Such is Life.

“Sorry?”

“I asked if you’re going to Matty’s party this weekend. His parents are out of town so everybody’s crashing there.”

You swallow thickly, imagining an audience to your night terrors, and suppress a shiver. “I don’t think so.”

She opens her mouth like she’s going to argue, but then her eyes slide past you and her lips press into a tight line. “Hey, Rome. Tell your girlfriend to stop being boring.”

Roman slings his arm over the back of your chair as he sits down, free hand lifting to pinch your chin and turn your head towards him so he can peck your lips in greeting. “You being boring?”

You shrug. “Don’t feel like sleeping over at Matty’s house.”

Roman frowns, turning his steely green eyes on his cousin. “Come a-fucking-gain?”

Letha shoots you a glare. “She’s making it sound like a thing. He’s having a party, parents out of town. Everybody’s going.”

Roman hums, the hand on the back of your chair reaching around so he can glide his fingers against your shoulder. You flinch, just barely as he grazes over the healing imprint of a bite.

“Everybody, huh?”

Letha knows that tone. Roman’s fixing an idea in his head, and her eyes flick over you with a mix of concern and apprehension. “I mean… he didn’t invite anybody by name. I just thought you’d want to go. Both of you.”

Roman’s fingers press into the edges of the bitemark. He can almost feel the tingling sensation on his lips as he’d sank his teeth into your flesh and you’d bled hot and heavy into his mouth. He’d come harder than maybe ever, with your tears falling into his hair and your perfect cunt clenching around him and your blood pouring down his throat. He’d been sick in your parents driveway afterwards, pretty much the moment his feet had hit the well-worn patch of earth directly beneath your bedroom window, but he hadn’t cared much. In fact he’d ridden the high all the way home, where he’d slipped into your dreams and burrowed down between your legs and bitten great, meaty chunks of flesh from your thighs as you wailed and begged him to stop. He’d brought you flowers the next day, an enormous spray of red roses just because, and you’d accepted them with a frightened, exhausted smile and Roman had felt a tiny bit better about what he’d done. For a while, at least.

He leans in now, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his fingers trail up and down your arm in a gesture that would look like easy comfort to an outsider. “What do you say? You wanna go?”

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the familiar pinprickles of anxiety skitter across your skin at the brush of his lips. “It’s a sleepover.”

“I know.” He whispers. “But I’ve got you. Nothing can get you when I’m there, right?” And you nod, because it’s true. It had been true since that first night at his house, when you’d slept soundly in Roman’s bed. Under his eye, his protection, your demon didn’t visit. Nobody had liked it at first; the way you’d wrapped yourself around Roman Godfrey until it was impossible to tell where you ended and he began. Your parents had fretted over how unhealthy it was to become so intensely attached to each other so young, and your mom had worried about teen pregnancy. But they’d relented when they saw how much better you were around him, and now you slept at Roman’s house four nights a week. He drove you to school. He drove you home to eat dinner with your parents, and then he picked you up before the sun had finished setting. It was the only way, the only fucking way you got enough sleep to function at school.

The weekends were different, because your family insisted you spend some time in your own house and your own room, and on the weekends you spent almost the whole time in bed, tossing and turning and burning and aching through night terrors and wet dreams and waking up feeling so thoroughly strung out there were claw marks on your thighs and bruises on bruises on bruises inside and out.

You shiver in the present, and Roman presses his lips to your temple before turning back to his cousin. “We’re in. Sounds fun.”

Letha offers Roman a tight smile and you an even tighter one, as concern gnaws on her insides. “You sure?”

Roman’s fingers tighten a fraction on your arm, and you nod automatically. “Sure, Letha. Sounds fun.”

*

The music is so loud the walls seem to thump in time to the beat, like the whole house pulses with the living, breathing organism of teenage debauchery, and you shrink against Roman’s side as he leads you deeper into the belly of the building. “Roman,” you mumble.

He shouldn’t be able to hear you, but he’s so attuned to every single breath you take that he pauses, turning you gentle to face him and dipping his head so he can brush his lips against your own. “If it’s too much, we’ll go.”

His mouth says the words, but there is a hard glint in his eye and you know that you can’t go. Not until he’s ready to. Not until he’s done whatever he came here to do. “Alright, Roman.”

The smile he gives you borders on feral, all sharp teeth and hard lines as he laces his fingers through yours and pulls you into the kitchen. Every available surface is covered in bottles and plastic cups and sticky splashes of spilled drinks, and you wrinkle your nose as Roman releases your hand long enough to pull two sealed beers from the table. He cracks the first open on the edge of the counter, not caring that the surface chips as he does it, and you feel an unpleasant wave of dislike wash through you at the brief glimpse of who your boyfriend really is. You don’t like Roman Godfrey. Nobody does, actually. He’s a spoiled, entitled asshole, and there was a time where you’d known that. Before the possession that had all but destroyed you and turned you into little more than a shell for Roman to pour his obsession into.

“Have a drink, sweetheart.” He commands, pressing the bottle into your palm. “You look tense.”

You bring the bottle to your lips automatically, sucking down the lukewarm, fizzy liquid with only the slightest of winces. A smirk tugs at Roman’s lips as you comply, and he watches the column of your throat bob as you swallow. His cock stirs in his jeans, and he’s considering whether he’s going to take your mouth or your cunt tonight when a meaty, sweating hand slips into the space between your arm and your chest and brushes your tit.

“Shit, sorry.” The guy mumbles, slurring with drunkenness as he reaches for a beer from the table beside you. You shrug like it isn’t a big deal, even though you can feel the malevolence rolling off your boyfriend on the other side of him.

“It’s fine.” You say tightly, and the man dips his head in a farewell before staggering back into the party. You meet Roman’s eyes, and your heart skips over a nervous beat at the black fury in his face. “It’s fine.” You repeat.

“Yeah.” Roman forces a tight smile onto his face, his hand snaking around your waist to pull you against him. “Go find Letha. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Roman,” you murmur, slipping your hand into his jacket and splaying your fingers against the soft warmth of his side. “Please don’t. Just stay with me.”

He hums, leaning in to press his lips against yours. You sigh into the kiss, and Roman’s tongue pushes into your mouth, licking against your own with hot, gentle brushes that set a kindling fire low in your stomach. You can feel his cock thickening against you and you slide your hand from his waist to his crotch, palming him lightly through his jeans. “Stay,” you whisper against his mouth.

“Go and find Letha.” He repeats, his voice an octave lower and roughened by arousal. “Don’t fucking…” he cuts himself off, swallowing thickly before cupping your jaw. “Don’t talk to anyone else. Just Letha.”

You nod, leaning against the weight of his palm. “Don’t do anything… It was nothing, Roman. Really.”

Roman shakes his head, the fingers on your jaw curling up into your hair. “That’s what I love about you, sweetheart. You’re so fucking naïve.”

You don’t have a chance to nurse the hurt of his words, because he releases you and turns on his heel, slipping silently into the main party room, and you take a few shuddering breaths before forcing your shaking legs to move back through the house towards the staircase where you’d seen Letha sitting when you’d arrived.

“Where’s Roman?” She asks by way of greeting, because seeing you without your shadow wrapped around you in a place like this is jarring.

“He… a guy touched my… he…” You break off over and over, unable or unwilling to articulate your fears. You don’t have to, with Letha. Her green eyes harden and she sets her mouth into a thin line.

“Well then, I suppose I’d better get my coat.”

Roman appears like a phantom, materializing beside you and sliding his fingers around your wrist in a shackle. There’s blood on the collar of his shirt and flecked over his jaw. He’s breathless, electricity flickering in his emerald eyes and a heavy erection pressing against the front of his jeans as he grabs your hand and pulls you in for a kiss that tastes like beer and fury. “I think this party’s done.”

There’s a commotion somewhere deeper in the house, and you think you hear somebody scream as Roman tugs you out the front door and down the drive to where he’s parked on the street. You’d been at the party for less than half an hour.

*

He’d broken the rules. He kills the engine in his own driveway after dropping Letha off at her house, and you turn to him with panic clawing up your throat. “It’s Friday night.”

Roman smirks as he turns in his seat. “Very astute observation.”

“No, I mean… I have to go home. I can’t stay here if I’m not staying at the sleepover.”

He shrugs, reaching across the cab to press his palm to your knee. “So have a sleepover here. What’s the difference?”

You grit your teeth as Roman’s fingers begin to crawl up the inside of your thigh, sliding under your skirt without permission to tease over the front of your panties. “If they find out… my parents will…” you sigh, head dropping back against the seat as he locates the little swell of your clit and rubs against it, dragging your underwear against the sensitive bud.

“Who says they have to know?” He coos, leaning across to nuzzle his nose against your neck as he peppers soft, open-mouthed kisses against your throat. “I’ll drive you home in the morning and you can tell them you spooned with Letha all night.”

You whimper as his fingers slip into the side of your underwear, brushing through your folds with a wet sound before finding your clit and pinching it gently.

“I wanna be inside you,” he whispers, one finger dipping to push into you as his thumb takes over rubbing your clit. “Need it, after the shit you made me do tonight.”

Your eyes flutter closed, tears pooling behind your lids. There isn’t any point in arguing, or of reminding him that you’d practically begged him not to react to the guy at the party. It would always be your fault anyway. “I’m not… not yet,” you stammer, and Roman pulls away with an exaggerated sigh.

“I know.” His voice is laced with tight agitation, and your stomach flutters uncomfortably. “You’re never fucking ready, and I have the patience of a goddamn saint.”

You chew your bottom lip into your mouth, shifting uncomfortably in your seat. “It’s just… with everything that’s going on, that… that’s still going on, it doesn’t feel right. I want… I want to be okay when we do it. I want it to be a good… a good memory. Not with all this hanging over it.”

Roman’s eyes soften, and his hand lifts to cup your cheek. You can feel your own arousal smearing against your skin as he does it, and a bolt of shame shivers down your spine.

“I get it, baby, I do. I just like you so much.”

His words settle over you like a protective blanket, and you put up no further resistance as he pulls you from the car and up the steps to his front door.

Olivia Godfrey looks up from the paper she’s pretending to read when you’re dragged past the library door on your way to his bedroom, but she doesn’t comment. She does listen for the sound of the door closing, and then she picks up her phone and calls your mother, concern oozing into every poisoned word she speaks.

You settle onto Roman’s bed, the divots in the mattress and the slightly worn quality to his duvet as familiar to you as your own. Roman crawls over you, pinning you on your back as he presses his erection against your core and grinds down steadily.

“Oh, god,” you whimper, eyes falling closed at the delicious friction of his cock dragging over you again and again.

“One day I’m gunna fuck you,” he coos, his voice barely audible over the very insistent creak of the headboard against the wall. Gunna fill you up with my cock so good you can hardly breathe.”

You moan, lifting one leg to hitch around his waist and giving him more access. Roman leans heavily on one hand as he reaches down to release his zipper and yank his jeans down to mid-thigh, pressing back against you with a little groan of his own with just two thin layers of cotton between your wet pussy and his desperate cock. “Not until you’re ready,” he moans, repositioning his aching cock so your swollen pussy practically hugs around his shaft with every thrust. “Not until you’re begging me for it.”

You whimper at the intense, intimate feeling as your orgasm builds, your clit throbbing in agony at the pleasure pain of the friction building between your bodies. “Please, Roman.”

He hums, head tilting to the side as he increases his pace, rutting against you with reckless, desperate fervour. “Shit, I’m gunna come. You gunna come for me? Ruin those pretty panties?”

You sob as you fall apart, your clit pulsing through waves of your release as you soak your underwear and writhe underneath him.

“There you go,” he coos, his jaw rippling with tension as his own release hits him, painting the inside of his boxers with his sticky cum. “Shit, there you go.”

Roman eases off you, rolling onto his back and tugging you against his side. You hook one thigh over his, pressing the wet mess of your panties against his leg, and Roman swallows hard as his cock tries to twitch back to life. He doesn’t much fancy being hard for the next hour whilst you whisper about how fucking scared you are, so he hooks his fingers under your chin and tilts your face up instead.

“Look at me. You want me to fuck you. You want me to be really rough with you.”

You make a strangled sound in the back of your throat, but your head bobs obediently and Roman pushes you gently back down onto your back. “You’re not gunna make too much noise, either.”

You nod again, your breath hitching in and out with silent sobs as Roman peels your wet panties down your legs and pushes two fingers into you roughly. “I’m gunna be really fucking inconvenienced tomorrow if that piece of shit tells his parents about our talk.”

Tears well in your eyes and fall silently into your hair line as Roman withdraws his fingers, sucking them into his mouth before shoving his own boxers down and wrapping his fist around his leaking cock.

“Gunna have to explain that he groped my fucking girl. You’re gunna have to tell them the same thing.”

You shake your head, but then he captures your eyes in his intense, unblinking stare and you nod instead.

He pushes into you in one long, hard thrust, bottoming out with a breathy moan. You clench around him, the intrusion burning as he sets a brutal rhythm. “Gunna have to pay his fucking-“ He wraps a hand around your throat, pressing you into the mattress until you gasp. “Fucking medical bills.”

You begin to shake, an all-over tremble of visceral dread as Roman fucks you aggressively into the mattress, battering your insides and dragging over the same deep contusions he’d left inside you the last time and the time before that.

“Gunna have to make it look like he tried to fuck you,” he spits, the hand on your throat flexing. “Gotta make it real. You understand.”

You don’t, until Roman’s fingers tighten on the sides of your neck and push in with such intense pressure you think he’s going to kill you this time. If you don’t die you’ll certainly bruise, and his other hand snatches a sharp handful of your thigh to leave a blossom of marks in the shape of his fingers. You don’t cry out. Not when he’d told you to be quiet. You aren’t capable of disobeying him when he was like this.

“He tried to rape you.” Roman snaps, his eyes boring holes into yours as his cock carves you open in sharp, deep thrusts. “He choked you out and I had to save you.”

You gasp, desperately trying to suck in a thin stream of air as you feel Roman’s cock twitch and thicken inside you.

“Good.” He spits. “I wanna fucking… fill you up. Shit. Shit.” His eyes close for a moment, and horror washes over you at the bliss on his face. He opens his eyes again and the command to come fills you, unnatural arousal washing through you in a tidal wave of forced pleasure as you writhe beneath him.

This is his undoing, as it always is, and Roman comes with a low, throaty moan at the feeling of your cunt fluttering around his cock. You soak the sheets and his balls, and Roman buries his face in the crook of your neck and bites a soft chunk of your flesh into his mouth as he fills you with his release.

“I love you,” he whispers against your swollen throat before pulling back with a sigh and holding your face steady. “This never happened. We dry-fucked like kids and then I held you as you slept. Dream about something nice.”

Your eyelids flutter closed and you feel his fingers gently brushing your hair away from your face, and you wonder for a fleeting, bitter moment why he can’t just be the guy he wants you to think he is.

*

There’s a worn suitcase by the front door when you get home from school on Monday, and you eye it with a frown as you slip your shoes off and step into the house. “Mom?”

She emerges from the kitchen, `a grin on her face. “If you could wish for anything right now, what would it be?”

Your frown deepens, and you purse your lips. You can’t tell her the truth, obviously. That you’d wish for the nightmares to end. The demon to leave you alone or to better yet fucking die so you could exist in peace. For someone to notice the fact that your body is falling apart almost as fast as your mind and to do something about it. Instead you say “I don’t know,” and watch with growing suspicion as her grin widens and she looks back into the kitchen.

“Alright, well. I took a stab at it myself.”

“Meaning?”

“Why don’t you come see?”

You sigh heavily, too tired to play whatever game this is as you enter the kitchen. Your schoolbag drops from your hand and your eyes go wide as you drink him in. His eyes bug out of his skull, the icy blue of them melting the hard veneer of your defences as he slips right into your soul, into the place you’d hollowed out for him when you were four years old. “Peter?”

He looks different than the last time you saw him. His hair is longer and he’s grown stubbly beard, but it’s Peter. Your Peter.

Peter Rumancek looks over the sack of skin-and-bones formally known as his best friend, and he wishes your mom had called him a month ago. There’s a fragile, bird-like quality to you, the way you hover, the way you flinch at the lightest of sounds. The way you can’t sit completely still, can’t relax back into the couch even when he slings his arm around your shoulders like he’s done a million times before.

“I wanna meet your friends.”

You tense. “I don’t really have any.”

“Sure you do,” your mom says, twisting her mouth to the side. “There’s… uh.. Letha? It’s Letha, isn’t it?”

You shrug, and Peter stores the name away. “Letha’s a weird name.”

You shrug again, and Peter can physically see the strain it’s putting on you just to remain nonchalant.

“And there’s Roman, of course.” There’s a tight edge to your mom’s voice that Peter hones in on.

“The boyfriend?”

Your breath hitches in your throat, and Peter leans away to look at your face better.

“You been icing me out because you got a boyfriend? That isn’t us.”

“No,” you whisper. “I just didn’t think to mention it.”

Yeah, right. You’d told him about everything, every single mundane stupid thing that had happened to you since you were both little kids, and you’d not thought to text him that you had a steady boyfriend for the first time ever? Not fucking likely.

“Well, I’d sure like to meet him. And Letha. I’m here for a while kid, you may as well get it over with.” Peter jostles his shoulder against yours and you jolt away from him, flinching as though you’re braced for violence.

Peter knows this. He knows the haunted look in your eye and the way you hold yourself like you’re terrified to take up too much room. He’s seen it before, in the wide, dead eyes of women peering from trailers whilst their husbands worked grifts in town. Saw it on his own mama’s face the night before he’d broken her boyfriends arm and sent him packing at the too-young age of thirteen. He’d never, ever expected to see it on the face of his ballsy best friend. And Roman didn’t sound like the name of a guy who hits his girlfriend, but that didn’t matter much. Peter was going to rearrange his face for him all the same.

*

Letha is a pretty blonde. She’s disarmingly pretty, and suspiciously nice from the moment Peter holds out his hand. There’s a smudge of oil on his knuckles from where he’d crawled under your dads car to check for a leak earlier that day, but Letha wraps her pale, manicured fingers around his and doesn’t so much as wrinkle her nose, and Peter wonders how a girl so soft and nice could watch you be destroyed and not do a thing about it.

But then he meets Roman Godfrey, and Roman ruffles Letha’s hair with an affectionate cuz, and Peter understands the measure of things. You’d surrounded yourself with Godfreys and nobody was looking out for you.

“I’m gunna grab a soda. Letha, would you mind showing me where to get napkins?” Letha blinks at him, her mouth opening and closing before deciding on a smile as she pushes up from her seat.

“Cherry coke?” He asks you, and you nod. “As sweet as you are.” He adds, and your cheeks flush as your eyes plead with him.

Peter isn’t flirting with you. He would never, not when you were closer to a sister than anything else, but Roman’s grip on your shoulder tightens and his eyes narrow at you and it’s the confirmation Peter needs.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Letha says in a low voice the moment they’re far enough away from the table to be sure Roman can’t hear her. “Antagonize him like that.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “What is he, a fucking mob boss?”

Letha huffs a laugh. “Well no, obviously not. But he does have a temper. Especially when it comes to her.”

Peter swallows, leaning against the soda fountain and tilting his head to the side. He puts on a smile, the charming gypsy grin he’d perfected to slip into girls panties almost two years ago and that had never failed him, not once. “I’ve known her my whole life. That’s how we talk. He’ll understand.”

Letha purses her lips and watches the pretty boy with the air of otherness as he fills a cup with cherry coke, and Peter pretends he can’t feel her eyes on him.

“She seem… okay to you?”

He’s as casual as he can be, but Letha still tenses up beside him. “She’s been having some problems.”

“Problems?”

Letha shifts from one foot to the other. She can feel her cousins eyes on her from across the food court, his words whispering into her ear as though he were right beside her. “Roman is helping her through it. He’s really been her rock. She’s lucky to have him.”

Her expression shifts into something stern and stoic, and Peter’s shoulders sag in defeat. “Well, that’s something I guess.”

Letha blinks as Peter hands her a wad of napkins and she follows him back to the table. “You know,” she says brightly, “if you’re going to be in town for a while I’d love to show you around. Those two are busy a lot and it’d be good to have somebody to hang out with.”

“I came to see my friend, but thanks.”

“She’ll be at Roman’s a lot, is all.” Letha continues, nudging her arm against Peter’s in a deliberately accidental way. “If you get lonely, you’d always be welcome.”

Peter’s eyes drop down her body, taking in the fitted, designer look to her dress and the perfectly dyed shade of her blonde hair. “Thanks.”

“So, Petey.” Roman says as he sits down, intercepting the coke he’d brought for you and taking a sip of it himself. Peter bristles, but he forces a smile onto his face as he meets the unsettling, wide green eyes of your boyfriend. “You staying long?”

“Roman,” you mumble, eyes lifting to Peter’s for a fraction of a second. “It’s a short visit, right Peter? Just passing through.”

Peter shrugs, eyes narrowing slightly. “Your mom and dad want me to stay through til the summer. Seasonal work is hard to find til then anyway.”

Roman’s lip curls into a sneer. “Seasonal work? You picking fruit in the fields or scamming carnivals?” His nails graze over your shoulder. “I know you said he’s a gypsy but Jesus, what a cliché.”

You swallow thickly. “I never said that, exactly.”

“I’m not ashamed of it.” Peter says. “Rumanceks are Romani as far back as the first men.”

Roman scoffs at that, and heat flushes through you. He’s being so rude, he’s being so rude right in front of Peter and Peter is cataloguing it all. You’ll never convince him that this is fine, not if Roman can’t hold it together long enough to act like a person.

“Good line.” He says, easing back into his seat and tugging you closer against his chest. You’re twisted at an awkward angle, but your boyfriend doesn’t seem to notice or care as his hand drops from your arm to your hip, thumb hooking into the waistband of your jeans. “My family built this town. Godfrey steel built this town.”

Peter shrugs. “I think it’s better not to leave a mark. We come into this world with nothing and should leave the same way. Balance in nature and all that shit.”

Roman’s brows furrow into an unattractive scowl, and his free hand cups your jaw to turn your face to his. He pushes his lips against your own, parting them and licking into your mouth in the most overt display of possession Peter’s seen in a while. He might as well have cocked a leg and pissed on you.

You pull away first, flushed and breathless, and Peter only raises an eyebrow at you as Roman licks your saliva from his lips with a smug smirk. “Oh, right.” He turns to you, smirk still firmly in place as he takes in the dazed look in your eyes. “My mom wants you over for dinner tomorrow night. She has some acquaintances from the Tower coming and she thinks I’ll behave better if you’re there.”

You swallow, eyes darting to Peter. “It’s… it’s my dads birthday. We’re going out.”

Roman grits his teeth, feeling his fury rise to a near-boil. “First I’m hearing.”

“I didn’t think… you’d care.” Your voice is so small, so desperately quiet that Peter feels sick. “I’d have invited you if I could.”

“Whatever.” Roman releases your hip, pushing your chair away from his with a knock of his foot. You have to grapple for the side of the table to avoid being thrown onto the floor. “Wouldn’t wanna sit through a meal with your parents anyway. Or mine. Leth, you wanna go into the city instead? Catch a show?” Letha doesn’t, and she knows her own parents will skin her alive, but saying yes to Roman when he’s like this is the smartest thing to do, so she nods. “Sure, Rome. Sounds like fun.”

Roman doesn’t even say a proper goodbye. He just rests his hand on the side of your neck for a moment, leaning in close to brush his lips over yours before straightening and heading for the exit, and you watch him go with a nauseating blend of relief and regret.

You’re too tired to do much besides slump low in the passenger seat when Peter announces he needs to make a stop. You don’t question how he even knows somebody else in Hemlock Grove, because it had always kinda been a Rumancek thing to know people pretty much everywhere.

Destiny Rumancek looks down at you from the window of her apartment, brows furrowed at the dark aura surrounding her cousin’s car. She’s pleased to see that aura doesn’t belong to Peter himself when she greets him at the door, and she presses a kiss to a cheek and a little bag of weed into his palm as he steps over the threshold.

“Nothing like that.” She says, sipping a bitter tea blend whilst Peter’s knee jostles restlessly up and down from his position on her sagging couch. “I mean, it isn’t possible.”

“Nothing?” He presses. “You’re sure, Des? Because this isn’t… it isn’t normal. I mean the guy is an asshole, but this isn’t… it can’t be just that.”

Destiny thinks again on the darkness surrounding the shape of the girl in the car, and she taps her nails against her mug. “There was this thing a while ago.”

“A thing?”

“A rumor.” She sips thoughtfully. “That some stupid fuck with money to burn was looking to buy a love potion.”

Peter’s blood thickens and chills in his veins. “For real?”

Destiny rolls her eyes. “I mean, not for real. Love potions don’t exist, it doesn’t work like that.”

He sags against the couch. “So nothing.”

“Well, not necessarily,” Destiny says slowly. “There was another rumor. It wasn’t about the love potion, but the guy paid a visit to Madam Madou in Penrose and then he stopped asking questions.”

“Madam Madou. She the real deal?”

Destiny makes a derisive sound in the back of her throat. “As much as anyone, but her code is a little looser than mine.”

Peter fixes her with a look, and Destiny shivers. “A lot looser.”

*

Your parents let Peter sleep in your room. It’s a little insane to have him there, bundled up in a sleeping bag on the floor beside your bed. You can see a sliver of his face through a break in the curtains at your window, and his eye flashes electric blue every time the breeze teases the curtain wider.

“You’re different here.”

You jump at the sound of his voice. “Different bad?”

“Yes.”

You swallow, dread pooling like bile in your stomach. “I’m having a tough time adjusting.”

It’s the biggest understatement in the world, and Peter feels the lie in it like a knife in his gut. “You can talk to me you know. You always could.”

Tears slip into your hairline as you press your lips together against a sob. “There’s nothing to tell.” Your voice is thick and wet, and Peter closes his eyes against the pain of the chasm that’s somehow crumbled away between him and his best friend, and he thinks about how he’s going to build a bridge out of Roman Godfrey’s bones if that’s what it takes to get you back.

The forest is dense as ever, a thicket of green suffocating the sky, and the air is disconcertingly warm. Warmer than you’d ever remembered before, warm enough to pool sweat behind your knees and to turn your palms to slick as you run through the overgrown trees. Everything is too bright, too violently illuminated by a sky as blue as a summer sea. Your stomach clenches as you bolt over twisted roots and duck under low-hanging branches, hearing the rumbling breath of the predator hunting you hot on your heels. You throw yourself into the clearing, expecting the farmhouse, the barn, but instead there’s a stagnant pond of water where the house should be and the bloated, heaving corpse of a deer rippling in the shallow water’s edge. You slow to a stumble, watching in horror as the distended torso pulses with the mimic of breath. The thing hunting you crashes through the trees behind you, throwing you to the ground and rolling you onto your back. You suck in a breath, waiting for green eyes and skeletal fingers peeling away your clothes, but you’re met instead with an enormous, snarling wolf.

You piss yourself. You aren’t sure how it works in dreams, whether you’re pissing yourself in real life too like how your monster makes you come and you wake up soaked in arousal. You hope not, hope you’re not going to have to explain to Peter that you’re wetting the bed at your age, but you can’t think about that now. Not as the wolf drops a meaty paw onto your throat and pins you to the ground, pressing the air from your lungs as its claws pop through the meat of your throat like a knife through butter.

You try to scream as you drown in your blood, sucking a breath in only to lose it to the ruin of your throat, and the wolf’s jaws pull back in a snarl as its face begins to change. There is no room for anything other than terror as the wolf sloughs off its fur and reveals tanned skin, rough stubble and a pair of eyes so startlingly blue that you’d know them anywhere.

“No, no, no,” you wail, thrashing beneath him as Peter Rumancek pins you with his naked body, one hand dropping to rip your underwear away so he can shove himself into you with such violence you feel you’re being ripped in two. “No, no,” you whisper as your body is dragged roughly back and forth over the earth. “Not you, not you.”

The monster wearing the face of your best friend grins, the expression chillingly familiar and completely out of place on Peter’s mouth. “You gunna scream for me, little slut?”

You shake your head, thrashing against him as he brutalises you. “Not you, not you. Not Peter! Anyone but Peter.”

The demon tilts his head to the side, stilling his hips against yours. “You’re so much weaker with him here.” It says softly, fingers curling into claws against your wrists as it pins you to the ground. “So ripe for the picking.”

Your answering scream is cut off by the hard press of his mouth to yours as he begins to move again, thrusting into you with reckless, vicious abandon until blood blooms under your skin and your mind slips free of the nightmare.

Peter’s hovering over you when you open your eyes, and your hand flies out automatically, striking him hard enough in the mouth to draw blood.

He yelps, scuttling off your bed and across the floor with a palm clapped over his burst lip. “The fuck!”

“What are you.. what were you… how are…” you break off, chest rising and falling so rapidly Peter worries you’re going to pass out.

“Hey,” he says carefully, holding his free hand out to you. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. It was… I think you were having a nightmare.”

The sight of his hand leering towards you, the blood on his lips and even the smell of him sends a skittering of adrenaline through your body, and you hitch your knees up to your chest and hug them against yourself. “I… it happens a lot, these days.”

Peter perches slowly on the edge of your bed, coiled and ready to spring back up and away if you so much as flinch. “Bad ones?”

“The worst,” you whisper. “I think I’m being haunted. Or… possessed. By something evil.”

Peter swallows. “It’s just when you sleep? Nothing… you know. Lights flickering or cold spots or anything?”

You suck in a breath before pinching the edges of your sheet and pulling it down. Peter makes a terrible, strangled little sound of pain as you reveal the patchwork of horror littering the skin that people can’t see under your clothes. The bruises, the scratches. His stomach turns over at the bite marks, the very human imprints of teeth etched deep into your flesh. “Holy shit.”

“I know.” You mumble, pulling the sheet back up. “More and more, all the time. Things happen in my dreams and then I wake up hurting.” You don’t elaborate and Peter’s grateful for that small mercy. He knows. He can see it in the way your thighs shake, and in the glassy look to your eyes. That you’re being violated in your dreams and waking up with the evidence of that violation. He thinks about the guy looking for a love potion, and he wonders just how far into the void a desperate, depraved son of a bitch like Roman Godfrey would go to get you.

“Does Roman know?” His name tastes like ash, but your lips lift into a little smile.

“Yes. He’s the only other person I’ve told about it. He’s helping me through it.”

Peter grits his teeth. “How? How is he helping you? Because no offence but you don’t seem to be getting better. From how your parents look at you I’d guess you’re looking worse, kid.”

You frown, shaking your head. “No, I’m… Roman is helping me through it. He’s really been my rock. I’m very lucky to have him.”

Peter’s heart stutters over the words and he hears them in Letha’s voice, remembers the dead look in her eyes as she’d parroted them at him like muscle memory.

“Is he? Has he taken you to a doctor? Or a fucking exorcist?”

You shake your head again. “The demons don’t come for me when he’s around. It’s why mom and dad let me stay at his place. It’s the only time I can sleep.”

As if that isn’t the most suspicious thing Peter Rumancek has ever heard. He reaches for your shaking hand and kisses your knuckles. “Was it worse? With me here.”

You wince, and Peter feels pain lance through him as he withdraws from your hand and sits as far away from you as he can get.

“It… whatever it is doesn’t seem to like you here.”

Roman doesn’t like him here. Peter moves his stuff into the guest room without asking, and you slip down lower in your bed and cry yourself back to sleep in abject misery.

*

“I did some digging.” Destiny sounds distracted, and Peter holds his phone to his ear so tightly he can hear the screen splintering under the pressure.

“And?”

“And.” She sighs. “Madam Madou might have given this mystery man… something. Not a love potion, those don’t exist like I said. But something. She wouldn’t tell me, but it’s something serious enough that her coven is investigating. They might cut her off.”

Peter’s heart is a ticking bomb in his throat. “Any ideas, cuz?”

“I don’t know, Peter. There’s… I mean there are always things we can do to manipulate the mind.”

“She thinks she’s being haunted. Or possessed. She has these nightmares and wakes up covered in fucking bruises.”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone, and Peter is about to ask his cousin what she’s thinking about when her voice comes sharply through. “You should leave this alone, Peter.”

“Why? What do you know?”

She sighs. “Nothing. I don’t know of anything that can cause that, aside from actual fucking possession. But it’s bad news. I can feel it. Don’t make it your business.”

Peter thinks about your pretty, terrified eyes looking at him from a face etched in pain, and he thinks about the girl he’d met on the first day of school, and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Not an option, Des. She is my fucking business. Any suggestions on what to do if getting out isn’t an option?”

“You tried a priest?”

“No. She said the only thing that helps is sleeping at her boyfriends place. Like the dreams don’t come when she’s there or something.”

“Okay.” She hums. “It might be an emotional connection, or the boyfriend has figured something out that you haven’t. Maybe start there.”

“Right.” Peter can’t tell Destiny that he suspects Roman is the cause of everything, not without proof.

You’re sleeping again when he pokes his head around your door, and Peter decides not to wake you even though it’s approaching 10am. Instead he pulls out his phone and texts Letha, who had given him her number in the hopes the two of them would hang out but who reluctantly passes Roman’s address to him and Peter drives across town to the Godfrey manor with dread in his balls.

“Darling, you have a visitor.”

Roman’s lounging in his father’s old office, a musty smoking jacket embroidered JR in fading gold on his lapel. He’s tired, having found it more than a little challenging to keep Peter’s stupid fucking face over his own whilst he’d fucked you into a bloodied mess the previous night. He actually feels a little sick to see Peter standing in the hallway, remembering how fucking depraved that face had been as it had ripped chunks of your flesh away. Roman’s stomach rolls over and his cock twitches with arousal at the memory of it all. “The fuck do you want?”

Peter clucks his tongue. “To talk.”

Roman sits up a little, drawing harshly on the cigarette hanging loose from his fingertips. “You think I have something to say to you?”

“I think you have a whole lot you want to say to me, Roman.”

“She know you’re here?”

“She’s sleeping. She needs the fucking rest.”

Roman swallows, and Peter doesn’t miss the light blush tinging his cheeks. “She had a nightmare?”

“What do you know about it?”

Roman bristles. “More than you. I’ve been taking care of her for months. You know she never even mentioned you?”

This isn’t the crippling blow Roman thinks it is, because Peter’s pretty sure the washed out phantom dating Roman Godfrey isn’t really his best friend anyway. “She woke up terrified.” Peter says quietly. “Took me a long time to calm her down. The sheets were soaked through.” Peter lets the implication hang in the air, and Roman is rising from his seat with the eery calm of an impending bloodletting washing over him when his mother appears behind Peter like a spectre and fixes her son with a gaze so icy Roman’s pretty sure his balls actually wither back up into his body.

“I think it’s time for your friend to leave.”

Peter jumps, shrinking away from the terrifying presence of the woman behind him. He knows he won’t have to wait long for Roman to seek him out again. There’s too much challenge in his eyes, too much insecurity in the other boy to possibly let it go. He just hopes that returning to you with a split lip and a black eye and a story about how Roman Godfrey beat him down for nothing will be enough to break his hold on you.

Peter’s biggest mistake is in assuming that Roman has too much masculine pride to go to you until the job is done. So it’s a crushing fucking blow to find him sitting on your couch with his hands on your cheeks and his tongue down your throat when he gets back to the house. He’s not sure how Roman beat him here, and he levels a silent curse to whoever might be listening at the shit-eating smirk on Roman's face as he pulls away from your mouth to pepper kisses over the bruised expanse of your throat. You whimper and mewl, your fingers lacing into his hair and tugging as your eyes flutter closed, and Peter realizes he’s vastly, massively misread the situation. Because you did like Roman Godfrey. It didn’t make any fucking sense to Peter, but you weren’t faking it. You weren’t clinging to him because you were afraid of what would happen if you stopped, at least not completely.

“Peter.” You pull away from Roman, but Peter’s stomach bottoms out at what he sees on your face. “I… you have to leave.”

“What?”

“Roman told me. That you went to his house. That you taunted him about… about me and you. You’re trying to break us up.”

Roman blinks at you, his face a mask of concern as he rubs circles against your thigh, and Peter takes a step forward, his fingers curling into his fist. “He’s lying.”

“Am I?” Roman asks. “Did you not come to my house to let me know you’d soaked her sheets?”

Peter’s mouth snaps shut, and your face crumples. “How could you?”

“No, no. Look, it isn’t like that. I went to ask him about your nightmares, that’s all! I wanna help you. It’s all I ever want, you have to know that.”

A muscle ticks in your jaw as you grit your teeth against a sob. “I don’t know that. And I… love Roman, so if he says you’re not what’s best for me then I believe him.”

Peter feels his heart actually breaking as your features set hard and your eyes go glassy. Just like Letha’s had done in the mall. Just like yours had last night, when you’d monotoned those same fucking words. “Please. Please don’t do this.”

You shake your head. “You can’t stay here anymore. I’m not comfortable with it. Go back to your mom.”

His bag is already packed in the hallway, he hadn’t noticed it when he’d come in but Roman takes a huge amount of fucking glee in pointing it out.

You stand on the doorstep with Roman’s arm around your shoulder, watching Peter’s round in on himself as he looks up at you with an expression so wounded you almost give in. “Please, kid. Please just listen to me.” His voice is low and pleading, as close to begging as he can bring himself to do in front of Godfrey.

“No.” You say softly. “I can’t. I can’t risk what I have, Peter. Roman’s… he’s everything. He’s helping me through it. He’s my rock. I’m very lucky to have him.”

Roman’s lips quirk into a half-smirk like it’s funny, and Peter’s blood boils. “I don’t know what the fuck you did, Godfrey, but I’ll figure it out. Believe me, I will.”

The smirk drops from his face, something dangerous flashing in his green eyes, and his pale fingers curl tighter around your arm. “Don’t be such a sore fucking loser, Peter. She doesn’t want you like you so clearly want her. Time to get over it.”

The door closes with the finality of the click of a coffin, and you shudder as Roman pushes you lightly away from him. “I…I’m sorry, Roman.”

Roman fixes you with a hard stare. “This is your fault. All of it.”

“I know. I didn’t… invite him here. But I should have been more careful.”

“Yeah. You said it was Peter in the dream, right? Maybe you should have listened to me when I told you he was bad news.”

Your stomach roils with nausea at the awful memory of Peter tearing into you. “I know. I know, I’m sorry.”

“Am I not enough?” He asks, running a hand back through his hair. “Haven’t I given you everything?”

“Yes,” you whisper, stepping closer and leaning up to wrap your arms around his neck. “You’ve given me everything, Rome. I’m yours. I’m so grateful.”

“Not that grateful,” he mutters, hands dropping to your hips and kneading the flesh.

Heat and shame bolts through you, and you suck in a resigned breath. “Yes. I’m that grateful.” Your voice is barely sound at all, and Roman’s fingers tighten on your hips.

“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“I’m ready.” You mumble, letting him pull you flush against his body. “I’m ready to be with you.”

It doesn’t matter that you’re not. It doesn’t matter that you’d pictured the moment differently, in a time when your demon was gone and your flesh was unmarked by violence. All that matters is the way Roman looks at you, the way he touches you now as he lays you down on your own bed. He peels your jeans down carefully, eyes burning into you as he dips between your legs to press hot, open-mouthed kisses to your underwear as his thumbs work into the waistband and drag them down slowly.

You gasp as his mouth makes contact with your core, his plush lips kissing your clit before sucking it into his mouth and flicking his tongue perfectly against the underside of it. The pleasure is sharp and achingly familiar, and your eyes well with tears as you lift your hips to grind against his face. “Oh, God.” You whisper. “God, Roman.”

He hums against you, the sound sending vibrations through you as he slips two fingers into you and curls them back towards himself. He hits your g-spot on the first try, massaging against the sensitive nerves with devastating precision. He pulls up when you’re right on the edge of coming, and you whine. “I know,” he coos. “But not yet. I wanna be inside you. Wanna feel you come on my cock."

Your eyes roll back as he frees himself from his own pants, rubbing the leaking head of his cock against your entrance. “Wait,” you whisper. “Wait, I’m not.. it’s my first-“

“Shhh,” he coos, reaching into your nightstand with one hand and pulling out the thin tube of lubricant you use when you experiment with toys. “I’ve got you.”

He squeezes a generous amount into his hand and runs his palm up and down his cock, slicking his length and letting out a quiet moan at the feeling. “This isn’t gunna hurt.” There’s a certainty to his words that relaxes you, and you release your muscles as he pushes into you. There’s certainly a stretch, and it feels a million times more real than anything you’ve ever dreamed about, but it isn’t painful. “Oh.”

Roman chuckles, his face a beautiful mask of pleasure as he pulls half out and pushes back in. “Yeah? Yeah. I know. Fuck, you always feel so good.”

You moan, fluttering your muscles around his cock as he sets a slow, deep rhythm of thrusts inside you. “Roman,” you whisper, your hands lifting to wrap around his neck. He dips his head, brushing his lips against yours before nudging your face to the side and pressing his mouth against the side of your throat. He bites down, your flesh hot and soft in his teeth, and you cry out as you clamp down on his cock.

And Roman had no idea it would be like this. That it could be like this, with you feeling every fucking thing and wanting it. There are tears in your eyes, and you look up at him with clarity burning right through to his fucking soul, and Roman comes with an actual sob as you shudder and shake beneath him. “I love you,” he whispers as he fucks you through his own orgasm, hot spurts of his release coating your insides. “It’s so much better like this. You’re so fucking perfect.”

You whimper as he withdraws, feeling empty and full at the same time. Roman’s looking at you like you hung the moon, and you focus on that and not on the mounting sense of dread settling deep into your bones as he rolls over and huffs a disbelieving laugh. “I can’t believe it took your shitty friend trying to break us up to get you to put out.”

You close your eyes, willing the tears back. “It wasn’t him. Don’t… don’t make it about him. I wanted to be with you, Roman. You’ve been so patient.”

Roman hums, and if he notices how fucking dead your tone is, he doesn’t mention it. He’s too blissed out, too deliriously happy about finally having every inch of you belong to him. “You were worth the wait. Always said it.”

Your cunt aches and your heart hurts as a doubt you’d long dismissed hits you full-force. That he hadn’t waited. That he hadn’t need directions to your bedroom. That he knew you kept lube in your nightstand. That he’d been inside your room and inside you before, and then he’d made you forget it. You know that if you went to your mirror now the bitemark on the side of your throat would match the mottled patchwork of them healing on your arms and thighs.

“I wish you could sleep over,” you mumble, and Roman tenses beside you for a moment before turning his head to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“You’ll stay at my place tomorrow.”

You hum, and Roman kisses your temple, your cheek and then your lips before slipping out of your bed and pulling his jeans on.

“I love you.” He says from the door. You roll onto your side, plastering a soft smile over your features.

“I love you too, Roman.”

*

Roman thinks he’s going to kill somebody tonight. It probably won’t be you, even though you’re the most deserving of his wrath. You hadn’t come to school, hadn’t answered any of his texts or picked up his calls. He’d driven to your house at lunch and you hadn’t come to the door, even though he knew you were on the other side of it. He’d come back at sundown, certain you wouldn’t risk a night of terror no matter how sick you were feeling, but your dad had answered and insisted you didn’t want to talk to him. And that just didn’t make a fucking lick of sense. Not after the beautiful moment you’d had together the day before. Not after he’d ousted Peter Rumancek from your life and kept hold of the best thing in his. Maybe you’re regretting losing your ‘virginity’ to him. Maybe Roman needs to remind you precisely why you need him so badly.

Your window slides up with no resistance at all, and Roman drops softly to your carpet and toes off his boots as he’s done a hundred times before. You’re tossing and turning, soft whimpers and moans spilling from your parted lips and sweat running over the perfect, supple curves of your breasts. Roman’s mouth waters, and he shrugs out of his shirt and kicks off his sweatpants before climbing over your bedframe and yanking the thin duvet away from your body.

Your eyes open, lips parting on a startled yelp as you’re wrenched from sleep and find yourself pinned to the bed by his long limbs. “Roman?”

“Shhh,” he coos. “Shh, look at me.”

You whimper, but your body goes slack as you meet his eyes. You know this part. This part makes the terror go away for a while.

“You want this. You want me. I’m gunna fuck you now, and you’re gunna like it. You’ll like it so much you’ll never fucking ignore me again.”

You moan, hips lifting to meet the bulge of his growing erection. “Yes.”

Roman nods sharply, a thin trail of blood leaking from his nose and dropping fat red splotches onto your pajama shirt as he yanks your shorts off and braces your thighs open against his biceps. He pushes into you with no foreplay at all, and you whine at the stretch and the slight burn as he fucks you open.

“You shouldn’t have fucking ignored me.” He spits, tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling until your head drops back against the mattress and your throat is exposed to him. Roman’s cock throbs inside you at the puffy, red raised edges of the bitemark he’d given you yesterday, and he leans in to lick over the wound. “It doesn’t have to be like this.”

You groan, tears spilling freely from your eyes to soak into your hair and your pillow as Roman’s hips slam against yours, his balls slapping against you over and over in a steady, brutal rhythm as he chases his high. “You push me to it. Over and over. Treating me like a fucking afterthought.”

You reach down between your legs, circling your own clit in a desperate attempt to relieve some of the awful, sharp pain from where Roman’s fucking directly against your cervix, but he smacks your hand out the way. “No, you don’t get to fucking come. Not tonight. Not after your bullshit.”

You can only take it as he uses your body, pinching and squeezing and biting every inch of flesh he can reach until he finally, mercifully spills his load inside you. He pulls out savagely, and it feels like he’s ripping a part of you out along with his cock as he shoves himself back into his boxers and climbs off you. He kneels on the bed, cupping your cheeks in his palms and leaning in to press a firm kiss to your mouth before pulling back and drawing your eyes to his. “I was never here. This never happened. We had sex for the first time yesterday and you loved it. You’re going to call me as soon as you wake up.”

You nod, dazed. “I’ll call you as soon as I wake up.”

He sighs, licking away the fresh blood beading on the cupid’s bow of his top lip as he clambers off the bed and bends his long legs to crawl out of your window.

He doesn’t notice the little blinking red light in the corner of your room, and you don’t call Roman when you wake up the next morning. Instead you call Peter, and he’s shoving his worn boots on without socks and stumbling off Destiny’s couch before you’ve even finished explaining the horrors you’d witnessed when you’d played back the tape from last night.

He doesn’t need to watch it, but he skims through to make sure he’s on the same page as you without having to make you explain it to him, and he almost loses last night’s dinner at the way Roman Godfrey crawls on top of you, crawls inside you with an eerie, practiced stealth.

“He won’t let me leave.” You whisper when Peter finally clicks off the tape and tosses the camera to the other end of the bed.

“I can get you out. Come with me, we can go anywhere. We can go now.”

You shake your head, eyes welling with tears. “I’m not eighteen. I think it might actually be considered kidnapping.”

Peter curses the fact that he was born eight months earlier than you and he curses Roman Godfrey to the deepest, darkest part of Hell as he wraps an arm around your shaking shoulders. “You don’t have to stay with him.”

“I think he might kill me if I don’t.”

Peter sucks in a breath. “I think he might kill you if you do.”

You know he’s right. You can’t remember last night, but you can feel the ache in every muscle and the persistent soreness between your legs, and the grainy footage of everything your boyfriend had done to you is seared into your brain forever. “I’m so fucking scared, Peter.”

Peter presses his lips to your temple because he doesn’t know what the fuck else to do.

“He’s in my dreams, too. I didn’t… tell you that before. But before it was you, it was him. Always him.”

Peter’s stomach flips over. “You’re sure?” You raise an eyebrow at him, and he shakes his head. “Right. Of course you are.”

“But you should go.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Right.”

“I mean it. Just…get out. Forget about me.”

Peter scoffs like it’s the most stupid thing he’s ever heard, because it is. “You’re my best friend. If you’re staying, I’m staying. If that gets me killed, I guess I’ll stick around to haunt you.”

You groan, hating that he’s not entirely joking about any of it. “If I came with you… if we ran. What would that look like?”

Peter wraps an arm around your shoulders. “The open road, baby. Motels and bad coffee and taking shitty jobs under fake names until we find somewhere we like enough to set down roots. Calling your parents from payphones just before we skip town and never telling them exactly where we are. It means being on the run. But it also means he won’t find us. You’d be free.”

It sounds terrifying. “I think I’m in, Peter.”

*

The air conditioning unit rattles noisily, and you squeeze your eyes shut with such ferocity you can actually feel your eyeballs being squeezed. The bed is lumpy and the sheets are more starch than cotton, and Peter is snoring in the narrow bed on the other side of the room. And you can’t sleep. You need to sleep, you badly need to sleep, but no matter how exhausted your body is your mind just won’t fucking shut off.

You slip from the bed and cross to Peter’s rucksack, unzipping the little pouch inside the main compartment and pulling out the plastic baggie of prescription benzos he’d picked up from his cousin before you’d left Hemlock Grove in the rear-view mirror three days ago. You’d crossed state-lines twice since then, and you’d ditched your phone in the city before heading South. You pop a pill into your mouth, swallowing with a grimace and collapsing back into bed.

It takes about a half hour to work, for your body to melt into the mattress and your mind to melt into unconsciousness. You blink your eyes open in a forest, and realize the awful, irreversible mistake you’ve made as he steps out from between the trees and his mouth splits into a terrible, predatory smile.

Running has never saved you before, but you do it anyway. You turn on your heel and pelt into the trees, launching yourself over fallen roots and ducking branches as you have a hundred times or more. He’s right behind you, his breath panting in your ears, the labor of his breathing in your own lungs as you reach the clearing, see the structure of the farmhouse squatting against the harsh landscape. The air is knocked from your lungs as he tackles you, pinning your body under his and rutting his hard cock against your ass. He leans over you, pressing you into the earth as his teeth nip at your ear. “Found you.”

It’s the first time he’s ever spoken to you here, as himself. You freeze, his words sinking into the marrow of your bones, and Roman releases the pressure on your spine enough to let you roll over underneath him. He hovers over you, letting you see him, all of him for the first time ever. “It really is you.” You whisper.

Roman would think it was cute that you’d ever had any doubt, if he wasn’t so monumentally pissed at you. If he hadn’t almost killed himself with how long he’d been in the dreams, searching for you. “It always was.”

You close your eyes. “I knew. You never let me… see before. But I knew.”

Roman leans in then, brushing his lips against yours. “Because I wanted you to.”

“Why?” You whisper.

Roman sighs as he presses his cock against your center, hitching one of your legs up around his hips as he starts a steady grind against you. “Shouldn’t you be asking how?”

You bite your lip at the feeling of him moving against you, your clit swelling to meet the friction of him and your arousal slicking against your underwear. “Why?”

Roman hums. “You shoulda just got a fucking drink with me. One word from Letha and you dismissed me like I was nothing.”

He grits his teeth, fingers reaching to yank your underwear down, and you don’t stop him. You’d never had a single moment of control in these dreams, anyway.

“It’s your fault. All of it.” He continues, tugging his cock out of the top of his pants and lining himself up with your entrance. “You drove me to it.”

You press your lips into a tight line as Roman enters you roughly, bottoming out deep inside you with a low moan. “Had me fucking… obsessed with you.”

“I didn’t mean to,” you whimper.

“Yeah you did.” Roman spits, his hips slamming against yours as he sets a brutal rhythm. “Thought you were too fucking good for me. But look at you.” His eyes rake over the collage of bruises and scars littering every inch of exposed skin, and his lips curl into a snarl. “You’re fucking ruined. Who else would want you now?”

You sob, clenching involuntarily around his cock as Roman fucks you on the ground and in your mind. You want to wake up. You should never have taken that fucking pill. Your body is a deadweight prison in a motel room in Washington while Roman breaks your mind into little pieces.

“I’m gunna find you,” he coos, one hand wrapping possessively around your throat. “And when I do, I’m going to break every bone in Peter Rumancek’s body while you watch.”

You cry harder, hands lifting weakly to shove at his shoulders. “But I’ll start closer to home. Pay your parents a visit, maybe. The longer you make me wait, the more I have to fucking chase you, the worse it’ll be for them. For everybody you’ve ever met.”

You stop moving then, at the threat of him hurting your parents. Because they were very much still in Hemlock Grove, and Roman Godfrey was very much capable of following through.

“Or it can all stop.” His hips still against yours, his cock buried deep inside you and pulsing with his impending release. He releases your throat and trails his fingers down your torso to circle the bud of your clit with jarring gentleness. “You could come back to me and I’ll stop it all. No more nightmares, no more… visits.”

Your stomach churns at the memory of that fucking tape, but you look up at him with watery, hopeful eyes and Roman has to look away to stop himself from coming right then. He grinds into you with tiny little rocks of his hips as his fingers work you towards your climax, and you whimper.

“It could be like this, all the time. Like it was in your room, before you went and fucked it all up. I could be so good to you. You know I could.”

Your eyes roll back as the pleasure builds, an unbearable pressure in your lower abdomen building and building into a violent crescendo as Roman dips his head to yours and licks along the seam of your lips. “Just come back to me. Nobody gets hurt, nobody dies. You could sleep through the night by my side.”

You close your eyes as your orgasm is wrenched from you under Roman’s talented fingers, your whole body jerking up against his as you’re swept away on wave after wave of release.

Roman pulls out of you and eases back in, relishing in the way your muscles flutter and spasm around his cock. “Just say yes,” he teases. “Just come back and be mine, and you’ll never have to be scared again.”

You sink your teeth into your lip as Roman comes, a stuttered groan rumbling from his chest as he spills inside you and the dream dissolves into morning light.

*

Peter Rumancek wakes up alone, drool sticking a piece of paper to his cheek. He reads and rereads the hasty scrawl with dread in his heart and foreboding in his balls, but you’re long gone and you took his fucking car.

Roman isn’t at all surprised to open his front door a little after eleven and find you standing on the other side. He doesn’t say anything as he steps aside and lets you in, but he curls around your arm, his hand slotting into the near-permanent bruises in the shape of his fingers, and he leans in to kiss you as the front door locks with a click.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

After care? Clark took care of you just fine when he filled your pretty pussy up with his cum, what more could you want?

B = Body part (their favourite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

His cock, obviously. He’s never had any complaints, and the girls who had suggested he wasn’t any good were just lovesick over him. 

He’s obsessed with pussy. It’s the best part or every woman. 

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Clark is altogether too generous with his cum. He’ll really fuck it into anybody, and he knows he’s got a handful of little ones running about. He’s a great papa, so it doesn’t matter. 

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

He doesn’t have any. There’s a deep, gnawing, insatiable hunger for affection that he won’t acknowledge, but who the fuck cares about that? 

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

There isn’t anything Clark hasn’t done. He’s the king of everything, you know? He’ll have you in any position, guiding you into the shapes he wants. 

F = Favourite position (this goes without saying)

Doggy style, all the time. He just loves to deliver sharp smacks to your ass and watch it bounce against him, and he’ll reach over to pull your hair so you arch your back just right. 

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Clark doesn’t take anything seriously, not really. He’ll crack jokes before, during and after, and when he makes you laugh your pussy clamps down on him so good he sees stars. 

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

It’s the sixties, sweetheart. Nothing is groomed, and that’s just groovy. 

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

Clark is the best actor in the world. If you’re feeling vulnerable he’ll hold you close, whisper praise against your mouth as he grinds slow against you and reminds you that he’s all yours. It doesn’t matter that it isn’t true. 

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Clark has no need of it, when every girl in Sweden wants to fuck him. But despite that he is trying to be good for you, so he’ll jack off to Polaroids of your tits to avoid temptation. 

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

He has a mommy kink. Calling him a good boy will elicit slutty moans from him, and letting him call you mama as he cums has him falling in love. 

L = Location (favourite places to do the do)

Clark is in prison more than he’s out, but the guards look the other way when you visit. Clark will eat you out under the table two minutes before his mother visits and he doesn’t care at all. Besides, is there supposed to be a location he doesn’t want to fuck you? 

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

Clark wakes up hard most mornings, thinking about you. And any time you tell him how clever he is or how pretty or how well he makes you cum, he’s impossibly feral over you. 

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

Clark won’t hit you. He’s seen enough of that to last a lifetime, and the thought of a man putting hands on a woman reminds him of his own mother. 

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

Shit, älskling are you really going to make him choose? He absolutely loves the feeling of pushing his cock into your throat, and you look so good on your knees. 

But there’s never been a situation he couldn’t eat his way out of, and Clark’s wriggling down between your thighs every time you’re pissed at him. 

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

Clark would say he’s the master of both, but in reality he’s rough and rapid and hungry, pounding you into the mattress or against the wall or over a table until it’s close to breaking, every time. 

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

Why waste extra time if you can get the job done in two minutes? Clark is the best at sex, the winner of every round. But this bothers you for some reason, so he’ll always make you cum on his fingers or his tongue first to keep you happy. 

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Are you kidding, älskling? Clark is the greatest bank robber of all time, his whole life is about taking risks. You want him to finger you in the middle of the crowded disco? You got it. 

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Two words; Refractory. Period. Clark might cum quickly, but give him a minute and he’ll be ready to go again. He can go over and over. Your record is fourteen times in one night, and you’d struggled to walk the next day after that. 

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

You bought Clark a cock ring to try and hold off his release. He’d huffed as you rolled the tight silicone over his cock, and he’d been a little bit proud at your frustrated scream when he came deep inside you on the fourth thrust, regardless. Nothing and nobody stops Clark Olofsson. 

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Clark likes to have you whimpering for him, because there’s nothing a woman can do that’s hotter than being completely obsessed with him. So yeah, he’ll tease you. He’ll work you up slowly, fingers circling you over your panties until you’re slick and whimpering, just to hear you beg. 

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Clark fucking loves fucking, and he isn’t about to pretend he doesn’t enjoy what feels good. He’ll moan when you let him fuck into your throat, and he’ll chuckle with satisfied bliss when he comes inside you. 

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

Clark really just wants somebody to understand that he’s a good person on the inside. He wants a steady job and one woman for the rest of his life. 

… did you believe that, älskling? Clark Olofsson is the king of everything, including lying. Wild card? His whole damn life is a wild card, so lie back and enjoy the ride why don't you?

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

He doesn’t have time to worry much about it, but chicks always seem into him when they’re rubbing over his chest or licking the thick thatch of his pubes. 

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

Clark’s sex drive is never ending. What better way to show you how much he wants you than to put your hand on his hard cock multiple times a day. Sometimes you’re too busy to indulge, but you stand still whilst he grinds against your ass until he cums over your pants. 

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

Clark doesn’t have a home, so any time you let him stay with you he takes full advantage of your clean sheets and warm bedroom. That’s not to say he won’t spoon-fuck you if he wakes up in the mood though. 

He’s cute. That’s the first thing you notice about the man bound to the interrogation chair in front of you. You raise an eyebrow at Melanie, who despite being your boss is a red-blooded woman with a shitty husband, and she smirks at you. “Yes, I know.”

“He’s really the guy?” You ask, circling him slowly. “This guy?”

She huffs. “Gideon seems to think so.”

“Did Gideon fuck him up?” The man is bloodied, lacerations and bruises and swelling covering almost every inch of exposed skin, but you can still see the taught, tanned muscles beneath. He flexes his fingers above his bindings, and you note the protruding veins over his large, scarred hands.

Melanie makes a disgusted sound. “He tried to reason with him.”

“And how did that go?” You know how it went. There’s only one reason they call in you, after all.

“How do you think?” She steps forward, fisting the man’s short bleached blonde hair and yanking his head up. You blink in surprise at how young his face is. Little more than a boy, really. “He’s mute apparently. Likely deaf, too.”

You frown, your mind sifting through all you know about the shaman. Why would he pick a disabled boy to train as his super soldier when the city was crawling with less difficult orphans to target? You lift your hand to his face and click your fingers beside his ear. No recognition passes over his face, but he does turn his eyes up to you. A bolt of pure arousal shoots through your core at the depthless fury in his wide green eyes. Pretty, deadly boy. “So who tried the big stick approach?”

Melanie huffs. “June.” She doesn’t elaborate, and you don’t need her to. In the holy triad of interrogations, you were the final point. Gideon had his words, his negotiations and his carefully scripted routines. June 27 had her blades and her batons and her endless thirst for violence. And then there was you, with your endless thirst for…

You tilt your head to the side, licking your lips slowly as you take in every rippling inch of the boy in the chair. “Not a peep, huh?”

“Not so much as a goddamn flinch.” Melanie sounds grudgingly impressed. “If it wasn’t so close to the show I’d say we should see if we could break him down for parts, but-“

“Sure,” you hum, lifting a hand to brush the hair back from his forehead. “If he’s been with the shaman all this time… I think my methods will be suitably disarming.”

Melanie rolls her eyes as she turns on her heel. “Just… clean up when you’re done. I don’t wanna hear the details.”

You don’t bother to say goodbye as she leaves the room. The Boy drops his head back to his chest as though defeated, but you know better. Every inch of him is taut, practically vibrating with energy. You were going to have your work cut out for you draining every last drop out of him.

You head to the far wall for a washcloth and fill a shallow bowl with warm water. You put this beside his chair, and the boy nudges his foot towards it as though he’s trying to kick it over. You can’t help the delighted smirk that spreads across your face at his defiance. He’s going to be so much fun to play with.

You pull up the other chair beside him and sit, soaking the sponge in water and drawing it across a deep cut on his thigh. He does flinch then, from the shock more than the pain, and you use your other hand to pinch his chin between your thumb and forefinger. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

His face doesn’t change at all, and you wonder whether he can read lips. You’d only ever known one deaf-mute before, a girl from your home village, and she’d been able to.

“I need to clean these up before infection sets in.”

The boy hesitates, his eyes dropping to the sponge in your hand. You don’t appear to be armed, and there’s a gentleness to your face that he hasn’t seen on anyone since he stepped foot in this goddamn fortress. He nods, just once, and you smile.

“Good. Tell me if it hurts.” You lick your lips, and the boy’s eyes drop to your mouth. Good. “Or, you know. However you communicate.”

The boy reads the words on your lips before dragging his eyes back up to yours. You’re pretty. You might be the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. And that makes sense, on Van Der Koy soldier wages and Van Der Koy soldier rations. You’re not suffering from the famines and water contaminations of the outer sectors, because you’re the enemy. A muscle in his jaw ticks, and he pulls his face out of your loose grip as you glide the wet sponge up his thigh.

“That’s okay,” you coo, dropping your hand to your side. “I’ll be gentle.”

He closes his eyes as you glide further up, the stained shreds of his cargo shorts barely concealing the muscles of his thighs. Your fingers brush against his skin every now and then, and Boy feels his cock twitching to life with a sense of inevitable dread. It’d really fucking hurt if you decided to hit him there.

You dip beside him to resoak your sponge, wringing bloody water out before returning your attention to his thigh. You roam higher, higher, your fingers just grazing over the rapidly hardening bulge in his shorts, and you suppress a smirk. You’d barely touched him and he was already almost ripe for the taking. Nobody had ever been this easy, this sensitive. It was like he was desperate, like he’d never been touched so intimately, like he was a…

You pause, raking your eyes up his body as your hand settles over his erection. “Are you a virgin?”

The boy says nothing, of course, but his cheeks stain a deep red and his hips lift against the light pressure of your hand.

“Oh.” Oh, you were going to hug Melanie Van Der Koy. Not really, because she’d have you fired, but this was a fucking gift. This was better than paid time off or a pay rise. This was the best perk of the job anybody had ever fucking had. You press your palm flat against him, rubbing over the rough fabric of his shorts, and the boy makes a tiny, gravelly sound in the back of his throat.

You reach for his face again, cupping his jaw gently and tilting his head to yours. “Have you ever been touched here?”

And The Boy knows he should do nothing. He knows he should freeze, should retreat inside himself and wait for this to be over as he’d done so many times before under threat of violence. But your hand feels the opposite of violent, there’s a dull throb of pleasure building in his stomach and his cock aches.

He shakes his head, and the slow smile that curves over your mouth fills him with a heady mix of arousal and dread.

“You’re so pretty,” you coo, deftly unbuttoning his shorts and reaching inside for his cock. Your lips part on a moan as you wrap your fist around him, noting with a thrill that he’s both long and thick, the skin on his shaft smooth and warm and perfect. You feel arousal slick in your own underwear as you squeeze him, and The Boy’s mouth falls open as his head drops to watch the motion of your hand in his underwear.

He’s touched himself there before, obviously. He’d been thirteen the first time he’d woken up in the middle of the night with his cock sticking straight up, and he’d panicked as he tried to push it back down again. But the motion of his hand pulling on it had felt phenomenal, and he’d wrapped his fist around the length and dragged his hand up and down, up and down, the pressure building until he’d spurted goo and the stiffness had gone away. It had become close to a nightly ritual after that, because the hard ground at his back felt less uncomfortable when his body had released the pent up tension. And because jerking his cock felt good.

But now, with your hand pumping his length, The Boy wonders if he’d ever even done it right. Because there is nothing, no feeling he can name, no word in his dictionary that compares to the sheer, electric bliss of being touched by another person.

You run your thumb over the head of his cock, collecting the sticky precum oozing from his tip, and rub it into the underside of his head.The Boy whimpers, biting hard on his bottom lip as his hips lift off the chair to chase the friction of your palm against his length.

“No, no.” You chide, releasing him completely and pulling your hand out of his shorts. You lick your palm, tasting the musky salt of him, and The Boy watches with helpless desperation as his aching cock falls back against his stomach. “Not like that.”

You reach for your own belt, unhooking the complicated series of latches and letting it drop to the floor. You kick it away, and The Boy is reminded for a brief, sickening moment of the fact that he’s tied to a chair and you’re a fucking Van Der Koy soldier, but then you shove your pants down and step close enough for him to see the wet patch on the front of your panties and the slight sheen of slick on your thighs, and he decides maybe he doesn’t care about any of it right now.

“You’re a tough guy, huh.” You say, climbing into his broad lap and wrapping your arms around his neck. The Boy yanks hard on his restraints, the muscles in his arms rippling under the strain as his cock twitches against your core. “Wouldn’t break for Juney.”

The boy pulls his top lip back in a sneer, and you roll your hips down to drag your wet center over his cock. His lips pop open in an ‘o’ and you do it again, rocking back and forth against him.

The rough drag of your wet panties against his bare cock is both maddening and unbelievably hot, and he has to sink his teeth into his bottom lip just to stop himself from silently begging for more.

“You’re so hard,” you whisper, leaning closer to push your tits against his chest and tracing your tongue over the closed seam of his mouth. He parts his lips and you lick into his mouth, prodding against his teeth and further to the empty space where his tongue should be.

You pull away from the kiss, your fingers pushing into his mouth, and The Boy considers what would happen if he bit you as you reach back and brush against the scarred stub of his tongue.

“What happened?” Because you know this isn’t a birth defect. Rumors of The Shamans cruelty may have been exaggerated in some stories, but he was a demon capable of true evil. You imagine him pinning a small boy to the ground and hacking out his tongue, and a shiver of revulsion runs through you.

The Boy sees the change in your face, and shame washes through him even as you grind over his cock. He wraps his lips around your fingers, sucking hard enough to hollow his cheeks, and the disgust on your face morphs back into that strange, hungry look that fills The Boy’s stomach with butterflies.

You hum, and The Boy feels the vibration in his chest through yours. He wishes he could touch you. Even more than he wishes he could get out of here. Maybe even more than he wants to kill Hilda Van Der Koy, at least right now. Your breasts feel soft and warm against him, even with the little peaks of your nipples pressed to his vest.

“You don’t need a tongue,” you say, pulling your fingers gently from his mouth and tilting your hips back. The boy watches your eyes flutter closed and then he drops his gaze to where your own fingers have disappeared into your panties, your hips jerking softly against your hand as you touch yourself.

This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to The Boy. Well, okay, it isn’t. The execution of his mother and sister, the near-death experience of his own hanging and the many, many beatings he’d taken from The Shaman were arguably worse. But watching you fuck your own hand whilst sitting in his lap, so close he can smell your arousal and he can feel the dampness on his thighs is torture. He’d been taught to take a beating, but he hadn’t been taught how to handle this.

“You get me so wet,” you mumble. The Boy doesn’t really know what you mean, but he knows how the words make him feel. He strains harder, the ropes cutting viciously into his arms and legs, and you pull your hand out of your underwear and press your sticky fingers against his lips.

The Boy doesn’t hesitate to suck them into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks around the digits and drawing the essence of your arousal towards the back of his throat to pool on the stub of his tongue where he can still taste. You’re tangy and delicious, and his mouth waters in a demand for more.

Christ this is the best day of your life. The Boy is a mess beneath you, his hard cock leaking precum against your stomach where it’s trapped between your body and his, and he sucks on your fingers and looks at you with such pathetic desperation that you almost come, just from that.

“I wanna see what you taste like.”

You slide off his lap, settling onto your knees between his legs and wrapping your fist around his cock. He’s already very clearly uncomfortable, the head is an angry, swollen red and he’s leaking bead after bead of glistening precum. You trace your tongue over his slit, relishing the salt of him and the way this enormous man tries to jump out of his chair at the feeling.

“Hold still.”

He shakes his head, trying again to jolt away from the awful stimulation of your tongue lapping over his exposed, over-sensitive tip, but there’s nowhere to go and you’re just getting started. You wrap your lips around the head of his cock and suck hard, and the chair actually does skid back an inch with the force of him throwing himself backwards. You release him with a pop and narrow your eyes up at him. “Don’t make me bite it.”

The Boy does hold himself still then, because whilst your lips and your tongue feel agonizing, he knows your teeth would hurt so bad he’d blackout, and he doesn’t want to miss a single moment of this time with you. You run a hand up his thigh, skipping over the deep laceration you’d pretended to clean earlier and creeping your hand into the leg of his shorts to tickle against his balls.

The Boy’s jaw goes slack as you lower your head, drawing his cock over your tongue and further, further into your mouth until his sensitive tip nudges against the pulsing wet resistance of your tonsils. You hum then, and The boy feels the vibration so intensely that he swears he can hear the melody of it singing through his blood as his hips buck up against your face and his cock is squeezed into the tightness of your throat.

He makes a sound then, a beautiful, strangled yelp, and fresh arousal slicks in your underwear as you begin to bob your head in time with his erratic little thrusts.

You feel the tightening in his balls as he nears his orgasm, and you squeeze his balls a little too harshly as you pull off his length and let his cock slap back against his stomach.

The Boy could cry. He feels like he might, at the sudden loss of your mouth and the actual ache in his cock when he was so, so close to a release.

“Not like that,” you say again as if it explains anything. He glares at you, bottom lip jutting into an absurd pout, and you climb back into his lap and bite his lip into your mouth. The Boy feels the shift as you lift and resettle, but he’s too focused on the way you’re sucking his lip to really notice what you’re doing until –

You sink down on his cock, taking him in one long drop, right to the hilt, and The Boy gasps so sharply his lip is sucked right out of your mouth. His eyes drop to the point where his entire cock has disappeared inside your body, and he looks back at you with wide-eyed alarm.

But then you move, and The Boys entire reality shifts. If he’d thought your hand was good, your mouth had been phenomenal. But if he’d thought your mouth had been phenomenal, your cunt was transcendent. Nothing could compare to this. Nothing. Not even seeing Hilda Van Der Koy’s head on a pike.

“You’re so big,” you coo, rocking your hips back and forth as you’re stretched around his thick cock. “Feels so good, huh?”

He can only nod, his jaw tense and his heart thundering against his chest as he bucks up to meet the languid rolls of your hips.

You wrap your hand around his throat, pressing enough to restrict his airflow, and The Boy’s lips part on a soft gasp as he tries desperately to suck in a breath. “You’re so perfect,” you coo, your breath ghosting over his lips like a taunt as you plant your knees on the seat either side of his thighs and lift yourself off him only to bounce back down.

It’s new and it’s terrible and The Boy is close to his release with just a few sharp bounces. “Your body was made for me.” You moan, tightening your grip on his throat as you ride him. At this angle his length grazes against your sensitive walls with every drop of your hips, and you reach your free hand down to rub your clit as the cord of arousal in your stomach tightens.

Much too soon you see his eyes glazing over and feel the tell-tale twitching of his cock inside you, and you drop your hips to hold him deep and freeze, stilling your movements completely and stealing the moment of his orgasm from him for a third time.

The Boy’s head drops forward, his shoulders shaking with silent, agonised sobs as you squeeze harshly around his cock without providing any friction at all.

You press your fingers to his chin and tap, and he looks up at you with wounded puppy-dog eyes. You want to kick him. You want to ride him until he sees stars. Instead you rise up onto your knees and let his cock slip out of you, relishing the little gasp he makes as his sensitive tip brushes against his vest.

“Not like that,” you coo, and his pretty face contorts into a black fury that has you so feral you almost abandon the routine and drop to your knees again. He watches you step out of your panties, holding them close to your face as though you’re examining them before you catch his eye and hold his gaze. A thick, foamy glob of spit drops from your lips into the already slick fabric, and you approach him with lithe, predatory intent.

The Boy tries again to jerk away, already knowing that the feeling of the wet fabric against his cock is going to be the worst kind of torture when he’s already so oversensitive, but although the chair skids back another inch your fist is wrapped around his cock just moments later, and The Boy makes an audible sob.

You hum, lifting your free hand to card through his hair, scratching your nails lightly against his scalp as you drag your soaked panties over the head of his cock and rub your cotton-clad thumb over his slit. He sobs again, hips spasming helplessly against the intense stimulation, and it’s music. It’s off-key, strangled music to your ears.

You tighten your grip, jerking him fast and rough, feeling the drag of friction against his length and wincing a little at how uncomfortable it must feel. Not that you care, of course. You’d done far, far worse to other toys, though maybe none quite so pretty as this Boy.

The hand carding through his hair tightens into a fist, and you pull his head up. He swallows, the thick bob of his Adam’s apple making your mouth water as he looks at you with pathetic, defeated misery. “Oh, you wanna come so badly.”

He doesn’t even nod. Just keeps looking, his hips fucking gently up against your fist. He’s right on the edge. Right on the edge of being broken, and you think maybe it’s time to let him come. The release will be so sweet, and you think about the sounds he’ll make when you finally drag him over the edge, the way his face will go slack with pleasure the-

You’re so preoccupied with the own genius of your plan that you’d missed it. That The Boy had wriggled his fingers around to the pocket on his cargo shorts. That he’d found a thin, sharp-ended object. He remembers the moment Gideon had leaned close and brushed his fingers over The Boy’s thigh, and he’d assumed the guy was just a pervert. But no. Here it was.

He’d held himself still, let you coo and caress and torture him as he’d slipped the scalpel against the rope on the inside of his wrist and begun to work at the fabric until it frayed enough to break.

Your eyes go wide as he brings his arms up, the rope dropping to the ground and the chair buckling as he stands. You turn to run, and he hooks an arm around your waist and throws you to the ground. Your head hits the concrete floor, dazing you for a moment, and The Boy keeps one eye on you as he saws away the ropes tying his legs to the chair.

You aren’t moving, and he reminds himself that he doesn’t care about that as he frees himself and rummages in your cabinets for weapons. He glances back and sees you rolling onto your back, your hand lifting to your head and coming away bloody. He launches across the room, dropping over you and pressing the scalpel to your throat hard enough to bead a line of blood across your skin.

Your breaths come fast and ragged, your chest heaving with it, and The Boy can’t stop himself from looking. Your nipples are hard against your shirt, and he brings his free hand up, brushing his fingers against one stiff peak and then the other. Your lips part on a soft moan, he feels it through your throat where his hand rests, and you lift a leg to hook around his waist.

His cock is still out, still painfully hard, and he lowers himself against you, already gravitating towards the tight, wet heat of your bare core.

“Go on,” you whisper, “Take what you want.”

The Boy knows he should run. Should knock you out and get the fuck out of here before the culling is over and he misses his chance. But you lift your hips, and the tip of his cock is nudged against your slick folds and he can’t. He growls, grabbing both your hands and pinning them above your head with the press of one wide palm as he angles his hips down and pushes into you again.

Being fucked by The Boy is an entirely different experience. You were used to being in the driver’s seat, to teasing and torturing and taking what you wanted from prisoners. But this was different. The Boy fucked into you with raw, animalistic hunger, his hips snapping against yours so violently you’re certain you’ll have bruises tomorrow.

He bares his teeth, the scalpel pressing a little deeper against your throat, and you flutter your muscles around his cock in an effort to distract him. It works, his jaw goes slack and the pressure on your wrists increases as he leverages his weight against his arm and drives deeper into you.

You feel the dull sting of his tip slamming into your cervix and you whine. It’s that – the rippling pressure of reaching the limit of your insides and the little whine that quivers out of your lips that sends The Boy hurtling over the edge. It’s the sweetest, most painful orgasm of his life as he shoots his load into you. His hips still against yours, grinding desperately down as his cock twitches and spurts and pulses and aches. It seems to go on for hours, and you watch in rapt fascination as his pretty face contorts with the agony of a long-denied release and he just keeps fucking cumming.

You squeeze around him, milking his sensitive cock for every last drop of his orgasm, and The Boy winces as he finally pulls out of you. The scalpel clatters to the floor as he rolls onto his back, chest heaving and mind completely empty of all thought. He feels weightless, boneless. He wonders if he’s dead.

He feels the shift beside him, and turns his head to see you on all-fours, crawling slowly towards the door. Your hips sway with the motion, your ass looking soft and supple as you move, and his cock twitches with fresh interest as he reaches for your ankle and tugs.

You go sprawling on the floor, the wind knocking out of you with an ‘oof’, and you barely have time to register the movement before he’s on top of you again. His rapidly stiffening cock presses against your ass as he leans down, the hard planes of his torso pressing against your spine as he nuzzles the sharp tip of his nose against your shoulder and plants his hands on your hips, digging his nails into the meat of them as he ruts against your ass.

The Boy reaches down and grips his cock, dragging it down the crack of your ass and finding the slick, wet hole that’s still leaking his release, a steady stream of it slicking on your thighs. He pushes into you, releasing his base as he bottoms out, and your back arches at the renewed stretch. The Boy wraps an arm around your throat, holding you tightly against him as he snaps his hips down against your ass over, and over, and over.

You can do little more than moan, drool spilling from your lips as the air is pressed from your lungs. There is a sharp sting as he bites down hard on your shoulder, and you clench around his cock. He’s much too sensitive for that, and he comes again with a broken moan against your neck as he buries himself inside you.

This time, you don’t try to move. You listen as he pushes to a stand, hearing the sharp intake of breath as he tucks his cock away, and you wait.

The Boy knows he should kill you. He twirls the handle of the scalpel in his fingers, watching his cum leak out of you and willing his cock to stay soft this time because he really, truly can’t do it again right now.

He knows the best chance of him getting out of here without anyone raising the alarm is to kill you, but he can’t do it. When he thinks about painting the floor with your blood it just seems like such a fucking waste. You’re too pretty. Too soft. Too his if he were capable of wanting things. He rounds your body, dropping to a crouch by your head and tapping your jaw. You lift your head, pushing weakly up on your arms until you’re resting on your knees. The Boy cups your cheeks, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your lips before pulling back and mouthing “don’t be one of them.”

You watch his lips form the words and you meet his eyes as you bring your fingers to your own mouth, pinching your thumb and forefinger together and drawing them across your closed lips in a zipper motion. The Boy smiles, a genuine, bright smile that steals your breath, before turning the scalpel in his expert grip and running for the exit.

You sigh as you watch him go, knowing in your gut that you’re letting the best toy you’ve ever had walk out on you.

You give him a five minute head start before sounding the alarm.

You can see his baby blue pickup parked across the street, and you hold your head high even though your hands shake badly on the bar of your shopping cart. He’s always there, though he doesn’t sit outside the house so much since your daddy levelled a shotgun at his cab and commanded him to stop.

Bobby doesn’t take no so good, never did. It had taken six months of misery for you to realize you deserved better, and it had taken him wrapping a hand around your throat and choking you until your vision blurred for you to realize you had to leave. And it had been ugly. It had been the ugliest thing you’d ever seen, the way Bobby Weston had devolved into frenzied madness. He’d threatened, he’d pleaded. He’d smashed through the windows at the schoolhouse where you taught second grade. He’d yelled at you in the street, tried to drag you back from the doors of the church on Sunday the first time you’d ever tried to go inside, figuring a little time with God might soften him to your cause.

The reverend had intervened, and even bobby Weston knew better than to hit a man of the cloth. It had been almost a year since you’d severed his hold on you, but the ghost of his possession remained. You hadn’t had a date. Not a single one, despite the hungry stares and the anonymous whistles sent your way anytime that blue pickup wasn’t around. You knew why; Bobby had put the word out. That you were off-limits. That you were still his, despite the pretty little fiancée he’d picked up three towns over.

You glance towards the street as you load your groceries onto the counter, and Pam gives you a sympathetic smile. “He out there again, hon?”

You nod. “I switched my shoppin’ day. I don’t know how he figured it out.”

“You want me to talk to Mac?” Pam’s husband was the deputy sheriff, and he’d spoken to Bobby on his wife’s request once before. Your families labrador had gone missing the next day, and turned up drowned at the bottom of the creek with a stone tied to his collar.

“No. Won’t do no good anyways.” You don’t say the other part, that the only thing that’ll stop Bobby Weston is your surrender or your death. People didn’t much like to hear that, even if it was true.

“There’s a parade this weekend for the boys who just got back from the islands.”  

“Yeah.” You muse absently. “Mama’s baking pound cakes like she’s personally responsible for feedin em all.”

Pam laughs. “My mummas had the stove on for three straight days. Guess she thinks they been on rations too long, need some southern hospitality.”

Your smile is more genuine as you think about a flock of fussing mothers force-feeding stew and cornbread into the exhausted boys. “No fightin; that, I suppose.”

The boy bagging your groceries dips his head as you hand over several bills. “Can I walk these out to your car, ma’am?”

You want to say yes, because the sun is beating down on the street and your bags are heavy, but if Bobby Weston sees this boy walking beside you he’ll shatter his kneecaps and that wouldn’t be fair at all when he was just being sweet.

“I got it. Thanks. See you, Pam.”

“See you at the parade?”

You shrug, hefting your bags against your chest. “Maybe.”

Maybe means no, it always means no. Being out in public, so exposed to a crowd with his hateful eyes on you just wasn’t worth it.

You almost make it to your car. You’re just a few paces away when the bag laden with perspiring bottles of milk and juice breaks open, wet paper splitting and your groceries spilling across the sidewalk.

“No, no, no,” you groan, placing your remaining bag down upright and scrabbling to collect the bottles as they roll away. You scramble forward as one makes for the road, stopping abruptly when it is pinned beneath a worn leather boot.

Your eyes travel up a leg, your stomach flipping over with anxiety until you meet the wide, green eyes of a stranger.

“Uh, thanks.” You mumble, reaching for the bottle beneath his shoe.

“No bother.” His voice is a low rumble of southern honey, and you swallow as you push up to a stand. He reaches out to steady you, long fingers wrapping around your wrist as he helps you to your feet, and you jolt at the contact, pulling out of his grip.

“I have to go.”

“I didn’t mean to…” he breaks off, agitation flashing across his features. “I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You force your breathing to regulate, meeting his piercing gaze again. “You didn’t. I just… need to go.”

The stranger picks up your forgotten bag, hooking his long fingers around two stray bottles on the ground as he follows you to your car.

“The bag boy will load your trunk for you. I don’t know much but I used to do that, and not just for the pretty girls.”

You flush, taking the bag from his hands with more force than you mean to. Your eyes dart to the side, to the pickup parked across the street. You can see his tanned arm hanging out the window, his fingers closed into a fist.

“Guess I ain’t pretty enough to qualify.”  You snap, and the man blinks at you, the soft smile on his face dropping.

“Now hey, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, you’re pretty. You’re awful pretty.”

You swallow thickly, fingers brushing his as you take the bottles from his hand. “Well now you really are making me uncomfortable. You don’t know I’m not spoken for.”

The man’s eyes drop to your hand, the bare, delicate fingers. “No ring.”

“Don’t mean nothing.”

“No.” He agrees, taking your hand and bringing it to his lips. He presses a kiss to the back of your hand and you feel heat curl in your core at the contact. His eyes never leave yours, holding you hypnotised in his wide, unblinking stare. “You have a nice day, ma’am.”

You snatch your hand back, hurrying around to the driver’s side and climbing into the cab with your heart hammering against your chest. Your hand shakes as you reach for the key and turn it in the ignition, the familiar rumble of your daddy’s car helping to ease some of your anxiety. You lift your hand, examining the faint sheen of his spit on your skin, and you lift your hand to your own mouth to press a kiss over the phantom mark.

Willard watches you do it, watches you shake your head a little as you pull out of the spot and head down the street in a car old enough to have seen a time before the wars. He thumbs a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and lights one, licking over his lips once before taking a drag. His head had been full of gunfire for months, and he’d seen the bleeding, burned crucifixion of Miller Jones every time he closed his eyes until he’d learned to drink himself into unconsciousness. But now his head was full of the melody of your voice, and when he closed his eyes he saw your face, and it was the closest thing he’d felt to peace since before he’d enlisted.

A woman he vaguely recognizes steps out of the market, tugging a nametag off her blouse, and Willard flicks his cigarette to the ground. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

She looks up, eyes flashing with alarm before she squints at him. “Willard Russell? Emma’s boy?”

Willard ducks his head, though it’s strange to be called a boy by a woman he’s pretty sure was in the grade below him at school.

“Yes ma’am.”

“You back from the front?”

Willard nods, impatient to bypass the pleasantries and the inevitable questions about his time in the war. He doesn’t wanna talk about that. He doesn’t ever wanna talk about that, but certainly not right now.

“There was a girl just came outta the grocery store. Dropped her bags. He produces the singular jar of preserve he’d slipped into his pocket when it had rolled out of your sight. “She left this behind. I’d like to return it to her.”

The woman sucks her bottom lip into her mouth, eyes lifting to the street, where the blue pickup that had so captured your interest still idles. The man inside leans out of the cab, staring right at Willard, and the woman sighs.

“You give it to me, I’ll make sure she gets it. I see her for sewin circle at the church on Thursdays.”

“I wouldn’t mind stoppin’ in on her.”

The woman’s smile tightens. “It isn’t a good idea, Willard. You don’t wanna be getting mixed up in that.”

Willard feels a tightness in his stomach as his eyes flick again to the man in the truck. “She spoken for?”

“Not anymore, but it don’t matter much. You just got back to town and that’ll earn you a little leniency, but not much. That one is a nasty guy. He thinks you’re sweet on her, he’ll make you pay for it.”

Willard sees the terrified set to your pretty face as you’d looked past him at the truck, and an awful wave of deadly calm settles over him. “I see.”

“Good.” The woman relaxes. “There are plenty of girls lookin for a guy with some war glory attached. You’ll do alright.” She holds out her hand for the jar, and Willard slips it back into his pocket.

“I’ll be holdin’ on to this, thanking you kindly.”

“Willard.”

“You have a good day now, ma’am.”

He tips his hat in her direction before turning the opposite way. His route takes him across the street, and he passes the pickup slowly, getting a good look at the greasy little man inside. He doesn’t look so threatening up close, and though he doesn’t drop his eyes from the challenge in Willard’s he doesn’t make a move to step out, either.

Willard runs his thumb over the label on the jar in his pocket, rubbing at it like a lucky rabbit’s foot as he makes his way home and tells his mama he’s got the urge to pray again.

*

The heat creates an unbearable pressure-cooker of perspiration and dead air inside the church building, and no amount of sweet, iced tea makes so much as a dent in it. You fan yourself with the folded pattern for a new dress, your hair sticking to your face in little tendrils as you blink through the salt in your eyes.

The lively chatter of gossiping women breaks off as the doors to the church open, wafting a hot breeze through the room as a man steps inside. Men don’t go to sewing socials, preferring to stop in at the bar down the ways while they wait to pick up their wives, but this one strides in with purpose and judging eyes follow him as he stops right in front of you.

He removes his hat, and your breath hitches in your throat at those beautiful, big green eyes boring into you. “You’ll forgive my intrusion.”

You nod mechanically, politely, dazed as he produces a little jar of apricot jelly from his pocket and holds it out to you. “Your forgot this, outside the store. I wanted to return it to you personally and apologize again for my behaviour.”

This was bad. This was the worst thing that this peculiar, beautiful stranger could be doing right now. Because word would spread, ohh how it would spread. And Bobby Weston would pay him a visit and it would be all your fault.

“There was really no need, we don’t know each other.” You say loudly. “You coulda just put it in at the store.”

The man licks his lips, a small smile quirking at the corners. “If I did that I wouldn’t have got the chance to see you again.”

You can hear the collective intake of scandalised breath as the boldness of his words richoches around the room. You look helplessly to the side, catching Pam’s eye. Her shoulders slump, and panic straightens your spine. “There was really no need, I… we’re strangers to one another. Plain and simple.”

“I’m Willard.” He says softly. “Willard Russell. My mama Emma usually comes here but she’s still bakin for the parade. I got back from the Pacific Theater this week.”

You swallow, eyes raking over him again. He’d been to war. He had no way to know about Bobby Weston, no idea that you weren’t worth the risk or the hassle. “Well I’m awful glad you made it back in one piece. Glad for all the boys who made it back.”

Willard nods dismissively. “I guess I’ll be up on the grandstand on Saturday night, but I wanted to know if you’d do me the honor of bein my date anyways.”

You want the ground to swallow you whole. You want every single woman in the room to suffer a bout of collective amnesia so they don’t go home and tell their husbands and their sons about this. You want pretty, stupid, stubborn Willard Russell to take it back and skip town.

“I’m not sure I can do that.”

Willard’s smile falters only a little. “Well, that’s alright. I got time and patience. I’ll see you there, won’t I?”

You swallow thickly, feeling your cheeks heat. “Whole town is goin.”

“Yeah but I’m askin if you’re going.” He winks, and a curl of unfamiliar warmth spreads through your lower belly.

“I… yeah. I’m goin.”

He scoops your hand off the table, pressing the back of it to his lips in another kiss that sears its way into your memory forever as he holds your gaze in his. “Until Saturday, then.”

You watch him leave, noticing the broad expanse of muscles across his back under the stretch of his linen shirt, and you press your thighs together under the table unconsciously. You’d see him Saturday, if Bobby Weston hadn’t put him in the hospital or worse beforehand.

*

Willard combs his hair whilst his mother nags and nags and nags from the washroom door. “It just isn’t proper, Willard. Goin up like that in front of everybody. I’ve had three callers just this morning, and lord knows what people are sayin’ behind our backs.”

Willard hums, spinning on his heel and crossing the room to wrap his arms around his mother. She slumps against him, folding into the warmth of his touch as she’s always done. “I’m sorry for the scandal, mama. But I ain’t sorry for doin it. She’s the one.”

Emma Russell pulls back and fixes her only son with an exasperated look. “Willard, she’s the first girl you set eyes on since you’ve been back. Not to mention she’s trouble.”

“The ex, I heard.”

“No, you didn’t.” Emma shakes her head, nudging her nose against his chest before stepping out of his reach. “Bobby Weston’s put people in the ground over her.”

“She ask him to?”

Emma’s brows shoot into her greying hairline. “What does it matter?”

“It matters.” Willard says. “If she wants him to do it, then alright. I’ll step down. But that’s not the way it looks to me.”

She sighs, resigned. She knows her boy, and he’s stubborn to a fault. “She broke things off with him a long time ago. He used to beat her something awful, so I hear. He didn’t take kindly to her ending it, and he hasn’t let her go.”

Willard’s hands curl into fists. He thinks about you, about your wide eyes and the soft curves of you as you shrank low away from the man in the blue pickup, and rage hardens in his guts. “Well, I’m throwin my hat in the ring on this one. If he wants to tussle, I’ll put him down myself.”

He means it. Emma watches her son duck out of the doorway of his childhood bedroom, wondering when he got so tall and how she’d missed him becoming a man, and she wrings her hands with the heart-wrenching worry that only a mother can truly understand.

Willard doesn’t like the spectacle of it all. That the town wanted to do something nice for the boys coming home, he could abide. Many of the guys needed that, needed smiling faces and handshakes and validation that the horrors experienced in the cesspit of war weren’t for nothing. Willard knew better, and he didn’t want to shake the hand of the mayor or eat cotton candy hand delivered by a giggling high school girl. His eyes scanned the packed town square, looking for you amongst the crowds.

It takes him entirely too long to find you, long enough that disappointment is churning his guts to silt and he’s considering heading home when there you are. Standing with the cashier from the grocery store, holding a softball in your hand as you eye the bottle pyramid in the game booth. You stick your tongue out of the corner of your mouth in concentration before flicking your wrist, and the pyramid topples with one hit.

Your friend claps and you grin at her, the smile so breathtaking that it steals the air right from Willard’s lungs. He’s picking his way through the crowd before he can think about it, ignoring the well-wishes and welcomes of town folk as he fixes on you.

“That was quite a shot.” He says when he’s close enough, and Willard is pleased to see that whilst your grin shrinks, you don’t stop smiling altogether.

“I got some practice in this area.” You say with a shrug.

“I’m glad you came.”

“Thank you for your service.” You say, your cheeks staining with blood as you blush. It’s the prettiest thing Willard’s ever seen, and he feels butterflies beat in his stomach at the teasing edge to your voice.

“I know about Bobby Weston.”

The smile does drop from your face then, the color draining from your skin as you knot your fingers together. “Then you know why I… why I can’t-“

“I’m not afraid of him. If that’s why you’re sayin no to me, I want you to hear it. I’m not afraid of him, and I wanna take you out on a date. On a whole lot of dates.”

“He put a guy in the hospital for sitting by me at church.”

“Let him try that with me. Let him try.” Willard steps closer, taking your hands and untangling your fingers. “I know we just met and we’re practically strangers. But your mama knows mine, I grew up here just the same as you. You’re the prettiest girl I ever seen in my life and I’m not in the habit of letting things I want slip away without a fight.”

You drop your eyes to the point where you’re connected, his big hands dwarfing yours completely. “Why me?” You ask quietly.

“Excuse me?”

You lift your eyes to his, biting your bottom lip in a way that sends a bolt of arousal straight to Willard’s cock. “I’m nothin special. I’m a little too plump and my hair never stays right and I got an ex boyfriend who’d rather see me dead than happy without him. You should find somebody else.” It’s the truest, most terrifying thing you’ve ever said out loud, and your hands shake with how scared you are.

Willard’s fingers tighten around yours, his thumb finding the point of your pulse against your wrist and tapping it in a steady rhythm. “You’re the prettiest girl I ever saw and that’s that. I respect your right to an opinion, and I know women are usually right bout pretty much everything, but I’m sticking firm on this one, darlin.”

Your core throbs at the use of the endearment, your palms slicking with sweat against his cool ones. Willard licks his lips, watching you squirm and blush for him, drinking in every blissful moment of it even as his cock thickens and presses against his…

He drops your hands suddenly, taking a deliberate step back and praying that the structure of his pants will hide the worst of his growing interest in you. It wouldn’t be proper, wouldn’t be remotely fair to you to make you look at that when you were being so soft and vulnerable with him.

Your eyes drop, following the path of his hands as he steps back, and your eyes widen a fraction when they come to rest on his crotch. “I’m sorry.” He mumbles, adjusting the fabric around his cock. “That isn’t… you’re just so pretty.”

You lick your bottom lip slowly, deliberately slowly, and Willard is fixed to the motion as his cock throbs and leaks. “Maybe I’m startin’ to believe you really think that,” you say, your voice breathy. Willard thinks about what you’ll sound like moaning his name, and the thought is almost enough to make him come without touching himself.

“Let me take you for a drink. Just a cup of coffee.” There’s a desperate edge to his voice, and you feel your underwear slick with arousal at the sound of it.

“He’ll break your legs. Or worse.”

“I’d like to see him try.”

“I’m not worth it.”

Willard smirks, shaking his head. “I disagree.”

You sigh, resigning yourself and him to the inevitability of your fates. “Alright. A cup of coffee. But you can call it off if you change your mind and I won’t be offended. Much.” You flash him a shy smile and Willard’s heart flutters in response.

“I ain’t gunna change my mind about you, darlin. You can count on that.”

*

You could count on Willard Russell. He’d shown up precisely when he said he would, helping you into the cab of his black truck and keeping one eye on you the whole ride into town. He seemed nervous, chewing absently on a little pick of wood, and you found yourself watching his mouth more than you should, imagining those lips on yours, that tongue…

He jogs around the car to open your door for you, offering his hand and not letting go of yours even after you’ve climbed down. He laces his fingers tightly through yours and tugs you towards the diner, and you feel the pulse of your panicked heart in the heat between your palms as people look up and stare at you.

“You two need a table?” The waitress asks, eyes dropping to your joined hands for a fraction too long before looking back up at you.

“Sure do. Something by the window if you don’t mind.”

She nods and scoops two menus from her station, and you follow her into the diner. Willard dips his head, lips almost brushing your ear. “Your hair looks so pretty in the sunlight. Forgive a man his pleasures.”

His voice is a low rumble of silk that sends shockwaves of pleasure through your core, and your eyes flutter closed as Willard guides you into one side of the booth and reluctantly detaches his hand from yours so he can sit opposite you.

“Can I get you some drinks to start?”

“Coffee, black.” He says, scanning the menu. “What’ll it be, darlin?”

“The same.” You say, looking at Willard and not looking at the waitress. You recognise her, and that’s a bad thing. It’s not a remarkable thing in a small town, but it’s a bad thing today because she’s dating one of the boys in Bobby’s crew, you’re pretty sure.

She offers Willard a tight smile before heading out the back, and you know there’s a payphone in by the store three doors down and you know you’re screwed.

“So tell me a little about yourself. You teach over at the school?” Willard, steeples his fingers below his chin.

“That waitress is gunna go tell Bobby we’re here.”

Willard frowns. “So?”

“So he’s gunna come here.” Your voice raises in pitch even as a whisper, and Willard reaches across the table for your hand.

“If he does, I’ll deal with it.”

You roll your eyes, a scoff pushing past your lips. “People don’t… deal with him. He deals with them.”

Willard’s fingers tighten on yours. “I may seem a way to you.” He says quietly. “But I seen things that’d send other men mad. I done things that’ll put me in the hellfire when the time comes. I ain’t afraid of your ex, darlin. I know you are and you got reason to be, but I ain’t. And he won’t touch you again. Not while I’m breathin, you understand?”

You swallow, your heart pounding in your chest. “I wanna believe it.”

“Then believe it.” Willard says with a shrug and a smile. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles and you lift his hand to your face, pressing a short, sharp kiss to his fingers in a gesture so bold you shock yourself.

“Well isn’t that nice.”

The voice slows the blood in your veins to an icy sludge as you turn to face him. Bobby looks murderous, his dark eyes rimmed in shadows as he sneers at you. “You goddamn whore.”

Your mouth opens as you drop Willard’s hand, and he lets you extract your fingers and drop your hands into your lap.

“Now there’s no need for that.” Willard says pleasantly.

“You’re new in town fella, so let me give it to you this once and we’ll say no more about it. You don’t want her. Shit, nobody wants her.”

“Seems like you want her awful bad.”

Bobby grits his teeth. “She tell you that? Delusional bitch. I got me a pretty young thing up in Sweetwater, ring on her finger and everything. What would I want with a fat old whore?”

“My experience folks always want what they can’t have. She ain’t yours no more and that kills you.”

The diner is so quiet you could hear a pin drop. You can hear the rough grating of Bobby’s breath wheezing through his chest. He only sounds like that when he’s really mad, like an engine about to explode. You shrink down in your seat.

“I’m bein as cordial as I can be,” Bobby says slowly. “But if you’re set on being a dumb fuck then I’ll make my point another way.”

“Not in here.” The diner’s owner and lead cook steps out from the kitchen, brandishing a frying pan like a weapon. “Not in my diner you don’t Bobby Weston. You never paid me back for the damages after last time.”

Bobby huffs a laugh, holding up his hands. “Alright Mac. Alright. Not here.” He turns on Willard, fixing him with a glare. “I’ll be seein you, boy.”

Willard’s blood heats at the challenge, and he almost gets up. Almost follows that piece of shit outside, but then you say “don’t” in a voice so small and desperate that he sits his ass back down and reaches across the table to take your hand. Your fingers shake against his palm, and he squeezes tighter. “None of what he said is true, you know.” Willard keeps his own voice soft and low, doing his best to soothe you as your bottom lip quivers like you might cry. That shouldn’t turn him on, but your big watery eyes turning up at him has his cock thickening in his pants and Willard knows he’s in deep. Way too deep, for a first date with a girl who took more than a little convincing.

“I don’t know why he can’t leave me alone,” you whisper. “If he thinks… all that.”

Willard hums. “He don’t think it. His pride is hurt by you movin on is all. Men are worse than little babies when their pride gets hurt.”

You nod, sipping black coffee so strong it coats your throat in tar. “Guess I’ll have to take your word for it, Willard.”

Willard. His name had never sounded so good, so pretty, so pure as it did coming from your mouth. “You go to church with your mama on Sundays?”

You look up then, brows furrowing at the change in direction. “Sure.”

“I been thinking I might do the same. My mamas been praying for my eternal soul more than usual, would be nice to give her knees a rest.”

You giggle, and the sound kicks up those damned butterflies in Willard’s stomach again as he grins back at you. He’d like to make you laugh like that every day for the rest of his life, if you’d let him.

*

The windows stand open and the doors ajar on Sunday morning, but the August heat leaves nothing at all unscorched and you’re practically sliding off the church pew as your mother huffs and puffs beside you. “Too hot,” she mumbles as she fans herself with the little bible she’s kept since she was a child. “They should hold church in the evenin’ when it’s this hot.”

You nod, because you do agree, actually. Weather like this is meant for walking in the forest or swimming in the creek, though you hadn’t done that so much recently. Not with the memory of your dog being dragged out of the shallows. Not with the threat of Bobby Weston lurking in the trees, waiting to pin you down and cut you or worse.

There’s a commotion at the end of your row, and you look down to see Willard having an animated disagreement with his mother. She tugs on his arm, trying desperately to pull him towards her usual pew where another girl sits waiting alone, but Willard doesn’t so much as glance in her direction. His attention is fixed on you, crinkles appearing around his pretty eyes as he smiles and begins picking his way over and between legs and bags until he’s squeezing himself into the little gap beside you.

“Ma’am,” he ducks his head to your mother, who stares at him slack-jawed. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

Your mother just blinks at him, utterly lost for words as he takes your hand in his and brings it to his mouth to press a chaste, lingering kiss against your skin. His lips sear hotter than the dusty heat outside, yet a shiver runs down your spine and prickles on the backs of your thighs.

“You know what you’re doing?” You whisper, leaning in just close enough for your breath to ghost against his neck. Willard tightens his grip on your hand, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation of being so close to your mouth. He could turn his head and connect your lips to his, and wouldn’t that be something?

“Declaring,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing circles against your hand. “Church ladies’ll get the word out.”

You sigh, slumping a little lower against the bench like it’ll do any good, and Willard chuckles under his breath. “You could at least pretend to be flattered.”

You don’t respond with words, but you part your legs enough to press your thigh flush to his own, and Willard stares at the soft spread of your skin moulded against his for so long that the sermon is over before he’s even registered it’d begun.

Willard doesn’t release your hand. Not when people start to shuffle out of their seats, greeting one another with handshakes and half-embraces, and not when his mama brings that poor girl over and presents her to him like a gift. “Willard, I want you to meet Helen Hatton. She’s been sitting with me all this time whilst you were away, keeping me company. I thought you might wanna thank her.”

Willard gives his mother a stern look like he’s about to argue, but you take one look at poor Helen’s scarlet face and extract your hand from his. “I need to say my goodbyes to a few folks anyway.” You slip away, and Willard looks longingly after you for a moment before his attention turns back to his mother.

“Well, I do thank you for minding mama for me.”

“It was my pleasure, of course. You were doin something so important.” Helen is soft-spoken and gentle in every sense of the word, and Willard can see the cogs ticking behind his mother’s calculated smile. She wants him to court Helen, and maybe if he hadn’t met you he might have done it. But his fate was sealed the moment he’d laid eyes on you and that was that.

“Well I do hope you’ll continue to sit with her from time to time, when I can’t make it to church.”

Emma’s smile tightens. “I thought we’d invite Helen back for lunch. Willard, you could take her in the truck, couldn’t you?”

“I got plans, mama.” He doesn’t mean to be disrespectful, but he does mean to be firm.

“With that girl?” Her voice is sharp, and Helen squirms like she wishes she were anywhere else at all. “I don’t think it’s wise to-“

She’s cut off by the sound of a scream, and Willard’s mind goes blank at the sound. He doesn’t know how he knows, but you made that sound. He shoves through the milling crowds, barreling down the steps and into the churchyard. His blood boils, his fists already curling into blunt weapons. He sees your bare legs scrabbling against the dirt, your dress torn and your palms split open from a smashed bottle littering shards of brown glass across the grass. He doesn’t remember much after that.

You wish you could forget it. You wish you’d stayed inside, stayed close to your mama or better yet that you’d never let go of Willard’s hand. But the air was stifling and you were sure there was a breeze outside, sure you could hear it creaking against the shutters. So you’d slipped out and stepped into the churchyard, just to breathe a little.

And that’s when you’d heard him, like a demon from the beyond as he stepped out around a tall headstone with a terrifying smirk on his face. “There’s the little jezebel.”

Your knees had buckled, and you’d looked frantically back at the church, but you’d have to pass him to reach the gate and you’d never get that far. “Please. Please don’t.”

Bobby’s smirk splits into a gloating grin. “You should hear the things people are saying about him.”

You blink, actually surprised. “Willard?”

Bobby flinches. “The other guys. You know they all get together all the time, got real close out there. Not him though. Russell’s weird. Unsettling. I mean he’d have to be, to take up with you, wouldn’t he?”

You bite your bottom lip, and Bobby’s eyes darken. “He’s been nothing but nice to me.”

“Yeah,” Bobby huffs a nasty laugh. “Only cuz he heard you’re easy, I’d bet. Word on him is he’d fuck anything that moved out there, man, woman or child. That he killed one of his own men, too.”

It’s your turn to flinch then. “If that were true they’d have marshalled him.”

Bobby shrugs like it doesn’t matter either way, and it kinda doesn’t. The court of public opinion would crucify him regardless.

“I don’t like seeing you paradin about town with him. Leaves a bad taste.”

You swallow thickly, eyes darting to the church again, but nobody’s looking for you and Willard hasn’t come out yet. Maybe he’s being charmed by the delicate, demure Helen Hatton after all. “Maybe you should stop looking, Bobby.”

He steps closer, each long stride narrowing the gap between you until he can seize your arms and shove you to the ground. “Maybe you should gimme something sweeter to chew on, huh?” He rips at your dress, the fraying seam unravelling at terrifying speed as you thrash against his body. Your foot connects with something fleshy and he grunts before dropping his weight on top of you, pinning your arms above your head as his furious face looms over yours. “You worried he won’t want you if he knows what a little slut you are for me?” He spits, saliva flying from his mouth. “Cuz you been ruined since long before I came along and you know it. His hand leaves your wrist to fumble with his zipper and you suck in a lungful of air and scream.

He cuts you off with a sharp press of his hand to your throat, and your vision explodes into a fantastic kaleidoscope of color. You think about how you never got to kiss Willard Russell, not even once, and that’s the saddest thing you can think of as you dip in and out of consciousness.

You’re weightless, limbs light as your eyes flutter open. There’s a dull, meaty thudding sound coming from somewhere, and you wonder if it’s the last beats of your own heart in your ears. But then your eyes focus, and you see Willard sitting astride a bloody, pulpy thing, and the thing whimpers like a wounded animal.

You drag yourself up, forcing words through your ruined throat. “Stop! Willard stop, you’re killing him.” Willard doesn’t stop, doesn’t even seem to register you’re there as he drives his fists into the unrecognizable slab of meat over and over. His eyes, those beautiful forests of endless green, never blink. Not until two of the men from the church drag him off, and he looks down at his ruined knuckles and then up at you, and the forests swirl into darkness as he drops to his knees.

Under the circumstances, the Sheriff determines to let Willard Russell go. Bobby Weston isn’t pressing charges, mostly because he doesn’t have enough teeth left to properly articulate an accusation and he’ll be eating through a tube for the foreseeable future. The town whispers about him, and about Willard, and about you. The blame, it had been decided, laid squarely with you for pitching two men against each other.

With your reputation in tatters anyway, you knock on The Russell’s front door in the middle of the afternoon, when just about anybody could see you doing it.

Emma Russell doesn’t smile when she opens the door, and she has half a mind to kick you to the dust when her son’s voice calls for you down the hall. “I saw her from the window, ma. Let her in or I’ll go out.”

Emma doesn’t want to be reminded of how awful he looks in the daylight, so she steps aside and lets you over the threshold.

Willard looks worse than you’d imagined. His hands are a mess, stained bandages tied roughly over his swollen, split knuckles. His bottom lip is little more than a fat bruise, having been forced into his teeth when Bobby had managed to get a couple of hits in early on in the fight. But he smiles when he sees you, his split lip weeping ghoulishly.

“You saved my life.”

He swallows, shaking his head. “Anyone woulda done the same.”

“No, they wouldn’t. And they didn’t. You did.”

“And I’d do it again. A hundred times over.”

You cross the room then, cupping his cheeks in your hands and pressing your mouth to his in a soft kiss laced with the metal of his blood. “I thought I was gunna die, and the worst tragedy in my mind was that I was gunna die without kissin you, Willard Russell. Had to make it right.”

Willard lets out a strangled little moan, his injured hands lifting to rest on your wide hips as he tugs you closer. “Dangerous thing, to give a man a taste of something like that,” he murmurs, leaning in to inhale against your shirt. “Could get addicted.”

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” you whisper, dipping your head to kiss him again. Willard presses up into you, his lip bleeding steadily against your chin as he deepens the kiss and licks his tongue into your mouth. Your knees go weak and the hands on your hips brace to support you, even though doing so sends a sharp pain through his damaged fingers. You abandon reason, climbing into his lap instead of stepping back, and Willard makes a surprised little sound in the back of his throat as your hand finds his growing hardness through his pants.

He breaks the kiss, licking his blood from your bottom lip before dropping his eyes to watch your hand work against him. “You sure?”

“So sure,” you whisper, wrapping your hand around him through the fabric and squeezing. “If you’ll let me.”

Willard huffs, eyes fluttering closed as his hips lift against your palm. “I never wanted anything so much as I want you.” His words are a rough growl of sound, thick with arousal, and your own core pulses in response as you finally slide your hand into his pants and grip the silky, stiff flesh of his cock.

He moans then, the sound sending a bolt of heat to your core as you reach up to rub your thumb against the sticky head of his cock. “You’re leakin for me,” you murmur, tapping the pad of your thumb lightly against the slick. “I’m leakin for you too.”

Willard’s fingers tighten against your hip for a moment before dropping to cup your puffy, wet pussy through the cotton of your panties. “God,” he whimpers, pressing his lips back to yours. You moan against his mouth as his lip splits again. You shouldn’t like the taste of his blood in your mouth. It shouldn’t be slicking arousal in your underwear right now but it is, and you wonder whether anything Bobby Weston had said was true, and whether you cared if it was.

“Need you to touch me,” you whimper against his mouth, and Willard’s fingers slip into the waistband of your panties without hesitation. You gasp at the sensation of his long, bruised fingers gliding against you, seeking out the bud of your clit and rubbing it in slow, pressurized circles.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, voice like molasses dragging over your skin and heating through to your blood. “Every damn inch of you.”

You swallow thickly, squeezing Willards cock before jerking him lightly from tip to base and back up again. “I’m nothin special.”

Willard clucks his tongue before pulling his hand from your underwear, lifting you off his lap and tossing you onto his bed. You squeal in surprise, and he covers your mouth with his palm as he presses his knee against your core. “You gotta stop sayin that, darlin.” He chides, peeling your panties down with his other hand and dropping them onto the floor. “There isn’t a thing I’d change about you.”

You whimper as his fingers glide over your folds, the sound of your slick lurid in the quiet of the room. “I wish you wouldn’t look at me so much.”

Willard drags his eyes away from your core to look at your face, licking over his wounded bottom lip. “I can’t stop looking. Can’t stop…” he pushes his middle finger into you and you suck in a breath as your muscles flutter around him. “Touchin you.”

You bite down hard on your bottom lip to suppress a whimper as he settles between your legs, lowering his head to press his lips to your clit. “Tastin you,” he mumbles against your folds, the sound vibrating through you and curling your toes.

“Oh God,” you whine, pressing your palm over your mouth where his had been moments before. His tongue pushes your folds apart and circles your clit in agonizing, slow strokes. Your hips lift against his face, soaking him in your slick, and Willard moans.

The split on his lip burns as he sucks your clit into his mouth, but the pain only serves to heighten every moment, every brush of his finger inside you and every throb of your aching, needy pussy against his face.

There’s a sharper stretch as he adds a second finger, but then he curls them against you, massaging the sensitive flesh of your walls and your back arches off the bed as a surprised groan spills past your palm. Willard looks up at you, his big green eyes hazy with lust as he laps at your clit and drives his fingers into you over and over again, and you come undone with a sob as your body writhes beneath him.

Willard laps up every drop of your release, extracting his fingers from inside you and dragging his swollen lips over your clit until you're whimpering with overstimulation. He rolls your underwear back up your legs and presses a single kiss to the damp fabric before helping you to sit up.

"I should-" you reach for his pants, and he takes your hand.

"There's no need for it."

You frown, trying to untangle your fingers from his grip. "That isn't fair, and besides I want to-"

"Darlin," his voice is low and strained. "You got an effect on me. Don't make me say it out loud."

You glance down, noticing for the first time that the front of his pants is a shade darker than before, and your eyes go wide. "Oh."

Willard leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your mouth, and then a second and a third. You lean into him, a moan rumbling up from your throat and into Willard as you deepen the kiss, tasting yourself on his tongue. Your hand is still resting on his crotch, and your own core rekindles at the feeling of his cock stirring to life beneath your palm.

“I think it’s time for you to go,” Emma says from the door, and you about jump out of your skin as you jump off the bed. She’s tight-lipped and firm, and Willard’s shoulders sag as he wipes his still-wet mouth with the back of his hand.

“There’s no use arguin with her on it darlin. I’ll call on you soon as I can, I promise.” You hover, and Willard pushes up from the bed, revealing the stiff tent of his new erection. His mama gasps, turning her face away as Willard cups your cheeks and presses his mouth to your own. “I’ll call on you.”

You swallow hard, curling your fingers against the hard muscles of his arms for a moment as you savor the feeling of his body against yours. “You’d better, Willard Russell.”

You’re escorted from the room and marched off the property, and you’d feel ashamed of it if not for the lingering tingle of Willard’s kiss on your mouth and the giddy, churning flutter of release in your stomach.

*

You wonder if you’ll ever be able to untangle the scent of popcorn from the scent of blood. “Possession is nine tenths of the goddamn law, motherfucker!” Willard hisses, his thumb pressing too far against the windpipe of a boy you maybe recognize from high school. “You see my jacket on her shoulders? See my goddamn hand on her waist? She’s mine. You don’t look at her and you sure as shit don’t touch her, you understand me?”

The boy makes an awful gagging sound, choking against the bruising in his throat as Willard finally releases him and pushes seamlessly to a stand. His eyes are hard chips of emerald and he’s clenching his jaw so tightly you worry he’ll crack his teeth, so you let him take your hand again, and if he notices the shake in yours he doesn’t comment.

“Willard,” you try quietly, coaxing him towards the parking lot at the back of the fair. “Lets go home.”

“He was gunna cop a damn feel.” He spits, cracking his freshly healed knuckles in a nauseating series of clicks. “I gotta protect what’s mine, don’t I?”

You hum in agreement, luring him through the turnstiles and onto the gravel beyond. “Let me have a look at those hands. Lets go to the truck so I can see em better.”

Willard follows you until you reach it, and then he stops. “You were enjoyin the fair.”

“No,” you shake your head. “I was just enjoying being with you. Don’t need all those lights and people to do that.” You tap the cab. “C’mon, open her up. It’ll be quiet and just for us inside.”

Willard walks you around to the passenger side and opens your door, helping you up into the cab. There’s fresh blood smeared over the splits in his knuckles, and he smudges it on the skirt of your dress as you settle into the seat. Willard had been in no less than a dozen fights in the three months since you’d met him. All over you, and all started by him. You were tired of wondering when he’d snap. You were tired of reassuring him on things in his head. And tonight? Well, that was the last straw and you were going to fix it.  

He drives out to the forest, to the little dirt lot by the clearing where you’d taken him for a picnic on your third date. His shoulders heave with exertion, and his fingers curl so tightly on the steering wheel you’re afraid he’ll break it in half. “Willard, honey.”

“I ruined your night.”

“You didn’t. I swear you didn’t. You just… you gotta cool off.”

He turns his head then, eyes burning into yours. “There’s a lot of no good sons of bitches out there. I got a… a right to protect what’s mine.”

“You said it,” you say softly, reaching across the seat to splay your palm on his thigh. “I’m yours. Nobody else matters.”

Willard looks down at your hand, the smoothness of your skin and the warmth of your palm, and he shifts. “You ever go with Bobby Weston?”

You swallow, but you don’t withdraw your hand. “If you’re asking if he… if we…-“

“I shouldn’ta asked, I’m sorry.” He chews his lip into his mouth, damp hair falling over his forehead, and you crawl over the seat and push him back so you can squeeze yourself into the gap between his body and the steering wheel.

“You can ask me anything. You can have anything, Willard. I never liked anybody the way I like you.”

His hands drop to your hips, kneading against your soft flesh. “I don’t think I was always like this.” He says quietly. You can feel the gentle stirring of his cock against you, but you resist the urge to grind down against him. “You got my head all messed up, darlin. Can’t eat or sleep or do anything without thinkin bout you.”

You cup his jaw, tilting his face up to look at you. “I’m nothin special.”

You watch his pupils expand, feel the twitching of his cock beneath you as a muscle in his jaw ticks. “You know how I feel about hearin you say that.”

“Yeah, I know.” You tease, finally letting your core drag over his erection. “You gunna do somethin’ bout it?”

A slow smirk spreads over his face. “You got ten seconds.”

You grab for the door and throw yourself out, launching into the woods with a breathless laugh. You hear the slam of the door behind you, the heavy thud of his footsteps, and adrenaline turns your blood to electricity as you race through the trees, deeper and deeper into the forest.

He whistles, low and long, and your heart pounds in your chest as you pelt towards the clearing you know is just up ahead, where the moon shines through the thinning trees. You can almost hear the sound of the rocky falls beyond, can taste the cool kiss of the water. An arm as hard as steel winds around your waist and you scream as the air is knocked from your lungs by the force of the impact. He hauls you against his body, your legs kicking out at him without ever making contact as he drags you into the clearing and drops you onto the ground.

“I win,” he says quietly, a dangerous, sinful smirk on his face. “You gunna give me my reward?”

You swallow, licking your lips as you scramble to your knees and look up at him through your lashes. “You gunna take it, Willard?”

Willard growls low in his chest as he reaches for your hair, tangling his fingers in the strands and dragging your face against his covered cock. “You’re mine, darlin.” He mumbles, the thick southern drawl of his accent turning his words to a slur with his arousal.

You reach for the buttons on his pants, freeing his cock from the confines of the fabric and wrapping your fist around the base. It isn’t the first time you’ve taken his cock into your hand or your mouth, but the sheer size of him sends a little jolt of anxiety through you every time anyway. It’s worse tonight, with the plan you have in mind. You’re not sure how all of that is supposed to fit inside of you, even though Pam had told you that men can always make it fit. If a baby can come out, a man’s thing can go in. You’d wrinkled your nose at that, but you believed her. It felt different when the thing was inches from your face, though. You wrap your lips around his tip, flicking your tongue against the salty stickiness beading at his slit, and Willard moans.

“That’s it,” he whispers, canting his hips forward to encourage you to take more of him into your mouth. “That’s my girl.”

You look up at him as your eyes water, Willard’s cock pressing against the entrance to your throat with agonising pressure, and you moan against his length.

Willard’s whole body freezes up at the vibration shooting through his cock, and he feels his balls tightening when he’s only had the pleasure of your mouth for a few moments. “You’re too much,” he whispers, a wry chuckle escaping as he pulls out of your mouth. “I need a minute.”

You sit back, licking his slick and your spit from your lips. “Willard.”

He doesn’t exactly answer, but he looks at you with pure, unadulterated hunger as he teases his fist up and down his own cock.

“I want more.”

His hand stills, and he cups your chin to bring your face up to his. “What do you mean by that?”

“I want… all of it. I wanna be with you like I never been with anybody before.”

Willard doesn’t move. He doesn’t even seem to be breathing. “You can’t take a thing like that back.”

Your stomach flips over with embarrassed indignation. “Who says I’d wanna take it back?”

“Darlin,” he sighs, caressing his thumb against your jaw. “Don’t take this to mean I’m saying no. I don’t reckon I’m capable of denying you a single thing.”

You turn your head to lick his thumb before taking it into your mouth, sucking gently against the iron of the blood on his skin.

“To ruin a thing like you.” He whispers. Your eyes narrow as you bite down hard, and Willard hisses as he withdraws. “Hell’d you do that for?”

He sucks his thumb into his own mouth, a bewildered expression on his pretty face.

You push to a stand, brushing dirt from your knees. “If you think that… that fucking me would ruin me then you’re no better than any of those other guys. Those… what’d you call em? Those no-good sons of bitches. You’re no better.”

Willard blinks at you, wondering how things had gotten so far off track so fast. “Darlin, I didn’t-“

“Save it.” You snap, turning on your heel. You’re not exactly sure which direction you’re supposed to go in; you’d run blindly into the forest under the certainty that Willard would catch you and he’d take care of getting you home. He would still, no matter if you’d bitten him and stormed away, but your pride is hurt and you won’t go back to him, not now.

You yelp in genuine surprise as you’re manhandled to the ground for a second time, but now you’re pressed flat to the damp earth, your cheek mashing into the first mulchy leaves of the changing season as Willard settles his weight over you and drags his hand down over your ass. “This is what you want?” He asks, cupping one generous cheek and then the other before delivering a sharp smack that cracks through the night like gunfire.

You make a keening sound at the sting, and Willard rubs his palm over the hurt before lifting his hand and spanking you again. “You want me to take you?”

You bite hard on your lip to stop yourself from crying out, but you push your ass up against his hand and you hear him chuckle as he delivers a third, blistering thwack to the fat of your ass. “Want it,” you sob, tears running to salt the earth beneath your cheek as Willard pushes your skirt up around your hips and drags your underwear over your thick thighs.

“Like I’d ever deny you.” He mumbles, dragging his thumb down the crack of your ass and round to press against your fluttering virgin hole. “Like I ain’t been thinkin about doin this since the first time I saw you.” He pushes his thumb into you, and you wriggle against the intrusion.

“Please,” you whimper, lifting your hips off the ground. “Please, I’m ready. I need it. Need you.”

Willard hums, withdrawing his thumb and sucking his fingers into his mouth to lubricate them. He pushes two into you, curling back against your walls to find your sweet spot. He has no intention whatsoever of just sticking it in you. Not for your first time. He works you open carefully, scissoring his fingers and trying very hard not to come at the tight, wet heat of you and the delicious little mewls and whimpers spilling from your perfect lips.

You’re a panting, groaning, drooling mess by the time he finally withdraws, and he kneels behind you, hands bracing on your wide hips and pulling you back onto all fours. Your legs shake with overstimulation, but you plant your knees firmly against the earth and brace yourself on your forearms as Willard drags the head of his cock through your folds, coating his length in your arousal before pressing it against your entrance. “This might hurt a little, but it shouldn’t hurt a lot. You’ll tell me if it does and we’ll slow down.”

You try to push back against him, try to force him inside you, but Willard taps your raw ass cheek in warning. “You’ll tell me.”

“I’ll tell you,” you whine breathlessly. “Just please.”

You’re not sure when the plan to make him feel better devolved into you becoming a desperate, needy little whore, but Willard’s perfect fingers and perfect mouth and perfect cock just had that effect on you.

He pushes in slowly, and you arch your back at the stretching. There’s a little bit of a burn at the thin skin around your entrance, but it isn’t really pain. Not like scalding yourself on a hot stove or steppin on a nail in the basement. You feel the press of his hips against your ass and the shuddering exhale of his breath over your back, and you flex your muscles around his length. He’s filled you completely, stretched you so tight that you can hardly breathe.

“You feel like heaven,” he whispers, his voice wrecked and reverent. “I ain’t gonna last with you feelin like this.”

“That’s okay,” you whisper back, wiggling your hips forward and back and feeling the fat head of his cock nudge against a spot deep inside you. “Just a little more. A little more, please.”

Willard huffs, flexing his fingers against your hips before pulling all the way out and pushing back in again. You groan, your forehead dropping to the dirt between your arms as he sets a rhythm. It’s slow at first, a comfortable, full drag in and out and you feel the coil of pleasure tightening gently in your stomach as the thick ridges on the underside of his length rub against your sensitive inner walls.

“I’m close,” he spits, his short nails digging into your skin.

“You gotta pull out then,” you mumble, remembering that piece of advice from Pam. The most important thing to remember, she’d said.

“Goddamn, you feel so good." Willard’s voice is little more than a strangled whimper, and he presses you further to the ground, your belly connecting with the dirt as he cages you in, his hips driving against your ass at a brutal pace that sets a dull ache in your stomach.

“Willard," you groan, "you have to pull out!”

He doesn’t listen to you, too far gone in the pleasure as he sinks his teeth into your shoulder and buries himself deep, deep, impossibly deep inside you. “I can’t, darlin.” He sobs. “I’m gunna fill you up. Put a baby in you, sweetheart. Make you mine for proper.” His balls snap sloppily against the slick of your pussy with each thrust, your clit aching at the attention as he mouths over your neck. “Gunna put a ring on your finger. Biggest rock I can afford, I promise you. Gunna make you mine… my wife… make you a mama… fuck!”

 You feel his cock twitch and thicken as it hollows out a new space inside you, and then the searing heat of his seed as he comes. It feels good, the sticky warmth washing through you and sending pulses of arousal to your clit, but panic creeps in at the edges of your consciousness because he was supposed to pull out!

You shiver on the ground as he pushes up onto his palms, holding his weight carefully off you as you try and fail to drag yourself back to your knees.

“There you go,” he mumbles, hooking his arms around your waist and your thighs and pulling you up to cradle against his chest.

“You were supposed to pull out.” You whisper, burying your face in the crook of his neck as hot, confused tears slip down over the full rounds of your cheeks.

“I never said I’d do that,” he coos, reaching between your legs to scoop up the thick ooze of cum sliding out of your hole. You whimper as he pushes his fingers back into you, dragging his release in and out of your body and pushing it in a little deeper each time. “We’re gunna be so happy, darlin.”

You swallow hard, clenching around his fingers, and Willard flexes his thumb up to rub at your clit. “We’re gunna be a family. You were made to carry my babies, you know that? God gave you this body. These hips, the soft safety of your womb. All for me.”

You feel your orgasm approaching at the rumble of words in his chest and the torturous stimulation of his fingers. “I… it’s too soon, we’re not…”

“I bought a little farm outside of town,” he says, pressing a kiss to your temple as his pace quickens, his wrist tensing with the strain as he fucks his fingers into you harder. “Nobody will ever get to look at you again besides me. That’s a promise, darlin.”

“Willard,” you whisper as you come, shaking sobs into his neck and staining the collar of his shirt with your tears as your release slicks on his hand and your muscles quiver around his fingers. “I… I just-“

“I know it.” He cuts you off, withdrawing his hand and wrapping his arms so tightly around you that your mouth is pressed to his sternum and you can’t speak at all. “I know you love me. Know you’re grateful. Know you can’t wait to be my wife. I love you too, darlin.”

You sag against him, the weak protest dropping out of you with exhaustion and relief. There’s no use denying him, not when he’s right. You do love him. You’d dreamed of exactly this, of being his wife and having his babies more nights than you could count over the summer of courting. And he really had taken care of your problems, hadn’t he?

You let him soothe you, leaning into the caress of his strong hands against your skin, and you drop into sleep dreaming of your future as Mrs Willard Russell.