It’s always autumn here…

Timothée didn’t know what lucky star he was born under.

He didn’t know much about you, but he would. Your courtship had been short and the engagement even shorter. It was Timothée’s understanding that your parents were eager to marry you off; a younger sister of yours having won the affections of a viscount and they sought to solidify that union as swiftly as possible. But marrying off a younger daughter before the eldest was unheard of. Timothée was the fortunate winner of your hand.

How no one else had captured you sooner, he couldn’t comprehend. Quiet and demure, shy and polite. Eyes like midnight, skin as smooth as china and the color of how Timothée took his coffee. He just couldn’t envision a more perfect catch.

And you would want for nothing. Timothée had been excelling in his career and owned a beautiful estate on several acres. He was no viscount, but you would live more than comfortably. A full belly, a fashionable wardrobe, a good standing. 

A warm bed…

Love would come, he would see to it. He’d seek out your genuine affection and give you his. But before he could court your heart, he would please your body.

In truth, Timothée was almost scared to. He knew different ways to bring a woman pleasure, but one look at you had him nervous to touch you. You were so soft, so plush, so delicate even with all your hills and valleys. The way you sat in your marriage bed with the sheets up to your neck. The way those luminous eyes looked up innocently at him from under thick lashes. The way you trembled as his hand met your bare shoulder. It was all too much. You were so precious, he could do nothing but treat you as such.

Timothée made as close to love to you as he could. Slow hands, gentle strokes, patient lips. He worked your body as diligently and as carefully as he could, focusing on your reactions until you orgasmed just as pretty as you were. A breathy gasp from full lips and your walls fluttering around him. Pride surged through him. Your first orgasm was his. 

As the days went by, Timothée endeavored to show you affection. But as he deemed it too soon to get a baby on you, the only intimate night you had shared was consummating your marriage. Still he kissed you good morning and good night, held your hand in the crook of his elbow when you went out together, complimented you every opportunity he got. You were still quiet but Timothée liked to think you were opening up a smidge, that you were getting used to him. That the look in your dark eyes was getting warmer when they fell upon him.

Timothée was a good husband. He’d make you happy. He’d keep you safe.

Which is why he advised so vehemently against you going out so late at night. Even if just in the gardens of the estate, it was too dangerous.

“You know as well as I do that there is a monster out there, Y/n!”

“I’m aware of the monster. The only victims have been males.”

“I would not gamble your life on that remaining so!” He made a conscious effort to breathe as he felt his voice rise, trying to head off the anger in his throat. You were being silly. What in the garden could be worth your life? But even still, he could see an indignant pinch to your brows that he hadn’t seen in the fortnight you’d been married. Timothée gentled his tone. “My dear, please, could you not find some other task inside to occupy you? For me?”

You were quiet as you regarded him, so unlike the times before. This felt calculating, not demure. Pensive, not coy. Your head tilted to the side, gaze unwavering on him. “I’ll read, then.”

Timothée sighed, relieved that the first marital spat was not to be this. He closed the distance between you two, hands cupping your upper arms as he placed a kiss upon your temple. “Thank you, my dear. The thought of you in danger brings a wildness to my heart.”

Your eyes gleam as you peer up at him, the tiniest of grins on your face. “A wildness, you say?”

He smiled warmly, hoping this was a step closer between you. That you would see how easily he could love you, how quickly he was heading there already. That your heart would be safe with him should you choose to give it.

“Yes,” he placed your hand over his chest, it beat right against your palm. “Do you feel how fast it pounds at the thought of you cold and hurt and alone? At the simple thought of you at all?”

You ducked your head hiding a smile that brings an even larger one to Timothée’s lips. He chuckled. “The library is yours, dear Y/n. Choose any book you like. I, however, will prepare for bed.”

You hummed. “I will join you when I am finished.”

.🖤.

Panic and frustration swirled like chaos in him. 

When he came downstairs from his shower, he came to the library to kiss you goodnight. He had done it every night. He didn’t want to start missing it already. Yet he found the library empty, his study and the den as well. He searched every room and you were in none. And as he passed the back door to the gardens, he saw a partial footprint, not yet covered by the falling snow.

Hardheaded! How had he gone this long without knowing that about you? You had hid it well. Foolhardy and petty too, he could add to the list. But you weren’t in the gardens either. How far had you gone in your stubbornness?

That’s why Timothée was currently out in the woods behind his estate, in boots and a wool coat over his bedclothes, with only a pistol and a lantern to protect and guide him. What you had done was foolish, but Timothée would rather the chance to scold you at all, whole and well in your home together rather than leave you to fate. 

The search for you was hard. Calling out for you both his only option and invitation to death. Because as you said, the monster had only chosen male victims thus far. A sound to his right had Timothée squinting into the flurry of snow. The moonlight shone off the stark whiteness but paired with the blowing wind, his visibility was still patchy.

The sound of pursuit. The snapping of a branch. The snarl and huff of something… unnatural. The piercing noise of a scream cut short by grisly rending. An eerie silence that followed that made the wet sound even more poignant in its wake. Timothée pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, his gag reflex healthy and hale.

Timothée tread slowly towards the noises. He had to be sure. He had to be sure it wasn’t you.

The scene he arrived to turned his stomach anew. Hot blood steaming on fallen snow, a man’s mangled body in the claws of a beast. A large sable wolf upright, fur and teeth slick with gore. And absently, Timothée realized he recognized the man. Before he could think anymore, the monster shuddered, their image changing before his very eyes. And amongst the carnage, a naked woman stood, licking the blood from down her arms and humming contentedly. And much more notably, he recognized the woman. 

He had found his wife.

And he was unprepared for the state he found you in. Because even when he laid with you that first night, he had not looked long upon you, not wanting to embarrass or fluster you further. Seeing you bare for the first time under the moonlight half-drenched in blood was as bewitching as it was ghastly. An ethereal beauty he felt a sin to admire the way he was. But he was captivated by this unfamiliar woman in your body, unflinchingly nude and morbidly confident, uncaring of the mess and murder you had caused.

Before he could settle on any one emotion to feel, eyes dark as coals fixated on him.

And the moonlight glinted off of your white teeth as you smiled.

Your body twisted as you charged at him, transforming mid-stride to the beast again. Timothée turned and fled for his life, the pistol and lantern loosing from his grasps as he dodged fallen tree trunks and low limbs.

But his luck had run out. You were fast and determined and Timothée just couldn’t outpace or outmaneuver you. You tackled him into the packed snow and he turned to his back, trying to get his legs under you. Maybe plant a foot in your belly.

But just as quick, you were back to this Other Woman. His wife but not the one he knew. Not the one you pretended to be. And even still, he couldn’t harm you.

“Impatient man, did I not say I would join you in bed when I was finished?”

“Y-you,” he panted, unable to catch his breath. “You, all along—.”

You shushed him tenderly, as if lulling a baby. “Worry not, sweetheart. I want something different from you.” 

His flannel pajama bottoms were ripped like tissue and Timothée threw his head back in the snow, shame burning his cheeks unable to look at himself and face the state he was in. He felt hard and heavy in your soft grasp. Timothée fought the urge to buck into your silky palm.

“Aw my sweet new husband, so attentive. Giving me the foreplay of a good chase first to make sure I can take his big cock.” 

His eyes flew up at your filthy mouth gasping as he gaped at you. Just in time to see you straddling over his tip.

You hummed. “Your heart really does pound around me, doesn’t it?”

“Y/n, wait—!” He didn’t even know what for. He was just so out of his element, so overwhelmed, and he could see why a coherent thought couldn’t form when all the blood in his body had rushed south and all that had replaced it was drugging adrenaline. But as before, you didn’t heed him now. You sank down onto his cock and the feel of you had his mind wiped clean. His eyes rolled back as you moaned like a wanton, unashamed as you took the pleasure he could provide. 

Not even yet in his wildest imagination had he envisioned fucking you like this. With how delicately he’d consummated your union, how gently he’d moved through your tight virginal walls, touching your body as if you were too soft to handle, he thought he’d never get here. But you rode up and down on his cock like a woman starved, chasing your delight with his body. Taking him so deep and gripping him like a fist. He feared he wouldn’t last long at all.

Without a doubt, he knew the contrast of the slick red over soft brown skin, backdropped by the pristine white of snow undisturbed by your chase would be forever ingrained in his memory, tattooed behind his lids. Stirring him in his pants and clouding his mind periodically for the rest of his life. But now, now it made him want to touch. Touch all of you, everywhere he could. His palms started on your thighs, but traveled soon after, unsatisfied. They smoothed up over your cheeks and to your hips, feeling them stir rhythmically as you moved over him.

Then to your breasts, still slick with blood. He didn’t care. He’d be disgusted with himself later. Timothée sat up, holding you to him as he joined your lips. Under the iron taste was the sweet flavor he knew to be yours. He kissed you how he had been dying to, passionately claiming your mouth as you winded your hips. A rumble emanated from your chest, like a throaty purr and Timothée slid his palm around your throat to feel the vibration of it.

And as he planted a hand behind him in the snow, bracing himself to thrust up into you from below, he knew he’d forgive much to coax the sound from you again and again.

.🖤.

“Come on, Y/n, you could at least act like you’re having fun.”

“I’m having a great time,” you deadpan distractedly as you scroll on your tablet. You just want to double check the photographers list. Doing PR for Hollywood’s latest darling isn’t as bad as it could be, but the pressure is on to keep him in that shiny spotlight. And some photographers are determined to dull the shine. But the tablet is suddenly gone from your hands, replaced with Timmy’s pout.

You level him a look. “Tim, give it back.”

“No.”

“I need to do my job!”

“You’re not doing your job. You should be paying more attention to me, right? Isn’t that your job?”

You sigh. He's in one of those moods then. “Are you going to be a brat until we get to the after party?”

His head tilts as he regards you. “Yes.”

“Fine, show me your loot.”

He sits forward, joy renewed as he empties his pocket. “Okay, so one girl gave me this bracelet she made! This design is so cute, how do girls do this shit? And another girl gave me this pin with my face and hearts all around it! And another girl drew this siiiiick picture of me as Paul Atreides, check this out!” He shoves his phone in your face, Timothée smiling next to a gorgeous and talented fan and the photo held in front of them. “She smelled really nice, too. I started to ask what she was wearing,” he comments absently as he takes his phone back. His eyes flicker up to you and back down.

“Well, looks like you got a lot of cool stuff.”

He sighs as he leans back against his seat, gaze returning to the heavily tinted windows. Current attitude source: unknown. “Yeah.”

“You love your fans a lot don’t you?”

A fond smile tempers his pout, softens his face. “Yeah, I do.”

“Well, they clearly love you too,” you say as you pick your tablet back up. You almost don’t see how Timmy’s gaze is on your reflection in the dark glass. How it trails over you and glares at the device in your hands.

“Yeah. They do.”

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“The fans love it when I look like this. All kinds of depraved comments on my IG when I post a picture with this face.” He smirks, leaning into you. “What, you don’t think I look good like this? Look sexy? Look dangerous?”

You laugh, pushing him away playfully, ignoring the flip in your stomach. “They don’t know you like I do. I’ve seen you grumble all day because I wouldn’t play video games with you.”

“I think you’d be fun to play with is all.”

“You’re incredibly spoiled, is what you are.”

Timmy huffs laying back on the limo seat as casually as if it was his couch at home. “Then indulge me and I’ll be satisfied.”

“Ha!” You laugh emphatically. “No you won’t. I give you an inch, and you’ll take a mile.”

“You give me an inch and I’ll give you eight.”

“What did you say?”

He looks over at you blandly. “I’m tired,” he answers instead.

“You’re high too.”

“If that’s what you wanna believe.”

It is. You do. Because you can’t consider the alternative.

“Y/n!” 

You turn at your name being called over the music. Timmy strides your way, a pretty woman you of course recognize has his arm slung around her neck.

“Y/n, this is Taylor. Taylor, this is my Y/n.”

You raise an eyebrow at that but Taylor’s reaching for your hand. You shake it with a warm smile. Timothée hangs all on her like a scarf, his cheek against her temple even as he drinks you in so intently. You focus on the actress instead.

“Nice to finally meet you! We never crossed paths directly when Bones & All was shooting.”

“Yeah, but I still heard plenty about you. Feel like I know you.” Her eyes trail over your outfit in a slow perusal. “Tim said you were pretty, but I think he really undersold—.”

“Oooookay, this was a mistake, bye, Taylor,” Timothée cut her off, shoving her playfully away as she laughs.

“Nooo, I wanna talk more with the absolutely wonderful, perfect—!”

“Banned. You’re banned.”

Just as abruptly as he brought her over, he’s guiding her away from you. “Your Y/n privileges have been revoked.”

You shake your head at his antics. For the rest of the night you try to keep him in sight. Each time he’s surrounded by a new group, smack dab in the middle, his laugh infectious and his smile radiant. And almost every time you look over at him, he’s already glancing at you. His gaze lingers on you before he checks back into the conversation happening around him. The warmth in your cheeks isn’t from the alcohol; you haven’t finished your first champagne yet, being that you’re technically working. It’s not from the people around you; the after-party jumping but not packed. Plenty of breathing room.

No, it’s the pair of green eyes across the room brushing over your skin, like a match head over a striker. 

If you’re not careful, he’ll let the spark catch fire.

You wince at the concrete on the soles of your feet. Not exactly painful, just sucky to walk on, especially after the heels you had been in all evening. You can’t wait for the spongy, soothing feel of your carpet. 

Your limbs are nice and loose because you had been able to snag a few glasses of the sumptuous champagne. Timothée had left early, citing boredom. It was a lie, you could tell by his stony expression and his flat voice when he interrupted you and his bodyguard, Gerald, to announce his departure. The two of you had been making flowing conversation, getting to know each other better when Timothée stomped over.

But you didn’t see any concerning reasons for his sour mood– the actor is more mercurial than he lets on, you just take the emotions in stride– and bid him good night. He scoffed and made for the door.

You hadn’t stayed much longer at the party, long enough to indulge in expensive wine, a good playlist, and finger foods made by heavenly hands. And when you decided to call it a night, Gerald had been nice enough to drive you home. You scrunch up your nose at the thought of battling traffic in the morning to go retrieve your car.

That’s a worry for tomorrow!you. Tonight!you is going to grab a snack, toss these heels in the back of your closet, and dive headfirst into bed. You walk into the dark kitchen, depositing your keys in their assigned dish like habit and hear the clatter of them against the porcelain. The real question is are you gonna get a slightly unhealthy bedtime snack or a never met healthy in its life snack? You’re definitely leaning towards–.

Something smacks you straight in the forehead. No, you smack it. 

“Ow! Fucking goddammit!” A cabinet door? Did you leave that open–?

“Oh, shit, did I leave that open? I’m so sorry.”

Recognizing the voice that echoes your thoughts doesn’t exactly calm you down. Timothée sweeps in from where the kitchen leads to the living room, flicking on the light switch. A wine glass in one hand, he reaches out with his other to cradle the back of your head. He gently lays a kiss in the smarting spot and you’re too baffled to duck out of the way.

“Shit, I poured you wine too, but maybe I should switch it out for water.”

He places his glass down and gets a water glass from the open cabinet, being sure to close it back before he moves to your fridge. He pulls out the filter pitcher and starts pouring. The ease of which he moves through your kitchen, through your space is unsettling. “Wh- Timmy, what are you doing here? How did you get in here?”

“Drink this,” he orders softly as he puts the water in your hand. 

“Timothée, what the fuck, seriously.”

He rolls his eyes and leans back against your granite countertops. He grabs his wine glass again as he crosses his arms. “You didn’t change where you hide your spare key.”

Murky recall brings the incident up. How you left your entire ring of keys with the maintenance men who serviced your car and Timmy offered to pick you up instead of you waiting in the auto shop lobby. How he ran you back by your place to grab your tablet and get some work done.

That was three months ago.

“Have you come in here since then?”

Tim sips his wine and smacks his lips. “A few times.”

The cup meets the counter hard as your hand comes down heavily. It doesn’t shatter, but it’s a near miss. Timothée tsks as water sloshes over the top.

“Don’t be so dramatic, Y/n. I don’t come in here and– I dunno– steal your panties or anything gross.”

“Tim, it’s still weird! And breaking and entering!”

“I literally use a key.”

“Why?”

He remains silent, his jaw clenching and unclenching. He drains his wine then puts down the empty glass. “Y’know, I really don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come home. Or if you hadn’t come home alone. Probably something really stupid. Something it would have taken way more than PR to spin.”

Your brows furrow, confusion at his words. Not an answer but you have no idea how to respond.

Timothée sighs. “I do it so your neighbors think I live here. So they can be used to seeing me coming and going. So that it doesn’t look out of the ordinary. And like I said I don’t do anything gross, just treat it like I live here. Home away from home,” he shrugs as he looks down at his bare feet. He had gotten cozy before you got here, it seems. It seems he’s more than used to it. “Sleep in your bed, use your shower, whatever.”

“But why?”

His eyes finally return to yours. “So if we started dating, it’d be no big deal. No big news, no sneaking. Your neighbors haven’t said shit for months. You don’t have a stupid appearance argument for not being with me.”

As if blinking could get your mind to process what your ears were hearing, your lashes fluttered rapidly. Blind-sided. His explanation left you more dumbstruck.

He takes advantage of your speechlessness to confess. “I like you, Y/n.”

“Timmy–.”

“And I know you like me too! You have to!”

“When have I ever given you that impression?!”

His jaw twitches. “You haven’t directly– not exactly– but it’s something between us and I know you feel it! You go out of your way to keep things professional between us because you know what could happen if we were alone.”

Timothée… wasn’t necessarily wrong. There’s been tension between you both a time or two… or twelve. But like he said, you always shut it down and put that distance between you two again. “I keep things professional because that’s the kind of relationship we have, Timothée!”

“But it could easily be more! You just won't let it!”

“Because I work for you!”

“Yeah, and I’m trying not to fire you just to fuck you!”

You suck in a shocked breath and he groans, rubbing his hands over his face. “What I mean is you’re being difficult for no reason. Dating me and working for me shouldn't have to be this big deal! We’re adults, we like each other, so stop running from this!”

“Okay, there’s so many issues here.”

Tim rolls his eyes as he pushes away from the counter. “Fuck this, I’m drinking your wine, too.”

You follow after him to your living room, airing your complaints the entire way. “Even if I wanted to pursue something else with you, the fact that you did all of this is more than heavy handed! It’s absolutely crazy manipulative and presumptuous–.”

“Can’t believe you use twenty point words even when drunk,” he deadpans before claiming the second wine glass that was on the coffee table. Netflix is open on your television screen and a blanket spilling over the edge of the seat towards the carpet as if he had tossed it off of himself when he came to you in the kitchen.

“You’ve been sneaking into my fucking house! For months! Violating my privacy and–.”

“My business is your job, I just evened the playing field a little.” His dismissive shrug makes you burn so hot you think you can dilute the alcohol in your blood.

“That’s nowhere near equivalent! What the fuck is wrong with you? You could have any little household name on your arm, the whole world acts like the sun shines out your ass, everyone loves you–.”

“Then fucking act like it!”

Again his uncharacteristic temper stays your tongue. But he plows on.

“I’m so goddamn tired of hearing how all my fans love me, all my old co-stars love me, everyone loves me but the one person that I want doesn’t! The one person that has the most access to me, who is with me the most pushes me away at every fucking turn and I’m sick of it!”

“Tim–.”

“And it’s so unfair, because you clearly aren’t the jealous type and I most definitely am and you don’t just fucking break when I gush about my fans or hang all over co-stars while I wanted to snatch you away from Gerald the whole goddamn time you were laughing with him!”

He steps into your space, eyes hard as jade. “I'm done waiting for you to give in.”

He pulls you to him, kissing you soundly. Even with the taste of anger on his tongue, it weakens your knees. You melt into him the tiniest bit. Then you're falling backwards as he pushes you  down to the couch, caging you in.

“Say you don’t want this,” he demands but immediately covers your lips with his own, his hands on your wrists as he licks into your mouth. His long body pressing you into the cushions. Timothée wastes no time, grinding his hard cock between your legs. He catches every noise you make, the protestations that die on your joined tongues. Tim’s deft hands slide your dress up, your panties to the side. He drags his fingertips over your slit and they come back shiny and slick. Timothée groans into your cheek as he caresses your pussy again.

“Say you don’t want me.” His fingers enter you in the next moment, stealing your breath. The slender digits delve deeper than yours can, and are even more determined than you had ever been to achieve your pleasure. Your nails bite into his biceps, but he just hisses and carries on, nuzzling at your neck and shoulders. His lips rest there next, only they don’t rest. They’re greedy and insatiable, sucking spots that throb on your skin when he abandons it for another. 

Desire is making a pretty mess of you, as Timothée is. You try to scrabble for the reasons this shouldn’t be happening but your mind is being systematically wiped blank with every crook of his fingers. You’re so close that you whine wordlessly into Tim’s disheveled curls. And suddenly you’re unforgivably empty. You gasp, trying hard to fill your lungs. You want them back, you want his fingers back. But he doesn’t give them to you.

Instead, he shoves down his joggers and acquaints his cock with your needy hole.

“Say you want me to stop. Come on, Y/n,” he coaxes, long fingers wrapped around your throat, the column brushing his palm as you swallow. “Lie to me.”

He’s pressing the tip in torturously slowly. It burns, he feels as big as he looks. You whimper as he pushes just a bit more then retreats, his tip finding your entrance again to start the unsatisfying stretch all over again.

“Don’t…” you trail off, words failing you in favor of a moan. Desperation ate away at you, an impatience that burns like your cunt as it sought to invite his invasion. Burns like his green eyes hot on you.

“Don’t what, Y/n?”

You tremble under him, hips canting against your will. Aching. Seeking. You take advantage of how close he is, the fact that you don’t have to say the shameful words loudly in order to be heard. “Don’t stop.”

Timothée’s gaze changes immediately, all his hard edges and frustration melting. His brows slant as he cradles your face in his hands. Then his lips are on yours, needy and insistent, swallowing your cry as he fucks into you to the hilt. “I won’t. I won’t ever fucking stop.”

Spring had never felt so cold.

All winter long you had been the object of one Theodore Laurence’s ardent affection. He was always around, finding himself in your same group of friends, your same study groups, spectating team sports in the same section. He was always insisting to cover some bill or another for you, bringing you a sweet or a flower.

With all the bait Laurie casted out, you never bit. Never giving him more than friendly thanks and companionable conversation. 

And apparently even Laurie won’t chase elusive game for long. Snow was thawing to ugly, muddy landscapes, staining skirt hems and dirtying leather boots. But he had not warmed your day with his sunny smile in over a week now. It was a noticeable absence when you could scarcely go a day without seeing him before.

It’s another week before you work it into a conversation with a mutual friend about where he is.

It’s another two weeks until you see him again.

Smiling in some other girl’s tittering face.

Your blood ran cold at the sight. But you had no earthly idea why. If he decided he didn’t want you anymore? Fine, a much quieter life for you without nuisance.

Rich students with no stakes or worries about their standings were often nonchalant and childish in a way. You remembered the snowball fight they had instigated amongst themselves a few months ago when the snow would still stick when it fell to the ground. Boys showing off and girls squealing all in expensive silk-lined wool coats and insulated boots while other students hurried to class or inside to escape the elements.

Now as spring had begun, they saw it fit to welcome the season with a faux-pagan fanfare. Maypoles with ribbons they would leave for someone else to clean up, plucking barely blossomed flowers to braid together into crowns for their fine tresses. Or worse, to use as jesting projectiles, tossing the young blooms uselessly at each other in teasing wars. They drank rosé with berries in the glasses. Made merry fools of themselves while the rest of the campus worried about not wasting their parents’ money and time and earning their education.

Laurie had always looked sickeningly fitting among them. Like he shouldn’t belong, but he was one of them, wasn’t he? An heir who would remain enrolled no matter the grades on his work. He looked as overly carefree as the rest with his cheeks rosy from the wine and tiny wildflowers and leaves littering his curls. Twirling in his sockfeet over the grassy field, giggling with stupid girls and stupider boys.

It maddened you to see him like this. So utterly uncaring. He’d left your side a month ago and never sought you out again. Moved on like you were an unimportant dalliance. Forgot about you. As if he’d ever actually made a genuine move! How could he give up before he’d even tried to pursue you in earnest?! 

So when he stumbled off into the woods in search of kindling for a bonfire (a bonfire on campus grounds, for God’s sake) you clenched your jaw and slid the scarf from around your neck.

Tiptoeing up behind him, you didn’t let yourself get distracted. It had been a long time since you’d seen him this close. Had he gotten more handsome? His curls looking a little longer and gaining trace highlights with how much more time he’s begun to spend outside. His shoulders minutely broader and arms a bit bigger. That would not deter you. 

You doubled then twisted the scarf, swinging it up and around his head to secure it suddenly at his mouth, muffling any reaction. You pulled him backwards, letting his surprise and height be his literal downfall.

You followed him down to the unforgiving ground. He scooted away instinctively towards the trunk of a tree before he got a good look at you. His green eyes widened at his assailant in recognition, something in them darkening but you couldn’t meet them for long. Wouldn’t be talked out of this. You were at the end of your rope, your rationality, because of this fickle, preppy loverboy.

You were singularly focused, intent at getting back at him in this arbitrary way you’d deluded yourself into thinking was even. And.. you couldn't be sure with the scarf over his mouth, of course, but you thought he may have…. smiled. A little twinkle of excitement in his eye. A low moan in his throat before you’d even gotten his pants fully shoved down his legs. There was no struggle in him, the only squirming he did actually helped you to divest him of clothes and spread his legs for you. His cock hard and ready for you in his breeches. It only took you wrapping your fingers around the length for precum to bead up, with Laurie thrusting into your grip.

With him roughly in hand your eyes narrow and you know you see eerie lust and thrill in his green irises, crowded out with the pupils blown wide. You see the laugh lines creased around his eyes, his cheekbones appled and flushed partially visible from underneath your scarf. His hands were behind him, but you knew you had yet to bind them in any way. 

No. Laurie sat on his hands, knees fallen open to show off the thick cock standing at attention, throbbing, leaking, somehow even more so just under your stormy gaze. He wasn’t frightened. And you wouldn’t be taking anything from Laurie that he wasn’t dying to have reaped. 

You gripped his jaw roughly, angled his face up. “You sick fuck. You want this, don’t you? Want me to force myself on you.”

Laurie’s eyes were hooded, as if your manhandling and scathing tone intoxicated him more than the expensive wine he’d drank. He nodded coyly, a mockery of innocence as he sat in front of you like a whore. Looking thoroughly wrecked and you had barely touched him.

“No.”

His eyes widened suddenly, his posture straightening and losing all pretense. He made a muffled questioning noise.

“Yes, I said no.”

Laurie’s brows shot up, indignant and shocked. 

“Aww, bratty boy hasn’t been told ‘no’ before, has he?” You pouted down at him as he glared up at you, but you noticed the way his cock jumped, the way the blush crept to his ears. “Well, I think it’s my new favorite word.”

You propped your booted foot on his naked thigh and he choked on a groan. “Listen to me. Don’t. Touch.”

And then you pulled your skirts up, revealing your bloomers. His eyes widened again as he watched your fingers part the bifurcated cotton and reveal glistening folds. He whimpered at the sight, his eyes glued there as if mesmerized. 

You watched his face as you dipped a finger in, then two, letting them both disappear inside you. Laurie groaned at the sight, enraptured as you began to pump your fingers. And you saw the intent in him the second he shifted. Before he could pull his hands out from under him, you dug your free hand in his curls and tugged backwards.

“I said ‘don’t touch.’ Me or yourself. You’ve—ahn— really done my head in, you know? One, one minute, always there, then the next, mmm, I barely see you across the courtyard.” You scolded him, still fingering yourself to his needy whines. You could see how he’s enthralled with you playing with yourself so boldly in front of him. He wanted in on the action.

So the most logical thing you could do was deny him.

Your eyes rolled back in your head as you tipped your chin towards the sky, biting your lip and really getting into your self-pleasure. You looked down when you felt him move, Laurie’s temple rested on your knee as he watched your every movement like his life depended on it. Drool darkened your scarf and trailed down from the corner of his mouth. His hips fidgeted and jolted as if he could pantomime the feeling of fucking up into your dripping cunt. 

“God, you're aching for it, huh? Hungry for it even, look at you, drooling like a mutt,” you tsked as you parted your lower lips between two fingers and let him admire the glossy folds. He mewled behind the scarf, eyebrows painted in a pained slant. “How bad do you wanna see me orgasm?”

His green eyes sharpened almost instantly, snapping to yours and his spine straightening. Laurie nodded enthusiastically, some urging mumbling that made you kind of wish you could properly hear him begging. His cherubic ringlets bobbed as he did so, eager for his front row seat to your pleasure. You smirked.

“Fine. I’ll let you see.”

You played with yourself, rubbing your clit and pumping your fingers at the exact tempo that would get you there. The pleasure that had been a steadily creeping feeling was beginning to skyrocket, closer and closer to a precipice. You didn’t stop, not with your audience of one’s rapt attention. Laurie was making little plaintive noises that you couldn’t be sure was just whimpering or maybe the chanting of ‘please, please, please’. 

You gasped as it washed over you, clamping around your own fingers as the feeling snuck up on you. Your supporting leg shook and you let go of his hair and your skirts to prop yourself on the tree trunk behind him to stabilize yourself. Laurie ducked closer as the fabric fell, trapping himself under there. He’d freed his hands you could tell because two surprisingly strong hands came up to steady your hips. Then you felt his nose press against your lower lips as he inhaled deep, heard him groan his exhale. One hand left your hip shortly before returning.

“Please, Y/n, let me taste. You smell so good, please, please,” his voice came slurred with desire and desperation. You breathed a laugh. 

“Well, if you’re going to beg that hard for it, hurry up. Clean me up a little.”

Laurie’s grip dug in at the meat of your hips a little bit more as he dove in, smothering himself. He moaned wantonly as his tongue licked a savoring stripe up your sex before delving inside your still fluttering hole. You swallowed a groan, mindful of how much noise you were making, but Laurie did no such thing. All of his curses and praises and humming like he was being nourished were mostly muffled by your cunt, but there wasn’t a drop of restraint in him. Did the idiot want to get caught? Before he could start to work you up again, you pushed from the tree, pressing your boot into his chest and nudging him backwards. Laurie emerged from under your skirts with a pained knitting of his brows.

“Why?” He whined; no other way to put it. His nose, lips and chin were glossy from your essence just in the short moments he had taken advantage of between your thighs. His cock was throbbing, leaking, still untouched and a deep red, nearing violet.

“I said to clean me up, not go for gold.”

Laurie leaned forward and reached out, “But I want–.”

“And you think that matters? After I’ve not seen you for weeks? With no apology? And no thanks for even letting you do as much as I did?” you scoffed as you fixed your dress, fluffing the layers to fall properly again. 

“I’m sorry! For staying away from you, I just wanted you to miss me,” he swallowed, licking his lips and unsubtly letting his eyes flicker to your skirts. “And thank you for letting me witness your pleasure. For allowing me a taste.” His eyes lifted back to yours, round and pleading. “I could make you cum again. With my tongue or you could use my cock.”

Your head tilted to the side as you regarded him. Sure, letting him lick at you until you orgasmed again sounded fun. Losing your virginity by taking him hard did too. 

But as you looked down at him, on his knees for you, cock out, half clothed, and aching for you, you knew what sounded like more fun.

“No. I have things to do today.”

His jaw dropped again. “You–! You can’t just leave me here like this!”

“I think this will make us even, don’t you? Maybe one of those silly little ditzes can help you with your current problem. But know this: I don’t share. So either satisfy yourself with them and never look my way again, or handle it yourself and your aforementioned wants may still be on the table.”

It’s finally happened. You’d seen the writing on the wall since you stepped foot in this foreign land, presented before an unimpressed husband.

You were no happier with the king; Thomas Riddle, a usurper and a spoiled bastard. Thankfully, he enjoyed his porcelain skinned whores instead of you, leaving you with at least one less worry. But you knew the day was coming that he’d seek to get rid of you.

You just weren’t prepared for it to be today.

So here you are, literally running for your life through the castle. His men after you with orders to kill. The king wanted a new wife.

Things suddenly tilt sideways as a strong hand jerks you by the arm. Heavy boots stomp by in pursuit of where they thought you had gone and your heart thuds loudly in your chest. It and your shaky breath are the only sounds left when they grow too far and faint to hear. The secret corridor is dark but just barely you make out the face of your attacker. Your rescuer.

“Regulus.”

“Apologies for the rough treatment, your highness. This way.”

Regulus is the king’s guard that had been appointed to you upon your arrival. He wasn’t exactly friendly but he was always polite, always careful of you, always near. He answered your questions patiently and escorted you anywhere you wanted to go. You had planned on enlisting his help to devise a way out of the kingdom before it had all gone belly up. Of course, it was he that’d saved you.

“Thank you, thank you so much.”

Regulus looks down at you solemnly as he approaches a door. 

“Don't thank me yet.” He leads you in and you look about the chamber. His personal chamber? Regulus stands behind you, a finger ghosting over where your dress ripped as you fled. “He never touched you, did he? Always spending time with his whores.” 

“What are you—.” 

“Shh. If you’re found you’ll be killed. And not immediately, either. They’ll have their own brand of fun first. But they won't be as gentle as I will.” 

Your breath catches in your throat. “Y-you’re going to kill me, too?” 

His face softens as he cups your cheek. “No, baby. I'm gonna keep you. And I'm gonna be gentle.”

Little solace. But he straightens as he looks upon you.

“Take off your dress, princess.” He requests. So this is to be the price of your protection, is it? Betrayal and hurt weigh heavy in your chest, burn in your sinuses. You yank at the shoulder of the dress, wanting this to be over and done with. But Regulus tuts at you, his palms up like calming a dancing horse.

“Whoa, whoa, no rush. We have time. You were just running for your life, I think we can afford to go slow.”

He watches you remove each layer like the seductive unwrapping of a gift. Encouraging you with silky words that make your face feel aflame. 

You stand in front of him, completely nude as he remains in his chainmail and leathers and linen. His eyes move over you as a physical touch, taking every part of you in. Then he steps forward, his hands cupping the sides of your cheeks.

“I know I will be the first to know your body better than even you. And I’ll act accordingly, as long as you submit to me. I’ll introduce you to pleasure so long as you keep quiet and obey me, is that understood, princess?”

A second bargain with a devil. Though this bargain is almost sweeter than your marriage contract and the devil more favorable than your husband.

Metal clangs outside, voices shouting as men scout the halls, still in search of you. Your head snaps towards the noise, even stepping into Regulus’ space in fear. Regulus brings your attention back to him, your faces much closer now as he angles it up to his.

“They are of no consequence any longer. No one knows how to get to this chamber barring the king and he will not come knocking, I assure you. It is just you and I, Y/n. And I’ve asked you a question.”

“I-I understand.” 

A warm smile spreads over his face, and despite the circumstances it makes your tummy flutter.

Regulus ducks down, giving you time to anticipate his lips but no power to avoid them. No desire to either. It’s nerves that fill you as he meets your lips, gentle and firm. It’s almost sweet, your first kiss. Not earned and expected at the altar nor snuck in a childish teenage dalliance. But here, bared to a man that isn’t your husband and who isn’t giving you a choice. 

The hands cupping your face begin to slide down, sending shivers over your flesh as they pet down your neck, your shoulders. And like them, Regulus’ kisses descend. Your throat bobs as his mouth grazes your neck and you nearly jolt out of his hold completely as he kisses the swell of your breast. But his grip goes to your waist, holding fast as he unhurriedly showers your chest in attention. His tongue makes an appearance, flicking over a hardened nipple and you gasp, a whimper dying in your throat as you clench his shoulders.

“R-Regulus–.”

“Shh,” he commands offhand, getting to his knees. His kisses are getting lower, lower still, skating over your tummy and… he isn’t… he wouldn’t…

“Open, baby,” he says, proving to you that he absolutely is and would. To have his mouth there? With those tender and pillowy kisses? Your mind is too morbidly intrigued by the prospect. Terrified and curious. A dangerous combination, you’re finding.

“I– that’s too far, you can’t–!”

“Don’t make me be mean. Do as I say.”

You fidget and fret at the center of his unwavering gaze from below. He only raises an eyebrow. You can practically read the expression. So what’s it going to be?

A breath shudders out of you as you part your legs enough to feel the cool air of the room whisper over trace dampness.

“Upon my shoulder.”

You close your eyes and draw on some unknown fortification to get through this. You don’t want to see Regulus mean. Unsteadily, you balance on one leg, moving one hand to replace it with the crook of your knee. The cold of the chainmail against your skin sends a shiver and goosebumps over and through you.

“Good girl,” he proclaims readily, almost business-like as he secures his hold on you again. A warmth floods you shamefully from the flat praise, his focus already less on you as a whole and narrowed to you; the hidden, untouched core that he’s about to vandalize. 

“Mind what I said about keeping quiet.”

The timely reminder is comically rendered useless as he licks into you without preamble, the shock making you squeal. You would have been much louder if there was any air in your lungs to be found; it’s all punched out with a swipe of his tongue. 

Relentlessly, he licks at you, making obscene squishy noises with every drag of his tongue and mouthing of his lips. Your supporting leg wobbles as you reposition your hold to his hair, endeavoring for stability. But the integrity of your knee’s strength is threatened altogether as his mouth latches to some sensitive place between your lower lips. One you had no knowledge of. But Regulus clearly did. His lips pucker there and suck teasingly and you nearly hiccup at the whoosh of air you take in. His hands ensure you have nowhere to go, at the mercy of the onslaught of pleasure he’s giving you. 

And the feeling it coaxes deep within you. 

Foreign and scary, it feels foreboding and you want no parts of succumbing to whatever it is. You endeavor to push from his greedy mouth, frightened to meet what the coil inside is winding up to. 

Regulus draws back from you with one last cheeky lick, a self-satisfied grin wickedly curved upon his handsome face. It glistens in your essence and the embarrassment mixes with the tight ball in your stomach as you hide your face from him. And so you don’t see his intent as he lifts you right under your bum, laying you down on his bed.

For a moment he just admires you there, his dark green eyes raking over you as hot as coals. You swallow and fidget under the intensity of them. Regulus finally reaches for the fastening of his armor.

“Do you know how often I viewed you exactly like this in my mind’s eye? How often I humped my sheets and wished I was in the cradle of your thighs instead? All that spend spilled in my hand when I could have been filling up this pretty little pussy. Taking care of you how the king refused to.”

You don’t know what flusters you more, the lewd picture he’s painting or the steady movement of his hands. Chainmail clinks, linen rustles against leather and it all hits the stone flooring with thuds and shuffles that ratchet your heartbeat another level, then another. And as he stands before you bare as you are, you fear you’ll swallow your tongue as your gaze falls to his length and can’t be torn from it. Like how you must stare at a tragedy in the making, knowing the trample of a horse’s hooves is coming with the person still clumsily sprawled in its path. In that same attitude, you stare and wonder in a panic: how? How? The question rings hollowly in your mind, no answer to be found as Regulus knees onto the bed, gently but firmly pushing you down flat.

Words lodge in your throat, only a small croak of worry escaping. Regulus strokes your cheek with one hand as the other parts your legs, pulling your knee up to his hip. Wisely, he doesn’t ask if you’re ready, because your only answer would be a fearful, thrash of your head in negation. Instead he just presses his lips to your forehead, an act so tender it almost distracts you from the tip of him at your entrance. The feeling, thrilling and terrifying all at once, spurs you to finally speak as he pushes in. Slow. Aching. Stretching. 

“Regulus–!”

“Hush now, sweet. Take it all.”

“I’ll break,” your plea barely audible, thin as a thread as you try to speak past the pinching stretch.

He smirks lightly and kisses your brow. “You won’t. Women are made to take a man’s cock. And you’ll take mine. You'll love it as well. Have I not promised I’ll take responsibility for your pleasure? It continues once I’m inside you.”

It feels neverending. You’re half tempted to grab at his hips, to force him in and let it be done with because this burning ache is too overwhelming. Too drawn out. You whimper and hiss like a wounded thing, Regulus cooing at you until finally, you’re flush together. A gasp leaves you as it finally stops, you adjust to the sharp pain until it dulls. A groan rumbles in Regulus’s chest and you finally open eyes you don’t remember closing to see his brow furrowed in pleasure. He bites his lip as he looks down on you with desire. He cups your cheek and brings his lips to yours, murmuring sweet praise into the kiss.

“Tight as a fist, you are. So snug. I could make a home of this cunt.”

But that’s not all, is there? He has to actually move again and that means the pain will return. Tears well at your waterline at the thought and your breath catches as he flexes to pull out.

Yet when he moves, the ache is forgotten, shooed along by the pleasure he had promised. Gloriously, his thick length touched heavenly spots inside you that you were ignorant to even existing. How had you thought he was too big moments before? He fits perfectly. His hips, rhythmic as a lullaby, drawing out sweet notes from your own throat to accompany them. You keep them quiet, not letting them float further than his ears.

“Shhh,” he soothes, sealing your mouth with a firm hand. “I want you to hear how wet you are for me. How much you clearly love this.”

It’s true. The vulgar sounds of coupling squelched wet and profane between your bodies. Your face flames as you turn your face as much as you can into the sheets below you and Regulus allows it with a low chuckle, removing his hand from your mouth to trace your jaw. A shudder thrums through you and you arch into his thrusts. 

He smirks down at you. “See that I was right? Heavens, if only you were given to me instead. You’d already be carrying my child. I’d’ve fucked a baby into you as soon as touched you.”

Now, you can understand a bit why the king had his whores. You never understood the pleasure there was to be had here. Even the minimal preparation for your first night you were given, you couldn’t imagine anything but discomfort, pain, and awaiting the relief of it being over. Now, you don’t want Regulus to stop. Being filled over and over, his… his cock surging into you and making you feel whole. And even moreso, it’s Regulus himself. 

The way he licks at your jaw and squeezes your breast just so. The way he praises you in that low soothing voice saying the most debauched things with a straight face. How he pulls the most shameful noises from you, holding you to him like you’re precious. Like you’re his.

It’s all too tender; his strokes, his voice, his gentle touch. How had it come to this– to trickery and betrayal and the order for your head– for you to receive the affection you so craved? 

The tears that had gathered on your waterline double, spilling over in soft dribbles. 

He holds your face steady under him, his dark eyes watching the tracks they make. “God, you even look like a princess when you cry. Shedding tears over the way my cock is making you feel. And when you cum, I wonder? Will you look just as pretty then?”

He snakes a hand under your ass, his pelvis grinding against yours so that the sensitive spot he had attacked earlier with his tongue is now being rubbed with each sure thrust. And with them, that demanding pull is bubbling under the surface, roiling in your lower belly hot and insistent. Your hands press to his shoulders, fearing the feeling but you know he won’t let you shy away from it again.

“It’s– I can’t, Regulus, I don’t know–.”

“Shhh,” he nuzzles into your throat, his breath brushing over your sweat-sticky skin. “You can. You will. You don’t need to know, you just need to feel. And give it to me.”

Your breaths are getting closer and closer to whines with each pant, each relentless smack of his hips pounding surely into yours. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he groans, licking and sucking at your neck. So tightly, you try to leash the emotion but it grows too big to contain. And finally, tired and resigned, you give in.

A deep moan is smothered by Regulus’s quick hand, and you fill his palm with the cry of euphoria reached. Like lightning along your spine, you cling to Regulus like shelter in a storm. He groans low in your ear, praising your sweet, little cunt that took him so well. As the feeling begins to taper off, he elongates it by thrusting again, just a handful of desperate curls of his hips. And then he stills deep inside you, as far as he can go and warmth spreads, fills, leaks. A growling noise muffled into your hair as he holds you close. When he pulls back to look at you, he’s still panting. He swallows as he caresses your neck, his fingers sliding into the coils at the nape.

“You are mine, Y/n. Nothing and no one shall take you from me.”

You gulp, knowing that for better or worse, your fate’s been sealed again. You nod faintly. Deal made. Regulus kisses you again and leaves your body, swallowing your gasp at the sudden emptiness. He stands and grabs some of his clothes from a drawer, a linen tunic and wool trousers and tosses them onto your naked form.

“Dress in those. Can’t have you looking like a princess again until we’re far beyond these castle walls.”

The pleasure of the moment is gone, just the dull ache in your core and the spend dripping down your thighs as a reminder. But you do as you’re instructed because Regulus will undoubtedly make good on his promise. He was gentle. He would keep you.

He was riding a similar high on adrenaline, fresh from a bare knuckle brawl that was unfairly matched. They just didn’t know it was in his favor. He’d taken a hit or three from the big lug for show, and he still smarted in a few areas because of it. But then when Peter started throwing punches back, he really laid into him. He was pretty sure the guy was still alive, but that wasn’t his problem. As soon as the Goliath had fallen, he hooted and hollered to the bookie to get his cut of the bets. His knuckles sung, a couple burst open by the guy’s teeth from the deadringer he’d thrown to his face. He’d made a shit-ton of money this time and didn’t have to put it all straight away into his Aunt’s rent or bills. It was the money that he was going to need to get his plans in motion.

Peter had big dreams. Dreams of having any and everything he desired one day. But until then he realized he had to take anything he wanted. His trusty knife and this revolver and his own two hands had gotten him one thing he’d wanted tonight and he’d keep building and building on that till he was king of fucking New York. King of the fucking underground.

He was going to take these powers straight to the top. Aunt May was never gonna want for anything again. He’d be the bully now. He’d be whatever the fuck he wanted.

The roll of cash felt like it was burning a hole in his pocket. His pulse was still thrumming right under his skin, adrenaline putting a skip in his step as he hurried along the sidewalk.

You know what?

He deserved a damn drink.

He turned into a bar, one a little higher scale than he usually tried to enter but for once, Peter was feeling worthy. Like he belonged there.

He’d get some top shelf brown. Something that burned on the way down and reined in his heart rate and loosened the tight muscles in his shoulders. As he looked to the bar, a woman caught his eyes. She wore a red dress that hugged everywhere and accentuated everything. Her crossed legs showcased a scandalously high slit. She turned her head and her cascade of twists swished to reveal an enticing expanse of her back before falling back into place. And just from her profile, Peter knew she’d be the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen in real life.

Correction: he deserved a damn drink and her. And the new Peter Parker could and would get both.

He knew where he was leading her before they even left the stuffy air of the club. He’d spied it coming in. He walked up to the sleek black Range Rover with an illegal amount of tint on the windows. The car door opened without issue and Peter couldn’t help but roll his eyes at how easy it was. God, rich people were stupid with their stuff. Peter would never be so careless with his things when he got to the top.

She climbed in and he couldn’t resist caressing her ass on her way in.

He was still riding a high and as he bit his lip, eyeing Y/n, he knew just how to stretch that feeling out. A ride was exactly what he needed.

The eagerness you expected.

And honestly, it was what you were looking forward to. When Peter had sidled up next to you at the bar, eyeing you unabashedly while ordering a double of scotch and a second drink for you, you had wanted to laugh. He looked green, inexperienced in a way that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. But his eyes, deep as cognac, were drinking you up like you were poured over the ice in his glass. His white boy confidence didn’t remind you of the Harry Osborns of your world, and you had to admit you were intrigued. A jawline that could glass and biceps that you wanted to sink your teeth into hadn’t helped either. He smiled at you like you were the only thing in the bar worth smiling at. And when he placed a few twenties on the polished wood for both of your drinks, busted knuckles greeted you on truly gorgeous hands… yeah, curiosity may just have to kill this pussy cat.

So, yes, Peter getting down to business immediately was a given. You had been pressed down immediately against the plush, spacious seating expected of the luxury vehicle. It felt like you were on a chic sofa instead of rounding second base in the backseat of a car. His hands were restless but attentive and his mouth doing its own exploration over your neck and chest. It was like he didn’t know where he wanted to touch and when and ended up deciding everything and now. It didn’t turn you off like when other guys couldn’t make a damn decision and make you feel something, anything in their haste to a finish. Quite the opposite. Peter’s rough hands moved over your skin like you were already his and he wanted to know every single inch of you. Moans broke from your throat as he grinded your pelvises together, not wasting a minute.

No, what you hadn’t expected was skill. Peter was lighting up every inch of your skin that he touched, coaxing needy moans to escape you loud and proud. He shoved your dress up roughly, the sequins scratching your skin with his carelessness but you were just as eager, pulling impatiently at his belt and pants. His hands snaked behind you and worked in tandem to get your dress off. One hand dragged the zipper down and the other shoved the material down until your naked breasts were exposed.

“No bra? Baby, you’re fuckin’ killin’ me.” He groaned into your mouth before latching those pink lips onto one. Sucking ravenously and licking over the softness. “Tits are fuckin’ perfect, sweetheart.”

He shoved his pants and boxers off and to the floor of the car as he gave attention to the other breast. He was moaning and panting like he was getting as much pleasure from the action as you. Next came your panties and he breathed deeply as he yanked them down your legs.

“You smell so good. Gotta taste you first. Just a quick little taste and I’ll give us both what we need, I promise,” his words spoken almost directly to your pussy because his eyes never left it as soon as it was uncovered. Peter licked into you with the same gusto he had shown since he got you alone. His flat tongue dragging through your lips and circling the bud at its apex. Your back bowed and you grabbed onto the tousled brown curls for dear life. He was moaning filthily into your sex, biting out a curse that you felt churn up the feelings in your lower belly even more.

“Knew you’d taste fuckin’ amazing. God I--,” he interrupted himself to kiss and sample your wetness again with a swipe of his tongue, “God I need to taste you cummin’ for me.”

“Thought you said just a quick little taste,” you panted even as your hips bucked upwards. He hummed as he sucked on your lower lips, tonguing again at your clit.

“I still promise it’s gonna be quick,” he said, sliding both hands under your ass and bringing you flush against his mouth. He was messy but looked to be having the time of his life. Like he had just discovered that between your legs was his new favorite place to be. Stiffening his tongue, he fucked it into you and your thighs closed around his head.

Peter lifted his head and you couldn't help the frustrated whine. “No, I’m so close!”

“You wanna cum, be good for me and keep those pretty legs open.”

His tongue was back on your clit before you could answer properly and your mangled words ended in a desperate pant as he wound you up and up.

“Come on, baby,” he said, half muffled by your sex. “Cum for me.” He secured his lips around the sensitive pearl and with one sure suck, you were tossed off the precipice. Body vibrating as he licked up your release. You weren’t fully over it by the time he settled over you. He smiled down at you, giddy in a too-boyish way after what he just did to you, his face glistening from his nose to his chin with your arousal.

Peter wiped his face on his upper arm, but the grin only grew more smug. “My bad. I’m a bit of a messy eater.”

You rolled your eyes even though heat flushed through your face. Your eyes widened as you looked down at where you felt him lining up to your entrance. You shot a hand to his chest.

“Wait! A condom!”

“Don’t worry about that, babe.” Excuse him?

“Don’t worry--?” you were cut off with his mouth on yours just as he thrust into you. Your mind was wiped clean. He swallowed the involuntary moan you gave at the stretch and the way he filled you.

“Relax, sweetheart. I’m almost all the way in. You can take all of me, I know you can,” he cooed. You shook your head. You needed a minute to adjust, to think, to breathe. But Peter just sat up and spread your legs as wide as the seating allowed. A thumb came to your clit and teased it.

“You can,” he insisted, retreating a bit before sending his hips forward again, this time he was flush against you. You cried out, fingernails digging into his arms as they still held you open.

“Fuck, knew you could. Knew this pretty pussy would swallow me whole. Can feel it trying to pull me even deeper,” he said as his palms came to each side of your head. “Swear you just might be made for me.”

Again, you’re robbed of the opportunity to voice your opinion on that (a solid boy what?!? lost to sinful sensations) as he draws out of you before surging forward. More and more until skin slapping reverberates through the car interior. The vehicle rocking along with his demanding pace. He fills you too well. Every ridge of him stroking your walls and stoking that fire in your gut.

Peter’s grunting out curses and sweetheart’s and “perfect pussy, fuckin’ perfect for me” and you could barely keep your head above water. You’re drowning in what this man was doing to you, your brain static and filled with nothing but the demands for more as it raced towards that sweet eruption of feel-good chemicals. His hand returns to your sensitive clit, teasing it easily with your excess wetness.

“Come on, baby, can feel you got another one for me. Give it to me and I can really fill you up like you need.”

And fuck those were just the words to say. Two more pounding thrusts and you were shattering under him, your wrecked pussy pulsing around his length.

“Good girl, so good for me. Shit shit shit!” His strokes as he came deep inside of you were slow but just as hard, your body scooting a little along the seat with each one. When he finally stills deep inside of you, he collapses on your chest.

“Fuck that was amazing,” came out of him in a little whoosh of a breath.

You stared blankly at the ceiling of the car. “I can’t believe you came inside me.”

“Where else would I have cum?” He looks up at you with a genuinely confused expression.

“I don’t know! My stomach! Or my tits!”

He hummed with an easy smile. “Next time, I guess.”

“Next time? What makes you think there’ll be a next time?”

“We’re too good together for me to let you go.”

You scoffed. “And if I don’t think so?”

He snorted and kissed your neck. “You’ve already proven to be easily distracted.”

“Hey! That’s not--!”

Then his lips are around your nipple again. The moan that escaped your mouth is drowned out by a shout outside. You both sit up to look through the back window, seeing a broad shouldered man that apparently Peter knows or recognizes.

“That’s our cue, babe.”

“Cue for what?”

He stabbed his legs through his pants, boxers still where he shoved them off earlier and hopped into the front seat. “To get the hell outta here.”

When he pulled a switchblade from his pocket and started hot wiring the car, your eyes bugged out. “This isn’t your car?!”

“S’ours now, babe.”

That’s when the first gunshot rang out. Quickly followed by a barrage of other ones.

“Oh, hell no!” You said fighting to get your dress back over your chest and your arms back in the straps. You needed to get out of the car with this psycho. The dick was good but, nah, you're not down for this. You tried the door handle even though you’re not properly dressed only to find the damn thing was child locked. Peter tossed you a roguish smile in the rearview as the boosted car revs to life.

“Gotta get used to shit like this now, sweetheart. ‘Cause you’re my girl now.”

He peeled out of the lot and you gripped the seat in front of you so you wouldn’t tumble to the floor of the car. Peter was still grinning as he looked out at the road ahead.

“This is just the beginning for us. This time next year, the whole city’s gonna be on their knees for us, baby. Just you wait.”

Bright violet and haint blue. Set into the dingy off-white of the painted shotgun house, Arvin finally felt like he could stop running. 

The wood of the porch creaked under the weight of his steps, mat under his feet proclaiming “Don’t let the law in or the cats out.” Emotions roiled in his chest as he licked his lips, hand halfway to the bronze knob. As anxious as he was to see the witch that dwelled within, he knew it’d be stupid to let himself get too relieved. There was no telling what her temperament would be on the other side of the purple door. Arvin sighed, bolstering himself as he grabbed for the knob. There was no turning back now. 

Arvin entered the home, a mix of Victorian, antebellum, and modern touches melded together. A faint haze of smoke swirled lazily through the air. Sage, palo santo and dragonsblood. He rolled his eyes. “Guess you knew I was comin’. And ain’t this a li’l overkill?”

“I have no idea where you been! And you ain’t trackin’ haints and that bad energy in here.” You sniffed your nose at him. “You crossin’ that threshold by yourself is bad enough.”

“You really gon’ act like you ain’t know where I been?” He asked with a raise of his eyebrow. Then he looked pointedly at the ornate mirror on your wall. “Been seeing you out the corner of my eye in every mirror I been in front of, darlin’.”

You scoffed and turned away. But didn’t deny it.

Arvin sighed, eyeing you from across the room. Taking in the curves of you. The shells, the crystals, the wire woven into your braids. Even the unamused curl of your upper lip drew him in. An inviting smile came to his lips as he sauntered slow steps over to you.

“C’mon, Y/n. You ain’t miss me even a little?”

But you planted your palm in his chest, keeping him at bay. “Didn’t wanna waste my energy.”

He sucked his teeth, throwing up his hands and letting them slap back down at his sides, the amorous air dropping from him. 

“What is up your ass, huh? Are you really pissed that I been on the run from the law? That I’ve only just gotten the chance to come back to you without the danger of bein’ locked up? Gimme a goddamn break!”

The palm on his chest shoved, making him stumble back a few steps at your furor.

“You wasted my teachings! When things went down, you panicked. You didn’t rely on what you were taught. You didn’t rely on me.”

“I was keeping you safe!”

“Which was stupid! As if those simpletons can do anything to me! All you had to do was tell me and we would have settled all of this. But no. You ran like a powerless fool. You don’t deserve the knowledge I’ve given you. And I won’t let you keep it.”

“Baby, I’m sorry, I—!”

“Too late.” Another voice whispered with sadistic glee. A powder was blown into his face. Your glare became fuzzy as his vision blurred. 

“Fellow witches! Bad, mystical bitches!”

Arvin blinked awake, finding that he was tied down in a chair. He looked around and though the room was dim, he saw he was in the presence of at least twenty women. He sat in the middle like a spectacle at a sporting event as they all cheered and roared, his chair in a circle  of symbols like a runic boxing ring. A cackling blur flashed by him and he felt a hair plucked from his head, another blur coming the opposite direction and a glint of silver before a slash was made across his jeans to his thigh beneath it.

“We’ve gathered here today, sisters…. for an exorcism.”

There it was. Another gap. His mind butting straight up against a roadblock. It’d been happening a lot since he returned to town. He woke up in a motel parking lot with no idea how he got there. At least his bag looked like nobody’d fucked with it; any possessions he remembered coming back to town with still in the Jansport bookbag. 

But again, only things he remembered coming back with.

He knew why he left, could recall most of the distressing things that’d occurred. However when he got to the point where he decided it was time to come back, things got foggier with more consistency. Like his memories have been removed with surgical skill, a scalpel taken to perfectly carve out bits and pieces. Not only that, Arvin had physical evidence that he was probably going crazy. In pictures he carried in his wallet, he stood alone with a space beside him. Sometimes his arm draped around open air. 

It didn’t make any damn sense and Arvin was at the end of his abilities to untangle anything.

No idea what compelled him to look up when he did, but he’s glad for it. Mysterious. Enticing. Gorgeous. In a thin cotton layered dress of black and a linen shrug somewhere between grey and brown, boots made for stomping and thick coils of hair secured by what looked like an animal bone, one of the most infamous figures in town glided by. 

Arvin’s eyes followed, helplessly enthralled.

He’s heard whispers of you. You and your sisters. Witches the whispers accuse of you. Doing business with the devil and doing his wicked work. Maybe what had happened was truly beyond him, a supernatural answer. 

Well Arvin had long since given up turning to God. Maybe he’d see what the devil had to offer. What you had to offer.

“Are you nervous son?” Leto asked before taking a sip of his juice.

Today he’d be embarking on an Atreides coming of age rite. Paul would be captaining his own ship (wooden, ancient in design) to an island that he’d carve his name on the rock of, his name along with all the sons of his family’s direct line. It was an anticlimactic task bookended by a journey over an area notorious for potential natural calamity as well as a prominent location in a good bit of Caladanian folklore. It was an infamous trip and the whole planet would have an ear out for his return. Festivals would be held in some of the larger provinces. Only two of Paul’s ancestors that made the voyage didn’t have their names on that rock: one died on the way there and the other opted out, facing ridicule until he stepped out of the line of succession.

So to say Paul was feeling pressure was an understatement.

“Of course I am,” he answered with a small pout.

“You have no reason to be! You captain a subvessel fine enough and have since you were eighteen.”

“Yes but this is on top of the water. There are different dangers. Weather, giant waves, sand bars—.”

“Leviathans, sea witches, kelpies,” Leto interrupted with a roguish, teasing smile.

“Dad, I’m serious,” Paul frowned at him, but didn’t miss the way his mother straightened. How she looked from Leto then settled serious eyes on his own.

His father’s voice distracted him from the eye contact. “You’ll do fine, son. You’ve been studying for over a year. You’ve practiced as much as you can without getting out there. You’re ready to do what it takes. I know you’ll get everyone back safely.”

Jessica pulled him to the side after breakfast. 

“Your father jested but you must be wary. Superstitions on a ship are not just stories or old wives’ tales. You must take care to adhere to them as well to ensure your safe return without issue.”

Paul frowned. “What has put fear in your eyes, Mom? What’s out there that you are scared of?”

“There are more than one Ways of Weirding, Paul. And there are some that evolved wholly separate from that of the Bene Gesserit so I am unable to protect you with what I know, with what I’ve taught you. Just… make sure you double check every token of passage.”

The gathering on the beach of their estate was a much more solemn affair than the ones happening in cities around Caladan at that time. The only alcohol present here was tied to a post near the hull of the ship, sealed and serving an important duty as an offering. The aged whiskey was just one of the superstitions observed to ensure a safe trip. Fresh horse shoes had been nailed over the main doorways. Sigils had been expertly carved on the steering wheel and also into the soles of Paul’s shoes. He had double checked everything was in place with his mother’s warning fueling his already present anxiety.

It coursed through his veins as surely as his blood did, pushed to his very fingertips by his pounding heartbeats. He tapped them against his pants leg as he looked down at his father and mother from the nose of the ship. They were dressed formally, but not stiffly. Contrary to what his thundering heart would believe, this was supposed to be a joyous occasion. He was ready to be officially viewed as an heir to the Atreides dukedom in the eyes of his population. Nobility fanfare was always a good excuse to party. Leto smiled encouragingly up at him from his place on the platform. His unwavering faith in Paul’s abilities was almost enough to reassure him. Jessica stood at his side, chains of gold and topaz draped over her face but it did not obstruct her expression. It reflected the worry he felt.

The bagpipes began their drawling tune, drums accompanying with a strong cadence. They would play until his ship disappeared beyond the horizon. It was bad luck to stop before the ship was fully piped out.

As they released the sails and caught the breeze, Paul constantly checked the shore behind them. He’d putter around, checking in with the seamen and their tasks, keeping busy. When he heard the last note carried on the wind, Paul looked back to see that home was not even a speck in the distance, it was gone completely and all around them was grey water. Good. One stroke of good luck down.

Smooth sailing.

Paul knocked on the wood railing just at the thought. They were only two full days into their voyage but all was going well so far. They were at least at the point where they could take it easy on their course. The off-duty sailors gathered in the mess hall, Paul could hear their voices from where he stood on the port-side rail. He had been looking out at the way the horizon was almost nonexistent, the dark night sky bleeding inkily into the black sea.

“Aish, Conrad, get your own!”

“It’s not my fault you brought better brew aboard than me! Just wanted a sip.”

“That’s completely your fault.”

A scoff and the clink of glass thumping wood, then Conrad’s voice continued. “Well we’d all fare better if we could get a shot or two of that brown out there. All lonely, tied up on that pole when it could be warm in my hand and belly.” 

The breath seized in Paul’s lungs. No. No.

“What’s wrong with you? No self-respectin’ sailor would fuck with tradition like that.”

“Well, he wasn’t raised on it like we was, Errol,” a third voice chimed in, a hint of disdain in his voice.

“Tradition is one thing, but this is just downright superstition! Stupid to let a good fifth go to waste and for what? Gonna get dragged away by a kelpie, are we? Incite some tremendous thirty foot wave to swallow us whole?”

“You'll leave that bottle alone or it'll be the last thing you do.” Paul hadn’t even fully realized he had moved until he was in the doorway, glaring the overly haughty seaman down. Everyone startled to some form of attention with overlapping mutters of “Captain Atreides!”

“Captain, he just–.”

Paul cut him off stiffly. “Everyone go to your quarters until it’s your shift.”

The men passed by him on the way out, mumbling good nights and being careful not to brush him. Paul’s jaw creaked in his inner ear; he had it clenched so tight and made a concerted effort to loosen it. They were close to their destination, would probably make it by nightfall the next day. He could not afford anything to fuck this up. Lethargically, he trudged to his own quarters, rubbing the nose of the bronze dog statue near his door as he was supposed to. The way he was constantly tensed for misfortune was taking its toll on his body. 

But if they could make it back home without incident, it’d be worth it.

Paul was awakened by the wood flooring as he was pitched from his bed. He was used to the rocking of the ship by now. This was not normal.

He combated the violent tilting as he left his quarters. The yells and curses of his crew down below him barely discernible over the crying of the sky, the crashing of waves, the howling of the winds. Lightning branched across the sky in spectacular veins of purple and green. This was not normal.

“The cauldron! We’re getting sucked in!” He heard one man cry out. Paul looked ahead and saw it. 

A whirlpool. The whirlpool. Fabled and supernatural. The rope that held the whiskey bottle had been cut with a knife he could tell, the bottle missing. Rage throbbed in his head. He had done everything, everything right and now this. 

He endeavored to push it to the back burner, to focus on the next steps. But then, the clouds began moving oddly, forming a tighter circle over the ship. Then formed a sphere, as if the whole ship was encased in some kind of bubble. The world around him fell silent. Paul noticed that even the rain had stopped. Or maybe paused was the better word. For when he looked up, he saw the droplets frozen in time. His men on the deck below, too, were still as if petrified mid-task, mid-shout, mid-step.

Finally a sound to the starboard side. Water gushing and swishing. He ran to the railing and looked over. And his heart jumped into his throat.

There, supported by a swirling column of sea water, was a woman. Well maybe not quite a woman. Her hair was dreaded with shells and pearls clinging throughout the long tendrils. Her irises were an impossible black, like the void of space that was so easy to forget out on the seas even with the sky littered with stars. Brown skin gave way to waxy tentacles, half encased in the still flowing fountain of water she rested in. 

She surveyed the men below deck with a sneer, searching. Finally her eyes met his, her expression softening slightly.

Paul could only watch her with wide eyes as she rose higher on the manipulated fountain, heaving herself up until she cleared the railing. It spilled her elegantly onto the wooden floor, where she lounged casually on her stomach. Her head propped on her palm, she looked up at him with a little sigh through her nose.

“Captain, I presume?” The words pressed against his skull but her lips hadn’t moved. Even so, it was a voice that was altogether intoxicating. A heat licked at his lower belly at the way it wrapped around the title. Captain. He… he quite liked that from her.

He nodded dumbly, throat thick with fear and anticipation.

“You seem to be missing something, captain.”

“I-it was there. We had the token– a fine fifth of a twelve year old scotch! Aged in a cherrywood barrel, imported from a galaxy away,” his voice took on a desperate edge as he went on. Believe him, please believe him. He had done everything right.

She hummed, the first noise he had heard from her own vocal chords thrumming in her throat. “That sounds like that would have been nice.”

Paul’s blood thundered in his veins, his heart pounding out a fear-induced reverb against his ribcage. Even if she did believe him, it didn’t matter. There would be no slap on the wrist or a word of caution for the future.

No, she still expected a penance.

The Fear mantra couldn’t even be of help to him now. How did it begin? What were the words? Her jet black eyes, shiny as marbles, dragged every attempt at calming down into the abyss of their darkness. All with the bored nonchalance of someone clearly in the position of power. She was the one on the ground, laying on her belly like a snake, yet under her gaze he felt lower still.

“I’m sorry. A sailor with more ego than wit took it for himself.”

She huffed a long sigh through her nose. She looked up and down his body lazily, and he felt his otherwise clammy skin warm at her slow perusal. “Have you nothing else to offer?”

Like a stone in the water, Paul’s stomach dropped. His mouth suddenly dry as he dragged his mind from the gutter. Paul blinked rapidly as he frantically searched his mind for the items he packed. Would anything be comparable to replace the token lost?

“I’ve an antique spyglass.”

“As do I.”

“A sextant? Another antique, a custom creation for my great grandfather.”

“Do I look like I need navigation assistance? I’ve no use for collector’s items.”

“Jewels? There may still be a necklace or brooch in the captain’s lodging I haven’t really gone digging–.”

Her mouth opened minutely, just enough for a noise both low and high, everywhere all at once for a brief second. Then, Paul shot forward, the toes of his shoes skidding as he got dragged forward by an unseen hand. His knees sharply hit the wood below a couple feet from where she lay, the fabric of his trousers slapping in a puddle of seawater. Abruptly, the controlling force left him and he pitched forward on his hands, panting harshly. Was that–? Did she just–? Paul grasped at his shirt as he coughed.

It was so much like The Voice. A different version that didn’t work like the one he learned did. Jessica’s words came back to his mind. There are more than one Ways of Weirding, Paul.

The witch pressed up with her hands, sitting up to be nearly face to face with Paul. She tossed her dreads over one shoulder and Paul was ashamed at how his eyes automatically fell to her body. He followed a bead of saltwater that rolled down from her jawline, watched it hug the curve of her neck before pooling in her clavicle. 

Unable to stop them from going further, he released a shaky breath as he took in the sight of her exposed breasts. They were damp still. Which would she taste of? Would it be the sea or the storm on his tongue if he were to sample her? She huffed a giggle and his gaze shot back to her face, his skin blazing with embarrassment. She had two fangs on each side of her mouth where canines would be, pearly white, slightly curved and tantalizingly sharp. Paul swallowed thickly.

“I don’t want your jewelry, captain.”

A shiver forced his next exhale out in a shocked breathy pant.

She grabbed him by the back of the neck, pulled him forward until his lips met hers. He whimpered into the kiss even while in the back of his mind he registered the answer to his previous musing.

Rain. She tasted like rain, like a tempest shoved into flesh. She felt like one too; the way that she plundered his mouth tore his rationality apart. He was scared to touch her, scared to proceed, scared to presume. He simply followed. Desire eddied in his gut. He tried to match her intensity, stars knew he wanted to, but he was so intimidated. He was afraid that he would give too much of himself to her. He feared the easy control she had over him even without her tonal voice abilities. 

But as hesitant as Paul was, he wanted his hands on her. Wanted to feel her breasts and thumb at the nipples. Wanted to sail down the curves of her sides and touch where the brown skin met the tentacles. 

Wait. How would–? Did it–?

The witch huffed into his mouth, an annoyed little sound. Then he was watching a past version of her locked in a terrifying underwater battle with a giant octopus. There was blood in the surrounding water, dissipating slowly and swirling with their movements as they ruthlessly attacked each other. She had two legs as they tangled with its tentacles. He saw her fanged mouth hiss at the creature before she went in for a blow of a dagger to its body. A killing blow it would seem, as the giant octopus went limp. There was a chorus of high pitched undulations like whale songs from the sea witches surrounding her. The scene ended and he was looking back into her inky eyes again.

“A rite of passage for us.”

He blinked. ‘Passage’ was quickly becoming a theme. Then the reason she showed him that bubbled to his mind and embarrassment washed over again. She had answered his question. She had been reading his filthy mind. 

Another huff of a laugh and Paul’s back met the deck. He winced as his shoulder caught a protruding nail and he sat up on his elbows in time to see the sea witch part from her tentacles. The surreality enhanced the image of her crawling out of the fleshy husk and over his body, completely naked. Her locks fell in a curtain as she leaned in close to him, dipping until her lips were grazing his ear. But, her smokey voice was still in his mind as she ordered him.

“Undress.”

It was difficult, a little humiliating and a lot arousing to undress under her as he did. She didn’t back away, didn’t give him any extra room as he lifted the linen shirt over his head, as he unfastened the tie of his trousers and kicked them down as far as he could.

Only then did she take him in hand and Paul choked on a groan.

He was painfully hard in her grip, heavy with want and need. Sitting up, the witch towered over him, hovered over where he ached. But instead of sinking down onto him, she rubbed the tip of his cock over her lips, shiny with arousal. Paul’s back arched at the tease. He sent both hands through his hair, pulling slightly and the pinch of pain grounded him a bit. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from where she toyed with him, his breath hitching when his tip caught on her entrance. It was embarrassing, the way he couldn’t keep still, the keening that stirred in his throat. Low laughter bounced off the walls of his mind and scrambled his attention.

Without warning, she lowered herself down his length completely.

“Fuck!” Paul bit out, the shock making him break through his own hesitation to touch her. He gripped her hips as he threw his head back and it thudded dully on the wood plank. A sound like a purr droned from her throat as she carouselled up and down on his cock. The image of her was mesmeric, her form the picture of desire backdropped by the supernatural lightning frozen in the sky and the suspended rain droplets. Her mouth dropped into an o, the tips of the fangs sharper than his dagger peeking from behind plump lips. 

Paul knew this would be etched into his mind anytime he closed his eyes after this. He let his nails sink into her fleshy love handles, hoping they bit. Hoping to leave a mark. She may ruin him, but he wouldn’t leave her unscathed. He wished for claws, for canines that cut. He felt a familiar depravity beckoning in the corner of his mind, but pushed it back. He didn’t want any distractions, anything to tear his attention from the witch that handled him so roughly. She hummed again, a curious noise, appraising.

“Oh, Captain, there’s a darkness in you isn’t there? I wanna meet him.”

The Sea Voice bubbled from her throat again and he felt the phantom hand as though it was in his very brain. He could feel her searching and searching and stars he hoped she found it because the pressure was too great. There wasn’t enough space for them both in his mind. 

Paul was overwhelmed. The harsh psychic attack coupled with the way she still rolled in torturous waves on his cock pushed him to a breaking point. 

Then the pressure began to subside. He felt her power withdrawing but it was pulling something along with it. It scared him, but it began to settle over him like a new skin. His heartbeat slowed and his vision tunneled. All he could see was her on top of him.

His reflection was clear in the black mirror of her eyes. Nothing physically had changed but he didn’t recognize himself. 

The witch made that enticing purring noise again above him as she stroked his face. 

“Take care of me.”

Paul put his hand around her neck as she rode him. He fucked up into her with an unprecedented sureness, a brazenness he had felt the temptation of before but never acted upon. He chased his pleasure with a vengeance, chased hers. The wet slapping of skin and the vibrations from her throat against his hand spurred him to go harder. To see how much she could take. How much he could give. 

She ducked down, licking the skin of his neck, his throat, his collarbone and his hand moved to hold the back of her neck. He couldn’t help the wanton groan from falling from his lips. The way he begged the word more. He needed to be closer to her, as if reaching the deepest parts inside her wasn’t enough. Having her in his mind wasn’t enough. He needed… he needed… he needed…

Pain lanced through his chest and he bucked solidly up into her, seated deep in her cunt. 

And he dissolved.

Like sea foam on the shore, he fragmented as he came inside of her, feeling the way it triggered her own climax. Her walls gripped at his still semi-hard cock. Paul was so sensitive but the feeling was too delicious to flinch fully away from. He simply shuddered under her like a fragile thing, desperately gripping her hips flush against his.

He finally opened his eyes again, languid and drunk to see ruby red on her full lips. It was smeared on his chest as well. She dragged her tongue across the wound and the sting caused his dick to throb inside of her and his eyes to roll back. 

A little self satisfied hum came from the witch, matching the grin on her face. Paul’s breath caught as she rolled off of him. The sea air was too cold after the warmth of her body surrounding him. 

She knelt over his sprawled form briefly. “Settle your score, captain. The sea is owed.”

He could barely do more than turn his head to watch her as she walked, stark naked, his seed dripping down her thigh, to the railing she appeared from. “Until we meet again, Paul Atreides.”

Her voice brushing his name across the fragments of his brain was soothing, almost numbing the places where she tore through his mind and stitched it back together. He had never told her his name. 

A singular wave came up and engulfed her. As it receded he already knew all trace of her would be gone and his chest ached from more than the bite mark her fangs had left him with.

When all the storm passed and Paul heard the men shouting again, he redressed in a haze, walking down to them in the same state. 

“Where is he?” was all he asked, voice deadened, eyes blank.

The men parted, one even pushing the guy forward who had been belittling the tokens earlier and making folly of the superstition. Conrad was trying to explain himself as Paul approached him. Stoically, Paul brought the back of his hand across the man’s mouth, knocking him callously to the ground. There was no emotion in his words or his face.

“Give him to the sea.”

A tense pause of shock followed his command before a flurry of action, crewmen stepping forward to grapple with the man’s flailing limbs. Paul numbly turned around and walked away to his cabin, not even watching as Conrad was casted overboard. Like he couldn’t hear his pleas. Like he couldn’t hear the crew shouting that he deserved it.

The rest of the trip was completed without issue. As Paul carved his name into stone, his mind traveled still, traveled back. It retraced supple brown skin and blindingly white teeth. Abyssal eyes and taut nipples. Sometimes he felt like he wasn’t alone in his head. As hopeful as he was that it was her, he had a feeling it was something else. That unfamiliar self he had caught a glimpse of.

When he returned, all of the men boasted of him to his parents. A job well done, stating how he kept his head about him in weird weather. Paul blamed their unfortunate word choice. But for whatever reason, his mother’s head snapped to him. Jessica’s eyes flitted across his face as she put a hand over her mouth. And he knew that she knew what he did to ensure their safe passage.

“What?” Paul asked, attempting ignorance.

“She marked you,” Jessica said, fingers ghosting the spot over his shirt. “It’s only visible by those trained in the Way.”

Paul wanted to flinch away from her touch. The wound he knew was hidden under fabric was healed already but tender. “Wha– what does that mean? For me to be marked by her?”

She just swallowed and gathered his hand in both of hers, conviction in her voice. “We will fix this.”

He didn't know how he felt about the prospect of being fixed, but Paul nodded absently anyway. An eerie phantom laugh bubbled in the corner of his mind.

Eddie never thought he’d wake up as the head cheerleader’s little spoon.

Well, ex-head cheerleader and student body President of Hawkins High. Graduation was two months ago and he thought that was the last he’d see of most of his classmates as he finally got to walk across that stage himself. Imagine his surprise when Y/n L/n walked into The Hideout one night, in a shiny leather jacket— that didn’t just look new but expensive— as well as combat boots and ripped jeans. It almost looked like a costume on her, a far cry from the peter pan collars and pastel mini skirts he’d seen her in for years.

Eddie knew what this was. Y/n was lashing out because she didn't want to accept she peaked in highschool. He couldn't let her use him for her descent into ‘badness’. Well, couldn't let her use him anymore. She’d used him a lot last night and if Eddie rehashes all the highlights, he may lose all motivation to get up. It was already a lot to think about how her knees fit into the backs of his, how his ass was nestled snugly in her lap. They fit together a little too perfectly.

He gingerly grabbed the arm that constricted around his torso like a boa, gently lifting it. But she shook him off and groaned behind him.

“I gotta go, Y/n.”

“No, you don't. You don’t have shit better to do than let me sleep comfortably.”

His face burned a little because he didn't have anything better to do. Graduation hadn’t changed anything except now he had nothing to take up his days. But it'd be dangerous for him to stay here. Dangerous for his heart.

“Look I—.”

Y/n groaned and cut him off. “Shut up, freak.”

Her hand wrapped around his semi-hard cock and Eddie choked on his rebuttal. Her soft skin and her harsh words would be his downfall. God, why did he always want the mean ones?

There was nothing gentle about the way she tugged at him, unfortunately, exactly like Eddie liked it. Her thumb swiped over his pre-cum, spreading it over his hardening flesh. It was quick. It was dirty. Almost cruel. Eddie moaned like a slut into his palm. 

He couldn’t see Y/n’s face and he really wanted to. The connection would help, seeing her reactions would help. He didn’t want to be her plaything. Well, he didn’t want to just be her plaything. He knew this would be a bad idea, but he just had to scratch that itch and indulge his passing crush on her, didn’t he? Now he had more than skin in the game. His heart was in it, too. And Y/n could toss him away like nothing ever happened.

“Come on, let go already.” Y/n’s annoyed growl and the squeeze to his balls did it. Eddie arched until he was laying on his back, his cum shooting in ribbons across his stomach and sternum. His body shuddered pathetically as he recovered from the orgasm. Sensitive and pliant, he barely registered as Y/n wiped her hand off on his thigh then pulled him back to his position as little spoon. Damn it all, it felt even better in the afterglow. Y/n huffed against the back of his neck.

“Now shut the fuck up and let me sleep.”

Finding Regulus Black as a withering wallflower during a raucous party wasn’t unusual. But unlike the quidditch victory after parties in the Slytherin common room or holiday festivities at whatever pureblood family home was hosting, this was nowhere a noble scion should be. Unfortunately, things change when your parents get in bed with a psychotic, sociopathic, egotistical, sadistic snake. Which was saying something, given his Slytherin lineage and the company his echelon kept.

Regulus wasn’t the only one Greyback had turned that past fall and now that the first Wolf Moon since they were bitten has arrived, Regulus was obligated to attend the fraternal celebration. They drank cheap firewhiskies and ghoulish ales, acting positively boorish around a large bonfire. The smoke stunk of crude flammables, including burning hair from the odd idiot getting too close to the flames.

It was regrettable that his eyesight was now so proficient in the dead night, their lunacy in full display under the high moon. Regulus refused to join in. He may have been one of them in the technical, clinical sense, but he would never stoop his tastes so low. The Black name felt like ash in his mouth some days, but at the very least Regulus had been raised nobly. This type of carrying on and low class alcohol was beneath him. His feral biology paced, agitated under his skin at the casual violence of sparring men and careless carousing. He wouldn’t give into it.

And so like he had been doing exponentially more and more since third year; Regulus brooded. Alone on the outskirts of a gathering he would have preferred to hear about after the fact instead of attending firsthand.

A voice boomed over the clearing. Those fighting for the pleasure of it and drinking for the love of it settled as Greyback addressed them all.

“Look atcha, gruesome, gorgeous disasters, the lot of ya!” He chuckled in his gravelly timbre. “The moon is startin’ her descent which means ‘tis the hour of the last rite.” He gestured to someone who brought a struggling being under a ratty cloth to his side. “The Hunt of a Doe.”

The gravitas of his announcement was punctuated with the snatching of the cloth, revealing the captured creature from underneath it. It was a young woman. Regulus’ stomach turned. Her back was to the crowd as she tried to unlatch Greyback’s grasp from her wrist, so Regulus could see that someone had transfigured a fluffy deer’s tail right above her denim britches. A muggle, he had supposed, before he noticed the magic inhibiting choker around her neck and when she thrashed and he saw her face—.

Salazar’s sodding bollocks.

Regulus was further sickened to recognize you. Not only were you a witch, you were one that he knew. One that his gaze had lingered on a few times in classes, had followed as you passed by with your friends in the hallway. An idle crush, he had told himself. A passing interest in a fit witch. But years of interest could no longer qualify as passing.

There’s tears on your lovely face, a gag around your mouth, and —fuck— you’re shaking.

They hadn’t been gentle about capturing you or getting you here. They ramped up your fear in order to send that heady scent of it into the air. To send the men turned beasts into a frenzy. Regulus was disgusted. But… you’re such pretty prey aren’t you?

Regulus began stomping forward, then pushing to the front of the gathering, a growl already starting a low rumble in his chest. He wanted to protect you and tear into you all at once. He wanted to kill every other man in the circle and have you watch, but by far more, he wanted you cumming around him, crying over his claiming bite and have every man present watch.

They cast a spell on you and shoved you towards the forestline. You wasted no time, staggering but then righting yourself and sprinting for your life. Regulus made it to the front of the group just as your little tail disappeared into the thicket.

Coincidentally, Greyback snarled that the hunt was on, but Regulus was already full throttle after you regardless.

He barely heard the noises of surprise behind him, so many shocked to see him participating in anything and wondering where the hell he had come from.

Soon, Regulus realized it was an intermittent cloaking spell they had put on you. You ran, flickering invisible and visible every few seconds so that the men would be forced to rely on the senses of the beast to find you.

You were a good challenge; an athlete, smart, as the best prey were. They knew how to avoid being devoured, how to survive. You didn’t second guess your choices and they were all good choices.

Blessedly, most of Regulus’s packmates were brutes. Drunk brutes at that. And there was no way any of them wanted you nearly as much as he did. He licked his teeth as the thrill of that settled into him. They were no competition for him which, in his mind, meant this was a game of only two players: you and him. Your cunning against his. Your will to escape against his will to capture. Your instincts to go against his instincts to have.

Arousal spiked his blood and he bared his teeth as he pushed his muscles harder finally abandoning his bipedal gait as he bounded down after you on all fours.

You’re still invisible when Regulus lunged for you, but he’s never been more sure of anything in his life. His mouth was watering at the scent of your fear, his pupils dilated. And he was rewarded with a muffled shriek as he collided with you, taking you to the ground. The howl that leaves him is victorious and is answered throughout the woods as the sound of heavy footfall denotes every wolf-wizard was hightailing it towards you both.

But Regulus wasted no time with his prize, his face stuffed in your neck, breathing deep and releasing in a euphoric growl.

Prey. Mate. Same thing. His.

The only thing sweeter than sinking into you, your little transfigured tail meeting his happy trail as you claw into the dirt, was the men jealously pacing and salivating as they watched.

Timothée has been with you nearly all his life. Assigned to you when he was no more than ten years of age to your eight. Out of the care of a nursemaid and into his, his to protect and tend to. 

And Timothée loved it. He was a faithful and attentive servant to you. You were so precious to him, so soft and demure. As you grew older together, you became such an independent little princess. Timothée practically had to fight for the ability to do for you. Having to beat you to things or you’d do them yourself. To assist you onto your horse or pull out your chair for meals. 

The only thing he could count on you asking him for was to make your tea, citing that you loved when he did. That he knew what you wanted to drink before you did; whether he sat a cup of hibiscus, earl grey, or lemon green tea in front of you, he was always right. And that filled him with pride. He knew you perfectly. His confident, capable mistress. 

Which is why when you fell ill for the first time, Timothée felt distressed and guilty. For two decades, he’d kept you healthy and hale. How had he failed you now? You’d never had more than an itchy throat in the morning that was gone by evening or seasonal allergies. How could he let this happen? 

He threw himself into caring for you, fetching you tea and medicine and blankets and water and soup, anything. Everything.. He wouldn’t let the nursemaids touch you. You were his responsibility. And his diligence felt rewarded by providence when you struggled to hold a spoon and asked him to feed it to you. When you asked him to fluff your pillow. When you asked him to read to you. He was more than a little thrilled at how much he was getting to dote on you. You were so weak he could do everything for you. 

Anything to you…

The thought bubbled to the front of his mind and stuck like tar. Timothée adored you, yes, who didn’t? The youngest princess of the castle, only expected to look lovely and be sweet in public. You were stereotypically lovable. Only Timothée truly knew you. Only Timothée truly loved you.

In recent years, he had been battling thoughts of how long you two would have together. How long before you were married off? How long until you were sent to a place Timothée couldn’t follow? But the thoughts were dangerous. To his health mostly, because if a heart could truly break, he’d felt the telltale cracks anytime he thought of being parted from you.

He was yours. He wished desperately that you could be his. He’d serve you until your final days and then some if only you allowed it. He’d—.

“Timothée,” your weak voice came as your clammy hand settled on his arm.

“Yes, princess,” he answered as he clasped your hand. “What may I do for you?”

“I am chilled to the bone. And labor to breathe.”

Timothée’s expression filled with pain and pity. Your fever was being persistent even as you laid under multiple blankets with one leg out. And your congestion made you nasally. “You poor creature,” he said as he placed a kiss on your forehead, your eyes fluttering closed at the affection. At his cool lips on your warm, damp skin. The idea struck him and it tumbled from his lips before he could even question his own motives.

“I’ll draw you an herbal bath.”

“Please.” With your word, he couldn’t walk it back, couldn’t rethink it. Timothée would give you anything you wanted.

So he parted from your side and went to your adjoining bathroom. He drew your water just warm enough for steam to rise, sprinkling in salts and eucalyptus and echinacea petals. 

And when he returned to look down on you in the bed, shivering and vulnerable and helpless, struggling to look up at him with hazy eyes and heavy lids, his heart stopped. Then kicked into a canter like a horse spooked. It scared him how much he liked seeing you this way. With you so trusting and reaching out for him.

Timothée threw back your blankets and lifted you into his arms. He wanted to savor the weight of you there. He’d never gotten to before though he quite literally trained to be able to. He carried you to the bathroom like a new bride, lowering you gently to your feet near the claw foot tub. 

You wobbled as he peeled away each layer of your nightclothes, salty from fever sweats, until it was just you under his hungry gaze. Timothée focused on his inhales and exhales, how badly they wanted to punch from his lungs. He unbuttoned his own shirt, tossed it to the side with your pile. Then he held you close to him, a breath shuddering out feeling your skin against his.

He cleared his throat. “Hold onto me as you step in.”

He eased you in, helping you to sink into the warm water. You moaned as you settled, laying your cheek on folded knees. Timothée swallowed thickly. Grabbing a sponge, he squeezed water down your back and washed off your sweat. As the minutes crept by, of him rinsing off your arms, your face, he could tell your breathing had improved. The steam doing its job. But he didn’t want this moment to end yet.

“I cannot reach all of you, princess,” he said. You hummed vaguely as you rested back against your knees, eyes closed.

Timothée stood then, unfastening his pants before climbing in the space behind you. The water was still very warm. He settled on his knees with you in the cradle of his thighs. Timothée wrapped his arms around you and coaxed you back onto his lap.

A groan escaped him then, warm wet flesh sliding against each other. He was painfully hard between your cheeks, cuddling you close to his chest. He cupped water and spilled it down your breasts, letting his hand cup the weight of one as it migrated down. And down. Below the surface of the water were his fingertips met coarse hair. Where it gave to tender skin. You flinched in his arms and he shushed you, cooing wordlessly as he explored you.

It was a marvel, and something he hadn’t realized until this moment, that a lady’s wetness was unlike water. That he could tell the difference on his touch as he circled your entrance. You squirmed against him, slippery and whimpering as your face screwed up pitifully.

Before his digit could dip in, your voice croaked in a whispy whine.

“‘M hot, Tim. Too hot.”

He nuzzled his nose against your hairline, biting back a groan. Not yet. It was too soon. There was still more of this moment to savor.

“We can’t have that,” he finally mumbled into your temple. He shifted you forward onto your knees, lowering your cheek to the cold, porcelain rim of the tub. A sigh of relief passed parted lips and he loved the sated sound of it.

He moved up on his knees behind you, tucking a stray curl back from your damp face to see the way you puffed out little pants of breath. God, it’s too much.

He lined himself up pressing the tip to your virginal hole. You grimaced, forehead creasing as you winced.

“Shhh, princess, it won’t hurt. I’ll take care of you,” he promised soothingly, his fingers trailing down your lower stomach again. “I’ll always take care of you.”

Hal gazed over at where you sat, glaring coldly at the wall in an overstuffed chair. The royal physician stood near you, hands folded behind his back and looking too proud of himself, really. Hal turned his attention back to you.

“Would you like to explain yourself?”

“No.”

Hal turned to the royal physician pressing his lips together and raising his eyebrows expectantly. “Well that’s that, then, I suppose, Caldwell.”

The man sputtered a bit, his confidence petering out. “Your Majesty, there’s more to be said here!”

“Your Majesty, the queen, has just said there isn’t. Do you mean to seat her here like a child to be scolded and then further insult us both by implying her to be wrong and you to be right?”

“I-i-I!” He gave up, deflating completely as his eyes turned downcast. “No, sire, I would never. My apologies to you both.”

“Good. Don’t let it happen again. Leave us.”

The chagrined man left their presence and Hal sighed. He strode over to you, kneeling at your feet and resting his folded arms and head in your lap as he looked up at you. You still glowered at the wall.

“What mischief did you cause, wife?”

“Good Lord forbid I take a walk about my own home.”

“Caldwell’s got his bloody knickers up his arse because you were haunting the castle halls?”

“No. I wanted air. I took a turn about the woods.”

Hal sighed. “And there it is.”

“They are right in back of us!”

“You are eight months heavy.”

“Less of the ‘heavy’ out of you.”

“You’ve still a seat upon my face, dear wife, should you choose to claim it.”

“I can’t be arsed to unleash that sex demon you keep tied down inside of you these days, I tire too easily.”

“Which is exactly why you shouldn’t be walking through any woods alone.”

“Fuck you and your logic.”

“Again, my queen, you’ve only to say the word and—.”

“Hal, if you pull out your cock, I’m yanking it off. It’s what’s got me in this mess in the first place.”

Hal nuzzled at your swollen belly whispering in a coo. “Mummy’s not usually so mean, Henry, she’ll get some fun back in her once you're on this side of things, son, I promise.”

“Oh, today he’s your son? Yesterday you told me your daughter was taking too long to get here.”

“It matters not. I want him or her out. I want to be a father now.”