Continuation

A/N – I so shouldn't be writing this when I have a ton of other stuff to finish (at work and otherwise) but I can't seem to help it. I also know this pairing is literally a blasphemy :))) but, like someone rightly pointed out, when it comes to this stuff, there's nothing better than hate to fuel it. So here's the second chapter you requested ;)

Elizaveta knows she shouldn't be doing this. No way, just no fucking way. She doesn't exactly know why, either. Maybe she just wants to be a tease, or to cause trouble, and he's the perfect one for it. And he did issue an invitation, however subtle and 'anonymous', so the Hungarian figures that it can be held against him in case of any occurring misunderstanding. She doesn't know where Borisov stands in this – her previous crush hasn't even spared her as much as a glance since the 'story' has been out, so maybe he doesn't know about it, or doesn't buy it, or he just doesn't give a fuck.

Of course, the question she should be asking herself is whether this is really about old crushes or new crushes. Truth be told, Alin is attractive and she is by no means blind – which actually makes him all the more annoying and repelling in her eyes, and not just because she can't find a means to offend him based on his looks. She has plenty of other stuff to insult him with and (oh dear Lord) she's witty and resourceful enough, not to mention plenty willing, even if she gets it back more than a lot.

And before the brunette can finish her rather overwhelming and confusing thoughts on what she's actually doing right now, she finds herself standing in front of Alin's dorm door. It's Saturday, 6:30 p.m.

'Maybe he's not even here' Elizaveta ponders and she only realizes that the message could have been a trap when her hand is already on the knob and the unlocked door has given in. The curtains are drawn in the main room and only a vague light is filtered through the dark fabric, but she can still see that it's far tidier than she'd ever imagined Vasile's place to be. Maybe Borisov sees to it…

The Hungarian advances into the room, curious, just throwing cautious glances around, but not daring to touch anything. Only she is in such a stupid daze that she doesn't immediately realize that someone is actually at home. There is a tell-tale sound of human activity, but she only registers it as her head turns abruptly to the left, where the bathroom door is open and revealing, and Elizaveta blinks, completely perplexed.

Alin feels watched too, because a slight frown creeps onto his face as he straightens his back and drops the laundry he'd been washing (by hand, in the bathtub, oh God!), wiping his hands on the already damp undershirt. The brunette's gaze takes in everything – his ruffled hair held back in a short ponytail, flushed cheeks, lean torso, baggy sweatpants hanging low on his hips, every single detail of his appearance down to the black, slightly chipped nail polish on the tips of his thin fingers.

"What the hell are you doing?" she asks, before the Romanian can even utter a very predictable 'what the fuck'.

"What does it look like I'm doing, Sherlock?" comes the reply as soon as he recovers from shock enough to roll his eyes.

Elizaveta's hand flies to her mouth as she hardly fights back a giggle, this really is the last thing she would have ever imagined Vasile doing, it's absolutely hilarious and in the same time she's always thought that men doing any kind of housework are a definite turn on. But that's classified…

"Barbarian, this is the twenty-first century!" she replies, trying to keep her tone serious enough. "Haven't you heard of washing machines?"

The strawberry blond sighs. "There is one in the common laundry room, but Borisov managed to break it so now we're back to the Middle Ages. Any other questions, since you're already here… uninvited and all?"

"Uninvited?" Elizaveta steps closer and leans on the doorframe, one eyebrow raised questioningly. "Well, it is Saturday after six, isn't it?"

Alin blinks, uncomprehending for a moment, then realization dawns on his face and he wipes his nose awkwardly. And have his cheeks gotten redder by any chance or she's just imagining things?

"Did you… really write that stuff?"

The Hungarian doesn't answer, only raises her eyebrows along with the slightest shrug, which makes things pretty clear.

"Why?"

Elizaveta doesn't know what to answer exactly, even if she wanted to she couldn't. The only thing she can do is to take another step closer, almost invading his personal space. And right then a sound alerts them both of the front door opening and then being slammed shut, while someone whistles a silly tune softly, carelessly.

"Aah!" says Alin conclusively, eyes narrowing and teeth gritting as he looks past the brunette's shoulder.

The Hungarian is about to let out a chuckle, before his arm shoots up past her and slams the bathroom door shut. She blinks and in the next moment the strawberry blond is right in front of her, his nose mere inches away from hers and his palm is still pressed on the hard wood, next to her head.

"Alin? Are you in there?" Tsvetan asks, and he sounds… impatient? Uncertain? Who knows…

"Yes," his boyfriend replies dryly. "And now he needs to piss…" he whispers, before scrunching his face and squeezing his eyes shut.

Elizaveta is about to burst into laughter – this is sooo good! – then she brusquely remembers seeing a baseball bat somewhere in the room. And Borisov happens to be known for his violent episodes. A cold shiver runs down her spine and she involuntarily pushes closer, her chest clad in a light tank top now pressed against the blond's and the thought that their skin is only separated by a few layers of thin fabric draws a faint gasp from her lips.

"What are you doing in there?" the Bulgarian asks again. "Can I come in? I need to use the bathroom."

The knob moves, digging painfully into Elizaveta's back, but the Romanian doesn't let it budge. "No, you can't come in, use the common restrooms! But you can fuck off and see that the washing machine gets fixed, because now I have to do all the fucking laundry by hand like a fucking maid! Including yours, you schmuck!" he shouts.

"But-… I can help you," Borisov insists, only to have Alin turn the key in the lock.

"No, you can't! I told you to fuck off, Tsvetan!"

There is an ominous silence on the other side of the door and the Hungarian looks up, trying to read Alin's expression. Only he's not looking at her, but rather down at her hands involuntarily resting on his waist. The ruby-red eyes then flick back to hers and she bites her upper lip, fighting to stifle a laugh at his expression.

"If you think this is funny, I will open the door right now and whatever happens, happens," he whispers angrily. Then the Romanian's face lights up suddenly and he grins widely. "Haaaahh I just had an idea… tehehe…"

His hand lowers towards the key but Elizaveta grips his wrist before he can touch it. "No! Alin, don't!" she hisses, panicking. If he smirks like that it can't be good.

"No?"

"I dare you!" she blurts out. "You invited me here, so put your money where your mouth is!"

Alin gasps comically. "Ooooooh, should I put my money where my mouth is? Did I write all those… scandalous things? Now, now, Lizzie, if there's anyone who should-"

"You liked it." There's a challenge in her eyes and in the sudden smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth, and the Hungarian decides to take a risk, slipping her free hand ever-so-slowly under the hem of the blond's undershirt. She then stands on her tiptoes and presses her lips over his mouth without warning. The surge of adrenaline is dizzying, because she's never as much as kissed anyone else aside from Roddy, and she doesn't know what to expect. Clearly not for Alin to lean in and bite her bottom lip hard enough to hurt and bring out tears.

"What? Isn't that what you wrote?" he answers her baffled and reproachful look.

Not that she's expected anything nice of him, after all… And it is what she wrote – hate sex, which is anything but gentle, obviously - only things are quite different when you write them, bites don't actually hurt, hard surfaces don't dig in your back and surely your heart doesn't pound like mad in your chest. But the most painful part of all is that in real life she's nowhere near as experienced as she's written herself in that blasted fic.

"Uh… yes but, I like giving pain more than receiving it."

"I'm sure you do."

And now Elizaveta is in a pinch, not knowing what the hell to do. "Where's Tsvetan?" she asks softly, pulling away and resisting the urge to hug herself.

"Stand aside." Alin kneels down and carefully removes the key from its hole to peek. "Tch, he's in bed, with his laptop." He stands up again, poking his tongue on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. "Kind of late to give him any explanations now, don't you think? Pffft! I can't believe I'm fucking stuck in the bathroom with you! I'm going to kill you, Héderváry, I want to… gah!" Alin plops on the edge of the bathtub, huffing as he runs a hand through disheveled bangs.

Well, good to know he wasn't actually going to open the door in the first place. And Elizaveta has just decided she's willing to risk another bite, or worse, so she peels away from the door and moves to straddle his lap shamelessly. After all, it can't be so bad if she makes out with the person she hates, it doesn't mean anything.

The Romanian is taken by surprise by the whole thing and gasps, allowing her tongue to invade his mouth. Her arms rest around his neck and her thighs grip his – not only is it an uncomfortable position but she actually has some work to do before Alin eventually gives in and begins to kiss her back.

He's not biting this time, but rather seems shy all the sudden and his body is tense under her touch. The brunette's short denim skirt has ridden up pretty high on her bare thighs, exposing the pale, smooth skin, but she doesn't care, all the more since Alin's dainty fingers find their way there, in a soft caress, and suddenly she wants to explore more of him. She wants to lift his undershirt and pull it over his head, but she knows what it means when clothes start to come off – there's no stopping from that point onwards.

But would it be that bad? She would be cheating on Roddy, but what he doesn't know can't hurt him and Alin won't tell anyone. That much she is sure of. Off goes the undershirt, then. Ruby-red eyes look up into hers questioningly, but Elizaveta whispers a silent 'I'm good' against his lips, gasping as the straps of her top and bra are pulled down in turn. Her hips roll against his with a sense of urgency now that Alin's fingers are touching her in almost all the right places and God she needs to-

Only she pushes a bit too hard and the strawberry blond loses his balance, tumbling on his back in the bathtub, the Hungarian following suit as she slips further down over him. They both freeze for a second, waiting to see if the sudden loud splash and their more or less audible gasps have alerted Borisov as the already cold, detergent-filled water seeps through the remainder of their clothing. But nothing happens and they soon resume their ministrations, Alin's fingers playfully tangling in the now wet tips of her hair. The soaked clothes are hurriedly disposed of and mingle with the rest of the laundry and Elizaveta settles in the blond's lap, shivering on the outside and burning on the inside.

Their bodies do fit one another just like she'd imagined, even though they're not accustomed with each other and pleasure takes her fully with every move, dark and sinful – perhaps the wrongness and the danger indeed do the trick as advertised, along with a skillful hand rubbing the sweet spot between her legs just right – it's so good she would scream if she could and when it is over she is left shaking, curling up helplessly in Alin's arms and still silently chanting his name with lips pressed against his throat.

"Well, that was interesting…" the brunette concludes, choosing to momentarily ignore the fact that she's only wrapped in a towel and has no clothes left to wear, plus still zero chances of getting out of Vasile's room without being caught by his boyfriend.

"Mhmmm…"

"And now what?"

"Stay here." With that in the blink of an eye Alin is out the door, shutting it quickly in his wake, and she hears him rummaging through the room. Or something. "What the hell are you doing in there? Have you finished?" Tsvetan asks and something is muttered in reply, then the strawberry blond returns with a new pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"Kindly accept these," he says courteously, with a wide grin.

The Hungarian slips the clothes on quickly – they have Alin's scent so she will probably 'forget' to return them indefinitely – and smiles victoriously. "I don't know why, but I feel like I won this little game. And now if you're not a good boy I might put up a little tale about you getting it on with a hot chick among Borisov's knickers." And truthfully, she has seen a pair of something with the Bulgarian flag afloat in the pile.

"Right. And I was almost tempted to play it nicely this time," the Romanian says and bursts into laughter. Then he moves to open the door without warning.

Elizaveta freezes, meeting the blank stare of Tsvetan Borisov, who is still sitting on the bed with the laptop in his lap. Drawing a shaky breath, she mentally calculates whether she would have enough time to reach the door and dart out before the Bulgarian can stand up and grab his baseball bat. But his dark green orbs only widen in surprise for a moment, before he shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

"So this was why I couldn't take a decent piss," he observes bluntly. "Maybe I should tweet this?"

"No!" the brunette yelps. "What the hell is going on?!"

Alin sighs. "Lizzie, Tsvetan is just my roommate, not my boyfriend. I don't really know what made you believe otherwise…" he says innocently.

She wants to strangle him right now. "You made me believe otherwise! You told me when he's going out! And you made it look like he was going to kill us both if he found out I was here! Did you do that just to scare me?!"

"Hello, this is Alin Vasile, have you met him?" Tsvetan says ironically, with an amused snort.

"YOU FUCKING PRICK!"

But the Romanian wraps his arms around her from behind and nuzzles her neck, still chuckling softly. And Elizaveta can't help melting into his touch, because… well… he does have some skills in that department. She'll give him that. Reluctantly, but she will.

"I promise not to tell anyone," Alin whispers, nipping at her earlobe, and the brunette doesn't need to see his hands to know that his fingers are crossed. Who knows, maybe he won't tell this time. She's not so sure about next time, though.

THE END