Such is Life.

“It’s me. I, uh… I need a favour.”

Eric pushes himself up, rubbing sleep from his dry eyes as his hand curls around the phone. “Where are you?”

“Downtown. I went to Pulse with some of the girls but I can’t seem to, uh, like catch a cab?”

He’s more alert with every passing second, throwing his sheets off and getting out of bed. “Drop me a location pin, I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.”

And Eric is fucking exhausted from a long night of his own, but he still stops at the mirror in the hall to smooth the scruffy back of his hair down and rub at the smudge of charcoal on his cheek. His latest work, an enormous charcoal design of a ballet dancer with a face that definitely isn’t his best friends sits on an easel by the balcony, the stark black on white contrast practically glowing in the moonlight. He sighs at it once before reaching for his keys and heading out into the night.

You hear the low rumble of his engine as he idles the car beside you, and shoot him what you hope is a contrite, grateful smile as you wobble around the front of the car to slide into the passenger seat. “You’re a lifesaver, Draven.”

“You’re drunk.” It isn’t really an accusation, but Eric’s mouth twists to the side as he scans over you for signs of distress. Your hair is messy from standing out in the light breeze, and you smell like vodka and stale smoke, but you look okay. You slump back in the seat, your little dress riding up your thighs, and Eric swallows. You look more than okay.

“Men are the fucking worst.”

Eric hums in agreement. “Any man in particular, or?”

“Jack broke up with me.”

Eric’s hands tighten on the steering wheel as he works very hard to keep his face neutral. “Sorry. That sucks.”

“Yeah.” You huff. “His loss, right?”

“Right.” And Eric might sound casual, but he means it with every fibre of his being. “Fuck men.”

You laugh. “Yeah, that’s the problem, isn’t it? I still want to fuck men.”

Eric swallows hard. “I’m sure there were… I’m sure you could have found someone to… tonight. Pulse is like, you know.”

You scoff. “The men were creatures. I mean, I’m not desperate.” You drop your head against the headrest, pushing your spine up as you try to get comfortable and giving Eric a distractingly good view of your tits pressing against the front of your dress. His cock stirs to life as he looks and he has to force himself to stare straight ahead at the road and think about anything else to stop himself getting properly hard. Because he’d still been groggy when he threw his clothes on, and the grey sweatpants sat low on his hips will hide nothing.

“I just need,” you sigh, “a good fuck.” You practically moan the last word, and Eric nearly crashes the goddamn car. He does swerve a little as his head shoots to the side to look at you, and his eyes roll back for a moment at how wrecked and delicious you look. Sprawled over his seat, dress hitched so far up your thighs he can almost see your panties. Eyes closed and biting your lip like you’re picturing the good fuck. And he lets his eyes wander over the bare expanses of your skin, even though his cock is genuinely straining against the front of his sweats now. But you have your eyes closed, maybe you’re taking a power nap. And there’s no harm in looking, is there? Call it artistic inspiration, a little gift from the muses.

He’s so busy raking his eyes over you that he doesn’t notice that your own have opened. You watch your best friend watch you and you feel heat curl low in your stomach at the hunger in his gaze. Because Eric is your best friend, but he’s also a hot fucking man. No doubt about it. He hadn’t always been this hot, but the potential had been there for a long time. Pretty green eyes, sharp bone structure and the sexiest full mouth you’d ever seen on a boy. Then he’d had his heart broken at twenty one and had started dying his hair black and getting as many tattoos as he could afford and spending late nights in the gym, and now he was… well. If he hadn’t been your friend, you’d have made him yours in another way a long time ago. It feels strange to be looked at like that by Eric, but the alcohol hums in your blood and your clit throbs under his attention and you picture his inked fingers sliding up your thigh and oh no.

It’s a primal, unconscious decision to invite him in when he pulls up outside your apartment building. “Walk me in.”

Eric chews his bottom lip, shifting in his seat, and your eyes flick down to the little wet patch staining the front of his sweats. “It’s late.”

“Then sleep over. C’mon, I’ll even take the couch.”

Eric scoffs, shaking his head, but there’s a little smile curving on his pretty mouth and you know you’ve won.

Eric drops onto your couch, subtly adjusting himself to shove his still-hard cock to the side where it will hopefully be mostly hidden by the thick fabric of his pocket.

“Want a beer?”

“Water.” Eric calls to you where you stand rummaging through your fridge. “For us both.”

You sigh dramatically as you pull two bottles and toss one to him. “Whatever you say, dad.”

He wrinkles his nose. “Do not call me that again. Ever.”

“Okayyyy,” you tease, stepping in front of him and shoving his knees apart so you can reach forward and tug on a loose lock of his hair. “Daddy.”

Eric’s fist closes around the water bottle with a crackling crunch of plastic as the lid pops under pressure, sloshing icy over Eric’s shirt and your dress. You squeak at the sudden chill, eyes widening in shock as you take a step back. He looks a little murderous even as a blush stains his cheeks, and you can’t deny the thrill it sends through you to have gotten him so worked up so quickly.

“Well now I’m all wet.” You murmur, raising an eyebrow at him. Eric sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and his eyes drop down to the clinging fabric of your dress and the sharp little peaks of your nipples.

“Sorry.” He mumbles, eyes still glued to your tits. You can’t help the smirk that forms on your face as you reach for the hem of your dress and pull it off over your head in one clean motion. And your smirk only widens as Eric’s pretty mouth falls open and his pupils expand, drinking in the damp, bare skin of your breasts where they spill over the cups of your bra. A good day to wear the push up, you think as you reach forward to press your fingers to his chin and tilt his head up.

“Eyes up here, Draven.”

His eyes go wide as he realises he’s been caught staring at you like you’re a piece of meat, and a pink blush tinges his cheeks. “Shit. Sorry.”

You roll your eyes as you release his chin and turn around, crossing to the dresser beside your bed and rummaging for a shirt. You reach around to unhook your bra, sighing with relief as it drops to the floor and you finally feel like you can breathe properly again.

Eric watches your bra drop to the floor and sees the bare curve of your breasts as you lift a shirt over your head, and the mouthful of water he’d just taken sprays out to further soak his shirt as he chokes. You turn your head to look over your shoulder at him. “You okay?”

“Can you… shit.” He clears his throat, rubbing his fingers over his mouth. “Can you put some clothes on?”

You roll your eyes and tug the shirt down, the fabric falling to mercifully cover your torso. “They’re just boobs. Nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Like it isn’t fucking different that they belong to his best friend. Like his cock isn’t already leaking again at the memory of what they look like. And then Eric realises you’re wearing one of his shirts, and he groans. “That’s not fucking better.”

You roll your eyes as you pad back to the couch, crawling onto the couch beside him before wriggling down to lie across it, your head in his lap. You look up at him, biting your bottom lip into your mouth, and Eric is painfully aware that his cock is maybe an inch away from that mouth. It’s all he can focus on, the arousal mixing with dread at the thought of his cock twitching and you seeing it.

But then you say “I just need a good fuck.” Whilst looking up at him, and Eric’s head drops back against the couch.

“You can’t just fucking say shit like that to me.”

You hum. “It’s not like a big deal, Eric. Just need something to like, purge all this fucking energy.”

Eric’s cock does twitch then, straining against the fabric of his sweats, and he feels the shift as you roll your head to the side and see it. “Shit.” He mumbles, reaching down to shove it to the side again. “Sorry.”

You wriggle closer, and Eric’s head shoots forward to watch as you part your lips and mouth at the rigid length of him through his sweatpants. His fingers prod at your cheek, half-heartedly trying to push you away when all he wants to do is lace them in your hair and fuck your mouth.

You sigh, the wetness of your tongue dampening his crotch. “Would you do it?”

Eric frowns, swallowing a moan as he tries to focus. “Do what?”

“Me. Hah.”

His brain maybe shortcircuits then as he pictures it. Pictures peeling that shirt, his shirt, off your body and sucking one of your nipples into his mouth. But there’s a glassiness to your eyes, and he forces himself to remember that he picked you up outside a club. “You’re drunk.”

“No I’m not, not anymore.”

And Eric groans as you press kisses to the stiff length of him where it’s pressed to your cheek, and his other hand drops from the back of the couch to your stomach, fingers trailing lower to the hem of his shirt. “Yeah?”

“Please.”

He pushes your shirt up and drops his fingers to the lace front of your panties, and he moans at how wet you are where you’ve soaked them. “You sure?”

You whimper, your breath catching at the feeling of just the tips of his fingers against you. “Please, Eric.”

Eric switches off the part of his brain that tells him this is a bad idea, and he hums low in his throat as he rubs you through the fabric, relishing in the breathy little sounds you make as you nuzzle against his crotch.

“You want me to touch you?” His voice is wrecked already, and his heart’s beating so fast he thinks he might pass out.

“Yes,” your own voice is a whisper of sound as your hips lift off the couch, chasing friction.

Eric shifts a little, giving himself better access to you and nudging his bulge against your mouth in the process. You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweats and pull his cock out the top, licking at the glistening, sticky head. Your clit throbs and you feel a fresh gush of arousal soak your panties at the musky salt of him, and the rumbling moan that spills from his lips at the light brush of your tongue against his sensitive tip. His fingers scrape at the side of your underwear until he can push underneath the elastic, dipping between your folds to caress against you as he searches upwards for your clit.

At the brush of his calloused fingertips against your clit you whimper, sucking the head of his cock into your mouth and laving your tongue against the vein running along the underside of it. “Fuck.” Eric spits between gritted teeth, letting his fingers drag lower to push just inside you. “You’re fucking soaked.”

You moan around his cock, lifting your head to take more of his length into your mouth, and Eric cradles the back of your neck to provide you some support so you can bob your head back and forth. Eric’s fingers fuck gently into you, shallow at first as he works you open, and his thumb stretches up to rub circles against your clit until you whine.

“More?” He asks on a little huff of an exhale, his hips jerking lightly into your mouth as you try to bear down against the infuriating gentleness of his fingers inside you.

You pull back until his cock pops out of your mouth. “More, Eric. Like you mean it.”

Eric sighs, stilling his hand for a moment before he shoves his fingers into you so hard your whole body moves with the thrust. He curls them against your walls and your vision blurs as your eyes unfocus. “Like I mean it, huh?”

His tone is so smug, and when you finally manage to focus on his face there’s a ridiculously sexy, infuriating smirk on it. And that won’t do at all. You squeeze his cock at the base and bring it back to your mouth, pushing your tongue into the sensitive slit on the head of his cock. The smile drops off his face as his lips part on a groan, and the hand on the back of your head fists your hair and pushes, hard.

Your eyes go wide as his cock slides down the back of your throat, bumping against your tonsils in a way that makes you gag unattractively as he thrusts into your mouth. “Jesus fuck,” he moans, thrusting harder into your throat as his fingers curl and stretch and open you. You can hear how wet you are, the squelching sound of flesh gliding against slick as you leak onto the couch beneath you.

You hum against his length, and Eric makes a strangled whining sound in the back of his throat before tightening his fingers in your hair and tugging your head backwards until you pull off him completely.

“I wanna be inside you,” he mumbles, pulling his fingers out of you to focus all his attention on your clit. “You want that?”

“On the bed,” you whimper as you push up to a seated position. You wince at the empty feeling inside you, at the dull aching of your clit. Eric shoves his sweatpants off and lifts his shirt over his head, and for a moment you can’t do anything but stare at every beautiful exposed inch of him. You’d known about his tattoos. There were plenty you could see, inked over his arms and up the sides of his neck, and you’d seen them revealed in the strip of skin above his waistband when his shirt rode up. But seeing them all, and seeing the ones lower have your mouth falling open.

A pretty blush spreads across Eric’s face as he fidgets under the weight of your stare, but his cock twitches upwards and your eyes are drawn to the thick, beautiful length of him as you press your thighs together. “You’re fucking gorgeous, Eric. You know that?”

Eric scoffs, reaching for your hands and hauling you against his body. You’re shorter than him, most people are, and he wastes no time in hooking his fingers into the hem of your shirt and pulling it over your head. The shirt drops to the floor at your feet and Eric’s big hands cup your breasts, thumbing over the peaks of your nipples as he dips his head and presses his lips to your own.

You gasp into the kiss, because somehow this, kissing him like this, feels more intimate than having his cock in your mouth. At the parting of your lips Eric slips his tongue against yours in a gentle caress that threatens to buckle your knees, and you moan into his mouth. His hands leave your breasts to rest on your hips as he begins to walk backwards, carefully leading you to the bed. He sinks onto the mattress, pulling you along with him and parting his legs so you can stand between them. Like this you’re almost the same height, and you thread your fingers through his hair and pull as you climb into his lap and grind your soaked underwear against his cock.

“Fuck,” he mumbles against your mouth. “Fuck, I’ve wanted this forever.”

You freeze, pulling away from him. Eric doesn’t notice at first, his mouth dips to your neck to press hot, open mouthed kisses into your flesh as his hands slip round to squeeze your ass, rocking you against him.

“You have?”

He does notice then, notices the waver in your voice, and he licks nervously over his bottom lip as he looks at you. “I mean, yeah.”

“Oh.” You steady yourself against his broad shoulder, pushing your hair out of your face.

“Is that… is it bad?”

“No.” You reply quickly, shaking your head. “It’s just… I didn’t know.”

“I never wanted you to know.” Eric says quietly, splaying his hands over your ass cheeks and rubbing over the flesh at the base of your spine with his thumbs. “Never wanted to make you uncomfortable.”

“Because we’re friends.” You sigh, tilting your hips just enough to press your clit against his cock, still slick with your saliva. “Best friends.”

Eric hums his agreement, though his cock throbs and twitches against you and his hands are still very much on your ass. “Should we…” You break off, chewing your lip. “Should we not do this?”

Eric swallows hard, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, and you have to fight the urge to lean in and suck his lip into your mouth. “For the sake of our friendship.” He says with a sigh. “Probably a bad idea.”

Reality feels like a punch in the gut as you slide off his lap and scan the floor for your discarded shirt. You crouch to pick it up, dropping it over your head whilst Eric watches from your bed. When you turn around he’s still hard, eyes full of unbridled desire as he rakes his gaze over you.

“You want your sweatpants?” You ask, taking a step backwards, but your eyes remain locked on his.

“No.” His hand wraps around the base of his cock, and he squeezes until his eyes flutter closed.

“What are you…” you break off, your throat closing as blood rushes to your face and your cunt in equal dizzying measure. Because Eric’s fist is jerking up and down his length, his thumb swiping precum from the tip as he drags it down to slick his length. His lips part around a soft moan, and you’re completely frozen in place as you watch your best friend jerk off on your bed like every fantasy you’ve ever had come to life. “Eric,” you whisper.

His eyes open, the green of his irises little more than tiny bands of light around the darkness of his blown pupils. “Shit, please,” he whimpers, hand a blur against his cock. “Say my name again. Please.”

You shouldn’t. You should step into the bathroom and give him some privacy, or throw cold water over yourself to calm down so you can think clearly. But he looks so good as he sinks his teeth into his swollen bottom lip, and there’s a bead of sweat slipping down the side of his face that you want to lick off him.

“Eric,” you murmur, slipping your own fingers up under the hem of your shirt to rub over the front of your panties. “You want to see my pussy?”

Eric can only nod, the lump of shame and desire in his throat is too big to let him do anything else. His cock twitches and thickens in his palm as your underwear slips down your thighs and drops to the floor, and he follows your legs back up to the hem of your shirt as you lift it up, up, up. “Ohhhh,” he chokes out, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he clamps his teeth together and tries to memorise every single perfect part of you. Your arousal glistens on your thighs and practically drips from your folds, and when your fingers slip inside to open you up he can see the swollen bud of your clit. “Touch yourself.” He spits, the words coming out so garbled around a moan that he’s not sure you understand.

But then you hum as you roll your middle finger over your clit in little circles, and Eric feels his release tightening in his stomach as his cock twitches in his palm.

“Like this?” You ask softly, collecting the arousal from your entrance and returning to rub at your clit.

“Fuck yourself on your fingers. Like I did.”

Your eyes open and you pout your bottom lip out in a way that’s somehow cute and hot at the same time. “Doesn’t feel as good as you, Eric. Nothing ever has.”

Eric forces his hand to go slack because he’s about to cum. The filthy words, the filthy images they conjure, and the pretty, doe-eyed look on your face as you touch yourself has sent him hurtling right to the edge, and he’s not at all ready for this to be done.

“Oh fuck this.” He says as he pushes off the bed and crosses the room, hooking an arm around your waist and hoisting you into his arms, bridal style.

You squeak, your wet fingers gripping his shoulder, and Eric turns his head to nuzzle at them, inhaling the scent of your arousal. “Eric!”

“No more talking.” He says, dropping you on the bed and pushing your knees apart.

You press your lips together as he drinks you in, memorizing every inch of your skin so he can draw it later. Looking at you now, Eric knows that he’s doomed. Doomed to draw you every time he opens up his sketch pad, probably forever. Doomed to compare the curves of your body to every single other woman he ever meets for the rest of his life. Doomed to be hopelessly in love with his best friend, even if that meant being just your friend.

“Fuck me, Eric.” You breathe, hooking a leg around the back of his thigh. “I want you to.”

Eric feels an absurd urge to cry as he drops his body over yours and rubs his cock through your slick. You hum, and the hot, silky wetness of your skin against his sensitive tip is almost enough to make him cum. He knows he can’t, knows fucking you badly would be worse than not fucking you at all, but he’s so out of his mind turned on it’s a genuine struggle not to blow his load as he presses the head of his cock inside you.

You suck in a breath, muscles fluttering like you’re trying to drag him deeper, and Eric makes a pretty, broken sobbing sound. “I’m gunna cum too fast.” He grits out.

“I don’t care,” you mumble back, digging your heel into the back of his thigh. “Need you to fill me up.”

Eric couldn’t stop himself if he tried. He thrusts forward, sheathing himself in the tight heat of your cunt until he bottoms out with a low moan. You clench around him immediately, squeezing every pulsing inch of him, and Eric’s eyes roll back at the intense feeling.

He’s been with girls before, obviously. Plenty of girls. But with you it feels like the first time. He feels like a goddamn virgin, because he’s pretty sure nothing in the world could compare to the feeling of your pussy fluttering around him and your hands on his face and your lips parting around his name.

“You can move, Eric.” You whisper. “It doesn’t hurt.”

Eric nods, but he stays right where he is, frozen inside you as you pulse around him. He wants to fuck you so badly but he’s pretty sure that the moment he tries to move, he’ll cum. And then you’ll be disappointed, or embarrassed for him. And he’ll die.

“Fuck this,” you sigh, shoving at his shoulder until he pulls out and rolls off you. Eric feels the blood rushing to flood his face, and that awful prickling is back in his eyes. But then you climb onto his lap and sit down on his cock in one quick motion, and all Eric can do is grab your hips and stare at you with wide eyes and a slack jaw as you start to bounce on his cock.

His fingers dig harshly into your skin as you roll your hips, dragging your clit against his pelvic bone. His hips lift off the bed to meet yours, the harsh sound of flesh slapping against flesh drowning out the little moans spilling from your lips as you feel your orgasm building in your core. “Oh fuck,” Eric groans. “I’m gunna cum.”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip, riding him hard and clenching around his cock. “Wait for me.”

And Eric wants to. He’d give anything to hold it off, to hold onto this feeling for longer, but he just can’t. His cock twitches once, twice, and he spills inside you, coating your walls with his release as he lets out a low, throaty moan of your name. He pins you against him, his cock grinding lightly inside you as you squeeze around him, milking every last drop of his cum until he’s shuddering. “That was,” he sighs, hands dropping to the mattress. “Holy shit.”

But then you clamp down hard on his cock and roll your hips forward, and Eric’s hands shoot back to your hips as he tries to stop your movement.

“I didn’t cum yet.” You say, leaning forward to press one hand into the mattress beside his head as the other wraps around his throat. “You’re gunna lie there and let me use you until I do.”

This is the meanest, sexiest thing Eric has ever heard. His eyes flutter closed at the pressure against his throat, and his cock twitches with renewed interest as you push up onto your knees and drop back down. You press harder against his throat, crushing the air from his lungs until his face flushes and he gasps. You lean down to connect your mouth to his, desperate to taste the pretty little whines slipping out from his parted lips, and he licks his tongue up into your mouth eagerly. “Please,” he whispers against your lips, and you feel your clit throb as your climax nears.

“Shit, Eric,” you whimper, sucking his bottom lip against your teeth hard enough to leave an imprint against the pillowed flesh. “Gunna cum.”

“Yeah,” he breathes against you, hands squeezing your hips as he helps you to rock back and forth. “Cum on my cock.”

His voice is low and rough and wrecked, and the rumble of sound through his chest combined with the tight drag of his cock against your walls sends you hurtling over the edge. Your body seizes up, your toes curl like a bad romance novel, and you all-but cry his name as you cum, fluttering around him.

Eric grits his teeth against the slight discomfort of overstimulation, focusing on how insanely pretty you look as you fall apart on his cock.

You slump forward, letting his cock slip out of you as you flop deadweight onto his chest, and Eric wraps his arms around you tightly and presses his face to the damp warmth of your hair. He wants to memorise the feel of you too, in case this is all he ever gets.

“Okay,” you hum after a moment. “So, I was half right.”

Eric shifts you to the side and you settle onto the mattress beside him. He’s delighted to find you don’t pull away, curling against his side and trailing one of his tattoos with the tip of your finger.

“Half right?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I did need a good fuck. But not just any fuck. I needed… that. You.”

Eric swallows, feeling his heartrate accelerate dangerously as he tries not to get his hopes up. “Specifically me, huh?”

“Yeah. Like, doing it with a friend is… I don’t know. More intense?”

Eric feels the words like a knife in his stomach. “Right.”

“Don’t you think?” You turn your head, pressing your cheek to his chest as you look up at him.

Eric really, really hopes his face isn’t crumpling the way his insides are. “Uh, I don’t know. I guess so.”

Your shoulders sag and you drop onto your back beside him. “Well, good. So we’re… good.”

You stare up at the ceiling, listening to the in and out of Eric’s breathing beside you and fighting against the sting of tears in your eyes.

You’re not sure when you fall asleep, but by the time you wake there’s a sliver of light cracking through under the curtains and a warm hand on your thigh. You tense as Eric’s fingers flex against your flesh and he stirs. You squeeze your eyes shut as you feel the mattress shift beside you and the tickle of his breath against your skin as he rolls onto his side.

“You sleeping?”

You don’t move a muscle, and you pray your eyes aren’t flickering behind your lids, or that he can’t see.

His fingers drag lightly up your thigh, ghosting just barely over your pussy. You feel a jolt of arousal pulse through you at the phantom contact, your clit throbbing with desire as his breath hitches. “Fuck,” he whispers, parting your folds gently and brushing the tip of his index finger against your clit.

You swallow, your pussy clenching around nothing as his finger rubs soft, maddeningly slow circles over your clit. You squeeze your eyes shut tighter as Erics fingers dip lower to collect the arousal slicking through your folds, spreading it over your sensitive bud before he returns to rubbing those same soft circles against the swelling bundle of nerves. “I wish you were awake,” he whispers, and you hear the soft exhale as his lips brush against your shoulder. “I wish you were more than my friend.”

You almost open your eyes, but then he might stop talking, and he might stop touching you. The coil of your orgasm is building deliciously, sensuously slowly, and you think you might cry if he takes his fingers away from you before you get to cum.

“I wish you were mine. Just mine.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek as a whimper breaks free, and you feel the burn of his eyes on your face. His fingers speed up against you, increasing in pressure until you can hear the wet sounds of your arousal.

“I’d make you cum like this every day,” he whispers, lips directly against your skin. “On my fingers or my tongue or my cock. I’d give you all of it.”

You whimper again, hips lifting to chase the friction as your orgasm nears. You badly want to ask him to fuck you again, to feel the intense, overwhelming sensation of being filled by his cock as you cum, but you’re still so worried he’ll freak out. His thumb takes over on your clit as his fingers brush low, dipping inside you, and you clench around them, letting moans slip from your lips as his fingers fuck up into your g-spot and curl.

And you’re so close, you’re right on the edge when his fingers withdraw and he rolls over with a soft sigh. “I guess not.”

Your eyes open and you huff a curse under your breath as you turn your head to look at him. Your eyes narrow at the smirk on his face as he lifts his wet fingers to his mouth and sucks on them. “Gotcha.”

You swallow, watching the way his tongue curls around his fingers as your clit throbs painfully. “That was mean.”

“Yeah?” He asks softly, bringing his damp fingers to your mouth and tracing the outline of your lips. “You were pretending the whole time.”

“You knew I was awake?” Your lips barely move as you speak, but you feel the rough brush of his calloused fingertips against you and resist the urge to bite his black painted nails.

“Hoped you were.”

And sure, there’s the ruined orgasm to consider. But he’d told you he wanted to be more than friends. And he’d hoped you were listening.

“We can’t go back, you know.” You say carefully, licking the pad of his finger because you genuinely can’t help yourself.

Eric hums, rolling onto his side and cupping your jaw to turn your face to him. “I don’t wanna go back. I want more. I want both. To be your friend, and to be more. Cuz you’re everything to me.”

You swallow hard, ignoring the way your heart thunders in your chest. “What if we fuck it up?”

Eric’s mouth twists into a lopsided smirk as he dips his head to press his lips to yours. “Yeah, but what if we don’t?”

In the months since Peter shed his skin, Roman has spent an ungodly amount of money on hunters and trackers and mediums and witches. He’s offered the kingdom to anyone who might be able to bring Peter back. For Letha, sure. But mostly for you. And you’d never loved him as much as you did when you’d found him poring over a map of the forests of Pennsylvania at three in the morning, placing careful red markers on areas he’d searched. “This is… I just work better if I can see, I’m sorry if-“ you’d cut him off with a kiss that had turned hungry, hands fumbling at his clothes until he was bare before you. Your stomach had been pressed to the map, tiny plastic pushpins biting into your flesh as Roman bent you over the table and fucked into you from behind. And it had helped, a tiny bit. To be so full and so wanted. It had helped until it hadn’t. 

Because after that, you hadn’t let him touch you. Roman pretended not to notice the crescent bruises on your palms or the swelling welts on your lip from your nails and your teeth, because at least you would look at him rather than through him when you were doing it. But when sinking your teeth into your lips or digging your nails into your palms didn’t take the ache away, you’d shut down. And Roman had done everything he could think of to bring you back. He’d buried his face between your legs, whispering praise and love and reassurance against your core, and winced at the dead look in your eyes as you lay beneath him. He’d cried and pleaded and begged you to just get out of bed, to take a shower, to do anything to show him you were willing to try.

He’d even dragged you out of the house and bundled you onto a private jet and shown you the ocean and the mountains and the rainforests. And you’d looked, but you hadn’t smiled. Hadn’t kissed him goodnight. It was like the light had just gone out inside you, after months of hopeful dim flickering as you searched the trees and the great beyond of your own mind for traces of Peter. 

Roman is about ready to call it quits, to maybe deliver you back to your mom with a plea to pull some gypsy bullshit and fix you. He’s actually in the process of tracking down the remaining Rumancek women, somewhere outside of Chicago maybe, when he hears the rumble of a familiar engine in the courtyard and he goes to the window in time to see his jeep peeling out of the driveway. Roman knows instinctively that you’re driving, and that this is Bad News. He slips his shoes on and stumbles out into the night, making for the garage and climbing up into the driver’s seat of his Explorer. And he curses you with abject terror in his heart as he realizes you’ve cut the fuel pump power line and he’s not going anywhere fast.  

It’s still too early for the ground to freeze, but there’s ice in the air as you climb out of Roman’s jeep and venture into the forest. This dream had been vivid, you’d been close enough to feel the heat of his breath against your face as the wolf towered over you. It had been real enough for you to know where he was, almost down to the exact tree. And it was fucking stupid that you hadn’t thought about it before; that your Peter would naturally gravitate towards home in any form. The trailer park is silent, most of the passing families having moved on when the leaves turned, but there are a few solitary lights on in windows. You duck low just in case anyone happens to be looking out at that moment, and you stay low until you’re standing in front of his trailer. The door is bolted, damp cardboard wilting in the windows. He isn’t here, isn’t inside. He’d never have gotten in without ripping the place to shreds. So you walk deliberately on, feeling phantom eyes on you as you approach your own trailer. Your scent would be stronger here, and you’d always been a source of grounding for your cousin.

The air fizzles out of you like a cut balloon as you look into the black maw where your front door used to be. It looks like it had been torn clean off its hinges, the only evidence a series of scratches on the shabby frame. He’s here. He’s here he’s here he’s here. You know, logically speaking, that it isn’t smart to climb into an enclosed space with an animal who may or may not be able to recognize you as friendly. But you don’t care, not one bit. Because life without Peter has been actual hell, and you’d maybe rather die now and know you’d seen him one last time than live decades with the not-knowing.

You step into the trailer, a board creaking familiarly under your foot. The air feels thick and damp, and you wrinkle your nose against the smell of rot as you whisper his name into the darkness.

Blood. It’s the first thing he smells as he opens the door and climbs out of the too-small cab. Roman doesn’t bother to look back as he tosses a wad of bills through the driver’s window and stumbles down the hill to the trailer park. He couldn’t speak even if he wanted to. Because he can smell blood, and he knows it’s yours. He knows the scent of you, the metal mixed with herbs and forest and rain, and his stomach churns with dreadful desire as he follows the scent past derelict trailers and down to yours.

Roman still has to duck to pass under the door, and the boards creak under his feet like the trailer is groaning, and Roman feels a mounting sense of panic as his eyes adjust to the darkness. The scent of your blood curls in his nostrils, carrying him down the hall to the end where your bedroom is, and Roman is jarringly struck for a moment with the memory of the last time he stood here, giving himself a mental pep-talk about fucking you for the first time. And Jesus fucking Christ hadn’t life been simple when the worst thing that had ever happened to him was fighting with you at the prom?

“Don’t be dead,” he whispers under his breath as he turns the handle and steps into your room. Roman is a little relieved to find that whilst the scent of blood is more concentrated in here, it’s not like there’s more. And he doesn’t even need to smell it to find the source, to find you sitting against the baseboard of your bed with your knees tucked under your chin and blood slipping down your calf to drip, drip, drip onto the carpet at your feet.

He sucks in a breath, and you turn your head to look at him. Your eyes are watery and red, like you’ve been crying for some time, and your lips shake with sobs as you say “go away, I’m not in the mood.”

And Roman just… snaps. He can’t explain what happens actually, and he isn’t proud of it. But he sees you sitting there fucking bleeding like it’s nothing, like you didn’t run away in the middle of the night, like him losing his mind over you and hunting you down and taking years off his life with all the goddamn stress means nothing.

“Fuck you.” That’s what comes out of his mouth, and he’s surprised and you’re surprised as your knees slide down and you turn your head to look at him properly.

“What?”

“You heard me.” Roman doesn’t love the bewildered look on your face, but at least it feels like you’re fucking seeing him. “Fuck you and fuck this.”

“I don’t… what do you…” You blink at him, mouth opening and closing. “You can’t just… talk to me like that.”

Roman scoffs, forcing his anxiety down into the depths of his guts as he steps into the room and drops to a crouch in front of you. “I’ll talk to you however I want. You talk to me like I’m less than shit. I’m done with it.” He lifts a hand to cup your cheek and thumbs away a sticky, cool tear track from your jaw.

“I’m sorry.”

The admission catches Roman off-guard. He was expecting you to crumple, or shut down. Not… this. He looks at your face, really looks at the way your lips part slightly and your pupils are expanding, and oh. Oh. He really should have thought of it before. Roman has tried to block out the memory of that night, the one where you sucked his cock and told him that your cousin was a werewolf. But that was also the night he learned something about you.

He stretches his thumb higher, pressing it against your lips, and you part them wider to suck his thumb into your mouth. “Oh, there you go.” Roman coos, pressing down on your tongue until you hollow your cheeks around him. “Good girl.”

You practically sob as you suck on his thumb and look at him with all the gratitude you can muster. Because you did need this. Needed the grounding pressure of him in your mouth and the steady control of him taking over.

Roman hums, feeling his cock stir at the hot, wet suction of your mouth around his thumb. “You’re bleeding.” He says softly. “Show me where.”

You don’t release his thumb as you bend one knee, peeling open the ruined seam of your tights to show him the messy gouge in your flesh. The culprit sits beside you, a broken shard of glass from a picture frame. Roman doesn’t have to turn it over to know it’ll be a picture of Peter. Or of you and Peter. He knows.

Because Roman Godfrey knows you. He knows you better than anyone. And he can see it in your eyes as you lick against the pad of his thumb and whine low in your throat. He knows what you need, and it’s something only he can give you. Something he’s only too happy to give you. “Take off your clothes and get on the bed.” His voice is firm, but he presses his thumb a little further down your throat, offering you reassurance. “Now.”

You release him reluctantly, licking the salt of his sweat from your lips before you push to your feet. Roman rises slowly, looking down at you with heated eyes as you push your skirt and tights and underwear down all at once and pull your t-shirt over your head. It’s cold in the unheated trailer, and you shiver, but the bed has long since been stripped so you have no choice but to climb onto the damp, musty mattress and wait for whatever comes next.

Roman watches you lie back and spread your legs, watches the way your cunt opens like a fucking flower, and he has to fight the urge to bury his face into your pussy and cry with how goddamn grateful he is. Because that isn’t what you need from him.

He unzips his fly and climbs onto the bed, crawling over you and pushing your thighs apart with his knees. “I’m gunna fuck you.” He says, biting hard on his own lip as he brushes the leaking head of his cock through your slick. “Gunna make it all better, baby.”

You moan as he pushes inside you, the stretch burning a little after so long. Tears spring to your eyes and you close them, letting them slide into your hairline as your forehead crunches in concentration.

Roman wants to stop and check on you, but he knows with an instinct he can’t explain that you don’t need him to check in with you. That you want this to hurt. So he pushes until he bottoms out, cock pulsing against your cervix as you flutter around him. “Yeahhhh,” he groans, pulling half out only to slam back in against the quivering drag of your muscles. “Shit, that’s it.”

You lift your hands to fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and Roman loses the rhythm of his thrusts as you press your mouth to his in a bruising kiss. The first kiss you’ve given him willingly in months.

“Please,” you mumble against his mouth, squeezing his cock in time with his thrusts, and Roman would give you anything in that moment. Anything you asked for. “Bite me, Roman.”

Roman tries to ignore what you said. He pushes his tongue past your lips to graze against yours, feeling the edges of your teeth and tasting the essence of you as he shifts his hips, searching for that sensitive, spongey spot inside you that will make you forget about-

“Bite me, Roman. Please, I need you to-I need to-please.”

Roman groans, dipping his face to your neck and mouthing wetly against your throat. “I can’t.”

You freeze beneath him for a moment, before your fingers lace into his hair and tug his face back up to yours. “I need it.”

Roman’s cock throbs at your words and the way you’re looking at him. “I don’t- I can’t control it. Even for you, it’s too, fuckkk,” he breaks off with a hiss as you clamp down on his cock, so hard his hips stutter against your own as his cock is squeezed to the point of almost-pain. It isn’t a choice, the way his fangs slot out from his teeth and slice through your flesh like a hot knife through butter. Your blood fills his mouth and he clamps down, sucking hard on instinct as he fucks into you with animalistic aggression.

You moan, hips lifting to meet his thrusts, and the sound vibrates through your throat and hums right into Roman’s own bloodstream as he feeds. There is nothing like it in the world. Nothing fucking like this feeling, this connection. Roman can see every fibre of your soul, your beautiful goddamn angel soul, and it wraps around him and fills him up with the purest love he’s ever felt.

He cums hard, burying himself as deep inside you as he can, dizzy and drunk on love and blood and the pulsing heat of your cunt. He pulls out at the same time he withdraws his fangs, and he’s surprised and deeply grateful for how easy it is to do so. You look ethereally beautiful sprawled out beneath him, your hair a messy halo around your head and your eyes glassy. Your skin is a little waxy, and Roman wonders if he took too much, but then your fingers animate against his scalp and you tickle your nails against him and he leans into the touch because he’s been starved of it.

“Thank you,” you whisper before gently pushing Roman off you. And Roman would be hurt, but you roll with him, pillowing your head on his chest and Roman wraps an arm around your shoulder and you let him hold you.

“I had a dream that he was here.”

Roman swallows, fingers gliding against your arm. “Just a dream?”

You hum. “I thought it was more. Guess not.”

“You rip the door off?”

You scoff. “I know. It might’ve been him. When you came in, could you smell…?”

“Only you.” Roman says gently, softening the blow with a kiss to the top of your head. “I’m sorry.”

You sigh heavily before extracting yourself from his arms, pushing off the bed and collecting up your clothes. “Don’t be.”

*

Letha’s approximately the size and shape of a blimp as she waddles over the threshold and collapses onto Roman’s couch. He hurries to fetch her a glass of soda water, kneeling gently beside her and fluttering his hands over her like he can fix... something.  

“This just sucks,” she sighs. “My feet hurt, My hips hurt. I think... I mean everything hurts.”  

“Something to be said for having a gynaecologist as your dad though, right?” Roman asks, lifting one side of his mouth.  

“You’d think.” Letha deadpans. “But he’s been really weird about the whole thing.”

Roman’s spine straightens and he shoots you a look. “Weird how?” Because without Peter around to monitor the situation, Letha was the only way you would know if something was going wrong with Roman’s compulsion. He didn’t have it down to an exact science, hadn’t figured out the right things to say to make his commands stick properly, and there was no one around to teach him.

“Oh, I don’t know. He’s just a bit… spacey. Maybe he’s still in shock at how big I’m getting.” Letha rubs her belly. “And did I mention my feet hurt? God, it’s the worst. I mean you really have no idea what it’s like to be this pregnant.”   

You press your lips together, irritation flashing in your guts as it so often does when you have to listen to Letha complain about how hard her life is. Because she’s the reason Peter isn’t here.  

That's not fair, cuz, Peter says in your head. I handled it badly. 

You keep your face neutral, because there are two Godfreys looking at you and neither of them know that you talk to your cousin in your head like he’s standing beside you and not lost to the trees beyond the town limits. Even Roman might worry if you told him that.  

“You never wanted to do it alone,” Roman soothes, tracing circles on her knee. “No one blames you for having a hard time with this.”  

Your teeth snap together sharply and Roman shoots you a look, hearing the sound across the room. There’s a pleading look in his eyes, and you swallow a lump of vitriol before plastering a smile on your face.  

“Roman’s right. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, Pe- he should be here to rub your feet and make two AM McDonalds runs.”  

Letha’s bottom lip wobbles. “If he came back I wouldn’t ask him for anything. I’d just love him exactly as he is.”  

Roman shushes her, sliding onto the couch beside his cousin and tugging her against his chest, and you feel your face heat and your own eye prickle as you turn away. Your hands shake as you open the drawer on the coffee table and pull out the little leather pouch.  

“I wanted to... uh, here.” You hold the pouch out to Letha, who takes it with the exaggerated slowness of a person trying very hard not to spook a jumpy cat. 

You look at Roman, only at Roman as she teases the pouch open and turns it upside down. The charm falls into her palm, silvery pendants jangling against each other as they drop into a little heap on their loose chain. “Oh,” she mumbles, dropping the pouch into her lap so she can separate the charms with her finger. “This is beautiful.”  

“It was... uh, it’s a family heirloom. A Rumancek thing. We don’t have much, but there’s a charm on there for each Rumancek woman since before anyone can remember. We thought maybe you’d like to keep it, pick one for the baby when she comes.”  

Even now you’re only looking at Roman, at the way his lips part around a silent ‘thank you’ as Letha sniffles beside him. “His mom wanted me to have this?” 

You nod tightly. Linda didn’t entirely, it had taken some convincing. But you’d reminded her that the baby Letha was carrying was half Peter and there was a chance, an unthinkable possibility where Peter never comes back, and alienating Letha Godfrey would mean cutting her kid off from her gypsy bloodline. And that, too, was unthinkable.  

So Linda had agreed, and when Roman saw you packaging the bracelet into the pouch and you’d told him it was for Letha he’d fallen to his knees beside your chair and pressed his face to your stomach and thanked you so profusely you’d been a little embarrassed.  

It isn’t gratitude in his eyes now. Letha’s hum of contentment is drowned out by the thundering of your blood in your ears as Roman’s eyes darken and he rises to stand. “I gotta do something in the kitchen. You okay in here, Leth?” 

She nods, fingers still caressing each tarnished silver pendant as she spreads them over her palm. Your hand slips into Roman’s as he drags you out of the room.  

Because Roman Godfrey knows you. He knows you better than anyone. And he’d seen it in your eyes when you’d answered Letha but looked at him. He’d known what you needed, and it was something only he could give you. Something he was only too happy to give you.  

Your arms snake around his neck the moment he closes the kitchen door, and he lifts you onto the island so you can kiss him and wrap your legs around his hips.  

“Please, Roman,” you whimper against his mouth.  

“I know,” he whispers back, hands already unbuttoning your dress. “I know, baby.”  

His fingers shake as he pushes your dress off your shoulders and down over your hips, and you yank hard on the zipper of his jeans as you shove them down to his knees and pull his cock out of his boxers. He’s still mostly soft, but you don’t care as you wrap your hand around him and squeeze. Roman moans, his hips tilting forward into your palm as you pump his cock slowly.  

“I need it.” You mumble, opening your legs wider to reveal the damp fabric covering your core.  

Roman nods, grazing his fingertips against your center before pushing your underwear to the side and probing against your slickness to find the swelling bud of your clit. He leans in to kiss you as he rubs circles against your clit, and you let him press his tongue past the soft barrier of your lips and taste the heat of your mouth for a moment before you pull away, thumbing up and over the head of his cock in a way that’s almost painful. Roman groans, tugging his cock out of your hand and lining up with your entrance. “Where?” He whispers as he pushes in, and your eyes roll back as you drag the lace edge of your bra down to expose your left breast.  

Roman’s eyes darken at the littering of wounds across the soft flesh of your breasts, the varying stages of healing on display. It’s getting harder and harder to find new places to sink his teeth in, but you fist his hair and drag his face towards your skin impatiently and Roman pushes the nagging worry to the back of his mind as he bites down and pushes his cock into you.  

You moan low and throaty as he fills you, the sharp, bright pain of his teeth parting your flesh acting as a central focus point to keep you tethered. 

Your blood fills Roman’s mouth and he whines against your skin, lips slipping over flesh slick with blood and spit and sweat as he fucks into you with reckless, uncontrolled fervour. He really can’t control it when he’s feeding, you taste so fucking good and your blood soothes his throat and fills his stomach and pumps through his veins in a way that makes him feel like he’s part of you. He always cums too quick, overwhelmed and overstimulated, but you don’t seem to mind. This isn’t about that, anyway. It’s the bite.  

And Roman knows that you’re replacing the pain of losing Peter with the easier pain of his teeth, but it’s the only thing that’s stopped the terrible emptiness in your eyes and Roman will do anything, anything you want if it might help.  

“I love you,” he mumbles into your skin, blood spilling out from the suction point of his mouth and dripping thick lines down your stomach.  

You don’t say it back, and Roman pretends that doesn’t matter even as his heart aches into the silence.  

“Harder,” you whisper, and Roman digs his fingers into your hips hard enough to bruise as he pins you to the counter and rams his cock into you over and over. He knows he’s pummelling into your cervix, he can feel the difference in the flesh there, the give as he bruises your insides, and you whine and whimper and tug on his hair to keep his mouth at your breast, his teeth tearing you open even as his cock brutalises you.  

And Roman isn’t really enjoying it, actually. Because when he curls up behind you in bed at night and presses soft kisses to your neck and grinds his stiff cock into your ass, you roll away. But when you’re hurting like this and you need to fuck to forget, you want him back. Roman will take it. If this is all he gets, he’ll take it. Even if it’s killing him. Even if it’s killing you.   

There is a steady stream of warm cum leaking out from between your thighs, and you wriggle away from the slick patch soaking into the sheet beneath you as Roman blows perfectly round smoke rings into the air beside you.

“It’s going to take this time.” Roman mumbles, voice hoarse from the fresh smoke. “I got a good feeling about it.”

You hum non-committedly, focusing on keeping your breathing even and your heartrate slow. He’ll notice a skip or a stutter. He always does. “I hope so.” You add, because you know he wants you to say it.

But the little blister of pills sewn into the lining of a tote bag at the back of your closet says otherwise. A little blister of pills that you’d had to earn, showering Roman with affection and convincing him to let you go into town to buy him a surprise, so you could slip into the free clinic and get contraceptive pills without a prescription. It was abundantly clear to the workers that you’re being abused, but you’d given a fake name and a false address, so there wasn’t anything they could do about it. And you’d done them a favour, actually. Because Roman would kill anyone who tried to take you away from him. Anyone who even looked at you.

The kid delivering papers had been sweet. Too young, too eager, and he’d stumble over his words as he handed you the paper each morning, his cheeks flushing beet-red as he rubbed his hand over the back of his too-long hair and flirted awkwardly. And it had been refreshing to just talk to someone who was sweet and nice and cute and who, yeah, maybe wanted to fuck you, but would never, ever force you to do it.

He’d been tied to the dining room table by five o clock, and Roman had eaten his throat and made you sit and watch as he died. For five agonizing, awful minutes the kid had stared at you with true horror in his eyes as Roman had consumed him. And when he’d stopped, when the light had dulled out of the boy’s eyes, Roman had pulled you into his lap and made you lick the blood from his face and his neck whilst he fucked up into you. You’d cried the whole time, and Roman had groaned about how all that sobbing just made you tighter for him. After that, you’d never, ever spoken to anyone who came to the house. Lesson fucking learned.

Roman rolls onto his side now, sucking hard on the end of his cigarette and then stubbing it out on the headboard. He knows you hate that, and he doesn’t care. His fingers brush lightly through your damp hair. “Mother’s getting… fractious.”

“What does that mean?”

Roman smiles softly. “Two years. We’ve had two years, no baby. She’s not all that patient.”

“Oh.” You’d known this was coming. It had to be, considering your purpose had always been to produce Godfrey heirs. But it still hits like a bullet in your gut, even as Roman’s fingers caress against your cheek softly.

“I’m holding her off, for now. But we gotta get you pregnant, baby. If we don’t…”

He doesn’t need to finish the threat. If you don’t get pregnant, Olivia Godfrey will have you replaced. And the severance package here is lethal. Roman wriggles closer, the awkward gesture jarringly boyish, before he slips his fingers between your legs and pushes through the slick mess of your folds to pump two fingers into you. “Filled you up good, didn’t I?” He murmurs, eyes glazing over with the promise of a second round.

You nod, hooking your leg over Roman’s thigh obediently, and he rolls you onto your back as he pushes his cock into you. The stretch is familiar and mostly pleasant after so many times. Because Roman Godfrey has been true to his word, and his appetite for you is never-ending. He’s fucked you in one way or another every single day, often multiple times a day. He really, truly never seems to get bored of it. You’ll be watering plants in the greenhouse and he’ll push you over the potting table to rut into you from behind, a hand on your neck to keep your face pressed to the soil-stained wood as he snaps his hips viciously against your ass. Or he’ll be bored during dinner, bored of listening to his mother talk about shareholders and stock prices, and he’ll just slide under the table and push your legs apart to suck hard at your clit until you’re whimpering into your salad. And Olivia would just keep on talking, her face barely betraying her annoyance at her son’s lack of control.

And now you’re faced with a terrible choice, and it’s that you’re thinking about when Roman’s fingers push into your mouth and probe down your throat, making you gag. “Eyes on me, baby,” he spits, balls slapping against your ass as he fucks you.

You force yourself to focus on his face, on the blush flooding his cheeks and the way he bites his bottom lip when he’s really blissed out. It’s still sick, how beautiful you find him despite the fact that he’s a genuine monster. But you can’t help it, he is beautiful.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he moans, and you don’t remind him that all that wet is his own release. Instead you wrap your arms around his neck and pull his face down to your neck. Not because you like it, but because he’ll finish so much faster with your blood in his mouth. Roman whimpers as he bites down, parting your flesh and prodding his tongue against the sensitive ruin of your skin as his cock drives into you over and over. Your thighs scream in protest at being forced into this position for the best part of three hours, and you want to sleep so badly you could cry.

“Want you, Roman,” you whine, digging your nails against his scalp hard enough to hurt. “Want you to fill me up.”

Roman moans low and throaty against your skin, and you feel the twitching of his cock moments before he releases inside you. Your insides are so bruised and full that it burns, but you pretend it doesn’t as you moan and clench around him. Putting on a show. It was the only way to get through the week or so around ovulation. You dreaded its arrival each month, the little block on the calendar in Roman’s room with a black heart sharpied onto each day. Five days of torture, of being so constantly full of his cock or his cum that you can’t even breathe without it slicking into your underwear and reminding you just how fucked you are, in every sense of the word. But it’s the last day, and tomorrow he’ll go back to taking you just once or twice a day.

Roman is working late, which is rare, and you’re approaching an hour on the most decadent bubble bath you’ve ever taken. Roman buys you a lot of presents, usually flowers or candy or lingerie, but he’d gone through a phase of really liking luxury skincare and you had a closet full of bath sets and body scrubs and who knows what else. You’ve dumped half of them into the water, and it’s like marinating in expensive, slippery oil. Eventually the hot water runs out and you’re pruned, so you haul out of the tub and wrap yourself in a silk robe. You check the calendar over the dresser – two weeks until your ovulation week. Two more weeks of relative peace. And maybe you’re getting too comfortable, because you toss your bag onto the bed as you head out to the walk-in closet to pick some pjs, and when you come back Roman is perched on the edge of the mattress with your fucking birth control pills in his hand.

“You’re supposed to be at work.”

This is the wrong thing to say, as Roman’s eyes narrow on you. “Wanna tell me what the fuck this is?”

There is no way to lie your way out of it. The brand name and the words ‘oral contraceptive’ are written all over the blister pack. “You know what they are.” Your voice isn’t as shaky as you thought it would be, even though you’re as scared of him now as you were the day you arrived. Because whilst Roman did have sweet moments, there was a darkness in him that simply couldn’t be predicted and certainly couldn’t be controlled. It’s that darkness you see now, clouding in his eyes as his fist closes around the packet. “Where did you get them? Did Anna or-“

“I bought them myself. From a place in town.”

Roman closes his eyes. “You did this by yourself.”

“I just… I’m not ready to have a baby. And it’s my body, so-“

Roman pushes off the bed and crosses the room in two terrifying strides, hooking a big hand around the back of your neck to drag your face up to look at him. “Your body? You wanna rethink that? I’ve been really fucking patient with you. Given you freedoms none of the other girls ever got, because I trusted you. Because I fucking love you. And this is how you repay me?”

“You don’t love me,” you whimper, feeling Roman’s fingers tighten in your hair. “This isn’t what love looks like, Roman.”

Roman’s eyes go black. His pupils expand so rapidly the green of his irises disappear completely, and his mouth curls into a lazy, awful smirk. “Oh, I’ll fuckin show you what love looks like, sweetheart.”

He drags you to the bed, throwing you onto the mattress so hard that all the breath huffs out of you as your stomach makes contact with the surface. Your robe is wrenched up over your ass to bunch at your back, and you squeeze your eyes and try not to tense up as you wait for the rough intrusion of his cock. And wait. And wait.

“Are you gunna,” you try to turn over, and Roman’s hand comes down on your ass, an open-palmed smack that stings so bad your eyes prickle with tears.

“Shut up.” He says, voice full of gravel. “You have any idea what you’ve put me through? Olivia’s been trying to get rid of you for months. I’ve kept her away, promised her things I-“ he cuts himself off to deliver another blistering smack to your ass, and you bite down on the duvet to stop yourself from crying out. “I’ve had to make concessions to keep you. All cuz I thought-“ another smack, so hard your flesh quivers and even the whoosh of air over your ass is enough to bring fresh tears to your eyes. “Thought you were trying so hard to get pregnant. Making a fucking fool of me the whole time.”

You feel the impact of his hand on your flesh again, but the smack doesn’t come. Instead Roman’s fingers slide down the crack of your ass, caressing against your asshole with manufactured gentleness.

“I’m sorry that I lied,” you whimper into the sheets. “Just, please.”

“No, none of that. You’re not sorry. You just got caught.” He spreads your cheeks with his index and middle fingers and you close your eyes at a wave of shame as he spits into your hole. “But I am curious.” He pushes his middle finger into your ass, feeling his cock thicken at how tight and hot your ass is. “What was the plan? I mean, you had to know you couldn’t stay if you couldn’t give me a child.”

You hum. “I didn’t… I just figured you’d kill me sooner or later, and it’d-ahh,” you break off with a groan as he pushes a second finger in beside the first, scissoring them against the tight resistance. “Then it’d be over.”

Roman’s fingers pull out of you with a stretching burn, and you feel the mattress shift as he climbs onto you and dips his head low to press his lips to your ear. “Oh sweetheart, it’ll never be over.”

He crawls away, and you wait for the intrusion, the one you know is going to hurt so much worse. And wait. And wait.

You’re about to turn your head to beg him to just get it over with, when you feel the puff of air over your core, and then Roman’s tongue licking slowly up your bare slit. He hums appreciatively before his fingers curl around your thigh, pushing your legs further apart so he can lick you open and suck your clit into his mouth.

The moan you let out then isn’t pretend. Roman is so, so good with his tongue, and he eats you out like he enjoys it, moaning and slurping and letting you drown him with your arousal. “Fuck,” you moan, shifting on the mattress to rock back against his face.

He pulls away, flicking your clit with his tongue before you feel two fingers press against your entrance. “No point fucking you tonight, not with that shit in your system.”

“Is this… a punishment?” You mumble, eyes losing focus as he curls his fingers against your g-spot and brushes his wet mouth over the back of your thigh.

“No.” His teeth graze over the spot he’d just kissed, and you whimper. “I’m fuckin ecstatic about this. There’s nothing wrong with you. Don’t have to put my babies in anyone else. Just gotta wait a couple weeks for that poison to be out of you, and you’ll probably get pregnant right away. That’d get that fuckin bitch off my back.”

“If you could-“ Roman’s tongue plunges back between your folds, lapping at your clit, and your jaw goes slack as you melt into the mattress and heat coils low in your stomach. “Fuck.”

He laughs quietly, sending a skitter of warm breath over your sensitive core, before sucking your clit into his mouth and pressing his teeth against it. His fingers slide deeper, fucking you open as he curls them repeatedly into your g-spot, and you see actual fucking stars as you cum, soaking his face and the sheets and moaning helplessly. Roman doesn’t stop, lapping up your arousal like a man dying of thirst, pistoning his fingers in and out so fast your whole body is dragged back and forth against the bed.

“I’m… I f-f-finished,” you stammer, eyes rolling back at the fresh, painful sensations rolling through you. Roman doesn’t seem to hear you as he carries on licking your clit and curling his fingers deep against your walls. “Romannnn,” you whine, “please, stop.”

Roman doesn’t stop, and you feel the curve of a smile against you as he drags his teeth over the hood of your clit before suctioning it back into his mouth. Oh. Oh no. You know what’s happening now, and it sure as shit is a punishment. “No, no.” You moan. “I can’t again. It’s too much, please.” You’re sobbing now, your cunt throbbing with an ache that borders on actual pain as Roman’s tongue licks roughly through your folds and back up to your oversensitive, swollen clit.

He flutters his tongue against it, fingers twisting and curling inside you until you clench around the digits and your second orgasm is ripped out of you. You’re a sweating, shaking mess by the time he pulls his fingers out, and you sag into the mattress as the heat of his mouth finally withdraws. The bed sinks beneath you as he crawls onto it, and you feel his fingers under your chin, wrenching your head up to look at him. His cock is an insistent press against his suit pants and his mouth is luridly pink and wet as he presses his still slick fingers to your lips.

You open your mouth, sucking your release off his fingers, and he smiles. “There you go. Taste that? That’s love, sweetheart. That’s how much you love me. You ever feel like you’re forgetting,” he shoves his fingers further into your mouth, far enough to make you gag, and you swallow reflexively. “You come find me and I’ll give you another lesson, just like this.”

You whimper as he withdraws his fingers, and can only watch with your neck jarred at a painful angle as Roman lifts his fingers to his own mouth and sucks your saliva from them.

You stare at the two pink lines with a mounting sense of horror. Roman’s in the shower, singing something under his breath, and the moment is so surreal that you feel like you might burst into hysterical laughter any second. One cycle. It had taken on the very first cycle after coming off the pill. You’d heard from friends in the past that it took months for their periods to come back. You’d thought you’d have more time. But no, those two little lines mock you from the plastic stick, and you have to brace your hands on the countertop to stop yourself from collapsing.

The water shuts off, and Roman’s wet arms wrap around your waist, soaking your back as he presses himself against you and nuzzles his nose against your neck. “You shoulda joined me in the shower.”

“I…” You tap a finger against the sink, not trusting your words.

Roman freezes completely, staring over your shoulder at the test. You expect he’s going to throw you up onto the counter and fuck you, or push you to your knees, or congratulate himself for being such a massive fucking stud. So the little sob that leaves him blindsides you completely, and you spin in his loose grip to make sure he’s not faking it. But no, there’s a film of tears in his eyes and his bottom lip wobbles like he might cry for real. It’s more terrifying than anything you’ve ever seen from him.

“You’re pregnant?”

“Yes. I thought you’d be… happy.”

“I am.” He says quickly, and then his mouth curves up into a genuine, beautiful smile that leaves you feeling a little breathless. “I’m so happy. Holy shit.” He presses his lips to yours, and for once there’s no heat behind the kiss. It’s soft and gentle and full of affection, and your heart skips a beat as long-dormant butterflies kick up in your stomach. His hands remain on your waist, holding you close but not pushing or pawing at you, and you part your lips on instinct to let him graze his tongue softly against yours.

Roman breaks the kiss first, because he’s so overcome with how much he loves you that he thinks he might actually cry for real and that’d be embarrassing.

“Your mom will be pleased, I guess.”

Roman’s smile softens. “She’ll leave us alone. And we can have so much more fun now the pressure’s off. If I don’t have to worry about breeding you I can fuck you in the ass. Still thinking about how tight you were on my fingers that time.”

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth, your stomach dousing cold at how quickly he’s switched back to the Roman you know.

And maybe it’s temporary insanity, or maybe it’s thinking about how much thicker Roman’s cock is than his fingers that has you approaching Olivia Godfrey as she trims roses in the greenhouse.

“Mrs Godfrey?”

“Olivia,” she tsks. “Now that you’re carrying my grandson.”

You dip your head in respectful acknowledgement even as your stomach churns with hatred. “I was hoping to talk to you about… that.”

She puts down her pruning shears and tilts her head to the side. “Do you need something? Do you feel well? Upir offspring can be… rambunctious. I was so dreadfully sick with Roman that I fantazised about ripping the little beast from my own womb on more than one occasion.” She says this with a smile, like it’s a joke.

“It’s not that. It’s, uh, Roman. I’d thought with the pregnancy he’d maybe… back off a little? But it’s the opposite.”

Olivia purses her lips. “His appetite for flesh, for your flesh in particular. It really is a mystery to me.”

“Yeah. I just think… it’s maybe not good for the baby. Sometimes after, I’ve been bleeding. Just a little bit. But he doesn’t really do gentle and I’m worried about the baby. That’s all.”

Olivia’s eyes darken. “I won’t lose my grandson because he can’t play nice with his toys. Leave it with me.” You’re dismissed, but you don’t feel in the least bit better about any of it as you trudge back to the main house. Roman’s sprawled on the couch inside, flicking through daytime TV, and he looks up when you enter. “Where were you?” “With your mom. In the greenhouse. Helping with the roses.”

Roman scoffs. “Yawn. You feeling okay? You look a little,” he gestures vaguely with his hands, and you shake your head.

“I’m fine. I feel fine.”

“Good.” His mouth splits into a lazy smirk. “You can come here and suck my cock then.”

You drop to your knees with a tight smile, reaching for Roman’s zipper and pulling his cock out from the hole in the front of his boxers. He’s still soft, and you shoot him an annoyed look. So greedy to demand when he’s not even fucking hard.

“Put it in.”

Your eyes narrow as you suck his soft cock into your mouth, and Roman sighs as his fingers lace into your hair and tickle against your scalp. “Yeah,” he hums. “That’ll do it.”

He gets hard in your mouth, length thickening and throbbing as his tip pulses close to the back of your throat, and it isn’t long before his fingers tighten in your hair and his hips begin to lift from the chair to fuck into your throat. “Shit,” he groans, and you hollow your cheeks around his length and let the tip of his cock push into your throat as his release hits him. It’s always easier to swallow his load when he shoots it directly down your throat, and spitting has never been an option with Roman.

Two weeks later, there is a suitcase by the front door. You stop at the foot of the steps, just looking at it. It isn’t yours, not the scruffy leather held together with duct tape that you’d arrived with. And it’s not expensive enough to be Olivias or Romans. Maybe one of the other servants was retiring. It would be good if it was Anna, who had never warmed to you at all, not even a little bit. Which might have something to do with how often she had to clean your arousal or Roman’s residual release from various surfaces in the Godfrey Mansion, but was mostly to do with her being a raging bitch.

“Whatcha looking at?” Roman asks as he descends the steps behind you. He passes you and hooks an arm around your waist, dragging you against him. His playful smile drops at the sight of the suitcase. “Whose moving out?” “Moving in.” Olivia chimes from the living room. “Darlings, I want you to meet Grace.”

Grace turns out to be a pretty, waifish girl with big eyes and a fragile, birdlike quality that makes you feel absurdly maternal. Roman’s hand tightens on your waist, and Olivia glares down at the point of contact. The realization hits you like a bullet to the gut. Olivia has procured Grace for Roman. To take his… appetite so you can focus on being pregnant. It’s  your fault that this little girl is here.

“Pleasure to meet you, Master Godfrey.” She curtsies, already wearing the little maids uniform, the costume that Roman had enforced with you for the first couple of months of your enslavement. Roman’s noticed, his eyes rake down the girl with an interest that looks to Olivia like victory.

“Didn’t know we were in the market for a new maid.”

“Well, you know how Anna is getting along in years,” Olivia says. “We must think of her poor knees, scrubbing floors all day. You’re good on your knees, aren’t you?” She turns to Grace, who blinks, wide-eyed.

“Oh, uh, yes. Of course.”

“Show him.”

“She doesn’t have to-“ Olivia shoots you a look, and you shut your mouth obediently.

Grace looks at you like you might save her, before she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and drops slowly to her knees. You hear the little hitch in Roman’s breathing, and dread douses your stomach with nauseous ice. You can’t subject her to the same fate. You just can’t.

You turn, pressing your lips to Roman’s shoulder, and he dips his head so you can whisper into his ear. “Don’t even think about it, Roman. You’re all mine.”

His grip on your waist tightens, fingers pressed boneless against your flesh.

“She’ll be a great help to Anna. That was thoughtful, mom. Now if you’ll excuse us, my wife and I have some business to attend to.”

And you don’t fight at all as Roman pushes you onto the bed and wriggles down between your thighs. Because you brought this on yourself, going to Olivia Godfrey for help like that wouldn’t have severe fucking consequences.

“You won’t go near that girl, will you?” You mumble as Roman drags your panties down your legs and tosses them over the side of the bed.

He licks over his bottom lip. “You getting all possessive? The thought of me with another girl pisses you off?”

You hum non-committedly, and he chuckles. “You don’t have to worry about it. Since you got pregnant I want you twice as bad. I didn’t think that was even possible.”

He brushes the leaking head of his cock through your folds just once before pushing inside you, and you sigh as he fills you completely in one thrust, bottoming out with a groan and dropping his head to your shoulder.

“You’re always so wet, too.” He moans softly. “Like you’re turned on just being fucking pregnant.”

You fight the urge to roll your eyes at what a stupid, boy thing that is to say. Pregnancy had given you nausea, sore limbs and bloating. Nothing sexy about any of it. But Roman pulls back from you to press his forehead instead to yours, rubbing his nose against yours softly.

“Love you so much,” he moans, pressing his lips to yours quickly. “You’re the best thing,” his hips snap faster against yours, and he props himself up on one elbow to reach down with his other hand and circle your clit slowly. “The purest thing.”

You whimper at the dual sensation of his fingers on your clit and his cock grazing against your g-spot. This is so intimate, so close to being real that your chest aches. Because Roman Godfrey isn’t capable of love, and yet this really was the most sincere imitation of it that he could create. And if you were stuck here forever, if you were going to have to raise innocent children in this house, you’d be better off accepting the version of love he could provide, for the sake of the life growing inside you if not for yourself.

You lift your legs to bracket your knees around his hips, drawing him deeper as you tilt your head up to kiss him. Roman makes a surprised little sound against your mouth.

“I love you too, Roman. We’re gunna be a family, me and you and this baby. Just us. No more maids.”

And Roman nods, his eyes shining wet and bright and beautiful. “Just us. Forever.” When he cums you clench around him, milking every drop of his release into yourself as his fingers blur against your clit. You fall over the edge just moments later, a genuine, gentle orgasm rolling through you and filling you with delicious heat as you quiver around his cock.

He takes a long time to pull out, enjoying the look on your face as he withdraws an inch at a time and steals kisses as he goes. And for maybe the first time ever, you’re not counting down the moments until he’s gone. Because he’s being sweet, and tender, and attentive. And he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world that matters, so he’s not thinking about putting his cock in the new maid. And that’s a fucking kindness, the most selfless thing you’ve ever done in your life.

It’s the hormones. Or the proximity. Or late, late, late onset of Stockholm Syndrome. Because you can’t be falling in love with Roman Godfrey. It’s not possible to love the monster who has murdered and raped and kept you prisoner for years. It isn’t fucking possible. And yet…

There are fresh flowers, already cut and in a vase on the dining table when you go downstairs for breakfast. The stems are all uneven, and some of the flowers are crushed, but you smile at Roman as you dip your head to inhale the blooms.

“I cut them myself, sorry that they’re shit.”

You freeze, staring at him like he’s just spoken a foreign language. “You cut them?”

“And bought them. And I’ll keep them watered or whatever, I know you don’t remember to do that.”

You feel a blush creeping up your cheeks as you round the table and cup his cheek. He leans into the touch, eyelids fluttering closed and face softening into something sweet and boyish. “I love them. Thank you, Roman. That was really nice of you.”

And you’re not falling in love with Roman Godfrey, but when he presses a kiss to the now very swollen curve of your stomach, you feel flutterings like butterflies. Roman pulls back, eyes wide, and you realize it’s definitely not butterflies. Definitely not.

“Did you… was that…?” His eyes are so wide they’re almost bulging out of his angular face, and you rub your hand over your stomach. “Baby is awake. I think they like the sound of your voice. Daddy.”

Roman beams at you, leaning in to kiss your stomach again. “Shee-it. I mean, holy shit, right?”

“Right,” you laugh, carding your fingers through his hair as he nuzzles against your stomach.

You don’t notice Olivia standing in the doorway, don’t see the way her fingers curve around the doorframe like claws. You don’t notice the little pile of plaster on the floor from the dig of her nails, or feel the tension winding tighter in the Upir woman as you start to flirt with Roman. And maybe you should have known. Should have felt the axe hovering above your head, and Roman’s.

It drops on a Thursday. You’re 35 weeks pregnant, waddling more than anything else now, and everything just sucks. Roman won’t even fuck you anymore, says it’s weird now the baby is so big, and you should be grateful for the reprieve but you’re just not. You’re agitated, and confused and ashamed of your mixed feelings towards Roman. Or ashamed at how unmixed your feelings are starting to be. But then you walk into the kitchen and step in a sticky, congealing puddle of blood. Nausea roils in your stomach and the baby kicks frantically and you pray that’s not an Upir thing. You follow the shock of crimson around the counter, and find Roman crouched over a body, slurping messily as his hands paint red smudges over her skirt. Her little black skirt, with a ruffled edge. The skinny legs sticking out from under it. Oh no, no, no. “Roman?” Your voice is a crack of sound, but his head snaps up and he turns. His face is a mess of gore, eyes dark and pupils blown wide. And he’s hard, erection pressing firmly against his jeans like killing this poor girl is an aphrodisiac. “Oh, no.”

Roman wipes his bloody mouth with his blood hand, and you press your own fingers to your lips to suppress a scream or to stop yourself from vomiting, you’re not sure which.

“Okay, don’t panic.” Roman says, rising to his feet with his hands out in front of him. He steps over the body, her legs twitching and her eyes blinking slowly because she’s still alive, and you lose it then, spilling the contents of your stomach onto the floor.

“Oh, baby,” Roman coos, rounding the island to scoop your hair back from your face. But then you see the blood sticking the strands of your hair together, and you shove him away with such force that he actually stumbles back.

“Stay the fuck away from me.” You groan, doubling over and vomiting again.

“Shit,” his voice is an octave higher than usual, and he rakes a hand back through his hair, the strands sticking up with congealing blood. “Is this a pregnancy thing? Are you like, having the baby?” You roll your eyes at him, wiping the back of your hand over your mouth. “No. I’m just fucking… disgusted. What the fuck is this? You promised.”

Roman’s brows furrow, and he shakes his head. “I didn’t… I didn’t fuck her.”

You scoff. “But you killed her. She didn’t do anything wrong. And she was so young.”

“She came onto me.”

Roman says this with a shrug, and you feel white hot rage curl in your chest. “Like fuck she did, you delusional piece of shit.”

Roman blinks at you, hurt crossing his face for a moment. “She wouldn’t take no for an answer. She tried to fucking take my pants off, look-“ he points to the zipper of his jeans, half open. “I told her to back off, she didn’t.”

“She’s half your size. And you’re Upir.” You narrow your eyes at him. “And just when I was really starting to, fuck.”

Roman swallows. “When you were starting to what? To love me back?”

You close your eyes. “Doesn’t matter. You can’t help yourself. You can’t help what you are.”

Roman’s face crumples for a moment, before smoothing into deadly, cruel indifference. “Who do you think you are to talk to me like that?” His voice is low and soft now, and you feel a skitter of fear travel up your spine. “I own you, remember? And I owned her, too. You’re still alive because I want it that way. But you’re really starting to be a pain in my balls, you know?”

You press your lips into a hard line. “You can’t do anything to me whilst I’m pregnant. Olivia wouldn’t let you.”

Roman hums, crossing the distance between you slowly, languidly, like a predator who knows its prey is snared. “She’d forgive me as long as I put a baby in another bitch or five. Nothing would save you if I wanted you dead, sweetheart.”

“But…” your breath hitches. “But you don’t want me dead, do you? You love me.”

“Yeah,” he sighs, dipping his head to press his mouth to yours. You taste the metal of the girl’s blood, and shiver. “And it’s been so good lately. Haven’t had to correct you at all. I guess I thought you’d give me the fuckin benefit of the doubt. Hurts to be wrong.”

You lick over your bottom lip, regretting it immediately as a fresh swipe of blood coats your tongue.

“And for once, he’s telling the truth.”

You both jump at the sound of Olivia’s voice, and Roman turns his glare on his mother as she steps over the blood and sighs. “Really, darling. I procure you a perfect little toy, and you break her before you’ve even taken her out of the box.”

“I didn’t want her.” Roman spits.

“I know,” Olivia says with an exasperated sigh. “But I didn’t think you capable of resisting your baser nature. I suppose I was right… about some of it.”

“She fucking attacked me.”

Olivia tuts. “Dramatic. I compelled her to get you into bed. To do whatever it took. I’d assumed it’d take little more than her lifting her little skirt and offering it to you.”

Dread and revulsion fill you at the implication. She’d forced Grace to seduce Roman. He’d told you the truth. It didn’t make killing her any more redeemable, but a little flutter of hopefulness kindles in your stomach anyway.

“I told you.” Roman says slowly, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. “I don’t want anyone else anymore. Just her.”

Olivia’s eyes slide from her son to you, and the corners pinch in a mean way that chills you.

“A pity she doesn’t feel the same. She all but begged me to hire some little whore so you’d leave her alone. It must be a dreadful blow to ones ego to devote yourself so completely to a girl who doesn’t care for you at all.”

Roman would have preferred his mother stab him with a kitchen knife. This is somehow worse than the contraceptives, because at least that had been a rejection of the pregnancy, not of him.

Roman spins on his heel, shoving past Olivia and out of the house without a backwards glance. He turns the key in the ignition of his jag and speeds away with shaking hands and a bloodstained face, leaving you alone with Olivia Godfrey and the corpse of your shared victim.

Roman doesn’t come home until the sun is close to rising, and you’ve been sitting up all night staring out the window like you could will him to return to you. He’s a little worse for wear and he smells like whiskey, but he crawls onto the bed and drags you onto his lap and you let him because you’re so absurdly grateful that he came back.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, and he lets out a shaky breath.

“For what?”

“For going to your mother.”

Roman hums. “Just that?”

You swallow, cupping his cheeks to lift his eyes to yours. “Yes, just that. I went to her because you were being so rough with me all the time. And I felt so sick with the pregnancy, and you were making it worse with your selfish need to take all the time. So I shouldn’t have gone to Olivia, but I’m not sorry that I tried to stop you.”

Roman bites his lip. “When the girl arrived… you forbid me from touching her. Why?” And you could damn yourself with the truth, or paint him a pretty lie. You look at the insecure, beautiful monster beneath you and feel the flutter of his baby in your stomach, and you choose the path that leads to the least bloodshed. “I was jealous. I wanted you to myself. I still do.” The tension bleeds out of Roman slowly as he draws you close and cradles you against his chest. “I hoped that was it.”

“And I was just… shocked. When I saw you in the kitchen feeding off her.”

“You thought I broke my promise?”

“No, I… I don’t know. Maybe that was it. I just hate seeing all that blood. And she was so young.” You feel your throat closing around a sob, and Roman shifts so he can cup your chin and press his lips to yours.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry you had to see that in your condition, it wasn’t right. Here.” He lifts you off his lap and lays you down, climbing over you to rest between your legs as he brackets your head with his hands on the mattress. “But I need you to understand.”

His voice is still soft as he rolls his hips against yours, and you feel the twitching of his cock stirring to life against you. “I’m an Upir. I feed on people, that’s just what I do.”

You hum in agreement, feeling pleasure throb in your clit and cloud your mind. “And our kids are probably gunna do it too. There’s gunna be bodies everywhere, like, forever.”

You groan as he slips a hand down to free his cock from his pants, gliding it against the dampening front of your underwear. “And the best I can offer you,” he whispers as he pushes your underwear aside and slaps his tip against your clit until you whine. “Is that you won’t have to clean up the mess.”

Your eyes roll back as he pushes inside you, the fat head of his cock stretching your sensitive walls as he sheathes himself inside you.

Your hands lift to claw at his back, and he brings his hand slowly up your body to press his palm to your throat. “But,” he whispers as his hips begin to snap against yours, setting a brutal pace, “If you ever talk to me like that again,” he tilts his hips, changing the angle as he presses harder against your throat to restrict your airflow, “I’ll make you lick the blood off the goddamn floor.”

Your eyes roll back as his cock grazes against your g-spot, and you sob as an orgasm rips through you, lifting your hips off the bed to meet his as your vision explodes white with oxygen deprivation. He keeps choking you just barely as his cock thickens and twitches inside you, cumming with a low moan and coating your insides with his release.

He pulls out quickly, finally letting go of your throat, and you gasp loudly.

Roman cuts you off with the press of his tongue down your throat, and you kiss him back as best you can until he pulls away satisfied.

“You understand?” He asks, licking over your lips and chasing the trails of tears you didn’t know you’d cried.

“Yes,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I understand.”  

“Baby? Please can you let me in?” He’s met with an ominous silence that has him chewing nervously on the inside of his cheek. “Please,” he tries again, voice soft as he rests his forehead against the wall beside your door. “I know I’m late. I’m really sorry, but it wasn’t my fault, okay? The deliveries ran over and then my line manager was being an asshole about it. And you know I run pickups on Fridays. I came as soon as I could. Please. Baby, please let me in.”

You roll over in bed, facing away from the door and the soft pleading coming from the other side of it. Dinner sits cold on the breakfast bar in the kitchen, a film of grease coating everything. The smell makes you feel nauseous, but you’re not going to clean it up. You need to let it sit there rotting, to remind you why you put the fucking chain on the door. Because Eddie Barrish is no good. He’d promised you a night in, said you could pick whatever fuckin chick-flick movie you wanted and he’d watch it all the way through. Swore he wouldn’t try to fuck you until it was over no matter how bored he got. And he’d asked that you make fried chicken because he loves your recipe more than the goddamn Colonel’s.

You’d bought a pretty lingerie set, and you’d spent all afternoon cooking and cleaning and setting up the perfect date night. But six had come and gone. Seven, eight. You’d changed into PJs at nine, and shut off the lights at ten. And put the chain on the door at ten-fifteen, because the idea of him sneaking into bed after you’re asleep sends a curl of fury through your stomach. You check your phone now, gritting your teeth when you read the 01.27 illuminated on the screen. Past midnight, and no missed calls, no texts. Nothing at all to tell you he was going to be so late. So you’re not going to let him in, even though you know you won’t sleep at all tonight with the awful pit in your stomach that comes from fighting with him.

Eddie swallows hard into the silence. “It… it’s too cold to sleep in the van tonight. Please.” His voice breaks on the last word and you close your eyes. You know you’re being manipulated but he sounds so fucking sad and it hurts your heart.

You sit up with a sigh, running your fingers through your mussed hair and smoothing the puffy circles from around your eyes. You’ll be damned if he can tell how much you’ve been crying. He doesn’t deserve to know. But you don’t want him to freeze to death in his shitty van either, because however fucking inconvenient it is for you, you’re madly and hopelessly in love with Eddie Barrish.

His face is the picture of contrition when you push the door closed and open it wide. He leans against the doorjamb, hunched over like he can make himself smaller. “It’s late.”

Eddie licks his lips and you try very hard not to look at his mouth as his eyes scan over you. “I know. I’m sorry. Work, and-“ he leans into your space, pressing his cold lips to yours. “You look so good by the way,” he mumbles, pulling back but stepping over the threshold. “Fuck, you’re warm.” His hands land on your hips, icy fingers pushing up under your shirt to splay against your skin.

“I cooked.”

Eddie sucks his bottom lip into his mouth. “I know. I can smell it. Smells so fucking good, baby.”

“It’s ruined. Cold.” You fold your arms over your chest and feel your bottom lip jut out into a juvenile pout.

Eddie’s lips quirk up and down like he’s fighting a smile. “I’m fuckin starving.”

You let him slip past you and into the kitchen. He doesn’t even bother turning on a light, climbing onto one of the barstools at your breakfast bar and grabbing a piece of chicken with his bare hands. You hover in the doorway, lip curling in mild disgust at the way he eats. Like he’s not sure where his next meal is coming from. Like he’s trying to consume all the evidence of the way he’s fucked up tonight.

“Good?” You ask quietly, and Eddie glances over his shoulder at you.

“The best. You’re the best.”

“Well, have as much as you want. I’ll pack some up for you to take away tomorrow too.”

He hums his agreement, but he doesn’t turn around again.

“I’ll go get some sheets to make up the couch.”

His shoulders tense at that, but he wisely says nothing as you slip away.

Eddie looks a bit like a kicked puppy when he slouches into the room and you point to the couch.

“It’s cold.” He whines, and you swallow hard. Your resolve is already slipping, because he’s shrugged out of his hoodie and his white tee is clinging to his stomach and pressing against the toned muscles of his biceps.

“Warmer than your van.”

His tongue swipes over his bottom lip as he looks you up and down painfully slowly. “I’m too tall for the couch.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’ll live.”

He takes a step towards you, rising to his full height as he ducks under the doorway and shit. His throat bobs as he approaches, green eyes bright and clear as they flicker over your face. “It’d be a whole lot warmer if we were together.” His voice has dropped an octave, coming out of his throat as a low rumble, and Christ.

“I’m mad at you. I’m so mad at you.”

Eddie nods, dragging his bottom lip through his teeth. He’s playing dirty and you regret ever telling him how much his mouth turned you on as he weaponizes it. “I know. And I’m sorry. So sorry.” He closes the gap between you, lifting a hand to your jaw and tilt your face up to meet his. “Let me make it up to you.”

Heat pools low in your abdomen and arousal slicks in your underwear, and you groan. “You’re a manipulative little shit, Eddie Barrish.”

He hums as he brushes his lips against yours. “I’m not smart enough to manipulate you, baby. Just love you.”

And you sigh as his hands curve around you to cup your ass and squeeze. He moans softly, dragging you closer so he can slot his thigh between your legs and press your core down onto his jeans.

“You can’t just fuck your way out of it every time you fuck up,” you whisper, but your hips have started to rock back and forth against his thigh, desperation building with the tension zinging through you.

“I know,” he coos, pressing his mouth to yours over and over. “Not tryin to get out of it.” His lips trail slick kisses down your jaw and he sucks a sensitive spot on your neck, pressing his teeth against the flesh. “Just want you so bad baby.”

“Fuck,” you sigh, threading the fingers of one hand into his scruffy blonde hair and tugging him away from your throat. “Come on, then.”

He doesn’t completely let go of you as you make your way down the hall to your bedroom, like he’s afraid if you get out from under his touch you might come to your senses and send him back to the couch. Which, to be fair, you probably would. Because you’re pissed off every time you look at his stupid, beautiful face. And you can still smell the ruined dinner, and your expensive pretty lingerie is in a bag by your bedroom door because it makes your eyes water to look at it. You sit carefully on the edge of the bed and Eddie folds infront of you, dropping to his knees and looking up at you with his big, sad eyes. Playing fucking dirty, because he knows what that does to you, too.

“I love you,” he whispers, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your knee. “Thank you for letting me in.”

You swallow, parting your legs so he can wriggle closer and bump the sharp tip of his nose up the expanse of your inner thigh. “Only cuz it’s freezing.”

Eddie hums, mouthing at your flesh as he works his way towards your soaked center. “Love you so much,” he mumbles, sucking at your wetness through the thin barrier of your PJ pants. “Wanna show you.”

Your eyes roll back as you lift your hips, and Eddie’s fingers are in the waistband of your pants and dragging them down before you can really think about it. He wastes no time at all, tongue pressing flat to your slit as he wriggles it inside to taste your slick. He moans against you, sending delicious vibrations through your core and your clit throbs. “You taste so fuckin good,” he whispers, dipping his head to poke his tongue inside you before mouthing back up to suction your clit into his mouth. You feel the brush of his fingertips at your entrance and you suck in a breath as he pushes his middle and ring fingers inside you.

“You can’t be that mad at me, look at this,” he coos, smirking through the slick of your arousal on his face as he pulls his fingers out and pushes them back into you with a wet sound.

You huff, feeling a blush stain your cheeks, and you try to pull away from his fingers. It’s a half-hearted attempt admittedly, but Eddie’s free hand lifts to pin your hip to the mattress as he rises from his knees and crawls onto the bed. His fingers tug out of you and you miss them immediately, but your eyes roll back as he pushes the rough denim of his jean-clad thigh against your bare core as he climbs on top of you and kisses your own arousal into your mouth. “You’re so fuckin wet for me.” He moans.

“I’m not fucking turned on, Eddie.” You grit out. “I’m ovulating. It’s just like… a biological response.” Eddie freezes, his brain trying to catch up with your mouth as all his blood rushes south. Then he moves, his fingers dropping to circle your wrist and lift your hand above your head. It takes you a moment to realize what he’s going to do, but it’s too late. He’s got your other hand as well, and he pins both of your wrists to the mattress with one big palm as his other snakes down your body to push your shirt up. You catch his eyes and watch the way his pupils expand, eating away at the pretty green of his eyes as his cock thickens to press against your hip. He groans at the sight of your bare tits, dipping to suck a nipple into his mouth as his hand pushes between your bodies to rub circles on your clit with his rough fingers. You let out an embarrassing involuntary whimper as your hips lift to meet his touch, even though the pressure on your wrists is starting to ache.

Eddie doesn’t know he’s holding you too tightly. He’s so hard now that he can’t think straight. The only thought in his head is that he has to get inside you. He has to pump you so full of cum that you’ll be leaking. He has to put a fucking baby in you so you’ll never leave him. “Shit, baby.” He groans around your nipple, letting his teeth drag lazily over the sensitive peak. “You must be hurting so bad right now.”

You press your lips together to suppress a moan, because the maddening rubs of his fingers against your clit have brought you to the edge of your orgasm much too quickly. You’re soaked, arousal pooling under your ass as you clench around nothing. And if you open your mouth you might beg him to put his fingers or his cock in you, just to feel full. And that would be bad, because you’re fucking angry with Eddie.

“I’m fine.”

“Right,” he huffs a laugh, fingers dropping from your clit to press against your entrance. “That why you’re practically squirting already?”

You swallow hard, flexing your wrists under his hold. “Like I said, it’s a biological-“

“Yeah,” he coos, shoving two fingers into you and curling them with deadly precision. “I heard you, baby.”

There is nothing but the wet in and out sound of Eddie’s fingers in your cunt and the quiet, desperate moans spilling from your lips. Eddie alternates between watching your face contort in pleasure and your pussy swallow his fingers and he’s so, so glad he came over tonight. Because one of the guys from his pool game had invited him to crash, and he’d almost agreed to it to avoid how pissed you were going to be. His cock is leaking enough to paint a dark patch of precum on the front of his jeans, and he figures he’s worked you up enough to be pretty sure you’re not going to kick him out if he sticks his cock in you.

He slows down, his fingers barely moving as they press lightly just inside you, and you whine.

“Please,” you whisper.

“What do you want, baby? You gotta tell me. Wouldn’t wanna do something you don’t like when you’re so pissed at me, right?”

You roll your eyes in annoyance as you clench around his fingers, and Eddie’s smirk drops as his lips part around a soft groan.

“Want you to fuck me, you asshole.”

Eddie huffs a tiny laugh as he pulls his fingers from you and fumbles with the button and zipper on his jeans. It would be a lot easier with two hands, but seeing you with your wrists pinned above your head is so fucking hot he’ll figure it out. He shuffles into position between your thighs and grips the base of his leaking cock, rubbing the head through your folds and up to your clit before easing into you.

You moan, hips pushing down to drag him into the tight, wet heat of you, and Eddie almost sobs at the instant, perfect pressure around his cock. “Goddamn,” he moans. “Goddamn, baby. You always feel so fuckin good.”

You whine, lifting one leg to bracket around his hip and you dig your ankle into his ass. “More.”

Eddie’s eyes roll back as he sinks in deeper, cock bumping hard against your walls as his hips snap against yours. “Fuck. I’m gunna fuck,” he moans, free hand grazing up your body to wrap lightly around your throat. “Gunna fucking fill you up, baby. Gunna get you so fucking full of my cum.”

Your eyes roll back as your pussy flutters around his cock, because that sounds so good and so filthy, and at least you’re not- your brain kicks back in just enough to remind you that you’re ovulating, and Eddie Barrish fucking a creampie into you is about as bad an idea as he’s ever had.

“You can’t cum in me,” you whimper. “Shit, Eddie. You gotta pull out. Or put a condom on.”

Eddie’s brows knit over his eyes, because what the fuck are you saying? Like there’s any scenario here that doesn’t end with his cum oozing out of you. No fucking way. So he ignores you, putting just enough pressure on your throat with the palm of his hand to make you gasp. You make a breathy little sound that vibrates against his hand, and Eddie’s cock twitches hard inside you at how hot it is.

“Eddie,” you gasp. “Please, you can’t.” You push against his hand, wrists twisting against the mattress like you can break yourself free as a panicked tear spills from the corner of your eye and soaks into your hairline.

Eddie notices, and he stops. He pulls out of you slowly, hand leaving your throat to brush away the tear as he rises up your body to kiss you gently. “Shhh, baby.”

He releases your wrists and you wince, air hissing through your teeth as you flex your sore muscles and wiggle your fingers to encourage blood to flow back into your hands.

You’re preoccupied with this and the throbbing between your legs. You don’t notice Eddie slipping his belt from his jeans. And then he’s so fast, looping the leather around your wrists and fastening you to your headboard. So impossibly fast.

“Wait.” You swallow, pulling uselessly at your restraints. “Wait, Eddie.”

“Can’t, baby.” He mumbles, climbing back between your legs and wrapping his hands around the backs of your thighs to push your legs further apart. “I just gotta fucking breed you. I have to.”

You whimper as he fucks back into you, your arousal spilling out around his cock and soaking his balls as he buries himself in you. “Shit,” you moan, eyes rolling back at the insane, overwhelming pleasure of his return. The head of his cock brushes against your g-spot and you cry out, clamping down on his cock.

“See,” Eddie pants, snapping his hips fiercely against yours. “See how much you want it?”

You whine a vague protest, but Eddie ignores it, leaning heavily on one elbow so he can push his other hand between your bodies to rub rough circles on your clit.

“Not inside,” you whisper.

“Yeah, fucking inside.” He moans, dipping between your folds to collect your slick before smearing it back up over your clit. “I’m gunna fill you up and you’re gunna have my fucking babies.”

Your eyes roll back as fresh tears stream down your cheeks, and Eddie groans as he leans up to lick the salty trails from your face. “Don’t cry. You’ll look so good all fat n full, won’t you?”

“I don’t wannnnna,” you wail, your muscles tightening impossibly around his cock as you clamp down on him.

“Shit,” Eddie whimpers, head dropping as his hips stutter against yours and he cums deep inside you, hot spurts of release coating your sensitive cervix. You feel it happen, feel the hot caress of his cum filling you up, and you can only moan as your own orgasm rips through you, pulsing against the rough callouses of Eddie’s fingertips as he rubs and circles and glides against your clit and you flutter erratically around his still-hard cock.

You’re openly crying as you come down from it, and Eddie pulls out of you gently and reaches up to brush his lips over your face, peppering your sweaty, tear-stained skin with feather-light kisses.

“You did so good for me, baby.” He murmurs, even as his fingers dip to collect his leaking cum and push it back into you.

You let out a shaky breath, turning your head to capture his mouth. “That was… fuck, Eddie.”

He grins crookedly against your lips. “Want me to untie you?”

You hum, testing the strength of the leather around your wrists. “I could go another round.”

Eddie dips his head to nip at your neck, pressing his tongue over the bruise he’d sucked into your flesh earlier. “Y’know, I almost didn’t show tonight. Thought you’d be so pissed at me you wouldn’t wanna play.”

You feel a little chill douse some of the arousal in your stomach. “I mean, I’m still pissed at you.”

Eddie nods against your skin, grazing the tip of his nose along your jaw. “I know, and you’re right to be. I really don’t think I can fuck my way out of it. I promise I’ll do better.”

You sigh, wishing your hands were free so you could touch him. “We can talk about it later. Right now, I don’t wanna talk.”

“No?” There’s a smile in his voice as he licks down your neck and over the swell of your breast. “What do you wanna do?”

You hum, lifting a leg to hook around his thigh. “Want you to breed me again, Eddie.”

Eddie groans, his cock stirring to life at your filthy words and the slick heat of your pussy against his stomach. “So fucking hot when you say that. You have no idea. Can’t wait to do it for real.”

You roll your eyes. You love Eddie Barrish, more than anything. But there’s no way in hell you’d ever let him fuck you raw when you’re actually ovulating. The man isn’t fit to be a father, not by a longshot. Maybe one day, but for now you’re happy to just pretend.