Lonely Twilight

In my 20s | sideblog for posting fanfiction

[lonelytwilightwrites]

✨Obligatory Pinned Post!✨

Hello everyone! I'm LonelyTwilight, a 20-something-year-old fanfiction writer. I started this blog to post my work and find community. Thank you for stopping by! <3

Asks & Requests ✏️: Please send me fic requests or questions of any kind through the ask button!! I love being sent things!! See below the break for my fic request instructions and full fandom list.

🪚Masterlist Under Construction🦺

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!

Ask away, lovelies!!!<3

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Summer Rickation 2026 Schedule🏖️

Hey everyone, I'm posting my tentative character lineup for this year's Summer Rickation!!! I'm sorry I haven't been posting as much----I'm hoping to get back to writing more consistently this month. I have a P. L. fic I'm finishing up, then I will be tackling a couple of requests and the drafts for Rickation. I've had a bunch of crazy family stuff come up in the past few weeks, some fun, some very much not, lol.

Day 1: The Palm Tree’s Sway - Alexander Dane

Day 2: High Tide, Low Spirits - Alex Hughes

Day 3: Buried Treasure - David Friedman

Day 4: Coconut Cabana - Hans Gruber

Day 5: Heat Stroke - Frank Benson

Day 6: Island Song - Sheriff of Nottingham

Day 7: Message in a Bottle - Judge Turpin

Day 8: Beachcomber’s Paradise - Colonel Brandon

Day 9: Look to the Lighthouse - Harry (Love Actually)

Day 10: A Walk Down the Pier - P. L. O’Hara

Day 11: In the Shade - Eli Michaelson

Day 12: Swimsuit - Lionel Shabandar

Day 13: The Sand Between His Toes - Severus Snape

Day 14: Sex on the Beach - Sinclair Bryant

Less than three weeks away, everyone!! I can't wait!!!<3<3<3

[lonelytwilightwrites]

After the interest everyone showed in the Ed drabble in AR Characters Fav Toys Part 3, I’ve decided to switch Harry’s day with Ed. I’ll see you all very soon…

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Announcing: A Brand New Event!... It's Summer Rickation!!! 🏖️

Hello, Lovelies!! I'm sorry it's been a while since I've posted. After writing for this past year's Rickmas event, I was inspired to come up with a fun idea for the summer---Summer Rickation! The event is fourteen days, running from July 26th-August 8th. The tags are "Summer Rickation 2026" and "Rickation 2026." A huge shout-out to @deepperplexity for helping brainstorm name ideas and lending me a surge of courage to post! This year's theme is "At the Beach," the prompts are as follows:

Day 1: The Palm Tree's Sway

Day 2: High Tide, Low Spirits

Day 3: Buried Treasure

Day 4: Coconut Cabana

Day 5: Heat Stroke

Day 6: Island Song

Day 7: Message in a Bottle

Day 8: Beachcomber's Paradise

Day 9: Look to the Lighthouse

Day 10: A Walk Down the Pier

Day 11: In the Shade

Day 12: Swimsuit

Day 13: The Sand Between His Toes

Day 14: Sex on the Beach (a mixed drink, but also an invitation to write something spicier, *wink* *wink*).

Please reblog in order to reach more writers and fellow Rickmaniacs! <3 Let me know if you would like to be tagged for future events, and please have fun writing! Thanks, everyone, and see you at the end of July! <3<3<3

[deepperplexity]

IIIIH!!! HOW EXCITING!!! I love that you used Rickation! It's such a great name for it and love the prompts you settled for!

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Awww, thanks! I’m so thankful for your help, and I’m looking forward to writing the prompts and seeing what everyone else does with them too!!!💚😎🏖️

[deepperplexity]

Time ran away, I don't even have the first prompt ready yet, and we're going dry-cabin camping tomorrow for the whole weekend.

Frikkin shite

Remember to get ready for Rickation - or ready yourself to see me scramble, as usual, at least!

[lonelytwilightwrites]

No worries, friend! Late submissions are always ok! ☺️

I hope you have so much fun camping!

Day 1 of Rickation starts this Sunday… I hope to see everyone there!

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Hi! I love how descriptive your smut is, especially when describing the Rickman characters'... assets, ahehe. I love it when the descriptions get deep into how'd they look and react to the Reader's touch. Absolutely delicious!

I would love to see more Lionel works! I have a feeling he'd have a thing for legacies, hence, a breeding or impregnation kink. Hell, knowing how prideful he is, I bet he'd also have a ball worship kink. I would so, so love to see you write with these ideas in mind. 👉🏻👈🏻

Author's Note: Aww, I'm so glad you enjoy my smut! (I particularly relish describing the Rickman characters'...assets). Sometimes it is difficult keeping smut new and not falling deep into repetitive pits---there are only so many synonyms one can cycle through, lol. Thank you for reading my works!

We'll see more of Lionel during Rickation, don't you worry! Yes, he does strike me as the type who would very much desire an heir, and therefore be into both breeding/impregnation kinks and even ball worship kink. I hope you like what I came up with!

This is the last of my requests in my inbox. From now on, I will be working on Rickation drafts. If you have a request, feel free to send it in; just know it likely will not be answered until mid-August at the earliest.

His Nightly Vow 🌙

Summary: Each night, Lionel promises to fill you with his future heir. Tonight, his promise seems----different, somehow. Heavier. More emphatic. Perhaps this night is the moment that his promise is made true.

Character(s): Lionel Shabandar x Female Reader

Warning(s)‼️: Pregnancy/Breeding Kink. Ball Worship Kink. Oral Sex. PIV Sex.

Word Count: 1.9k

Read on AO3 or below the break:

Lionel Shabandar sighed, the day’s chaos finally at an end. The backseat of his limousine felt lonely. Vacant. Abandoned. You were missing from his side, a fact imprinted on his mind all throughout the party’s lukewarm festivities. 

His feet ached—toes uncomfortably pressed against the sides of his rigid black Oxfords. It took him everything in his power not to unlace and free his tender soles from their imprisonment. Lionel groaned, idly scrolling through open tabs on his phone, his interest wavering. A text from you fluttered across the screen, a slight smirk raising the corner of his lips. 

“Bedroom in five?”

Yes, he was certainly amenable to that. 

“Darling.” He dramatically lifted your hand to his lips, making a show of kissing you—like a prince from a long-forgotten fairytale. Your heart stuttered at Lionel’s dramatic entrance, the brisk English night breeze unrelenting, tangling your hair. Lionel seemed untouched; not a lock of white hair seemed out of place—whether due to luck or the expensive, excessive amount of product he used, you did not know, did not bother to guess. 

“I could take you,” he pressed you up against the stone railing of the balcony, grip tight around your hips, “I could take you right here, right now, only the stars and the slumbering sheep, my witness.” His breath was warm on your ear, heat creeping up to your cheeks, skin ablaze with the kindling of pure, persistent, romantic arousal. 

Lionel slipped a hand up your nightdress, exploring the seam of your panties, moaning when he discovered they were crotchless. “You left me—cruelly left me, to deal with that miserable lot,” his cock leapt at the discovery of the wetness coating your exposed slit, and he suddenly felt light-headed at the thought of what was to come. 

“You managed,” you sarcastically answered, an even check to Lionel’s theatrics, for there was no malice coating his accusing words. 

“Barely,” he pressed a finger into your folds, teasing his way through your dampness, a hiss that was your own breaking the night’s silence at his plundering of your pleasure center. He mercilessly stirred his index finger in circles around the small nub, your nerves alight with something like fire, something like magma. And those nerves continued to both build and burn with a fury unmatched. 

Lionel’s head rested against your shoulder, heavily, thin lips sloppily kissing your neck, peppered with the occasional groan. His cock pressed against your bum through his trousers—-unabashedly aroused, as prideful as the man attached to the stiff organ. 

“I’m going to fuck our child into you tonight, darling,” he softly growled into your flesh, each syllable percussive. Meaningful. Tickling your neck, causing you to shiver in the crisp air. “I can feel it,” Lionel murmured, baritone voice like steel. Your stomach flopped, core feeling as if it would combust with Lionel’s threat revealed, alongside his insistent touch. 

“You say that every night, dearest,” you muttered, despite wanting the promise to come true. Real. 

“That doesn’t mean I don’t mean it every fucking time.” 

The next few moments were an incoherent blur—Lionel harshly dragging you by the wrist to the bed in his lustful enthusiasm, pushing you down onto the mountainous pile of pillows near the headboard. The lights in the room were all extinguished; the stars and crescent moon the only source of illumination, the only witnesses as Lionel began to fulfill his vow.

He didn’t bother to undress all the way—-only ditching his trousers and Oxfords—climbing onto the bed like a man possessed, his designer suit jacket doing nothing to hide the sizable bulge threatening to escape from his plain black briefs. Lionel’s knees straddled your middle, underwear that left virtually nothing to the imagination inches from your face. The air was frigid, yet brimming with unfulfilled sexual tension. 

“Kiss the cock—-kiss the bollocks of the man who will make you a mother.” His command whipped at something buried deep inside—something instinctual tugging at your chest—that desire to leave something lasting in the world. That primal urge overtook your senses that night. You lifted Lionel’s waistband away from his body, all eight inches of his erection springing free—casting an imposing shadow onto the bedroom wall. His testicles hung low, the full sack nearly double the size of your hand, the soft orbs lightly bouncing in place. 

You worshipped the man’s balls first—lapping at the sagging flesh, suckling on each plum, each small melon, really, with overwhelming devotion. Lionel grounded out an unsteady, “Fuck,” the headboard shuddering from his tight grip on either side of your body. You felt each orb pulse around your lips, suddenly struck with the notion that this is where the cum that would soon paint your insides, hopefully soon plant the seed for a child to grow, currently lay—-safely nestled against the tip of your tongue. It was intimate in a way Lionel seldom allowed himself to be—for there was little time in his nook of the world for vulnerability and sentimentality to coexist beside the table of business. 

His erection sat plastered across your forward, precum drooling from the large slit at the head, sliding down your cheek like teardrops. You finally released his heavy bollocks, gasping for breath that was soon interrupted by his spongy tip working past your lips, battling your tongue for claim—for dominance—-of your mouth. His pre was thick today, and particularly salty, yet the stream’s continual flow never ebbed, never subsided. 

Lionel growled animalistically, hips thrusting himself down your throat, balls slamming into your chin. You had forgotten just how big he was as you adjusted to the large intrusion encroaching along the walls of your windpipe. Breath was hard to acquire, your nostrils pressed up against Lionel’s elegantly trimmed bush—the air you took in a thick musk—and purely him. 

Lionel grew impatient, his pelvis shallowly stuttering, ever-so inching him forward and falling back, in-and-out of your wet warmth. You moaned, feeling his length twitch against you, feeling the vein that crawled down the side of his shaft throb. It was almost as teasing as your throat was for Lionel. Almost. 

Anticipation for what was to come began to build in the air as soon as Lionel’s shaft was halfway departing from your bruised lips, a string mixed of salty precum and your own saliva stretching before the connection ultimately broke, the viscous string hanging from your chin in midair. Lionel wiped the string away with the cuff of his jacket, the cufflink like ice upon your heated skin. He smirked, but the cruelty—the cruelty he only reserved for those indebted to him and those who intended to bog him in a flurry of frivolous lawsuits—that cruelty was absent. A smile slipped onto your lips, Lionel’s careful fingers still tenderly stroking along your cheeks, pausing to tuck an errant lock of hair behind your ear. 

“Ready for me to make you a mother?” Your face reddened, like your favorite shade of lipstick.

“God, yes.”

“Hold up your nightgown—Daddy would hate to make a mess.” 

The soft, thin fabric of your gown lay safely grasped in your trembling hands, the white-ruffled hem tucked in several rolls of gathered material. Lionel roughly pulled down your panties, the lace tearing in his eagerness. “Lionel! Those are my best pair!” The man looming above you, idling pumping his hefty cock one-handed, only bemusedly tutted.

“I’ll purchase you one in every color if it means I get to fuck you right at my desk, at my leisure.” The threat sent a rapid chill down your spine—-the thought of Lionel having you at his massive office desk, inside his massive office made entirely of massive glass panel windows only made the arousal in your stomach soar, your folds covered in a thick coat of your slickness. 

Lionel lined himself up with your entrance, plunging inside with ease, the torn panties uselessly dangling from your ankles in his hastiness. He met you for a kiss, his tongue tackling yours with expert ease, the taste of his salty precum making the vein running down his shaft throb. You broke apart, panting for oxygen, Lionel’s stubble scratchy against your cheeks. “I’m going to fuck my heir into you,” he spoke matter-of-fact, hazel eyes piercing, the large palm of his hand hot upon your uncovered belly. “And I want to stand beside my wife at every party, at every press conference, her pregnant belly obvious—I want all the hawks eyeing my accounts to know that child is mine, and my child’ll receive everything they’ve only ever fantasized of owning.” 

Lionel had made his earnest desire for an heir known to you for years, but this was the most desperate, the most raw, he had ever sounded to your naked ears. This was a man who knew time was piling up against him—the deck was stacked—the buzzer would be quick to blare. Fire burned across his eyes, his promise to ensure his child’s future, even at the expense—the final revenge of his enemies—brought a wave of emotion crashing into your taut heartstrings. What could you say to his plea of desperation? To the intensity of emotion that screamed directly at you through steely hazel eyes. “Please, fuck me, Lionel.”

Lionel pursued your lips—your tongue—once more, beginning to rock his hips, the pressure building in your core returning full force. He pressed tender little kisses all along your neckline, his thrusts finding a steady rhythm, if demanding. His eight-inches were consistently hitting the back of your walls every time—heavy balls landing hard against your soaked entrance every time. The fire in your belly leapt as the pad of his thick forefinger found your clit, working the button in circles, knowing just where to touch every time.

Lionel knew he would not be lasting much longer—his bollocks were beginning to draw up close to his body—the tension in his chest, in his stomach, reaching the point where it felt as if it would snap. “I’m going to cum,” he growled, his baritone coarse, like gravel—the smooth, businessman-like tone vanquished. Still, his efforts did not cease, his cockhead landing deep with every consistent thrust.

You pressed a kiss alongside his temple. “Then cum.” 

His control snapped—his hips reckless and frantic, two fingers feverishly working your clit. Orgasm hit you like a runaway train—hard, fast, and unexpected—the contracting of your walls encouraging Lionel to finally spill. He sheathed himself to the hilt with a sharp cry, balls nearly joining his cock inside, the tip snug against your womb, spewing an ongoing torrent of hot, white cum. Lionel moaned into your neck, hips shifting, his erection angled deeper, balls pulsing with each jet of semen. It felt like more than he had ever released before, a vindication of his desperation. 

The aftershocks of pleasure from your own orgasm continued, gradually growing softer with each wave, your belly still tingling from the good, fluttery feeling. Lionel sweatily huffed into your neck, cock falling limp within you, body going slack from sheer exhaustion. “Fuck,” he moaned, the palm of his hand cradling your stomach for a second time that evening. He fell against you, wordless, for once in his life, his soft snores teasing the little curls of hair draped across your neck. 

Whether it was Lionel’s efforts that evening, or in previous or future evenings, or even during his escapades during the daytime, it was to your combined great, relieving joy, when one morning, your pregnancy test turned out positive. As did the next, and the three after that, for good measure. It was the happiest you had ever seen your husband—his hard eyes sparkling like starlight, his smile neither forced nor cruel. Lionel’s vow was finally fulfilled, each evening during your pregnancy accompanied by future promises made under the moonlight, namely, the promise to try again when all was over, to try for a little girl. And whatever Lionel Shabandar promised, he saw to utter completion.

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Alan Rickman Characters & Their Favorite Toys---Part Three

Author's Note: I received an ask on AO3 for Ed and Colonel Brandon. I added a few more in this batch! Also, to the anon who sent me a Lionel request, I am currently working on the draft!

👉Part One and Part Two

Character(s): Ed the Painter x Female Reader, Colonel Brandon x Reader, Alexander Dane x Female Reader, David Weinberg, and Harry (Love Actually).

Warning(s)‼️: Given under each individual drabble

Word Count: 2.4k

Read on AO3 or below the break:

Ed the Painter - His Brushes 

Warning(s)‼️ - Sensation Play. Breast Play. Self-Doubt/Body Negativity (But Ed Comforts Reader!)

Author’s Note: Full confession: I’ve never watched all of January Man before. I rented it once, and although Alan’s absolutely adorable, I had trouble making it all the way through out of sheer boredom. I’m hoping to fix an issue with my library card so I can re-borrow the film soon and watch the rest of the way!

Water slowly drained down the dingy apartment sink, liquid shimmering from grey to crystal clear. Ed’s most recent masterpiece was now complete, a perfect rendition of his beautiful, unclothed Muse, her legs parted, entrance nearly void of hair save for a small dark strip. He smiled, chuckling softly to himself.

“May I move, yet?” Your voice startled him from his thoughts, and he cleared his throat.

“Certainly. I shall show you.” He lifted the heavy canvas from the easel, careful not to smudge any of your…details, his hand subtly shaking.

“It’s—”

“---Beautiful, yes, I know.” He smirked, satisfied and proud of his new creation. 

“My breasts are lopsided!” This was not what he had expected, what he predicted you might say. He squinted at the painting, but not a detail seemed ill-constructed. 

“I do not think so,” his deep baritone had grown sensual, soothing. “I believe I captured your assets…rather perfectly.” His eyes dipped to your chest then to the painting and up back to your face. 

“You mean, you think my boobs are ugly and lopsided.” Ed wrinkled his nose.

“I think, you ought stop placing idle words into my mouth.” He took one of his unused brushes, the tip fluffy and wide. “I think your boobs have character,” you gasped as he dragged the brush’s point along the undercurve of your left breast, trailing up the middle and stopping at the tan areola, inches from the rosy nipple. Your lower folds grew slick, beginning to pool around your thighs. 

“And I, the artist, seek to capture that character,” he avoided the nub, passing the brush in an arc around the tan ring, lifting only to return to your breast’s center, ghosting the soft bristles across your raised pebble. “And I believe I have succeeded, for I have never beheld breasts as wonderful as these.” 

Colonel Brandon - Your Writings

Warning(s)‼️ - Male Pining. Innuendo. 

Author’s Note: Brandon’s drabble changed last minute, and yes, I am fully aware writing isn’t a type of toy…I’ve had to expand what’s permissible because one, they’re aren’t nearly enough different toys for all of AR’s characters, and two, most modern toys are not applicable to the historical characters. I originally planned to write “dry humping” as Brandon’s theme, and while I still think this is something the character would enjoy, I ended up liking this version better. Much of Sense and Sensibility, the novel, is told through letters, after all.

“To my beloved Christopher,” the letters neatly scrawled together across the front of each and every missive he received in the post from you, the contents leaving his heart pounding and another member of his anatomy…affected. 

Each letter began with your usual inquiries—-how was he faring? Had he returned from London? Did he read the novel included in this last postage? (The letter you sent directly attached to the parcel’s cover). 

Then, the letters would turn to the budding romance building between the two of you. His mounting arousal had been craftily labeled his “affliction,” for which you often suggested questionable remedies. A warm bath. A night alone, in bed beside a pillow stuffed with the softest downy feathers. This newest suggestion from your latest correspondence stating that perhaps you ought visit him and attempt to cure him of his “affliction” with a new medication.

And he had dutifully followed each instruction, the bath and night alone both leaving him lonely and wanting. Using his own hand hurled shame deep within his soul, while the pillow sent embarrassment deep within his gut, for surely his laundress would guess the unruly stain’s source.

But this promise of a visit warmed his heart, his quill already coated with a layer of black ink, paper already neatly addressed. 

“To my dearest, Y/N.” The quill scratched a few lines below, “I find myself in dire need of this newly prescribed medication—my affliction grows wanting of alleviation, I am hard-pressed daily for a cure. If you are amenable, perhaps you might visit the Friday after the next? I am in great need, and thank you for your generosity.” Brandon signed the note, his heart hammering against his rib cage, threatening to break. The prospect of his eyes meeting yours, and his “affliction” dealt with lightened his chest, his trousers suddenly tight. 

He could surely wait until the Friday after next. Could he not?

Alexander Dane - Your Panties

Warning(s)‼️ - Perversion/Non-Con Elements (No Rape/Violence). Lingerie. Jealousy.

Author’s Note: I had a difficult time with Alexander. I think around Jason, he’d be rather insecure about his looks/abilities in the bedroom, which can turn into jealousy and/or envy and a whole host of other issues. Anyway, I made him a little more problematic than I would have liked.

Alexander wiped at his tired, lined face, the previous night an alcohol-induced blur. Nothing in his life felt stable or secure any longer—each gig came more infrequently than the last, his saving grace Jason Nesmith’s ability to land Galaxy Quest cons and events. 

Alexander made to make the bed, halting when material that did not feel like flannel sheets came into contact with his palm. Lace. That did not compute, did not make sense, as he pulled the fabric away from the covers. Panties. Pitch-black with bright pink lace along the seams met his eyes—definitely not his. And what was he to do with them?

That girl had left him—used him as a one night stand, an experiment, an evening so she could brag to her friends that she had fucked a tv star, even one as washed-up as himself. He did not entertain the idea of contacting the idiot girl—but the thought of tossing away the clothing with the rest of his rubbish did not sit well with him. He threw the underwear in a box under his bed, vowing to think about the matter in a moment where he was actually sober.

Alexander eyed your small duffle, heart pounding against his rib cage. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was technically stealing, but dammit, it was nice having a reminder. He actually liked you, wasn’t prepared to watch you leave and forever exit his sad, pathetic, downward spiraling life. 

What had begun as an accident years ago turned into a messy pattern of behavior. Beneath his bed, Alex had acquired quite the collection of women’s underwear. It wasn’t—they were not his own, nor did he wear them. The box remained a broken reminder that he was desired—sexually wanted—at least at one time. Proof that even though he was not the sex god that was Jason Nesmith, he was not unloveable, not inexperienced.

The shower kicked on, a steady torrent of water emptying into the noisy drain. He saw his chance, hand diving into the duffle to grasp the soiled garment, starting to stuff the panties under his bed. The bathroom door swung open, and you appeared, draped in nothing but a ragged towel. “Alex, do you know wha—” 

He was frozen, eyes comically large, hand halfway to the floorboards, the panties obviously dangling from his grip. “I–” He wanted to justify himself, but there was nothing that could be said to justify the scene you had stumbled upon. You were going to think him a fetishist, a homosexual, a—-

“Alex.” His name interrupted his incessant internal rambling, he allowed your hand to take the lacy satin garment out of his loose grip, all while watching the scene from far away, as if he were in a movie. As if this were not real life. 

“Why were you stealing my thong, Alex?” You asked him evenly, the look in your eyes indiscernible. 

“Proof,” was the only word Alexander could defeatedly mumble aloud, the shame bubbling at the pit of his stomach, threatening to overflow. 

“To remember me by?” He nodded meekly, hoping the conversation would not dip into the heavy box resting below him. “Then keep them,” your hand returned the light lace, patting his trembling knee, “but I expect to hear of their use during your…private moments.” You stared meaningfully at his crotch, and his face turned beet red.

The next day, Alexander did what he had needed to do for years. The hefty box beneath his bedframe landed in the dumpster outside his apartment door without a second look at its contents. His girlfriend’s panties hung from his bedpost, a gift, and an everpresent reminder that he was not without love in his life.

And that alone made Alexander Dane happier that his name was not Jason Nesmith.

David Weinberg - Dildo

Warning(s)‼️ - Sex Shop. Sex Toys/Dildo. Porn/Porn Magazines. Internalized Homophobia (tagging just in case!).

Author’s Note: I’m experimenting with this character a bit. Let me know if you’d like to see more of David!

New York City. Business had brought experienced lawyer David Weinberg to New York City, and he was none too thrilled to return home to the New Jersey suburbs, home to his wife. His marriage had long ago landed in rocky ground, so much so that they were nearing a cliff, a rigid precipice, and he did not know what lay at the bottom. 

David found himself walking down a narrow street, far removed from the reputable businesses and the high-end shops he normally enjoyed passing by. A shop came into view, the front window displaying several manakins dressed in skimpy women’s lingerie. Not a second was spared wondering what Alexis would look like adorned in the transparent lace.

A bell chimed from somewhere above his head as he took in the store’s wares, eyes idly skimming the covers of lewd magazines that progressively grew more fetishistic as he strode forward. The women had disappeared, the covers now showing nearly naked men—their bodies heavily muscled and bulky, or lean and slightly toned. He found himself interested in the latter, a particular cover catching his eye—a dark-haired boy in his late twenties, only his hand splayed out to hide his genitalia, smirking at the reader as if daring him to open the issue. 

David found himself opening the magazine, flipping through page after page of naked males—bent over, facing him head on, laying spread-eagled on luxurious beds—-all playing with themselves, small-to-average sized penises in varying states of arousal, each of the boy’s expressions clearly lost in pure, undiluted pleasure. 

It was not until he reached a full spread page of a bulkier man standing behind one of the thinner boys that he realized what he was actually reading. This was a gay magazine, a magazine for men who loved other men—but he—but he was married to a woman. And that thought made his heart clench, his insides feel sick and weak, for what did this all mean?

Where did he go from here?

He did not replace the magazine back onto the stand, but continued with the booklet clutched tightly to his chest, thankful no one else was perusing the aisles to witness the tenting of his trousers. He came to a stop when the men’s magazines ended, and a wall of—of cocks—met his gaze. 

There were faux dicks of every size, shape, color, and texture, his imagination taking him to what it might be like to purchase one of them. He eyed one of the larger models, wincing when he imagined the thick head entering his—

He picked up a smaller toy, the color similar to his own flesh, trepidation making his insides flop. He left the story with his magazine, the dildo, and a small bottle of lube, the tentacles of shame looping around his chest with a sudden fierceness.

David felt like an idiot that night in his hotel. An idiot who’s arsehole was dripping clear lubricant, holding a small cock that was liberally lined with the same fluid, squatting in the middle of the tiled bathroom floor. The bubbling self-hatred ended when the toy entered him, the stretch painful until it was not, his legs turning into jelly, stars swirling in his vision when the fake silicone balls touched his ring. 

And David knew this would not be a one-off. This had the makings of something that would end horribly, terribly wrong.

Harry (Love Actually) - Porn

Warning(s)‼️ - Porn. Male Masturbation. 

Author’s Note: Funnily enough, I nearly made Ed’s drabble center around porn and/or making porn, but ultimately decided against it ( I still very much believe Ed would try his hand at home-made videos). Harry’s a bit basic, and the insinuation here is that porn fueled his latent sexual desires, leading him to his infamous affair as seen in the film. 

Alone. That was how Harry found himself that evening, alone in bed, his wife and kids gone to visit Karen’s parents. The house was awfully quiet, and Harry found himself wishing for his wife’s presence at his side, her heat pressed against him as it always was—steadfast. 

But that would not be happening that night, he scolded himself. Sleep eluded him, his cock weakly stirring against the thin fabric of his boxers, demanding attention. Harry reached for his laptop from the edge of the nightstand, booting the device up, fully intending on catching up on his inbox. 

But that was not what he found himself typing. 

He knew a certain, unscrupulous world existed beyond the corners of the internet he was accustomed to traversing, the daring in his heart urging him to search for a particular website he had overheard his wife mention that her sister had caught her husband wandering on. 

The website popped up, the front page all nude women in various states of pleasure, and Harry found he could not turn away from their beauty. 

He clicked on a video, his sound low, but quite efficient, as he witnessed an attractive woman strip, her large breasts loosely dangling, her moans intoxicating as she began to pleasure herself with her own hand. Harry gripped himself beneath his boxers, penis now fully interested, all thought of his wife well abandoned. He groaned, balls embarrassingly already tight, ejaculating as the woman screamed in pleasure. 

His high evaporated quickly, his thick cum cooling uncomfortably in his pants. He scrolled under the video, a number of other films from the same woman queued up, a click echoing off the room’s dull walls. Harry’s cock interestedly twitched, already eager once more, and he knew he would end the night well-satisfied. At least, his penis would.

[lonelytwilightwrites]

i hope you've been doing well lately 💜

a while back i started imagining frank reaching release from humping y/n’s thighs and now i can’t get it out of my head lol

maybe it's now y/n's birthday and her wish is to have some more fun with frank 👀

can’t wait to see what you do with this prompt!!

Hiya again. I'm doing ok at the moment, sifting through requests before I begin tackling drafts for Rickation. I'm so sorry this took so long to write, but I hope Frank's release is well worth the wait! <3

👉Chapter One and Chapter Two of Operation: Best Birthday Ever!🎉

Chapter Three: Her Birthday Wish🎉

Summary: A few months after Frank's birthday, neither one of you can stop thinking about the experience. Frank longs to relinquish control to you, and you long to witness the stiff general lose himself to further pleasure brought by your hand...or rather, your leg.

Character(s): Frank Benson x Female Reader

Warning(s)‼️: Smut. Oral Sex. Dry Humping/Humping. Collar and Leash. Sex Toys.

Word Count: 3.5k

Read on AO3 or below the break:

A grizzled, overweight man lifted the thin piece of paper upward, and a new image of a picturesque waterfall somewhere in Wales met his hazel eyes, a new set of boxes appearing below. Frank Benson tutted beneath his breath at two words hastily scrawled in black cursive lettering not belonging to himself, two words that immediately sent his mind spiraling.

Y/N’s Birthday…

“Y/N’s Birthday,” he quietly murmured into the empty kitchen’s dim light, thick brows drawn in tension. Only months before, you, his darling wife, had given him a night of steamy sex he went to bed the next night longingly dreaming of, wanting his birthday to come soon for the first time in decades. And he hadn’t been in control…

That was the strange part—his submission had not felt awkward or painfully forced, despite his initial reluctance. It had felt pleasant—like a warm, freshly baked cookie or a soothing massage after weeks stuck in office meetings and strategy sessions. Frank had regained his position as leader, stalwart commander, in the bedroom, the experiment that occurred on his birthday never repeated since then. 

The lieutenant general walked away from the wall calendar, one hand subconsciously fiddling with the wrist of his tight-fitting, military-issued shirtsleeve, the garage door slamming shut in his wake…

“Wake up, dearest,” a familiar, gravelly baritone grumbled from beside your ear, recognition slowly reaching your senses. “Happy birthday.” A weight settled on top of you, over the bedspread, the smell of newly cooked eggs and slightly burnt toast wafting to your nose.

“Frank,” you irritably groused, fumbling with the bedsheets, squinting in the darkened room as another light from the corner infiltrated the space. Your eyes snapped shut with a groan. “Frank, you know I don’t eat breakfast before six.” Frank playfully scoffed from somewhere above.

“Honestly, woman, can’t a man be romantic every now and then! If you’re not going to eat, then I damn sure will!” He snatched a slice of toast, grunting as you swatted his thick fingers away from the remainder of the tray.

“Fine! I’ll eat it!” came your shout through a mouthful of warm egg. Frank rolled his eyes heavenward. “Happy! When you said you were going to surprise me this morning, I thought you meant something more,” you paused. “Carnal.” Frank snorted around his toast, a smirk growing upon his thin lips.

“Oh, that can still be arranged,” he scooted beside you near the headboard, thickly haired hand slipping under the covers. 

“Frank! You have work in thirty minutes!”

“Well, I certainly won’t be able to find a pair of cheaply-made handcuffs for twenty quid on such short notice.” That earned the silly man a hearty smack that heavily connected with his thick thigh, the flesh jiggling through a layer of fabric. Frank laughed, the kind that encouraged an entire room to join, his deep voice raucous and throaty. “Huughn,” Frank’s laughter came to an end, his hand gripping your inner thigh, steadying, promising. “So, no handcuffs, then.” You snorted, Frank’s mischievous smirk endearing. “Anything else my darling wife desires for her birthday night?”

Whether it was a flicker of the lamplight or something shifting in your eyes, for some reason, Frank was able to sniff out your hesitation at that early hour. “No, Frank,” you stared past your husband’s white-haired head, not meeting his concerned hazel eyes. 

“There’s something else, isn’t there, sweetheart? Something you want for tonight?” He reassuringly rubbed his large thumb in small circles along your thigh, leaning forward to press a fluttering flurry of kisses upon your unkempt, bedraggled hair. “Tell ol’ Frank what’s the matter.”

Your breath remained captured by some entity deep down the back of your throat, Frank’s worry agonizingly soft and relentlessly touching. “Frank,” you mumbled, the irritation absent, only the pure exhaustion remaining.

“It’s not something I can purchase, is it, love?” The urge to curl up in a small ball beneath the covers, never to emerge from hiding again, swelled inside your belly, Frank’s hand on your leg keeping you grounded and present. You shook your head, tangled locks swishing, cheeks suddenly scarlet with shame. “You were thinking of my birthday, darling. Weren’t you?” You wished he were not so observant, not nearly so intelligent or knowing as the man he had come to be. The man’s question earned a miniscule nod, but you still could not meet his pursuing eyes.

“You want to–-to do something like that tonight, don’t you? Where I’m—Where I’m at your disposal.” A pause spread a breath of silence about the room. Frank swallowed. “Where I’m at your command.” 

“Yes.” You bit your bottom lip, that feeling of shame traveling down your limbs, trembling along your spine, causing your belly to somersault. “I’ve—I’ve thought about it a lot in the past weeks—months. I liked watching you come undone by my hand and knowing you’d—you were willing to submit to–to me.” 

“I enjoyed that night.” Frank felt the tips of his ears turn to fire, and he weakly attempted to school his face before proceeding. “And not just because of the handcuffs or—or the ridiculous number of times you made me cum,” the grip on your thigh tightened, the circular caresses momentarily stilling before continuing at their steadfast pace. “I didn’t think—didn’t realize you wanted to take control in–in that way. You so rarely ask to ride me–or–or ask that I try something different…new.” 

“I didn’t think you enjoyed following my lead so thoroughly, Frank—you’re so difficult to read at times, and so playfully irritable, I—”

“----Shite.” Frank’s pale face now looked as if it had been doused in an inhuman ash-colored paint, the large hand at your thigh disconcertingly unmoving before finally pulling away. You felt a peck at your lips and watched him straighten his jacket as he stood upright. “I’m late.” Worn-down brown boots halted at the doorway, your husband’s face turned to glance one last time at you, index finger not unkindly pointed at your form, still huddled under the bedcovers. “Whatever you want tonight, we’ll do, alright? Anything within reason, love—I’m yours to unwillingly command.” He was out the bedroom door with a wave, a plan already developing beneath your arched brow.

23:27

23:27, and Frank had yet to appear. The gravel drive had yet to crunch beneath the weight of his black SUV, the car door had yet to thunderously crash shut, and his brown boots laced to his knobby knees had yet to heavily clunk up the concrete back door steps. Worry, as it always tended to do when Frank never returned at his usual time, laced your heart and pulsed through your veins, the winding tendrils of something suffocating lodging around your stomach. 

Your husband’s offer that morning, when not even the birds dared stir, had been incredibly tempting. It was slightly unnerving at times, just how in tune Frank could be to your desires. Unless…unless he too wanted what you wanted. Unless he too needed the intoxication inherently attached to the subverted dynamic…where the strong knelt for the small. Where the old soldier obeyed his wife. 

Whatever reason Frank had for providing you a second opportunity to retain him beneath your thumb, you gave no further thought to it. Your supplies for that evening, buried in a box of old clothes in the corner of your shared closet, would surely make the stressed man think twice before asking for a third night of…of whatever exactly this was.

Stone crunched outside the darkened window, a loud slam following in its wake. 

A smile darted across your lips.

Lieutenant General Frank Benson swore softly below his breath, the small illuminated letters from his phone glaring up at him in the neighborhood’s inky blackness. Why was it that the leaders around the world always chose to stir up trouble on the days he wanted to leave work on time? Or, heaven forbid, early?

No matter, he thought to himself, the SUV door cracking shut far harsher than he wished. His boots felt weighted, as if someone had poured buckets of the loose stone he now tread upon, his key sliding through the solid garage door with ease. 

The house looked no different than usual. The same chipped wallpaper and carpeting running threadbare along the common footpaths greeted the tired old man as he entered, your figure missing from his line of sight. 

“Y/N!” Frank called, a tinge of foolishness coating his stomach, his mouth gone sour. He set the store-bought cake he ordered from a local bakery down on the granite kitchen counter, shoulders drooping as he searched the house, but his search was to no avail. Only the bedroom remained, and he did not know whether or not that should fill his gut with trepidation or the beginning tingles of arousal. 

A light, fragile and soft, poked under the wooden door's crack, his anxious fear evaporating to return as hesitant lust. The hinges squealed open, your eyes meeting his from your lazy perch on the bed, your book quietly closed and set aside. And the sight…well, the sight quite frankly stole his breath away…

You were fully bare, legs a golden glow beneath the lamp’s electric gleam, rosy nipples hardened and beckoning for his touch, your pleased smile shining past the room’s dimness. Frank felt his cock lunge upward, his member’s daylong slumber shockingly disturbed. The man groaned, feet halfway across the floor, before he registered he was walking. His thick hand cradled the back of your neck, calloused thumb brushing your cheek’s peach-like softness, sensation only returning to his body, his limbs, when his lips locked over yours. 

He was first to pull away, air barely refueling his lungs as he eliminated the gap between mouths, between tongues, confusion flooding his brain when he felt a finger tapping atop the crumpled knot of his tie. Frank broke the kiss once more, index finger sliding to his swollen lips, as if he had not understood the last minutes as real, as if he wanted to trap the sting of his lip in a box deeply buried in his memory, carefully curated for the remainder of his life.

Your naked hand lifted your husband’s dark green, formerly ironed, tie from his jacket depths, latching on to the coarse material with an iron grip. Frank felt the tug, like a noose tightening about his neck, except his nerves were aflame with existential arousal rather than dread. His heartbeat thudded against his ears just the same. 

“Strip.”

He felt his mouth run dry, dry as an abandoned riverbed. The hand at his tie had yet to relent.

“And put those on.”

His penis throbbed, rubbing helplessly against his trousers’ zipper as his eyes took in the image at which you nodded. A pile of leather and chain sparked his imagination, ears ringing with the desperate thudding of his old heart. The pressure at his throat ceased, and he was quick to obey your commands. Clothes piled up in the bedroom corner, a mischievous grin gracing your relaxed face as Frank’s clearly interested erection was revealed. Heat pooled low in your belly, the place between your thighs beginning to grow slick.

Pink. Frank’s cheeks blushed a bright pink, his body feeling as if he were on fire, despite his newly acquired nudity. The leather ring encasing his neck was cool, the metal chain linked to the collar idly bouncing against his rapidly rising and falling stomach, parallel to the jagged, narrow scar running below his navel. “This wasn’t twenty quid, right?” his smirk was stronger than he felt at that moment. You just glared from across the room…waiting. 

A lone item remained on the bedspread, a small circle of black silicone, and he suddenly worried where this new device might be placed on his person. “Need help, sweetheart?” Frank’s stomach dipped at the confidence rippling throughout your tone, cock jumping at the subtle tease. He nodded, cheeks nearly returned to their normal pale, alabaster color. You gestured for him to move toward the bed, Frank coming to a standstill at your side, fully erect penis gently bobbing. A sharp smack echoed about the bedroom, his right arsecheek smarting.

“This,” you took the silicone band from Frank’s loose grip, “belongs here.” He felt tugging at his penis, letting out a moan at the welcome touch on the sensitive organ, an involuntary grunt torn from his throat as he noticed his balls passing through the band. 

“What?” He quietly mumbled, his erection visibly fuller, testicles feeling rather frustratingly tight. 

“It’s a cock ring, Franklin.” He shivered, yet the room’s temperature had not shifted, precum starting to dribble down the side of his proud dick. “It maintains erections, particularly for those less capable, and can even…delay orgasm.” Frank’s legs turned to jelly; it seemed as if a rug had been removed right out from beneath him. It was all too obvious to him what this night would not be focused upon…

“It’s my birthday, Frank. You didn’t really think I wanted the fun to end early?” A tug at his neck brought him back to the present. He crawled onto the bed, restrained cock and sagging balls dangling below him. Your hand tangled deeply within his thinning, fluffy white locks, nose inches away from your lightly trimmed cunt. Frank’s mouth watered, lust making his senses heavy and crotch steadily leaking between his thighs, pre running down his calves. “Make me cum.”

“Fuck.” The word uneasily slipped out, heavy and unwieldy. Your command was not what he had imagined, but neither was it something he was prepared to refuse. 

“Auhh—ohhhh.” Oral was not a usual occurrence in the bedroom, least of all for Frank. Not because he did not enjoy the taste or the act of feeling you come undone against his lips, but rather because Frank was a rather impatient man during sex. He found using his dick a far more efficient approach, the results quick and never disappointing.

“Deeper, Frank.” He felt an insistent hand jerking him forward by a tuft of white hair, the pain utterly lost in the pleased mewl you moaned. His hooked nose brushed across your clit just right, his tongue lapping eagerly at your slit, heeding your command, and pressing deeper. You found his stubble tickling the sensitive flesh of your thighs, his cheeks gathering your sweet slickness. 

Frank smirked against your cunt, self-satisfied, hips rutting against the mattress, the duvet already damp. The telltale trembling of your thighs at his shoulders told him he had struck gold, and you pressed him further into your wet heat, his working tongue excitedly reaching the back of your walls at long last. 

You felt something suddenly snap, deep at your core, the dam trapping, locking your pleasure behind towering stone barriers broken. The orgasm bloomed, your belly fluttering, toes curling in the air, Frank remaining against you, stable, real. You continued to thrust your groin, riding the high out on your husband’s prominent nose, his eager tongue unwavering in its devotion. 

The hips crashing into his jaw slowed in pace, now stilling completely, the heavy pants above him steadying. The distinct flavor of cum was all he could taste, all he could think about. Frank pulled away from your cunt with a wet slurp, your slickness healthily coating his face, from hairline to leather collar, to the end of his neck, lightly dribbling into his sparse white chest hair. He licked his lips clean, cock twitching against the bedcovers, his balls hanging low, heavy and full. 

All Frank could think of was when his own orgasm would arrive, when it would be permitted.

“You taste divine,” his baritone voice rumbled beside your lower folds, tickling. Frank lapped at a puddle of slickness slipping from your entrance, as if to prove his point. “But when is it my turn?” You snorted, meeting his hazel eyes, the mischief sparking dangerously in your own.

“When I say you may.” Frank moaned, his fisting grip upon the sheets piled at your back tightened, his pelvis jerking in frustration. 

“Sweetheart, I can’t—I can’t take much more of this.” He groaned, the hand tenderly carding through his thinning hair welcome, wholly comforting in the urgency of his need.

“Whose birthday is it today, Franklin?” A surge of shame shot to his lower belly, his erection momentarily falling.

“Yours,” he whispered, chastened. You hummed, pleased.

“Alright, sweetheart,” Frank grunted as the leash jerked at his collar. “I’m going to make you a deal.” A deal sounded brilliant to Frank, his cock springing right back into action, arousal boiling within his veins. “I want to cum once more from your tongue,” he moaned, surely the taste of your orgasm would drive him completely mad, “and if you don’t cum,” ah, there is hope, he thought to himself, “then afterward I will give you release.” 

Frank sat up, tugging at the ring settled around the base of his shaft. “The ring stays.” You batted his hands away while he sourly pouted, moving back into place. You wedged a leg between his thighs, his cock wriggling at the contact, a string of clear precum wiped above your kneecap. Frank lifted a brow in question. “The catch is, I expect you to be humping my leg the entire time”.

Frank felt his heart stop—felt weightless and in free fall at the same time, his pupils blown, mouth dry. He watched your leg rise up and down, stimulating his rock-hard hard-on, felt his spine shudder in repressed lust. You would be the death of him, he was certain of it, as certain as he was the sky would be blue the next morning, and the morning after.

“Fuck,” he grunted, parched. His hips bucked to meet your shin, the angle perfect, yet unsatisfying. He’d prefer all seven inches of his cock sheathed deep in your womb, balls slapping against your bum with every thrust. But, he supposed this beat idly rocking, fucking his own damn duvet to a messy, underwhelming finish. The mild discomfort, mild humiliation, still remained as he felt you pull his leash, your hand guiding him to your cunt. 

Frank reentered your folds, hooked nose finding your swollen clit, tongue heartily lapping at your walls. His hips stuttered, the vein running beneath his cock sliding along the smooth flesh of your leg, his need utterly palpable. Oh, how he needed his balls drained dry, needed to paint your body with his hot, gleaming white cum. 

His cock pulsed, frenulum catching against your knee, and his balls nearly emptied then and there. Frank lifted himself away from your lower lips, breath coming in warm and unsteady puffs along your soft skin. He moaned, more heat covering your thin bush like a gentle, teasing breeze, your hands burrowing into the hair drifting close to his neck in quiet reassurance. “Fuck,” he moaned, tongue burying itself deeply, your knee pressed against his cockhead, the thick vein throbbing. 

Frank found your sweet spot for the second time that evening, a sigh catching within the depths of your throat, a certain confirmation. Your walls fluttered at his tongue’s touch, the pebbled surface rough against your smooth surface. He wished to rush you forward, headfirst into the utmost pleasure, anything to accelerate his own. He was humping your leg enthusiastically, restraint thoroughly abandoned, sitting next to where he left his trousers and his pride. He slowed his thrusts, balls attempting to draw up but meeting resistance, his mind torn from sheer concentration. 

He felt your hastily reconstructed dam burst, floodwaters soar and crash over you in tsunami-like waves. Your legs fell open, his engorged cock left frictionless and frustrated, your lips forming a silent, open-mouthed “o.” He looked past your soft, slight stomach in concern when that silence carried on for several beats too long. Your eyelids were slammed rigidly shut, nostrils flared, and he felt a tap at his collar. He removed himself from your folds, lips glimmering with excess slickness, his cock twitching in expectation. 

Frank moved up the bed, wetly placing a kiss upon your bare forehead, the smell of sex dripping off him like cologne. You felt him cuddle protectively around your side, his ignored cock wet with pre, poking against your lower belly. In the hazy afterglow of orgasm, you fumbled with the black silicone ring, a sharp cry from Frank letting you know he was finally freed. 

The man moved down the bed, cock inches from your left thigh. It took Frank two quick bucks of his hips until he came, erection happily splurting what felt like more than two loads of cum. Frank fucked your thigh until his semen began to cool and his penis grew limp, spent and sensitive lying against his tender bollocks.

Frank settled himself against you, sleepy in his post-orgasmic, blissful state, the coarse curls of his white hair tickling your breast. He pressed a kiss just beneath the round globe. “Happy birthday, dearest.” 

“Thank you, Frank,” you murmured, a booming snore your only accompanying answer. 

It had indeed been a happy birthday. A very happy birthday.

[deepperplexity]

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🌴 RICKATION 2026 EVENT by @lonelytwilightwrites 🌴 🌴 RICKATION 2026 ON AO3🌴 (TBA)

🌴1. The Palm Tree's Sway (COMING 26th of JULY) PART 1 of Summer of ´87 featuring Hans Gruber x Charlene Miller [OC] > Charlene meets a mysterious German who sets her hormones on fire as she admires his lush beard in the late Miami evening light; he smirkingly calls her Zuckerschnute…

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[lonelytwilightwrites]

I can’t wait to read your series! 💚🌴🏖️

[deepperplexity]

Thank you @lonelytwilightwrites - I'm stoked for this event you've created and its stretching out an unused summer-writing-muscle for sure after all these years of winter fics so very exciting to do a flip into summer

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Yes, that’s one of the reasons why I thought it was needed! (Despite my total adoration for Rickmas! 🤩)

Me doing my “flip” into summer: It’s been so freaking hot here 🥵, I’m absolutely beefing with this weather!😡

[deepperplexity]

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🌴 RICKATION 2026 EVENT by @lonelytwilightwrites 🌴 🌴 RICKATION 2026 ON AO3🌴 (TBA)

🌴1. The Palm Tree's Sway (COMING 26th of JULY) PART 1 of Summer of ´87 featuring Hans Gruber x Charlene Miller [OC] > Charlene meets a mysterious German who sets her hormones on fire as she admires his lush beard in the late Miami evening light; he smirkingly calls her Zuckerschnute…

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I can’t wait to read your series! 💚🌴🏖️

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Playmate🎭

Author's Note: Hey guys, I'm so sorry for the lack of fics coming through lately! I'm working on requests now. I wanted to write more for P. L. for a while now, but seeing a post in the AR threads wanting more from the character finally pushed me. I'm not sure I'm sold on the title, but I could not decide on anything else.

Summary: No one remains in the old Blackpool theater; the production of Peter Pan has ended, yet the stage remains set. You and P. L. manage to find some mischievous pleasure in the empty building late at night.

Character(s): P. L. O'Hara x Female Reader

Warning(s)‼️: PIV Sex. Exhibitionism. Mild Role Play.

Word Count: 2.7k

Read on Ao3 or below the break:

The audience’s cheers reverberated off the Blackpool theatre’s shabby walls, echoing within the old, run-down dressing room. P. L. O’Hara wiped the remaining makeup adorning his cheekbones and eyelids, the damp cloth feeling heavenly after completing the second performance of the day. Peter Pan had finished its run, the box office more than doubling, nearly tripling their profits. 

P. L. leaned back in his beat-up chair that was missing half its upholstery, his hazel eyes locked on his reflection staring back at him within the scratched glass. He did not recognize that man—that man with sad, knowing eyes and greying hair, the boyishness more than faded from his posture, from the even expression his thin lips automatically pulled. 

His mind often trailed back to what his life might have been, where he might be if he had been able to avoid the dreaded draft. The war had entirely ruined his life; what nights he did not awaken from horrid nightmares in a pool of his own sweat, he spent with all his senses, all his consciousness aware and dreaming of her, the woman he had to leave. Stella Maris…his Stella of the Sea. 

He’d left her with child and unmarried, shameful regret filling the pit of his stomach at the thought. He had been an idiot, an utter idiot, to think she’d want anything to do with him, especially when he had done positively nothing to tie himself to her. And he was no prize. The war had left him with a greater number of deficiencies than he cared to admit, even to himself in the dead of the night. 

A knock at the door brought his self-deprecating thoughts to a momentary end, a woman’s head peering around the opened crevice. 

“I’ve brought you your lines, P. L.” You tossed a thin pamphlet on the desk in front of him, and the cover drew his attention at once.

“Thanks,” he murmured lightly.  A smile involuntarily graced his face, his serious facial features briefly softening. His long, narrow fingertips flipped through the booklet, his lines already highlighted for him. “And are you to be my Juliet, Y/N?” He smirked, hazel eyes catching yours, their color more green than brown beneath the harsh vanity light.

“Indeed—against much of the cast’s wishes, I might add.”

“Oh?” His thick brows rose, interested in what his fellow castmates believed. 

“They—they think me not pretty enough, and—and—”

“----And?”

“And too young, considering Bunny’s cast you as—-”

“----Your Romeo.” The lines deeply etched into his face carved deeper into his flesh, his hazel eyes reflecting nothing but pain. “They are probably right, you know. Bunny ought to find some talented youths in the area and—-”

“Stop beating yourself up for your age, Peter.” His given name falling from your lips made him pause, his mouth parted in hesitation. “They’re just jealous that I’ve got the part.” You straddled his lap, brushing the older man’s greying bangs from his clouded eyes. “And I get to hear you declare your undying love for me on a nightly basis for three weeks.” You cradled his cheek, kissing him soundly on the lips, your tongues exploring. P. L. broke away first, brown hair touselled, and chest heaving for air. 

“I already get to do that on a nightly basis,” he smugly countered, hands grabbing hold of your waist to ground himself, as if he thought you might suddenly disappear. He was all smiles, running the sole pad of his index finger along your soft jawbone. You hissed at the sensation, and he was sneaking another kiss before you were even able to regain your overwhelmed senses. You jumped from his lap, hand locked about his wrist, P. L. left open-mouthed—lips seeking his lover’s.

“Follow me—”

“Where are we going, Y/N? I thought—” The lead actor was on his feet, lingering near the dressing-room table as you made for the iron doorknob, wrist still firmly wrapped around his own. 

“The stage, of course,” you answered him matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 

“My dressing-room is perfectly serviceable to practice lines, Y/N, you know tha—”

“----We’re not going to the stage to rehearse, darling.” He blushed, Adam’s apple bobbing as he nervously swallowed. “Besides, we both damn well know this play near inside and out.”

“Then what are we going to the stage for, dearest?” His thick brow was arched, voice low as his hazel eyes found yours, searching their depths for a possible hidden meaning, something buried beneath the surface.

“You’re going to fuck me, P. L. You’re going to give me the best fucking a girl could ever ask for.” He groaned, sexy baritone a deep growl, drawn from somewhere far inside himself. 

“Won’t there be people—we can’t just—”

“Gone for the night. Now come, follow me, please.” You tugged at his frayed sweater sleeve. “Come now, Peter—don’t you love me just a bit?”

The stage was empty, just as you had promised—the set from earlier that evening still in place. The pirate ship—Captain Hook’s pirate ship—eerily loomed in the dimly lit theatre; only one light had remained aglow downstage. P. L. appeared from behind the red velvet curtain, the air humming as the stage was further illuminated, the house lights untouched, all black and cold. 

“Hop aboard me pirate ship, m’lady,” P. L. boosted you up onto the lengthy set piece, the wood boards groaning in protest. He hoisted himself beside you, half-climbing the intricate rope rigging, thudding as he landed on deck. 

It was strange to look out at the scene below you. From your position, half-straddled along the ship’s prow, everything seemed so small, so much less intimidating than it had been hours before. And yet…the sight was lacking. No sound was present, but the hum of the lights and P. L.'s quiet breathing. He shook off his sweater, tossing the knit garment in one of the boat’s many corners. 

“It’s strange, isn’t it? The theatre when the crowds have vanished, when the actors have gone home, and the ghosts of past productions can venture forth to perform.” 

“You make everything sound so pretty,” you laughed, a boyish, carefree smile rejoining his face. 

“‘Tis my job,” he chuckled, simply. “How can I not, with my beautiful Muse in front of me? She speaks better than I could ever dream of performing.”

“Enough chattering, my Captain. I have grown impatient.” Your hand had slipped below his white linen undershirt, fingers delicately stroking across his lean side, always hidden beneath loose-fitting clothing, catching several raised lines—scars—he had acquired during his service in the navy. 

“Mmmph,” he moaned, edging nearer to your touch, his body always so desirous of affection. 

“You’re going to fuck me against the rigging, Captain,” you smirked up at him, your other hand carding through the scruffy hair at the back of his head. “All you’ll ever think about in this theatre, in the next production of this play, will be what happens tonight.”

“Christ, Y/N, this is a play about innocence! About—”

“About learning to accept innocence can never be kept entirely pure. It will always fall to ruin. Eventually.” You were standing fully bare before the man, his hazel eyes scanning your form hesitantly, as if he could not believe this was the reality he inhabited. Like he was trapped in an intricate dream, one he’d wake up from in a tangle of bed sheets and aching, unfulfilled wants. 

“I’m not innocent,” he huskily breathed, his hands, narrow and slightly calloused, explored your chest, idly pinching a rosy nipple between two fingers. 

“That’s never kept me away from you before, Captain.” Your hand, small and thin, covered his much larger one, still fidgeting above your breast, silently imploring him to further investigate your wanting skin. He inched forward, hazel eyes uncertain and guarded, hawkishly watching for anything untoward in your posture, in the smug, yet not unkind smile you wore. The naked flesh of your back hit the rough, coarse rope forming the ship’s rigging, P. L.’s subtly muscled arms coming to rest along either side of your shoulders. 

“You torture me, woman,” he growled against your ear, deep voice dripping with pent-up lust. Your fingers played with the tightly secured belt fastened about his waist, loosening the dark leather strap and letting it fall to the ground with a loud, reverberating clank that echoed off the cavernous theatre walls. 

“Ahhhh.” He pinched the nipple delicately held between his fingers, the sensitive flesh sweetly stinging from the rough touch, a pulse of arousal shooting straight to your center leaving you briefly unmoored, for the first time that night. P. L. breathily panted, chin resting somewhere above your head, his hips thrusting his clothed groin against your thigh. He was throbbing through several layers of fabric, leaving no doubt in your mind as to how much he wanted, utterly needed, this. 

He repeated the motion, his narrow hips bucking in pleasure, the thin white linen shirt he wore expertly torn away with your nimble fingers. The pale skin of his chest was now revealed to you, dark hair lightly trailing from the white chest down to below his trousers. He groaned, so loud you were certain the cheap seats would have perfectly heard if the theatre were full, the idea of being watched in so intimate an act forcing an involuntary moan from your chapped, slightly parted lips. “Fuck,” P. L. breathily murmured, his unpolished, northern accent breaking through, so different from the carefully cultivated, carefully practiced, voice he used on the stage. 

His iron control finally snapped. P. L. turned you around and pushed you face-first up against the coarse black rope rigging. Your breasts poked through the even square rope holes, the tender flesh scratched by loose, untamed fibers. You could hear P. L. behind you, the sound of linen meeting the wooden deck floor sending a surge of aroused anticipation to your lower belly. 

Just as your nose was beginning to itch, P. L.’s large hands harshly grasped your hips, a high-pitched moan pulled from your throat. “Ready for your Captain, love?” The endearment, lightly spoken by the handsome man, made your heart flop and insides blossom. 

“Yes,” you softly whispered, the word catching at the back of your throat. Your nose was beginning to itch once again from the small, unkempt hairs of the coarse rope, your arms too tangled in the web-like rigging to amend your unfortunate circumstance. 

“Good,” P. L. growled next to your ear, his stubble scratching your jaw. His hands firmly gripped your hips, so tight he’d surely leave bruises visible come morning. The man’s now bare cock tickled between your legs, the hard velvet teasing, promising entrance. 

“You’re such a naughty girl,” his deep baritone voice was thick, one hand playing with the loose lips of your labia, his cock maddeningly inching forward and back along your folds. “Is this why you asked me to fuck you here? So you could imagine these seats full and your castmates backstage…watching from behind the scarlet curtains?” 

Your heart unrhythmically thudded against your rib cage, voice temporarily rendered speechless. P. L. rarely talked so lewdly or with such authority, and this brave experiment of his…it was not ill met. “Well. Your audience desires an answer.” 

Speech returned to your lips, the syllables hurried and uncoordinated, breathless. “Yes,” you whispered into the ropes, the fibers tickling your flushed face. 

“What was that sweetheart? Did you say something?” The smirk could be discerned in the relentless tease, humiliation flooding your stomach and staining your cheeks a bright red. You could feel wetness quicken between your legs, P. L.'s member more easily gliding through your thighs. Clearly, he had noticed. 

“Yes!” you managed at a slightly increased volume, skin burning at the thought of someone hearing your admission. 

“Good girl,” he stroked the head of your clit, your legs falling further open, hips thrusting up into his finger. P. L. chuckled, tone suddenly dark with mischief. “Tell me what you want—loud enough for the balcony to hear, darling.” 

“Fuck me,” you pitifully mumbled, sounding more like a first-year drama student rather than the professional you had grown to become. P. L. cruelly laughed, the laugh he had perfected as the formidable Captain Hook. 

“You know that was not nearly good enough—-Project!” 

“Fuck me, Captain, please!!!” Your shout echoed off the theater walls, and you doubted the late-night drunks walking down Blackpool’s bleak, deserted streets had been spared from hearing your cry. His hand retreated from your sensitive bundle of nerves, instead, moving to provide his leaking erection a few quick pumps. 

P. L.’s thick cock sharply entered from behind, his roughly stubbled throat vibrating against the back of your neck with a pleased groan. “Your cunt is perfect.” The man hardly waited at all for you to adjust to his intrusion, the vein traveling down his warm, stiff length scraping and rescraping along your walls with every thrust and withdrawal. His hand had come to rest across your stomach, possessively caressing the tender flesh, as if he were claiming you as his. 

Moaning when the head of cock hit a particularly sensitive place far inside, the back of your head came to rest upon P. L.’s heaving chest, eyes looking up to find the fire that burned through a sea of hazel. His brown bangs sweatily stuck to his forehead, he was smirking as he bottomed out after a deep thrust, balls throbbing against your slit. Eyes crossing, you fell forward into the harsh wall of black rope, P. L.’s finger once more dipping between your legs. 

You whimpered as his other hand discovered a breast to fondle and a free nipple to twist, his playing sending a shock that descended in waves across your body. The finger padding at your clit in slow circles took no time in driving you insane, the need for something faster and substantial ever more pressing. He brought another digit to your clit, softly pinching and twisting the nub, arousal soaking your thighs. The smell of sex filled the stage as wetness leaked down the back of your legs. 

“‘M close,” P. L. lowly moaned, the hand squeezing your breast gripping tight. “So fucking close.” P. L.’s pants brushed at the short hairs loose near your ear, his breath hot as an oven. “And you’re going to come first,” he growled, multiple fingers pawing at your clit, the steady rhythm of his hips suddenly hurried and desperately erratic. 

“Peter, I’m going to—-!” Your orgasm had secretly crept up on you, washing over your body in pleasant waves while P. L. was only buried in your pussy mid-thrust. A feeling like euphoria pooled in your lower belly, spilling to even the faraway edges of your fingertips and causing your naked toes to curl across the wooden planks. 

“Fuck!” P. L. came, stuffed inside to the hilt, rope after rope of white-hot cum shooing out his leaping cock. It somehow made your own pleasure throb and shudder with every jerk of his against your hidden walls, the man above your shoulder caressing the inside of your thigh as he rode out his hard-earned bliss. He heavily fell forward upon you, the two of your intertwined bodies pressed against the ship’s dark rigging, the coarse ropes digging into your side.

“It’s a pity it’s the end of Pan’s run,” P. L. mumbled from above after a short reprieve, deep baritone full of gravel, his chin tucked atop your head. “I should have liked to do that again.” 

“Perhaps next time, my Romeo. I seem to remember George mentioning a sizable tomb being built for this production.” P. L. snorted.

“You’re incorrigible,” he grumbled, more to himself. 

“You don’t wish to make love on a set about young, tragic love?” P. L. shook his head, a hand running through the greying brown hair, scattering the locks into an unkempt mess. He pulled out of your hole with a hiss, his cock limp and covered in the combined fluids from your previous lovemaking. P. L. shakily stood, offering up a large hand for your petite one to grasp, a weak grunt escaping as you managed to stand upright. Every inch of your body pleasantly ached, and you knew these reminders would grow less welcome the following day at rehearsal. 

The older man leaned forward, his lips inches from your own, the pad of his fingertip stroking along your cheek, as if you were some delicate, easily breakable treasure. “Thy drugs are quick.” His finger caught your chin, tipping you up to his face, his hazel eyes dilated and flashing. “Thus with a kiss, I die.”

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Summer Rickation 2026 Schedule🏖️

Hey everyone, I'm posting my tentative character lineup for this year's Summer Rickation!!! I'm sorry I haven't been posting as much----I'm hoping to get back to writing more consistently this month. I have a P. L. fic I'm finishing up, then I will be tackling a couple of requests and the drafts for Rickation. I've had a bunch of crazy family stuff come up in the past few weeks, some fun, some very much not, lol.

Day 1: The Palm Tree’s Sway - Alexander Dane

Day 2: High Tide, Low Spirits - Alex Hughes

Day 3: Buried Treasure - David Friedman

Day 4: Coconut Cabana - Hans Gruber

Day 5: Heat Stroke - Frank Benson

Day 6: Island Song - Sheriff of Nottingham

Day 7: Message in a Bottle - Judge Turpin

Day 8: Beachcomber’s Paradise - Colonel Brandon

Day 9: Look to the Lighthouse - Harry (Love Actually)

Day 10: A Walk Down the Pier - P. L. O’Hara

Day 11: In the Shade - Eli Michaelson

Day 12: Swimsuit - Lionel Shabandar

Day 13: The Sand Between His Toes - Severus Snape

Day 14: Sex on the Beach - Sinclair Bryant

Less than three weeks away, everyone!! I can't wait!!!<3<3<3

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Announcing: A Brand New Event!... It's Summer Rickation!!! 🏖️

Hello, Lovelies!! I'm sorry it's been a while since I've posted. After writing for this past year's Rickmas event, I was inspired to come up with a fun idea for the summer---Summer Rickation! The event is fourteen days, running from July 26th-August 8th. The tags are "Summer Rickation 2026" and "Rickation 2026." A huge shout-out to @deepperplexity for helping brainstorm name ideas and lending me a surge of courage to post! This year's theme is "At the Beach," the prompts are as follows:

Day 1: The Palm Tree's Sway

Day 2: High Tide, Low Spirits

Day 3: Buried Treasure

Day 4: Coconut Cabana

Day 5: Heat Stroke

Day 6: Island Song

Day 7: Message in a Bottle

Day 8: Beachcomber's Paradise

Day 9: Look to the Lighthouse

Day 10: A Walk Down the Pier

Day 11: In the Shade

Day 12: Swimsuit

Day 13: The Sand Between His Toes

Day 14: Sex on the Beach (a mixed drink, but also an invitation to write something spicier, *wink* *wink*).

Please reblog in order to reach more writers and fellow Rickmaniacs! <3 Let me know if you would like to be tagged for future events, and please have fun writing! Thanks, everyone, and see you at the end of July! <3<3<3

[deepperplexity]

IIIIH!!! HOW EXCITING!!! I love that you used Rickation! It's such a great name for it and love the prompts you settled for!

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Awww, thanks! I’m so thankful for your help, and I’m looking forward to writing the prompts and seeing what everyone else does with them too!!!💚😎🏖️

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Announcing: A Brand New Event!... It's Summer Rickation!!! 🏖️

Hello, Lovelies!! I'm sorry it's been a while since I've posted. After writing for this past year's Rickmas event, I was inspired to come up with a fun idea for the summer---Summer Rickation! The event is fourteen days, running from July 26th-August 8th. The tags are "Summer Rickation 2026" and "Rickation 2026." A huge shout-out to @deepperplexity for helping brainstorm name ideas and lending me a surge of courage to post! This year's theme is "At the Beach," the prompts are as follows:

Day 1: The Palm Tree's Sway

Day 2: High Tide, Low Spirits

Day 3: Buried Treasure

Day 4: Coconut Cabana

Day 5: Heat Stroke

Day 6: Island Song

Day 7: Message in a Bottle

Day 8: Beachcomber's Paradise

Day 9: Look to the Lighthouse

Day 10: A Walk Down the Pier

Day 11: In the Shade

Day 12: Swimsuit

Day 13: The Sand Between His Toes

Day 14: Sex on the Beach (a mixed drink, but also an invitation to write something spicier, *wink* *wink*).

Please reblog in order to reach more writers and fellow Rickmaniacs! <3 Let me know if you would like to be tagged for future events, and please have fun writing! Thanks, everyone, and see you at the end of July! <3<3<3

[jcbbby]

✦ Tag game: Ten people you'd like to get to know✦

thanks for the tag @realfernmayo! I know you tagged my main but imma do the tag game here since I talk to more people on this blog lol.

Last song: tv off by Kendrick Lamar

Currently watching: bits and pieces of Mad Men as my husband watches it while I'm in the room lol

Current obsession: photography!!!! I shot my first bigger concert on a photo/press pass this week and I'm tryna get myself out there like FUCK. also I know I haven't updated it in a while now because I've been so busy, but I have like 16 tabs about 1860s Montana open for my Caleb Sykes fic rn.

Currently reading: i... don't do that often.

Currently working on: editing my photos, outreach to take more photos of more bands. also my Caleb fic, I promise a new chapter is coming. life is lifing hard.

Currently wearing: cozy shorts and a Bo Burnham shirt lmao

Last google search: ponyhenge lol. it's a local obscure landmark.

Favorite flower: i love daisies sm :)

no pressure tags! @moonlitdark @nebulousfishgills @secretly-sirens @bowersbubbles @al-ghoul @spectrestrings @ottoscatwife @qelshapie @vampyxxxxx and anyone who loves a good get to know me game! :)

[spectrestrings]

Thank you so much for the tag @jcbbby! I'm so glad to join this! (This took longer than expected to reply to because I crashed into bed as soon as I got home from my exam.)

Last song: The Bard's Song - Valhalore

Currently watching: Nothing. :( I finished Camelot though and then had exams to deal with... Now I am free (kind of), thus I can decide what to watch.

Current obsession: No idea if it counts, but my hobby is my obsession, so... still writing (Fanfiction/RP/ +Original stuff that I don't share cuz I am quite sure it's trash LOL). My longest period with no hiatus from writing (nearing the 1-year mark)

Currently reading: I got a few at the same time, mostly because it helps with the fanfiction writing. So I'm on Marlowe's Plays (Tamburlaine the Great specifically atm) and the Arthurian Legends (Lancelot atm).

Currently working on: Like three different fanfiction ideas. Mostly Sleep [Henry Creel x f!Reader], Face-off [Caleb Sykes x f!Reader] and another Theo Deschamps series I am planning... However, I am not sure if I will end up writing this one.

Currently wearing: Pyjamas.

Last Google search: Tumblr Gradient LOL

Favourite flower: Tulips. Specifically, I've seen this pattern once with white and yellow, and they absolutely won my heart. (And forget-me-nots too... I have equal love for both.)

Tags... @ottoscatwife | @flowerfike | @bwaylover1993 | @midnightcreel | @cristalbeesnow | @creelcutter | @nocasdatsgay | @kiwindi | @smilingformoney | @red-riter

No pressure though :3

[smilingformoney]

yaaaay my favourite topic: me

Last song: Olivia Rodrigo - Cigarette Smoke

Currently watching: Supernatural

Current obsession: Alan Rickman, duh

Currently reading: The Lord of the Flies

Currently working on: my novel, an Elliott/reader fic

Currently wearing: joggers, tshirt and hoodie

Last Google search: I don’t use Google but my last DuckDuckGo search was Ed Sanders

Favourite flower: roses

Tags: @snowblossomtumbles @hollyjollyzora @muiitoloko and anyone else who wants to do it

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Yay! I’ve always wanted to do one of these tag games!! <3

Last Song: All for Leyna by Billy Joel

Currently Watching: Sofia the First: Royal Magic; Hell’s Kitchen; and Only Murders in the Building

Current Obsession: Easy. Alan Rickman *obviously*

Currently Reading: The Lives of the Twelve Caesars by Suetonius

Currently Working On: P. L. O’Hara x reader oneshot; updating my About Me post.

Currently Wearing: Fuzzy pyjamas

Last Google Search: Stanley Cup Final Game

Favorite Flower: To smell: lilacs. To receive: roses. Symbolically: lilies.

Tags: @lazysundaytales @snapesno1thighrider and anyone else who wants to join in! <3

[lonelytwilightwrites]

now that frank's handcuffs are broken, will he continue to pretend that his hands are tied together? i sure hope he does 😂

and now we get to torture frank with orgasms while he tries to focus on not moving his hands 🤭🤭🤭

Operation: Best Birthday Ever!🎉: Bonus Chapter

Chapter Two: Keep Your Hands To Yourself

👉Chapter One Here

Author's Note: So sorry for the wait! I hope you enjoy some impatient, desperate Frank!

Summary: It's Frank's first birthday since the two of you married, and you feel pressured to do something special. You introduce a pair of handcuffs to the bedroom---handcuffs Frank breaks at the end of a scene. You insist on Frank keeping his hands held together above his head---but your husband grows ever more impatient and needy and not as accustomed to following orders as he might have everyone believe.

Character(s): Frank Benson x Female Reader

Warning(s)‼️: Smut. Oral Sex. Swallowing/Facial. Handcuffs.

Word Count: 1.7k

Read on Ao3 or below the break:

“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. 

An extra slice of chocolate cake had disappeared from the serving tray, brown crumbs littering the stovetop, and you couldn’t help but smile. 

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Luck of the Draw♦️

Author's Note: A request for more Lionel from Ao3. Also, guys, I recently made it to 100 followers on Tumblr!! I am so thankful for everyone who has subscribed just to read my incoherent ramblings <3.

Summary: At a casino-night-themed charity event, Lionel Shabandar is forced to protect a young server. Clearly, Lionel's luck isn't poor; he's just been looking for it in all the wrong places...

Character(s): Lionel Shabandar x Female Reader

Warning(s)‼️: Swearing. Smut. PIV Sex. Drunk Sex/Drinking. Brief Non-Graphic Violence.

Word Count: 4.2k

Read on Ao3 or below the break:

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. 

Lionel’s lightly-furred chest rose and fell more evenly, rocking gently even in the afterglow of orgasm, your bodies still joined. You held up the sheets, slipping beneath the luxurious covers, falling asleep with Lionel still inside, your head resting upon his bare chest, tucked peacefully under his chin.

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Mea Culpa, Part Three

Chapter Three: An Unwanted Expedition

Author's Note: I feel bad that this update is coming a bit later than I desired---so I want to apologize. Hoping the story will pick up in the next few chapters.

Chapters One and Two.

Summary: Thomas Turpin's father has a new demand that pushes the boy too far. Only companionship can quiet his anger.

Character(s): Judge Turpin x Original Female Character

Warning(s)‼️: None.

Word Count: 1.6k

Read on Ao3 or below the break:

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.” 

Her logic cooled the last embers of his burning rage, his prospective loneliness no longer so difficult to bear. “That is most agreeable to me.”

[lonelytwilightwrites]

The Substitute📚

Author's Note: Experimenting a bit today. I wanted to practice writing Snape and other HP characters since I haven't since Rickmas. I'm not sure how I'm feeling about this. Oh, well...

Summary: You are substituting for Professor Longbottom, the Hogwarts Herbology professor. You never expected to fit in and forge a friendship with Severus Snape in the course of one chaotic evening.

Character(s): Severus Snape x Gender Neutral Reader

Warning(s)‼️: Injury (students getting into mischief). Bullying. No Smut.

Word Count: 3.8k

Read on Ao3 or below the break:

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.

Leaving the castle in two weeks time may be the hardest thing you ever do in your entire life.