#william weasley

It’s just– you had no idea how much work went into a wedding. You even asked Bill for a smaller ceremony, not wanting the hubbub of putting on a large affair to get in the way of your collective happiness, yet you still find yourself getting pulled under by a tidal wave of prep work.

To his credit, Bill has been wonderful. He was the one who had the idea to get married at the Burrow, to rent a large tent and dance under the stars for your reception. Every time you so much as furrow a brow, he’s by your side, talking you through the latest wrinkle in the plans. He never seems to get tired of it, of making sure you’re doing okay. Maybe it’s because he never gets tired of loving you.

After all, that’s why you’re doing this. The setup nightmares, the difficulties with the cake, the food, the guest list– none of that matters, not really. The most important part is that Bill asked you to marry him, and you said yes, and now you get to spend the rest of your lives together. 

You’ve been dreaming of this since the day you met him. You’d been visiting your friend Fleur at Gringotts when she insisted you meet one of her good friends, Bill. You’re not sure what you’d been expecting– some dry banker, maybe, but tolerable, Fleur always befriended the nice ones– but you certainly weren’t prepared when a Curse-Breaker walked in with long, coppery hair tied back from his face to reveal a fanglike earring in one ear. He wore leather. He was cool.

How you managed to keep your head in order during that first meeting, you have no idea. Maybe you didn’t, Fleur certainly teased you to no end about how dazzled you’d been for weeks afterwards. As it turned out, it wasn’t just you who’d been swept away, and the next time you picked up Fleur from work, Bill just so happened to be hanging around, and the two of you struck up a conversation that ended in him asking you out.

It had been perfect from that point forward. There was something about Bill that made you let down your guard. It felt like you had known him for a lifetime by the second date, and before long you knew everything about his family, including his litany of brothers, as well as Bill’s adventures as a Curse-Breaker. In turn, he listened to you, really listened to you, and whatever he heard, he loved. It was inevitable that you would fall in love. It was inevitable that it would lead to this.

Now you’re eight months engaged. In a few days, you’re going to be married, and no matter what happens after that, you’ll have Bill by your side. That means more than you could describe. The only problem is that making this wedding happen has become so difficult that you can’t help but drown in all this work.

You’ve got your friends here to help, Bill’s too, and his family, who you love like your own, but if you were being honest with yourself, you would admit that there’s one catalyst to your stress explosion, and that would be Bill’s mother, Molly Weasley. You’ve met Molly on numerous occasions, and she’s always been kind to you, if a bit overly attached to her son, but you can hardly blame her for that. Bill is her eldest, what mother wouldn’t want to know that he was doing alright?

What was once a protective spirit, however, seems to have strengthened considerably the closer you are to the date of the wedding. Molly has thrust herself into every conversation, every task, and now everyone seems to be asking Molly where she wants flowers or how to decorate the tent instead of you. You know, the one actually getting married.

It should be nice to have someone taking the burden of wedding prep off of your shoulders, but instead, you just feel silenced and inconsequential. Your own voice was drowned out a long time ago by the force of Molly’s storm of affection, and now you’re no better than a bystander. You can’t help but wonder if this is what it’s going to be like after you’re married, too, if you’ll always have Molly jumping in, visiting randomly, offering her advice on your career or Bill’s or anything else that crosses her mind.

Bill can tell that you’re stressed, but you can’t exactly tell him that his mother is the one causing most of your grief. Family is vital to Bill, and you won’t use your wedding as an excuse to get in the way of that. Only, as time wears on, and you find Molly more and more entrenched in what was supposed to be your special day with your husband, it’s harder and harder to turn the other cheek.

It all comes to a head one afternoon in the Burrow kitchen. More and more guests have been arriving, so now it’s not just a few assorted Weasley brothers tucked into various chairs around the small room but Hermione Granger and Harry Potter as well, earnestly telling Molly they love her cake recipe or dinner plans whenever she turns the force of her attention upon them.

You had snuck into the kitchen for a moment of peace, hoping that the guise of cleaning up the whirlwind of clutter would get everyone off of your back for a few moments, but Bill had gone to see where you’d disappeared, and then Molly, naturally, had followed, and now this small kitchen feels packed to the gills with people.

You’re standing by the kitchen, one hand gripping the counter like a lifeline while the other holds your wand, trying to put all of your focus on a cleaning spell for a few dirty dishes so you won’t have to listen to Molly’s latest monologue behind you. You’re trying to remind yourself that she means well, but as the minutes wear on and she seems no closer to wrapping up her critique of your idea for the order of bridesmaids and groomsmen down the aisle, it’s getting harder to remember just why you put up with all of this.

Eventually, you break, interrupting her mid stream of consciousness. “Actually, Molly, I’ve talked it over with Bill and we think we’re fine with the current arrangement. You know I’m always glad to hear your point of view, but I really think we’ve got everything settled there.”

Molly blinks at you, surprised. “But, dear, Ginny isn’t tall enough to be with her current pairing. It’ll look askew.”

You force a smile. It’s hard. “I think we’ll manage.”

Molly frowns, her eye catching on the cleaning spell behind you, which is picking up intensity the more you try to keep your calm. “I still think you should re-consider. And, Y/N, I don’t know what you’re doing with that Scourgify charm, but I’ve really found that clockwise scrubbing is better than anticlockwise. You should give the other direction a go–”

“They’re plates, Molly,” you interrupt. “I’m sure we’ll all be alright.”

Molly makes a face. “Well, no need to get snappy, dear. I’m just trying to help. Your way just isn’t as efficient, that’s all.”

See, it’s things like this that makes it so impossible. Molly is a master of the biting comment, the casual put-down. You’re not even sure if she does it intentionally, she’s just so good at making you feel like you’ll never be enough. Even when it comes to washing dishes, apparently, you’ll never meet her standards.

You turn back to the sink just in time to watch your control over the spell slip. The plate skids a little to the left under the force of your magical scrubbing, and breaks in half, the pieces dropping into the mess of bubbles.

Behind you, Molly clicks her tongue impatiently. “See, that’s just what I was talking about. No use.”

And just like that, you’ve had it. “Enough. Enough. I cannot take your comments any longer. Merlin, I’m not trying to be crazy about this, but I can’t help it! I feel like a– oh, what’s the word the Muggles use? A bride vampire?”

“Bridezilla?” Harry pipes in helpfully, before Hermione pinches in the side and he contorts in pain and a forced apology.

You point at him. “That. I don’t want to be that, but apparently that’s all I can do, right? I can only mess things up. That’s a wonderful omen for our marriage, right? Isn’t that why you were checking my birth star signs against Bill’s last night, Molly?”

Bill stares incredulously at his mother. “Mum,” he says, scandalized. “Tell me that isn’t true.”

Molly has the grace to look a little apologetic. “I just wanted to make sure it would all work out. There’s certainly been enough butting heads around here that it seemed a fair thing to make certain.”

You throw up your hands, anger replaced by a singular, burning need to be alone. “Forget it. It’s your show, isn’t it? I just happen to be in the wedding too, but it’s not like that matters. I can’t do anything well enough for you.”

Unable to resist the alluring call of the door anymore, you cross the room in a few strides, practically running out. You can hear Bill pleading with you, but it’s all too much– the stares from Harry and Hermione, the mess of decorations heaped on every surface, and Molly’s undeniable look of satisfaction as you leave, as if she’d called this from the very start. Like she’d always known better than you, and this was just one more proof of it.

The clean air of spring is a welcome balm against your skin after the bubbling heat of the kitchen. Your steps are brisk, carrying you far away from the mess in there. You head past the gardens, past the few irritable gnomes Arthur hadn’t yet managed to hide, aiming for the protective shade of the trees on the outskirts of the yard. 

Once you’re out of sight, you can finally let your shoulders drop. A few bitter tears creep down your cheeks before you can stop them. You’ll have to go back in there sometime, force out an apology and pretend as if no one knows just how useless you are, but maybe you can steal an hour or so before that awful moment comes.

All you want is to be alone, so the sound of footsteps hurrying towards you is just about the last thing you can stand. You start to conjure up an excuse, but the sight of Bill’s devastated face breaks you again.

“Y/N,” he says, and then you’re in his arms. “I didn’t know it was this bad, sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let her talk to you like that. I just about let her have it now, and I promise, she’ll never make you feel like that again.”

You cling to him. “I’m sorry, Bill. I was trying to be good, I just couldn’t–”

“No,” he interrupts, “you’re not the one who needs to be apologizing. It’s our wedding day, and I’ve let my mum come in between us. I can’t believe I didn’t catch it sooner, I knew you were upset, I just didn’t know why. I don’t want you to be stressed, sweetheart, I just want you to be my wife. If you want, we can elope right now and run away, never be seen again. I don’t need a big ceremony, I just want you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

He presses a kiss to your cheek and you melt. “I just want you too, Bill. That’s why I’m here.”

Bill pulls away slightly so he can see your face, and his heart seems to break in two when he spots the tear tracks on your face. Carefully, he wipes them away with his thumb. “No one in the world gets to make you feel poorly about yourself, Y/N. I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again. My own mum. I mean, she’s always been a bit overbearing, but the last few weeks have been mental, even I noticed that.”

You laugh shakily. “No, I don’t want you to have to badmouth your mother just because of me.”

He grins. “It’s not badmouthing if it’s true. Trust me, I know. Why do you think I ran off to Egypt for so long? I needed space. I was sort of considering staying out there forever, but I’m certainly glad I came back. Meeting you was better than any adventure in the world.”

You smile, this time for real. “Sap.”

“It’s true,” he laughs. “I was smitten after the first meeting, I promised. Fred and George were merciless, they kept teasing me because I wouldn’t stop talking about you. Even Mum had a laugh or two at my expense.”

You snort. “Molly was in on it?” You find that hard to believe. Although she’s always polite, you’ve never gotten the feeling that Molly was your biggest supporter.

Bill’s eyes widen earnestly. “I swear. You were, like, the golden standard for any of my brother’s girlfriends. It drove Percy crazy back when he started dating Penelope Clearwater because Mum wouldn’t stop comparing her to you. Any time Percy said something about Penelope, Mum was always chiming in, asking if she had half the career achievements you did.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “Molly said that about me?”

Bill’s smile is soft. “You’ve always been her favorite. She was terrified I’d scare you off. I’ve never seen her more relieved than when I managed to pull off a successful proposal. I know you think she’s taking on all of this responsibility for me, but I don’t think you know how worried she is about making sure you like it. She’s asked me about a hundred times about your favorite flowers, your favorite colors, what foods you prefer, all of it. She just wants you to be happy, even if she came off a little stronger than she realized.”

“But all the comments,” you whisper. “She was always correcting what I was doing.”

“She does that with everyone,” Bill says, rolling his eyes. “Honestly, it just means you’re family, well and truly. Years ago, I even saw her try to tell Fred and George how to properly escape the notice of their Prefects, as if they hadn’t figured out their first week as first years.”

You laugh, and Bill noticeably relaxes. “See?” He says. “You’re alright, I promise. I’ve told Mum to think more carefully about how she talks to you, and I’ll make sure she does. You’re going to be my wife, Y/N. There isn’t a thing in this world I wouldn’t do to make sure you’re okay.”

You smile and lean forward to kiss him. “I know. I love you.”

“Love you too,” he says, and kisses you back.

requested by @chippedchina-teacup, i hope you enjoy!

harry potter tag list: @blondsauduun, @cameronsails, @neewtmas, @lovesanimals0000, @with-inked-solace, @sher-lokid7, @eclliipsed, @frenchgirlinlondon, @23victoria, @ilovexavierthrope, @faerieroyal

Bill Weasley was away from you, he was always away from you. Always busy, always doing something. Always away.

Tonight? Tonight was different, tonight he was all yours and you were all his. Tonight he got to hold you like he did before he went away for that long period of time. Tonight he got to make up for all the lost time that the two of you missed when he was away.

And he did. Make up for the time, that is.

“Bill-” You whined out, glancing down at the top of his head, his mouth attached between your thighs, hands groping your curves.

Bill hadn’t let up, his tongue against your folds, unwavering in its ruthlessness, eager to make you cum… again, as he had been doing for the last four times he made you finish.

You whimpered as you felt yourself getting closer again, gasping out as your head dropped against the pillow, a hand grasping at his ginger locks, the other holding onto the sheets so tightly that you believed it was going to rip eventually. You tried to move upwards, to pull away from his unrelenting tongue.

“Oh, no,” he chuckled, leaning back up, pulling you back down and causing your legs to wrap around his waist, “don’t you run from me, I’m not done with you.”

“Bill, I can’t take it..” you whined, eyes focusing on his once his hand cupped your face, brushing your hair out of your face.

“Yes, you can.” He hummed softly, his face mere inches away from you, nose brushing against yours. “Give me one more, then I’ll give you my cock.”

You felt the tears prickle in the corner of your eyes, but you were swift to nod, desperate to get what you really wanted - what you’ve been wanting for months now.

You saw the grin on his face, “Yeah?”

“Y-yeah…” you said with a faint, broken voice, which only caused him to let out a low rumble of a laugh.

The heat from his breath disappeared, the weight that was on top of you disappeared too, but moved to the your thighs once again.

“Bill-!” You cried out, feeling as his tongue delved deep inside of your folds once again, hands securing you so that you wouldn’t squirm away again.

You felt his groan vibrate through your body, how his hands wrapped around your waist to bring your hips flush to his face. He was ensuring that you couldn’t get away from the attacks of his tongue, making sure that you felt every movement that he made.

He switched between sucking on your clit and almost tongue fucking you, his breaths laboured against your pussy as he chest heaved. Yet, he refused to give up, determined to bring you to the edge once again before giving you what you really wanted, what you really needed.

“C’mon, pretty girl.” He muttered, taking a moment before he delved back in to speak. “Give me what I want, yeah, you gonna do that?”

You tried to speak, but were cut short when a loud moan escaped your lips. “Bill, fuck- fuck, I’m gonna- I’m so…”

“Oh, I know.” He groaned, his fingers digging into your thighs, “I know, c’mon..”

“Fuck- fuck-” you cried out, panting as your felt your body tense up, back arching as you push yourself further into his mouth.

The sensation built as he carried you through your high, not hesitating to push you further, not hesitating to continue his harsh movements.

“Bill, bill- oh Merlin- Bill!” You cried out, shaking your head. “I can’t- shit… it’s too much-“

You heard the sharp intake of air once he detached his lips from your folds, moving up so that he was towering over you. His nose pressed against yours lightly, lips brushing gently against yours.

“Need- need you, please… please, Bill.” You breathed out, leaning upwards to capture his lips, tasing yourself on his tongue.

He kissed back without hesitation, groaning lowly into it, the sound being muffled by your lips. “You have me…”

You watched as one of his hands moved down so that he could undo his belt, freeing himself from the confinements of his pants.

“Merlin…” he breathed out as he stroked himself a few times, before leaning himself up against your entrance. “I’m gonna fuck you so good, baby..”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Bill surfaced from sleep in stages.

First: the warmth. The heavy, saturated warmth of another body draped across his chest, skin against skin, breath against his ribs. Second: the pressure. The dull, pleasant ache in his groin—the wolf's constant, insatiable demand already making itself known before full consciousness had even returned. Third: the light. Pale gold morning sun filtering through the bedroom window of Shell Cottage, painting the whitewashed walls in shades of honey and amber.

He blinked. Inhaled. The air smelled of sea salt and sex and her—the sweet, distinctive scent of Y/N's skin, her milk, her arousal, all of it mingled together into something that made his mouth water and his cock thicken involuntarily against his thigh.

He looked down.

You were sprawled across his chest, your cheek pressed against his sternum, your lips parted slightly in sleep, each exhale a warm, damp puff against his skin. Your hair was a tangled mess spread across his shoulder and the pillow. One of your hands rested on his ribs, fingers curled loosely. Your breasts were pressed against his stomach, swollen and heavy, the nipples softened in sleep but still prominent, still glistening with the faint residue of milk from his endless nighttime suckling.

And there—between your bodies, where your stomach pressed flush against his—a thick, sticky web of dried cum. Layers of it, accumulated through the night. He remembered some of it. Waking at midnight, half-asleep, rolling you onto your back and sliding into the slick, hot grip of your cunt. Coming inside you with a groan muffled against your neck. Falling back asleep still buried to the hilt. Waking again at some darker hour, pulling out and stroking himself over your sleeping body, his cum splattering across your stomach and his in thick, white ropes while you murmured something unintelligible and nuzzled closer.

He smiled. A slow, satisfied curving of his mouth that pulled at the scars on his face.

The pleasure had been extraordinary. The whole night—a blur of heat and wet and the deep, primal satisfaction of using his mate exactly the way the wolf demanded. Every orgasm had been stronger than the last, each load pulled from him by your willing, pliant body with an intensity that bordered on violence.

His eyes tracked lower.

Past the dried cum on your stomach. Past the soft curve of your lower belly. To the junction of your thighs, where your legs were slightly parted, one thrown over his hip. Your cunt was a mess—swollen and red and slick, the inner thighs streaked with the evidence of however many times he'd come inside you during the night. Even now, in sleep, a slow, thick trickle of his seed leaked from your slightly-gaped entrance, pooling on the sheet beneath you. The sight of it—his cum, marking you, claiming you—sent a sharp, electric jolt of arousal straight to his groin.

His cock hardened fully. Rapidly. The shaft filling and thickening against his thigh until it stood rigid against his hip, the head darkening to that deep, angry purple, a thick bead of precum welling at the slit and rolling down the shaft.

He needed to piss. The need was urgent, insistent, competing with the arousal. He gently dislodged you from his chest, rolling you onto your side with careful hands. You made a soft sound of protest, your face scrunching, but settled back into sleep almost immediately, curling around a pillow.

He slipped out of bed and padded to the washroom.

The cottage's bathroom was small and functional—a claw-foot tub with a shower attachment, a chipped porcelain sink, a mirror that hung slightly crooked on the stone wall. He stood over the toilet and relieved himself, the stream loud in the quiet room, his cock stubbornly half-hard despite the effort. When he finished, he took himself in hand.

Stroked. Slowly. Feeling the weight of his own shaft, the heat of it, the way it pulsed and twitched in his grip. Another bead of precum welled up, thicker this time, stretching from the slit in a viscous string. He caught it with his thumb, smeared it over the head, and shuddered at the sensitivity.

Fuck.

The wolf wanted. The wolf always wanted. And what it wanted right now—what it needed with a desperate, gnawing hunger—was her mouth.

He walked back to the bedroom, his cock jutting before him, rigid and leaking, bobbing with each step. The morning light had grown stronger, filling the room with warm gold, illuminating the bed and the figure lying in it.

You hadn't moved. Still curled on your side around the pillow, your hair spread across the sheets, your breasts heavy and full, your lips parted. The dried cum on your stomach caught the light, and the fresh trickle from your cunt had widened, darkening the sheet beneath you.

He slipped back into bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and you shifted in your sleep, murmuring something soft and unintelligible.

He moved you with careful, deliberate hands. Rolled you onto your back, arranging your body on the mattress, straightening your limbs. You went easily, boneless and deep in sleep, your head sinking into the pillow, your arms falling to your sides. Your breasts settled heavily on your chest, the nipples soft and relaxed, and your legs parted slightly with the change in position, giving him a clear view of the messy, swollen seam of your cunt.

He straddled you.

His knees bracketed your head, his weight carefully distributed to avoid crushing you, and his cock hovered above your face—rigid, flushed dark, the head gleaming with precum. He lowered himself slowly, one hand guiding his shaft, and slipped the head between your sleeping lips.

The warmth hit him first. The wet, soft heat of your mouth closing around the head of his cock, your tongue instinctively pressing against the underside. Your lips sealed around the shaft—involuntary, reflexive, the action of a mouth that had been trained over days of constant use to accept him. You suckled in your sleep, a slow, rhythmic pull that made his vision blur at the edges.

"Fuck." The word was punched out of him, barely voiced, more breath than sound. His hands braced against the headboard, his arms trembling. "Baby girl. Sucking my cock in your sleep even. Nnnh—fuck—you love my cum so much, don't you. Can't even stop wanting it when you're unconscious."

Your mouth worked him in slow, unconscious pulls. Your tongue swirled over the head, licking away the steady trickle of precum that leaked from his slit. Each swallow—a soft, wet gluk—sent a pulse of pleasure through his shaft that made his thighs shake.

He started to thrust.

Slowly at first. Shallow rolls of his hips that fed you the first few inches, the head of his cock sliding across your tongue and nudging the entrance to your throat. Your lips stretched around his girth, your cheeks hollowing with each suck, and the sounds your mouth made—wet, obscene, schlick-schlick-schlick—filled the quiet bedroom.

"Such a good little cocksucker." His voice was a ragged whisper, the words torn from somewhere primal. "My perfect little cumslut. Taking my cock so pretty in your sleep. Mmmh—fuck—your mouth was made for this. Made to swallow my seed. Every fucking drop."

He went deeper. The thrusts lengthened, his cock pushing into your throat now, your neck bulging slightly with each penetration. Your body accepted him—your jaw relaxed, your throat opened, and he slid in to the root, his balls pressing against your chin. He held there, grinding, feeling the tight, rippling squeeze of your throat around his shaft.

"Y/N—" His voice cracked. "Gonna cum for you. Gonna cum so fucking hard, baby girl. Gonna fill your belly right up. Nnnh—fuck—swallow it all like a good girl—"

He pulled back until only the head remained in your mouth, then drove forward in one long, relentless thrust that buried him in your throat to the root. His balls slapped against your chin—slap, slap, slap—the sound obscenely loud in the morning quiet, and his whole body went rigid, every muscle locking, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ached.

He came.

The first spurt was almost violent—a hot, thick rope of cum that shot directly down your throat, and you swallowed it in your sleep with a soft, reflexive gluk. The second was heavier, denser, flooding your mouth, and your cheeks bulged slightly before your throat worked to drain it. The third. The fourth. Each one accompanied by a groan that seemed to be dragged from the deepest part of his chest, his eyes rolling back in his head, his fingers white-knuckled on the headboard.

"Fuck—fuck—fuck—" The words were broken, fractured, interspersed with shuddering moans. "Take it—nnnnh—every fucking drop—God—your throat is milking me—"

It went on for what felt like minutes. Wave after wave of thick, hot spend pumping into your sleeping mouth, your throat working continuously to swallow it all, your lips never once losing their seal around his shaft. The volume was staggering—a full, sustained orgasm that left him panting, trembling, sweat beading on his forehead and rolling down his chest.

He stilled. His cock pulsed with the aftershocks, weak twitches that produced small, final beads of cum, and your tongue—still working, still suckling—lapped them up with an unconscious diligence that made his spent cock throb.

He didn't pull out.

He couldn't. The wolf demanded more. The pleasure hadn't stopped—it had simply crested and was building again, the tight, hot grip of your mouth too good to leave, the sight of your sleeping face with his cock buried between your lips too intoxicating to surrender.

You kept sucking. Your mouth worked him in that slow, rhythmic, pacifier-steady pattern, your tongue tracing the veins along the underside of his shaft, your throat squeezing gently around the head on each swallow. You shifted in your sleep, a soft moan humming through your throat and straight into his cock, and the vibration made his hips stutter.

He ran his fingers through your hair. Slow, gentle strokes, brushing the tangled strands back from your face, tracing the curve of your temple, the line of your jaw where it stretched around his girth. Tender. Almost reverent. Completely at odds with the obscene reality of what he was doing to you.

"Y/N." His voice was barely a whisper. The words were as much for himself as for you—you showed no signs of waking, your breathing deep and even through your nose, your face relaxed in sleep. "Your gonna make me cum again. Can't stop. Can't—nnh—your fucking mouth, baby girl. So good. So fucking good. Made for me. Mine."

He started thrusting again. Slow at first, then faster, his hips rolling in deep, grinding strokes that drove his cock in and out of your throat. The wet sounds intensified—glck-glck-glck—your saliva flooding around his shaft, bubbling at the corners of your lips, running down your chin in thick strings. His balls, heavy and full again despite his orgasm minutes ago, slapped against your chin with each downstroke.

A few more thrusts—hard, desperate, his rhythm gone ragged—and he was groaning again. Low, sustained, the sound vibrating through his entire body. His cock swelled in your throat, the head flaring, and then he was spurting. Rope after rope of thick, hot cum painting the inside of your mouth, your throat working to swallow each wave, your soft, sleeping gluk-gluk-gluk the most obscene and beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

He collapsed forward, catching himself on his forearms before he crushed you, his cock still in your mouth, still twitching with the dying pulses of his orgasm. His breath came in harsh, ragged gasps, his eyes squeezed shut, a stupid, blissed-out smile plastered across his ruined face.

He pulled out slowly. His cock slid from your lips with a wet pop, trailing a string of cum and saliva that broke and fell across your chin. Your lips remained parted, swollen and glistening, and a small trickle of escaped cum ran from the corner of your mouth.

Your eyes opened.

Slowly, blinking against the morning light. Your gaze found his—foggy with sleep, then sharpening with awareness. You licked your lips, tasted his spend, and your expression shifted into something soft and knowing.

"Morning, beautiful," he said, his voice wrecked.

You stretched beneath him, your arms rising above your head, your back arching, your breasts lifting and pressing together. The stretch pulled a soft groan from your throat—or maybe that was him, watching you.

"Morning, Bill." You smiled up at him, sleepy and warm. "What are we doing today?"

He leaned down, pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your cum-slick lips. "I gotta work. That's it so far."

He rolled off you and pulled you with him, wrapping you in a hug, your naked body pressed against his. His cock—still half-hard, still leaking, the insatiable fucker—throbbed against your stomach, smearing precum across your skin. You could feel the heat of it, the persistent pulse, and you marveled again at the wolf's stamina. It never stopped. Never rested. Always demanding, always ready.

"C'mon." He smacked your ass lightly. "Shower."

The shower was an exercise in futility.

The claw-foot tub was barely large enough for two, and Bill's hands were on you before the water had even warmed—sliding over your wet skin, cupping your breasts, fingers dipping between your thighs. You braced your hands against the tile wall while he fucked you from behind, the water cascading over both of you, steam filling the small bathroom. His thrusts were hard and deep, each one driving the breath from your lungs, and the sound of wet skin slapping against wet skin echoed off the tile.

"Nnnh—fuck—your cunt was made for my cock." His grip on your hips was bruising. "So tight. So wet. Mine."

He came inside you twice before the water ran cold, each load delivered with a groan that rattled the shower fixture. Then he pulled out, turned you around, and pushed you to your knees. You took him in your mouth, tasting yourself and his cum mixed together on his shaft, and sucked him through a third orgasm that left him leaning against the tile wall, panting, his fingers tangled in your wet hair.

You stepped out of the shower not entirely sure how clean either of you had gotten.

Gringotts was quiet when you arrived. Bill strode through the marble lobby with his usual predatory confidence, his cock straining against his trousers again despite the three loads he'd just pumped into you. You followed him through the corridors to his office—a small, cluttered space dominated by a heavy oak desk covered in artifact reports and curse diagrams—and took your position under the desk without being asked.

The pillow was still there from yesterday. You settled onto your knees, and Bill freed himself and guided his cock into your mouth with a sigh of satisfaction.

"Nnnh. There we go." His hand rested on your head, fingers carding through your hair. "Keep me warm, baby girl. I've got a long morning."

You sucked him slowly, lazily, keeping him in a state of constant, simmering arousal without pushing him over the edge. Precum flooded your tongue in a steady stream, and you swallowed it down in small, contented gulps, your eyes closed, your hands resting on his thighs.

Hours passed. The office was quiet except for the scratch of Bill's quill, the occasional crackle of the fireplace, and the soft, wet sounds of your mouth working his cock. He came twice—both times with minimal warning, just a tightening of his hand in your hair and a low, bitten-off groan, his cock pulsing in your mouth as he pumped his load down your throat. You swallowed both, licked him clean, and settled back into your slow, sucking rhythm.

Around noon, he stood.

"Lunch time." His voice was rough, distracted. He tucked himself away—his cock still half-hard, still straining—and helped you up from under the desk. Your knees were slightly stiff, your jaw pleasantly loose, your belly full of his seed. "Meeting Charlie at the Leaky Cauldron."

The afternoon air was cool and bright as you emerged from Gringotts onto the cobbled street of Diagon Alley. The contrast was jarring—the cold, marble sterility of the bank giving way to the chaotic, colorful bustle of the wizarding shopping district. Witches and wizards moved in clusters between shop fronts. Children pressed their faces against the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies. The smell of roasting chestnuts drifted from a cart near the entrance to Knockturn Alley.

Bill walked fast, his long strides eating up the cobblestones, his hand wrapped around your wrist, pulling you along in his wake. His jaw was set. The amber rings in his eyes were wide, nearly consuming the blue. Something was building in him—you could feel it through the connection of his grip, a tension, a need that was climbing toward critical.

You passed Flourish and Blotts. Passed the Apothecary. Passed a narrow gap between two buildings—a dark, narrow alley that smelled of stale ale and garbage.

Bill yanked you into it.

The darkness swallowed you both. He pressed you against the rough brick wall, his body pinning you, his mouth finding your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. His hands went to his belt, frantic, and then his fly, and his cock sprang free—rigid, angry, soaked with precum, the head flushed nearly black with need.

He pressed down on your shoulders.

You dropped.

The cobblestones were cold and damp beneath your knees, rough through the thin fabric of your skirt. The alley smelled of rain and rot and the faint, lingering trace of old magic. You were dimly aware of the sounds of Diagon Alley continuing just feet away—the chatter of shoppers, the clatter of carts, someone laughing—close enough that anyone who glanced down the alley would see you on your knees with Bill Weasley's cock in your mouth.

You didn't care.

You took him in. The head slipped past your lips, and you swirled your tongue over the helmet, tasting the concentrated salt of his precum, feeling the silky, overheated skin pulse against your palate. He was leaking—a steady, continuous trickle that flooded your tongue and made you swallow twice before you'd even taken him halfway.

His fingers threaded through your hair.

"Fuck—" The word was a hiss, sharp and desperate. "Need this so bad, baby girl. Need your throat. Been thinking about it all morning—nnnh—couldn't focus on a single fucking report—"

He thrust.

Deep. Relentless. His cock slid into your throat in one long, unbroken stroke, your lips stretching around his girth, your nose pressing against his pelvis. Your throat convulsed around him—the reflexive squeeze of muscles trying to accommodate the intrusion—and he moaned. Loud. Uninhibited. The sound bouncing off the brick walls of the alley.

"God—your throat. Fuck. Squeezing me so tight." His grip tightened in your hair, holding you in place while he fucked your mouth with deep, measured strokes. Each thrust dragged the head of his cock across your tongue and into the clutch of your throat, and each withdrawal pulled a wet, obscene schlick that echoed off the walls. "Good girl. Good fucking girl. Taking my cock exactly the way I like it."

Saliva flooded your mouth—more than you could manage, more than you could swallow—and it spilled from the corners of your lips, running down your chin, dripping onto your skirt, soaking the fabric. Your face was a wet, slick mess, your cheeks hollow with the force of your suction, your eyes watering. The tears overflowoned, running down your cheeks, cutting clean tracks through your makeup, leaving dark streaks of mascara that trailed down to your jaw.

You looked up at him through the blur of tears. His face was a mask of concentrated pleasure—jaw clenched, eyes half-closed, the scars on his face standing out in stark relief against his flushed skin. Those amber-ringed eyes met yours, and something predatory flashed behind them.

"That's it." His voice dropped into a growl that vibrated through his cock and into your mouth. "Look at me. Look at me while I fuck your throat. Nnnh—such a pretty little mess. Crying on my cock. Drooling everywhere. Fuck—you're beautiful like this."

He kept thrusting. The rhythm was relentless, mechanical, each stroke delivered with the same devastating precision. Your jaw ached dully—not badly, the antibodies in his cum still doing their work—but the sheer fullness of him was overwhelming. Your throat was stretched to its limit, your airway restricted, and you had to breathe in desperate, hasty gasps through your nose on each withdrawal.

His thrusts stuttered.

You felt it—the telltale sign, the way his rhythm lost its precision, the way his cock swelled and thickened against your tongue, the way his fingers tightened in your hair to the point of pain. Close. He was close.

You swallowed around him.

The contraction of your throat—deliberate, rhythmic, squeezing—was the final trigger. His hips locked, his cock buried to the root, and he came with a groan that was nearly a shout, echoing off the alley walls.

"FUCK—take it—take it all—"

Hot. Thick. Massive. The first spurt hit the back of your throat like a punch, heavy and dense, and you swallowed frantically to keep up. The second was thicker, creamier, flooding your mouth, and you gulped it down with a desperate, wet sound. The third. The fourth. Each one as copious as the last, his cock pulsing and jumping against your tongue in heavy, rhythmic contractions that went on and on.

When he finally pulled out, you were gasping, your chin dripping with a mixture of saliva and escaped cum, your mascara ruined, your lips swollen and dark. He hauled you up by your elbows, and your legs were shaking—a fine, persistent tremor that ran through your thighs and calves, your knees threatening to buckle.

He pulled your face into his chest.

His arms wrapped around you, strong and warm, his chin resting on top of your head. He held you while you shook, his hands stroking slow, soothing circles on your back. The tremor wasn't from cold, and it wasn't from fear. It was something else—the come-down, the adrenaline, the sheer intensity of the act catching up with your nervous system all at once.

"Shh." His voice was soft, tender, a stark contrast to the brutal face-fucking of moments ago. "I've got you. You're okay." His lips pressed against your temple. "Such a good girl. Taking my cock exactly the way I like it. So perfect. My perfect girl."

He held you until the shaking stopped. Then he straightened your clothes, wiped your chin with his thumb, and brought it to your lips. You sucked it clean without thinking.

"Come on." He took your hand. "Charlie's waiting."

The Leaky Cauldron was dim and smoky and smelled of roasted meat and stale butterbeer. The lunch crowd was sparse—a scattering of witches and wizards eating in silence, a pair of old men arguing over a chessboard by the window, a witch with a cat on her lap reading the Prophet. Tom the barkeeper nodded at Bill as they entered, his eyes sliding over you with brief, professional disinterest.

Charlie was already there.

He sat in a booth near the back, a pint of something dark in front of him, his broad shoulders taking up most of one side of the bench. His red hair was brighter than Bill's in the lamplight—more orange, more vivid—and his forearms, bare beneath a rolled-up shirt, were corded with muscle and dusted with freckles and the faint, silvery traces of old burn scars. He looked relaxed, comfortable, a man in his element.

His eyes found you as you approached, and a grin split his face. "What took you two so long?"

Bill slid into the booth across from Charlie, pulling you onto his lap as he sat. You settled against his chest, your thighs across his, his arm wrapping around your waist to steady you.

"Needed her throat." Bill's voice was casual, conversational, as if he were discussing the weather. "Stopped in an alley on the way and took it."

Charlie's grin widened. "Of course you did." He stood, leaned across the table, and pulled Bill into a one-armed hug—the brief, tight embrace of brothers who'd grown up wrestling and fighting and watching each other's backs. "How's the wolf?"

"Hungry." Bill's hand was already at the neckline of your top, tugging it down, baring your left breast. "Constantly."

His mouth found your nipple and latched on.

The suction was immediate and strong, and you gasped, your hand finding his hair, gripping reflexively. The milk let down in a rush—warm and sweet, flooding his mouth—and he swallowed in deep, satisfied gulps, his eyes falling shut.

Charlie watched with open curiosity. He leaned forward on his elbows, studying the process with the same focused interest he might give a new dragon-handling technique. "Is that actually any good?"

Bill pulled off with a wet pop, a thread of milk connecting his lips to your nipple before breaking. "Best thing I've ever had." He switched to the right breast, his mouth sealing around the nipple, and resumed his deep, rhythmic suckling. His free hand cupped the breast, kneading gently, encouraging the flow.

Charlie shook his head slowly, something between amusement and wonder on his face. "Incredible."

Bill drained both breasts thoroughly before unlatching, licking his lips with a satisfied sound. He ordered food for both of you—steak and kidney pie for him, a plate of roast chicken and vegetables for you—and settled you more comfortably on his lap while you waited.

"So." Charlie's voice dropped, taking on a more serious edge. "About this biting me thing."

Bill's eyebrows rose. "You still want that?"

"Hell yeah." Charlie leaned back, spreading his arms along the back of the booth. His expression was easy, confident—the look of a man who'd made his decision and saw no reason to second-guess it. "I'm gonna see if Hermione will be my wet nurse. She is way too hot."

"Ron won't be happy." Bill's hands were working at your waist beneath the table, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your knickers, tugging them down over your hips. You lifted slightly, letting him work the fabric down beneath your skirt, and he pulled them off one-handed, balling them up and tucking them into his pocket.

Charlie shrugged, unbothered. "Ron is jealous of everything we do. Doesn't matter. So why not do something he can actually be jealous of? Because Hermione isn't actually his girl."

"How do you know that?" Bill freed his cock from his trousers—it was fully hard, the head dark and leaking, and he lifted your hips with both hands, positioning you above it.

"Had my cock in her all last night." Charlie's voice was matter-of-fact. "She loved it. Couldn't get enough. Woke up this morning with her still riding me."

Bill lowered you onto his cock.

The stretch was still obscene—always obscene—and you moaned out loud, your head falling back against Bill's shoulder, as he sank you down inch by inch. Your cunt, still tender from the alley, clenched and fluttered around the intrusion, the cum from this morning's sessions providing a slick, slippery ease.

"Nnnh—" Bill groaned against your neck, his hips bucking up once, driving himself fully inside you. "That's it. Good girl."

You started bouncing.

It was instinct now—the rhythm of your hips, the roll and grind that maximized the friction against your walls, the angle that let the head of his cock brush your cervix on each downstroke. Each impact sent a jolt through you—sharp, electric, teetering on the edge between pleasure and pain but never quite crossing over. You moved faster, your thighs burning with the effort, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

"How was she in the morning?" Bill asked Charlie, his voice impressively steady for a man whose cock was currently being ridden in a public pub.

Charlie took a swig of his pint. "A little weepy. Emotionally all over the place. But nothing cuddles and pressure couldn't fix." He paused, considering. "It was a surprisingly easy fix, actually. Just had to hold her down on my cock and tell her she was a good girl. She calmed right down."

Bill's thrusts stuttered beneath you—a sharp, upward snap of his hips—and you felt his cock pulse inside you, the hot, liquid spurt of his cum flooding your cunt. He groaned softly against your shoulder, his grip on your hips tightening as he rode out the orgasm, but his cock didn't soften. The wolf's stamina. He stayed rock-hard inside you, and you kept bouncing, chasing your own pleasure, the slick sound of his cum squelching around his shaft filling the space between the conversation.

"She get shaky?" Charlie asked.

"Naw. Hermione didn't?" Bill's hands slid up your sides, beneath your top, finding your breasts, cupping them, thumbs rolling over your nipples.

"Not really. A little clingy, maybe." Charlie shrugged. "Does Y/N?"

"Yeah." Bill's voice was thoughtful, even as his hips snapped up to meet your downstroke, the impact making you cry out. "Got a little shaky after the blowjob in the alley. Just needed to be held."

A few patrons of the Leaky Cauldron had glanced over at your moans. One look at Bill—the scars, the amber-ringed eyes, the coiled danger radiating off him—was enough to make them look away. Quickly.

"At the rate you're going," Charlie said, leaning forward with a grin, "you're gonna have her knocked up by the next full moon."

Bill's hands tightened on your hips. His cock throbbed inside you—a deep, heavy pulse that you felt in your walls.

"Good." The word was a growl. "Pups are good."

"She can't fight," Charlie agreed.

"Nooo—" The whine tore from your throat, high and desperate, but it wasn't protest. You were still bouncing, still riding him with the same relentless rhythm, your cunt squeezing and clenching around his shaft, your cervix throbbing with each impact. The pleasure was building again—a heavy, coiling thing in your lower belly, tightening with each thrust. "Bill—"

"Even knowing you're going to carry my pup," Bill's voice dropped into something lower, harder, the Alpha voice that resonated in your chest and made your cunt gush, "you can't stop bouncing on my cock."

Your pussy squeezed him. Hard. A fresh flood of slick gushed out around his shaft, soaking his trousers, dripping onto the bench beneath you.

"Your body knows, baby girl. Your body already knows who you belong to." His arms wrapped around you, pulling you back against his chest, his lips finding your ear. "You will be round with my pup. And you will not be fighting."

The command in his voice was unmistakable. The Alpha voice—the wolf's authority, the dominant imperative that bypassed your conscious mind and spoke directly to something deeper, something primal and obedient and hungry.

Your pussy clamped down on him in a vice grip. Your whole body seized, trembling, and you felt your liquids gush out of you in a hot, flooding rush that soaked his lap, dripped off the edge of the bench, pooled on the floor beneath the table.

"You like my Alpha voice." It wasn't a question. His teeth found your earlobe, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp.

You nodded, wordless, your eyes wide and pleading, your hips still grinding against him, desperate for more.

"Cum."

The command hit you like a physical force.

Your orgasm crashed through you with a violence that stole your breath—your back arching, your cunt clenching and spasming around his cock in violent, rhythmic contractions, your body convulsing in his arms. You squirted—a hot, forceful gush of liquid that splashed against his stomach, soaked through his shirt, sprayed onto the underside of the table. The sound of it was obscene—a wet, rushing splatter that echoed off the pub's ancient walls.

Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Just a silent, breathless cry, your eyes rolled back, your body locked in the grip of the most intense orgasm of your life.

"Fuck—yes—" Bill's voice was a ragged groan against your neck. His hips snapped up, driving his cock to the root, and he followed you over the edge. His cum pulsed into you in thick, heavy spurts—each one slamming against your cervix, flooding your womb, the heat of it spreading through your core like liquid fire. He ground against you through the orgasm, his cock twitching and jumping inside you, milking every last drop of his baby batter into your spasming cunt.

You collapsed against his chest, trembling, gasping, your cunt still clenching around him in weak, involuntary aftershocks. His arms held you secure, his chin resting on top of your head, his cock softening slowly inside you, the cum already leaking out around the shaft and dripping onto the bench.

Charlie watched the whole thing with an expression of genuine admiration.

"Nice," he said, lifting his pint in a small salute.

Bill laughed—a breathless, wrecked sound—and pressed a kiss to your temple. His hand found your breast, cupping it possessively.

"Thanks." He was still panting, his voice rough. "She's the best thing that ever happened to me."

"The wolf's the best thing that ever happened to you," Charlie corrected with a smirk. "Admit it. You were a boring workaholic before the bite. Now look at you—balls deep in your mate at the Leaky Cauldron at lunchtime on a Tuesday."

"Fair point." Bill's thumb traced your nipple through your top, making you shiver. "The wolf has excellent taste."

The food arrived. You ate in the booth—Bill feeding you bites of chicken from his fork with one hand while the other stayed possessively on your hip, his cock still nestled inside you, soft but present. Charlie told stories about the dragon reserve, about a Welsh Green that had singed off his eyebrows the week before, about a new keeper from Bulgaria who couldn't tell a Ridgeback from a Horntail.

Normal. Easy. As if having his cock inside you in a public pub while his brother told dragon stories was the most natural thing in the world.