Lonely Twilight

Who Do You Accept Requests For?

Alan Rickman's Characters (for the full breakdown, see the masterlist)

Harry Potter Fandom (excluding characters/scenes exclusively from the new HBO show. I am anti-JKR and against any action that monetarily supports her and her agenda.)

Only Murders in the Building Fandom (or OMITB, for short; mainly writing for the trio: Olimabel *the Charles is silent*)

Sofia the First [Sofia the Fandom] (Cedric's my fav!)

Marvel (with special focus on the Avengers (2012) era)

I Do Not Write:

Romantic, Real-Person Fiction (If your request is intriguing enough, I will consider writing fluff, but only for Alan Rickman)

Non-Canonical Adult-Minor Relationships (Rickmaniacs, if you know, you know - you lot are the sole exception here)

Non-Canonical Incest (*See above*)

Final Thoughts:

I reserve the exclusive right to reject an ask or request based on the above criteria, or for any other reason I deem relevant.

I accept most kink requests for fics. It won't shock me.

Every fic I write includes a warning label and an appropriate list of tags. Most of my writings are 18+, so reader discretion is advised.

If I have forgotten a tag or warning you believe should be included for a fic, please let me know, and I will add it!

“You didn’t really think those could hold me, dearest, did you?” You looked up into his hazel eyes, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk of satisfaction. 

Impressed, but not wishing for him to detect that, you launched yourself into a tirade, “Frank, those cost me nearly twenty quid! You’re lucky it’s your bloody birthday!”

Frank did not look even remotely chastised, grinning like a dog receiving a new bone from its owner as the chains of each of the handcuffs’ wrists limply, uselessly, dangled. “Twenty quid, you say? I think they overcharged you,” his tone casual and disbelieving, as if he were speaking of the weather.

You fought against the mounting urge to playfully slap your teasing husband against his bare shoulder, a devious plan already forming beneath the surface of your mind…

“Smartarse.”

“Your smartarse.” 

“Sure, old man.”

“Oi! Who you calling old man!”

“The blooming sixty-three-year-old, that’s who!” 

“You wound me.” Frank’s head tilted back, the palm of his large hand dramatically resting atop the wiry curls sitting along his chest. 

“I wasn’t finished with these,” you flicked the dangling chain suspended from his right wrist, eyes flashing dangerously. A low groan hummed from the depths of his throat, his cock jumping where it lay, pressed between your stomachs. 

“Fuck.” The desire, the pure neediness, lacing Frank’s breathless baritone caused your own lust to stir, bubbling precariously at the pit of your belly. 

“Do you want to be sucked off, birthday boy?” You asked, teasingly, Frank’s Adam’s apple bobbing anxiously as he swallowed. 

“Christ, yes.” His breast rose and fell dramatically, his torso squirming as you ran a fingernail across his skin from the first sprouts of his chest hairs to the end of his pale, long-ago earned scar. Frank sucked in a quick breath of air, his heart pounding, your index finger at a halt, wavering at the top of his pelvis. “Please.” He thrust his hips upward, your finger dodging his straining erection.

“Ah-ah-ah,” you wagged your finger, Frank’s cock twitching in desperation, his face grimacing at the wait. “Hands over your head.” His thick fingers fidgeted, remaining firmly planted on your sides. “You broke my cuffs before I made my full use of them—think of this as a compromise.”

“Yes, commander,” Frank lazily murmured, hazel eyes mischievous and teasing. “One would think it was your birthday, sweetheart.” You playfully rolled your eyes, trying your best to act annoyed. 

“Well, general, perhaps you can return the favour at a later date.” The large hands gripping your waist tightened, squeezing, a groan spilling from your husband’s parted lips.

“Yes, perhaps I will,” he spoke, his baritone voice husky and low. You grasped his handcuffed wrists, manoeuvring his limbs into place above his head, brushing past his thinning, fluffy white hair. Frank moaned, hips jerking up, his cock finding much-desired friction against your thigh. 

“Don’t,” you whispered before joining his lips with your own, tongue exploring his mouth as if it were only your first meeting. You pulled away, saliva still dripping from the wet kiss. You licked your lips, belly burning with the fiery embers of arousal, trailing the pads of your fingers down Frank’s sides, enjoying the way his ribs strained and his back arched above the duvet. 

“Fuck, please.” Your palms found his chubby thighs, pressing him down into the mattress. Your pink lips opened ever so slightly to blow a small stream of cool air directed toward the scarlet, painful-looking tip of Frank’s cock. “Mmmmph,” Frank moaned, hips attempting to burst forward, your grip on his thighs keeping him firmly locked in place. 

The mushroomed head of his dick steadily leaked clear, transparent precum, the liquid dribbling from tip to shaft, pooling at the base. His large, heavy balls still appeared full, the dark red sack firm, yet sagging. You licked at his frenulum up to his weeping slit, his legs shuddering. You moaned at the slightly salty taste, diving back in to torture the poor man with a few more licks. Frank whimpered, calves wrapping around your naked torso, muscles of his back stretched and rigid, as he lifted himself off the bed in overstimulated pleasure. “Suck my cock, wife. That’s an order,” his low voice had lost its commanding, militaristic edge—his words sounding whiny and desperate. 

“As you wish, Lieutenant General Benson.” All seven inches vanished, submerged, pressed deeply down your throat, Frank yelping out a groan that resembled an animal’s frustrated growl. 

“Insubordination,” he grouched, thighs falling even further apart. All you could do was smirk at the lovely sight. “Fuck,” he mumbled, positively breathless. His erection throbbed, buried inside your throat, your nose burrowed within Frank’s trimmed, wiry salt-and-pepper-shaded pubes, the hairs tickling your skin, body filled with the woodsy musk that purely was the scent of Frank. 

Your cheeks hollowed out, suctioned around Frank’s shaft, the man’s hips stirring, shallowly thrusting of their own accord. His hands intertwined in the curls along the base of your skull, hoping to ensure his member remained sheathed in your sweet, hot warmth. You released his dick, gasping for breath now that his length no longer blocked your airway, his thick hands relenting, but still tangled in your tresses. 

“Wha’s the matter?” Frank rumbled, voice gravelled and coarse, yet concerned, his fingers softly stroking along the sensitive back of your neck. 

“You didn’t listen,” you tugged the chainlinks swinging from his wrists behind your head, tone scolding, as if you were scolding someone far younger than the man willingly submitting to your control. 

“Shit,” he hissed, annoyed. “I didn’t mean to do it—-it felt right.” He finished lamely, a bit sheepish but not inclined to beg for forgiveness or expose himself to any further displays of vulnerability. 

“I bet it did,” you spoke, low voice even and hoarse. You already knew your throat would be thoroughly bruised by morning. “Still, I want you to keep your hands above your head,” you guided him back into place, his large hands dwarfing your own in size. “Focus on the feeling Frank, on the sensation.”

“Alright,” You heard him loudly gulp, his throat bobbing. “Alright, my wife.” 

You shifted your tactics, eyes locked on staring, out-of-focus hazel, unblinking as you licked the wrinkled flesh of his testicles, pulling one spongy orb inside your wet warmth, for that was all of him that could fit. He pulsed within you, hazel eyes crossing before slipping shut. His member, damp, hot, and throbbing in time to the beat of his heart, gave a sharp jerk, precum sliding down the side of your cheekbone. 

You released his ball, tonguing the other heavy plum before encasing the tender pouch in your mouth. Humming around velvety flesh, you checked Frank, his usually tensed brows lifted and at ease. He was slack-jawed, hazel eyes dilated and half-lidded, peering below his heaving stomach to watch you. You smiled around him, letting his sack gently fall from between your lips, licking his cock from base to tip before engulfing half his length, sucking with hollowed cheeks. 

The white-haired man above you moaned, his wrists, still raised up against the headboard, shifting and writhing atop the pillows. You continued to take more of him into your mouth, bobbing up and down upon his curved shaft, meeting Frank in the middle of his shallow, barely restrained, thrusts. 

One of your hands found his sack, still coated in a thin layer of your saliva, separating and gently squeezing the full plums in the manner you knew he liked best. He no longer made eye-contact with you, his head laid back, arching on the pile of pillows and bedcovers. 

His balls tightened, drawing up in their pouch of soft flesh, Frank’s precum now more salty and plentiful. You flicked at the sensitive place along the veiny underside of his shaft and head, Frank’s erection twitching, his legs struggling to remain stoically in place. His hands still fidgeted, locked in place despite the lack of a connecting chain to truly bind the metal cuffs together. “‘M gonna cum if you keep doing that,” he hissed, low voice raspy and wrecked, every inch of his body tensed, wantonly straining. 

“That’s the idea,” you thought to yourself, throat stuffed to the brim with Frank. With the tip of your tongue, you licked and stimulated his wide slit, cheeks aching from how forcefully you suckled his member. Liquid sprung out from his spongy head, powerfully hitting the back of your throat. He moaned, even two swallows around him in, it was difficult to keep up with the flowing, happily splurting cum draining from his balls. You removed yourself from his cock, white hot cum jetting out the dripping, angry-red weeping head, covering your face in thick sperm that dribbled down to your naked breasts.

Frank was panting and squirming beneath you from your ministrations—his face red and ruddy in post-orgasmic euphoria, his hazel eyes drooping with peaceful exhaustion. You smiled at him, completely genuine, his hands reaching forward to clear your rosy cheeks from his rapidly drying cum. “Fuck, you’re pretty,” he grunted, while your tongue swiped the cum from his fingers, his grey brows raising in shock. You whimpered at the praise, swallowing, the wide pad of Frank’s thick finger stroking along your puffy bottom lip. “So fucking perfect. Thank you for making my birthday special, love.” 

You lunged forward, tackling your husband to the bed, your bruised lips devouring his, Frank left with the taste of lust and his own seed upon his tongue when you pulled away. “Of course, Frank. I love you, you silly man.” 

You awoke early the next morning, only a dim, vague light entering the darkened room through the curtains. Frank’s place in bed was cold, only the smell of his aftershave lingering on his pillowcase. You arose, toeing on your slippers, the smell of black coffee filling your flared nostrils as soon as you exited the room. 

Padding down the stairs, you peered into the kitchen, the stove light lit, orange light escaping from the crack underneath the garage door. Worry bloomed within your chest, even though Frank was often called to the makeshift skiff at all odd, godforsaken hours of the night. 

Lord Lionel Shabandar grumbled in annoyance under his breath, reaching over with his right hand to grab a flute of golden, bubbling champagne off a passing server’s tray. The aged multi-millionaire media tycoon was losing quite spectacularly at the roulette table to a young, upstart tech genius who’d just landed his first million and a middle-aged woman recently made wealthy as a result of a cashed-in inheritance collected from a long-forgotten uncle.

The continued losses were starting to truly sting; the repeated mantra of “it’s for charity” was the only thing grounding him and persuading him from storming out the double doors, out into the busy street. Lionel Shabandar did not routinely gamble. Lionel Shabandar could never afford to appear to lose, let alone actually lose. 

He placed his bet—the odd number seventeen—not because it was Lionel’s “lucky” number or anything of meaning. He remembered seeing it in a movie not too long ago—something with action and romance. After all, even refined billionaires could be whimsical every now and then. 

“No more bets.” Lionel sipped from his flute, the alcohol going down the back of his throat easily. The wheel spun, the round ball bouncing, clattering against the wooden slats. It rolled to a stop in one of the compartments; Lionel swore under his breath.  

A group of men loudly whooped to his right at a small table, cards haphazardly tossed in the centre, several men looking as annoyed as he felt, making ready to exit the game. A server approached the men, easily the prettiest of the bunch. She was dressed in a bright red dress shirt, tightly cinched black apron, and short black skirt that revealed long tanned legs ending with black stilettos. She hid under a dark visor pulled low, throat nervously swallowing beneath the sharp black bowtie firmly tied. 

The men emptied her tray; their leader, a blond-haired man with a thin goatee, was speaking out of the corner of his mouth, grey eyes flashing dangerously. The girl blushed, clearly uncomfortable, backing away before being restrained by the man’s hand, grabbing her around the waist, pulling her toward his waiting lap. 

Her red lips mouthed the word “stop,” the man displaying no sign of adhering to her refusal, and Lionel’s feet responded far before his brain properly could. 

The scene before him blurred within his vision, the man sneering at his visage, the server girl wary and nervously eyeing him up and down. He acted on undiluted instinct, punching the swaggering youth with a well-landed right hook, his hand smarting painfully from the bone meeting bone. Lionel was suddenly grateful for taking up boxing all those years ago. 

The man’s entourage swarmed him, the party hushed for only a moment, until the gamblers resumed their individual games. He led the stunned girl away from the table with one large hand guiding her by the small of her back. “Just follow my lead, and you’re free,” he whispered against the shell of her ear, his warm breath a tickle.

Lionel waved down his driver, opening the door for the young server before ambling over to the driver’s side. He instructed his chauffeur to drive, to no destination in particular yet, not wishing for the event’s security to flag down his limousine. He was lucky the vehicle was fairly inconspicuous—well, about as inconspicuous as a limousine could possibly be. 

They were already down the street as he buckled his seat belt, hand smarting and beginning to bruise where his fist came into contact with the smarmy wanker’s face. A worthwhile wound, he thought to himself. “Where to?” He asked his unlikely passenger, taking note of the nervousness etched across her face. It was a look he had grown accustomed to over the years—the look of an average person realizing the true extent of his momentous wealth. It was a look he had come to despise rather than cherish. 

“The nearest tube station will surely suffice—”

“Nonsense! I’m completely capable of driving you home; it’s the least I could do—” She shifted uncomfortably, eyes fixated on the car’s windows.

“With all due respect, I’m not very—thrilled—at the thought of a strange man with the likely GDP of a small province.”

“Large province, actually, not to brag, but—well—Look, I’m not pleased at the idea of leaving you alone on the underground at—” Lionel glanced at his silver Rolex watch—“eleven o’clock at night. No chance.” 

Lionel bit his bottom lip while he glanced out at the neon lights passing by, an idea nearly crafted to completion. “Look—I rented a hotel room for the night—there’s an extra couch you can take for the evening.”

“Fine,” She mumbled, accepting the man’s generous proposal. “What’re you—?”

“—-I fully intended on ending the day sloshed or in bed with another woman. Allow me the former, at the very least, sweetheart.” He had one arm lazily draped around the leather seat, holding out a glass of red wine he’d expertly poured while the vehicle bounced over a bridge. She took the glass, tipping the alcohol back immediately. Lionel raised his drink with a muttered, “Cheers.” 

When Lionel Shabandar, a man whose image you had seen plastered across downtown buildings and book covers at your local drug store alike, had said he’d rented out a hotel room for the evening, you never imagined him to be so casually referring to the Savoy. The room was massive, and you were only two steps out of the hallway and into the atrium. 

Two armchairs and a long couch, all black leather, surrounded a pure glass side table, which held a seemingly ancient sculpture. Something Asian and reflecting the light off the golden chandelier onto the seventy-inch flatscreen TV hanging on the wall. 

Lionel had already found the bar, his looming figure pouring a shot of whiskey into an expensive-looking tumbler behind the dark wooden furniture. He sat on a barstool, shrugging out of his tuxedo jacket and white tie, the white button-up underneath thoroughly wrinkled. He ran a hand through his gelled hair, sipping his crystal glass with a rich hum. “Well, sit down. The view isn’t going anywhere, darling.” 

You finally entered the room more fully, ignoring Lionel’s instruction and accompanying lifted eyebrow. The window opposite the door appeared cracked open; the sound of London traffic and a wave of barcrawlers drunkenly walking down the street intrigued your curiosity. You had never seen the bustling city from so high up in the sky, the sight strangely calming. 

A knock sounded on the hotel room door, Lionel springing up from the bar to answer. The porter tucked a stack of luggage just inside the room, Lionel passing a bundle of bills sleekly into his waiting palm. You went back to watching the outside world as the porter turned to leave, your eyes drawn to a Rolls Royce, classic and expensive, as it vanished behind a tall building.

“Here.” You jumped, not hearing Lionel approach from behind, his breath warm and stinking of alcohol. He offered a change of clothes, his clothes, held across his forearm like a server holding a towel. “You can’t possibly be comfortable in—in that,” he said, thickly, nodding at the skimpy and flamboyant outfit you were wearing at the charity event. You felt suddenly exposed beneath the gaze of his intelligent hazel eyes—recognising a flash of—a flash of lust you’d seen similar men give you before.

Lionel was first to break from the stare, his cheeks, already dusted pink from the liquor, reddening significantly. You quickly grabbed the proffered clothing from his arm, the luxury fabric brushing against the bare flesh of your hands.

“The bathroom’s just down the hall,” he murmured, and you thought you detected a hint of defeat in the softened tone. You still did not know what to think of the great Lionel Shabandar. He did not seem so proud, so lion-like and regal, nursing his third refill of whiskey, his gait now far more laboured and uncertain, his amber eyes unfocussed and glassy. He was not what you had been expecting, although, even you did not know what you were expecting to see.

Lionel coughed, the whiskey burning down his throat, but doing nothing to alleviate the burning of his mind. The girl had returned from the loo, now dressed in the clothes, his clothes, that he had provided her. 

Lionel Shabandar did not do casual; he did not mill about in baggy sweatpants and a loose-fitting t-shirt like the present-day youth. He’d given her his pyjamas—a long-sleeve, button-up navy blue silk shirt with the emblem of a lion embroidered along the breast pocket and matching bottoms. She was swimming in the clothes—his shoulders far too broad for her frame, the trousers cinched at her waist tightly, yet several inches too wide and too tall. 

He gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing uncomfortably, discreetly crossing his legs to hide the bulge stirring below his crotch. Lionel was sitting on the couch, the bar’s mahogany rail no longer present to provide him coverage and security. The crystal tumbler felt big and awkward resting in the palm of his hand; he downed the rest of the amber liquid in one swallow, resigning himself to the borderline painful, fiery burn tearing apart the lining of his throat like broken shards of glass.

The girl stared at him, lingering underneath the arch of the hallway. Lionel, not at all at ease, shifted in his seat, wishing he had not finished his alcohol so he could indulge in a comforting sip of liquid courage. Awareness coursed through him, and he realised he had stupidly taken up residence in the poor girl’s bed. “Right—right, I should make myself scarce.” He stood, too fast, too late, and the room momentarily spun in his addled vision. 

The girl rushed forward, tightly gripping his bruised wrist, ushering him back onto the couch. She sat next to him, relaxing into the black leather merely inches away. He did not know what to think—where to look—what to say. He dumbly raised the tumbler’s rim to his lips, only a drop dribbling upon his tongue. 

His cheeks were scarlet, he knew without glancing in a mirror. Attempting to salvage his draining dignity, he decided to ask the girl, really still a stranger in his mind, a question. “What’s your name?” he partially slurred, suddenly aware he did not know such a basic asset, when his own identity was surely realised moments after their meeting.

“Y/N,” she softly spoke into the dimly lit room, the evening feeling later than its true hour. 

“Y/N,” you softly spoke, watching the older man’s thick fingers twitch against the crystal glass. He was well on his way to becoming fully “sloshed,” as he had stated as his intention in the backseat of his limousine. He’d slurred his words, the act of standing sending him into a fit of wobbliness. Dilated hazel eyes found your own, and you found heat pooling within the depths of your stomach. 

“If you could be so kind as to fetch me the—the bottle,” his eyes darted back over to the bar and returned to your stare. 

“You’re drunk.”

“So?” He whined, annoyed. “One of the perks of being a billionaire, darling, is that the liquor is to die for.”

Lionel eyed you from his perch atop the leather cushions and fluffy pillows, following your figure as you returned from the bar with the bottle of whiskey and an extra tumbler. “Joining me, eh?” He smirked at the crystal in your grasp.

“I need it after tonight,” you muttered, meaning it. 

“Indeed,” he practically purred while you filled his glass. 

You took a sip of the expensive whiskey, eyes watering as the smoky liquid hit the back of your throat. Coughing, you placed the crystal glass, still half-full of liquor, loudly onto the table with a sharp slam, hand upheld to your mouth. “Too strong?” Lionel asked, sarcastic, as your breathing finally evened out. He idly played with his drink, tipping the glass and watching the amber liquid follow.

“No shit.” You felt more than a little tipsy, the earlier glass of wine and status as a lightweight no help in your current predicament. Lionel snorted, taking another sip. His eyes were drooping, and you wondered when he would finally reach his limit for the night. You found yourself staring, staring at his hands still fiddling with the nearly empty glass before your gaze landed on the crotch of his trousers. Beneath the rich material was the clear, well-defined outline of something long and rigid, tucked along his left thigh. 

It hadn’t been your objective to get laid that evening. Plenty of your friends working the casino night charity event had mentioned many of the wealthy patrons; i.e. the wealthy men, would hit on the servers and tip more if it meant a free, untethered night of sex. There’d been bragging that night over who could land which millionaire—who could land the richest, handsomest, or most well-endowed at the end of the night. 

And Lionel had admitted point-blank his main objective was to get drunk or get laid. On a whim, an alcohol-fueled whim, you decided to see if you could help him achieve both. 

Lionel emptied the remainder of the bottle into the crystal tumbler, the liquid rippling and fragrant. He was still horribly aroused by the continued sight of her slim figure filling—or, rather, underfilling—out his pyjamas. 

He was slowly reaching his limit—his peripheral vision blurring, body warm and relaxed, and his brain delightfully sluggish. It was nice to have his senses dulled after—after any day, really, no matter how arduous or not his schedule had been. He had only hoped to be ending his day differently.

The girl inched closer to his corner of the couch, fingers wrapping around his bony knee, and the man nearly jumped a foot in surprise. Lionel schooled his face, willing himself to remain calm, the hand on his person surprisingly warm and only a short distance away from his cock. 

The machinery at work in his mind misfired, unable to comprehend what this touch meant, but he was not about to call attention to the fact and potentially lose their connection. He sipped at his drink, her grip tightening to squeeze his knee before slowly inching up his thigh. Lionel felt his erection twitch—surely the girl knew exactly what she was doing?

You were smiling—smirking, really—at the older man’s laboured breaths and heaving chest, movement erupting along the seam of his trousers as your fingers explored his upper leg. Lionel appeared to be both fighting the alcohol and fighting to retain his slowed senses, hazel eyes none too discreetly finding his knee and your hand resting there, at work. 

Deciding to take things a step further, you palmed his package at the seam of his crotch, marvelling at the size. He was hot to the touch, pulsing, throbbing; a groan choked into the crystal tumbler still held to his thin lips. Lionel’s hips jerked, thrusting his member up into your grasp, seeking added friction he could not adequately hope to receive through two layers of fabric.

“Fuck.” His deep baritone was raspy—either from the liquor or your ministrations or their combined efforts—you could not be certain of which. You took the drained glass from his loose grip, setting the crystal on the neighbouring table before it could shatter all across the carpet.

Feeling suddenly brave, you straddled his thighs, pride surging throughout your chest and spreading to your stomach at the expression of shock flaring within his eyes. Lionel went red—scarlet from the tips of his ears to the back of his neck, contrasting sharply with his mussed white hair, the product holding his thinning hair against gravity remarkably strong. 

“Don’t—Don’t fuck with me,” he spluttered, the shock replaced with irritation, and you wondered if you had been too forward. He didn’t brush your hands away from where they’d come to rest along his broad shoulders, didn’t toss you from his lap. You closed the gap between your faces, capturing his parted lips in a passionate kiss. He responded a second later, tongue exploring your mouth before breaking the seal of your joined lips. “No funny business—I’ve got a team of lawyers that’d eat you for breakfast,” he hissed against the shell of your ear, voice low and gravelly and awfully dangerous—moving to kiss along the soft skin of your jaw. His lips devoured yours, the taste of whiskey powerful—you couldn’t tell if you were drunk on the liquor or the lust growing in your insides.

Lionel’s hands—large, warm, and a bit uncoordinated—found your waist, pinning you in place against his thighs. He unconsciously rocked forward—as if his hips had done this with you a time or two before; a half-moan, half-sigh, breathed beside your cheekbone. 

You reached for the buckle of his trousers—eager to lay eyes on your prize—but a hand caught your investigating wrist, holding you in place. “Bedroom,” Lionel croaked aloud, hazel eyes unfocused, yet flaming with the heat of his arousal.

You leapt off his lap, instantaneously missing the lack of contact, helping Lionel unsteadily get to his feet. He smelled nice, his arm now heavily draped around your shoulder—the expensive cologne he wore spicy, yet sweet, a blend of cinnamon and something vaguely familiar yet unrecognisable. 

His walking stabilised significantly when you reached the hallway, most of his weight distributed to the hand leaning against the wall. The bedroom came into view, Lionel starting at the sound of your gasp of impressed shock. 

The bed in the room’s centre was larger than king-sized, canopied, and adorned with black and gold linens. A balcony shone through the thin, floor-to-ceiling curtains, two mahogany bedside tables and a large wardrobe completing the ensemble. 

“I take it you’ve never stayed in a room at the Savoy before,” Lionel muttered, his low voice lacking its usual bite. You stumbled over to the bed, grateful you no longer needed to support Lionel’s weight along your back. 

Pinning Lionel against the covers, you began to undress him, the combined scent of his cologne and the lingering smell of whiskey both heady and utterly intoxicating. His dress shirt disappeared, revealing the pale, lightly haired skin of his broad chest, his stomach pudgy but firm. A thin trail of wiry grey hair led below his navel, below the belted waist of his black trousers. 

Lionel tugged away the overly-large pyjama shirt and baggy trousers, chucking the clothing into a pile you’d worry about discovering the next morning. You straddled his thighs, wearing just a plain black bralette and a black, lace-trimmed thong, leaning against your heels as you loosened his belt buckle, his trousers and pants removed in quick succession. 

All you could do was stare, drinking in the sight of his hardened, interested erection, surrounded by a nestling of wiry, trimmed, grey and black curls. Lionel was smirking against the pillows, clearly knowing he had absolutely nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed about. He was nearly eight inches in length and girthy, a slight curve leading the engorged organ to point to the right. The velvety skin was darker in shade than the rest of his body; a prominent vein stretched along the top of the shaft, leading to an uncut, ruby-red tip leaking a steady stream of clear, sticky fluid, a puddle already forming upon his thigh. 

Lionel was impatient—thick hands tugging the black bralette to expose your pair of breasts you were deeply unconfident about, the flesh sagging low despite their mediocre size and your young age. He seemed not to care, covering the pale orbs almost entirely with the palms of his hands, the touch warm and sending a surge of need to the hidden place between your thighs. He twisted the firm, rosy buds between thumb and forefinger, eliciting your first moan that evening. 

The feeling was heavenly—he wetted the pads of his fingers, hazel eyes locked on your face as he purposefully licked himself, before repeating the earlier movement. It made your insides throb, made you pulse in time with the beat of your heart, the friction so little, yet absolutely necessary. 

He removed his probing fingers, pushing you close to his chest, his soft, pink lips delicately wrapping themselves around one of your nipples, suckling as if his life depended upon it. He flipped you over, your head tumbling onto the pillows he had laid upon seconds before, the silk sheets still warm from his body heat. You swore you heard something leave his throat that sounded like an animalistic growl—like a lion’s roar—before he eagerly sought the subject of his pursuit.

Lionel’s tongue was hot—licking and lapping at a trail surrounding each breast and the valley separating the plump mounds. The day-old white stubble etched along his jaw rubbed at the wet, sensitive flesh, the friction starting to drive you insane. A large hand slipped below the elastic of your panties, the wet pads of his fingers burrowing into your folds, his thumb finding the perky bundle of nerves at the crest of your sex in record time. 

“Fuck.” You bit the skin of your bottom lip, your walls already fluttering while he twisted and stroked the small, sensitive button, his index finger buried to the hilt between your damp folds. Lionel added another digit between your legs, your hole feeling properly filled with only two fingers inside rather than three or four. You suddenly felt nervous for the first time while in bed that night, the prospective stretch of his cock deeply burrowing within your hole now daunting. 

You moaned while he scissored his thick fingers, his head resting against your breast, his breath hot and gasping, cock shuddering against your leg. “There’s a good girl.” He added another finger, the third, the stretch momentarily burning. Lionel thumbed your clit, rubbing easy circles that made your knees weak and insides shaky. You panted out a high-pitched cry—the sensations too much in too many places—wetness pooling around his fingers. “Relax, pretty girl,” his deep voice slurred, the only part of him that was not overtly sober. “Breathe.”

He extracted his hand from your dripping hole, licking his fingers like one might lick away melted chocolate. Lionel moaned at the flavour, thick fingers still filling his mouth and rounding his cheek, the sound lewd and positively pornographic. Air no longer entered your lungs through laboured huffs, the aftershocks of your orgasm finally at an end. 

Lionel shifted away, the hand he had just licked your juices off from cradling his aching cock, giving the reddened shaft a few quick pumps, precum beading out the mushroomed head, just peering out from beneath the retracted foreskin. “This might sting a bit,” he mumbled apologetically, lining himself up with your entrance.

“Right,” you nodded, with far more assurance and bravery than you currently felt. Lionel pushed inside, the head of his dick lodged against your hole, the man’s thin lips pulled into a pleasurable grimace—his restraint commendable. His hands rested against the mattress, beside your shoulders, grounding himself in the moment. With a groan, his hips started forward, the stretch immeasurable and painful, your walls feeling like something would soon tear. Break irreparably in half. 

“Fuck. So tight,” he moaned, baritone voice like gravel. Lionel had finally bottomed out, cock sheathed fully to the hilt, heavy, pulsing balls brushing against the dripping seam of your entrance. You didn’t know how he managed to fit all of him inside of you; you only knew every bit of you felt on edge and sensitive as the two of you each adjusted to the new sensations brought about by your present entanglement. 

You were first to move—hips bucking to kiss Lionel’s, the movement causing his cock to press delightfully against your cervix. He was soon stirred to action, his pelvis rocking into a stilted rhythm—the lust and whiskey leading the man to unskillfully rush toward completion. 

Even not fully sober, his cock felt heavenly—dragging across your walls every time he exited and re-entered, balls loudly slapping—hot flesh meeting hot flesh. The room was enveloped in the smell of sex and the sound of gasping, panting, wet thrusts. 

Lionel fumbled about in the dimly lit room, the pad of his thumb reuniting with the bundle of nerves between your legs. Your walls clenched, Lionel hissing at the sudden tightness, and each of you instinctively knew the other would not last much longer. “Fuck,” you panted, belly leaping as your insides shuddered.

He renewed his efforts, white hair a mess and standing in different directions, his hips pounding recklessly into you. Your hands, wrapped around his shoulders for dear life, travelled up to the back of his neck, pulling him into a deep, sloppy kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips, along with the remnants of the expensive whiskey. “Cum for me,” he grunted, baritone wrecked and needy. 

Your stomach jumped, the thumb prodding circles along your clit stroked with a renewed vigour, his thrusts hurried and uncoordinated. Lionel pressed a column of kisses from your clavicle until he reached your sternum—your walls fluttering around him. “Mmm, fuck!” He came, your orgasm triggering his own, hot cum spilling deep in your womb, fucked further inside with Lionel’s continued shallow thrusts. He lifted his dripping thumb to your lips, and you absentmindedly licked, the taste of your orgasm settling against the tip of your tongue. 

Eleven-year-old Thomas Turpin was in a foul mood, his black-knee-high-boots squelching through the muddy, dead field, a black figure in a sea of brown and grey. His breath appeared before him in white little tendrils of air, every inch of him dripping as a result of the rain’s relentless torrent. The heavens matched his rageful heart, a peal of thunder rolling in the distance, where the horizon hid behind the mottled clouds. 

He was running—kicking up muck and sludge and the field’s desiccated remains. The thorn tree still stood, black and spindly and foreboding atop a slight incline. It remained one of the few constants, few permanent fixtures in a life that seemed to be crumbling out from under him, like rockslides along the cliffs of the southern coast he once visited eons ago with his father. 

His father. 

He did not wish to winter in London, thank you very much. He did not want to remain alone with the man who despised him, no—worse than that—James Turpin held very little emotion or sentiment for his own flesh and blood. To Thomas, the severe, strict man only desired him out of the way—miles away from the derelict Turpin estate that lay among the abandoned fields and the forlorn thorn tree. 

James Turpin had finalized the purchase of a moderately sized townhouse in a neighborhood nearby the esteemed St. Paul’s Cathedral. Thomas may have considered the impending stay an opportunity even only a year before—London was where unleashed young boys could romp and play and explore—London was a place where even unleashed adult men romped and played and explored. For a boy who felt trapped—felt suffocated within the neverending dead fields and crowded behind closely monitored walls, one would think London would be a golden ticket to a grand paradise on earth. 

But that was before her. That was before Thomas Turpin realized what once had been a budding friendship between the gardner’s golden-haired daughter had blossomed into a burning, deep-rooted one-sided infatuation. 

He supposed he should have expected, anticipated such an event to happen. He’d never met another girl until her, never colluded with another playmate until her. She was pretty and charming and adventurous and she tolerated him. It was a perfectly constructed recipe for a love to brew.

They would spend their days in the garden, beneath the thorn tree, or nestled in the cavernous Turpin library, conversing about everything and nothing all at the same time. He had told her he had wanted to be a privateer as a young boy one stormy day—his cheeks still burned at his foolishness. Since that embarrassing blunder, Thomas had accelerated in his studies. Law was not as dull or as ridiculously convoluted as he once thought. It was straightforward and steadfast—never wavering in its commandments. It was everything the young boy yearned to be. 

London would surely allow him the ability to meet with the best in the study and occupation—but no, he refused to fuel benevolent sentiments toward his father’s demanded trip. The golden-haired girl would never be permitted to attend, and the prospect of months without her companionship was worse than the foulest weather Lincolnshire dared throw in his direction.

The wind howled like the fiercest wolves, bellowing across the sky as dark as night. The thorn tree’s limbs shook and bent, the faded wheat-colored strands in the field rippled. The thunder crackled, not so far now, a bolt of lightning jagging through the swarm of clouds. 

He should run, Thomas knew. He should not be here with the lightning so close, he should not resign himself to being struck down in a flash of Zeus’s fury. 

He was past the point of caring—and clearly his father held no worry for him either. Besides, he was always a boy drawn to danger and excitement and cursed beauty.

Footsteps suddenly thudded in the muck at his back, he turned, not at all expecting the golden-haired girl seemingly flying through the wilderness, determined to reach her destination, not reacting to the vengeful storm’s might. Thick droplets of rain resembling bullets pelted her unprotected face, golden hair wet and dulled in color. Mud splattered from her boots, the hem of her beige cotton dress ruined with a coat of damp earth and bits of grass. 

“Thomas!” She yelled, skidding to an unsteady stop before him. He leapt forward, boots nearly frictionless in the sloppy pools of mud, catching the girl in his waiting arms. “Thanks,” she breathed out in self-evident relief, brows returning to their intense expression. “Thomas, we must go inside! The storm will likely worsen!” Her voice grew shrill yet faint, lost in the wailing moans of the wretched storm, rain falling rapidly and thick, as if to prove her point. 

Thomas fought with himself, the idea of disagreeing with his friend a horrid proposition—but how could he return to that place knowing his father was planning their departure right as the two of them spoke? Brooding beneath the thorn tree within the flooded moor sounded far more pleasant—but the girl would leave—his brain helpfully supplied. This could be one of their last nights, last days together for months, and he supposed he ought to make the most of it. Thomas loudly exhaled.

“Yes, you are right.” He reluctantly offered his arm, his wool jacket soaked to the skin, soul warming when his companion accepted. Thunder boomed, like a cannon fired, a line of lightning branching off in a series of zagging directions followed, looking almost like buried winding tree roots in their appearance. The friends tore themselves apart, running at a full sprint, Thomas leading, the golden-haired girl at his heels. 

Turpin Manor had never been so relaxing, never been more comfortable. Thomas and the girl sat before the library’s soon roaring fireplace, a lonesome howl traveling through the draughty old walls causing the two to involuntarily shiver. They had each changed out of their sodden clothes, tracking a sizable puddle, really more the size of a small river, to their respective rooms. The maids had given both of them a piece of their minds.

Thomas, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets upon the maroon chaise, sipped at his hot chocolate, a thin line of cocoa forming a mustache above his upper lip. The girl giggled, pointing at the silly sight. “Thomas, you’ve grown a wonderful mustache!” She laughed. Thomas felt the cupid’s bow of his frowning lips with the pad of his index finger, pulling away with a look of disgust when he touched the sticky mess. He exclaimed her name in exasperation, licking the chocolate gone in between deep chuckles that resonated throughout his bony chest.

He sobered very quickly, straightening upright in the stiff cushioned chair. “I–I’m afraid I must leave the estate…” he whispered, strangely hesitant and lacking his usual confidence, the confidence of a boy trying desperately to be a man.

“Leave? How quickly must you leave, Thomas?” No laughter remained imprinted on her beautiful face, only worry and care his heart latched onto.

“Soon—Father has bought a townhouse in London,” he swallowed thickly, feeling as if a group of frogs had suddenly found lodging within his throat. “He says we shall depart within a fortnight.” He could not meet her blue eyes, a bold blue like sapphires stolen straight from the midnight sky, instead he remained fixated upon his half-drunken mug.

“You will be gone for the full winter.” It was not a question; she spoke matter-of-factly, as if she were simply relating something akin to,“The wind is howling outside today.” His chest constricted with an immediate burst of rage, for he wished she showed even an ounce of the pure agony he felt.

“It is unfair,” he snarled, spit landing on the carpet across the room. “It is most unfair.”

“But you have always wanted to travel to London—you’ve said so yourself.” There was that same coolness, same matter-of-fact tone, and Thomas despised it. 

“Yes, but—but that is hardly the point! Father will be most insistent concerning the most mundane errands,” he was aware of the petulance he was exhibiting, aware how childish his whinging sounded even to his own ears, but once he began his tirade, nothing could re-route the boy. 

“I wish you could come.”

The words were out of his mouth before he could catch them, transparently pale cheeks coloring to an ugly scarlet that crept down the back of his neck. How desperate and painfully childish would she now think him? Incapable of settling in London for a mere four months like some infant. The library was silent, save for the wind rattling against the windows and the pine logs crackling beneath the climbing flames.

“Thomas,” she said his name so softly, so gently he could not help but turn to face her, noting the manner in which her bottom lip trembled. His insides cinched tight. “Thomas do you truly mean—”

“—Yes,” he interrupted that line of thinking immediately, light-headed when she did not confront his display of immaturity. Did the girl really not realize, not know how much she had come to mean to him?

“You keep me sane,” they were perhaps the most accurate words of the English language he had ever spoken, for Thomas never truly felt whole or at ease without the golden-haired girl next to him. 

“I feel the same,” she wistfully murmured, nodding. She stared at the fire, at the sparks popping into the sooty brick chimney. She jerked up all of a sudden, blue eyes bright and certain. “I shall write to you!” She declared, her lukewarm beverage spilling on her rumpled woolen blanket. “Now that you’ve taught me my letters and spelling, we shall be able to keep correspondence, even while one of us is away.” 

Hogwarts Castle stood at the end of the path, dark and brooding beneath the gleaming moonlight sky. The sparkling stars reflected upon the Black Lake in the distance, a loud splash and a flailing of tentacles breaking the glassy surface, confirming the rumors you had heard concerning a certain giant squid. 

You tucked the crumpled parchment within your midnight blue robes, their color nearly black in the deepening twilight, Headmistress McGonagall’s instructions no longer necessary. The heavy oak front doors opened before you, without a flick of your wrist or a word spoken, the cobblestone walls echoing with the excited mutterings of students. It must be dinnertime, you thought, suddenly nervous to make your grand entrance under the eyes of so many people. 

The Great Hall was unmissable, unmistakable; the voices engaged in conversation at their loudest here, the thick doors partially left ajar. You slipped through, hoping not to be noticed, a great hush falling over the assembled students like snowfall. Self-conscious and horribly anxious, you quickly strode to the long table where the professors were seated, slate-grey traveling cloak billowing like a ship’s sail behind you. 

A chair materialized at the table between two men—one with a smile stretched across his lightly tanned face, messy jet-black hair covering a faded lightning-bolt scar—the other, his thin lips pulled in a tight frown, inky-black hair cropped to just above his shoulders, beginning to grey at the temples. It was no secret who either of the two men was, their contributions to the Second Wizarding War now legend. 

You had placed a delicate hand atop the newly appeared wooden chair, about to shift it away from the table, when McGonagall’s Scottish brogue drifted over the hall. “Students, this is Professor Y/L/N, who will serve as a substitute for Professor Longbottom, while he is away on his honeymoon.” Several students giggled, whether at you or at the idea of Professor Longbottom on honeymoon, you did not know. You nodded in their direction, silently praying you were flashing them a half-smile rather than a half-grimace. 

You sat down at the table, Professor Snape staring straight ahead of him, one brow upturned, Professor Potter immediately jabbing a large hand in your direction. “Pleased to meet you, Professor Pot—”

“—Nonsense,” the man interrupted. “Call me Harry,” he spoke in a confident tenor, emerald green eyes full of joy. 

“Right,” you started, unmoored by the idea of being on a first-name basis with The Boy Who Lived, though he certainly was no longer a boy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry.” The man beamed. You moved to scoop a glob of mashed potato onto your plate.

“And this is Profess—” 

“Severus Snape.” Snape had clearly anticipated Harry’s introduction. He rolled his onyx eyes, displeased at his coworker, his hand rigidly remaining beneath the table. He nodded his chin, his short dark hair slipping into his eyes. You returned the tight nod.

“I suppose it’s useless for me to introduce myself now,” you nervously laughed, though there was no real humour in your voice.

“Indeed,” Snape muttered crisply, his deep baritone rough. 

“So, herbology,” Harry started, uneasily, obviously attempting to salvage a small part of the conversation. He fidgeted with the golden hem of his forest green robes.

“Yes, ehm, herbology,” You weren’t sure what exactly he wanted to know. “I’ll be teaching it for the next few weeks,” you finished, lamely, a soft exhale that could have been called a snort coming from Snape’s direction. The thin man was stabbing at a thick portion of meat. Harry suddenly looked a bit sheepish.

“Is that what you have your mastery in?” This was, at least, an actual question. You weren’t really sure why Harry was bothering to talk to you, your usual distaste with forced, socially mandated small talk abated by his genuine curiosity.

“I technically have masteries in teaching and history. I’m certified to teach most subjects, if I desire to.” Harry’s brows scrunched together.

“Is that common? Getting a mastery in teaching, I mean. I’ve only got a certificate.”

“In most of Europe, yes. Britain has lagged behind in educational laws, particularly those centered around teaching qualifications. Dragging anyone off the street to teach a course would technically be permissible.” You paused, examining the look of shock crossing over the young professor’s face, as if he were recalling the taste of a sour piece of fruit. “Ever since the end of the war, the Ministry’s been working at remodeling the standards.”

“Honestly, Potter, did you never wonder how Lockhart was ever accepted? Did you really think that twat had a teaching certificate?” Snape had rejoined the conversation, his sallow face wearing a rather annoyed expression. 

Harry’s half-smile dropped, spine sagging at Snape’s chastisement. The fall of former Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Gilderoy Lockhart was well-known, even if all the details surrounding the incident weren’t.

The hall was fairly empty; only a pair of boys at the table before the red and gold banner along the wall remained, stuffing their mouths full of treacle and pudding. The sight was nearly enough to make you sick up your meal. 

Harry stood up, golden-trimmed cloak swirling. You joined him as the food at the professor’s table disappeared in a glimmer of winking dust. You turned to your left, but Snape was already gone, the side door at the end of the table swinging shut. 

“Would you like me to escort you to your quarters?” Harry offered his arm, kindly, a smile plastered back into place.

“Please,” you whispered, looking back to see McGonagall, speaking with the ruddy-faced half-giant Hagrid, send a small wave. 

“I believe Minerva’s put you in the dungeons,” Harry grimaced, the corridor ten degrees colder. “Not sure why—blimey, it’s freezing!” Harry shivered, the arm connecting to yours shaking. He was right—the dungeons were frigid, moss covering the ancient cobblestone walls that echoed with each hurried step the two of you took. 

“Here you are.” He was stopped before a blank wall, wood merging through the stone to magically reveal a new door, looking just as ancient as the rest of the school. “Put your wand hand on the handle.” Harry guided your left hand to the iron, the metal warm to the touch, glowing red before rapidly returning to its normal state. 

“The door will always respond to your magic now, no one else’s,” Harry’s voice became the same lecturing, droning tone he used in class. He caught himself before forging on, “Right—and Professor Snape’s quarters are just down the hall—if you need anything, that is.” Harry stood awkwardly to your right, hands fidgeting, eyes darting down the hall back to you. You felt bad for inconveniencing the man. 

“Erhm—well—thanks, Profe—Harry,” you corrected, voice unsteady, legs shifting uneasily. “Have a good night,” you quietly murmured. Harry smiled.

“Good night. See you tomorrow!” He backed away, turning in a swish of green and gold robes, leaving you suddenly alone in the seemingly massive corridor. The cold felt as if it had seeped all the way to your bones, your joints protesting as you uncoordinatedly lurched into your quarters. 

The walls were still the same grey cobblestone, a collection of lumpy midnight blue armchairs next to a roaring fire, and a black couch sat behind a chestnut sidetable. The floor had turned to wood—the slats creaking as you entered your new, if temporary, home, the temperature much more sensible than the wintery dungeon. 

A side room revealed a tiled bathroom with a tub the size of a small swimming pool, connected to a suite with a large canopy bed, a window revealing the swirling, murky depths of the lake. The sight was mesmerizing: a school of fish swimming up to the glass before scurrying away, a two-foot-long fish with a striking resemblance to a barracuda, jetting past. 

You let the velvet curtains fall, covering the disturbing sight of the Black Lake to prevent you from growing too engrossed, deciding to explore the kitchen for a cuppa. Shrugging out of your traveling cloak, you piled the heavy garment on an unused wooden chair, lighting a fire for the kettle with the tip of your wand. 

You had arrived at the castle less than twelve—hell, less than four—hours ago, and already it felt as if weeks had passed. Harry Potter might now be considered a friend, and you thought that Severus Snape, at the very least, did not consider you a foe. 

Tomorrow would be painful—a full day of acclimating students to your teaching style and proving you were no pushover when it came to discipline. You were teaching first, second, and fifth years, not at all looking forward to the inevitable misbehaving student who did not cover their ears in the presence of a mandrake. You suspected you might grow far too familiar with the Hospital Wing’s location before the day was out. 

The past week had been irritatingly awful—the second years were perfectly incompetent at following basic instructions, several students failing to cover their heads with the earmuffs, everyone surprised when bodies dropped in a dead faint. Exactly as you said they would. 

There was no real satisfaction in being correct—not that it would have taken a seer to accurately foresee such a prediction—you thought, sitting in the one vacant booth, tight for one, but likely a squeeze for a couple, in the far corner of The Three Broomsticks. The older woman commanding the bar, tall, curvy, and despite her greying curls, effortlessly pretty, did not take long to arrive back with a butterbeer and shepherd’s pie, the dish nearly bigger than your head. 

You had gone to do a bit of marking; Professor Longbottom had left a sizable stack upon his desk before leaving. Yet, after ten minutes in, and having only corrected two students’ parchments, you decided the endeavor was hopeless. A drunken bar song had erupted at the far counter, butterbeer and firewhiskey sloshing dangerously out of patrons’ tumblers and onto the floor. The sentence incorrectly outlining the properties of gillyweed had not changed on your fourth read-through. 

A dark shape loomed in your peripheral, hesitating as it reached the corner. “May I sit here?” 

He was the last person you expected to see at a crowded pub on a Friday night. You silently nodded, watching as Severus Snape slid along into the booth, knobby knees knocking against yours. “Sorry,” he spoke so softly you had to strain your ears to catch it, wondering if perhaps you were the only living person in the world the formidable man had ever apologized to. The number had to be under a handful. You’d even bet ten galleons on it. 

Snape motioned to the bartender, who waved a short greeting in his direction. She seemed annoyed with the singing group of men, particularly when one dropped a half-drunk glass that shattered on the wooden floor. He propped a black leather satchel you had not previously noticed against the window, pulling from its depths a scrap of parchment and a black-feather-quill that looked far too short to comfortably fit in his hand. You shifted, moving to tuck your marking away undetected.

“Giving up, eh?” Snape asked, his silky timbre difficult to pick up with the continued singing. 

“Afraid so,” you began in your even, unwavering tone. “There’s no use with that lot.” Snape nodded, silently agreeing, before scribbling a few lines in writing closely akin to chicken-scratch. 

“I see Longbottom gave you the entire term’s worth of assignments.” You snorted, stunned he was even bothering to continue conversing with you. Snape took a deep sip of his beverage, onyx eyes glimmering with something mysterious over the glass.

“Indeed. You could say that again.”

“Perhaps, I ought—” But you would never know what Snape wanted to say, what he “ought” to do, for a collision between bodies beside the bins resting outside, beside the window, loudly rattled, audible even above the slurred singing at the bar. Voices, voices that were young and befitting school-age children, permeated through the thin pub wall.

You were already on your feet, bag shouldered, mournfully placing two galleons, more than enough to cover both yours and Snape’s half-drunk liquor and still-steaming meals. Snape followed you out the door, satchel tucked beneath his voluminous ink-black robes, trademark scowl firmly in place.

Two Gryffindor boys towered above a Slytherin, who appeared to be cowering among the toppled waste bins, one hand cradling a broken nose, red blood streaming down the front of his robes. The Gryffindors made to run when they caught sight of Snape, immediately crumpling in stature and resigning themselves to their fate, not bothering to foolishly attempt an escape. 

The black-clad man was seething, jaw clenched, brows crunched in fury. You approached the Slytherin boy, a first- or second-year, judging by his height, or lack thereof, the air turning white as you murmured, “Episkey.” The boy flinched, relaxing when he surprisingly discovered no pain lingered. The blood had stopped gushing, a whispered cleaning spell disappearing the mess from his face, though doing nothing to cleanse his ruined robes. 

“Does anything else hurt?” You asked, warily eyeing the boy’s hurried shake no with a pinch of skepticism. “Right, well, I think we shall still give Madam Pomfrey a visit.” The boy paled at that, right to the roots of his blond hair, though he said nothing.

Snape had gone translucent, glare unwavering as he stared at the boys. He had yet to utter a word while he watched you repair his student. “So,” he started, voice silky and dangerous. “Soo, what are you three doing in Hogsmeade, where no second years are permitted, hours past curfew?” 

The taller Gryffindor boy, brown-haired and gangly, blushed, the tips of his ears going red. The other, dirty blond, freckled, and stocky, schooled his face, only his brown eyes looking panicked. 

“Empty your pockets,” you spoke, tone steely, closely examining the misshapen lumps formed at the two boys’ pockets. 

“Are you suddenly deaf, or slow as always? Move, Perkins, before I do it for you.” You did not approve of Snape’s insults, but this was hardly a time to argue. All three boys upturned their pockets; magical candies and brightly wrapped products decorated with a purple cursive “W” spilled to the ground before the red-and-gold tied boys. A half-empty coin purse and several vials, some large but empty, others stoppered, containing freshly picked potion ingredients remained clutched in the blond Slytherin boy’s hands.

Snape, still quietly angry at your side, stiffly reached for one of the larger, empty vials; the dregs of a light blue liquid pooled at the glass’s bottom. He uncorked it, lifting the neck of the bottle to his hooked nose, sniffing deeply until he held the object away, as if it personally had offended him. “Draught of Invisibility,” he muttered, baritone clipped and annoyed. “This certainly explains how you exited the castle undetected.” 

The Slytherin boy looked desperate, blue eyes glassy and trembling lower lip parted. He obviously had something he wanted to say, wanted his professors to understand, but just as he was building up the courage to speak, a dark-haired shopkeeper ran into the small clearing, wand drawn and dirty white apron untied at one end, flapping behind.

The man, barely older than twenty, panted as he skidded to a halt in front of the professors, thin hand grabbing painfully at his chest. “Thieves!” He pointed at the two boys, voice waspish and accusing. His pointed, freckled nose was scrunched up in apparent distaste, face still scarlet from the exertion of sprinting halfway across Hogsmeade. “This lot stole nearly fifty galleons worth of product from me! Who knows what they took from Honeydukes!” 

Snape’s fathomless eyes, black as pitch, flashed as he strode forward, bridging the gap between the young adult and the three students. He wordlessly accioed the mountain of sweets and joke products, a wrapper labeled “Fever Fudge” glinting in the dusky twilight glow. “They won’t be needing these,” he snarled, releasing his magic, the shop clerk struggling to hold all the stolen goods within his folded apron. 

“Boys,” you started, coldly, Snape raising his brow confusedly, as if he had forgotten you were still there. “What do you have to say?”

“Sorry,” The Slytherin and the dark-haired boy spoke in unison, the blond mumbling an apology a beat later, after an unsubtle nudge to the elbow by his compatriot. 

“Owl me privately, if further repayment is required.” The thin man was still irate, arms full of wrappers, looking like he wished to further argue, but one fierce glare from the Potions Master had him stumbling backward. 

“Of course.” He turned on his heel, gingerly ambling up the steep hill, up the main street of the tiny village. 

“Perkins,” Snape rounded on the boys, spine rigid with controlled rage, thin lips pulled into a tight scowl. “Explain.”

“Marcus and I were on our way to the common room when—when Matthews cornered us! He made us drink a potion and forced us to walk to Hogsmeade. He—” Snape held up his hand, his knuckles bony, fingers narrow and stained from working with ingredients all day.

“A likely story,” he growled sarcastically, the evidence gathered before the two of you providing a fairly convincing, unrelated narrative. “Fifty points each from Gryffindor, for being out-of-bounds and out-of-bed after curfew. Twenty-five points each for assaulting another student and—let’s say an additional twenty-five points for lying to a professor.” Snape sounded positively gleeful, long legs walking in the direction of the castle, the rest of you silently following in his wake.

“But—Professor Y/L/N, please! You must believe us! That’s not fair! Snape’s letting Matthews off the hook!” You took a deep inhalation of brisk, night air, nostrils flaring at the boy’s petulance. 

“First of all, Perkins,” you began, tone so icy and delicate you might have given Snape a run for his money, “I find it positively insulting you ask me to forget what my own two eyes definitely saw. Professor Snape’s been exceptionally lenient with the two of you. I would argue suspension, or, I daresay, expulsion, would not have been out of the question. Gryffindor is already in last place; I suggest you cease your whinging, lest I dock you—let’s see, if my maths are correct, Gryffindor’s house’s remaining forty-five points,” you paused, watching the blond’s face fall, satisfied the message was finally sinking in. 

“Not that it is any of your concern, but Professor Snape is known to discuss his punishments with students falling under his house in private. Now, Professor Snape failed to assign the two of you detention, and I feel I must rectify the matter…”

The trek up to the castle was incredibly unpleasant. The boys trudged on ahead, the Gryffindors darkly muttering beneath their breath, likely cursing the punishment jointly doled out by their now most despised pair of professors. Matthews walked behind them, silent and surly as ever, blue eyes locked on the rocky ground at his feet. 

Snape and you fell into an easy rhythm, ambling up the path in the starlight. His skin looked less sallow, less sickly, in the open air and far away from the dungeon’s shadows. Your robes rippled around you, a fierce west wind beginning to set in, and you feared the coming of a howling storm. If Snape was worried, he did not express so outwardly—his dark eyes set on the horizon. 

You led the Gryffindors back up to their tower, the singing portrait displeased at being awoken from her nap, the frame swinging forward to reveal a bedraggled Professor Potter, dark hair horribly unkempt and sticking up in all directions. He wore a Muggle sweatshirt and black fleece sleep pants, his glasses askew, green eyes unfocused until he saw the guilty expressions the boys were wearing.

“Professor, we were—” 

“Out of bed, and out of bounds,” you interrupted Perkins smoothly, relishing the defeated look the boy wore. “And, guilty of property theft, I might add.” Harry’s eyes darkened, his usually jovial face suddenly serious and much older than his years. “Perhaps you would like to inform your Head of House just how many points you managed to lose for Gryffindor in one night. It might be a new record.”

The staff room was colder than the dungeons, the fire you lit half an hour prior only now developing a grouping of white-hot coals. You finished scratching at the lengthy bit of parchment when the door fell open, Snape striding over to the armchair adjacent to yours. 

You handed him the finished report, his eyes as dark as the night sky as he skimmed the page, brow absentmindedly quirked upward. A quill materialized between his narrow, stained fingers with a sharp pop. In a flurry of movement, he etched his name beside yours.

He stood, filing the incident report away for the Headmistress, while you gathered your things, intent on throwing yourself upon your feather-soft mattress as soon as you entered your chambers. You extinguished the staff room fire with an idle wave of your wrist, quietly exiting the room and wandering down the blackened corridor, the glowing light emitted at the tip of your wand your only source of light.

“Wait!” It was the most desperate sound you’d ever heard the solemn man make, Snape catching up to you in a few long strides of his lanky legs, black cloak billowing behind his back. His breath was uneven as he closed the gap, pressing something circular and cool to the touch in your palm.

“What’s thi—”

“For dinner. You didn’t have to—”

“It’s fine, really. I enjoyed your company, even if it wasn’t much of a dinner anyway.” You tried to give the coin back to the taller professor, but he broke away, angular face grimacing, as if in pain. 

“You can pay next time.” The words slipped far too fast and far too easily from your lips, Snape’s pale face turning ashen, brows drawn in confusion.

“N-next time. Right.” His normal deep baritone was unsteady and high- pitched. You feared perhaps you had trodden past some unspoken boundary.

“Unless—”

“No!” He yelled, looking sheepish as his voice sharply echoed off the ancient stone. “No, next time, next time would be…ideal.” You squinted at him, his expression still sheepish and slightly discomposed, his uncertainty suddenly endearing to you.

“Perhaps,” he licked his chapped lips, mouth unusually dry, “Perhaps next Friday would be amenable?”

“Certainly.” You had reached your chambers’ door, located in the frigid heart of Hogwarts’ dungeons, Snape uncomfortably shifting from foot to foot. “Would you like a cuppa?”

“I should not—”

“Please?” Snape looked at the darkness creeping in the distance at the end of the corridor, wordlessly warring within himself. He nodded, frowning. 

The evening passed in pleasant conversation. Snape spoke of his recent experiments—a new breakthrough in the Wolfsbane potion he was continuing to monitor and reproduce. He asked where you were going once Longbottom returned at the end of the month. It was around three in the morning and half a bottle of firewhiskey later that you realized you had become friends with Severus Snape.

Frank Benson awoke with a groan, wordlessly pulled from his lips, the familiar ache residing deep within his lower back already present. Fumbling in the darkness of his bedroom, he somehow located his phone, silencing his insistent alarm—still the preprogrammed, irritating beeping—with a sharp jab of his thick thumb. Beside him in the blackness, he felt the bedsheets stir, your knee brushing against the knobby bone of his leg. 

“Frank?” You asked the man, voice full of sleep, and far too much sweetness than he deserved. 

“Mmmm?” He answered, with a great, deep rumble of his throat. Your narrow fingers, much shorter than his, had found one of his bare, rather hairy forearms over the duvet, and begun to give the limb gentle pets.

“Happy birthday, love,” he softly heard, chest breaking at how sincere you were, even in the wee hours of the morning, when no human should be awake. 

“Thank you, darling,” he spoke, baritone catching, whether from disuse or emotion, he did not know. Your hand’s stroking slowed.

“I have a surprise for you…” You told him, and he could hear the mischievous spark in your eyes through your voice.

“Ohh?” He asked, already knowing there would be no chance of you revealing one of your schemes.

“Later tonight, when you come home…” There was hope, and a trace of something horribly affectionate edging your tone. Your hand had left his forearm, entwining itself with his thick fingers. Your metal ring was ice cold against him.

“However, will I wait?” The playful, slightly sarcastic query earned him an eyeroll he did not need to see to know it was there, and a half-hearted slap aimed at his bicep as you pulled your hand away from him in mock indignation.

“Frank,” you exasperatedly huffed, breaking into uncontrollable giggles alongside your husband’s low chuckles. “You’ll wait patiently if you know what’s good for you,” you tried to sound serious, but one could hardly sound so serious after being brought to tears of laughter.

“Ah, so it’s that kind of surprise.” There was far too much pride and satisfaction brimming in Frank’s voice for your taste.

“It’s a surprise, Frank, you can hardly expect me to be so forthcoming.” He had stood up from the bed and turned on a lamp, now dragging a military green jacket over his plain white undershirt with less coordination than usual, intent as he was on winning this new round of banter. 

“So it is a fun surprise. Deflection always signals a direct hit, sweetheart. You should never have married a former interrogator if you wanted to keep your secrets safe.” He was smirking, zipping up the tight-fitting trousers you thought perfectly complemented his arse, when you could get away with ogling him from behind.

“You’re insufferable.” There was no bite to your words.

“And? I already know that.” His boots were nearly laced to his ankles.

“And you’re lucky you have work.” He stood up so fast he was swaying, face wrinkled in fake hurt.

“Oi! That was hurtful!”

“And you’re lucky it’s your birthday, Franklin. It’s not every day a man turns sixty-three.” He supposed his wife had a point, as he kissed you goodbye, making his way out your shared bedroom and downstairs, the smell of coffee wafting to the upper floor entirely welcome to his nostrils.

Frank was in between meetings, walking to the large conference room at the end of the hall, when he thought of his wife’s words once more. It’s not every day a man turns sixty-three. 

It wasn’t one of those important birthdays—not a milestone or an age ending in nought. But you were making it feel special—perhaps because it would be the first time they’d be celebrating while married. 

The Lieutenant General could not shake the excitement swelling within his chest at the thought of what you might have planned that evening—he only hoped he could be home early. 

Frank shook himself from his wandering thoughts—it wouldn’t do to be thinking of–of whatever sinful things you wound up doing for him later tonight while in a meeting concerned with the prospect of launching a proportionate response to a recent anti-democratic uprising in southern Africa. Frank was suddenly quite pleased he’d be able to retire in two years.

Frank stumbled through the doorway, utterly exhausted and forty-five minutes later than usual. His meetings had run long—an attack had been planned, but the American Secretary of Defense and Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff had both dragged their feet trying to come to a decision. As a result—everyone decided against engagement, stating the risk of civilian casualty to be too great, and other bureaucratic nonsense that often convinces Frank that perhaps he had chosen the wrong profession. War was not like it once was, he thought to himself, wryly. 

He left the doorstep and entered the kitchen, spotting the chocolate cake resting on the stove, stopping at the island in the middle to nick a few chips before being discovered. Hearing the door click shut, you popped your head around the corner, snorting at the sight of Frank chewing and guiltily looking about the room.

“Hullo,” he tried to mouth through cold, fried potato, sounding more like, “Hul–ommsh.” You let out another undignified snort at Frank’s vulnerable state, beginning to reheat Frank’s favorite meal you had cooked for him: fish and chips.

“You’re late,” you quietly murmured, back turned to Frank, who was sheepishly swallowing the last of his chewed-up chips with an audible gulp. 

“Meetings again with a bunch of indecisive pricks who should never have gone into the business of modern warfare—the rest is classified, I’m afraid, my dear.” He was awkwardly sitting at the counter, legs too long for the small metal chair, his knees bent at an odd angle.

You didn’t mind Frank’s need for secrecy, but it did sometimes make it difficult to offer the restrained man comfort or understanding. “I just wish they didn’t keep you so long—the hours aren’t fair for you.”

“That’s part of the gig, sweetheart,” Frank smirked, watching the muscles of your arse shift as you pulled the meal from the oven. His tight-fitting trousers suddenly felt a few cinches tighter. “All the higher-ups were held back.”

“Still,” you grumbled, blowing a few wisps of hair out of your eyes after standing upright, waving an oven mitt over the steaming food. 

“It won’t be forever.” Frank’s voice had gone uncharacteristically soft and fragile, something you did not have the heart to wheedle out of him on so momentous a day. You placed a steaming plate in front of the man with a smile, and Frank’s socked feet tapping an unrecognizable beat along the metal chair’s low-hanging bar stopped.

With a whir, the dishwasher roared to life, the sound of water tossed around deafening in the otherwise silent kitchen. Frank was leaning back in his metal chair as far as the hind legs allowed (which was not very far, in truth), thick hands folded over his stuffed belly. He’d already loosened his belt’s notch two holes while you weren’t looking. 

You had waltzed behind him, small hands, still wet from rinsing off dishes in the sink, running through his thinning snow-white hair before trailing lower to knead the stiffening muscles of his neck. 

He groaned, the sensation of your fingers caressing his scalp magic, like belonging, like home. You pressed a kiss to his forehead, a murmured, “Bedroom,” breathed against him. Excitement pressed to the forefront of his stomach, the thing he’d been mentally ready for all day, his promised surprise, only minutes away.

Frank hesitated, his large body backed up against the solid wooden door, heart hammering like he was expecting a sentence of execution to fall from your pink lips. How often was it that he had you pinned, back hard-pressed to a door or wall? Oh, how the tables had turned, and for some reason, likely tied to a buried portion of his psyche, he quite liked it, this strange turn of events. 

Your nimble, narrow fingers were making quick work of his green jacket, untucking the material out of his trousers, the movement across the front of his crotch causing his drowsy cock to stir. Purposefully taking your time with the buttons at his collar, you stroked along his finally bared neck, marvelling at the way his shoulders, the shoulders of a man who never flinched when met with imminent danger, shivered. 

You kissed at the loose, warm flesh of his neck, Frank’s breath coming in sharp, short pants, his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath your mouth. You released him, stroking the wispy curls of hair sprouting above the collar of his white undershirt. He was not calm, his neck tilted back in bliss, eyes pinched shut, and still gasping as if he had just sprinted a marathon. 

“Stop teasing me, woman,” he grumbled, baritone husky and straining. You responded by lifting the white undershirt up over his broad shoulders, exposing his chest and stomach to the drafty room. He was hairy, wiry black and white curls peppered across his front, thinning only where a jagged scar, pale with age, scraped from his navel to below the cut of his trousers. Frank’s nipples, pink and pebbled beneath the sprawling hair, seemed to beg you to be touched. Ignoring the Lieutenant General’s warning, you guided your index finger from the center of his chest, barely touching his soft flesh, until you met the end of his sagging belly. His eyes fluttered. Your fingers disappeared, and he was now adrift.

Frank shifted uncomfortably under your ministrations, suddenly aware he was half-naked in the bedroom's yellow lamplight, while you remained fully dressed, hands held behind you, shaking uneasily. He startled back into the wooden door when your hands flew from behind your back, whatever was held in your grasp catching the light, the reflection shining straight into his face. 

“Handcuffs?” He heard his low voice mutter, unnaturally hesitant. Your expression merged from hopeful to sheepish, confidence lacking behind your bright eyes. Frank could kick himself for causing you disappointment.

“Errr—I wanted to—erhm—tease you a bit—and—well, take control.” You were biting your bottom lip innocently, though less than innocent images were making themselves known in Frank’s mind, particularly ones involving you, straddled atop his—-

“Put them on,” he spoke, so quiet it was a wonder you heard the sound over the radiator’s incessant rattle.

“If you don’t want to, Frank, I won’t make—”

“Just do it, before I change my bloody mind, woman.” Frank then realized this might have been a mistake, your eyes sparkling with mischief. A smile he’d never seen before, and perhaps more wicked-looking than he’d ever seen you wear, now flashed his way. 

He never registered you spinning him around by the belt loops of his trousers, his belly now tightly pressed, flush against the door. He heard the click of metal closing against metal, felt you tug the chain that now connected his wrists behind his back until he was facing you once more, his cock half-hard and aching.

Leaning up on tiptoe, as tall as you could reach, yet still shorter than Frank’s imposing stature, you whispered a command into the older man’s ear. “On the bed.”

A man as accustomed to obeying orders as he was commanding them, Frank’s feet took him to the bed before he registered the dominance in your tone, his need for release all he could think about. He flopped against the mountain of pillows piled in front of the walnut headboard, stocky legs spread wide apart, trapped hands playing with a loose thread from one of the pillowcases behind him. His hazel eyes focused on you, laying the key to his bonds on the faraway dresser, slowly unbuttoning the fastening on your denim jeans.

He was enthralled, watching your lightly tanned thighs appear out of the sea of blue, distracted by the muscle stretching along the side of your calf rippling when you kicked the trousers to the corner with just the lazy flick of one leg. Your emerald green sweater, a present from him for your birthday, was next to go, leaving your shoulders fully bare, hell, leaving most of you bare.

Metal clinked as he wrestled with his bonds, his hands desiring nothing more than to be permitted to touch. Frank wanted to feel the soft crevice of your bony collarbone, wanted to press the wavy curls gathered at the back of your neck his way for a passionate kiss, one that expressed far more than he ever could with the limitations of the English language. 

He was firmly struck by your lingerie—a gentle green bra, decorated in black lace so sheer he could see every detail of your breasts—of your nipples—when you swayed toward the light. Your panties were that same gentle green with black lace—but crotchless—and he was hard-pressed to avoid staring at the perfectly framed exposed slit resting between your thighs.

Frank did not know which part of you was the most sensible to maintain eye contact with, so he instead was left to eye you up and down as your legs strutted forward, not stopping until you were straddling his lap. A moan, unrestrained and vulnerable, tore from deep in the recesses of his throat as he watched, unhindered, as your lower lips spread apart, clear slickness already glistening against the pink flesh. His dick, fully erect and impatient, throbbed against his leg, displeased with the layer of fabric separating him from your cunt.

Frank jerked forward, fluffy white hair, soft and disheveled, pressed into your neck in an armless embrace. He gave a frustrated huff, as you cradled his head, fingers carding through his hair before rubbing circles along his broad back. “Patience, birthday boy.” You smirked at Frank’s groan, pushing him back into the mountain of pillows with a little thud. He struggled to return upright, trapped hands no help in maintaining even an iota of balance. 

“To hell with patience.” Frank was more bark than bite, his unbearable frustration obvious beneath the tent pitched within his trousers.

Tracing down the jagged scar striping across Frank’s stomach, you met the buckle of his belt, slipping the leather out through the curving metal fastener. Frank’s zipper and the button of his trousers were next, each touch making his dick grow firmer, each touch forcing him to swallow back an unmanly whimper. 

His trousers were pulled down, boxers included, into a bunched-up bundle at his knees, erection finally springing free, happily curving toward you. He was big; nearly seven inches ending in a spongy, angry red tip steadily leaking pre like a broken faucet. 

The gentle green silk lace fell to the floor. Frank couldn’t keep his eyes from boring twin holes at your chest, so engrossed was he in the work of art before him. He hissed when you pressed against his front, heartbeat to racing heartbeat, hazel eyes finally breaking their impenetrable stare as he met the mischief bubbling deep within your gaze. His cock jumped beneath you as you kissed along his jaw, lightly stubbled and scratchy, and beginning to lose definition with age.

“I love you.” It was spoken so soundlessly you barely even caught the faint syllables gasped aloud into the darkness, yet they brought warmth to your chest, reassurance to the shaky confidence you were desperately trying to strengthen for the general. You said nothing, for it was often better to say nothing at all when Frank was so tenderhearted and bare with you, never breaking eye contact as you slid his rigid shaft inside your glistening wet entrance. 

Frank groaned with your movement, nearly losing full control early as you began to hump his cock, mourning the imprisonment of his arms, for there was nothing he desired more in that moment than to ease you up and down his aching member himself. You mewled freely, his swollen dick hitting the back of your walls, just how you liked, leaving Frank to feel as if he were little more than a glorified dildo.

Pressure had begun to build within his lower balls, the tightness coming with every labored thrust of his hips he gave to meet your hole, his arms still restrained behind his back, pressed into the puddle of pillows stacked along the headboard. Once again, he didn’t know where to look, caught between your sagging breasts swinging with each thrust, begging for a touch he could not gift, or your pussy lips, through which his shaft entered and exited, dripping with the collected juices of your lovemaking, or your eyes, heated and loving, sending a twitch to both his heart and his cock with every second of pleasure that passed. 

Frank was slowing down, and you both knew it. Each upward thrust of his hips was even more unbalanced and erratic than the last, the ache in his groin growing to be too much for him to bear. You were attempting to steady him, thin, narrow fingers digging little crescents into his broad shoulders, likely to remain a scar for the next week for him to proudly hide beneath his uniform. 

“C–Close,” he stammered, quite uncharacteristically, the sound sending a wave of pride deep within your belly. Frank was not one to be so discomposed, even during sex.

“Cum, cum for me, Frank,” you raspily panted, hips roughly slamming onto his. “Give it to me—give it all to me!”

Frank moaned; how could he deny you that? Your walls fluttered against him, squeezing his shaft like a warmed blanket, your orgasm underway. He followed, balls pulsing, drawing up, his cock releasing spurt after spurt of warm seed deep into your womb. You rocked into him, only shallowly thrusting in the aftermath of pleasure, you enjoying the feeling of fullness, Frank enjoying the feeling of filling you. You were curled against his chest, your bodies sweaty and panting. Frank was breathing heavily, scarred belly rising and falling beneath you, your head tucked under his chin in your caring embrace. You missed his strong arms holding you, suddenly regretting locking him in handcuffs for the first time that evening.

“M’ arms are falling asleep.” As if on cue, Frank grumbled into your curls, baritone voice coarse and gravelly. This would be Frank’s subtle signal that his arms were hurting, and you silently worried that perhaps pinning his wrists behind his back may have been too stressful. You weren’t quite ready to move yet either, Frank’s dick fully sheathed inside, still quite stiff and already prepared for a second round, pressed as far in as he could manage. 

“It’s on the dresser.” With a pained cry, you attempted to unbury yourself, the movement much too harsh a sensation for your sensitive limbs to process just yet. A noise—like metal scraping and chinking against metal—sounded, strong arms surrounding your shuddering form, grounding you. The pain between your legs stopped, the image before you suddenly clear. 

Frank grasped you at the upper arms, hazel eyes crinkled with worry, broken chains dangling from the metal cuffs attached to his wrists. “Are you all right?” His tone was gruff with hidden fear, the tight grip on your arms beginning to sting. You nodded, mouth open in awe as you stared at his wrists.

“You didn’t really think those could hold me, dearest, did you?” You looked up into his hazel eyes, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk of satisfaction. 

Impressed, but not wishing for him to detect that, you launched yourself into a tirade, “Frank, those cost me nearly twenty quid! You’re lucky it’s your bloody birthday!”

Author’s Note: Most of the “toys” in this edition are not traditional sex toys, but rather equipment or a type of play. I really wanted to make sure each character was different (I’m hoping if I end up making another part, I don’t end up duplicating. However, if that were to happen, I plan on making that particular drabble stand out). 

Hans Gruber - Gun (Play)

Warning(s)‼️: Rape/Non-con Elements. Oral Sex. Cockwarming. Come Swallowing. Desk Pet. 

Hans Gruber, a lover of sex toys? Bitte! He was a busy man, an enjoyer of luxury and wealth to the extreme. Sex toys were made for lesser men, those who wanted pleasure but never could manage to retain a date. He was no limp-dicked loser, ending the day with his cock burrowed in a lube-coated fleshlight. An exceptional thief, he was more than capable of stealing hearts and persuading both women and men alike to service him sleep with him. That was what his Glock was for, after all…

Hans sat at his desk, his handgun lazily pressed inches from his latest pet’s heart (aiming for the back of their skull was perhaps more persuasive, but not tenable at the moment for obvious reasons). 

You lunged forward, eagerly slurping his heavy, lengthy cock all the way down your throat, his full, aching balls dangerously close to following suit. Cocking the hammer, he enjoyed your flinching back in fear—enjoyed how you, his pet, hollowed your cheeks in the manner that he absolutely adored, the manner that nearly always sent him over the edge. And this time was no different, his balls drawing up in preparation, cock spilling down your throat without warning. 

A low grunt left Hans’ thin lips against his pristine, tightly held self-control, his hips, shallowly thrusting, finally stilling with his finish. His slowly softening erection remained on your tongue, the salty, slightly bitter taste of his seed lingering on your lips as he placed the cocked gun back onto the desk’s surface. Hans had other matters to now attend to…

Frank Benson - His Hand

Warning(s)‼️: Male Masturbation. 

Mmmmph. Lieutenant General Frank Benson was a busy man—his calculating, sarcastic mind frequently rewinding the news from his latest intelligence briefings and visiting offensive strategies even whilst off-duty. Frank Benson was a simple man. He did not have the time for such luxuries as self-pleasure. 

He utterly despised waking up in the middle of the night, his thickly veined cock that curved to the left hard and aching, and keeping him from achieving the little sleep his demanding position allowed. Frank groaned aloud, groaned into the pitch-black silence of his bedroom, knowing full well he’d hate himself in fifteen minutes time. 

Frank rolled onto his back, hazel eyes staring at the plaster beginning to peel across the ceiling, slipping his large hand into his boxers to tightly grip his unrelenting, completely undisciplined erection with an unrestrained moan. He gave the tip a harsh squeeze, precum bubbling out of the slit, his fist painfully pumping his partially dry member in an attempt to spread the meager, clear liquid around.

Shame seized his chest as he began to pant, already embarrassingly close to the point of no return. Frank loathed being captive to physical need, but after years of ignoring his cravings, he’d discovered giving in was easier—at least it meant a quick return to blissful, untroubled sleep. He never wanted to enjoy the feeling—never bothered to invest in the creative catalog of toys of that nature he’d casually glimpsed in taboo magazines. 

No, Frank thought, as his hot, sticky cum erupted across his fingers, simultaneously coating his sheets, naked skin, and bedclothes, his hand was more than enough to get him by.

The Interrogator - Bondage & Restraints

Warning(s)‼️: Non-con Elements. Pain Play. 

A tall man with dark brunette hair that waved at the edges stood alone in a slate grey room, a maze of white fluted columns surrounding him. Well, nearly alone. A seated figure lay before the well-dressed man, their back stiff and upright, body unnaturally still. 

The interrogator silently admired his handiwork—thick ropes wrapped tightly around you, his prisoner’s wrists, torso, and ankles, securing your body to the wicker chair. He loved the way your skin bulged where the bonds dug too deep—when he removed the restraints hours later, the skin there would be red and chafed. Raw.

He walked behind the chair, fingertips elegantly removing the silk blindfold from your eyes, marveling at the way you ever so slightly leaned into the physical contact. He always knew just how to make someone desperate, how to make someone painfully wanting. 

He’d enjoy breaking you. Yes, indeed. 

Effortlessly, he tilted the lightweight chair back on his hind legs, smirking at the look of unconcealed terror blooming across your face. 

He let the chair fall back to the floor with a sharp clatter.

Eli Michaelson - His Students

Warning(s)‼️: Unbalanced Power Dynamics (Professor/Student). PIV Sex. Desk Sex. Creampie. Spanking. Mentioned Cheating (By Reader).

Esteemed Professor Eli Michaelson stood up from his desk, unbuckling his trousers in one fluid motion, pleased at his latest toy’s, err, student’s, punctual arrival. Nothing compared to the real thing, in his mind, he thought with a chuckle. No, nothing beat a young girl’s desperation to earn an A, even if it meant letting their professor fuck them across his desk into utter oblivion. 

He sank himself into your pussy without preamble, delightfully wet from his encounter hours before. Eli was eager, dreadfully eager, to leave his mark once more upon you, laying a swift succession of smacks across your arse as he continued to thrust from behind. Your nose was unceremoniously buried in a stack of papers he’d been marking until you’d waltzed in—make-up now smudging the white sheets as sweat mixed with your tears of pleasure. 

Eli was smirking—your total ruination was quite satisfactory. It was like an aphrodisiac—for he knew you weren’t untethered, you still saw your out-of-town boyfriend on the weekends during the school year. Yet, here you were, whoring out your body for a grade—students were so simple. 

He was close—balls heavy and full, smacking against your cunt with every one of his rushed thrusts. Eli was grunting—his low baritone gravelly and absolutely out of breath. He burrowed into you, his lengthy cock fully sheathed in your warmth, his stocky arms wrapped around your body a little more intimately than he would have liked as he came, rope after white rope of thick cum. 

Eli pulled away, breath not fully controlled, droplets of sweat dribbling down his back underneath his unbuttoned dress shirt. He tucked himself within his trousers without any embarrassment, admiring the view of his student’s, your, naked arse, his essence slowly trickling out your pussy. He pushed his seed back inside and pulled your panties up, giving you a playful smack to let you know that he was done. 

“And Y/L/N,” he called, as you were straightening yourself up, attempting to fix your make-up, but to no avail. 

“Shit,” you muttered into the darkness of the drafty bedroom, praying the man next to you would not awaken. But Frank Benson, your boyfriend of nearly two years, was a dangerously light sleeper—being ex-military and all. 

“Wha’s tha mat-tar?” he sleepily asked from his side of the bed, turning over onto his side to face you, white hair thoroughly tousled. He looked like a large hibernating bear suddenly disturbed from his deep, wintertime slumber.

“Nothing,” you whispered, much too quickly, pitch high. You shifted your thighs together, despising the growing wetness accumulating there, desperately attempting to silence most of a whimper from a particularly overwhelming wave of pain coursing through your abdomen. A small sound escaped from your chapped lips—and that was all it took for Frank to bolt upright.

“It’s not nothing,” his tone had soured, nearly at a growl from such long disuse. He cleared his throat with a soft rumbling noise, brows tightly crinkled together to give you a hard stare in the bedroom’s blackness. Not breaking eye contact, he fumbled to his left for the lampswitch, as if it were something practiced, something he’d accomplished hundreds of times prior to tonight. 

You struggled to sit up, eyes squinting under the blinding, glaring light of Frank’s lamp, one shaking hand pressed to your stomach, carefully hidden within the covers. The corner of Frank’s mouth twitched as his hazel eyes followed your slow movement into a comfortable resting position, clearly not at all convinced by your earlier lie. 

“It’s nothing, Frank,” you countered, lacking the normal ferocity your tone took when arguing with the stubborn man—for you were equally, if not more stubborn, than him. 

But Frank wasn’t going to accept your weary answer, even before you crumpled forward with a yelp, another nasty, stabbing cramp radiating through your torso, another wave of liquid gushing, falling between your legs.

“You silly woman. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s wrong, damnit!” Frank had scooted over to your corner of the bed, pulling your still curled-up body up against his chest, the tension, the agony, melting ever so slightly now that you were met with his warmth. 

“It’s not anything I haven’t dealt with before!” You tried to keep the surliness, the bitterness from creeping into your voice. Unsuccessfully. Frank seemed momentarily taken aback as you pulled away from his embrace, even as your brain urged you against that foolish, ridiculous notion. Being curled up next to Frank felt like home.

“Before?” He whispered in a hiss, his hazel orbs turning a shade darker. The edge of his thin lips were twitching once more, in the manner that usually preceded one of Frank’s epic, legendary blow-ups—the sort fueled by a combination of caffeine and righteous anger. And, at the very end of his harsh words and gravelly shouts, the gruff man was usually correct. 

“You mean, this has happened multiple times?” His lips parted, face ashen beneath the sickly  yellowish light. You squirmed in place, squirmed under his piercing gaze, anxiety skyrocketing with the hurt expression spreading over Frank’s face like a blanket of fresh snow. 

Unable to properly form words, coherent thoughts, you nodded, stomach dropping even further when Frank’s face crumpled. You desperately wanted to raise your white flag, make Frank drop this utterly embarrassing, humiliating subject. You were quite certain your pajamas and his bedsheets were irreparably stained. Nothing could be worse than ripping the plaster off so slowly in your mind—for Frank, like a dog, would not release his prize once caught. 

“Y/N,” he started, voice low and parched. Frank gulped. “Y/N, I’m not—you know you can tell me anything, yes? I’m not going to— I’m not trying to make this difficult.” 

Hormones and feelings did not mix well for you during that time of the month. An ugly sob rose from the back of your throat despite your feeble attempt at stifling the bloody sound. When Frank used that voice—the gentle one that made you feel like a small child once again—all you ever wanted to do was burrow into the man’s chest, listening to the vibrations he produced while reading anything from poetry to the newspaper to the phonebook.

“I’m on my period,” you mumbled, shamefully, cheeks a blaring scarlet. You ducked your head to avoid the cruel, unflinching judgment that Frank would surely send your way. You knew how men viewed menstruation—been with plenty of men who accused you of faking your pain or starting your cycle specifically to prevent them from sex. It was easier to ensure it never aligned with the time you spent with Frank, easier to keep the dreadful act from interfering with that part of your life. Frank never liked to be bothered with the insignificant, the trivial—and this, well, this to you was trivial—an annoyance that had occurred every month for decades.

“Oh, come here, my love.” His eyes were soft as he pulled you against his front, the steady, rhythmic beating of his heart instantly soothing, yet the cries never subsided, the tears only now wetted his satin, long-sleeve pajama shirt. “Shhhh,” he murmured, chest shaking from the soft rumble, his thick fingers gently brushing the tangles out of your hair. “There’s no reason to be upset, darling,” he assured, easing you back from the comfortable, you-shaped space you’d nestled up to him in.

The tears dried, leaving you feeling both sheepish and anxious within his arms, not knowing what exactly Frank expected you to say—so saying nothing seemed the safest. Frank’s thin lips frowned, brows softening from their tight, constricting crunch as a new thought alighted across his face. “You thought—you thought I’d be mad, didn’t you?” Head pointed down to ignore the disappointed, heartbroken expression Frank was sporting, you nodded, a lump taking up residence deep at the back of your throat.

“Something’s happened—happened before me, I’m guessing? One of those idiotic assholes you bothered to call a boyfriend made this—made this a problem?” The deep baritone was a dangerous, low growl, his hazel eyes sparking like flint meeting steel. Frank would be utterly terrifying, if it weren’t for the fact that you knew his anger was not being directed toward you. It didn’t keep the lump at the back of your throat from expanding, however.

“I’m not going to pry, sweetheart—but—you deserved a lot better than that.” Relief bloomed across your chest, mingling with the waves of throbbing pain pummeling your lower half. 

“Loo,” you whimpered, suddenly aware of another stream of warm blood running down your legs, wanting more than anything to be clean, pain-free, and asleep, safely nestled against Frank. 

“Right,” Frank mumbled from above, assessing the situation that now lay before him. “Right,” he muttered, baritone a little more sure of himself. He had clambered out of bed, pajamas wrinkled, fluffy white hair mussed, towering over your still seated form. “I’m going to carry you.”

It wasn’t the first time Frank had carried you, but you knew the man was older, fighting a bum knee and a bad back on a daily basis. The idea of the noble, ex-Lieutenant General carrying you down the hall to the bathroom seemed terribly ill-advised. So was telling Frank. 

He wasted no breath on pointless, fruitless arguments, scooping your trembling body up from the bed to carry you bridle style, hooked nose wrinkling with worry when the metallic scent of blood wafted up to him. Frank gracefully set you on the closed seat of the toilet, wincing when his knees hit the rough tiling before the ceramic tub’s faucet. Hot water was pouring into the bath even as you argued with Frank that a shower would be faster—the murderous look he sent you, coupled with the words, “I’m not about to let you faint all alone from blood loss,” silenced any remaining opposition you possessed. 

Sweet-smelling bubbles and a lavender bath bomb Frank pulled from somewhere hidden (seriously, how did that man even know bath bombs existed!), turned the slight pout to your lips into a gentle smile. It was impossible to be mad at Frank, especially when he could be so thoughtful, completely attentive to your every need. 

Having Frank, fully dressed in his nightclothes, back ramrod straight, help ease you, naked and shivering from the room’s chill, in entering the steaming bath had been embarrassing. But the nervous shame disappeared as soon as your aching torso and lower back felt the boiling water, Frank exiting the room when you were all properly settled. 

It was probably three in the morning when you finally settled into Frank’s side in bed—the sheets stripped by him while you were in the bath. The smell of fresh, crisp linen and lavender lulled the worry from your soul, the fear of staining another set of sheets eliminated—Frank’s emergency stash of feminine hygiene products newly broken into. 

You hadn’t expected Frank to be so understanding—the thought still making your head spin. Frank could be grouchy and rough at times—but utterly uncompromising when it came to your comfort. Why you had doubted him, you did not know. 

Ex-Lieutenant Frank Benson reclined upon a cushioned wicker chair atop his wooden deck with all the ease and flexibility of a newly bought leather wallet. A holiday along the southern coast of America was just what he had desperately needed, required, for a great number of years. The decades of trudging in bloody frontlines and the many seasons spent cooped up behind an office computer, listening to bureaucratic nonsense, had utterly pummelled his chances at experiencing the joys of true relaxation.

A salt-laced breeze from the gulf swept up toward his high perch, whipping his snow-white hair into an atrocious, unkempt mess. He brushed a long lock from his hazel eyes with one hand, pushing his darkened aviators up the bumpy bridge of his hooked nose. Frank believed he looked quite dashing dressed in a navy blue Hawaiian shirt with complementing pale yellow palm trees and dolphins decorating the thin fabric. The grizzled old man looked less like Tom Selleck from Magnum P.I. and far more like a European tourist attempting to camouflage as a local—which, in fact, Frank was.

He groaned when the sliding glass door belonging to the adjacent house slammed open, a young woman wearing only a skimpy red bikini walking out onto the oak deck. Frank watched, meaty hand harshly clutching the armrest of his chair, jaw clenched, as the tall, curvy girl strutted over to the pool sunken below the deck’s wooden grain. Her head popped out of the clear water, rivulets running from her cheeks down between her perky, bouncing breasts, and Frank was suddenly aware of just how long it had truly been for him. 

The crotch of his khaki shorts grew tight, his heart now thudding, pounding aggressively against his rib cage. Catching sight of the girl next door was the highlight of each and every day of his vacation so far. He’d witnessed the curving, slender figure of the young woman sunning herself on a beach towel across from the pool, walked past her laughing form playing in the shallow ocean water as he pretended to search for seashells buried within the burning, coarse sand. He did not know if it was cowardice or wisdom that kept him from talking to the girl, asking her over for a lemonade or whatever it was older men could politely offer far younger women to assure their company for an entire afternoon. 

Few houses resided along this portion of the southern Gulf Coast, a purposeful decision he’d made to remove himself from the annoying palatial resort complexes cropping up at an alarming rate at American beachside towns. A purposeful decision informed not only by his incredible dislike for crowds and people—a decision that would permit a far darker impulse of his to come to fruition. 

Frank’s decades of service had taught him a rather valuable skill—reconnaissance. He’d learned the young woman would be alone for the next three days, her family—mother, father, grandmother, and two brothers—a toddler and an infant—all intended on traveling inland. For what purposes the family was making this trip, and why they were leaving the young woman alone, he did not care. That information was never revealed to him. But with the girl being abandoned the following morning…the idea left Frank nearly salivating at the opportunity presenting itself prostrate to him. 

Frank stood from his chair, knees creaking from the effort. Prowling over to the deck’s rail, he pretended to gaze at the sea’s rolling waves, to watch a large ship dock at one of the numerous, rickety iron oil platforms ruining the flatness of the picturesque landscape. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the girl’s bikini top slip lower on her frame, silently hoping the ridiculous fabric would finally give way, for the thin straps to untie, and her breasts break free. That would make his quiet, lounging day loads better.

His cock throbbed, twitching with unrestrained interest at the girl next door, the girl he’d have before nightfall the next day. Frank Benson sighed, suddenly at peace. 

You stood, leaning against the wooden railing of the front porch, watching as your family pulled out of the sand-dusted driveway. The old Ford pick-up disappeared behind the rolling dunes lining the narrow street, and you finally released a breath you had not realized you had been holding. While you loved your family, you had no desire to spend the weekend camping with them. Reaching adulthood, the age of eighteen, provided you with the ability to opt out of such ridiculous family adventures. Adventures that usually entailed at least one disaster before nightfall. 

The tiny hairs, peach fuzz, really, lining the back of your neck prickled, the feeling of being watched, being seen, overtaking your senses. It was not the first time you’d experienced the feeling, either. Throughout the week, you had felt the hair-raising tingle nearly every time you walked outside, every time you went for a swim or a stroll along the sandy shore. 

The nearest house, besides the rental cottage next door, was nearly a mile away; the small coastal town was rather safe from the vile infection of beachfront development. That didn’t mean you did not see tourists and townspeople alike at the beach. There were plenty of people around that could be spying on you, you supposed. Except, the uncomfortable feeling never seemed to dissolve when the beach was absent of tourists, nor when darkness blanketed the white beach. 

You briefly wondered if the renter of the nearly identical house on stilts next door was perhaps the spy, but the idea sounded ludicrous to your troubled brain. The man next door was older, with grizzled white hair, a sloping belly, darkened sunglasses, and apparently a suitcase full of brightly printed Hawaiian shirts. He was probably someone’s grandfather, someone’s father, someone’s widow, and this picture you had built around the ashen-faced gentleman did not neatly allow the spy narrative to dwell within. 

You heard a sliding glass door click shut, the man in question’s quiet footsteps padding across the oak deck. You slipped back through the front door, slipping the metal lock into place with a sharp snap. 

The sun was low in the sky when you returned outside, passing the glistening pool that always called your name when the humidity was wretched and the temperature scalding. It was such a day, yet, still feeling the presence of searching eyes, you had not been brave enough to venture outdoors since watching the family Ford race down the street. 

The old man on the adjacent deck sat in his usual chair, sunglasses pushed up the bridge of his hooked nose, seemingly deeply focused upon a thick novel—a history of Churchill, judging by the black-and-white photograph stretching across the cover.

Shaking away the fearful feeling that someone—or something—was staring, boring a hole into the back of your head, you lifted the hood of the grill, intending to cook yourself a nice dinner. Except—the flames did not shoot up and lick the stainless steel grating, the smell of propane immediately entering your nostrils. One brow raised, you knelt down to investigate, to stop the leak before the gas suddenly caught all ablaze. 

“Something the matter?” A deep, British voice asked, breaking the dull, constant noise of the ocean’s waves crashing into the coast. Startled, you leapt to your feet, head knocking against the grill’s metal underside.

“What?” You questioned, voice impossibly high-pitched and feminine.

“Is something the matter?” The old, white-haired man renting the cottage next door had walked over to his deck’s corner, his stocky body leaning forward, head tilted in the direction of the broken grill.

“Um–it–the grill–it seems to be leaking propane,” you mumbled, cheeks pink, embarrassed by your inarticulacy. The old man’s thin lips pulled into a half-smile, eyes hidden behind the blackened sunglasses.

“Shall I take a look? You’re all alone today, yes?” He had turned to face you rather than the grill, one snow-white brow arched in question. If possible, your cheeks turned an even brighter shade of scarlet.

“Yes, please—that’d be—that’d be excellent.” There was still something in the air that made your jaw clench, that made your stomach tightly squeeze your insides with rippling dread. The old English man was beside you in an instant, falling to his knees with a grunt as he began to examine the grill’s metal interior, brows drawn in a squint. 

“There’s no repairing this,” he muttered, voice thick, as if struggling to leave the depths of his throat. With chubby hands, he closed off the tap to the propane, the issue of the leak resolved. He attempted to push off from his knees, only to stumble face-first with a groan. You gasped, rushing forward to aid the helpful old man up, hand steadying his heaving chest.

You had no idea what happened, nor how exactly it had happened—only that your ample chest was painfully pressed against the deck’s wooden boards, the old, white-haired man from next door straddling your lower back. His weight was unforgiving—a hardness located near the crotch of his shorts firmly against your butt. You weren’t sure what to think—what to do—you only knew nothing could be done with him looming atop your body. 

The man wheezed, jerking up from his high perch into a half-crouch. Acting on instinct—pure animal instinct alone—you hurried out from beneath him, launching yourself into a full-on run. Only—the world soon began to slant, the joints of your limbs making painful contact with the wooden boards, the stinging of broken, bleeding flesh erupting across your knees and elbows. 

“Get up,” the man snarled, breath hot and stinking and suddenly in your face. He lifted you by the scruff of your shirt with ease, like you were a sack of potatoes—weighted, but not impossible. Instinct flared once more within your veins—your knee catching a particularly fleshy part of him, forcing a low grunt leveled at the back of your head. But he did not release you from his hold—stocky body guiding your entwined forms past the squeaky gate—something cool and wet enveloping your overwhelmed, overworked senses in a flurry of seconds. 

Oxygen failed to infiltrate your lungs—the normal, regular act of breathing now difficult. Untenable. Something large and stable tugged you upward, the rushing noise filling your ears gone silent, liquid escaping your mouth with a spluttering, damp cough. Relief coursed through your chest, pulsing in waves deep within your heart, yet that relief was short-lived. Your head was shoved back down below, the wetness suffocating and swelling all about your flailing body. 

Just when your windpipe had begun to burn, when spots began to swim before your obscured vision, your head broke the surface of the shallow pool. Face-to-face with your neighbor, reality finally slammed into your brain with threatening force, enough to take what meager breath you had gained since leaving the pool’s depths. This man had tried to kill you. This man had nearly drowned you, forced you under the small, rippling waves like you were a child’s doll. He surely was not the kindly, old, doddering figure you had made him out to be in your mind—no, he was far more cunning than that. 

The man’s windswept white hair had darkened to a near-grey, the locks curling at the edges. The black sunglasses had vanished, leaving his eyes—a stormy, interrogating hazel—gazing at you with a look that felt piercing—as if he were searching for your weakest point to stab you. Without the glasses, his face appeared far more lined—harsh and fierce—less like someone’s grandpa and far more like an ex-soldier. An ex-spy. 

Transparent drops of water dribbled down his hooked nose, down his cheek, disappearing underneath the collar of another of his Hawaiian shirts—this one sporting dark blue sailboats and waves against a white-flowered backdrop. The shirt no longer seemed as charming as it once did. 

You stared, foolishness and shame dipping low in your belly, waiting for some sort of explanation.

None came.

The hard hazel eyes continued to pierce, to stab, seeking something that was not there. 

“What do you want?” You timidly asked, the wind cool as dusk settled over the abandoned beach, stars starting to join the crescent moon in the sky. The silence, save for the relentless, crashing waves, had grown deafening and oppressive. Your clothes had grown cold and awkward.

The man stiffened, eyes focusing on your face before peering downward, the look making your stomach drop. “You,” he breathed, baritone voice suddenly soft, almost gentle, albeit the gruffness of a man accustomed to barking orders that were always obeyed lingered. “I want you,” his meaty hands forced you toward his chest with a splash, your head tucked under his chin, buried against his neck. 

His scent was powerful—leather, tobacco, and something distinctly earthy—sandalwood, or perhaps, cedar. The thin patch of stubble growing along his jaw brushed against your ear, the beating of his heart through the drenched material of his shirt shockingly rapid. You were caught up in the relief of not dying, in the tentative safety of his embrace, that you did not notice the removal of your shorts, nor his thick hands sliding to a halt beneath your t-shirt, idly flicking your narrow bra strap. 

“I’ve been watching you all week,” he purred from above, neck rumbling beside your cheek. The sensation was strange. “You’re beautiful, breathtakingly beautiful,” one large hand had discovered your tangled, waterlogged hair, attempting to run his fingers through the usually pristine locks. “You look like you were positively made for it.” His hands had found the bare flesh of your back, his crotch rocking forward. With a gasp, you suddenly understood what exactly it was.

“N-no,” you stuttered, voice catching with emotion. You didn’t want this—not here, not now, not with him. The grip of his hands tightened, your scalp stinging from the unrelenting hold. 

“I’d reconsider, sweetheart,” he snarled into your ear, stubble painfully scraping against your sensitive cheek. “You don’t want your little brothers to come home to their sister’s corpse floating face down in the family swimming pool.” 

The hand still burrowed within your tresses covered the back of your skull without difficulty, pushing you downward, to the grave he’d just threatened easily, with only just his palm. “I’ll do it,” you choked, eyes squeezed shut in agony, in the agony that you had willingly chosen this over death. The mental image of your family, your mother, your brother Henry, only a toddler, finding your unmoving, bloated body in the pool was horrifying—horrifying in how real it looked in your head—how close you’d physically been to experiencing that gruesome possibility.

Frank led the shivering girl out of the shallow, heated pool with just one thick hand cradling her neck, shoving her lanky body roughly into the wooden deck railing. The sun had sunk far below the horizon; only small blotches of purple and dulled pink gave any reminder, any indication that the glowing orb had once ruled the sky. 

He was soaked—khaki shorts stiffly hanging off his stocky frame, steadily dribbling water onto the oak wooden boards, his Hawaiian shirt ice cold to the touch. Frank was hardly aware of his disheveled state of dress, his focus far more centered on the quivering figure standing before him.

The older man started forward, boards creaking beneath the moonlight, halting when the girl was an arm's length away. “Turn around,” he commanded, in the same tone he had used to bark orders at baby-faced privates far before breakfast was even served. His arms fell into place beside the shaking girl’s thin, curving frame, trapping her between the wooden posts. He would not tolerate any further disobedience, any ill-conceived plans of escape she might attempt. 

Frank was pressed into her backside, cock somewhere between half-hard and full-mast, enjoying the little squeaks the young girl made as he roughly grabbed her small, perky breasts over the dripping t-shirt, hands trailing steadily downward to give her slight stomach a squeeze. He wondered if his long, thick cock would show after he fully sheathed himself within, wondered at the horrified look the girl might give if he forced her to examine his handiwork protruding through her own flesh.

He reached her sex, smirking when he felt the thin fabric of a thong, doing very little to hide his prize. Her slit was tight; he’d bet everything she was a proud virgin, untouched and unknowledgeable concerning the pleasures of the world. Feeling daring, he determined to ask her.

“Have you ever been with a man, sweetheart?” he darkly hissed, mouth less than an inch away from the shell of her ear. He licked a stripe across the tempting skin before he could think better of it, his member enjoying the way her breath hitched. She remained silent, heart racing, even through the thin barrier of her t-shirt, and he wondered if her eyes held the fear of an animal caught under a predator’s evaluating gaze. “Answer me,” he growled, harshly grabbing her sex, eagerly wanting her to know his power. His control. 

“No,” she fearfully whimpered to the rolling sea, the black part of his soul satisfied. He made swift work of the skimpy thong, soiled shirt, and lace bra, loving the way her skin, battered in some places from their earlier struggle, immediately crawled with gooseflesh. Her incessant trembling stimulated his arousal, her body warm against his coldness. 

The budded nubs perfectly adorning her sloping breasts fit perfectly beneath his rough, calloused hands, the rosy points poking out from between the slots of his fingers. She smelled like a mixture of strawberries and the salty freedom of the sea, her scent utterly, hopelessly intoxicating. With his roughened hands, he ghosted further down her soft, pliant body, giving her hips a squeeze before releasing them to fumble about for his trousers’ zipper. 

His erection jutted out of his pants, hard, curving, and dripping, the foreskin pulled back to reveal a reddened tip. Frank paid no mind to the comfort of the girl below him, her breasts painfully pressed into the wooden rail. He spread her dry lower lips like he'd done the deed a million times prior, impaling himself without warning. The girl screamed, his meaty hands wrapping around her face in desperation, mentally praying that their remote location, coupled with the lateness of the day, prevented any further investigation from their neighbors. No people bustled down the abandoned beach with flashlight in hand, to his immense relief. Frank removed the hand gagging the girl, cock twitching within his newly sheathed hole at the heaving, choking cough she made. 

“Don’t try that again,” he warned below his breath, the wind howling in their ears. She was tight—tighter than even he was accustomed to, her walls fluttering around his hardness, wetness weakly dripping like condensation in a poor attempt at protecting the stabbed organ. Frank wanted her wetter, however. He wanted her to like this against her will—wanted her to always remember him every time she sought pleasure, alone or accompanied. 

With the point of his index finger, he dug through the girl’s folds, the small button of a clit perched at her sex’s crest, hard and pulsing beneath the hood. Frank nipped her ear, meaty finger exposing the bean to the world, to the shivering coldness swirling around the moonlight beach with the roaring wind. She jumped, the back of her head making contact with his stubbled jaw, his tongue narrowly avoiding being bitten. He pressed the full, uneven pad of his fingertip to the sensitive bundle of nerves, his hips began to rock forward and backward, learning to adjust to a rhythm synchronized with the flutters the girl’s insides gave under his ministrations. He settled on drawing circles upon the tiny nub, hips growing relentless as he chased the climax of his pleasure.

Suckling the girl’s neck with a moan, his penis making wet plops every time he exited and re-entered her battered entrance, he smirked as he felt the tell-tale shudders of an orgasm blooming within her walls. The girl was coming before he was, lucky thing, this achievement sending a surge of pride, of reassurance of his skill, and egging his ferocity onward. 

A howling moan boomed from her cracked lips, each contraction slower in time than the last, the end of her climax nigh. Frank didn’t care to quiet the noise this time, the sound sending a throb straight to his swinging balls, the crashing waves certainly enough to drown her cries from carrying down the sandy coast. She was bucking into his chest, attempting to remove his prying hand from rubbing her assaulted clit, but her desperation was for naught. Tears quietly trailed down her face, dripping to the thick hand that continued to ruthlessly massage the center of her pleasure. The girl was swallowing back her sobs, the wetness that accumulated from when she came welcome to Frank, the newfound friction agonizingly sweet, perfectly made for him. 

Frank was close, so very close, balls seizing where they dangled between his legs, pelvis still pumping in and out, hazel eyes closing swiftly as he lowly groaned. The girl clenched around him, suddenly, surprisingly, the action exactly what he required. He could not have kept himself from releasing, even if he tried, the grip squeezing one of her breasts, crushing, the thick finger stroking her button, falling finally still. 

The man behind you was panting, panting like a large dog after a very long walk. Rope after rope of liquid splurted into your insides, your walls fluttering in a sort of half-orgasm. You hoped, silently prayed, that this was the end—that he was done taking from you. Everything was beginning to hurt again, the adrenaline finally wearing thin despite his continued presence. Your breath still came in short shudders, the air freezing cold even in mid-spring, the beauty of the beach staring back at you, mocking. 

The seriousness of what just occurred had slowly arisen following your blissful orgasm, the orgasm he’d forced you to have—what you first thought of as mercy, now clearly a cruel form of vengeful remembrance—for how could you do this again with someone and not think of him? Clarity had removed the scales from your eyes. Nothing would be the same after this—did you tell someone, your mother, perhaps? You did not even know the large, towering man’s name.

The man had pulled away from you, exiting with a wet plop, wiping your slick onto your thigh without a second thought. You felt dirty—utterly, completely used. He’d said nothing during the dreadful act—didn’t call you names like you expected, merely used you like you were a toy—a fleshlight he’d just picked up from the store. Shame filled your stomach, fueling the all-consuming, one-directional thought that said run—escape—hide. 

Suddenly, he was back in front of your face, white handkerchief pressed to your nostrils—the world nothing but black fuzz as conscious thought abandoned you—alone with him. 

Birdsong. The normal, predictable, cheerful chirps of birdsong met your ears—confusion swelling within your heart. Birdsong. What did birdsong mean? Morning, your brain easily supplied, body shooting upright atop a surprisingly gentle, pillowy surface. And that had been a horrible, terrible idea. 

Pain shot up your body, radiating particularly between your legs. It felt as if you’d been run over by an oversized bus. Or perhaps two in swift succession. 

Ignoring the throbbing ache permeating throughout your body, you hobbled out of bed, standing beside your bedside table. Everything seemed confusing, yet familiar. What had happened last night? And the memory surged forth—the next-door neighbor attacking and nearly drowning you—threatening murder unless you agreed—unless you agreed to do that with him—

You shivered at the unwelcome recollection, shifting side to side when you realized you still felt his–his sem—his seed inside. And you didn’t even know his name. Breath became difficult, all of a sudden, oxygen was scarce, chest heaving for air, fortifying air. 

Your gaze turned to the bedside table, anything to distract from the past, catching on a letter that had not been there before. With all the bravery, all the courage you could possibly gather within your heart, you began to read, the initials FB hastily scrawled in blocky, capital lettering at the bottom corner of the page.

MWEEP! MWEEP! MWEEP! 

Sinclair Bryant’s alarm clock buzzed, breaking the early morning quiet that had delicately settled about the bedroom. The plaid duvet shifted, narrow fingers belonging to a large hand slammed against the blaring object, slithering back beneath the covers when the silence blissfully returned. 

Sinclair looped one lanky leg around your curvy thigh, tented front of his loose-fitting boxers sliding into place between your arsecheeks, only half-way shielded by one of your husband’s old white t-shirts. A puff of air hit the back of your neck, tickling the sensitive flesh, Sinclair’s hooked nose finally nestled back into place. Sleep returned to the both of you, yet the promise of another disturbance in half an hour’s time loomed in the murky background of each of your and Sinclair’s minds. 

Light was breaking from the risen, outer world, spilling onto the wooden dresser, falling across the bedspread in a precise, diagonal strip from beyond lace-trimmed curtains. MWEEP! MWEEP! MWEEP! The alarm on the other side of the bed roared, Sinclair grunting as he slammed his hand against the cheap device to silence the incessant noise. A large, hooked nose settled beside your neck and ear, your husband’s soft snores issuing from his thin, chapped lips with ease.

Birds were chirping, grey squirrels chittering, within their respective resting places along the birch tree whose branches threatened to scrape against the bedroom window, leaves finally overtaking the limb’s buds as spring entered its sunset. Sinclair’s morning wood stirred where it lay pressed up to your backside, his arm, hugging you against him in his unconscious state, pulled you tighter, his nose shifting, blowing out a short, warm blast of air.

“Morning, my love,” his baritone voice rumbled, a gentle kiss laid behind your ear. His hips shifted, erection slipping out the slitted pouch of his shorts, the warm flesh twitching between your legs. 

“Clair?” You sleepily mumbled, enjoying the feeling of his large, narrow hands tracing the outline of your belly and nipples through the shirt’s thin fabric. He lowly groaned into your ear when his hand discovered what lay beneath the garment’s white cotton, leg tightly twisting about yours to prevent any escape. A hot tongue licked the outer shell of your ear and surrounding neck, sending a shot of lust straight to your bare, unprotected groin. 

A crow squawked close by, your brilliant eyes flashing open to take in the sunshine pouring from the veiled window, stomach immediately filling with worry rather than arousal. “Clair!” you exclaimed, using your scolding tone. Sinclair startled, bedsheets dropping to reveal his naked arms and chest as he propped himself up above you, concerned hazel eyes scanning the window, desperately attempting to discern the source of your distress. “You’re going to be late to the office!” 

The result of your words was instantaneous. Sinclair relaxed, falling back into position, arms wrapped around you, fingers dipping under the white t-shirt, lanky leg straddling yours, hardness pressed between your legs. “‘S too early, Y/N,” his low voice croaked, still thick with sleep. “Besides,” he settled against your neck, hot breath causing the fuzzy hair there to prickle, “I’m afraid I’m terribly busy at the moment.” You felt his dimples deepen in a soft, boyish smile, his large hand cupping the soft flesh of your belly, easing the heavy, lingering anxiety and transforming the worry into something warm—something warm and domestic and absolutely wonderful. 

“Thomas!” She called, golden hair flying behind her as she raced across the dead field, arriving beneath the thorn tree out of breath, chest heaving with the force of her labored pants. The dark-haired boy raised one brow quizzically, looking far older than his eight years of life. 

“Yes?” he drawled, though not unkindly, gently closing his thick, brown leatherbound book. He found that anything pertaining to the gardener’s daughter could never bring him to anger, could never make his heart grow hard, nor his day turn a dull grey. 

“Papa has finished! He has finished the walled garden! You simply must see!” Her voice was like the sweetest honey, her excitement infectious and deeply alluring. He could not refuse the golden-haired girl, even if his life depended upon it. 

He stood, tucking his reading under one arm, allowing the girl to lead the way to the walled garden as they set off at a quick trot. 

Her father’s care had greatly changed the state of the walled garden. The ivy along the reddish brown brick had all been cut away, the staining underneath scrubbed until the surface shone. 

It did not look as if it belonged to the dark house looming in the distance, with its tall, black wrought iron gates and crooked chimneys. The children burst through the garden’s heavy wooden door, the sight beyond their eyes glorious.

No furry light green moss remained along the brick paths; no crawling, withered ivy strangled the inner brick walls. There were no sun-dried, creeping vines, nor desiccated, dead-looking plants crawling along stained stone. Curled, stone fish with round scales and pointed fins spewed bubbling water back into the center of the white marble fountain. Ancient-looking, ivory-colored statues stood stationed about the verdant greenery, as if standing sentry amidst paradise. Thomas eyed in particular a small figure blowing into a series of pipes, the Greek god Pan playing his flute, he vacantly realized. 

However, the best part of the cleaned-up walled garden wasn’t the orderly flowers, nor the flowing fountain, nor the classically-inspired statues, but rather the small gazebo peaking through dense foliage in the corner. A long, wood-backed swing swayed back-and-forth in the slight breeze beneath the oak structure, as if beckoning to Thomas to be the first that dare use it. 

The golden-haired girl latched her arm around his, bringing a surge of pride to his ego, prompting him to lead the pair across the cleared brick path. 

Spring smelled heavenly, Thomas thought, the corner of his lips curled up into a half-smile, taking in the bluebells and the lilacs, the white blossoms not quite yet opened to greet the damp English air. A man dressed in overalls he had not noticed before appeared from behind a small cherry tree, his knees damp, cheeks ruddy. “What do you think, lad?” his voice boomed cheerfully, clapping a large hand against his back. Thomas struggled to hide his discomfort, feet staggering forward. 

“It is fine,” he told the tall man, noting the way his eyes dimmed, shoulders slumping at his restrained approval.

“Fine? Thomas, really,” His companion scolded him in a way that was familiar, eyes rolling while she smiled, teeth sparkling in the sun. “It is excellent, Papa. Extraordinary!” She hugged the man about the waist with a laugh, Thomas frowning at the sudden lack of warmth pressed to his side. 

“I think Father shall be pleased,” he conceded, tone even, though the girl believed she could discern an inkling of hurt masked from his words. 

“Come, Thomas! We shall sit and swing the afternoon away.” His bony chest puffed out when he felt a lanky arm wrap around his, his spine subtly straightening with the warmth of his joy. 

An hour had passed with the two children seated at the gazebo of the walled brick garden, the sunlight now weak, for the glowing orb had become smothered behind mottled grey clouds. Only Thomas pushed the swing, legs idly kicking unrhythmically, the golden-haired girl watching the ruddy-faced man’s back as he pulled weeds from an untouched flowerbed. She sighed, bright eyes shining with the hope of spring.

“Do you truly think your father will like the garden, Thomas?” She asked, head snapping to stare at him, his pale face turning nearly transparent. The young boy bit the inside of his cheek, mind spinning at what he should say, what he could afford to reveal to his dear friend. Thomas tutted, feet finally stilling as he looked away at the bubbling, churning fountain in the distance. 

“My father? One could hardly predict what he might think.” A half-lie, he decided, would be the best way to go. Thomas knew his father would dislike the fountain, dislike the gazebo, dislike the surely exorbitant cost the restoration of the walled garden required. The golden-haired girl’s smile faltered, dimmed eyes alighting on the sight of her kneeling father. “But I hope he does—like it, I mean,” he corrected, translucent cheeks coloring a scarlet red. 

“So do I!” She beamed, face suspended in all the joy, all the hope spring promised for the earth-dwellers.

“Rubbish.” The lanky boy scowled out a towering window, hazel eyes burning at the sight of rain, sleet, rather, for the wetness was mixed with something solid and pellet-like, pommeling the estate’s wide grounds. He closed an opened book before him with a sharp snap, the short echo reverberating off the room’s heaven-reaching walls. The library’s shelves seemed to never end, stretching upward several stories, to the manor’s highest floor. 

Thomas crumpled up the sheet of paper he had been scribbling notes upon, tossing the crinkled ball against the glass window pane, thin face screwing up with raging, fiery anger as the ball ricocheted back, bouncing off his chest and down to the floor. He muttered a foul word below his breath as he crawled beneath the walnut desk just as the squeaky hinge of the massive library squealed open. 

“Thomas! There you are! I thought I might find you here,” the golden-haired girl chuckled, striding over to his desk, bright eyes scanning the title of the insufferable book he had been attempting to read. “Rotten luck, isn’t it?” She nodded at the window, where the grass rippled from the force of the fierce wind, a high-pitched howl escaping into the manor’s draughty walls. 

“Indeed,” he muttered stiffly, although he was not as angry, not as frustrated, as he had been a mere minute ago. 

“The governess ‘s got you reading, has she?” she smirked, eyes glimmering while she teased. Thomas winced.

“Indeed,” he bit out, voice strained. “Father’s increasing my workload. He says I am far, far behind in my studies.” He knew his father’s comment had been a lie—his governess frequently told him he was several paces ahead of all the other boys his age she had worked with. But such complaints were futile when his father had already made up his mind concerning such things.

“That’s rotten,” she consoled her friend, nose scrunching up in distaste. “You’re the cleverest boy I’ve ever met,” she declared, nodding at her statement’s validity. 

“I’m the only boy you’ve ever met,” Thomas grumbled, hazel eyes sparkling at the golden-haired girl’s compliment. She huffed, rolling her eyes with a half-heartedly annoyed smile.

“Must you always be so contrary?” She teased, soft voice as sweet as honey.

“Must you always be so cheerful?” He retorted, hazel eyes darting, panicking, as soon as he realized what he had said, much too quickly. But the girl only laughed. 

“Thomas?” Her voice had grown even quieter, ever more serious. He leaned forward off his chair, gazing up at her with all the sincerity he could muster.

“Yes?”

“What do you wish to do when—when you have grown-up?” He thought he saw her lip wobble, thought he heard her soft, melodic voice tremble with the serious question. The boy hummed, one narrow, thin finger stroking the non-existent hair gracing his pointed chin. 

“I try not to think about it, to be honest,” he murmured, still hunched over in thought. His spine straightened up suddenly, hazel eyes searching the space past her bright ones. “I wanted to be a privateer once—but—but—that’s foolish now,” Thomas whispered, whispered as if he did not even want the walls that scaled the heavens to hear. The golden-haired girl frowned.

“It’s not foolish—there are plenty of privateers in the Channel,” she said solemnly. Thomas snorted. 

“It was a boy’s dream, never a sensible endeavor—besides—” his voice grew pained, “my father says I am to study law.” He puffed his bony chest forward, although the action did not fill him with the confidence, the certainty, it usually did. His friend tilted her head in thought.

“I could’ve been a privateer with you, I think. I know how to tie knots,” she had become quiet, the wind whistling through the old house with a haunting screech. Thomas’s lips quirked up into a smile at her confession, though he knew it was never to be.

“And I know you would be rubbish at law.”

A boy, short in stature, with brunette hair in dire need of a trim, walked across the shriveled brown grass. Hazel eyes, calculating and piercing, watched as puffs of dust rose into the air with every disgruntled, irritable kick his heavy, ankle-high boots gave. He sighed. 

The manor’s estate was nothing but barren landscape, save for a tree twenty-five meters away, its scraggly branches dark and dead-looking. The walled garden had not been tended to in all his seven years of life, the withered ivy vines covering nearly all the mottled brick, scarcely any red-brown rock visible to an outsider. 

He had ventured within the garden before, finding the clearing pitiful and long-neglected. He wondered what had grown in the hard, rocky, unwieldy soil, for no flowers had spread wild along the moss-covered brick paths. The fountain at the garden’s center had fallen into ruin, the white dyed a slate grey, the rock strangled by shrunken, sun-dried vine. Everything appeared brown, dessicated, and dead. 

His curiosity had earned him a harsh scolding by his father upon his return. He found he did not care, for whoever allowed prize-worthy beauty to run to waste? 

The boy walked past the walled garden, his feet carrying him to the place he made his daily pilgrimage to every afternoon. The dark thorn tree stood forlorn and still amidst the frail, tall grass, its spikes pointed. Sharp. Intimidating.

Thomas Turpin did not think the thorn tree scary or threatening. It was all he knew. The only plant that never quite seemed to fully die, though it never looked particularly lively either. He sat, sprawled out below the branches that seemed to crawl across the hazy sky, trying to grasp for the sun’s warm rays, but finding bitter cold in its stead. 

He opened the front cover of a well-combed-through leather-backed book, hazel eyes darting left to right as he read the first chapter. And then the next. And the one that followed. 

The leather slammed closed with a snap, the young boy finally deciding to end his reading early. 

He found the book false. A promise of a life he could never live, and he held that error, that untruth, mightily against the book’s author. There were no quests to be had amidst England’s rolling hills, no room for adventures in the decrepit walled garden, nor in the shabby manor perched atop a lone hill. 

These books he had consumed were full of lies. He was consumed with what he thought was righteous, furious resentment at the fact. 

The sun had nearly set by the time he reached the massive oak front doors of the country estate, ignoring the wrought iron knocker engraved with a cursive “T” to instead turn the heavy handle, its hinges squealing as the oak swung forward. He first noticed a pile of luggage beside the door, its presence immediately throwing him headfirst into a wave of confusion. No family of his lived, save his father. He could not even remember the last time someone had visited the wretched, forgotten estate.

Thomas silently cursed his impeccable focus. How had he not heard the sound of a carriage pulling up the manor’s drive, the crunching of the gravel path under the carriage tires, the incessant braying of the team of horses?

A glance at the stairwell assured him he would not be seen, as he dove into a large chestnut trunk, picking the bronze lock with his pocketknife. The lid hit the trunk behind it with a thud that sent the hall into a melody of echoes. Thomas checked the stairwell once more with an unhidden grimace. 

White tissue filled the top of the case, a smirk absentmindedly crossing his thin lips in his excitement. As he lifted the top sheet, he uncovered a white muslin gown, the stitching immaculate, a matching bonnet lying at the garment’s side. It smelt of wildflowers and honeysuckle, immediately reminding him of spring. Dresses in yellows, blues, and greens lay below the first, each in different fabrics, each even lovelier than the last. The dresses were not large, but belonged to a girl, perhaps one or two years his junior. 

What would she look like? He wondered, hazel eyes falling closed. Was her hair a dark brown, like his own? Were her eyes a piercing hazel and her lips thin, with a cupid’s bow at the top? Or was her hair red, red like the fur of the foxes slinking through the tall meadow grass, mischief filling the animal’s dark eyes? Were her eyes brown or blue? Her smile kind or crooked? 

A door on the landing above clicked open, footsteps tapping across the polished wooden floor. Thomas hurriedly repacked the trunk, rapidly smoothing the white tissue shielding the case’s contents, silently praying the trunk’s owner did not question the broken lock. He scrambled down a hidden servants’ staircase, heart pounding, breath coming in ragged gasps.

When his breath finally stilled, and his heart had reached a respectable rhythm, he walked up the stairwell, pausing to peer around the wall’s slight outcropping. There was a girl beside the heavy oak front doors, standing next to the luggage pile, one of the chestnut trunks missing. Her hair was yellow, a golden yellow, its color stopping his heart for a beat or two. She wore a long dress of linen, the color of bluebells in the spring, and he found he could not turn away.

He pushed away from his hiding place unconsciously, black boots taking him exactly where he needed to be. The girl startled at his sudden appearance, one dainty hand pressed atop her breast, pink lips slightly parted. 

“My name is Thomas,” he told her before the silence could become too oppressive, before the hall felt stifled. He held out one smooth, pale hand, his chest puffed out, nose lifted too high, giving him a rather haughty expression. He did not smile, keeping his thin lips straight in a line, as the girl clasped his hand, bending forward in a hesitant curtsy.

She told the young boy her name, the name that had once belonged to her mother, and her mother too, a hint of pride edging her soft, submissive voice. “I am to live here now,” she spoke, happily, although Thomas thought he saw fear in her posture, in the way her deep blue eyes darted about the manor’s front hall. “My father is a gardener.”

This happens to be a reproduction of a very famous fresco (and a true fresco, pigment applied to wet lime plaster) housed in Pompeii’s Villa of the Mysteries, known as the Dionysiac Frieze. It’s a Second Style painting, dating to roughly mid-1st century BCE. It’s believed to depict a bride’s initiation into the cult of Dionysius/Bacchus, one of the Roman “mystery cults,” so-called because only its members truly know about the happenings within the cult. The cult of Bacchus/Dionysius is not the only known mystery cult, but it is definitely the most infamous. 

Sex was a part of the cult, so it makes sense for this initiation scene to take place in the same scene where Turpin admits to his scandalous porn library, where you could find “everything you ever dreamed of doing with a woman.” (I also find it very interesting that Turpin mentions the Japanese, Siamese, Grecians, and Indians, but doesn’t mention the Romans. I suppose they’re included visually within the scene).

The Dionysiac Frieze in Pompeii is very large, spanning an entire room with only a short break for a window. The colors are bright and well-preserved. The figures nearly take up the entire wall. 

The reproduction in Turpin’s study, in comparison, is smaller and far more muted in color (although the coloring is partly an effect of the film’s chosen aesthetics). The painting is also not a complete reproduction—what is depicted—what the audience sees—is very deliberately chosen. Curated.

As much as I’d like to go through each wall of Turpin’s sitting room, each wall of the Roman fresco individually, that’s not really possible. The reproduction is all over the place, incorporating different scenes from different walls. I think it best to include here what the original room, the original artwork, looked like. (I apologize for the low quality. I found these on Pinterest and had no luck finding a good picture of the wall with the window).

(The wall to the left of the door upon entering. The bride is the first figure on the left with the veil. The mostly nude male with the blue covering is a satyr, though for our purposes, not very important.)

(End of the first wall connecting to the wall opposite the room's entrance. Corner at right is the wall where the frieze is broken by the window. Dionysius/Bacchus reclined at center, the flogging taking place in the corner to our right (his left)).

(The frieze in the corner continued, a close-up. This is before the window break.)

(After the window break, the end of the scene.)

To the left of the doorway in Turpin’s sitting room is shown the end of the Dionysiac Frieze—a seated woman, a server, and a small winged figure. The doorway breaks the scene, and on the right depicts a woman with her back bared, spread across another woman’s lap. To the right of them is a standing woman, her drapery billowing back in a crescent shape, exposing her naked form. 

In the Dionysiac Frieze, a large, female winged figure has her arm lifted, about to strike the kneeling woman. She is believed to be either Nemesis or Nike/Victory. The doorway in Turpin’s study rests where that figure should be in the frieze. Turpin is the first to walk into the scene; our attention is on him, and the position really aligns him with the whipping, winged figure. Even if you know nothing about the subtext of the frieze, the image of him, imposing, confidently walking past a cowering, half-naked woman, is striking. Intimidating. Either way, he is the aggressor. 

I’d also say the inclusion of the scene is an allusion back to Johanna/Mea Culpa in the stage version of the musical, just by virtue of the most in-focus illustration is the woman’s flogging. (I don’t think it works as well in the scene, because we do not associate Turpin with the flogged figure due to the scene’s framing and staging. If we had the Mea Culpa scene in this room—different story). 

The flogging scene is rather out of place next to the doorway, even barring the exclusion of the large winged figure. It technically appears after Dionysius (we’ll get to him), on the opposite wall of the entryway in the Dionysiac Frieze. We should see a veiled bride receiving the reading of the initiation ritual by a nude boy, with other figures standing behind him. That makes the positioning of the flogging scene an undeniable choice by the film’s producers, and everything else in the scene just as purposeful. 

There are two bookcases on the connecting walls that block the naked wall, but there is just the corner of another figure peering through the shelf on the left that suggests the painting continues throughout the entire room. 

As Turpin crosses the room, we get a series of close-ups. There’s a framed painting of a reclining, draped man over what appears to be the dark wood mantle of a fireplace. This is probably Dionysius, who, in the Dionysiac Frieze, is sitting reclined with Ariadne, his human wife. The section depicting Ariadne happens to be ruined in Pompeii, which makes the decision to display Dionysius via a framed painting a bit more logical. Dionysius does not have very much color, unlike in the frieze, and his placement, too, is all off. He is closer to the end of the frieze than he should be, and absent from his neighbors (remember, the flogging happens in the room’s right corner, to frieze Dionysius’ left). 

It’s also significant we’re seeing an image of Dionysius right after the drink—sadly, not wine, but a different type of alcohol, perhaps whiskey—has been poured within the scene. It’s a rather subtle allusion we see in a matter of seconds, and ever so clever.

As Turpin turns, the back wall’s right corner seems to depict a kneeling figure, arms raised, although the image blurs with his movement. In the Dionysiac Frieze, this figure is lifting a purple veil from an empty case, likely needed for some part of the ritual. Like much of the frieze, the specifics of this motif are heavily debated. This figure should be between Dionysius and the flogging scene.

As Turpin faces the bookcase and strokes his fingers along the book’s spines, you can see behind him the figure of a woman, her drapery billowing above her head, one arm lifted over her, the other raised in front of her. In the Dionysiac Frieze, the moving veiled woman should be on the adjacent wall, before the corner (and on the other side of Dionysius). It is significant that in both corners of the Dionysiac Frieze, the figures are each caught in active, moving poses (first this woman, then, Nemesis and/or Nike/Victory). Turpin strikes up the same exact position as the draped woman as he inches and limbers over toward Anthony, one hand against the shelf, the other pointed to the boy. 

Pain. Aching, throbbing, consuming pain pulsed through your feet with each step inching you forward into the dark bedchamber. The molten candlewax had certainly burned straight through to the sensitive flesh of your feet, your slippers and skin both surely ruined. 

Fear. Cool, blistering fear like frost spreading across a frozen, desolate landscape descended deep into your stomach. The white rosettes, like cold tendrils, wrapping about your limbs, keeping you immobile and terrified. 

A shiver shook your spine, whether from apprehension or the frigid, tundra-like temperature the room had suddenly plunged to, eluded your understanding. No glowing red coals winked where the massive fireplace ought to be in the glaring gloom. You suspected all that remained behind the iron grate were burnt, charred bits of wood, mountains of soft, light grey ashes, and the haunted memory of a blazing orange fire fueled by a love that was pure. You doubted such sentiment, such romance, would ever grace the room again.

Longing. Longing, the sort of yearning despair for things that could never, ever be, rather than the kind of ache that grew from the wishful hope for events that could yet transpire, gnawed at your ravaged heart. 

Shaking your head, you turned your mind from its youthful, virginal aspirations instead toward agonizing reality. The night would not be pleasant. Not that any night with the hateful, vengeful, hypocritical man you had been compelled to marry was pleasant, but there were moments when he could be more tolerable, bearable. Where the cold bit more than the sting of longing in the chamber’s blackness. 

You folded the sheer, white nightdress and set the garment within the dark, mahogany wardrobe. There would be no further use for the expensive silk that evening.

Ice. The bedsheets you had sweatily awoken tangled and twisted within felt as if they had turned to ice. You let the blankets lie piled at the end of the bed. They would not be needed until much later, when the first traces of dawn peered through the slightly parted midnight blue curtains. 

With thin, trembling fingers, you reached between your legs, finding the small bundle of nerves resting atop the slit of your sex. You twisted and rubbed the spongy flesh, making sure to keep your breathy moans from spilling, crescendoing out into the hall. 

Of its own accord, your mind turned to thoughts of him, rather than faceless, muscular, masculine figures or the names of the chivalrous characters from your latest silly, romantic story composed by your idle mind. No, your thoughts turned to him because that was what sex, coupling—whatever word you bothered to ascribe to the hidden deed—only occurred with him. 

He had been the one to teach you how to prepare yourself—his large hands held over yours, dwarfing your hand in comparison, guiding you to your secret warmth. He had pushed your index finger into your heat with his own, the lewd, wet, squelching sounds filling the still room as he shifted your joined digits.

You could picture the yellow-toothed smirk he had given above you as he drove finger after finger between your thighs, your pleased cries filling the bedchambers and kindling his lust by the second. 

The memory of your wedding night had been one of the few times you associated a droplet of kindness with him. Now, you considered the deed less of a kindness, and rather, more of a lesson to make the experience less of a burden for himself. 

It was easier to convince himself of his goodness, his fairness, when your cries were not always derived from the pain. 

The brass doorknob creakily turned, steel hinges squealing as the dark wooden door drifted open. Turpin was there, his robed figure a silhouette in the dim light of the hall. His hair, usually well-maintained even in the late evening hours, was thoroughly disheveled. 

Quietly, ever so quietly, you slipped two thin fingers from your loosened sex, wiping the musky slick along the side of one of your porcelain-colored breasts, the twin, rosy buds standing tall in the room’s biting chill.

The heavy, creaking door clicked shut. Turpin dissolved within the inky shadows. All that could be heard were the groaning of the wooden floorboards and your husband’s labored breaths.

Scritch! With a sharp scritching noise, light flickered, breaking the darkness of the night, yet illuminating a whole host of new shadows amidst the drafty bedchamber. 

Turpin lurched away from the rickety wooden nightstand, where the candle’s wavering flame continued to burn. The light was not kind. 

Turpin’s face was all hard edges and deeply carved lines, his hooked nose beak-like in profile. The light flared, his features further visible to you, your limp body still lying upon the unkempt bed, skin broken out into gooseflesh. The welt stood horrific, slashed against one of his high, weathered cheekbones, crimson streams of blood no longer pouring down his face like tears. You could not meet his hazel eyes, though not due to the fear that still pulsed through you. His sockets were cavernous, all you could see was a brief gleam you thought you imagined in the crippling blackness.

He disappeared amongst the shadows momentarily as he prowled to the end of the bed, large hands leaning against the two steepling, spiraled, mahogany bedposts. The burnt red silk covering his shoulders pulled tight as he stretched, white hair catching the meager light. 

He was staring at you. Head bent down, almost reminding you of the times you caught him in prayer, angled toward your unclothed body. Murky eyes feasted on the beauty that even skilled painters and practiced artists failed to master. 

Your naked porcelain body lay before him like a sacrifice, and by God, did he require salvation. 

You breathed out a shaky puff of air, heart throbbing against your ribcage. 

“Look at you,” he chuckled, the sound coarse and grating in the dimly lit room. “Look at you, trained like a proper whore.” The taunt was not unheard by your ear before, not uncommon within the dark chamber. How ironic it was that it was he who trained and commanded you. 

He grasped you about one delicate knee, the grip of his large, meaty hands harsh. He stroked down from the back of your knee and even further to your leanly muscled calves with just his narrow index finger, the touch teasing and ticklish. “It is sinful how wet your cunt has become.” 

Embarrassment. White-hot embarrassment flooded your belly, casting an ugly red flush over your face. Transparent slick oozed from the crevice between your legs, hands at your sides twitching with the need to hide your shame. You buried your trembling palms within the rumpled sheets instead.

Turpin had reached your ankle, rough grip bruising the fragile tendons and scraping against bone, a tutting noise wrenched from the back of his throat as he eyed the white slippers that remained upon your feet. “And yet, even the smartest dogs, the cleverest bitches, do fail on occasion.” Dread crept into the pit of your belly, chest aching at the crooked, positively gleeful smile he wore, teeth a wretched, tawny yellow.

“These ought not be here, wife,” he growled in his low baritone, the sound of his voice like stony gravel. He began to tug at the offending white slipper within his clutches, tongue clicking in dangerous delight when firm resistance met him. 

A yelp. A yelp like a starving, wounded dog kicked into the gutter echoed about the shadowy room. 

A yelp that was all your own. 

“Ahhh,” his eyes sparked like fire catching dry logs ablaze, tone maddeningly cheerful. “God does punish the wicked for her sin,” his voice quivered with self-assurance at your plight, no pretence for pity or mercy crawling through his low timber. “And to think, I thought I must be the one to expunge your crimes, to urge you toward confession.” He waved the black leather whip you had held within your slim fingers not even an hour earlier before tossing the experienced weapon with a thud upon the ground behind him. Turpin returned to examining your trapped foot, smirk still spread across his hardened face like it belonged there. 

Anxiety. Anxiety’s cold tendrils burrowed far below into your narrow frame, latching onto your heart and weak-feeling insides. Deep within your soul, beneath your bare chest, you felt, you knew, the agony of the pain promised to follow would be great.

The judge attempted to peel the snow-white slippers from your feet once more, fingers failing to hesitate when the sheer material gave signs of resistance. He ignored the adamant refusal, ripping back flesh and fabric with an unnatural eagerness. His lips were curled into a satisfied smile, tawny yellow teeth glittering in the inkiness only when your soft, embarrassed cries turned to wet, humiliating wails. 

“Stop! Please, stop!” He did not still, did not remove his powerful, warring hands from you, did not pay your pleading words the slightest scrap of attention except to snarl as he turned his sadistic interest to your opposite foot. 

“Cease your sniveling,” he hissed in your direction, his hazel eyes remaining secreted in their cavernous sockets by the weak candlelight. “This..this is penance, girl,” he growled, tearing the flesh from your heel with a dramatic lack of brevity, breath catching when just whimpers and watery sniffles could be heard at your end of the mattress. “An eye for an eye…” he whispered, voice rough, though not from the seeds of regret.

His cruel figure disappeared into the room’s murky gloom, stalking over to the place where the mantle ought be to vengefully toss your tattered slippers within the fire’s charred remnants. He reemerged at your feet, restraining an ankle with one strong hand and running his cruel, chipped nails across your raw flesh with the other. 

Agony. Sheer agony washed over your battered feet in wave after wave, the sensation unforgivable, unforgettable. It was worse than anything he’d ever done before, worse than the time he’d taken you from behind with only a laughable amount of preparation, the morning after leaving you with throbbing cramps and a limping gait. And he seemed to be gaining a greater level of satisfaction from torture rather than sodomy. 

“You ought to thank me, wife.” He was gone from the end of the bed, your penance blessedly at an end. You could feel liquid leaving the raw, abused flesh of your broken feet, could only imagine the ugly, horrid sight the limbs likely were. You thought the damage irreparable, felt that the intolerable pain must make the damage irreparable. You thought back to the scars marring your husband’s back, scars you had never known existed, the skin dark and raised. You wondered if your feet would look like that, if your feet would forever bear the marks of his cruelty, of his supposed penance. 

“You ought to thank me for the blessed virtue of my patience.” The cupid’s bow of his lips was pursed, a whistle of air extinguishing the candle’s frail light. He was somewhere in the room’s infinite darkness, his breathing heavy, taxed from the exertion of doling out your punishment. 

“You women are all alike, ungrateful for the kindnesses you are granted. You Daughters of Eve, Daughters of the First Sinner, the Temptress. You are lucky I allow you your penance, ever so lucky I lead you to the altar of salvation!” The feather bed dipped with his new weight, your belly digging a hole, a pit of shame, at the ferocity of his rebuke. You had harmed him—you had struck him without meaning to, gifted him a mark he would bear before all upon his judicial bench in hours’ time…and some of the people below him would correctly guess the wicked source of the foul mark. 

Yet, something deeper within your chest stirred, burning at the injustice brimming throughout his chastisement. The horrid red welt upon his face had been an accident—you had admitted as much; he was present, he had watched the event unfold. He had refused your apologies, your penance, your attempts to properly dress the wound, lest it grow infected and further unsightly. 

Then, then he had called this penance. Called the pain a testament to his own, called the pain brought by his own hand the straight, narrow path to your eternal salvation…and that, that felt wrong. Unjust. Unchristian. Untrue. 

But he would call such a rebuke, should you verbally berate him with one, the Work of Satan—the Inheritance of Eve. No, it was better to bite your tongue and indulge his cruel sensibilities rather than provoke further retaliation, further penance forced by the whip. 

He had moved beside you, the heat leaving his wrinkled skin in pulsing waves amidst the frightening cold of the bedchambers, his warmth welcomed, yet the necessity of his presence heartily detested. 

Thickly-haired legs straddled your heavy-feeling porcelain thighs, his swollen hardness, finally unclothed and unsheathed, poked at your stomach, now tingling alight with a whole host of nerves. Turpin pinned your thin wrists above the soft pillows with one hand in one swift, fluid motion, his breath washing about your face with every labored puff, the smell of whiskey intoxicating, permeating the very tense air surrounding your tangled bodies.

There was nothing to see in the room, only the black, empty shadows above you, the place where you knew your husband to reside, the place he was hovering on top of you. 

He entered with no warning.

Dagger. A dagger was what the long, girthy piece of meat stabbing your womanhood felt like, your hidden place having dried and grown tight during his meted, painful penance. His sentences were no longer proper, no longer the careful, measured rhetoric befitting a man of his rank and professed spirituality. Groans, sighs, insults, and praises fell easily from his thin lips. One minute you were a demon, chosen by Satan himself—the next, an angel delivering him from the gloomy sins–his gloomy sins–of the world. 

His cock erratically pumped in and out between your legs, bruising the sensitive flesh in a matter of minutes. Something tore deep within your insides, deep within the walls that weakly attempted to abate his vengeful lust. Liquid trickled out of you, mingling with the earlier slick of your arousal, although you had yet to feel his full, drooping testicles rise and throb. 

Forgetting him would have been easier.

Ignoring—distancing yourself from his complications and long-ago kindness would have let you separate yourself from the stinging in your groin, the sharp pain of his cracked, chipped nails twisting one of your sensitive, erect, budding rosy nipples. Alas, you no longer possessed the strength to take your mind away from him, no longer possessed the fortitude to forget the pleasure he once showed your pliant body with his hands.

Words were untenable for your thin, chapped lips to produce. The pain had broken coherent thoughts, leaving only whimpers, sobs, and whines in its continued presence. Your feet ached, wetness traveling across the broken skin’s lines and cracks. Everywhere ached. Everywhere remembered him.

He was close. Ever so close to the salvation he chased.

Words were nearly impossible for him, his deep, steadfast baritone now all heaving, tremulous gasps. He had reached the point where the insults, the scoldings, had ceased, the praises short and blasphemous—panted with only cloudy conviction. His softly-furred chest brushed against the mountainous pillows of your breast, sweat grossly sticking to his skin—a testament to his one-sided quest for heavenly release.

You longed for the end—his cock punishing–your earlier pleasure teased with your thin fingers a faraway dream–a memory painted with unrestrainable yearning. He was twitching, deep voice an octave higher in pitch, bone-crushing grip against your wrists loosening into something far more respectable. But not tender, never tender, any more.

His balls drew up to his core, hips stuttering in the rhythm of their familiar, practiced thrusts. He rode you to orgasm, labored breath whispering against the small wisps of your hair, commanding body finally relaxing in his coerced pleasure. 

He did not speak.

He did not remove himself from your womb.

He released the straining grasp he had maintained of your wrists, arms wrapping around your middle the way one might hold a lover. A way, a touch, that felt untrue, false, coming from him.

Hot seed spilled onto the tousled sheets. His whiskers scratched at the bare, sensitive flesh of your neck. The congealed blood-covered welt brushed against your hair, the wound freshly opened and wet in the quiet chamber’s coldness.