what a fucking weirdo (barely containing lust)

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what a fucking weirdo (barely containing lust)

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sunshine (roman godfrey x reader)
WARNINGS: piv sex, omega heat, mating press, smut, 18+, alpha/omega sex, physical violence
summary: Roman said he was gonna be a good boy, and now he's intent on keeping his word-- more so than you had ever expected, to your dismay and annoyance.
word count: 15,156
â previous chapter |
a/n: KINGKAT IS BACK!!! oh I cannot WAIT for you guys to have this chapter omg this is my baby, enjoy the first smut of this fic;))
This was probably the filthiest fuck of my life.
I was folded in half in the meanest mating press known to man, knees pinned to the mattress, the bed creaking with every thrust; the pleasure had erupted into every crevice of my brain, dulling my sense of right and wrong, which explained why the hell I had let myself be put in this position.
My heat was still crackling low in my abdomen, no matter how roughly he fucked me, no matter how deeply he spread me, no matter what we did or tried-- after a good two hours, nothing had made it subside yet. It was making me desperate, it was sending me deeper and deeper into my heat, and I could only let my eyes well up over and over as sobs of pleasure built up along with my desperation. "Fu-uck," I cried, letting my head roll down against the mattress; the pillow was far away. Where was it even? I had no idea. I was so disoriented, I wasn't even sure which way we were fucking on my bed-- which way was the headboard? Was that the thing my head kept hitting?
It didn't matter; Roman's hands closed harder around my knees, abs clenching and tightening with every thrust, bringing me back out of my mind. Alphas were wired to take care of omegas, wired to react to their heats, wired to protect and adhere to their every need-- I just hadn't expected this level of devotion, not from him. Hadn't expected him to make me cum this many times, hadn't expected him to fuck me until he was sure my heat had been soothed and subsided.
But it hadn't.
Not yet.
Heâs so evil but I want him so bad.
I feel like Roman Godfrey has probably the best one-liners in the whole show, and theyâre not appreciated enough.
Some of his greatest hits include:
âSuck a bag of dicks!â
âShut your lying, whore mouth.â
âWhatever dumb-fuck told you Iâm a patient man is a dumb-fuck.â
âSheâs a farm fresh c*nt.â
âIâm going to school. Want me to pick up some new batteries for your vibrator?â
âStupid-ass birds!â
âI think my manipura needs nourishment.â
And then there are these classics:
âWhatâs with this guy?â
Peter: âNothing, heâs just old.â
âGrossâŠâ
Olivia: âShall we go through the motions then? How was everyoneâs day?â
âEvery breath, a gift.â
Peter: âI just donât feel right taking off and abandoning these people.â
âYouâre so good at it, though.â

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đđđđđ đđđđ đđđ that instantly takes claim on you the very first day you arrive in Hemlock Grove. Your soft almost doll-like eyes and this god forsaken sweet smell your blood carries with you everywhere you go makes him want to tear up the next best victim he can find to quench his thirst.
Those thoughts that instantly spring to his head when he just hears your voice or worse sees your figure even meters away from him makes him almost feral and carnally hungry for you.
His pale hands balling to fists tight enough to make his veins show through his pale skin holding onto every last drop of control he has left to not just sweep you off and hide you away in the thick walls of his house.
He will make you his no matter what.
XI. SMOKE AND MIRRORS.
THE WARDEN'S WHISPER: On the night of prom, the air itself becomes an omenâperfume and blood threading through the same breath. The sĂ©ance calls for unity, yet every heart beats to a different grief. Love, too fierce for its vessel, bleeds through the seams of rage, staining every vow made under borrowed light. In the hush between laughter and lament, and the veil between devotion and ruin grows perilously thin.
hand and hex: 12,306.
A SHADOW'S CAUTION: angst, confrontation, emotional tension, religious symbolism, mentions of death and violence, grief, make-out session.
incipit tragoedia.
âââââ âŸâœ âââââ
OSLO, NORWAY.
The snow outside fell without mercy, the kind of cold that silences the world until even the gods stop whispering. Inside the mansion, the walls breathed warmth.
A beast lulled by candlelight.
The green-haired girl's bare feet brushed against the dark oak floor, each step echoing against shelves carved with wolves and wings. The library was alive; every book hummed with voices older than her pulse.
She traced her fingers over the spinesâDe Occulta, Ars Obscura, Codex Tenebrarum. They murmured in languages long swallowed by time. She stopped before a shelf that glowed faintly, as if something behind the wood remembered her dream.
âMundorum RuinaâŠâ she whispered, voice trembling under the dim lights of the library.
The words slid out like a confession. The ruin of worlds. The black sun. Noctis Votary. She had seen itâor him, in sleep: a figure shrouded in eclipse, light bending around him like a wounded halo.
His eyes had been the color of dying fire.
âYou call it by many names.â Murmured Fenris behind her, his voice low, velvet over iron, from the doorway. âBut none of them do justice.â
Davet turned. The wolf in him was always present, quiet but immense, a gravity she could never escape. He leaned against the carved frame, arms crossed, watching her like she was the only star left in a collapsing sky.
âIt came to me again⊠well, he.â she murmured. âThe Black Sun. Noctis Votary. It stood by a river made of glass and told me the Veil had chosen wrong.â
Fenris tilted his head slightly, his raven hair catching the candlelight. âDreams, or warnings?â
âNeither⊠I think.â She shrugged. âMemories that donât belong to me.â She picked up an old Latin text and flipped through the fragile pages until she found the sigil that had burned into her mind that nightâa circle split in two by a vertical line, like an eclipse bleeding light.
âEt sol niger resurget in carne mundi,â she read softly.
Fenris smiled faintly. âYou still speak it like Pia taught you.â
At the mention of the Italian woman, a softness crossed Davetâs faceâbrief, but there. âMater mea secundaâŠâ she whispered under her breath. âShe told me language has soul, and Latin bleeds the loudest.â
Fenris moved closer, his steps almost soundless. âPia was right. You carry her voice still. But why speak of the Black Sun tonight, Davet?â
Her gaze lifted to him, those storm-laden eyes that could bend iron and silence in equal measure. âBecause something is waking upâŠâ she murmured, voice low as a blade unsheathed. âSomething tied to this sigil.â
She pointed at itâa mark older than scripture, etched into the ash with trembling fingers. The shape shimmered faintly, as though it breathed, remembering its own hunger.
Fenrisâ jaw tightened. âOld bloodlines.â His voice a growl buried in centuries. âWitchcraft carved in blood and prophecy.â
âYes.â Davet whispered, tracing the symbol again as if her touch might calm it. âThey guard the Veil, and he⊠the Mundorum Ruina⊠he breaks it. Their paths are meant to collide.â Her throat tightened, words came like confession, reluctant and aching. âButâŠâ
The hybrid swallowed hard, the firelight pooling in her eyes like green glass and grief. Fenris watched her, his shadow folding over hers, a creature forged in her storms, bound not by loyalty but something older, wordless.
âButâŠ?â
âHeâs one of themâŠâ She breathed.
The flames crackedâa low sound, as if the fire itself bowed to the truth. Fenris stepped closer, his presence wrapping around her like armor and omen.
âYouâve seen him?â he asked, softly now.
Davet nodded once, the motion fragile. âOnly his shadow.â Her gaze dropped to the sigil, where the smoke coiled and pulsed like a living heart. âBut his heart was unmistakable. It carried destruction, yesâŠâ She exhaled, the air trembling with unspoken sorrow. âBut also⊠sorrow and light. Like he was torn in two pieces. Like me, VĂĄnagandr.â
He said nothing. The wolf within him stirred, recognizing the quiet ache that threaded through her words. That strange, shared ruin between them. For a moment, silence reigned, broken only by the sound of fire breathing and the world remembering old names it should have forgotten.
She shut the book and looked up at Fenris, a small smile curving her lips, the kind that never reached her eyes but it was sincere and warm.
âHe doesnât know yet⊠But the ruin of worlds already walks among us.â
The wind howled against the windows. In the distance, the snow thickened, swallowing the moon whole.
Fenris turned, his feet whispering on the floor like torn wings. âThen itâs already too late, Hell.â he muttered, starting toward the door.
âHeâs always being held by a girl.â He froze. Davetâs voice cut through the cold.
Fenris stopped mid-step, slowly, he turned back. âA girl?â
Davetâs gaze had gone distant, her pupils expanding as though she were staring into another life. âYes. She looks like him⊠the boy. Noctis Votary.â Her words trembled. âThough her eyes are different. Theyâre purple. Deep purple. Like bruised amethystâlike something thatâs been dying beautifully for too long.â
A flicker crossed Fenrisâ face, confusion and recognition stitching together. âAnd what is she doing?â
âShe looks⊠vengeful.â Davet whispered, voice low as a prayer, as if naming the vision might summon it fully into this world. âSheâs always staring at another boy with bright green eyes. So bright they almost hurt to look atâlike shards of spring trapped in winterâs throat.â Her breath shuddered, and for a moment her eyes flickered neon green, reflecting what she saw. âAnd he looks at her. Cold, hungry⊠hollow. The way predators look at their prey before devouring them.â
âYou think she wants to kill him?â Fenris asked, stepping closer. The girl shook her head.
Her voice softened, trembling on the edge of awe and sorrow. âThereâs something else beneath it. As if heâs starving for herâstarving for the same thing he means to destroy. His gaze shakes between devotion and damnation, and sheââ Davetâs throat tightened. âShe doesnât fear him. She meets that hunger with her own. Itâs like theyâre both caught in the same fire, burning each other to stay alive.â
The air between her and Fenris grew heavy, like the world itself was holding its breath. Snow moaned against the windows, and Davetâs next words came out in a tremor.
âShe isnât only vengeful. Sheâs grieving. As if love and ruin were born in her chest on the same nightâand now, every time he looks at her, she remembers the end.â
Fenris frowned. âYou know who he is?â
Davet shook her head, a small, haunted motion. âNo. But I can feel what she feels. Rage. Love. Betrayal. Itâs all tangled together like thorns.â
The God-Devouring Wolf took a step closer, his tone darkening. âThese visionsâthis ability to see memories that arenât yours... it shouldnât be possible. You already carry your vampiric gifts, more than most. So what is this?â
Davetâs lips parted, her breath a curl of frost. âMaybe itâs because Iâm tied to the shadows,â she murmured. âThey remember things no one else does.â
For a moment, silence held the room, sentient, like the air itself was listening.
Then Fenris turned away again, his expression carved from stormlight. âShadows have long memories, Davet. They always demand a price.â
When he was gone, the wind returned, brushing her cheek like a whisper from another world.
The Hellhound stood alone, her thoughts spiraling back to the faces she didnât know but somehow carried in her dreams.
She thought of the boy with the green eyesâmerciless, incandescent, carved from something older than mercy itself, staring into the girlâs face as she cradled the body of the Mundorum Ruina. Snow and ash seemed to fall behind them, though perhaps it was only memory decaying into vision.
There was hatred between them, yes, but threaded through it was a terrible tenderness. A wound disguised as love, bleeding through the silence. Whatever had happened between them, or was yet to unfold, would undo them both. It would devour them from within, like a slow and beautiful death that mistook itself for devotion.
Her breath trembled. She could feel itâthe pull, the inexorable thread binding them across lifetimes, across ruins. They were entwined by something she could neither name nor sever, something older than flesh and crueler than destiny.
In the pit of her stomach, she knew the ruin to come had already begun and it began with them.
âââââ âŸâœ âââââ
HEMLOCK GROVE, PENNSYLVANIA.
The bell hadnât rung yet, but the room was already exhaling boredom. Half the students were packing up early, backpacks unzipped and pencils abandoned. The scent of acetone and overcooked experiments still lingered in the air like ghost fumes.
Mrs. Kepler droned on about lab safety for the fourth time that week, her voice barely louder than the hum of the overhead lights.
Baelor sat at the back, hunched in his chair, long legs stretched out beneath the lab table like he owned the floor. His safety goggles dangled from one wrist like a bracelet, half-melted candle wax still on his gloves from the botched combustion test heâd done with Peter earlier. His black hoodie sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing faint ink smudges and a scar that looked like it belonged in a story he didnât plan on telling.
Next to him, Heather was still scribbling the last line of her lab notes, hair tied up messily, the corner of her lip caught between her teeth. She had this way of frowning in concentration that made her seem like she was solving something bigger than a titration formula.
Baelor watched her for a beat too long before lazily flicking a pen cap at her notebook.
She looked up. âYou gonna start setting things on fire again, orâŠ?â she asked, brow raised.
He shrugged. âMaybe. Depends if Peter dares me again.â
Heather smiled, and for a second, the lab didnât smell like chemical regrets anymore.
The bell rang. Scraping chairs, chatter, the shuffle of sneakers. Students started pouring out.
Baelor stayed seated. He didnât even look at her when he spoke next, just tilted his head slightly in her direction, his voice low and even, like it wasnât a questionâjust a suggestion he didnât care if she took or not.
âYou going to that school thing tonight?â
Heather blinked, caught off guard by the change in subject. âThe party?â
He nodded once. Still not looking at her. Just picking at the edge of a burn on the table, fingernail scratching char. âYeah. That.â
âI donât know. Depends.â she murmured cautiously. âYou going?â
Baelor finally looked at her. His eyes were unreadable, but something shifted in themâsomething quieter than interest but louder than boredom.
âIf I didâŠâ He murmured standing slowly, slinging his bag over one shoulder. âYouâd go?â
Heather narrowed her eyes. âAre you asking me to go⊠with you?â
Baelor gave a slow blink, like the question hadnât occurred to him in that exact way. âIâm asking if youâd rather stand around with a bunch of drunk idiots without someone who knows how to make an exit.â He said dryly. âThatâs all.â
Heather tried not to smile. She failed. âIâll think about it.â she said.
He walked past her, hand brushing the doorframe as he left. His voice floated back lazily over his shoulder. âTry not to blow up the next lab without me.â And just like that, he was gone.
Baelor walked the hallway of school in silence, was he actually asking a girl out?
Oh, myâŠ
His cheeks flushed for a minute, but he quickly gained composure as he stepped to the courtyard, the air outside still smelled like rust and sunburnt leaves.
The courtyard buzzed with the final hour of freedom before curfew kicked inâthe golden lull between the last bell and dusk. Letha was sitting on a stone bench with her sunglasses pushed to the top of her head, flipping through a textbook she wasnât reading. Peter stood beside her, picking at the frayed hem of his hoodie, staring off toward the track where freshmen were still dragging their feet in gym class.
Heather arrived first, slipping through the side gate like a rumor. He moved like shadows had taught him howâquiet, effortless, and with just enough confidence to irritate everyone.
And then his sister.
She came from the west wing doors, backpack slung one-handed over her shoulder, the top of her dress peeking out from beneath her black cardigan. There was an energy around her that prickled the hairs on everyoneâs armsâsomething stormy, charged, as though sheâd just walked out of a thunderclap.
âLook whoâs suddenly social!â she called out, her voice cutting through the hum of chatter. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth, sharp and knowing. âInviting people to parties now?â
Baelor didnât respond right away. He slid his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, gaze flicking toward Heather for half a second before settling back on his twin.
He could already feel itâher magic, thin as smoke but crawling under his skin like a warning. That familiar hum in the air meant sheâd done it againâused her Sight, or worse, whatever blood-born trick sheâd inherited from their grandmother.
âYou didnât just hear that, did you?â He muttered, brow furrowing.
She tilted her head, feigning innocence, though her smirk deepened. âDidnât have to. Some things just⊠reach me.â
Baelor exhaled through his nose, half a sigh, half annoyance. âYeah, sure. Thatâs one way to put it.â
The wind rose, just once, like the air itself was laughing in her favor.
âRelax, Bael.â She said softly, stepping closer, her tone somewhere between teasing and prophetic. âI didnât see everything. Just enough to know somethingâs about to change.â
Baelor wanted to roll his eyes, to say she was being dramatic again, he couldnât. Because heâd learned long ago that when his sister felt something emotive, the world usually followed.
âJust trying to make sure she doesnât get bored to death.â He answered flatly, praying to the gods that his face didnât turn red. âYou looked like you had that covered.â
âOuchâŠâ She muttered, mock-wounded. âHere I thought we shared everything, Bael.â
Peter let out a low whistle, cracking a grin. âShe got you there, man.â
Heather blinked between them, a little confused, a little amused. Letha leaned forward, curious.
âHeather.â His sister called all faux-casual charm, a glowing smile plastered on her face. âHe ever invite you somewhere and not pretend he was doing you a favor?â
Before Heather could answer, Peter tilted his head toward the building. âHey, whereâs Roman?â
Everyone went quiet for a second.
Then Letha sighed. âHeâs probably messing around with that girl from Advanced Literature again.â
âIn the second floor bathroom.â Peter added. âThe one that always smells like lemon disinfectant and weed.â
âRomantic.â Baelor deadpanned, a smirking tugging on his lips.
His twinsâ face didnât move, but the change was instant. Like someone had flipped a switch just under her skin.
Or, how Baelor liked to call it, the flickering.
Suddenly, the breeze kicked up, harder than it should have. Leaves scattered across the courtyard like they were running from something. Clouds slid fast across the sun, cooling the air sharply.
Peter glanced up. âUh⊠weather witch moment?â
She crossed her arms. âIâm fine.â But her voice was thinner than usual. Brittle, almost. Her jaw was too tight.
Baelor stepped closer, voice dropping. âHeyâŠâ
She didnât look at him. Just stared off toward the parking lot where Romanâs car sat empty. âI said Iâm fine.â She retorted, and the wind picked up again. A nearby lamppost buzzed, then flickered out.
Heather looked around, alarmed.
Letha put a hand on her arm gently. âHey⊠come on. Letâs walk. Weâll find him later.â
âHe doesnât need to be found.â She retorted quietly. âHeâs exactly where he wants to be.â
Baelor, still silent, watched her with something unreadable in his gaze. Then he murmured low, for her ears only. âYouâre allowed to be mad, you know.â
The girl finally looked at him, eyes dark and glassy. Her mouth curledânot into a smile, but something close to grief wearing lipstick. âIâm not mad.â Her twin shot back. âIâm just tired of pretending like I donât notice when he disappears.â
And just like that, the wind calmed.
Peter gave a small shrug, trying to lighten the air. âWell⊠party tonight should be fun.â
Baelor looked toward Heather. âOnly if she shows.â he muttered.
Y/N's brows shot up again. âOh, Iâm definitely going now.â Her smirk returningâduller this time, but still sharp. âCanât miss Baelor in flirt-mode. Itâs practically a natural disaster.â
Even through the storm still smoldering behind her ribs, that got a laugh.
âIâll pick you up at 9:30. Be ready, Van Helsing.â She said to Peter, hearing the bell ring for the last time in the day.
Peter nodded, smiling.
ââââââ ⟠ââââââ
The air shimmered faintly, thick with residual magic.
Crickets held their breath. Even the grove stood still.
Six-year-old Gaia and Gael stood ten paces apart in the clearing behind the manor. Their hands were small but steady, faces marked with focus far beyond their years. Between them, the grass trembledâunseen tension crackling like the charged silence before a thunderstorm.
âRemember.â Their older sister murmured gently, crouching beside Gaia. âYouâre not fighting each other. Youâre measuring yourselves. Stay in control.â
Gaia gave a quick nod, her curls catching firelight as her little hand twitched with sparkâgreen-gold motes of living energy flickering over her palm.
Across the field, Baelor placed a steadying hand on Gaelâs cheek. âNo fire in the trees this time.â
âThat was one time.â Gael muttered, but her grin was devilish.
âNo showboating.â Baelor warned, placing a kiss on her head then stepped back.
At the edge of the field, Irene stood like an old statue carved into dusk. Her honey-brown eyes didnât blink, arms folded across her chest. A soft breeze tangled in the black strands of her braid. She didnât speak. She didnât have to.
The twins raised their hands.
A soft vibration rippled through the air as Gaia conjured a wall of ivy-laced stone, quick and graceful. Not brute forceâcreation. Her brow furrowed, lips parting slightly as the spell strained, stone pushing from the soil like a heartbeat. Gael grinned, eyes glowing faint white as she whispered a wind into beingâthen pushed forward with a cutting arc of air, sharp as blades but slow, measured.
The wind hit the wall and cracked itâsplintered vines flying like ribbons. Gaia stumbled back, surprised but not shaken. She recovered, dug her heels into the dirt, and clapped both palms to the ground. Roots answered. They always answered.
Gael turned, felt them comingâcoiling like snakes, like arms ready to drag her downâbut raised a single hand and clenched.
Everything stopped mid-motion. The roots froze. Gaiaâs power shudderedâhalting.
Across the field, the twins shared a glance.
âSheâs improving her conjuring.â Baelor murmured.
âBut Gaelâs learning how to freeze flow.â Y/N added, eyes flicking between the twins. âThatâs not just powerâitâs interruption. Thatâs Nanaâs technique.â
As if on cue, Irene finally spokeâsoftly, but the air bent around her words.
âAgain.â
The twins didnât complain. They reset their stancesâtired but eager. Sweat on their brows. Magic thick under their fingernails.
This wasnât play. Not for children of the Darkhavens. Not when bloodlines pulsed with old gods and older grief.
Gaia exhaled, and this time, lit the ground beneath her with bioluminescent moss. Gael responded with mist. Obscuring. Distracting. The grove around them began to reactâtrees leaning in, leaves vibrating with latent power.
Behind her clipboard of mental notes, Y/N stood straighter.
âTheyâre starting to draw from the land.â she whispered.
âTheyâre learning its language.â Baelor replied.
From her distance, Irene finally smiled. This was the beginning of their storm.
By the third round, the grove had grown quiet again, too quiet. The kind of hush that only followed serious magic.
Gaiaâs fingers were trembling. Her moss had faded. Gaelâs mist clung to the trees, but her shoulders drooped, lips pale. Still, they stood. Neither cried. Neither quit.
They just waited, breathing hard, waiting for a verdict.
Irene stepped forward from the shadows like the spirit of dusk itself, hands still clasped behind her back. Her boots made no sound across the dead leaves. Only the whisper of her voice reached them.
âGood. Enough.â
Gaia exhaled shakily. Gael swayed where she stood.
Their older sister stepped between them and crouched, first touching Gaiaâs cheek, then reaching over to brush Gaelâs damp hair from her forehead.
âYou did amazing. I mean it.â
âDid I win?â Gaia asked, too softly.
âDid I win?â Gael followed, louder.
Baelor let out a single snort of laughter behind them. âYou both lost. But better than last weekâs disaster.â
That earned twin scowlsâmirror images.
Irene, meanwhile, said nothing for a long time. When she finally spoke again, her voice had the weight of stone in riverbeds, weathered and permanent.
âGael. Youâre clever. Too clever. Control will be your salvation or your destruction. Learn the difference.â
She blinked up at her, confused.
âAnd GaiaâŠâ She straightened. âYou draw beautifully. But you do not yet listen to what the earth tells you. It is not your weapon. It is your equal. When you understand that, you will no longer tremble.â Gaiaâs chin quivered, but she nodded hard.
Without another word, Irene turned and disappeared between the trees, fading into shadows like smoke. Her silence left a hollow in the clearing.
âLetâs get you clean up.â Neven's voice echoed through the space.
âDad!â The twins shout out in unison, running to his arms.
âHey, dad.â The older pair murmured in unison. Neven smiled kindly, reaching his eyes.
They still spoke at the same time⊠every once in a while. And for a minute, he saw them as kids again. Not weighed by their future role, much less like heirs. Just mirrors of each other. His children.
âYouâre early.â Gaia murmured, touching her fatherâs face.
âI knowâŠâ he murmured, placing a kiss on her forehead. âYour mom said something about some beignets she wanted⊠had to run to the bakery and used it as a perfect excuse to return home early.â
Gael giggled on his arm, nuzzling her head on his neck.
âWanna grab a drink upstairs?â Y/N murmured to Baelor when Neven started to walk towards their home. Her brother nodded silently, following his fathers steps.
Once they step inside, they heard giggles from the master bedroom. Baelor smiled heading to the kitchen, finding Irene with a cup of tea.
âWhatâs the occasion?â The black haired Darkhaven asks, sipping her tea like Hemlock Grove wasnât a chaos at the moment.
Baelor shrugged. âWeâre just sharing a drink before the party.â
Irene stands then, her braid slicing down her back like a blade. Polished, deliberate, and dangerous. The faint sound of her chair moving across the floor feels like punctuation, the quiet warning of a woman who has seen too much to believe in casual celebrations.
However, Baelor always noticed the small thingsâdetails most people would overlook. Especially how his sister and grandmother always wore their hair braided, dark ropes bound tight against the pull of wind or worry. It wasnât vanity. It was ritual. Control. Both of them were creatures of composure, women who folded their grief neatly and tucked it somewhere no one could reach. They carried silence like an heirloom, the same way they carried their power.
His mother on the other hand, was a different kind of creature for him. Her hair was almost always down, loose waves spilling over her shoulders as if refusing to be tamed. She laughed often, cried easily, spoke her heart without hesitation. There was something alive in the way she movedâher emotions were just another current of magic, unrestrained, honest.
She was the warm breeze when their house felt like it was made of cold stone.
âYouâre nervous, arenât you?â She whispered walking slowly to the bar, and grabbing a bottle of wine.
âI have no idea what youâre talking about, Nana.â He mumbled. His cheeks flushed.
âIâve known you before you were born, my boy.â Baelor scoffed, rolling his eyes. âSauvignon Blanc.â She grabbed the bottle, handing it to him. âItâll help set up the mood.â
âWeâre gonna be at the balcony.â He said, taking the bottle and two cups.
âI know. Now go, your sisterâs waiting.â
and then: âBAEL, MOVE!â
The voice of his twin echoed through the manor, so loud he could have sworn she was enhancing her voice.
âAnd good luck with Ravenwood.â
He froze for a minute. Then headed to the balcony.
Irene smirked. Oh, tonightâs gonna be fun.
Baelor Darkhaven reached the main balcony of the manor. It hummed with quiet magic beneath the surface, but out in the space, the air was still. The night breeze was soft against their skin when he sat, heavy with pine and distant smoke from the chimneys below. The twins sat side by side on the old balcony rail, legs dangling into the dark, overlooking the woods that wrapped around Hemlock Grove like a secret.
The sky was an indigo bruise, stars barely pricking through. Below, the forest whispers in hushes, like it knows things itâll never tell. A full bottle of wine sits between themâwhite, rich. A faint ember glows at the end of a joint Baelor took out of his pocket, and now rested on his fingers as he took a slow drag and exhaled toward the sky, smoke curling like thoughts too delicate to say out loud.
âTheyâll say weâre late. Again.â The boy murmured, voice low, almost amused.
âLet them. Itâs not like the party starts until we walk in anyway.â
She takes the joint from his hand, fingers brushing. He watches herâher profile lit by the soft gold spill from the manorâs windows behind them. Her lips part as she inhales, holding it like a secret before she releases a gentle breath, clouding the space between them.
âI hate pretending itâs all fine. Like none of us are carrying ghosts in our pockets.â
âItâs what we do best, isnât it? Smile like our hands arenât stained.â
âYou sound like Nana now.â
âWell, someone has to keep the mood grim. It might as well be me.â She laughs, nudging him gently with her shoulder. A lull stretches between themânot awkward, but thick with shared history.
Theyâve always existed like this, between silences, between spells, between everyone elseâs expectations.
Baelor pours them each a small glass from the wine bottle. The liquid glints soft yellow in the moonlight.
âTo surviving another week without hexing anyone.â Baelor murmurs, a soft smile tugging at his lips.
âTo surviving, period.â
They clink, gentle. Sip. The alcohol is warm and velvet on the way down.
âRemember when we used to climb that old oak by the fence? Before everything got complicated?â His sister whispered, nostalgia clinging to her ribs.
âYou cried the first time you fell. I told you Iâd break the branch that betrayed you.â
âYou did. You climbed right back up and kicked it till it cracked.â
âIt deserved it.â
They both laugh softly, the sound settling in their chests like something sacred.
âSometimes I miss her⊠The girl I was. Before we had roles to follow, before magic demanded everything.â
âSheâs still there. You just wear more armor now.â She looks at him now, the kind of look that only exists between twins whoâve known each otherâs hearts from the womb.
A quiet understanding.
âThank youâŠâ Her voice is a soft whisper under the moonlight, embracing how Baelor always held her close when the world was too much.
âFor what?â He asks, confused.
âStill being here⊠even when he leaves.â
âAlways.â
She leans her head against his shoulder. He rests his chin lightly against her hair. The joint sits forgotten, ash curling at its end. The wine darkens in their glasses. Somewhere inside, music starts to playâsomeone getting impatient. But out here, in the dark, the twins take their time.
It isnât often they are quiet together. The house always hums with voices, footsteps, arguments over who inherited whose temper. But here, on the edge of the balcony, where the lamps donât quite reachâthey are just Baelor and Y/N. Not heirs, not witches, not the children of a legacy too heavy for their years.
Just two hearts that learned to beat side by side before they ever learned to speak.
He feels her breathing slow, the way it did when they were small and afraid of storms. She still hides her tremors behind laughter, but Baelor has always known where the cracks run deep. âYouâre thinking too loudâŠâ he murmurs.
Her lips curve faintly. âYou always say that.â
âBecause itâs always true.â
The night wind stirs her hair, and he thinks of all the years theyâve spent carrying each other through fire, water, earth, air, shadows, blood, monsters. How her hand found his in every grief, how his shadow stood guard behind hers. Thereâs something sacred in their silence, something that belongs only to twins who have seen the same ghosts and kept the same secrets.
For a moment, he wished time would still itself entirelyâlet the ash fall, let the wine spill, let the song inside fade. Just to keep her here, leaning into him, the dark around them thick with unspoken things.
Because Baelor knew that eventually, Roman would make her choose againâlike he did when they were kids. Her brother or his lover. Her blood or her ruin. He was selfish like that; always had been. Roman took and took, until even silence felt like surrender. And his sister, for all her sake, had always been soft when it came to him.
The boy could already see it. That slow unraveling of her certainty, the way sheâd start defending Roman with that tremor in her voice, pretending she wasnât hurting. It would end the same as before: her caught between love and loyalty, trying to hold two worlds that refuse to touch.
He held her a little closer now, memorizing the weight of her head against his shoulder, the quiet steadiness of her breath. Because soon sheâll drift back to where the sorrow lives, back to the gravity of Roman Godfrey. And Baelor will be left with the same ache heâs carried all his lifeâknowing he never means to hurt her, but being the one who always picks up the pieces.
âââââ âŸâœ âââââ
The manor buzzed with a strange energyâpart magic, part nostalgia, part mild parental panic. Somewhere in the old record room, a forgotten jazz vinyl spun under a faint enchantment, as if the walls themselves were humming in approval that the twins were, for once, behaving like normal teenagers.
âNormalâ is a generous term.
Baelor stood in front of his mirror, buttoning the long black trench coat over his all-black ensemble. Slick, sleek, precise. Hair combed back lazily, dark sunglasses perched on his nose, boots shone just enough to catch the faint silver glint from his rings.
Neo. Not costume-party Neo. Full Matrix Reloaded chic.
His sister leaned against the doorway of his room, arms crossed, one eyebrow high.
âYou know you look like you just stepped out of a hacker cult, right?â
Baelor didnât look up. âYou say that like itâs a bad thing.â
She smirked and stepped in, black boots clacking softly against the marble floor. Her dress was velvet, dark as ink, and corseted up the back with black hooks. Her hair was braided like rope magic, loose strands falling around her cheekbones, and her lips were painted the kind of red that left memories.
âStill think my outfitâs more powerful.â The girl mocked, tossing a scarf onto his bed. âWhatâs the point of looking like an eldritch widow if I donât have a cane to match?â
âDonât.â Baelor half-smiled. âSheâs gonna say yes and then start crying about it.â
As if summoned by magic⊠or maternal instinct, Gabrielle swept past the siblings' wing with a shawl over her arms and an excited glimmer in her chestnut eyes. âLet me see you bothâah! Che Bello! Look at you two! My dark little angels are going to an actual school party. Neven! Neven, come see your children! Hurry!â
Her daughter rolled her eyes. âItâs just a party, Mother.â
Gabrielle ignored her completely, circling Baelor and patting imaginary dust off his shoulder. âYou should wear a pendant. Or no⊠wait, are you sure this isnât too dark?â
âHeâs going as NeoâŠâ The young witch retorted, snorting. âLet him be dramatic.â
Just then, Neven appeared, sleeves rolled, tie loose, a glass of scotch in one hand. âWell, look who decided to play human tonight.â He leaned against the wall, eyeing his son. âBael, if you get mistaken for a cult recruiter, make sure you at least hand out flyers with our crest on it. Branding matters.â
Baelor smirked under his sunglasses. âIâll keep it subtle.â
Neven turned to his daughter. âAnd youâare you attending or hexing?â
âA little bit of both.â she said sweetly, smiling at him.
âSmart girl.â Neven murmured, placing a kiss on his daughterâs temple. She stepped past him into the main hall.
âNana!â she called. âCan I borrow your cane? The red one, with the blackwood handle?â
Irene appeared a moment later at the top of the stairs, already holding it out, as if sheâd been expecting the question since her granddaughter was in the womb.
âI carried this to my own covenâs ascension party.â She confessed, them. Their coven. Her voice spilled with a sweetness she hadn't seen in a while. âIf anyone touches you without permission tonight, aim for the kneecaps.â
She laughed and took it with awe and a grin. âYouâre a menace, Nana.â
âSurvival runs in the bloodline.â
Gabrielle clasped her hands together. âOhâpicture! Wait, just the two of you. Neven, get my phone!â
Baelor groaned. âNo.â
But it was already too lateâGabrielle was snapping a dozen photos as the twins stood by the staircase. Baelor in his all-black Neo realness, his sister with her black-handled cane and death-witch aesthetic. They didnât smile. They didnât have to. The camera caught the unspoken language that only the twins could speak.
When the chaos finally quieted, Baelor was the first to move.
âWOW!âBAEL.â Gaia and Gael appeared in the doorway, staring at their older brother.
âYou look like a goth princeââ Gaia giggled, admiring his tall frame.
âMore like a private assassin.â Gael retorted, frowning.
âThank you, girls.â The older Darkhaven murmured, placing a kiss on their head. âIâm heading out.â He said then, grabbing his keys from the black crystal bowl near the entrance.
Gabrielleâs eyes lit up again. âOh! Picking someone up?â
He paused. Didnât answer.
âHeâs picking up Heather,â Y/N said for him, smiling. âSheâs a Ravenwood.â
Neven gave a low whistle. âSo it is a cult recruitment.â
âSnitch.â Baelor slipped on his sunglasses again and opened the door. âDonât wait up.â He muttered.
Then he was goneâcoat sweeping, car already humming in the drive before the door fully shut behind him. She stood there for a long moment, staring at the spot where heâd just been. Her fingers curled around the cane, the red cool against her palm. Wind stirred gently through the trees beyond the window, as if the manor itself was holding its breath.
The party hadnât started yet, but something had.
âI think these wheels will look great on you tonight.â Neven appeared behind her, the keys of his car dangling from his hands.
âNO WAY!â The girl tried to contain her excitement but it wasn't possible seeing how her father was handing it to her. âDad, I can drive my car. Itâs okayâŠâ
âNonsense!â Neven smiled. âYou look like your great-great-great-grandmother. She loved luxury, so you definitely should take my car.â
Suddenly, the car's engine purred under the glow of the manorâs lanterns, Neven's eye turning a subtle shade of gray, headlights slicing through the mist that had begun to creep across the lawn like an omen. She stood beside it, cloak thrown over one arm, cane tucked against her shoulder, keys dangling from one finger like sheâd been born with them.
âTake it easy on the curves.â Neven said as he stepped down from the porch, one brow raised, watching her like she was fourteen again and trying to astral project through a locked door. âThis car handles like sin but bites if you flirt too hard.â
âIâm not Baelor.â His daughter replied smoothly, smirking. âI donât drive like Iâm being chased by the Horsemen.â
Neven offered a crooked smile, then handed over the final charmâa protective sigil carved into a small silver coin, worn smooth at the edges. âSlip it into the glove box. Just in case.â
She nodded, slid it in without question. Then, with one fluid motion, she opened the door, tossed her cloak onto the passenger seat, adjusted the rearview mirror, and backed out with the kind of practiced elegance that had not come from practice.
âSee ya.â
In the blink of an eye, his daughter was gone.
She drove through the cold night of Hemlock Grove, her feet resting on the accelerator like it belonged there. With grace and sharp precision.
The drive to Peter's house was short, the air hugging the car like it belonged to it. The Rumancek trailer had a warm flicker of lamplight insideâbut then the front door swung open and Peter stepped out like heâd been waiting in costume his entire life.
Tall boots. Worn leather. A long dark coat that billowed behind him, silver clasps across his chest and a wide-brimmed hat tilted slightly forward. His crossbow was plasticâbarelyâbut everything else looked like it had been stolen from a real monster hunterâs grave.
She stared from behind the wheel as he approached.
âVan Helsing?â she asked, amused.
Peter tipped his hat with a grin. âI figured if Iâm going to crash a party full of monsters, I might as well dress like someone with job security.â
She laughed, unlocking the passenger door. âGet in, hunter. Weâve got souls to traumatize.â
Peter got in the car, a soft smile on his face. He enjoyed her company, which was weird cause the first time they spoke, the tension was ripping the air. The wolf buckled in, the smell of her perfume threading through the air, something earthy, like rain on stone. He glanced at her profile as she started the engine, her eyes catching the reflection of the streetlights in a way that almost looked supernatural.
âCanât believe Iâm letting you drive me anywhere,â he teased, stretching his legs out. âLast time I saw you behind the wheel, you nearly ran over a trash can.â
âFirst of all, it was Baelor's fault, second, that trash can jumped in front of me.â She retorted, shifting into gear with a glare that only made him laugh harder.
âSure, sure. Possessed trash can. Classic witch excuse.â
She rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself, pulling onto the empty road. The sky was low and gray, the kind of evening that hinted at something brewingânot quite an explosion, but something close.
For a few minutes, the silence was comfortable. The hum of the tires filled the car, and Peterâs fingers tapped against his thigh in rhythm to the song barely audible from the radio.
âSoâŠâ Y/N said finally, âwhy the Van Helsing getup? You couldâve gone with something simple. Werewolf chic, maybe?â
He smirked, watching her from the corner of his eye. âYeah, because showing up as myself always goes over great with small-town crowds. Thought Iâd blend in as the guy who hunts me for a living.â
She gave him a sidelong look. âThatâs dark.â
He shrugged. âThatâs life.â Then, after a pause, softer. âBesides, figured it might make you laugh.â
It did. She pressed her lips together, hiding a grin. âMission accomplished, hunter.â
Peter relaxed back into the seat, the kind of quiet falling between them that didnât feel awkward anymore. There had been so much tension the first time. Suspicion, unspoken rivalry, that electric awareness neither wanted to name. But now, it felt easier. Like they were both learning to lower their guard, piece by piece.
âYou know,â she said after a while, glancing at him, âyouâre not as terrible as I thought.â
He laughed under his breath. âWow. Iâll treasure that glowing review forever.â
âI mean it,â Her yes fixed on the road, but the edges of her voice softened. âThe way people talk about you, youâd think you were some kind of danger magnet. That you abandon people when things get⊠tough. But youâreâŠâ she hesitated, searching for the word, âNormal. In a weird way.â
ââNormal,ââ he echoed, mock-offended. âIâll have you know Iâm a deeply mysterious lone wolf, thank you very much.â
She shot him a dry look. âUh-huh. Very mysterious. Especially with that plastic cross around your neck.â
Peter looked down at the cheap Halloween accessory and smirked. âYou wound me, miss Darkhaven.â
âThatâs the plan.â
He chuckled again, shaking his head. The headlights stretched across the empty highway, the trees lining the road like watchful silhouettes.
âWhy are you going anyway?â he asked after a bit. âThought you werenât the âschool partyâ type.â
âIâm not,â she admitted. âBut my brotherâs going. My friends are going. I guess I just want to feel⊠normal for a night.â
He glanced at her, the way her knuckles tightened slightly on the steering wheel. âYou donât strike me as someone who wants to be normal.â
She gave a quiet, humorless laugh, eyes still on the road. âYeah, well. Sometimes I get tired of being different.â
The words hung there between themâsoft, but heavy. Oh, so heavy. Peter turned to look at her properly this time.
In the glow of the passing streetlights, she looked nothing like the untouchable witch everyone whispered about. The shimmer of her familyâs nameâthe Darkhavens, all legacy and myth. It seemed to fade under the sodium light. For a moment, she was just a girl gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly, shoulders drawn in as though the weight of the whole world had found its way into her bones.
Her face, so composed in daylight, looked younger now. Vulnerable, even. The silver gleam of her pendant caught the light and flickered across her throat, a small reminder of the lineage she carried like armor. Peter had seen her do impossible things, things that made his blood run cold, but here she was wishing for something as simple as being normal.
It hit him in a quiet, unexpected way. Heâd always thought of her as someone far above all this. Unshakeable, proud, almost otherworldly. But hearing her say that, seeing her in this fragile light, he realized how wrong heâd been. She wasnât made of marble. She was human, burning under too much expectation. A Darkhaven by birthright, a witch by duty⊠but maybe still just a girl who wanted to go to a dumb school party and laugh at stupid jokes and watch people of her age try to discretly get drunk.
Peter leaned back in his seat, his usual smirk softening into something more thoughtful. âIf you can pull off pretending for a night,â he said, voice low, âthen maybe I can too.â
She flicked her eyes toward him, brows lifting slightly. âPretend?â
He gave a small shrug. âBe normal. Not the Romani kid who changes with the moon. Not the freak people whisper about in town. Just⊠a guy who's driving to a party with a pretty girl and might get another pretty girl to be his girlfriend even though he doesn't know how to do the whole "love thing". â
She turned her head at that, the faintest smile tugging at her lips. âPretty, huh?â
Peter grinned. âDonât let it go to your head, Darkhaven. I was talking about Letha.â
She laughed. For real this timeâsmall, almost shy, but it reached her eyes. The tension in her shoulders eased a little, and the silence that followed was different. Lighter.
He could still see the legacy in her. The power and the shadows and the bloodlines that whispered in her veins, but he also saw something else. The way she drummed her fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of a song, the way she rolled her eyes when she was trying not to laugh, the way she wanted out of everything expected of her, even for just one night.
Peter watched the world blur by outside, the lights, the trees, the dark ribbon of the road. He thought about all the things they both carried. The curses, the expectations, the hunger to belong somewhere.
âMaybe weâll both get lucky,â he said quietly. âAnd tonight, no one will see what we really are.â
She smiled faintly, eyes on the road ahead. âAnd what are we?â
Peterâs voice dropped to a whisper, almost lost under the hum of the tires. âA little bit broken. A little bit magic.â
Her laughter was softer this time, the kind that sounded like a secret. âThen I guess we make a good team.â
âNormalâs overrated anyway,â he said finally. âPeople spend their whole lives trying to fit in just so they can die being forgotten.â
She blinked, turning to him briefly. âThatâs morbid.â
He shrugged. âYou hang around enough graves, you learn a few things.â
âYou sound like my grandmother.â
âIs that a compliment?â
âSheâd like you. Youâve got that haunted look she always admired in strays.â
Peter laughed quietly. âAnd you? You like strays too?â
âDepends,â she murmured, eyes gleaming as the car passed under a flickering streetlight. âDo they bite?â
âOnly when cornered.â
The corner of her mouth twitched. âThen weâll get along just fine.â
A beat of silence followed but it wasnât empty. It felt charged, like the moment before rain starts to fall.
Peter turned his gaze out the window, hiding a smirk. âYou know, if you keep talking like that, people might think you like me.â
She let out a soft laugh. âLetâs not get ahead of ourselves, hunter.â
âFair,â he murmured. âBut I think you do.â
She glanced at him, and for the first time that night, her expression softened in a way that almost hurt to look at. âMaybe I will,â she said quietly. âSomeday.â
Peter believed.
Before they could notice, the school gym had been transformed with cheap string lights, half-wilted decorations, and music that vibrated through the parking lot like it was trying to escape. Teenagers gathered in clusters, laughing too loud, already a few sips into things they shouldnât have had access to.
The Mercedes pulled in slowly, cutting through the chatter like a knife. Heads turned. Phones lifted. No one ever saw a Darkhaven arrive quietly.
Peter stepped out first, trench coat catching the wind like a movie shot. Y/N followed, cane in hand, cloak billowing around her ankles, heels tapping softly on the cracked pavement. The pair of them looked like theyâd walked off a gothic novel coverâor a very cursed Netflix adaptation.
âRemember not to kill the heir of the white tower.â
Darkhaven adjusted her braid over her shoulder. âShut up.â
They reached the door just as the next bass drop shook the pavement. Peter held it open with a flourish. âShall we, milady?â
She arched a brow. âLet the haunting begin.â And together, they stepped into the chaos.
Inside, the gym reeked of waxed floors, old basketballs, drugstore perfume, and someoneâs poorly hidden vape pen. String lights dangled above like lazy constellations, casting warm shadows over students pressed together in groups, swaying awkwardly to whatever remix of a remix the DJ thought counted as dancing. Peter led the way through the crowd, nodding at a few familiar faces who flinched at his coat and crossbow combo. The witch followed a step behind, her black-handled cane clicking on the hardwood floor with surgical precision.
She saw them before Peter did.
Baelor leaned against the bleachers like heâd always belonged there, one boot resting on the step behind him, arms crossed over his chest, sunglasses off but tucked into his shirt collar. His Neo trench coat looked too expensive for a school function, but that had never stopped him before.
Heather stood next to him, dressed in a sleek, black, off-shoulder numberâsimple but sharp, like she didnât try but still managed to destroy most expectations. She was laughing at something Baelor had said, but her eyes flickered when she saw them approaching.
Letha was a few feet away, talking to someone with a red Solo cup in her hand, but she immediately lit up when she spotted Peter.
And Roman, of course, was standing just behind Baelor, shirt unbuttoned halfway, bow tie hanging like an afterthought, jaw tense like he hadnât fully come down from whatever trouble heâd been up to earlier. His eyes locked onto hers the second she entered the room.
She didnât return the stare.
âLook whoâs here!â Baelor muttered with that crooked smirk, straightening up. âVan Helsing and the Queen of Night herself.â
Peter chuckled. âTold you weâd haunt this place.â
Letha beamed and rushed forward, nearly slipping in her platform heels. âPeter! You look amazing!â Then she gave Y/N a slightly more hesitant smile. âYou too, miss.â
She tipped her head politely, but her eyes never once drifted toward Roman. Not even when he shifted closer, like he was trying to catch her in his periphery.
Baelor stepped forward and eyed the keys in her hand. âIs thatâŠ?â
âYep.â she said before he could finish. âDad let me take his car.â
Lethaâs jaw dropped. âYour dad? Neven?â
âHe never even lets me touch it.â Baelor muttered, half to himself.
She smirked, flipping the keyring on her finger like a charm spell. âHe said I drive like a goddess and that Baelor handles corners like heâs possessed.â
Heather laughed, and even Peter whistled. âDamn. Thatâs not favoritismâthatâs worship.â
Baelor rolled his eyes. âHe just wanted to be sure she didnât fly off into a ditch.â
Behind them, Roman hadnât said a word. He was watching her like she was a problem he couldnât solveâa riddle with sharp edges. But Y/N? She hadnât so much as glanced his way. Not once.
Peter noticed it. So did Baelor. So did Roman.
The silence between them pulsed harder than the bass.
She turned slightly toward Heather, offering a sharp half-smile. âYou look good.â
Heather blinked, surprised. âOh. Thanks.â
Still, not a word to Roman. Not even when he shifted again, close enough now that his cologne teased the edges of her senses. He waitedâeyes narrowed slightly, lips parted like he wanted to speakâbut she turned toward Letha instead.
âI need a drink.â she said. âYou coming?â
âGod, yes. I hate this song,â Letha groaned, already looping her arm through hers.
As they walked away, Peter clapped Baelorâs shoulder, falling in step beside him. âThink heâs gonna survive the night?â
Baelor shrugged, watching his twin disappear into the crowd. âDepends how stupid he was this morning.â
Roman didnât respond. But his jaw clenched. And the storm inside Y/N? Still brewing.
When she stood near the drink table now, cane tucked at her side, leaning slightly as she spoke to a tall boy from her AP English classâKieran Maddox, the kind of smart-cocky with a lazy drawl and a quiet confidence that made teachers both love and loathe him. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing ink on one forearm, and he held a ginger ale like it was scotch.
He was saying something that made her laughânot her usual dry, sharp smirk, but a real one. Brief. Bright. She tucked a loose braid behind her ear, gaze flickering up to meet his.
Roman saw the whole thing from across the gym.
The second the laugh left her lips, something dark uncoiled in his chest. That familiar burn, low and fast, like someone had reached in and twisted the vein that fed straight into his pride. He hadnât touched her. Hadnât said a word. And now some mouthy lit nerd was standing where he shouldâve been.
Baelor, from his lean, caught Romanâs movement out of the corner of his eye.
âOh, there he goes.â Heather grinned, eyes glinting with excitement.
âCan we get popcorn?â Peter asked, smirking.
âDonât push it.â Baelor murmured but he didnât stop him.
Roman moved like smoke, graceful, irritated smoke. He slipped through the crowd like a shadow in heat. One second, She was listening to Kieran describe how he thought Frankenstein wasnât about monstrosity but fatherhood, and the next, a hand closed gently but firmly around her wrist.
She didn't need to turn to see who it was, she knew it was him. Roman.
He didnât say anything to Kieran. Didnât look at him. Just stared at her like the noise around them didnât exist.
âCome with me.â His voice was low. Not a question. Not a threat. Something in between.
Darkhavenâs expression cooled instantly. âExcuse me?â
Roman stepped in closer, jaw clenched. âYouâve made your point.â
âI wasnât trying toââ He tugged her away from the drink table, cutting through the music and laughter that spun through the gym like static. âRoman,â She hissed, trying to pull back.
He didnât answer. His jaw was tight, something feral flashing behind his eyes. Kieranâs voice cut through from behind them, confused and a little too loud.
âHey, manâwhat the hell?â
Roman turned, slowly. His expression smoothed into something cold, like a mask lowering into place. The gymâs colored lights flickered across his face. Green, blue, red. But his eyes stayed steady, deep green, bright as cut glass.
âLeave.â
It wasnât a shout. It was soft, nearly drowned out by the bass. But it carried. Kieran froze mid-step, mouth still open as if to argue, then went still. His expression blanked, his shoulders slackened. His drink tilted in his hand, spilling sticky liquid onto the floor.
Without another word, he turned and walked away. Roman exhaled sharply, wiping his nose with the back of his handâa quick, desperate motion, the crimson smear catching the gymâs light. He blinked hard, his focus snapping back to Y/N, whose eyes were wide with disbelief.
âWhatâwhat did you just do?â she whispered.
Roman swallowed, his breathing shallow. âNothing you need to worry about.â
Liar.
She could feel the magic, or whatever it was, rippling faintly off him, that strange, hypnotic pull that lingered in the air. Something old. Something dangerous. Roman dragged her out of the gym. Away from the main lights. The music still thudded around them, but it was quieter here. Barely.
She didnât resist. But she didnât follow easily, either. She knew what happened.
She yanked her wrist from his grasp. âWhat the hell is wrong with you?â
Roman ran a hand through his hair, eyes wild but tired, like whatever he was feeling had been simmering all night. âYou were laughing.â
âYeah?â she snapped. âIt happens. Some people donât ruin the morning and then disappear into a bathroom with the first pair of legs that says hello.â
âThat wasnâtââ he paused. Jaw tightened again. âIt wasnât what it looked like. You donât laugh with people. Youâre⊠difficult to them.â
She laughed, cold this time. âDonât. That lineâs older than your fortune.â
Roman looked at her for a long second. The world around them, the dim lights, the echoing bass, the laughter that had once felt far away collapsed into silence. Just her. Her, standing there in front of him, pulse wild at her throat, eyes sharp enough to cut through him. Silence. She made his head go completely silent.
And she was beautiful.
Not the kind of beautiful heâd grown used to. Maybe he didn't even know the true definition of it. He fucked girls for fun or even boredom. He never saw them as something made to be adored. But Y/N, standing in front of him was something rawer. Terrifying. Her beauty was all flame and fury, the kind that burned through reason and made the air taste like copper. Her hair caught the dim light like wildfire behind door; her anger radiated, vibrant and trembling with life.
She was alive. Alive in the way storms are alive.
Not just existing, but becoming. Her breath came fast, her magic curled under her skin like lightning looking for a place to strike. He could feel it, taste it, the electric hum of her soul brimming with both defiance and heartbreak.
Roman hated it. He hated that heâd made her look like this. That heâd been the one to draw that fire out of herânot in laughter or warmth, but in pain. Heâd taken that light and forced it to flicker, to defend itself.
It was always like this, wasnât it? Everything he touched turned into something darker. He told himself it was instinct, hunger, genetics, but the truth was simpler. He wanted too much. Needed too much. He wanted her to look at him the way she once hadâcurious, wary, maybe even a little fond. But not like this. Not with this mixture of betrayal and fear in her eyes.
Heâd wanted to protect her, maybe even impress her. Some twisted part of him thought he could. But instead, heâd become the thing she had to protect others from.
Her gaze on him felt like a reckoning. And still, God help him, he couldnât stop staring. Couldnât stop memorizing the way her chest rose and fell, the trembling of her fingers as she tried to make sense of what heâd done. The way her magic pulsed faintly, golden and aching beneath her skin.
He wanted to reach out. Not to apologize, not even to explain, just to feel that warmth again. To remind himself that she was real, that this wasnât another dream where everything good slipped through his hands.
But he didnât move. He couldn't.
He only watched her, bleeding quietly into the stillness, knowing that no spell, no power, no ancient Upir birthright could ever undo this; the moment he crossed a line he didnât even see until she looked at him like that.
Like sheâd just witnessed something she couldnât unsee. And still, she was so damn beautiful. Beautiful in her fury, her defiance, her refusal to break.
Roman, Roman Godfrey, heir to the tower of monsters, could only stand there, hollowed out by his own longing, and wish heâd been born human enough to deserve her.
âI didnât like seeing you with him.â He finally spoke.
âGood.â she answered sharply. âBecause I didnât like hearing that you were screwing someone in the bathroom.â
Silence again. Utter silence.
âI donât know how to stop wanting you.â Roman admitted. âEven when Iâm trying to pretend I donât.â
She stared at him, breath caught somewhere between rage and heartbreak.
âThen stop pretending.â Before he could answer, she walked past him, cane tapping hard, each step a statement he wasnât ready to hear.
Roman didnât follow. He just stood there in the dark, swallowing his own ache.
She stood outside the gym doors, her heart hammering behind her ribs like it wanted out.
Not just from her chest. From the school. From him. From everything.
She stood still for a moment, a feeling crawling in her skin, hand on the metal handle of the gym entrance, staring down at her own reflection in the glass: mascara slightly smudged, braid loose from its knot, lips parted like sheâd just remembered how to breathe.
I donât know how to stop wanting you.
His voice haunted her like it had been carved into the underside of her skin. She hated how fast it had undone her anger. How much she felt it. How much it hurt to hear it.
She took one breath. Then another. Her fingers curled around the handle.
But before she could pull it open⊠âDonât.â
Roman. His voice again, low and loaded with warning. She turned slowly, expecting more of the same messâmore jealousy, more excuses. Instead, his expression had shifted.
Something wasnât right. He looked wired. Edges frayed. That usual arrogant poise replaced with something sharp and dark.
âWhat did you do?â she asked carefully.
He didnât answer right away.
âI let her out.â
She blinked. âHuh?â
Romanâs eyes flicked toward the hallway that led deeper into the school. Students still danced inside. Laughed. Screamed over music. Blissfully unaware.
âThe snake.â he said simply. âThe one in the hallway thatâs beside the chem classroom.â He shrugged, like a kid.
The silence that followed was suffocating. She didnât move, her cane rooted to the tile floor like a second spine.
âYou let the serpent outâthere?â
âIt needed space.â Roman muttered. âNoise. Chaos.â
She took a step back like the truth had burned. âYou unleashed a blood serpent because I was talking to someone?â
He ran a hand through his hair. âDonât twist itââ
âNo, you twisted it.â she snapped. âYou always do. You canât handle the idea of not being the center of gravity so you spiral and expect everyone to orbit your damage.â
His jaw twitched. âDonât pretend you didnât want me to see.â
âI wanted you to hurt!â she said, her voice shaking. âBecause you keep showing me I donât matter to you. Not really. Not enough.â
âYou matter more thanââ
âThen why do you keep choosing everyone else?â
That landed. Hard. Cause it was easier. But he didnât say it, he couldnât. Roman stepped back, like sheâd actually hit him. The air shifted againâdense, stormy. Somewhere down the corridor, a light flickered.
She turned toward the gym again, hand on the door once more, face pinched with restrained fury.
Romanâs voice cracked through the silence. âDonât go in there.â
She didnât turn around. âWhy not? Afraid Iâll see you disappear into another girlâs mouth again?â
âNo.â he rasped. âAfraid youâll get hurt.â
She froze. And for a moment, neither of them breathed.
Roman stepped forward, slow, hesitant, like approaching a wounded creature.
âThis is too much for me.â he said softly âI donât know what to do about this, about Baelor, about you.â
The witch turned to face him againâeyes glassy now, mouth trembling. âYou donât have the capacity to love, Roman. Itâs sad, but true.â
He was in front of her now. Close. Too close. Roman cupped her face with one hand, the other still half-trembling at his side. âAnd you do? You run away at the first glance of affection I give you. I ache for you and you act like itâs a Friday night for you, so donât talk to me about knowing how to love, cause youâre just like me.â
She hated that it was true. Hated that it wasnât enough to stay angry.
âYouâre a fucking idiot.â she whispered.
âI know.â
âYou couldâve killed someone.â
âI didnât. Not yet.â
âRomââ
He kissed her.
No warning. No permission. Just the shattering sound of something breaking loose inside him. The kind of kiss born from years of restraint and ruin, from all the words theyâd never said, all the nights theyâd spent trying to hate each other into silence. It wasnât gentle. It wasnât kind. It was fire meeting fireâreckless and consuming, as if they could burn the world between them into ash.
Her mouth crashed against his with all the fury sheâd kept buried, her breath trembling against his skin. The taste of her was sharp and familiar, like the edge of a blade heâd forgotten heâd bled on.
His hands found her waist, her back, her hair, the curve of her ass. Desperate, searching, trying to anchor himself in her before she vanished again. Her braid had come loose; the black ribbon slipped free, catching for a heartbeat between his fingers before falling to the floor.
She didnât pull away. Instead, she pressed him harder against the wall, her palm flat against his chest as if she wanted to feel his heart break under her touch. Her cane hit the ground with a sharp, metallic sound; a small violence that fit the moment perfectly.
He didnât stop her. Couldnât.
Her magic was rising, a low hum beneath her skin. Wild, bright, alive. It met the darkness in him, that Upir hunger he didn't know he had, and for a moment the air between them pulsed, thick and electric, as if the Veil itself was holding its breath.
He kissed her like a man drowning. Her breath was the only thing keeping him alive. His hand gripped her leg, hooking it on him, pressing himself on her. She gasped, not in fear, but in something fierce and startled, and the sound tore through him. It was a sound he knew would haunt him, the kind that made the world tilt and burn.
Her fingers slid into his hair, the silk ribbon long forgotten on the floor, and the static of her power bled into his skin. It wasnât gentle. It wasnât holy. Their teeth grazed, lips bruising, breaths colliding, still, neither of them let go.
His fingers slid up the column of her throat, tracing the warmth there, feeling the pulse that trembled beneath his touch. Her eyes fluttered shut, lashes damp, a single tear or maybe sweat glimmering at the edge of her cheek.
When they broke apart, she pressed her forehead to his.
âYouâre still a bastard.â
âIâd be worse without you.â Roman swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. Every instinct screamed to pull her closer; every shred of reason begged him to let go. He could feel the echo of her pulse against his, the rhythm of two beings who had forgotten, for one dangerous second, what they were.
âGood.â she whispered, breath still catching in her chest.
Again, she didnât remember closing the space between them.
One moment, she was standing on the edge of fury and heartbreak, voice laced with venom, body trembling with restraint.
The next, Roman was in front of her, chest rising unevenly beneath the low flicker of hallway lights. The air between them charged like a storm, thick with all the things they hadnât said and everything they werenât supposed to want.
Her breath hitched. His fingers grazed the corner of her jaw. Just enough to make her shiver.
When he finally opened his eyes, she was looking up at him. Pupils blown wide, lips parted, a faint shimmer of gold dusting the edges of her skin where the magic still lingered. Heâd seen her furious, heâd seen her afraid, but heâd never seen her like this.
Alive and trembling in his arms, her power tangled with his ruin. In that stolen heartbeat, before the world came rushing back, Roman thought that if this was what damnation felt like, he would never want to be saved.
âDonât look at me like that.â she whispered. Her voice betrayed herâit wasnât anger now. It was desire. Hurt. Need.
âI donât know how else to look at you.â
Then his hand slid to the back of her neckâwarm, sure, possessive in a way that made her knees go weak and he kissed her like heâd been starving for it again. Like she was something he could only touch in dreams and nightmares.
It was desperate. It was devastating.
His lips crushed against hers, teeth grazing the softness of her bottom lip as his other hand curled around her waist, dragging her flush against him. She gripped his suit jacket with both fists, grounding herself in the fabric and heat, like if she let go sheâd burn alive.
The witch moaned into his mouth before she could stop it, and Roman growled in responseâa low, possessive sound, like the Upir in him was clawing toward the surface.
She bit his lip. He gasped.
And then her back was pressed to the cold concrete wall, his thigh slipping between hers this time, anchoring her in place as his tongue slid against hers, teasing, demanding. He kissed like he wanted to ruin her mouth, claim it, leave it swollen with memory.
Her hands moved without thinkingâthreading into his hair, tugging hard. He hissed against her lips.
âSay it.â She breathed, dizzy from the way his hands were gripping her hips now, tight enough to bruise. âSay you want me.â
âI always want youâŠâ he rasped. âI want you so bad it makes me hate everyone else.â Her pulse thundered in her throat. âYou taste like smoke and magic.â He added, forehead pressed to hers, breath hot and uneven. âAnd Iâm fucking choking on it.â
Her breath caught. The sound of his voice lodged itself somewhere between her ribsâthat raw, fractured confession that felt too human to come from someone not entirely mortal.
Their foreheads stayed pressed together, his breath unsteady, the air thick with the mingling of their power.
Magic had a taste.
She had always known it, of course she had. From the moment she first called the wind, when the world had answered back with the sweetness of rain and old earth. Her magic tasted pure, like air right before a storm, like salt and light, like something born from the bones of the world that still remembered how to love.
But hisâHis was darker. Ancient. Upir magic didnât hum; it ached. It was smoke and blood and hunger, a flavor that clung to the back of the tongue, impossible to wash away. Where hers bloomed, his devoured. Where hers healed, his marked. Together, they made something unbearable. A meeting of opposites that should have destroyed one another, and yet somehow didnât.
The Veil trembled around them, thin as breath. She could feel it bending, the edges of reality warping under their nearness. Every heartbeat felt heavier, denser, like the world itself was struggling to hold them in the same place.
His hands were still on her, but not possessive this time, desperate. Anchoring. His fingers trembled where they touched her skin, as though he was terrified of losing the proof that she was real. The sound of his pulse roared in her ears, a frantic, irregular rhythm that matched her own.
Through it all, the taste of him lingered on her lips⊠smoke, copper, eucalyptus, peppermint, and something she could only name as him. The taste of every secret heâd never said, every ache heâd buried under arrogance and violence.
She thought she could drown in it. Romanâs mind was no quieter.
Her magic was in his mouth, his lungs, under his skinâsweet and electric, cutting through the rot that had lived inside him for as long as he could remember. It wasnât supposed to be like this. Her taste was too alive, too clean. It burned. It illuminated. It made him aware of every shadow in himself.
He could feel it spilling through him, this purity, threading its way into places his blood couldnât reach. And it terrified him. Not because it hurt, but because it healed.
Heâd fed on desire before, on need, on the easy rhythm of power and surrender; but this was something else entirely. This was unmaking.
She was unmaking him.
Every exhale filled him with the taste of her, honey and rain and ancient, living power. Heâd never known anything so holy. Heâd never hated himself more for wanting to ruin it.
He wanted to devour her, and yet some broken part of him wanted to fall to his knees instead.
When her magic surged again, wild, luminous, slipping through his fingers like light through smoke he realized it was already too late.
They had crossed the line. Not between witch and upir, he didn't even know his true nature. Not even between love and destruction.
But between hunger and salvation.
And yet⊠she kissed him again.
Slower this time, deeper. Less rage. More ache. Like goodbye and come back wrapped in the same exhale.
His breath caught, a soft sound breaking between them, and then the world seemed to narrow once again. The snake inside the gym, the shadows around them, all collapsing into the press of her mouth against his. Her lips trembled at first, then steadied, finding a rhythm that felt almost vulnerable. It wasnât the desperate clash theyâd shared before; it was something quieter, sweeter.
A surrender that tasted like sorrow and honey.
Her fingers slid up his neck, tracing the faint line of an old scar, her touch both question and answer. He shivered under it, his pulse thrumming wildly, matching hers in some secret cadence only their bodies could hear.
He cupped her face with a gentleness that betrayed everything monstrous about him; thumb brushing her cheek, his skin cool where hers burned. When he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, time seemed to fold in on itself, stretching endlessly, unbearably tender.
There was no hunger now, no war between them. Only that fragile, trembling sweetness of being seen. The kind of kiss that left an ache behind it, a promise half-made and half-broken.
When they finally parted, the distance between them felt⊠wrong. As though even the air mourned their separation. Eyes locked. Mouths swollen.
She pressed her hand to his chest, where his heart beat violently beneath her palm. âYouâre still a walking disaster.â
âAnd you still want to burn with me.â
Her fingers curled in his shirt. ââŠI can't help it.â
She stepped back, lips parted, face flushed but steadier now. The fire between them wasnât gone. It just flickered low. Controlled. For now.
âPut the snake back in her cage, Roman Godfrey.â she whispered, body trembling. âThen maybe Iâll let you finish what you started.â
Roman swallowed hard and for once, he obeyed.
°âąĂ·Â°âąÂ°âąÂ°âąÂ°âąÂ°âąĂ·Â°âąÂ°âąÂ°âąÂ°âąĂ·Â°âąÂ°âąÂ°âąÂ°âąĂ·Â°âąÂ°âąÂ°âąÂ°âąÂ°âąÂ°Ă·Â°âąÂ°âą
Et sol niger resurget in carne mundi (And the black sun shall rise in the flesh of the world), Mater mea secunda (My second mother): Latin.
Ah! Che Bello! (Ah! how lovely!): Italian.
âââââ âŸâœ âââââ
đ: under the old moon: @melancuntly @kikibit @bonesofall @vadersangel @voidofsunlight @a-differentbrandof-beans @fathelzzz @mephistoraven @ch404 đŻïžđ€
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đâđ»: THEY KISSED YOUR HONOR!!!
your kindness, your likes, your reposts, your words... mean more than i can ever confess. for now, i take my leave once again, until the shadows call us together again. đźđȘŹ