Companionship (Comte de Reynaud/reader, J.G Jopling/Reader)
On the discord awhile back, @bellafarallones said they'd like to see something with Vampire! Comte de Reynaud and Werewolf! Jopling. So here we are! This fill is NSFW
Cold, late winter wind rolls down the streets of Lansquenet-sous-Tannes. You close the office shutters against it, then finish covering your typewriter.
“You’re leaving early?” The Comte de Reynaud looks up at you from his desk, pen hovering above paper.
“It’s almost seven o’clock.” Fond amusement creeps into your tone.
The comte looks at the clock, then out the window into the dark, then at you, “So it is.”
As you finish buttoning your sweater, he adds, “Is your husband still away?”
“He hadn’t returned by the time I left for work this morning.”
The comte stands, smoothing down his waistcoat as he does, “Will you permit me to walk you home?”
He knows the answer. It never changes, yet he asks every time.
“Of course.”
The office is attached to the comte’s home, a holdover from the days when his family was fully the lords of this village. Your home is a quarter of a mile away, a quick walk for you in the mornings that becomes a slow journey whenever the two of you traverse it together.
“How long has it been this time?” He turns up his collar as you turn into the wind.
“Only a week.”
He scoffs quietly, “Only a week. To tell you nothing and then disappear-”
You pause, turning to face him, “I knew the realities of Jay's work when I married him.”
You’d been a bookseller in Zubrowka. A man wearing a great deal of black leather entered your store, introducing himself with a card reading “J.G Jopling, Esquire” and explaining he would be using a corner of your store to monitor something (or someone) related to his work as a private investigator.
For the first week, he barely spared you a look, though you later learned he listened a great deal. The second week, you would catch his eye over the top of the book he was pretending to read. He had a distinct face that grew charming the longer you knew it. The third week, he asked you to dinner. You suspected at the time that he needed a way to trail his target without drawing attention, and appearing to be on a date would fit that need.
This was clearly the case the first two times. The third, Jay’s attention was only ever on you. Taciturn but clever, observant. You found his bluntness refreshing, his menacing air alluring.
Little by little, you learned the signs that his interest in you was more than a cover story.
It had been three months of doing…whatever it was he was doing when Jay came to you late at night, train tickets in hand. His work was done, his employer satisfied, and he would be traveling to a small French village to lay low for quite some time.
You had seen too much, he said, and when you expressed only puzzlement he insisted it was better you not know what the “too much” was. That his instructions had been to deal with you as he saw fit.
Luckily, he explained himself before you launched the lit lamp at his head to try and escape.
He had two tickets. You could come with him.
When you pointed out that only married women were allowed to travel across the border, he presented a certificate and told you there were two women ready to act as witnesses downstairs.
Less than a week later, you were in France, newly employed as secretary to the comte.
The comte, who at this very moment is continuing to insist that Jay is derelict in his husbandly duties for leaving you alone so often.
(The comte, whose eyes so often flit to your neck. Whose teeth seem sharper on the days you hear his stomach growling from across the room)
“Monsieur, if I didn’t know better, I would think this village is cesspit of sin and violence for the amount you carry on about my being alone in it.”
His mouth twitches toward a frown before he relents, sighing, “I worry about you, that is all. You are a good woman, you deserve...never mind.” He stops in front of your cottage, “the light is on.”
You smile, “Then he is home.”
“Are you certain? It could be-
“An intruder?” You shake your head, exasperated, “Paul. You know this village is safe. People rarely lock their doors. I mean, I do, at his insistence, but even I don’t worry about the windows.”
At the use of his first name, the comte meets your eyes. There’s a tenderness in his gaze, one that’s ever present these days. Paul winds himself so tight, prizes his discipline and restraint above all, yet in his eyes there’s always a sorrowful hunger. The dog on the rainy pavement watching the family feast through the window.
“Forgive me. I am simply concerned for your well-being.”
“I know” You button up the top of his coat, knowing the wind will be worse on his return trip, “Goodnight, Monsieur.”
“Goodnight.” He dips his head as you step inside.
You remove your sweater and shoes at the door; the light is from the kitchen, so Jay must be-
“He is still watching.” Your husband is abruptly at your elbow. You’re still not used to how quietly he moves.
“How can you tell?”
“Cologne.” He taps his nose once, then kisses you chastely, “go soothe his worries.”
You step to the living room window as Jay clicks the light on. Paul is indeed still in front of the house, looking at it with concern. You wave when he sees you, and that satisfies him enough to tip his head again and turn up the street.
“There. One of his worries, quelled.” You move to the kitchen. There are fresh flowers on the table; Jay is determined to act as husband should, and in his mind this includes frequent bouquets.
“He still thinks you are my captive bride?” The smallest, playful spark in those blue eyes.
“No, he relinquished that a while ago. I think. It is…hard to tell with him at times. He holds himself so tightly closed.” You wink at Jay, “And it’s not as if I gave him a detailed account.”
The train cabin is cozy. There’s room for the small bed, two seats, you, your bags, and your husband.
Importantly, the train cabin passed over the border an hour ago and your papers were found to be in order.
Night blankets the countryside as the muffled sounds of the other passengers readying for bed slip beneath your door. It’s technically your wedding night. And, while subdued, Jay has made his desire for you plain. You see no point in dancing around the obvious question.
“Are you going to take me to bed?”
Jay, perched in one of the seats, slightly tilts his head, “Is that what you wish, brave little vixen?”
You blush at the pet name, one that marks him as being from the mountainous region rather than the city like yourself, “You would not call me brave if you could hear my heart pounding.”
“I can” He stands, taking the few steps to bring you chest to chest, “Your answer?”
“Yes. After all, you look so handsome in leather.” You settle your hands on his jacket. He’s so still, practically unmoving, so you add, “only if it would please you, too.”
He kisses you, stiffly at first. The few kisses that you shared before now were brief, sweet (or what passes for sweet for a man who moves through the world like a shark through water). This one gives way to something more insistent, lingering, as if Jay is realizing that he can go at his own pace.
Briskly, he undoes the buttons on your dress, eases it down and off your body and holds you steady to step out of it. He kneels, unbuckles your simple, black shoes and gently removes them, setting them under the bench.
When he looks back to undo your stockings, he hesitates. Then he noses at your inner thighs, kisses an affectionate line up to your navel, runs his hands up and down your legs, the worshipful nature of the gestures surprising you.
By the time stockings, garters, and underwear join your dress on the floor, you’re panting and Jay is wide-eyed with what you quickly learn is lust.
“Onto the bed.” A pleasantly sharp slap on your ass makes you do as you’re told.
You lay down on your side, watching him undress. He’s lean under all that leather, scarred in a truly shocking number of places. When he crams himself onto the bed with you, his cock is charmingly soft. It stays so even as he guides you onto your back, kisses your face and teases his fingers leisurely across your breasts and along your legs.
“Should I…” you roll your hips in question, unsure if you should be doing something to arouse him.
“Do not trouble yourself, little vixen. I have always been slow to rise. I seldom feel the need to carry a beautiful woman to bed, but if she is there and eager, my desire wakes up in time.”
You relax as he attends to you, press your tits into his touch and the pleased, deliberate ministrations of his lips. When he slips two fingers into you, a weak moan drifts from your mouth.
With his free hand, he puts a finger to your lips, “We do not want attention.” His smile cuts the darkness, “when we have a home, you can make all the noises you wish.”
You kiss his fingertip, cover your mouth with one hand as his fingers work you toward orgasm. You’ve cum from a man’s touch before, but never with the man himself watching you so intently. Jay raises up onto his knees, enjoys the sight of his fingers working you open, if his hardening cock is anything to go by. He pets your thighs hungrily, squeezes them and smiles when you shudder, back arching as you climax.
As you pant, he slowly draws his fingers through the slick on your thighs, tongue flicking out to lick his lower lip.
“Do you want to fuck them?”
His eyes widen; it’s the most excitement he’s ever shown.
“Yes” he drops down onto his side, pulls your back to his chest as you hold your thighs open long enough for him to slot his cock between them. You laugh, enjoying his enthusiasm, and he kisses your neck with a soft growl, “such an attentive bride.”
You draw his arms together around you, savoring the warmth of his body, and stay nestled in them until morning.
Dinner is dumplings, made the way he taught you. He doesn’t talk about what he did while he was away, only asks after your work and any new gossip going around the village. When the meal is through you clear the dishes away but he steers you toward the stairs before you can wash them up.
Upstairs is only your bedroom and washroom. There are windows on the front and back of the room, one looking down onto the street and the other out onto the alley. You watch your reflection in this as you comb out your hair, track Jay as he moves into the room and up behind you.
“I look forward to summer.” His fingers curve up your thighs, “the dresses this time of year cover far too much.”
You snicker, “Paul clucked at me over this very dress. He says it’s far too revealing” you dip your chin at the neckline, “and was quick to remind me that many men are beasts.”
Jay’s reflection cracks a smile, “If only he knew.”
You’ve been in the village only two weeks when the full moon comes. You’re mending the hem of a skirt, Jay sitting perfectly still in the chair opposite you. You’re used to him moving little or not at all. It’s funny, how he and Paul both move so stiffly. For your husband, it seems to be his natural state, whereas the Comte seems to have stitched himself too tight in his own skin.
A scratch of nails on the wooden arm of the chair.“Jay? Is everything alright?”
He opens his eyes. They reflect the firelight differently than a moment ago, “Something is about to happen to me. When it does, you must follow this instruction: do. Not. Run.”
There’s a crack as his hands flex, sprouting claws, and his head wrenches unnaturally this way and that. Then it’s as if reality blinks away a moment. When it returns, there is a werewolf in your sitting room.
You don’t run. When the beast looks at you, it’s with your husband's clear–if perpetually a bit menacing–gaze. It’s just him. You are safe. If he wanted to kill you, he would not have waited so long. You are safe.
“Well done. Little vixen.” He leans forward, prowling out of the chair on all fours, stretching, “the wolf is well within my control, except when our prey flees.”
You kneel on the ground, cupping a furry cheek. He shuts his eyes, gradually lowers until his head rests in your lap.
“You’re quite soft.” You card your fingers through his fur and say, amused, “I suppose I forgive you for not telling me this prior to marrying me.”
He noses your stomach, “It was not the most relevant peril at the time.”
“Very true. Ah!” You laugh again as he nudges you backward with his head and pushes at your skirt with his paws, “so forward, my wolf.”
“The scent of your perfume, your skin, your sweat. It distracts me daily. Like this, it drives me wild.” He gently tugs your underwear with his teeth, “You will indulge me?”
In spite of the strange circumstances, you find it decidedly easy to say “yes.”
“Tomorrow night, I will let the beast have his fill. Tonight” Jay sits on the bed, stripping in an orderly manner, “I want only to keep my wife warm.”
Some part of you wants to pounce on him, or plead with him to take you then and there. Most of you is content to nestle under thick blankets, bare skin pressed to his as you fall asleep. And all of you is so very happy he’s home.
—------------------------------------------------------------------
“I thought it rather salacious.” You finish adding cream to your coffee.
Paul stares at you across the table, wide-eyed. He has taken it upon himself to make you into a Christian woman, as he was deeply shocked when you explained that while many faiths exist in Zabrowska, those that are permitted change with each regime. Many citizens, your parents included, found it best not to get too attached to one.
Your arrangement is this: you will read one book of the Bible for every Zabrowskan novella he reads in turn.
“Madame, it is the Bible, it cannot be-”
“The entire story hinges on the collection of foreskins.”
He flinches at your bluntness, returns his attention to his plate as he mutters, “It is meant as one detail of a more instructive tale.”
There is a single piece of bread in front of him. He butters it, but does not bite.
You heard the rumors shortly after you arrived in the village. That the comte is never seen eating. That when he is in church there is the barest hint of smoke under his fingernails as his jaw sets with pain. That it is not only his family but him who has looked after this town for centuries.
(But that was not anybody's business, really, and he is a good man, and so you should all ignore his odd habits).
Jay confirmed the rumors, his own supernatural nature meaning he could identify a vampire by scent alone. This did not change your attitude at work, nor your growing affection for Paul. He has never been anything but a gentleman toward you. Frankly, you’re less afraid of being alone with him than you were of being alone with Jay the first week after he appeared.
Your lack of fear frustrates the comte. As you walk, side by side, back to his office, he spares a look down at your chest, “You are not wearing your cross?”
(He gave it to you as a present to celebrate a month of working for him).
“As I said before, I never developed the habit. We put up the one you gave us as a welcome gift over the fireplace.”
“Windows and doors are the traditional locations.”
“So you said. I like that spot better.”
He frowns, begins rounding his desk when he shudders and braces his palms atop the wood.
“Monsieur Comte?” God, you can hear his stomach growling from here.
“I’m fine.” He looks so faint, so weak.
Cautiously, you step closer, “Paul. You need to eat. Please, let me help, you-” You hold out your wrist.
“I said I’m fine.” He snaps, sharp tone driving you backwards. Then he inhales deeply and raises his head, “I’m sorry. But you do not know what you’re offering.”
Were it any other man, you’d argue. Paul is your match when it comes to stubbornness. So you nod, and return to your desk.
—---------------------------------------------------------------
“Do you think I was foolish to offer?” You sit with your legs across Jay’s lap as you relate your exchange with Paul.
“No. He is a fool not to accept. A vampire who starves too long becomes crazed. Out of control.” He sets a hand on your knee, thumbs affectionately at your thigh, “Do not trouble yourself with more worries tonight, for him or anyone else.”
“Not even you?” You slip him a smile.
“Least of all me.” He lifts your hand, kissing across your knuckles, “I leave tomorrow. By my count, the job should take a week, but you know the nature of these things.”
You nod, shift to slide your hands beneath his dark shirt, “Take me to bed and give me some fond moments to remember while you’re gone?”
He smiles, turns your hand to nuzzle his way up your wrist, “Nothing would please me more, little vixen.”
—-----------------------------------------------------------------
For eight days after Jay departs, your life putters along in its usual way. You tidy the house and garden, meet Vianne for coffee on Monday afternoon, and work alongside Paul. When his hunger isn’t making him snappish, he’s quick to say what a blessing you are, how glad he is to have you as his secretary.
On the eighth night, you settle into bed wishing Jay was home. Paul had been very prickly today, even scolding you again for not wearing a cross.
You aren’t asleep that long when fingers stroke your cheek. You blink your eyes open, expecting Jay.
Paul leans over the bed. The moment your gaze meets his, your limbs go heavy. Not unpleasantly so; it makes you think of being wrapped in a quilt by the fireplace, full and happy as the snow falls outside. Of bathing in hot water, languid and unhurried. Of Jay in his wolf form, paws protectively over your back as you sink into his fur.
You slowly tilt your head, “Paul? You absurd man, you could have knocked and I’d let you in.”
“You already invited me in once. And as you told me, there is no cross above the doors. Or that window.”
You sit up, his unusual boldness encouraging your flirtatious feelings toward him, “Why do I doubt this is a business call?”
He sits beside you, brushes your hair from your neck, “Because you’re as clever as you are willful.”
When his lips graze your neck, you sigh and bare more of your throat. The warm feeling tells you it’s safe, your heart reminds you that you’ve wanted this for months.
Paul holds your arms as if anticipating you falling over, “Stay still, my pet. And no noise, please.”
“Intending to make me scream?”
“I’d rather not.” He says it plainly but in his tone tells you it’s not fully the truth.
Then teeth pierce your skin and you can’t think of anything else. You yelp in pain but no sound escapes, and you can’t pull away from the sting.
He’s thralled you. You can’t resist him.
Your cunt throbs at that realization, and at the fact you can faintly feel his desire as he feeds from you. Pleasure lopes behind the pain in your nerves; were it not for the thrall you’d be in his lap, dragging those big hands onto your chest and making short work of his belt.
“I, I see you reconsidered my offer.” Is all you manage to say through the sensory haze.
“Only as a means to an end. Some lessons must be learned painfully.” He laves his tongue over the blood on your neck, “such as why it’s unwise to offer yourself to a monster, to be so insistent that you will be alright, that no harm could ever come to you, no matter how you parade yourself.”
“In what way have I been parading-” you moan as his teeth sink back in, a firm suck reminding you of the times Jay leaves lovebites on the backs of your thighs.
He pulls back, puzzled and licking blood from his lips, “I didn't tell you to make that sound.”
“You didn’t need to. Do it again, please.”
“Cherie, that’s the thrall talking.” His eyebrows knit in a frown; he’s not even convincing himself.
“No, it isn’t. It feels good, all of it feels so good” You fumble for his hand, set it between your thighs, “see?”
He groans as he feels how wet you are. You notice, with delight, that he’s hard in his trousers.
“I can help with that.” You reach for him only for your hand to refuse to move farther.
“I’ve taken so much already.” He produces a handkerchief from his pocket, sets it against the bite on your throat, “and you belong to another.”
A hint of sorrow enters the warmth of the thrall. You reach for him again, wanting to comfort him, to say that Jay might be persuaded to share you. He pulls away, the marks on your neck already closed.
He stands, looking down as you sway slightly, woozy from the feeding, “Sleep. When you wake, you will only remember this as a dream.”
The thrall pulls your eyes closed, even as you whisper his name.
—------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You know it wasn’t a dream. When you wake up, there’s a small bruise on your neck. You cover it with a scarf on your walk to work. Once you’re in the office, you leave it in view, toss your hair just so, so that when Paul passes your desk his eye moves instantly to the mark.
He swallows, jaw clenching as he finishes his usual morning pleasantries.
You smile as you get up and pour him coffee, “It seems I ought to stop reading those horror novels before bed. I’ve been dreaming of vampires.”
Only the smallest flick of his eyes to your face in reply, “Perhaps that will inspire you to be more prudent with your crosses.”
“On the contrary. In fact, I may never even close my windows again.”
“This is not a game.” Paul’s tone is brisk, even as he lowers his voice, “I succumbed to temptation. It will not happen a second time.” The last sentence seems directed at himself more than you.
“I would not be angry if it did.” You smooth your skirt, “I wasn’t hurt or afraid in the slightest.”
Paul’s attention is locked on the papers before him, “If I become too hungry, I may not be as gentle or careful as I was last night.”
“All the more reason not to starve. Please, Paul” you take his left hand, his right nearly napping his pen, “you have looked after me, in your way, ever since we arrived. Let me do the same for you.”
His gaze snaps onto you, “If you press this matter any farther, I will release you from your position.”
You snatch your hand back, stung by the disapproval in his tone.
“You will refer to me by my title from now on. We have allowed ourselves to become far too familiar. Do you understand?”
“Yes, monsieur comte.” You return to your desk, frustration burning under your ribs.
It is a busy day; although it’s not yet even Lent, the town is in the midst of planning the Easter celebration, and many of those involved must meet with Paul for permits and other official matters. When evening comes, Paul asks if you would like him to accompany you home.
You decline.
—--------------------------------------------------------
The next two weeks pass in a dull rhythm; you wake up to an empty house, go to work for a man who is polite but distant, then return home to the same, empty house.
It’s not that you don’t try to fill your days with enjoyment. You meet with Vianne and your other friends in the village, take walks when the weather allows, read by the fire. But a pulsating, painful worry grows beneath the loneliness with each passing day, making it less bearable.
It’s the first day of Lent, and you’re finishing typing Paul’s correspondence for the day. The Comte watches you carefully, only looking away when you glance at him.
“Your husband is still away?”
“Yes.” You pull the letter from the typewriter.
Paul thumps his palm against his desk, “This is completely unacceptable. It has been almost a month-”
“I am aware-”
“-and he has not even sent you so much as a letter-”
“Monsieur Comte, my correspondence is none of your business” the envelope crumples in your fingers; you’ve checked the mail every evening with dwindling hope.
“He is derelict in his duty as your husband, he took vows, he cannot just abandon you!”
You abruptly stand, tossing the letter onto the desk, “He has done no such thing. He would not be gone this long unless…unless he…”
Tears cloud your vision. You quickly gather your things, refusing to look at Paul, “It doesn’t matter. Goodnight, Monsieur Comte. I will see you on Monday.”
You spend Saturday evening in bed, curled under the covers. The only thing that cheers you up is a little book Anouk made you; she likes the Zabrowskan fairytale of the rabbit who tamed the wolf, and took it upon herself to illustrate a version on paper and bind it with sewing thread.
Sunday morning, you awaken to knocking at the door and practically race down the stairs. The village bells tell you it’s half past noon, and you’re somewhat embarrassed to be caught sleeping so late.
That feeling only increases when you find Paul in his Sunday best on your doorstep.
“Is everything alright, monsieur?” You ask while trying to recall if it’s the blue nightgown you’re wearing or the white one in the closet that’s a bit see-through.
“Yes. Or, well, that’s to say there is no emergency. May I come in?”
You step back to allow him across the threshold. He doffs his hat, holding it against his stomach. His fingers crease and then release the brim; he’s nervous.
His left hand darts into his pocket and produces a small box tied with red ribbon. You recognize it as being from Vianne’s chocolate shop. Paul holds it out and you accept it with a puzzled expression.
“I owe you an apology. You’re right that your marriage is no business of mine.”
“Thank you” you toy with the ribbon, unsure what to make of his change of heart.
“You’re a good woman. You deserve a good man. A man who takes care of you as you deserve. But it is prideful of me to think I know whether your husband is one such man.” He hunches inward, “seeing how I upset you last night…I felt terrible. I spent time in the chapel before service, asking for guidance. And…and asking the lord to return Monsieur Jopling to you.”
“He’s dead.” You say flatly.
Paul looks horrified, “You’ve had word?”
You shake your head, “It is simply the logical conclusion. He told me he expected to be gone a week at most. At most he’s off by a few days, and once he was off by a week and a half. But that time, he managed to get a letter to me informing me of the change and that he was alive. As you noted last night, no such letter has come.”
The tears come unexpectedly, and you cover your mouth to silence the accompanying sob.
“Oh, oh my dear.” Paul drops his hat on the table, hands hovering near your forearms, “please, tell me how I can help you.”
“Just a moment of comfort, please?” You look hopefully up at him, choking back another sob.
He draws you into his arms. You cling to the lapels of his jacket, press your cheek to his chest and try to breathe in time with his heartbeat.
Right, he doesn’t have one.
Your eyes flick to where his hands rest on your arms; his fingertips are red, as if he touched them to a stove. You don’t want to linger on your fears about Jay; you want to be wrong, you want to be distracted, you want to feel something other than helpless worry.
(You want to help someone you care about).
You take his right hand, cradling it between your palms, “A result of your extra time in the chapel?”
He nods, chagrined, “I can survive mass with only small pains, but any longer I risk some burns.”
It’s the first time he hasn’t tried to lie or change the subject from his vampirism.
“Come with me.” You shoo him down into a kitchen chair and set a bowl of cool water in front of him, “that may help a little.”
He murmurs thanks as you sit down across from him and undo the ribbon on the chocolate box.
“Why go at all, if it hurts you?”
“I was a deeply devout man before I was cursed.” His mouth sets in a determined, proud line, “I refused to surrender that part of myself, even if for years I could barely stand on holy ground. It seems that the longer one is…like I am, the more they are able to tolerate things like holy markers and sunlight.”
“I’m glad. The summers here are so lovely it’d be a shame if you still had to hide from them.”
You wonder if it’s unwise to tease him even a little about this, but he relaxes as he says, “What were summers like in Zabrowska?”
“Mild and foggy. I used to wonder why women's magazines advertised bathing suits with so little coverage when the beaches were seldom warm.”
You lift one of the chocolates, take a bite, and sigh with pleasure; Vianne works such wonders in that kitchen.
“What does it taste like?” Paul watches your lips as you finish off the first truffle.
“Brown sugar, must be a Bordeaux.”
“In more detail?” His eyes glint playfully, a sight rarer than snow in July.
“There’s cocoa, bittersweet, and cream and sugar, just like a good cup of coffee. The filling is smooth, practically butter. It tastes like brown sugar, but not the kind left to languish in a cupboard. It’s as if the sugar was left to toast in the sun, made rich and dark.” You lick your lips as his eyes close, “shall I describe the next one?”
“Only if you want to.”
You lift a circular truffle, a promising hint of coffee reaching your nose, “I very much do.”
—---------------------------------------------------------------
Paul doesn’t become a nightly visitor, but he does agree to join you for dinner multiple times a week. You do ask if he wishes for you to obtain blood from the butcher or one of the local farmers (“it is common enough in Zabrowskan stock”) so he’s not simply watching you eat. He refuses; he gave up blood of any kind for Lent. The choice worries you, but you don’t press the matter. He’s been a vampire a long time, surely he knows how long he can go without risk.
So Paul meets you for dinner, lends you his handkerchief when you become tearful, and spends a little more time at your side as the two of you work instead of retreating to the chapel. Most amusingly, any time you visit Vianne she slips you a box of chocolates from a “secret admirer.” It charms you that Paul has found a way to give you gifts without inciting gossip.
Still, every morning you hope to see Jays boots by the door. Every night your heart sinks when there’s no letter written in his spindly hand waiting in the mail.
Easter comes with a spring rainstorm so severe that most flee to the dry warmth of their homes after the service. You’re no exception, hurrying down the wet stones of the street with Paul holding an umbrella over you (and only half over himself).
“So much for all those carefully planned festivities.” You shut the door against the rain as Paul sheds his soaked coat.
“Apparently the lord wishes us to spend time in contemplation and the company of our families instead of in frivolous parties.” Paul obediently sets his hands in yours so you can check his fingertips. No burns this time.
“Perhaps, but as one of the people deluged by all the planning permits for those frivolous parties, I’d have liked if he held off until tomorrow.”
“A fair point.” He watches as you move toward the kitchen, “will it trouble you if I stay until the heavens are slightly less…aggravated?”
“Of course not. You know I relish your company.” You smile back at him.
“A blessing I’m snot sure I deserve.” His tone is only half-teasing.
You fetch some cheese and bread, intending to heat it in the oven, only to be startled by a loud, wooden scrape. Paul is on his knees, clutching his forehead. You hurry to him. When he looks up, his pupils are wide and his hands are shaking.
“You didn’t feed this morning?”
He shakes his head, “I did not have the time. It’s alright, I, I can manage until the storm dies down.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’ll go mad with hunger and hurt someone in town.”
“Is that what your cursed mutt of a husband told you?” He rubs his forehead with a pained moan.
His word choice startles you into honesty.
“When did you know?”
“Likely at the same moment he knew me for a vampire. I assumed his lycanthropy was yet another fact he hid from you.”
“It’s not. But none of that matters right now. What matters is that you do not faint on my floor or flee into the storm in a blood-hungry fugue.”
“Give me just a moment.” He’s now gripping the side of the chair so hard it’s splintering.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” The paring knife is still in your hand. You prick your thumb with it, then shove your thumb between his trembling lips.
He sucks hungrily, and when he releases the digit any trace of blood is gone. Before you can make some clever comment he lunges to his feet. You skitter backwards to the living room purely on animal instinct, but he's far quicker than you.
“That was very foolish.” He growls as he traps you against the wall, “I’d nearly forgotten how you taste. Now it will live in my mind forever and I will never, ever be satisfied.”
You pull your hair to one side, “Does that mean you’ll finally take me at my word when I say I give this willingly.”
He kisses your neck in reply, then pierces the skin with his teeth. With no thrall to dampen it, the pain is sharper than before. You still revel in it, moan and shove your hands into Paul's tidily combed hair as he savors you.
Paul pulls away from your neck, gasping lips smeared red. He wastes no time in pressing beautifully messy kisses to your throat and chest, moaning anytime you roll your hips against him. When his fangs return to your throat you yelp, then laugh as he rips open the front of your dress.
“You have said he has his reasons. But were we married, I would never leave your side” He kisses a red trail down to your tits, scrapes his teeth along them but never bites, “these alone would compel me to stay.”
You blush, then squeak in surprise when he easily lifts you and holds you against the wall. You wrap your legs around him, dress rumpling every which way when you do. His hunger must be abating, as no more bites come. Instead he licks tenderly at the marks, kisses every inch of you he can reach. Manages to keep you up with one arm hooked under your thighs so he can paw and pet your chest.
When he finally kisses your lips, you whimper. The kiss is ravenous, passionate, and you know you’ll never be satisfied until you receive one like it every night.
Paul breaks the kiss to draw a line of them down your cheek, murmuring as he does, “This does not change the foolishness of feeding me. Yet I doubt you will regret it, hmm?”
You grin, shaking your head.
He smiles, still caressing your chest, “You are a brave, willful creature, cherie.”
“That has always been an appealing trait of hers.”
Paul nearly drops you as he whirls around. You manage to get your feet under you just as the bulk of his body turns enough to reveal a figure standing in the front doorway.
“Jay!” You run to him as the door slams shut, throw your arms around him without caring about your disheveled, stained state or the rain clinging to his jacket, practically sob against his chest, “I thought I’d lost you, I thought you were dead!”
Familiar hands settle on your lower back, “I gathered as much.”
You step back enough to look at him, “If…if you are angry with me, or with Paul, I understand but-”
“That depends on how he comported himself.” Jay’s gaze is studying Paul with all the sharpness of a wolf weighing its odds against a bear.
“I was weak in the face of temptation, that I will not deny.” Paul straightens his clothes with an air of shame and indignation, “But I am not the one who abandoned his wife for months, ran off to do god-knows-what while she mourned me.”
“You did?” Jay turns his head, but not his eyes, slightly toward you.
“Of course I did. It was only through the company and comfort of others, Paul included, that I didn’t spend the last several weeks shrouded under the blankets.”
The fingers of Jay’s left hand curl fondly along your side; that means he’s touched.
“All the same, I shall take my leave. Goodnight” Paul, face clean of blood, tries to step past your husband and leave.
“Not so fast.” Jay grips his inner elbow, preventing further escape.
“Jay-” Worry enters your voice.
“It is alright, little vixen. I won’t hurt him. I swear.” Jay speaking in your shared tongue does nothing to calm Paul.
“Unhand me, you cur.”
“In a moment. How many times has he bitten you?”
“Three in total.”
Jay nods. Then he spins Paul so the larger man’s back collides with the front door.
“Monsieur Jopling, I’m more than willing to settle this with you, but we are men, not beasts.” Paul's voice is low and controlled.
“That is not entirely true.” Jay makes short work of Paul’s waistcoat and shirt. When the comte tries to push him away, a distinctly canine growl from Jay makes him freeze.
“You have marked what is mine three times. I will return the favor.” Jay sinks his teeth into the skin above the neckline of Paul’s undershirt.
Paul hisses, pained, and tries again to shove him backwards. You expect Jay to bite again, to make his point swiftly and efficiently as he often does. Instead, you watch his cheeks shift as he sucks a bruise along with the first bite. Paul squeezes his eyes shut, moaning as Jay releases that patch of skin to bite down on another.
Before going for the third mark, Jay glances at you and chuckles.
“You look surprised, sweet one. And your cheeks are pinker than on our wedding night.”
“I, I didn’t know you…” You’re unsure how to phrase it without jolting Paul back to reality and sending him fleeing out the door.
“I can appreciate a handsome man as much as you do.” He shifts his thighs and Paul groans, palms flat against the door, “and it seems the comte can as well.”
“Please” Paul gasps as Jay leaves the final bite, “don’t mock me for it, don’t speak of it, it’s shameful, a sin, if anyone knew-”
“They will not. Discretion is one of my many skills.” Jay releases Paul. The comte was only half-hard when your husband returned home. Now his cock is tantalizingly filled out.
“Cherie?” Paul looks at you pleadingly. You’re so aroused from all you’ve seen, it takes a moment to realize what he’s asking for.
You join Jay in front of him, drape your arms over Paul’s shoulders and kiss him softly, “It does not bother me if you and Jay desire each other” you smirk, “it does explain why you were quite so invested in the goings-on of our marriage.”
“That was not the reason.” He mumbles, hesitantly embracing you, “you enchant me, my darling. I could think of nothing else and selfishly hoped he would give you some cause to flee him. Come to me and let me treat as a husband should.” He looks over your shoulder at Jay, “forgive me, monsieur, for my callousness.”
“I would have done the same in your position. If not more.” Jay is suddenly pressed to your back, kissing your shoulder, “I intend to perform my husbandly duties tonight. Thoroughly. If the little vixen permits you to stay, you may. But know that for this evening, this part of her” his hand darts to your front, sliding down between your thighs, “belongs to me.”
Paul cups your cheek, “Understood. Will you permit me the honor of staying, cherie?”
You turn your head, kissing first his palm and then Jay’s face, “Upstairs, both of you.”
Jay takes the lead. You offer Paul your hand; if this is something you’ve only ever dreamt of, then you suspect his imagination has not even permitted that. He likely needs a little comfort, even if his pupils are once again wide and excited.
Your husband quirks a brow at your torn dress, as if this is the first time he’s truly noticing it, “You began undressing her. You should finish the job.”
“May I?”
You set his hands on the remaining buttons. He makes short work of them in spite of his shaking fingers.
When you turn, down to your undergarments and stockings, to regard Jay, your heart contorts with concern.
“Oh, my wolf,” you touch the bandaged section of his chest, the edges of a fresh scar visible, “no wonder you were delayed.”
“I could not send word as I did last time such a setback occurred. My main employer is a greedy, clutching eel of a man, and he would leverage you against me. He does not know of you, and he never shall. I was trapped, recovering, in his home and could not risk a letter.” Tenderness is seldom plain on his face, remorse even less so, but in this moment both are as clear as spring water.
“This man sent for a doctor?” Paul frowns at the bandage.
“At the start, yes.”
“I will send Monsieur Lemouxe here tomorrow to attend to you. Someone should look over the wound under less clandestine circumstances.”
Jay gathers you in his arms, “I begin to see why you tolerate him so much. He’s thoughtful, for a bureaucrat."
“Immensely so.” You spin in Jay’s arms to face Paul, who’s only managed to shed his shirt and vest in the time it’s taken you and Jay to be nearly naked. You eye the comte brazenly, “the first time he fed, he thralled me to avoid accidental harm.”
“He did what?” The growl returns. Paul holds his ground.
You pet Jay’s arms soothingly, “I found it rather courteous. And very, very pleasurable. Although not as effective as he thinks; I did not think it was a dream as he ordered me to.”
A look passes between the two men that you cannot parse, while Jay murmurs, “Interesting.”
Their moment of silent conversation gives you time to think. A wild, delicious idea presents itself.
“It was so easy to utterly relax when under his thrall. It makes me wonder if he could use it to help me finally take your knot.”
The embrace tightens, “Yes.”
“You never have?” Paul looks surprised.
“It hurt when we tried. And I am reluctant to trap myself in such a way. But since you are here, we have extra protection.” The fingers resting against your skin sprout claws, and the chest behind you is now much furrier.
A snnk of fabric and both your bra and panties drop to the floor with fresh tears.
“The comte can replace them along with your dress.” Jay pulls you back toward the bed.
Paul dips his head, amused, before removing his pants, “Of course.”
Jay sits on the edge of the bed, pulling you into his lap while keeping his back to your chest. His cock is hard as it bumps your thigh. Turning your head, you kiss his cheek, let him nuzzle the unbruised side of your throat. He inhales deeply, exhales with a pleased little growl.
“Are you both ready?” Paul is fully naked, making it difficult to focus on anything above his hips.
The back of claw teases your folds, sliding easily from how wet you are, “It seems so.”
“I am.” You manage to look up.
Paul cups your face in both hands, keeps his eyes on yours. Within a heartbeat, the warm, safe sensation spreads through your body.
“There we are, my pet. You’re in my thrall. I…do not use it often but you have my word when you are under it, you are safe. You are mine. Ours.”
You moan as the head of Jay’s cock presses into you. Paul releases your face but keeps a hand on your hair, stroking it tenderly. Which frees you up to lean forward, grips his hips, and lick a long, lazy stripe up his cock.
“I, I did not tell you to do that.”
“I know.” You purr.
“As do I. She is an insatiable little vixen. If my blood ran hotter than it does, she would have me in her every night.”
“You, you could take her to bed every night and you don’t??” Paul exclaims, then blushes at the hunger he’s admitted.
“Perhaps you can aid me from now on.” Jay fondly squeezes your tits as he works himself deeper.
You kiss the head of Paul’s cock, flutter your lashes, “should I stop?”
His fingers tangle in your hair, “No. Open your mouth.”
You obey, hold still as he guides his cock between your lips. When you suck happily at the warm weight of it, his hips jolt and he groans.
“I’ve trained her well.” Jay chuckles at his own comment and at the small slap you give his leg.
“Heaven help me” Paul thrusts slowly across your tongue, “cherie, your mouth is divine, how will I survive without having it every day-”
You pull off to catch your breath, “I do work for you, mon cher. And your desk has a great deal of space beneath it.”
“Mischievous little thing” Paul guides his cock back into your mouth, thrusting in earnest, “how you bewitch me.
You purr around his cock, making him moan, and let yourself relax deeper into the touches of your lovers. Jay’s thrusts, steady and purposeful, knot bumping the opening of your cunt, and Paul's increasingly desperate movements.
Jay murmurs something in your shared tongue, breath warm against your ear, and Paul glances at him, then you, “what did that mean?”
You manage to pull away enough to reply, “He said ‘a good husband gives his wife fine presents, how do you like mine’” You kiss along the shaft of his cock, “I think you both know the answer.” You drag more kisses and licks along his cock as you continue, “how could I not adore such handsome, upright man who drives me to distraction so thoroughly I was going to let him bed me only a few weeks after becoming a widowOH” you laugh as cum spatters your lips and chin.
“Oh, oh my darling, I’m sorry, how vulgar” Paul drops to his knees, panting, and tries to wipe away the mess, “maddeningly erotic, but vulgar-”
Jay roughly turns your head toward him, licking away the remaining drops before holding your jaw gently in his claws, “Do you want me to knot you?”
“Please, please” the instant he lets go, you look hopefully at Paul.
Large hands rest on your chest, Paul possessively groping your tits as he murmurs, “You will relax, cherie. Your” his eyes flick down, “tantalizing little cunt will loosen enough to allow your husband in, allow him to fill you, because it will feel so very good.”
As his words sink in, you feel the knot stretch you. There’s still some discomfort, yet you find you don’t care, because it feels wonderful, because Paul is caressing your chest and telling you that you’re doing so well, because Jay is finally, fully in you, knot now pressing the walls of your cunt, expanding so there’s not chance of getting away from him.
You whine their names. Paul kisses you, coos that you must hold still so Jay can adjust. Jay grips the outside of your thighs and your ass, thrusting aggressively as he calls you his darling, his vixen, his mate.
He cums with a delighted snarl, and you moan when you realize there’s enough that you can feel it.
“Hold her legs wider.” Paul nestles closer once Jay obeys, rubs at your aching clit with his fingers, “cum for us, cherie, give into us utterly.”
You gasp as your body obeys him. Behind you, Jay moans and cums again from your bearing down on him. Paul lunges forward, kissing you like it’s all he’s ever wanted and he never intends to stop.
Soon, you and Jay are on your sides, laying down for comfort while he’s knotted. Paul is languidly nipping the skin of your breasts, nicking it with his fangs only enough to produce a few drops of blood and a moan.
“Should I fetch you water, mon ami?” Paul gingerly rests a hand on Jay’s paw.
“Shortly. We must wait until the little vixen has had enough attention from both of us.”
“You’ll be waiting some time.” You murmur.
“Such a terrible fate.” Paul kisses you.
“Indeed.” Jay nestles closer, “the only remedy is for the comte to come to dinner tomorrow. Don’t you agree, my wife?”
You scritch his cheek and kiss Paul’s as you nod, “I do.”
