. Even with the codes, the door won’t-“ you gasp at the brush of fingers against the hot, damp cotton of your panties. “Open.”

Clark’s cock throbs against the front of his pants at the pretty blush on your cheeks and the way your eyes flutter closed at his touch. You’re wet, but he expected that. Even if the words coming out of your mouth were damn bad news, listening to you tell him about the vault is getting him hard. You’re a little bossy when you’re explaining things to him, and he’s looking forward to fucking you dumb.

“So you say the vault is essentially… uncrackable.” Clark asks, pushing your glass across the table and tapping the rim. “Drink.”

You lift the glass mechanically, taking large gulps of the wine to distract yourself from the way Clark’s fingers press and prod at the front of your underwear. Your head swims with the alcohol and the dizzying pleasure throbbing in your core, and you gasp as one of Clark’s fingers slips into the elastic of your underwear to part your folds.

“The only way in would be… through the ceiling. The managers offices above are… the ceiling is just concrete. You could drill through that.”

Clark hums. “It would take days. Not so much of an…” he dips his finger lower, testing the pad of it against your entrance before pushing inside. “In and out job.”

Your lips part around a soft moan as Clark eases into you, curling his finger back against your sensitive walls before withdrawing it and pushing in again. “Clark.”

“I’m sorry, älskling. I get carried away, when you talk to me.”

You hum, fingers gripping the edge of the table as Clark’s thumb brushes against your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud in time with the in and out of his finger. “I’m just a teller.”

“No,” Clark coos, adding a second finger and tapping your mostly-empty glass again. “You’re an important, professional woman. I bet there’s plenty of cash in your drawers, isn’t there? My responsible little girl.”

You hum again, swallowing hard. “I… s-suppose so. I have maybe fifteen or twenty thousand kronor in my drawer. Same for the other girls.”

Clark does the math as he winds you closer to your climax. “Tens of thousands of kronor, entrusted to you. You’re a hell of a woman.”

You groan as your orgasm hits, squeezing your eyes shut as your pussy clamps down around Clark’s fingers. You buck against his thumb and Clark tries to keep up the pressure on your sensitive bundle of nerves as you wriggle. “Fuck, Clark.” You whisper, and it feels dirty hearing a word like that come from the uptight, reserved teller he’d been charming for the better part of a month. Not that he’s surprised, of course. Clark Olofsson knew how to please a woman. Everybody said so.

Clark withdraws his fingers when you stop shuddering, and he sucks them into his mouth to taste the sweetness of your release before swigging the last of his wine. He’s got what he needs now, but his cock aches in his pants and he’ll be damned if he’s going home to his own hand. He’ll be goddamned if he’s going to do that.

“I need to have you, älskling.” He says, dropping a handful of bills on the table. He pushes to a stand, and your eyes drop to the prominent bulge at the front of his pants. Clark lets you look, tilting his hips towards you. He’s never been ashamed of his cock, or the times it decides to make itself known. Fucking was his goddamn right as a man, why would he pretend otherwise? It was pointless.

“I’m… I don’t usually do that. On the first date.” You chew your lip into your mouth, and Clark fights against a bolt of irritation at your sudden retreat.

“Do you usually cum at the dinner table? Or is that just for me?” Your blush darkens, spreading down the sides of your neck, and Clark rounds the table to offer you his hand. “Give yourself to me tonight, älskling. You’ll never forget it.”

Clark doesn’t invite you back to his place, and you wonder if that’s because he has a wife or because he doesn’t have any intention of calling you again. His hand slips up under your skirt as he drives to your place, and you decide you don’t much care either way with the wine dulling your cognitive processes and his fingers shooting throbs of arousal through your core. “Just you wait,” he mutters, a smirk pulling lopsidedly at his lips. “You’ve never had it like Clark Olofsson. The things I’m going to do to you.” He chuckles, fingers kneading at your thigh, and you shift against the seat.

“I’m not usually like this.”

Clark nods, hooking his fingers into your waistband from behind as you fumble to unlock your apartment door. He nuzzles against the side of your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to the sensitive skin. Of course you’re not. You’re a good girl. They’re all good girls, until they get a taste of Clark and then they’ll do anything for him. It’s the same story all the time, and Clark doesn’t mind one bit.

You step into your apartment, Clark still attached to your neck as his fingers graze along the waistband of your panties. He detaches long enough to glance around the space, eyes flicking over framed photographs on your wall. He doesn’t need to see you posing with your parents or getting a piggy back from your brother. He doesn’t need to know you. The next part comes easier if he doesn’t, actually.

You walk quickly, leaving him in the hallway as you head into the kitchen and pour two glasses of water. “Thirsty?”

Clark grins, leaning against the kitchen counter. “For you.”

You choke on your water, and Clark bites his lip to stifle a laugh at just how awkward you are. It’s unusual. It’s cute. “That’s a line.” You say eventually, once you’ve regained your ability to breathe.

Clark shrugs. “I invented it. I’m the first person ever to say it.”

You roll your eyes, but he isn’t joking. “Alright, Clark Olofsson. You wanted to have me, and now tonight you do.” You place your glass down on the counter, trying very hard to exude a bravado you don’t feel. “The question is, what will you do with me?”

Clark’s smile widens, his eyes darkening as he crosses the distance and cups your jaw in his big hands. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” he murmurs softly before closing the gap between your mouth and his. His lips are warm and silky, the plush fullness of them a welcome pressure against yours as he presses your mouth open and licks his tongue against your teeth. You open for him, a low moan vibrating out of your throat at the way he claims the kiss, holding you close and steady as his tongue tastes every inch of your mouth. Your hands lift to wrap around his neck, even though he’s much taller than you and it’s an awkward stretch to reach. You tangle your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck and tug, and Clark releases your mouth to gasp.

“Oh, you want to play, älskling?” He teases, hands dropping from your face to your waist so he can drag your body flush with his. “You want it a little rough?”

You nod, though you can’t really imagine what rough might look like to a man like Clark. His pupils expand and you watch in real time as the green of his irises dissolves into the dark pitch of his desire before his mouth reclaims yours with a hunger that leaves you breathless. His hands drop to your ass, lifting you up and depositing you on the kitchen counter. He pushes your knees apart and moves between them, and you shuffle to the edge of the worktop and wrap your legs around his hips so the growing bulge of his erection is pressed firmly against your center. His hands are everywhere, pawing up under your shirt to grope at your breasts, dragging down the smooth skin of your back and tracing the ridges of your spine, squeezing your ass cheeks to press you firmly to him so he can rut against your core through the soaked fabric of your panties. His fingers slip into the side of your underwear and pull, exposing your wet pussy to the air. You moan, breaking the kiss to look down at the point where his hand disappears beneath your skirt.

“Are you ready for me? Are you ready for the best sex of your life?” His voice is throaty and thick with lust, and your clit throbs in response.

“Show me.” You whisper, parting your legs wider and hooking your own fingers into his belt. Clark wastes no time at all in unbuckling his belt and pulling down his zipper. He only bothers to shove his pants to his knees, the awful ache in his cock won’t allow him any more time than that. He wraps a hand around your thigh to keep you in place as he pushes into you, a deep moan rumbling out of his chest at the hot, wet tightness of you.

“Goddamn,” he chuckles. “Goddamn, älskling.”

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, shifting and flexing against the sudden intrusion. You’re still wet from the orgasm he’d given you in the restaurant so it doesn’t exactly hurt, but you’d hoped for more buildup. Clark sets a pace right away, pulling out and thrusting back into you quickly. You brace a hand on his shoulder and watch him, devouring the look of concentrated bliss on his face as he fucks you. His nails dig into the meat of your thigh as he pins you to the counter, cock slamming into you over and over again. His free hand lifts to wrap in your hair, pulling your face close so he can kiss you messily as he moans into your mouth. His hips stutter against yours and he groans loudly against your lips. You squeeze around his cock, and he almost whimpers as he pulls out and steps backwards.

“Are you… done?”

Clark smirks. “Seems so.”

You swallow your disappointment. “Oh.”

Clark tucks his cock back into his trousers. “Did you?”

“I… no.”

Clark twists his mouth to the side. “I think you did. I felt it happen. Maybe you didn’t realize.”

This is the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard, but the thought of arguing the point with him makes your skin crawl. “Maybe.”

Clark pauses, fingers on his belt buckle. He rakes his eyes appreciatively over you, the mess he’s made of your hair, the way your skirt is hiked up around your hips to reveal the glistening remnants of his cum as it leaks out of you. “You’re beautiful.” He says, stepping back between your legs to cup your cheeks and kiss your mouth. “I love you.”

You do roll your eyes then, because he’s endearing and charming and so completely full of shit. “Alright, Clark.”

He scowls, pouting his bottom lip out playfully. “You don’t love me? After all that?”

You roll your eyes again, but your stomach flips over with a mix of arousal and something dangerously close to actual affection. “You’re persistent.”

Clark’s face transforms into a grin that lights up his handsome features. “I’m incorrigible.”

You wonder where he picked up the word. You wonder if he went to college, or what kind of books he liked to read. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”

Clark beams at that. “There’s only one Clark Olofsson, älskling.”

His eyes unfocus for a moment and he drops his hand to the front of his pants. “Oho, look at that. We can go again.”

You open your mouth to protest, but Clark silences you with a deep kiss as he lifts you from the counter and walks you back into the hallway.

“End of the hall,” you mumble into his mouth, and Clark carries you into your bedroom, dropping you unceremoniously on the bed before covering your body with his.

Clark Olofsson doesn’t really have much of a refractory period. A few nice words from you, and he was completely hard again. You open so easily for him, your insides slick with his cum, and Clark pushes your legs out and up, bracing your thighs against his forearms so he can slam into you harder and deeper than before.

You whine, chewing your bottom lip into ribbons at the rough pounding. Clark’s cock bumps against your cervix with every thrust, producing a dull aching pain that you’ll feel later but can’t bring yourself to care about right now. Not with the way his length brushes against your g-spot with every thrust and the fucked-out, perfect look on his pretty face.

You reach down between your bodies to rub at your own clit, and Clark’s grin is almost feral as he pulls back to watch. “That’s it.” He coos. “Cum for me. Cum on my cock, älskling.”

It doesn’t take much, not with the way he’s filling you up. You know exactly how to touch yourself to bring your orgasm to a climax, and you don’t wait for permission before tumbling over the edge. “Oh, fuck. Oh god, Clark!” You moan, fluttering around him erratically as your release washes through you.

Clark doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything quite so pretty as your face when you cum. Though the feeling of you squeezing his cock, milking every drop of his seed from him is dangerously addictive. He could get used to it. He could come back for you.

He pulls out with a wince, watching his cum ooze out of you to soak into your sheet. Clark reaches down to scoop at the mess, pushing it back into you and fucking his fingers in and out of you. You whine softly and try to shift away, but Clark keeps going until the pearly slick stays inside you. He doesn’t know why he does it, only that he wanted to see you all filled up and Clark isn’t in the business of questioning himself when he wants something.

“Are you… staying?” You ask as he’s buckling his belt for the second time that night. Clark doesn’t stay, not usually. But he looks at you and the excuse dies on his tongue. You look small and vulnerable sitting up in your bed, your flowery comforter pulled tight around your chin. Clark feels a little stab of something in his chest, and he removes his belt again and shoves his pants to the floor.

“Of course I am. You think I’d sneak away like a thief in the night?”

You shake your head and pull back the covers for him, a sweet smile on your face. “It’s been a long time since anyone’s slept over.” You say quietly.

Clark sighs, turning you onto your side and wrapping his arm around your waist. “It’s been a long time since I’ve slept over anywhere.” It’s the most honest he’s been all night, though you’re not to know it.

Clark closes his eyes at the soft snuffling of your breathing, and he presses his nose against your hair. Tomorrow he will go, and he will not look back. But tonight? Tonight he could pretend that he were a different man, a man with no grand plans and a heart to give. It wasn’t true, Clark Olofsson was destined for the biggest of things, but there was peace in pretending for a little while.

You wake to the sound of his goddamn belt clinking, and a harsh expletive as Clark trips over a book on your bedroom floor. You turn your bedside lamp on, glancing at the drawn shade. Still dark out.

“Most people sleep until the sun rises, Clark.”

He freezes, turning to you slowly like a criminal caught in the act. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Sneaking out after all.”

Clark shakes his head, holding his hands up. “I have an important meeting first thing. And whilst I don’t mind that I smell like sex, the shareholders…” he trails off, and you feel your face heat.

“Oh. I mean of course. Right.”

“Last night… you were fantastic, älskling.” He says, crossing the room and bending at the waist to press a kiss to your forehead. “I won’t forget you.”

You hum. “I won’t forget you either.”

Clark’s grin is boyish and ridiculously pretty. “Of course you won’t. I’m Clark Olofsson.”

*

You groan at the agonizing burn in your ankles, shifting from one foot to the other. Your manager had suggested you could use a stool for long shifts, but he’d looked so faux-sympathetic and so smug that you’d had to decline. Fuck him and his misogynistic bullshit. Being a woman didn’t make you any less capable of doing your job. Being pregnant didn’t either, though your ankles had swollen up and your widening hips ached all the time.

“When are you going on break?” Heather whispers to you from the next counter.

“No more breaks.” You say with a pained smile. “But I’m off in an hour.”

She returns your smile with a knowing one of her own. “The last few months are the worst. Everybody says the first three, with the sickness, but the pain at the end is something else. Still, not long now, eh?”

You nod. “Not long.”

Not long until you’d get to meet your baby and spend a few blissful months learning how to be a mother. You were terrified. You couldn’t wait. There was nothing that could put a damper on that overwhelming, constant feeling of excitement. Not your shitty manager, not your swollen ankles, and certainly not thinking about the green eyes and sexy smirk of C-

“Attention, attention! Can I have your attention, ladies and gentlemen! This is a robbery!” Your head snaps up at the familiar, low voice, your stomach bottoming out as you drop to a crouch underneath your counter. You reach for the panic button under the desk, a recent addition to the bank that nobody had ever used before. You press it, and nothing happens. You lift your head just a little, just enough to see the main floor, and your eyes meet his immediately. He’s on the other side of the room, but he’s looking right at you. His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles, and you fight the urge to smile back at the asshole.

“Ladies, ladies.” He says, crossing the room and stopping in front of the teller furthest away from you. “I have a big sack here.” He puts a white cotton bag on the counter and winks at the woman behind the glass. “You know what to do, you’ve seen the movies. Put all the money from your register in the bag, please and thank you.”

The woman moves mechanically, emptying her reserves into his bag.

“I thank you.” He says, flashing her the grin that had once disarmed you so thoroughly before moving on to the next teller, and the next. You glance around the room, at the customers lying on the floor and the other tellers frozen at their stations. Where was the manager? Where was the fucking security guard?

You watch in horrified slow motion as Clark approaches you, and you’re forced to half-stand so you can scoop kroner notes out and shove them through the gap in the bottom of the glass.

“älskling,” he whispers.

“I’ve triggered a silent alarm.” You say in response, not meeting his eye. “The police will be on their way so you’d better get out of here.”

You don’t think anyone else can hear, but you can’t be sure.

“You did that?” He asks, and there’s genuine hurt in his voice.

Your head snaps up, eyes meeting his as you narrow yours into a glare. “Of course I did. You’re nothing to me.”

You try to ignore the awful twisting in your gut at the wounded look on his face as he turns away from you. You can’t allow yourself to feel sorry for him. Not after his disappeared without a trace, and certainly not now he’s back to rob the goddamn bank. You think back to your conversation with him over dinner, his seemingly superficial interest in the workings of the bank. You were a fucking idiot.

Clark barrels into Martin, and you curse under your breath as the aging security guard topples over and goes sprawling to the ground. He has a bad heart and you know his wife, and you’re pushing open the door into the main room without thinking about it, dropping to your knees to help the man to his feet.

Clark is about to run. He’s got a sack full of money and no interest in getting into it with some old guy in a uniform, but then you shout and you’re there and Clark’s eyes drop to the enormous swell of your stomach and his heart stops beating.

“Hey, you’re okay,” you soothe the man, rubbing your palm against his back as he huffs and puffs.

You narrow your eyes at Clark. “Look what you-“

“Mine?” The word is out, cutting you off mid-lecture, and you press your mouth into a tight line at the possessive word.

“Mine.” You snap.

Clark swallows thickly. “Älskling.”

You can’t let this happen. You can’t, certainly not with so many listening ears. “I wasn’t lying about the alarm.”

Clark looks at the hard set of your face, and the security guard who is on the verge of regaining his wits, and his shoulders sag. He drags his eyes over your pregnant belly one last time before he hoists the sack over his shoulder and runs for the door.

*

You’re expecting the knock on the door, and it comes just before midnight. You slip off your chair at the kitchen table, checking your hair in the hall mirror before you open the door and let Clark step into your apartment.

“I should have moved.”

“But then I wouldn’t have been able to find you.” Clark says this so simply, like your reason for wanting to move couldn’t possibly have anything to do with him, and you scoff.  

“Who says I wanted you to?”

Clark brushes past you and heads straight for the kitchen, leaning heavily against the counter. The sight of him there brings hot flashes of memory to your mind, of your thighs pressed open as he fucked you in that very spot. “I missed you.”

You hum, hand going absently to your stomach to rub against the fluttering you’d grown so used to.

Clark watches, his heart seized with an unpleasant longing. “Did you miss me, älskling?”

“No.”

He bites the corner of his bottom lip, and you let your eyes drink in the sight of him. His hair is longer now, sideburns too. It suits him, though you’ve never been all that into facial hair. He looks older, rougher somehow.

“It’s been seven months, Clark. Almost eight.”

Clark’s eyes drop to your stomach. “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

You shrug. “It might be.”

Clark is already shaking his head as he pushes off from the counter and crosses the room. He towers over you up close, and his hands are warm, wide weights as he presses them to your rounded stomach. “You’re a good girl. There wasn’t anyone but me. It’s mine.”

You swallow thickly. “I don’t expect anything from you, Clark.”

It hurts Clark to hear you say it, even if it’s exactly what he wanted to hear. He doesn’t want to be a father, he has no fucking idea how to do that, but it still hurts to hear it from you.

“We could get married. You know, do it all properly.”

You laugh then, you can’t help it. The thought of Clark Olofsson robbing a bank one day and marching you into a chapel the next is just too damn funny. “Be serious, Clark.”

Clark rubs over your stomach, brows furrowing into a frown. “I am. I want to do right by you.”

“You think I want to marry a criminal?”

Clark’s frown deepens. “I have rights to my child. If I want to.”

This sends a skitter of fear down your spine, but you force the feeling away and fix a condescending smirk on your face. “You want to get the authorities involved, do you?”

Clark’s forehead smooths out as his expression darkens. “Don’t threaten me, älskling. Nobody threatens Clark Olofsson.”

You hum, stepping out his grip just as the baby in your stomach begins a series of fluttering kicks. “Or what? What’s the great Clark Olofsson going to do, huh?”

It’s stupid to goad him, and you realize just how stupid as a slow, lazy smirk spreads across his face. “Give yourself to me tonight, älskling. You’ll never forget it.”

It shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t fucking work and you’ll blame months of celibacy and fucked up pregnancy hormones later. But right now, you’re dragging Clark into your bedroom by the collar of his stupid leather jacket and shoving him onto your mattress.

He huffs a laugh as he works his jeans open, tugging his half-hard cock from the confines and thumbing roughly over his tip. You straddle him, slapping at his hand until he releases his cock so you can wrap your fingers around his base and line him up with your entrance. You hadn’t bothered to put on underwear when you’d slipped your nightgown on, a shamed part of you had known this was inevitable from the moment you’d locked eyes with him earlier that day. The magnetic, poisonous pull of Clark Olofsson had you hooked.

The smirk slips from his face as his lips part on a moan, hands flying to grip at your hips as you begin to roll against him. “You used me.” You murmur, planting your hands on his chest for leverage so you can rise up and drop back down on his cock.

Clark wants to argue, but there are no thoughts in his head, nothing at all but the rounding of your belly and the swollen, heavy sight of your tits straining against your nightgown.

“You p-pumped me for information,” you groan, tilting your pelvis so your clit is dragged against the rough thatch of hair at his base. “So you could rob the fucking bank.”

Clark moans softly, his hips lifting to meet your as you quiver and clench around the thick length of him. “You got… something out of it.” He huffs.

You bark a startled laugh, lifting one hand from his chest to press to your stomach. “Sure I fucking did.”

“You want me to say I’m sorry?” Clark asks, pinning you against him as his hips snap up to fuck brutally into you. “Clark Olofsson doesn’t apologize.”

“I figured.” You moan. “I don’t care about that. I want to level the field.”

Clark isn’t sure what you mean, his brain can’t process what you’re saying even though he’s the smartest person in any room and considers himself ahead of the game in almost everything. But then you lift up off his cock and crawl up his torso, and your stomach blots out all the light in the room as you press your soaked pussy to his face. “Gunna use you, Clark.”

Clark groans, the sound coming from deep in his chest as he wedges his hands against your thighs and pushes your legs apart. You’re dripping with arousal, and he laps at your slick like a man starved. You brace your hands on the headboard, resting your weight on your knees so you don’t actually kill him as Clark’s tongue works between your folds and flicks roughly against your clit.

Clark knows you’re going to forgive him after this. He’s good at everything he tries, but he’s the fucking king at eating pussy. Love of the game, is what it is. He loves the way you taste, the sounds you make, the feeling of your thighs pressing against the sides of his head as you rock down against him. Your pussy is like wet silk, the little throbbing bud of your clit fits perfectly against his tongue as he suctions his lips around it and draws dark little whimpers from your throat. Your wetness soaks his mouth and his nose and runs down his jaw, and he moans against you as he devours every sacred inch of your delicious cunt.

“God, Clark,” you sob, grinding sloppily against his face as the coil of pleasure in your abdomen snaps with a blinding, weightless sensation. You wail as you cum, thighs squeezing the life out of him as you rock and buck against him, riding out the best orgasm of your life. Clark does his best to keep up, his tongue licking enthusiastically at you as he swallows every drop of your arousal.

His own cock is a leaking mess by the time you roll off him. “My turn?”

You laugh. “I’m not sucking your cock. My gag reflex is sensitive with the baby and I threw up about a thousand times in the first trimester.”

Clark frowns, reaching down to jerk himself in a loose fist just to relieve some of the tension. “I’ll fuck you, then. Can’t knock you up while you’re knocked up, can I?”

You groan, but you’re already parting your legs, and Clark settles between them. He presses a kiss to your stomach, hands roaming over the swollen flesh. “Does he hear his daddy?”

You roll your eyes, but the erratic kicking against your uterus suggests that the baby does like his voice. Clark’s eyes widen and he grins, kissing your stomach again. “You look so good like this, all fat with my child.”

You hook a thigh around the back of his legs. “Stop it.”

Clark laughs, bracing his arms either side of your head as he grinds his bare cock against your soaked pussy before nudging against the tight, wet heat of you. Clark buries his cock in you again, feeling the steady pulse of your muscles against his length, and he dips his head to kiss your mouth so you can taste yourself on his tongue.

It’s quick, like you knew it would be. Clark lasts just a minute, an enthusiastic minute of fast, hard thrusts. He moans your name, and you squeeze tightly around him to milk every drop of his pleasure as he shoots his load deep inside you.

He doesn’t pull out right away, resting his face in the damp crook of your neck as his sensitive cock pulses and softens. In the end you have to push him, tapping lightly at his shoulders to get him to pull out and release you.

Even as he rolls to the side, Clark wraps his arms around you and presses his lips to your temple, and you’re too tired to tell him to move away. Besides, it feels nice to be held, even if it’s just pretend. He chuckles to himself. “This makes me a motherfucker, you see?”

You roll your eyes. “You’re something else, Clark Olofsson.” You turn in his arms, fixing your eyes to his. “But you’re not a husband. And you won’t be a father, not to my child. My father was a criminal too. I guess I should have seen the signs with you. He committed insurance fraud and went to prison. It ruined us.”

Clark’s face is unreadable, a sharp line between his brows and his jaw set tightly.

“I won’t do that to my child. I won’t have them grow up with that shame.”

Clark feels an unpleasant ice in his stomach. Imagine thinking he was the same as some petty insurance fraudster? Imagine lumping him in with common criminals and worse, with shitty fathers? He is Clark Olofsson! Soon to be the most accomplished, the greatest-

“My father was a drunk.” He says. He doesn’t know where it comes from. He’s never said the words out loud. “He didn’t care about me or my mama. I wouldn’t be like that. I won’t be.”

You swallow hard at the open sincerity on his face. The mask has slipped, just for a moment, and you see the boy underneath wearing the weight of insecurity like a millstone around his neck. You lean in, pecking his lips gently. “You could be more than this, you know. If you wanted.”

Clark laughs, and the mask snaps back into place so efficiently you wonder whether you’d imagined the slip. “Of course I could. But being the best at being the best was not my thing, so I decided to be the best at being the worst.”

You smile sadly, reaching up to brush a lock of hair away from his eyes. “I’m going to see you on the news one day, aren’t I?”

Clark grins, rolling onto his back and closing his eyes. He’ll be gone when you wake up, and you won’t wonder where he went. That was the way of things. He sighs, the smile slipping from his face as he settles into his exhaustion. “You’re damn right, älskling. You’ll see my name in lights. Clark fucking Olofsson.”

"Who said anything about a sleeping bag?"

It was dark, but clearly not dark enough to disguise the shit-eating grin you could hear in his voice.

"You're hilarious," you deadpanned. "I can't imagine why things never worked out between us."

"Certainly not for a lack of your charming disposition."

"Or your chivalrous tendencies."

Theo sucked in a breath between his teeth. You suppressed a smirk.

"It was one time. You know you only have yourself to blame for walking into that door." He dropped his voice. "I can't be your eyes and your keeper, sweetheart."

You snorted as you blindly reached into the dark to push his magnetic heat away. Your hand settled on his chest. For a moment, you forgot where you were, or what you were fighting about; there was only Theo and his warmth and the insidious, no-good dark pressing in on both of you.

"Okay, but seriously, leave. My mom will be insufferable if she finds out you're here."

"Promise?"

You shoved him.

You walked Theo to the front door. You told yourself it was only because you couldn't wait to get rid of him. As he reached for the doorknob, you instinctively picked his jacket off the coat stand, as if from muscle memory. For a second, your wilful, nostalgia-addled brain drifted back to the many nights that drew to a close on this very porch. Nights that ended with, er, warm goodbyes. Goodbyes that ended with Theo staggering home a good fifteen minutes later.

Oh, of course, you'd never do it today, but it was the sort of thing you'd indulge in as a teen. Theo would bid you good night, and you would sigh, or pout, or whatever it took to hold Theo back just a minute more. He had this way of holding you close, watching you with a reverence that bordered on devotional as he listened to you yammer about whatever was ailing you, fictional or otherwise. The way he'd peer down at you through his eyelashes, the way he'd lower his voice for just you to hear, the way his nose nudged yours, so unbearably soft - it was enough to make you feel like the only girl in the world.

No. Snap out of it.

Your gaze fixed on Theo once again. He was watching you with an expression that was too knowing for your liking. His hand was resting on the doorknob, but it was as though something were holding him back from turning it.

"Well. Good night, Y/N."

"Night, Teddy," you rasped out. Even as the words left your lips, you knew you'd pay dearly for letting that term of endearment slip.

You took a step closer to the door. Theo didn't move. You squinted up at him questioningly, half-suspicious. You didn't know what he was doing, still standing here, but you weren't sure if you wanted him to leave either. He was so close to you. Closer than he had been at the diner, or all evening. Close enough to be breathing the same air as you.

Your lips parted, poised to shape words to a question along the lines of are you having a stroke, Nott? That is, until you realised you had no voice for it. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Theo drop his head as he leaned towards you. His breath ghosted your lips.

You were doused by a sudden bout of reality. You flinched, badly, knocking into Theo's mouth. His head snapped back as he poorly stifled a pained groan, his hand flying up to his face. Your heart was racing as you tried to piece together what your body had reflexively picked up on.

"Did you just - ?"

"No," came the muffled reply. But his answer was too fast, too automatic, too ready at his lips.

"Oh, my God," you continued, not paying any mind to the drivel coming out of that uncouth mouth, "you just tried to kiss me." He did. He did just try to kiss you. Brainless. "Are you insane?"

Theo dabbed at his face gingerly, checking for blood on his fingertips. "Look, I don't know, or care, about what you thought I was doing, but I -"

You groaned. Always with the excuses and the lies - ugh, you did not miss this, good riddance.

"Don't even - " You scoffed, more at yourself than him. Of course he'd make a pass at you. It was so typical of him. The Theodore Nott you knew didn't know how to keep his hands, or his mouth, apparently, to himself. You crossed your arms.

"You're sick, Nott. Really. This is a new low, even for you. Trying to get me in bed when you don't even love me."

"I wasn't trying to -"

"Sure, you weren't." You rolled your eyes. "What kind of idiot do you take me for? Of all the people you know, do you really think I'm going to buy this innocent little Boy Scout who would never hurt a fly act?"

"I wasn't - "

"Oh, please. Like I don't know what you look like when you want to kiss me!"

"Fine," Theo snapped. He dropped his hand, apparently having deemed himself sufficiently unwounded. "I was going to kiss you. Happy?"

He raised his arms, outraged.

"How the fuck else have we ever said good night?"

You hesitated.

"That was...different. We were dating - delusional, but dating. How could you think this was in any way justified or appropriate?" You fixed him a derisive look. "I have a boyfriend, for Merlin's sake."

The corner of Theo's mouth twitched.

"Boyfriend," he repeated, in a patronising tone. "Don't make me laugh."

You ignored the jab.

"I don't know why I expected anything different from you," you went on, as though he hadn't spoken a word. "It's so like you to think we'll just pick up where we left off. This might be hard for your tiny little brain to comprehend, but I had my own life in Paris."

A poor, lackluster life, admittedly - not that Theo needed to know.

"And it was great. It was..." Er, maybe you were exaggerating a little. "...spectacular."

A little fib never hurt anyone.

"I have never been happier!"

Okay, now you were just straight up lying. A bit hard to stop once you've got started.

You stopped short when you picked up on the subtle shake to Theo's shoulders.

"What's so funny?" you demanded, waspishly.

Theo stifled a snort. He leaned down again, putting his face in yours, though you suspected he had no kissing-centric intentions this time.

"You know," he said softly, "for someone so thrilled with their life, you look pretty fucking miserable."

Your face burned hot. Oh, he was going to pay for that. You wanted to throttle him. You wanted to crawl into a hole and die. What the - who the fuck did he think he was, sauntering into your house, eating your popcorn, making comments about a relationship he knew nothing about?

"Save it, Theodore," you said in a clipped tone. "I know who to call the next time I want to hear someone talking out of their ass."

Theo let out a sharp bark of laughter.

"This - this is your problem," he crowed. "You love the sound of your own voice too much to listen to anything anyone else has to say. Why should you, when you're always right, huh?"

You sneered at him.

"Oh, yeah. Sure. I don't know about always, but this time I'm..." your eyes flitted around the doorway. "...not wrong."

"That's just another way to say you're right!"

You threw your hands up.

"You know what? You're right. This is my fault. It's my fault for thinking you've changed. That you've grown up. Merlin forbid I think we're just having a nice time together. Kept your mouth shut for a couple of hours, so now you get to cop a feel? What, did you think I'd be easy enough, begging for you after all those years away?"

As you spoke, Theo's jaw set. Good. It was about time something ruffled his devil-may-care feathers.

"Now you're just putting words in my mouth. I never s - I never thought - "

"Face it, Nott. You're just too proud to admit you wanted to kiss me."

"And you're too proud to admit you wanted me to kiss you!"

Your face blanched. The shock quelled your rage momentarily. Shame masked any vindication you might have felt over Theo's lack of denial.

"Doesn't fit your sweet, innocent little image, does it?" Theo continued smugly, revelling in the quiet that followed. "Cheating? With an ex-boyfriend you're still hung up on?"

Anger flared in your chest once again. How dare he insinuate that you were pathetic enough to still have feelings for him after all this time, after all he's done?

"Get out. Out!"

You hooked Theo by the elbow as you yanked the door open, sending him stumbling down the front steps. A good and proper row, oddly reminiscent of the 'off-again' parts of your old relationship, appropriately theatrical and heavily dosed with low blows.

"Get out of my house," you hissed at him. "I never want to see you again. Take your filthy jacket with you."

You balled up his jacket and hurled it at him, which he caught at his stomach. He didn't stumble, didn't even flinch. Why should he, when he was just as seasoned as you were in navigating your aggressive spats? If you had to (grudgingly) admit to one redeeming quality of Theo's, it was that he gave as good as he got.

"Uh-huh. Yeah, sure. Today the jacket's filthy, but when I went to Europe - "

"You shut your mouth, you lying bastard."

Theo gave a sardonic whoop as he walked backwards down the path, towards the pavement.

"Oh yeah, that's good. Merlin forbid I don't take your abuse lying down. I'm the worst! I'm despicable. What else?"

You wished you had more of his possessions to pelt at his head. Your bicep was itching to heave something, preferably heavy enough to inflict considerable injury, at that ratty face of his.

"You narcissist, you egomaniac - "

"Oh, yeah! Can't forget about my head, it's the size of Manhattan."

You raised your voice, uncaring about the scene you were making, or what the neighbours did or didn't hear.

"Merlin help you if I catch your lying ass skulking around here, day or night."

"Oh, believe me, I'll be staying far, far away. You bet I thank my lucky stars every night I don't have to deal with this FRIGID. BITCH."

"MAN-WHORE!"

You flipped him off. He responded in equal measure.

Glaring, you watched him throw his jacket into his car and climb behind the wheel. He looked up as he yanked at his seatbelt, meeting your gaze. His lips were pressed into a thin line. A muscle in your jaw twitched. You refused to look away.

Lunatic.