Just a Fan Fiction Blog

You rushed out of the party, wiping tears from your eyes as the sounds of music and laughter faded behind you. You felt confident you had played off your emotions until you were out of sight, pretending to laugh along as they did.

But nothing was funny about the situation for you.

You groaned, kicking hard at the ground. You couldn’t tell if you were mad at your friends or at yourself. This whole thing could’ve been avoided if you had just lied. One little fib and no one would’ve ever known your dirty little secret. Your hidden embarrassment.

Your feet took you to the library, a room you found the most comfort in when you were at the House. You resided in the townhome, not having the wings needed to come and go from the House of Wind as you pleased. That was fine and a wonderful place to live, except whenever a large party was thrown. Rhysand preferred to host them here, partly for space, and partly for control. He enjoyed being able to ensure no one could come “crash” his plans, and no one would be able to sneak away either.

Which is super convenient for you, who would love nothing more than to sneak away. Alas, you are otherwise trapped here until one of your friends takes you home. And since you would rather never face them again, the library you stay.

You sigh deeply, throwing yourself down onto a chaise lounge by the fire. You burrowed your face in your hands, willing the memories of the last 15 minutes to melt away. To wake up from this horrible nightmare. You felt fresh tears fill your eyes as you recalled what had just happened.

“Alrigh’, Alrigh’,” Cassian slurred, liquid sloshing out of his glass. “We will do an easy one! No one’ll drink, likely.” You rolled your eyes, giggling along with Mor. You’d been playing a game the Illyrian had made up some time ago. It was simple, really more of a way to get drunk fast. Someone would say whatever act they could think of, and you’d drink if you’ve done it. It often started off with targeting your friends, making jokes of hunts they’ve been on or people they’ve messed around with. Usually they’re all too busy laughing at each other to notice you.

You hadn’t been in the Inner Circle as long as the others, allowing you to hide off to the side when you wished. You adored your friends, of course, but you also enjoyed a quieter life. You hadn’t done half the wild things they had, though no one had really noticed before.

That is, until Cassian came up with his “easy” prompt. A statement designed to allow everyone to take a break from drinking. He cleared his throat, making a big show about it all. “Drink if you’ve never had an orgasm.” He beamed at the groans of your friends, Mor shouting out that he knew none of you would drink.

Until you brought your glass to your lips.

You realized immediately that you should have lied. Your friends went still, their eyes all trained on you in shocked silence. Heat flooded your cheeks, a nervous laugh bubbling out of you. “What?” You asked, looking around at them all.

Well, minus one.

You avoided the violet eyes that belonged to your High Lord. You didn’t want to see the pity or laughter in them. Your heart would never recover.

“You mean to tell me, you’ve never cum?” Mor asks, eyes wide. You shake your head sheepishly at her, an embarrassed smile dancing across your face.

“Well, you’ve been with someone before, right?” Cassian follows up, looking as if you just told him you were part dolphin. You shook your head again, face on fire. This was so much worse than you could’ve imagined.

“Been kissed, even?” Azriel spoke, pity dripping off his words.

You cleared your throat, refocusing your gaze down onto your drink. “No. I’ve done nothing.” You shrug as if it’s no big deal, that it’s completely normal to be a century old and have taken zero lovers.

“Enough. Leave her be. Continue the game, Cass.” Your body flushes even deeper at Rhysands tone. As if this couldn’t be more embarrassing, he’s forcing them to stop asking questions. You quickly down your drink before standing up and announcing that you’ll be right back, just refilling your glass.

Though you leave it on the table as you dash out of the room.

You let the tears fall down your face, small sobs escaping you. You knew your friends didn’t mean anything bad by their questions, and honestly you didn’t mind their curiosity. It was Rhys that had you upset. Not even anything he had done, but the fact that he now knows this about you. You didn’t think he’d ever look at you before, but you knew he certainly wouldn’t now.

The sound of the library doors opening broke you out of your pity party. You stood suddenly, brushing away the tears still on your face. Your heart dropped when you realized the very male you didn’t want to see was standing in the doorway, staring at you. You sighed, waving your hand for him to come in. You turned and faced the fire, still too embarrassed to look at him.

You were shocked when he moved to stand directly behind you. His hands ghosted over your waist, before deciding to rest upon your shoulders. He gave a gentle squeeze, pressing a soft kiss to your hair. “I am sorry,” he murmured, thumbs drawing circles on the base of your neck.

“There is nothing to apologize for,” you said, shaking your head. “It was a silly game. I let it get to me is all.”

Rhys hummed thoughtfully behind you. There was a long moment of silence before he spoke again. “Is it true?”

You froze under his touch. “…Yes,” you responded, voice barely above a whisper. You prepared yourself for his laugh or a cheeky joke, or even for him to simply walk away. What you did not prepare for, however, was his lips meeting your neck.

“I fail to see how that is possible,” he spoke softly against your skin, one hand moving to cup your neck while the other carefully moves down your front. “No one has ever touched you?”

Your heart was racing as he continued to press slow, torturous kisses along your neck, moving to where it connected to your shoulder. His fingers brushed by your breast as they made their way further down, heat sparking through your body. “N-no,” you stuttered out, moaning softly as his teeth grazed your pressure point.

“A shame.” He accompanied his words with a harsh suck, your head falling back onto him as you gasped. “Though it brings me great pleasure to be the first to hear those sounds.” His hand flattened against your stomach, pressing you tight against him. His lips moved to your ear, teeth biting the sensitive skin. “Tell me to stop,” he whispered, every moment stretched into infinity.

The only sound was your heavy breathing as he stilled against you, waiting for what you were going to say. You knew you should tell him to stop, that this was too much, that you didn’t even know he ever saw you in this way. You knew, logically, there needed to be several conversations before it ever got to this point. You knew that this was rash, hasty, and likely wrong.

You also knew that you were tired of always playing by the rules.

“Keep going.”

He growled against your ear, a sound that went straight to your core. His fingers started toying with the waistband of your pants, torturing you with their slow movements. “Rhys,” you whined, shifting your hips to try to hurry their journey.

“Impatient,” he murmured, the hand on your neck squeezing pleasurably. “Let me play. I’ve waited far too long for this moment.”

You chose not to dwell on his words, instead focusing on the feeling of his fingertips ghosting over your clit. You rocked back against him at the light sensation, so foreign to your body. You turned your head slightly, desperate to feel his lips on yours. He moved close enough that your breaths mingled, but still refused to fully touch you. You hung in that space of “almost” for what felt like ages, before everything changed forever.

Rhys pressed down hard on your clit at the same moment his lips captured yours. You moaned into the kiss, mind going blank as he began circling you. He sucked your lower lip into his mouth, biting down gently. You opened for him gladly, reveling in the way his tongue stroked against yours.

Fire was already licking up your spine as his fingers worked you. He slipped them down farther, carefully pushing one inside you. You gasped loudly into his mouth, arching off of him at the sensation. He chuckled against you, adding another finger. He curled to two deep inside of you, pulling pathetic cries from your lips. His thumb resumed the slow circling on your clit as his fingers began to thrust in and out, playing your body as if he was made to.

You pulled back from the kiss as your pleasure grew, your head rolling back on his shoulder. He wasted no time in kissing your exposed throat, leaving little bite marks wherever he could. “Rhys,” you moaned, “I-I’m close.” He hummed in acknowledgment, but didn’t stop any of what he was doing to your body. You began to shake in his arms, unsure of how to handle the feelings he was giving you. His fingers pushed deeper inside, hitting a spot that made you shout his name. His thumb sped up ever so slightly, and it was all too much. “Oh, oh!” You cried out, embracing the warmth that was rushing over your body.

“That’s it,” Rhys said against you, “cum for me.” As if waiting for his command, your orgasm washed over you. Your vision went black as the air left your lungs, pleasure overtaking every inch of your being. He prolonged the feeling as much as he could, not stopping until your gasping breaths begged him to.

He held you in that moment, savoring each second of what had just happened. You felt you could live there, in his arms, until the end of time.

But all things must come to an end. He pulled his fingers out of you, your body aching at his absence. He straightened your pants and pressed a final kiss to all the marks along your neck before scooping you into his arms and carrying you over to the lounge chair. He laid down upon it with you, holding you as if you were something precious.

You had a million questions as your mind began to calm, though only one you wished to ask now. “Was it real?” You asked, a slight tremble in your voice. Rhys shifted behind you, tangling his legs with yours.

“Of course it was,” he answered, pressing a kiss to your hairline. “I have wanted you to be mine since the second you stepped into my life.” Tears brimmed in your eyes once more, though different from the ones from earlier.

“Why now?”

His fingers flexed against where they held you, and you could hear the slight smile in his voice. “I couldn’t allow you to continue on in my home, untouched, now could I?”

***

He looks at you like you’re something he’s not supposed to touch, always seconds away from getting walked in, but that's half the fun at this point. He takes his time looking you over, his hand lifting to turn his hat from the front to the back with a lazy flick.

He’s on you in a second, big hands sliding around your hips as you straighten up; his body pressing into yours.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs against your skin, his voice rough with sleep—the kind that always gives him away when he’s stayed up too late the night before and woken up too damn early. “What are you doin’ down here, huh?”

“I made your coffee,” you murmur and he groans.

“Saw your text,” he hums, grazing his mouth over your cheek. “You’re too good to me.” His chain brushes your collarbone when he leans in, cool against your skin.

Garrett lets you go, reluctantly, and you start to walk toward the counter. His eyes trail up the length of you.

“It’s just coffee and toast, baby,” you smile, tilting your head slightly.

“Considering everything you did for me last night… I should be the one making breakfast—you don't owe me anything.”

Your cheeks burn, suddenly shy under all this attention as he walks closer. His hands rest on the counter on either side of your hips just as you lean over the counter, reaching for the butter, your ass arching back, right onto his lap. On purpose. You don’t even try to pretend it wasn’t.

“Oh, shit,” he breathes, his voice low and amused as he plays along with the accidental contact, his bag falling heavy to the floor, looking over his shoulder for his roommates. “Real sorry, baby.”

You let out a bubbly laugh as he grabs your body and turns you toward him, lifting you up to set you down on the cool counter.

“What if the boys see you down here, huh?”

His smile’s smug; the man stepping between your thighs as his hands slide up the back of his jersey. His rough thumbs slip under the band of your panties, gripping your hips in his big hands.

Garrett reaches up a little higher, squeezing your breasts before his thumbs brush softly against you. “And what if they did?”

“See you?” His grin widens. “Coach’s daughter wearin’ forty-four and not much else.”

“Yeah,” you sigh, arching into him a little more.

“Well, damn,” he murmurs, looking at you like he’s just remembered he has somewhere to be. “I’d be fucked—I mean, it's pretty risky. I could stop,” he grins against your skin.

“No, you couldn't,” you dismiss it with a teasing laugh.

“No shit. Wearin’ my jersey. No bra… Panties. Textin’ me telling me you made me coffee and breakfast. You honestly think I wasn't gonna thank you a little. Thank you, baby,” he breathes as he leans in, pulling the fabric up, his mouth finding your breast.

He circles it once with his tongue, then again before sucking down, rough enough that your breath hitches and your fingers thread through his dark hair, his curls tangling between your fingers as you hold him there.

“Wish we lived alone,” he grumbles, turning his face further into your chest as his curls tickle your skin.

“Yeah?” You ask breathily as your thighs widen on the counter.

“Whole house to ourselves?” He says, letting the words vibrate against your skin.

He tilts back in, greedy mouth following the curve of your neck as his hands clutch your thighs, holding you open as he leans in close.

“I’d lift up the back—bend you over the counter.” His fingers shift around your body, tracing down your spine, landing on your ass, kneading your flesh.

He smiles against your lips, snapping the waistband of your panties against your skin. “Couldn’t have put on some shorts, or somethin’?”

“More comfortable like this,” you whisper, turning his words back on him when you say, “I mean, it's pretty risky. I could run upstairs and put some on.”

“No, you wouldn't,” he hums. “You did this for me and I fuckin’ love it. Just walkin’ around here like you own the place. What if Tuck and Logan see you, huh? Dean?”

“Oh, Dean?” You ask, because suddenly this conversation makes a lot more sense.

“Don’t start,” he scoffs. “You know he likes you.”

“None of you are subtle,” you answer and he lets out a laugh.

“Yeah, well you got no idea how many conversations I’ve sat through, baby.”

Then his hand slips forward, grazing over the thin material between your legs, pressing soft little circles onto your clit until your hips twitch at his touch.

“They think they know what it’d be like to be with you—they got no fucking clue,” his voice breaks a little when he softens it. “How perfect you are—how much you do for me. To me.”

You hook a hand around the back of his neck, thinking about how easy it would be to have him press himself in and lay you out across the counter, but the both of you would never recover from being caught like that.

You pull him closer and his lips suck down on your neck, rough enough to leave a mark.

“Kept my mouth shut. Haven't said shit. It kills me…” He breathes over your collarbone right where the collar of the jersey meets your skin. “I've been such a good boy for you.”

“So good,” you whisper. “And yet, you stopped telling what we would do if this house was ours,” you breathe, nails tracing over the thick bulge in his shorts.

He laughs, liking the sound of that. “Got you bent over this counter. One hand on your hip, the other gripping this jersey in my fist while you cry out that name on your back.”

His fingers trail even lower, dipping just barely between your folds, right above your entrance, the barrier of fabric only adding to the ache between your thighs. So much for all that teasing he accused you of. He’s worse.

“Too bad you have a workout.” Your fingers card through his dark hair. “We could stay back.”

He grins as he chuckles warmly against the column of your neck, dragging your panties to the side. “Fuck, you wanna get me in trouble, huh? Won’t be able to play tonight if I don’t show—you know that. After the game, though. Boys’ll go to the bar,” he breathes as his fingers mimic the tempo of his words.

His breath catches in his broad chest as your finger slips under the band of his shorts, pulling him closer before you slide your hand inside.

“Christ,” he grits through a smile as your fingers wrap around his cock, finding him hard and heavy. You stroke and he hums deep against your lips about all the things he wants to do to you when you're alone.

“Trying to get me all worked up just to send me off,” he whispers. “That’s fucked, pretty.”

He works you with his long thick fingers, slow enough to tease. “How fast do you think I could get you off, huh?” He chuckles, his laugh buzzing against your lips. “Pretty close right now, huh?”

Garrett breathes those words against your jaw. Your hand slaps over your mouth, muffling the sound of his name.

Your pussy squeezes around his fingers and you lose the rhythm of your strokes, but he doesn't, leaning into the counter a little more. The wet sounds of his hand darting in and out suddenly, too loud but it's replaced by the pounding of your heart in your head.

“Come on, baby… Cum on my hand,” he mutters, teeth scraping your neck and your body releases, fluttering around his fingers.

Your thighs squeeze together as he keeps going, whining against your hand, before he slows his pace.

He brings his fingers to his mouth, cleaning them with his heavy gaze locked on yours, the watch on his wrist glinting.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he mumbles as you slip off the counter and into his arms. “I love you—”

“I love you too,” you whisper as your lips find his again, hands sliding down his chest. Your hands slip lower. His shorts are already halfway down his hips, cock trapped beneath the waistband.

“What are you up to, huh?” He asks like he doesn’t already know as you back him into the counter. “Yeah?” He laughs softly. “Bet you won’t.” That challenge barely leaves his mouth before he kisses you again, eyes flicking toward the stairwell mid-kiss before dropping back to you as you sink to your knees.

“In my jersey,” he mumbles as he tilts back, hands resting on top.

He sucks in a sharp breath when the air hits him, shivering when your tongue glides up the side of his cock, tossing back his head as he bites down on his lip, holding back a moan—BANG!

“Fuck me,” he hisses, hanging his head between his shoulders when a bag drops in Logan’s room above you.

Your tongue swipes against his tip and he blows out a sharp breath through his nose, his sticky wet precum catching on it.

“Just—Just a little more,” he mutters, holding your head, following you as you take him in your mouth. You bob back and forth and his grip tightens, eyes fluttering shut—THUMP!

You draw away when you hear some more motion upstairs. He shakes his head, laughing under his breath, watching as you kiss the tip.

“That’s how we’re playin’ this, huh?” Looking back at you in playful frustration, he tugs you up fast, muttering bitterly under his breath as you tug his shorts in place.

“Sorry, baby,” you smile.

“Teasin’ me, baby. Just wait until later,” he warns with a smile, grabbing his workout bag, walking with you back up to his room.

His fingers find yours automatically as the two of you step into the hallway.

Garrett walks a half-step behind you, his thumb rubbing back and forth across your knuckles. You glance over your shoulder and catch him already looking. He drags a hand across his mouth, trying and failing to hide his smile.

You step up one stair, and by the third he already knows he’s in trouble. His number stretched across your back. His last name stamped over your shoulders. The curve of your ass peeking out each time you take a step higher.

The intrusive thoughts win without effort. His other hand reaches out for you, pulling you back and into his strong arms. “Garrett Graham!” You whisper-scream and his deep laugh echoes through the stairwell.

“You are drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” he mumbles like he's pissed—smiling like he's in love. “I’m just a man, alright? What do you want from me?” Your arms curve loosely around his neck, your legs wrapping around his waist as he holds you, carrying you the rest of the way. “Plus you were walkin’ up the stairs too slow, you needed my help.”

“My hero.”

“Good thing I'm riding by myself. I need some time alone with my thoughts.”

“You’re dramatic,” you cut in, but that only encourages him.

“You know one hand on the wheel, the other doin’ what you started and didn't finish… you're lucky you're gorgeous.”

“So are you,” you smile and he scowls.

By the time he sets you down inside his room, he’s smiling so hard his cheeks hurt, shutting the door before anyone can see. “I mean…” Garrett shifts his bag higher on his shoulder. “Maybe I could stay.”

You give him a look. A long look. And his shoulders slump.

“I know,” he mutters. “Goddamn, baby. You run a tight program.”

“Workout,” you whisper.

“Yeah.”

“Hockey,” you remind him.

“Mmm… Mhmm,” he hums, so dreamily you laugh. “Fuck, I love when you boss me around—”

“We’ll have all night—”

“How am I supposed to focus now? All I can think about is how pretty you looked trying not to make a sound.” His finger hooks under your chin, lifting your lips to his. “But you... you gotta be careful, baby. These boys are gonna hear you one of these days. They could have caught us down there.”

You look up at him through your lashes ever so slightly and he melts.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, blowing out a tired breath. “You own me—don’t even know why I try.”

He reaches out, grabbing the jersey on your body, pulling you closer. His nose brushes against yours—his lips doing the same, drawing back and leaving you chasing them just enough to notice before he kisses you.

“You don't have class until ten, yeah?” He murmurs between kisses.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Wishin’ you were me right now, huh?”

“Wishin’ a lot of things honestly.”

Garrett groans, dropping his forehead to yours, his voice dripping honey-sweet as he takes a different approach. “Shit, baby… what about your coffee? I should probably go get that for you, hmm?”

“Seriously—”

“Then, I don’t know…” He continues when that doesn’t work. “Maybe not get my ass beat at the gym. Sweat here instead. Do something better with my time.”

“You’re gonna be late—”

“And, I wonder why,” he cuts in. “Running out of excuses.”

“What are you gonna tell him, Captain?”

He thinks about it for a moment, stalling still. “Pretty thing. Wears my number. Torments me. Tells me I have to stay or else—”

“Or else, huh?” You giggle, and his eyes fall to your lips. “She sounds like a bitch, baby.”

“—Don’t talk about her like that. That’s my girl.”

“Such a charmer, Garrett Graham,” you hum, twirling one of his curls with your finger. “Leave—” Smack! His hand claps against your ass, the mesh barrier, just another reminder that he can't have you how he'd like.

He batts his hand against the door handle, still unwilling to let you go for another moment.

“Send me a picture or somethin’,” he mumbles against your lips. “You know, for the car ride there.”

“I don’t know, baby. You look extra pretty when you suffer,” you whisper, and he chuckles deeply, the sound going straight through you.

“Gonna ruin you later.”

“M’counting on it…” You smile and his groan breathes against your lips when he pushes open the door.

“Jersey stays on.”

He ran his tongue down the back of his long, sharp teeth; the incisors he’d grown, that he still wasn’t quite used to. Yet. Oh, but the power these teeth bestowed upon him, the beaming pride he had in them. His teeth were the bringer of life… and death. The bringer of life to him; the bringer of death to the people he consumed.

“Sebastian,” his latest victim whimpered as he lay spread eagle on the ground before him, limbs askew—he had been a fighter—one of his arms now twisted into an unnatural angle.  

Sebastian sneered down at Ominis, his former friend. “Let me go,” Ominis said. “Please, Sebastian. I have a wife and children at home. Please.” 

“Ah,” he clicked his tongue, “do you now, Ominis?” He drew out Ominis’s name, a long, syrupy drawl, lingering on his unforgiving lips. 

Not a twitch from Ominis. Sebastian laughed darkly to mask his growing frustration. 

“And begging now, hm?” he continued, pacing the floor, his black eyes, the pupils blown wide, never once taking leave of Ominis’s face. “How utterly pathetic.” Ominis’s neck, still hemorrhaging blood, was completely eviscerated; jagged pieces of skin protruded out, marring his once pristine complexion. 

Frankly, it was astounding Ominis hadn’t died yet. But it was only a matter of time.

Sebastian’s willpower was waning. He could have ended it right then and there. But no. He wouldn’t give Ominis the satisfaction of a swift death. Ominis needed to suffer. Suffering was the point.

“Sebastian,” Ominis tried again, sputtering up blood, “why?” 

Why? Ominis was testing him, surely. He knew why. He knew why, didn’t he? 

“She was my sister,” Sebastian hissed, “and you took her from me. She was mine, and you turned her against me! And now, because of you, she’s dead.” Sebastian descended sharply to the ground, rejoicing in his supernatural gracefulness, which ensured his drop hardly made a sound. He hoped that it would startle Ominis’s exasperating cool-headedness, even on the brink of death. 

It, in fact, did not. 

Well, Sebastian could always try a different method…

“It’s your turn to die,” Sebastian said, bringing his merciless fingers forward, the points of his nails long and razor-edged. He thrust them into the scruff of Ominis’s shirt. Ominis’s face remained stoic; he didn’t even flinch. A hot flare of anger sparked deep within Sebastian. 

Sebastian seized Ominis up, hoisting him into the air. Ominis didn’t utter a word. The simmering rage coursing through Sebastian flickered and flashed; he snarled, fanning the flames of hatred, the flames of desperation, the flames of revenge.

Ominis didn’t fight back. Had he lost too much blood? No… no, that wasn’t it. While his face was white as snow, nearly as pale as his milky eyes, Sebastian could still hear the incessant beating of his heart—too strong. This was sheer willpower. Ominis was goading him. 

The thought was too much. “Enough!” Sebastian roared as the fire inside him erupted, blazing bright like an inferno. 

When Sebastian Sallow ripped out his throat, Ominis Gaunt remained silent as the grave. 

🩸 II. Quantus tremor est futurus (What horror must invade the mind)

It began with the teeth.

And then...

A horrified gasp, which awakened Sebastian from a deep slumber.

“Sebastian!” That would be his wife. Her strangled cry. The ruffling of the bed sheets as she, presumably, slipped out of them, out of bed, away from Sebastian. Away from the creature he had become. 

Sebastian didn’t open his eyes. Not at first. He knew this was coming. He had known there would be consequences for what he had done. But it was too late for regrets now. Far too late.

He inhaled, then slowly opened his eyes. 

Yes, there was his wife pressed against the wall, her green eyes wide and haunted, the soft curve of her belly pronounced. Not very far along, but expecting, yes. Their first child. 

No, the timing of his transformation was not ideal, but when had anything he’d ever done been at the right time? The right place?

His chin was wet. There was a dull ache giving his bottom lip its own heartbeat. His mouth felt heavy, full. He licked his lips; his whole body reacted. Ambrosial delight. So delectable. He licked again. Mmm, positively divine. His wife’s whimpers echoed against the walls of their bedroom. He didn’t pay them—he didn’t pay her—any mind. 

Sebastian brought the tips of his fingers up and wiped them against his bottom lip. There was a brief twinge of pain. Hardly noticeable. He brought his hand back down for inspection. Yes, it was red, as he expected. Blood ran red, after all. He must have bitten through, injuring himself. Well, no matter. 

“What have you done?” his wife wailed, sliding against the wall, down, down, down to the floor. A quiet thump followed. Tears coursed down her cheeks as she sobbed. Sebastian didn’t feel anything at all. 

She had known he would go to any lengths to save his sister. This was the price. Shouldn’t his wife, his kindred spirit, have known? She should have known. She should have known. “Silence, woman!” he said. They were the last words she ever heard fall from her once darling husband’s lips. That man was gone now, replaced by a creature with a greater objective, a greater purpose. 

He set out that very night, free for the first time in a decade. Free to find Anne and make her well. 

For oh, what life, what power, now coursed through his veins! It pulsed like fireflies zipping around a jar, bashing their bodies against their glass cage, stimulating the hairs on the back of his arms, sharpening the edges of his mind, and with it, his resolve. 

Anne would be so grateful. Not just well, but enhanced. She’d surely forgive him now. Anne and Sebastian would be united once more. The glorious thought consumed him utterly. 

🩸 III. Cum resurget creatura, iudicanti responsura (Behold the trembling sinners rise, to meet the Judge’s searching eyes)

Ominis was a thorn in Sebastian’s side, as always.

Sebastian’s wife must have sent Ominis an owl. He’d let her live—sentiment hadn’t fully fled him when he took flight from their home. A pity, an unfortunate oversight, for Ominis and his entire family had gone into hiding. And, most bothersome of all, Anne had disappeared with them. 

But Sebastian had his new senses, his preternatural hearing and a keen sense of smell. They didn’t fail him now. 

The night shrouded him. No moon, just the stars, and barely them at that, for it had rained all day and the clouds had not yet dissipated.

Ominis stood before him now, soaking wet, his dirty blond hair now brown and plastered to his face. His wand was raised, his face drawn. “Who’s there?” he said. His tone was steady, composed. 

Sebastian laughed. “Come now, Ominis. Who else would it be?” 

“Sebastian,” Ominis breathed. His wand arm quivered slightly. Blink and you’d miss it. 

Ominis tensed as Sebastian stalked forward. A mere whisper away from Ominis’s ear, he said, “Where’s my sister?”

“I’ll never tell you.”

Sebastian brought a fingernail to Ominis’s neck and sliced it across. Quick, but barely a nick. The minutest sliver of blood welled up where there was once porcelain skin. Sebastian somehow managed to refrain from licking it away. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

“This isn’t you, Sebastian. Anne wouldn’t want this. She doesn’t want to be what you’ve become.”

“Hah! And how would you know?” Ominis had said that he’d stopped corresponding with Anne over the years. Once he married his wife and had his three children, time seemed to slip by. They ‘lost touch.’ Sebastian should have known it was a lie. “You’re a liar!” he shouted, slamming his hands into Ominis’s chest. Ominis flew backward, his wand slipping out of his grasp and clattering to the cobblestone street beneath him. 

“Ominis!” someone shouted from further down the way. It was dark as pitch, but Sebastian’s now perfect eyesight could make out the freckles splayed across her cheeks, her mousy brown hair, those dark brown eyes.

Anne. Had she been here this whole time? Good. 

“Anne,” Sebastian said, grinning. “I’m glad you’re here.” He rushed forward, toward his twin, his arms outstretched to embrace her, only for her to jerk back and whip out her wand.

“Get away from me, you… you… demon!” she cried out. The tip of her wand lit up—she’d lit its tip nonverbally, something that Sebastian had only ever seen her do once before: when she was deathly afraid. When her life was in danger. 

But Anne knew he wouldn’t hurt her… didn’t she? Sebastian nearly laughed aloud. “Anne,” he said, “I’m here to make you well.” 

She shuddered. “How? By making me like you?” Flecks of spittle flew from her mouth.

Sebastian’s resolve was suddenly doused entirely. What? What was happening? He had gone to these lengths—literally transformed himself—to save his sister, and she was rejecting him? Again? 

It was too much. Too much!

He sputtered out something incomprehensible, shaken to his core. He glared, breathing hard. He took one deep breath in, one deep breath out, then shouted, “What are you saying? I did this for you!” 

Anne didn’t have a chance to respond, for the moment the last word lanced out of Sebastian’s lips, Ominis tackled him from the side, wrangling him to the ground, coating their bodies in mud which squelched beneath them. 

They grappled with each other, Sebastian’s sharp nails making loud scraping sounds against Ominis’s coat as he stripped it, long lines striating the black wool. Anne stood helplessly behind them, her wand still aloft, perhaps waiting for an opportunity to cast a spell to end whatever was happening now: a disagreement, a squabble… no, a fight to the death. 

Whatever Anne was about to attempt, Sebastian wouldn’t allow it. He clambered over Ominis’s slender body, and latched on. He should have bitten him then and there, but he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to abstain from draining him dry. He needed more time. 

“Ominis, go!” Anne yelled through the frenzy. Ominis shoved him off. There was a crack and he was gone. Disapparated. The coward’s way out.

It all happened so quickly that Sebastian’s arms were still stretched out before him, bared hands now grasping at nothing but air. He growled in frustration, until he noticed that Anne was still standing before him, a few paces ahead. 

She stumbled backward, horror in her eyes. “Don’t ever come looking for me again,” she commanded. Then she, too, was gone. 

Anne was mistaken if she thought he’d agree to stay away. She was his twin. They were meant to be together. No, her words only strengthened Sebastian's purpose. The next time he saw her, he’d make her well, even if he had to force her to submission. 

Sebastian knew what was good for Anne, even if she didn’t. Anne would be well if it was the last thing he did. 

🩸 IV. Ne perenni cremer igne (Into the fires of endless woe)

An owl carrying a letter came for Sebastian one night as he drank the blood of his latest victim. She was sprawled out on his dining room table; not a lick of blood dripped upon Sebastian’s creamy white tablecloth. He was rather meticulous about his meals.

He also enjoyed making a grand presentation of them. Candles graced the table as he invited his victim in. The young Muggle woman had seemed impressed, and then totally captivated when Sebastian lit them with the flick of his wand.

“How did you do that?” the brainless girl had asked.

Sebastian had winked and replied, “Magic,” then strode forward purposefully, grasped her by her shoulders and kissed her. It was the best way to make them willing, to subdue them. She, of course, kissed back.

When the kissing escalated to clothing being stripped off, and the girl relaxed into Sebastian’s arms, he extinguished the candles with a wave of his hand, guided his meal to the table, pressed her down firmly upon it, and sunk his teeth into her neck. 

The girl didn’t even blink. Once Sebastian had his victims in his thrall, they never fought back. Whether this was common among vampires, or not, Sebastian couldn’t say, as he stayed clear of his kind. The only other vampire he’d met was the one who turned him. He hadn’t even known his name.

Sebastian’s victim was still alive—just barely—when the owl tapped on Sebastian’s window. It was Ominis’s owl. The owl’s name started with an ‘A,’ if he was remembering correctly. Athena or Artemis… Sebastian couldn’t recall. It didn’t really matter anyway.

Once he opened the window, the owl didn’t stay long. It released the letter, then flew away in a flurry of feathers, as if it knew how dangerous Sebastian was. Sebastian chuckled to himself as the letter fluttered to the ground. The owl was smarter than most, if not all, of his past victims, including the one now gasping for air before him.

Sebastian was done with her. He drifted back to the table, took one last long drink, hoisted the girl off the table, crushed her windpipe with his bare hand, and tossed her body to the floor. 

There, done. Not a drop spilt. Excellent. 

He’d deal with body disposal later. It was time to read whatever Ominis needed to say. Sebastian admitted to himself he was curious. It had been at least a year since he’d last seen or heard from him, or Anne for that matter. They'd been better about avoiding detection, having learned from their prior mistakes. Sebastian vaguely wondered what the letter could be about. Probably nothing overly important. Although… it did seem rather odd to be hearing from him after their... falling out, for want of a better phrase. 

Ah well. 

He ripped the letter open and began to read. 

Sebastian -

Anne died this morning, shortly before dawn. Please don’t come to the funeral. Please don’t come looking for us. We have nothing for you anymore. If you can grant me one small mercy, for old time’s sake, please leave us be. Leave us be.

- O. Gaunt

The letter slipped from Sebastian’s fingers. He collapsed to his knees. The terrible words rang through his head like the booming tolls of a bell. 

Anne died. Anne was dead. Anne was dead! No. No, no, no! It couldn’t be…

“Leave us be,” Sebastian droned, his hands in his hair, tugging, tearing at the strands, which came up in clumps in his hands. “Leave us be,” he repeated, a desperate cry, a strangled refrain. “Ominis, you daft fool. Leave us be! Hah!” 

He set forth that very night, teeth bared. He knew precisely where to go. 

🩸 V. Lacrimosa dies illa (Full of tears and full of dread) 

Ominis wasn’t home. 

Ominis had turned Anne against him. And what had come of it? Anne, cold and buried in a grave. Dead. When she could still be alive, with him. 

This was all Ominis’s fault. All of it. He would pay for it. He would pay. 

Sebastian killed the children first. He let Ominis’s wife watch as he slit their throats, one by one by one. Their choked screams resonated in his ears. Ah, so very sweet, like music.

The littlest one, a toddler—he couldn’t have been more than two or three years old—even greeted Sebastian with open arms. The stupid boy didn’t understand what was happening. Well, he was dead now. Good riddance. 

When it was done, Ominis’s wife, utterly bereft, prostrated herself before him. “Please, please.”

An image flashed through Sebastian’s mind. Fleeting, but there nonetheless. Ominis’s wife, resplendent in her flowing white gown on her wedding day, long black hair running in rivulets down her back as she grinned. A happy day, not a worry in the world. All three of their children shared the color of her hair: black as midnight.

Had shared. Ah, look at them now. 

“Please, please,” Sebastian parroted back in a mocking tone, crouching down and tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Her wild-eyed gaze drifted past his shoulder, too afraid to look death in the eye. A shame, that. A real shame. 

Sebastian didn’t overthink it.

Crunch.

Neck thoroughly snapped, Sebastian cast her useless body to the floor. A waste of a meal, but he didn’t require nourishment now, and certainly not from Ominis’s now very much deceased family. Anyway, the scene splayed out before him—broken corpses scattered across the floor—was only the start. 

Sebastian was Death, looming in the shadows. Vengeance, personified. Ominis would never see him coming. 

🩸 VI. Qua resurget ex favilla (Is that day that wakes the dead)

When Sebastian snuffed out Ominis’s life, he hadn’t been certain what to expect. 

It had been far less climactic than he’d hoped. Dissatisfying, to a marginal degree. But time passed and life, or, in his case, the lack thereof it, dulled his discontentment. Besides, there were other things, other meals, to preoccupy his mind.

A decade passed. Then two. Hundreds, thousands, of living, breathing lives were spent in Sebastian’s deadly embrace. 

Sebastian mostly kept to himself, hiding himself away in Feldcroft, haunting his Uncle Solomon’s old home, reveling in the fact that he had become the monster that Solomon had foretold. Embracing it, even. 

Every so often, if only to amuse himself, Sebastian would hold imaginary conversations with Solomon. 

“Boy! What have you done?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know, old man?” 

“Why Sebastian?"

“Because I can, you bastard. You can’t stop me. You couldn’t then, you certainly couldn’t now.”

“THERE IS NO CURE! When will you accept that?” 

“Never! I’ll never accept it!”

If only Solomon could see him now. Sebastian could murder him twice over with the mere flick of a finger. 

AND SO, the years went on like this. Year after year after year. 

Until... the Aurors came knocking.

Boom. Boom. Boom.

“Mr. Sallow!” 

Sebastian was rudely awakened from his daily slumber. No coffin for him. He was far too civilized for that nonsense. He still slept in a massive four-poster bed—forest green sheets, naturally—with the curtains drawn. 

“Mr. Sallow! We have a warrant!” 

Sebastian roused himself lazily from sleep as his front door came crashing in. He retreated to the shadows, where he belonged, as the Aurors came streaming in: three of them. Only three? He’d make quick work of them.

But wait…

A glimmer of recognition. 

Ah.

“Prewett," Sebastian said with a mock-bow, adding a theatrical flourish of his arm to complete the charade.

Leander Prewett stood before him, older, probably not any wiser—maybe even less so, on account of where he was standing, who he was confronting, and with only two other colleagues. 

“Sebastian?” he replied, eyes wide. “You haven’t aged a day…” He trailed off.

“Why, thank you. If only I could say the same for you.” Sebastian tread closer, where light met shadow, creeping on the edge of oblivion, death mere inches from his face. 

Leander recoiled. “I’d heard rumors… but—”

“The rumors are true,” Sebastian cut in, baring his fangs and whipping out his wand. His wand was still necessary in the daylight, when he couldn’t attack, upon risk of annihilation.

Speaking of wands, Leander had dropped his. “Wands down,” he said to his baffled colleagues. 

Well, that was entirely unexpected. Sebastian’s wand still trained on Leander, he let the scene play out, waving his free hand impatiently before him. 

“What do you need, hm? I presume you’re here for something,” he said.

Leander’s eyes darted around the room. “We’re here for Anne. Where are you hiding her?” 

Anne? They were here for Anne? How could that be? Anne was dead.

“Anne’s not here,” Sebastian replied, schooling the surprise that threatened to cross his usually stoic face. “What has she done?” he resumed, testing the idea of Anne still being alive, living her life, instead of where Sebastian knew she really was: dead and buried in an unknown—at least to him—grave.

“She murdered a Ministry official.” 

“What?” Sebastian’s brows raised, his body utterly betraying him.

Confusion clouded Leander’s face. “You didn’t know?” 

Sebastian narrowed his eyes and spat out, “Anne’s dead.” 

“You didn't know.”

This conversation was spiraling out of Sebastian’s control. He had to put a stop to it. “What didn’t I know?” he growled. 

“Sebastian,” Leander began delicately, stepping back, his wand raised high once more, “Anne’s alive. And she's like you. She’s a vampire, too.”

🩸 VII. Iudicandus homo reus (Calling all, with solemn blast)

Unfortunately, Sebastian had to wait for night to fall. But, once it did, he leaped over the three bodies littering his floor, and headed out the door, slamming it shut behind him. Leander and his unnamed colleagues had put up a fight, as expected—Leander had been a Gryffindor, after all—but the Killing Curse was not easily reckoned with. And, naturally, Sebastian had used it. Judiciously. 

Anne was a vampire. She wasn’t technically alive—neither was he—but she was well. And she was like him! If Sebastian could still form tears, he would have weeped from joy. 

Better yet, Anne was here, somewhere. Surely, if Aurors had come calling, she must be nearby. 

And where else to find her but through the vampire who had created him? He’d avoided his fellow kind all these years, not yet ready to mingle, not yet ready to serve another purpose as he continued to mourn Anne’s death. But now…

Now, Anne was still on this earth, so the time had come. The hour was at hand. Sebastian would, finally, track down his maker, perhaps even join his coven, and, in the process, find his sister.

Anne and Sebastian would be reunited once more. As it should be, so it would be done.

🩸 VIII. Huic ergo parce Deus (To be judged for all their past)

This wasn’t Anne.

“You’re not Anne,” Sebastian managed to stammer out. 

The young woman standing before him had the same freckles painted across her cheeks, her neck, the back of her hands, but her eyes were green, not brown. She had Anne and Sebastian’s hair, thick, unruly, a mousy brown, but it was worn long and loose, streaming behind her, ethereal-like, in the cool night breeze. And she was tall, taller even than Sebastian.

Who was she? She couldn’t be Anne.

“Last I checked, my name was Anne,” she snapped back, the corner of her lips curled into a contemptuous smirk. She should have been beautiful, but the expression made her ugly, exceedingly so. But, to be fair, it seemed as if she wanted it that way. “Who in Salazar’s name are you?”

There was something to her voice. A sweetness hidden beneath brick upon brick of the walls she must have built over the years.

Suddenly, a vision of simpler times raced across Sebastian's mind's eye.

Green eyes sparkling in the sun; blonde hair crowning a pretty smiling face, teeth the whitest Sebastian had ever seen; dimples on her rosy cheeks; a laugh, ebullient and innocent; a kiss in the rain, droplets lightly dusting both of their cheeks; Sebastian’s hand in her hair, stroking, stroking, gently stroking.

It all clicked into place.

She had her mother’s eyes. 

“Anne,” he said, stumbling forward, arms instinctively reaching out to embrace the woman, the creature, the vampire, before him. Anne, his daughter. 

Sebastian had so many questions. When had she become a vampire? Who had turned her? How old was she? But first, she needed to know who he was. 

“I’m your father,” he said, gripping her shoulders tightly, breathing her in. 

Sebastian wasn’t sure what to expect, how she’d react, but it certainly wasn’t what followed.

His daughter shouted an expletive and shoved Sebastian away, propelling him backward with the preternatural strength she shared with him.

Sebastian ended up on the ground, arse-down, far too stunned to react. Her rejection pierced through him like a shard of glass, too similar to the one he had received from his twin, so many years ago now. So long ago, yet still so fresh in his mind. 

“You abandoned us!” Anne hissed. “She’s dead, you know. My mother. She’s been dead for years. Did you even know? Do you even care?” She spat at his feet. 

“Anne, I—”

“No! You have no right,” she said, turning her back on him entirely. “No right,” she repeated as she left him in the dust, groveling on the ground, utterly forsaken. 

Anne. His daughter. His sister. Two Annes, now one in his mind. Two Annes, but neither one wanted him. Not in any iteration. And he would now have to dwell in that fact… forever. 

Sebastian dropped his head into his hands. He screamed so loudly his ears popped. His fingernails cut into the sides of his head, the blood of his victims spilling out, soaking his hair, washing him in his own sins, of which there were many, and many more to come. 

The blood dripped down to the ground beneath his feet. 

Drip, drip, drip. 

🩸 IX. Pie Iesu Domine, dona eis requiem (Lord, have mercy, Jesus blest, grant them all Your Light and Rest)

There would be no more rest for Sebastian Sallow. Not in this lifetime, or the next. Or the next. Forever and ever. 

So be it.

“aang—” you gasp, trying to reach back with one trembling hand to press against his chest, to urge him to ease just a little, to give you a moment to catch the breath he keeps stealing. 

but the words fracture the instant his hips smack firmly against your ass again, the wet, rhythmic sound echoing softly in the chamber alongside your broken whimpers. his heavy balls tap against your swollen clit with every deep plunge, sending harsh, electric shocks of pleasure straight through your core—sharp and bright and overwhelming, each impact making your thighs quiver uncontrollably.

he isn’t letting up. 

his thrusts are deep and fast now, not cruel but driven by the same unstoppable force he brings to everything: the way he once glided through air, the way he laughs with his whole body, the way he loves with every piece of his gentle, ancient soul. you feel him everywhere—his thick cock stretching you open, dragging against every sensitive ridge inside you with devastating precision, the blunt head kissing so deep it feels like he is touching the very center of your being. 

the pillow beneath your hips keeps you perfectly angled for him, letting him grind and pound in a rhythm that builds like a gathering storm, relentless yet somehow still tender in its intent.

your body is a live wire, sweaty and trembling, walls fluttering desperately around his length as pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your belly, threatening to snap. you need a second—just one—to think, to feel, to gather the scattered pieces of yourself through the endless moans and whines spilling from your lips like prayers to the spirits. 

but aang is lost in the moment, chest pressed so heavily to your back that you can feel every rise and fall of his breathing, every low rumble of pleasure vibrating through his ribs into yours. his frame surrounds you completely, strong thighs bracketing yours, hips snapping forward with controlled power that makes your ass ripple with each collision.

“aang,” you try again, voice cracking on a high, needy moan as your eyes roll back, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. 

your thighs shake violently, knees digging into the mattress for purchase that keeps slipping away, and then he grinds into you—slow and deliberate this time, circling his hips so the thick base of his cock rubs perfectly against your most sensitive places while his balls press firm and warm against your clit. the sensation pulls a squeak from your throat, sharp and helpless, your fingers clawing at the sheets as pleasure crashes through you in bright, sparkling waves.

he reacts instantly to the sound; aang’s breath hitches beside your ear, warm and ragged, a soft moan of his own betraying how close he is to the edge despite his words. his forehead drops to rest against the back of your neck.

“you can… oh—you can take it,” he pants, the words tumbling out between heavy breaths, his hips never fully stopping but slowing just enough to let the grind linger, drawing out the pleasure until it borders on too much. there is no arrogance in his tone, only pure, reverent belief in you, the same unwavering faith he holds for the balance of the world. 

his hands slide from your hips to wrap around your waist, one arm banding gently but securely beneath your stomach to hold you closer, the other reaching to intertwine his fingers with yours against the mattress. he squeezes softly, grounding you even as he keeps moving—deep, rolling thrusts that make your body jolt and bloom beneath him.

“good girl, just breathe… just take it,” he murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear, voice thick with affection and a hint of playful awe, like he still can’t quite believe he gets to have you like this. “you always can for me…”

his own moan slips out then, low and sweet, vibrating against your skin as your walls clench around him in response. aang shivers above you, his broad chest pressing heavier for a moment as he fights to keep his pace steady, not wanting to overwhelm you completely but unable to stop the natural rhythm his body craves—the same fluid, powerful motion he uses when he bends air, now translated into the intimate dance of loving you. 

he is not rough for roughness’ sake; every thrust carries the lightness of his spirit; the joyful determination to bring harmony, to make you feel cherished even when he is buried so deep inside you that you swear you can feel him in your soul.

you feel treasured beneath his weight—surrounded, protected, adored in the way only aang can adore: with every fiber of his being, with the ancient wisdom of a thousand lifetimes wrapped in the earnest heart of a man who never wanted to fight but learned to love fiercely anyway. 

the electric shocks to your clit continue with each smack of his hips, building pressure that makes your toes curl and your breath come in short, desperate gasps, but his words wrap around you like a warm breeze, soothing even as they push you higher. sweat drips from his temple onto your shoulder, mixing with yours, and you can feel the faint tremor in his thighs where they press against the backs of yours—his own pleasure mounting, yet he holds back just enough to focus on you.

his free hand drifts up your side, calloused fingertips tracing the curve of your ribs with reverent care, as if mapping the constellations of your body the way he once mapped the stars from appa’s saddle. 

he noses into your hair, inhaling deeply like you are the freshest air he has ever known, and whispers more soft praises against your skin—broken little murmurs of “so good for me,” and “feel so perfect,” and “i’ve got you, just let go when you’re ready.” there is a sweetness in how his voice cracks on the words, the same awkward sincerity he shows when trying to mediate peace talks or when he blushes at compliments, now laid bare in the intimacy of your shared bed.

pleasure coils tighter inside you, a storm gathering under your skin, every deep thrust and teasing grind against your clit pushing you closer to the edge. your moans blend with his, the room filled with the slick sounds of your bodies meeting, the soft creak of the bed, the occasional playful huff of laughter that escapes him when your walls flutter particularly hard around his thick length. 

he reacts to every sound you make—hips stuttering when you whine his name, a bright, boyish grin you can feel against your neck even if you cannot see it, his chest rumbling with quiet joy at being the one to unravel you like this.

you are floating in him, carried on winds only he can command, your body trembling and open and utterly his in this moment. aang holds you through it all—beefy arms wrapped secure, cock buried deep and relentless yet endlessly caring, heart beating strong and steady against your back like a promise that he will always be there to catch you when you fall apart. 

and when the pleasure finally crests, threatening to sweep you under, his voice is there again, soft and encouraging, full of hope and lightness that has guided the world through darkness.

“that’s it… breathe with me… i’m right here with you.”

—

You scowl as you check your grades on the school’s website. You had managed to pull up from the nose-dive you’d been in all semester long, but this  Statistics class is going to be the death of you. The dressing down you’d gotten from your father had been particularly rough, and you don’t think his threat to withdraw any and all financial support is just talk. 

But the numbers all just form gibberish on the page, and you understand the concepts about as well as you understand rocket science. Academic probation—that was what your advisor had called it. 

One more F and you’re out of here.

You can’t take that final exam—which is why you’re going to get Peter Parker to take it for you. 

Your phone buzzes, the screen lighting up. 

Hey, I’m here!

You grin. Showtime.

You’d arranged for Erin and Jerrica to be out, leaving the suite empty for your “study session” with Peter. They won’t be back until nearly ten—but you don’t think you’ll need five hours to break Peter Parker. There’s a knock at the door, and you take your time fixing your lipstick in the hall mirror before answering. He looks eager, his hair windswept from the bike ride, cheeks pink and eyes bright. 

“Come in, please,” you step aside to let him in, brushing your chest against his arm as he passes. You pretend you don’t notice the contact, smiling innocently up at him. “Thanks so much for coming to help me, I’m so lost.” 

“Let’s, um, let’s take care of that,” Peter replies, fiddling with the strap of his back-pack. “Um, where should I…” he trails off as you shut the door. 

“Oh, sorry,” you giggle, tapping your head with a finger like you’d forgotten. “My room. The girls might be back and I don’t want to bother them.” You grab his hand and the palm is only a little sweaty as you lead him towards your room. There’s nowhere for both of you sit but the bed, and you guide him down to it, the textbook open on the duvet between you. Peter begins pulling his own study materials out of his bag. 

“So let’s start with probability,” he flips through the textbook.

“Um, I was sort of hoping we could… get more basic.” You reply, schooling your expression into one of shame. “I’m sorry, I’m so stupid.”

“Y-you’re not stupid! There’s loads of things more important than, um, being good at statistics.” 

“Not for me.” You say, looking down at your hands. “Can I tell you something, Peter?” He looks at you eagerly. The same way all men look at you when they think you’re letting them in. Giving them a window, a doorway, any route to your heart. 

“Of course!” He answers quickly. “Anything!” 

“I… I think if I fail this class, I’ll fail out.” You look down at your hands to give your eyes time to water. “I’m doing my best—” You really, really haven’t been, unless being a regular at campus frat parties counted—“but it’s just so hard.” You sniffle. “It’s easy for you, you’re like, a genius.” You slather the flattery on thick as you lean against him. 

“I-I’m not—You’re—” Peter swallows thickly. “That’s really, um, sweet of you to s-say. B-but you have a lot going for you too.”

You wipe at a tear, offer in him a watery smile. “Really?” His face flushes pink. 

“Of course, you’re, um, you’re really beautiful, and um, I read your essay in our English class last year, it was really good—” He rambles, eyes flicking down to the place where your fingers are touching on the bedspread. You pretend not to notice.

“You really think so?” You curl a lock of your hair around your finger, biting your lip. His eyes follow the motion eagerly. “You think I’m beautiful?” 

“Y-yes.” Peter runs a nervous hand through his hair. “You’re a-amazing.” You look away coyly, a soft smile playing on your trembling lips. 

“If only that was enough to pass,” you reply, smile faltering. “I have so much riding on this,” you sniff, crocodile tears welling up in the corners of your eyes. “My dad would be so disappointed in me…” You trail off, wiping at your damp cheeks. “I’d do anything to keep that from happening.” You can hear Peter’s breath coming hard and fast as he stares at you with wide eyes. You push further, placing a hand lightly over his own.

He’s not bad looking when you really look at him. 

Behind the hoodies and books he’s actually pretty hot. 

“I, um, I want to help,” he stammers. “But I, um, I don’t really, uh, know how? To do that, I mean. Other than take the test for you, which is, you know, way out of the question, oh—” You draw your thumb slowly across the back of his hand, pressing closer. You aren’t wearing a bra, and you know he can feel your nipples through your shirt as you sigh.

“I know it’s asking a lot.” Your thigh is pressed against his, now, and when you squeeze his hand you can feel his pulse racing. You bat your eyelashes, raking your teeth along your full bottom lip. “But I really did mean it when I said I’d do anything.”

“A-anything?” You lean closer, one hand on his chest, the other resting on the comforter between his legs, less than a centimeter away from the half-hard outline you can see through his pants. 

“Anything.” 

—

“Open your mouth. Stick your tongue out.” Peter slaps the thick weight of his cock against your tongue with a wet thwack. He slides back and forth, pressing in until his tip bumps the back of your throat and then pulling out again. He grins when you gag, holding your head still as he ruts against your face. Drool leaks from the corners of your mouth, dripping down to where Peter’s heavy balls slap wetly against your chin. 

He pulls away after a moment, thin strands of your saliva running from your wet lips to the head of his cock. Dizzily you stare up at him, eyes glassy. 

How did I get here? 

You try to remember as you kneel naked on your bedroom floor with Peter towering over you, the head his thick cock only inches from your face. You’d been in control at the beginning, fielding Peter’s eager kisses as his hands played at the hem of your skirt. You aren’t sure when his gentle suggestions had become orders, ones that make your busy brain go blissfully blank when you follow them. 

“I didn’t tell you to stop.” 

His cock still tastes like you, and your pussy clenches down hard around nothing at the ghost of the feeling of him inside of you. You take him down to the base, ignoring your body’s protests at the intrusion as you peer up at him through your lashes. 

“That’s it,” he pants. “Good girl. Don’t think. Just do what I tell you, Sweetheart.” You nod dumbly, mumbling around his cock. You nurse him for a few minutes, tongue swirling around the throbbing head before he pushes you off. “I want to cum in your pussy again.” You scramble up to your feet, watching as Peter sits leisurely in your desk chair, legs spread. 

“Well?”

You scramble into his lap, whining as he lines himself up with your slick, swollen entrance. Peter grins against your throat as he lowers you down, savoring every inch. 

“Thought I was stupid, didn’t you, Sweetheart?” He asks, rolling his hips up into yours. “But that’s you, isn’t it? My sweet, stupid girl. S’why you’re failing.” He reaches down to flick at your clit with his thumb, and you practically convulse as you nod. 

There’s a knock at your bedroom door just as Peter drops you down again, stars bursting before your wide, unseeing eyes as you gasp and whine. Dimly, you are aware that the clock on your bedside table reads 10:30, and that your roommates are back from their self-imposed exile. 

”Hey, you alive in there?”

“Yeah, you said you wanted to grab dinner when you were done with Operation Nerd.” Peter slams you down on his cock again, and you let out a strangled moan. “Wait a minute—”