Snape'sNo1thighrider

Snape simp 💚 A Rickmaniac and a mediocre writer...

[alanrickmangifs]

ALAN RICKMAN as David Weinberg DARK HARBOR (1998) dir. Adam Coleman Howard

[alanrickmangifs]

ALAN RICKMAN as P. L. O'Hara AN AWFULLY BIG ADVENTURE (1995) dir. Mike Newell

[grosssoda]

Severus Snape is the type of man to internally panic whenever his sweetheart of a wife decides to model a sundress.

And its not any sundress either- no, none of that tight muggle fashion made with toxic polyester- it was the one she had acquired in Diagon Alley while shopping with her cousin.

It flowed with her, not hugging at her curves but somehow enhancing them with every tug and spin she offered. It was enough to drive him mad.

The soft, organic fabric complimented her in such a way, it pulled at him. “Severus?”

“Hm?”

That was unlike him, the way his eyes widened at her call told her that he wasn’t paying attention to a single word she had spoken a few seconds ago.

“Do you think I should return it? …I didn’t try it on at the store, thought I might test my luck.”

The dress was a pretty one indeed, but his lack of response made her consider that maybe it didn’t flatter her as well as she thought it might. It wasn’t an expensive dress, not at all. It was meant to stroll down markets and strut around parks.

A simple, casual dress.

But to him?

It might as well be the finest piece of design to have ever crossed his path.

“Do you think the color washes me out?” His wife kept mumbling, partly to herself as well.

“No.” He swallowed, hard.

She took notice if this, mistaking his nerves for disturbance. “Are you alright? I assure you, it wasn’t that costly.”

His head shook slightly, his feet not having moved from his stance at the entrance of the room. Its as if he was stuck in time. Oh, and how he wished it were so. To forever paint his wife’s figure standing in front of their framed mirror while wearing that… dress.

Its length almost swept the floors, coming up gracefully to cover her legs. The waist was tied neatly to show her figure. And his eyes trailed up to where the fabric delicately covered her chest to finally tie around her neck. The back was as open figure. One she would most likely cover up with a shawl.

If he could just reach for her spine and allow his fingers to linger down- no. How can such a modest dress unravel him so?

“Its…. lovely.”

Lovely. He thought it to be exquisite.

“Oh, well I guess its nice.” Her face fell slightly. Her attention still turned to her own figure in the mirror while swaying from side to side to examine every angle.

This made him approach her from behind and tried to reassure her. “Very much so.”

She was satisfied with that answer, knowing she wouldn’t get much verbally from her husband. It was nothing extravagant so why should she expect anything more?

“Could you help me untie it?” She requested innocently.

It didn’t help him that she even gathered her hair to the side, giving him, what he could describe as, a pang in his chest.

He froze.

“Sev?” She looked behind her to meet his eyes and he instantly melted.

Closing the gap between them, he pressed into her. It was like satisfying the impossible pull he felt since witnessing her in that dress. His hand, finally, found the soft skin of her back while the other circled her into him.

“Oh! What’s gotten into you, my love?” She gasped, unable to contain her smile.

“No.” His lips pressed to her cheek once. Then, he trailed down her jaw.

“No?”

Now she grew concerned. She was used to him not offering many words or long dialects, other than the rare occasions he did allow himself the pleasure. Severus was a listener and a writer. One of his best qualities was how eloquent he could present himself, no matter the circumstance. So for him to not make much sense at the moment was alarming.

“Are you feeling alright?” She managed to get out between his affections.

Sensing her worry, he slowed. His actions didn’t stop completely but it allowed him to pull up from her neck and speak into her hair. “No, im not helping you out of the dress.”

Her confusion only grew. Before she could protest, he continued.

“I don’t want you to take it off.”

Then, it clicked.

It was as if a light had flickered in her head. He was smitten with the dress. Or rather, her in the dress.

She moved to face him, still trapped in his arms. “You like my dress, Severus?”

His face grew a few shades darker as she reached over his shoulders to play with the soft ends of his black hair. She smiled up at his nervous expression and that was his end.

He closed the gap between them lovingly, quickly finding out that it had nothing to do with the dress.

….

*Not proof read*

[alanrickmangifs]

ALAN RICKMAN as Steven Spurrier BOTTLE SHOCK (2008) dir. Randall Miller

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Promotion💼

Author's Note: I recently watched The Search for John Gissing, and I can confirm it is a very underrated indie comedy. AR is great in it, and I find the lack of John Gissing fics disappointing.

If you have not participated in the Summer Rickation exit poll, please do so! It is very helpful information for hosting next year's event and knowing what you all would like to see more of on my blog!

Character(s): John Gissing x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: John receives a promotion and a new office. While he anticipates your arrival for a lunch date, he receives the shock of his life when he discovers the presence of a new desk pet.

Warning(s)‼️: Smut. Under Desk BJ/Oral Sex.

Word Count: 1.5k

Read on AO3 or below the break:

He’d kept his fingers crossed for over a decade, and his diligence had finally paid off. John Gissing, a hardworking man through and through, or so he liked to think, was at long last, nearing the precipice of the corporate ladder.

He had successfully defended his position against numerous usurpers over the years—most notably the American, Barnes, who had caught on to his hijinks in record time and chose to counterattack with his own ingenious methods. Barnes had bested him, a fact John loathed to admit even to himself, the thought bringing a sourness to his mouth. But then the idiotic man came to the conclusion that the family life was what he truly desired—hang the money, hang the prestige, hang the endless meetings in dull beige conference rooms. 

The little cozy life in the suburbs was never something that appealed to him, especially given his love of the bustling, no-nonsense city of London. His love of walking with purpose, with importance, as he made his way to work every morning—meticulous as the constant ticking of the old grandfather clock he was positioning in his newly awarded office.

John Gissing had been promoted yesterday, leaving him with just one more poor sod to outmaneuver in the Compu-Corps chain of command. His thirst for figurative blood never left him sated, even in his triumph.

He kicked the swivel chair out from his desk, sitting down heavily and opening up a folded up brown box full of stationery for his desk drawer, when his soul nearly left his body. Two hands gripped his upper thighs, pulling him by the belt loops into his desk, his stomach digging heavily into the thick mahogany wood. “What the?” He scooted back, looking down, squinting with confusion when his hazel eyes hidden behind thick black plastic frames locked on your face.

“Surprise!” You smiled, finger raised to your lips to shush his protests. “Relax, John, and let me take care of you.” You seductively tugged at his belt, pawing at the crotch of his trousers. He watched with a lust his eyes were poorly attempting to hide. He grimaced, before nodding, as if he were trying to convince himself of the idea.

“Yes, yes, alright, but make it quick. Doubtless everyone knows you're here now, and you promised me lunch.” You grinned, while he attempted to make himself appear busy, shooting nervous glances at the sliver of glass window uncurtained on the door to his office. 

“After this, I think I will be quite full.” He looked down, just as you managed to unbuckle him, the tight silver zipper of his black trousers falling open with a sharp snip. You pulled out his rapidly hardening cock, the cool air of the complex a shock to his system, as was your teasing puffs of warm breath aimed at his naked bits. 

“Get on with it,” he growled through gritted teeth, his nervousness transforming into bitter annoyance. 

“Patience is a virtue,” you hissed, every syllable sending a breeze of harsh, pressurized air straight at his penis, doing nothing to curb his growing need.

“Most men’s patience is not being tried so salaciously, is it—” His office door swung inward with a click, John ensured his lower half was hidden beneath his desk, his legs spread to accommodate your presence. His erection twitched, much to your intrigue, still resting atop his trousers—twitching as if waving for your attention. And you were only too happy to give it that.

“---Gissing!” The newer company recruit entered his office, a stack of white papers stapled together at the top left corner clutched firmly in hand, a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes carefully plastered in place as he approached John’s desk.

“Hanson,” he grunted, feeling the warmth of each of your palms settling on each of his thighs. “What an unexpected surprise.” And an unwanted one, is what he wished to say, though that sort of remark would be deeply unproductive in this—unfortunate—situation. 

“Congratulations on the promotion—Fulliere’s old office—not bad at all.” Hanson was looking around the office with barely checked envy, eyeing the aged grandfather clock in the corner. He brushed a lock of sandy blond hair from his face, tutting to himself softly. “Much better than that old chair.” John could not voice a protest against that. Not at all.

Your lips were so close to his cock—less than an inch he would bet—and the heat surrounding his member was beginning to effectively drive him mad, his arousal unavoidable, as his loins tensed in anticipation. “Indeed,” he bit out, as your lips wrapped around his shaft, the wet sounds nearly noiseless in the large office—just how he intended it to stay. 

“Say, has your partner come in, yet? I thought I saw them enter your office twenty minutes ago, and you mentioned you were going out to lunch together—you know, to celebrate.” John could have walked over to his stack of boxes beside his desk and given them a few good kicks, or perhaps released a string of swear words the world had never heard of until that afternoon. Instead, he remained seated, a tight smile on his face—the slight smile he had to maintain to receive the object of his ambitions, the enforcement of the corporate equilibrium he thrived within.

“Er, yes, we still plan to go to lunch. They’ve gone to the loo—you know how it is.” Hanson chuckled, while John hid his yelp with a cough, the tip of his cock smarting from where you grazed him with your teeth. He supposed he deserved that for his definitely unconcealed barb—even if he was covering for both of your skins at the moment. You pulled off his dick, moving to lick him from shaft to tip like a popsicle, and he sorely wished he could look down to see the sight you made—worshipping his cock like a professional. 

“Alright, Gissing? You sound as if you are under the weather.” John found himself impressed with Hanson’s faux concern, impressed by his ability to perform empathy when he knew without a doubt Hanson was sniffing out a way to pick up his slack—to play the hero should John fail. After all, it was the sort of thing he, himself, tended to do.

“Fine—just a slight tickle of the throat.” He swallowed a groan as you swallowed him to the hilt, praying you had the good sense to refrain from sucking off while Hanson was still lingering at his office door.

“If you say so,” he looked at John strangely, leaning forward to drop the report on the exposed dark wood of his desk. “Here you are—let me know if it meets your approval.” Hanson winked, turning on his heel and exiting the office briskly, the door snapping shut. 

John let out a breath he did not know he was withholding, moaning as he felt your lips squeeze his shaft with a newfound aggression. “Christ, you’re relentless! You know that was a close call,” he snarled, but his outrage could not last long, and neither could his stamina. 

Thin fingers dipped into his boxers, gently cradling his heavy sack. He felt so pent-up—his normal stress compounded by the promotion and your near discovery. “Ohhh,” he moaned, allowing himself to slump into his chair, Hanson’s report gripped in his meaty hand. “Please, I need this,” his hips thrusted forward, the hand not grasping the report, fisting your hair, keeping your head nicely buried on his aching crotch. 

“Oh, fuck!” He spilled—pleasure filling his lower belly as he filled your throat with his hot seed. And you were good to him—so good to him—not a single drop of his cum met the polished floor, as he felt you swallow his fresh load. John went spineless in his chair, body relaxed, hand crumpling the report loose. You licked his limp member clean, tucking and zipping him up in his trousers like this was a daily occurrence—like this was a usual one o’clock meeting between your mouth and his cock.

You stepped out from under John’s desk, sitting down in his lap to face him, straddling his thighs. Lovingly, you adjusted John’s crooked glasses’ frames, fixed his disheveled hair and straightened his rumpled tie. “How about lunch, handsome?” You asked, evenly, as if you had not just sucked him off while he spoke with a colleague. A pained sound left John’s throat, as you carefully carded through his hair. “We don’t want to provoke any more suspicion, yes? And perhaps I can have some dessert, later,” you seductively whispered into his ear, nipping the flesh of his earlobe. Something snapped in the man, his expression unfreezing to reveal his usual appearance of seriousness. 

“Yes, let us go before you cause us any real trouble. And behave.” He pointed his index finger meaningfully at you, and you chose to lean in and try to bite it. John pulled his finger away at the last second, looking both thoroughly affronted and a touch aroused.

“Absolute insatiable minx.” 

And you were proud of it. 

Quite.

[sips---tea]

What Severus Snape Does To Relax

- Severus doesn't get a lot of time to relax, having marking, duties and worries making him unable to relax.

- a good way to get Severus to relax is hugging him from behind and planting a gentle kiss on his head. Also, you just ordering him to relax, telling him that you care only for his well being which includes taking a break, you are very good at nagging the dark-haired man to take a break for you.

- "Please Severus, relax" you moaned, wrapping your arms around his neck as Severus sat in front of his desk. He frowned a little, tutting you away for the third time, however, you would not budge until Severus left the useless marking and relaxed with you.

- when he does finally relax he usually does it with a glass of alcohol, depending on the mood it could be red wine, fire whiskey or sweet cider.

- Severus finds it easier to relax in your presence, you have a calming effect over him, no matter what you are doing, from marking to laying in his arms, you always helped to make Severus relaxed.

- You just talking allows Severus to relax, he loves your voice and could listen to you for hours, his head laid against your shoulder or on your lap. He also loves to have you in his arms as he relaxes, his face nuzzled into your neck or in your hair, your scent filling him up completely.

- Severus loves in his free time to read a book, being lost in the stories so he can forget everything bad which happens to him. He loves most genres, but his favourites are either research books on subjects he enjoys or mysteries so he can theorise, which he is always good at.

- Baths are another place which Severus can relax, although he does not fit in the tub properly, his legs slightly sticking out. He likes it more when you are with him, just enjoying the warm water surrounding you and you wrapped in his arms.

- Night walks in the forest is one of his favourite things to do. Severus finds the night calm and it helps to clear his mind as he walks through the dark forest, his hands intertwined in yours as you walk together, forgetting everything about your duties and troubles as you walk through the silent woods.

- When you are away, Severus finds it harder to relax, he often hugs the pillow that you sleep on or will make a potion that smells just like you which can let him relax.

Warning: sex

- the pastime of having sex is another thing which Severus uses to relax, orgasming giving relief for your whole body. Because of that, Severus when he is stressed or just needs to relax will fuck you.

- When you are away he will sometimes masturbate to your scent and his mind with you in it. This does not compare to the real thing, however, it fulfils him for now.

[sips---tea]

Yandere alphabet for Severus

Warning: Yandere

Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?

Severus shows his love through looks, long and tight hugs, potions he makes just for you and being more gentle toward you. Because Severus is not the best at showing love and affection, it will not get very intense, only if he is feeling very emotional which only happens sometimes.

Blood: How messy are they willing to get when it comes to their darling?

Severus would do anything for you, he would use sectumsempra, bleeding someone who wants to hurt you and come home, blood dripping from his clothes and hair, both his and the person's. No matter who it is, a fellow death eater, a muggle, he will do whatever it takes to protect you

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

Severus would treat you well, he loves you so much that he wishes to keep you for himself. He would only hurt your feelings if he was angry and would not know better, not having someone as close as you before. He will not understand if he hurt your feelings, however, he would feel angry with himself if he hurt you.

Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling's will?

Sometimes Severus will slip potions into your food or drinks to make you feel better or make you well if you are ill. Apart from that, Severus would not do anything against your will.

Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?

At the start, Severus is very closed and will not tell you anything about his past. However, as time goes on, Severus will tell you everything about his childhood, trauma and past.

Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?

Severus would feel sad and be angry that you would not want to stay with him. He would consider slipping a love potion into your food to keep you docile for him.

Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?

Severus doesn't really enjoy you trying to escape, it hurts him, as he has a terrible fear of abandonment. He would be angry and give you the silent treatment and might slip potions into your food or drink.

Hell: What would be their darling's worst experience with them?

The silent treatment. Severus is very good at giving you the silent treatment and sometimes you don't even know why. This will make you feel even more alone than you have ever been, Severus not listening if you ask for help, food or water until you beg for his forgiveness.

Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?

Severus just wants you to stay with him, your future is with him. You are his, his stress relief, his love. The future is unknown and he will take one step at a time with you

Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?

Severus gets jealous, although he does not say. Severus will, with his worry of being abandoned will stare at a person who is the reason for the jealousy, anger in his eyes. If you reciprocate, Severus will give you the silent treatment for as long as he sees fit.

Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?

Severus acts more gentle around you, he lets go of his walls to protect himself and he melts into your person.

Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?

He was awkward to approach you, meeting you in school, you became friends, however, you lost contact. When you become a professor at Hogwarts, Severus is even more awkward but approaches you with memories of school.

Mask: Are their true colours drastically different from the way they act around everyone else?

Inside, Severus is quite sad and needs someone to be with like you. He can open up to you, show his kinder and gentler side which he hides to protect himself from those who want to hurt him.

Naughty: How would they punish their darling?

Silent treatment, Severus can not talk to you or even react to your voice if you have been bad. This makes you frustrated and angry at Severus, however, he will not talk until he believes it is right. Severus will also if you agree, with sex, tying you up and fucking you until you apologise and spew forgiveness from your quivering mouth.

Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?

Not many, he will want to make sure that you do not leave him or hurt him. The ring which he have you has a little tracker inside so he knows where you are so he can make sure you are safe and not in places you should not be.

Patience: How patient are they with their darling?

It depends, on some things like your worries he is very patient, however, if you get annoyed at him, don't do as he says or try to leave, Severus is not at all patient with you.

Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?

It will be hard for Severus to move on. Like with Lily, he will feel his heartbreak in two. He will spend a lot of time grieving and being unable to believe that you are gone.

Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?

Slightly, however, he believes that you being with him is more important than you being free and without him.

Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?

His childhood, worry of isolation and people leaving him. Therefore, he wants to make sure that you will always stay with him by taking you to be his.

Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?

Severus will not know what to do, having never have had to look after someone who is giving off these emotions. He will at first withdraw from you and then, when you do not stop will hold you until you stop.

Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic yandere?

Severus does not show how in love he is with you, he keeps it inside him and only shows it after a while of you two being together.

Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?

When he gives you the silent treatment, he will not even look at you, allowing you to escape from him. He also gives you freedoms, and if you take the ring off he would find it harder to find you.

Wit's end: Would they ever hurt their darling?

In sex he will bite you, but apart from that, Severus would not want to hurt you, he adores you and would never want to see you hurt, especially by himself.

Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?

Severus adores you, your kindness and personality being a draw for him. He wishes to keep you and have your love all to himself, therefore he will very much revere you as a perfect and beautiful being which he wishes to keep as his.

Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?

Years and years. Severus is not good at understanding his emotions and it will take him a while to take you.

Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?

He may, when he is taken up entirely by emotion, then when he realises what he has done he will break himself by the emotion of what he did to you. He will try and make you better and happy again with him.

[sips---tea]

Tear you apart // Severus x reader (smut)

You are the herbology assistant who organises the potion's plant stock. Tension grows between you and it breaks at the yule ball

This is a short story based on the song Tear you apart by She want's revenge. Inspired by an edit by Jxschysed!ts, it is so good

(Written with she/her pronouns)

Warnings: sex, biting

It was late, and Severus sat in his personal quarters, his palm against his cheek to support his distracted mind. He was lit by a few winking candles which sent long shadows against his dark green walls. Severus was trying his uttermost to focus on marking. Such a task was terribly difficult as you filled his mind. He closes his dark eyes. This is just a momentary thought he thinks. Yet he leans back indulging himself in thinking of you.

You are the new herbology assistant, working for Professor Sprout in growing and keeping the potion master's collections fully stocked with all types of plant matter. You had replaced a rather incompetent old man who had of in the role since before time immamorial. Unlike him you are attentive and his potions where enhanced due to the quality of your ingredients. You where also rather solicitous to him, often knocking on the door to his office with quill and parchment in hand. At first Severus found you irritating and strange that instead of sending him an owl you sought him out in his private study. His rather abrasive language to keep you at arms length did little to quell your nosiness. Soon he, without realising, began to expect you, unconsciously his black mood lightening at the little knock and the way you peeped gingerly behind the door at him. Severus also began to notice you during his duties. A few times he had almost bumped into you on your errands or in corners of the potions classroom. Once he entered his stock cupboard to see you halfway up a ladder. Such a close proximity to you began to get under his skin, your presence turning from an annoyance to a tolerating to a like. 

Today, however, he had come upon you at the worst possible moment, in a classroom cupboard that fitted just one. Severus had burst in on autopilot, the door shutting behind him and crashed into you with his chest as you where about to leave. Startled you inched backwards, hitting the shelves behind you. You stared up at him with your doe-like eyes, meeting his dark black ones. For a moment you both stood still, Severus pressed closely into you. A dark thought suddenly billowed through his mind - of one hand grabbing your back to sharply pull you into him and his other pulling your chin roughly towards his to kiss you hard. For a moment his fingers twitch in anticipation but his thoughts where interrupted with you murmuring his name. 

Severus cleared his throat quietly, restraining himself, and slowly he inched backwards out the door. You, eyes to the floor hurried out, clutching your notepad to your chest. Severus watched you go, a frown pulling at his cold face.

Such a look tugged at his lips again as he leaned forwards and tried again to focus on his work. He had got to a tedious paper with the writer attempting to argue a rather ludicrous point about the ethics of using truth serum. Soon again his mind returns to the closet. He remembers your surprise, the way your pupils widened and your cheeks became tinged with red. Oh how warm you looked in that moment. He imagined feeling the warmth of your face against his cold hand, and you leaning into it. How soft your lips must be, which in the cupboard had quivered in surprise. He could just imagine your lips against his, you grasping at his robes, him entangling his fingers in your hair to pull you closer. Severus sighed, picturing your laboured breathing and your closed eyes as he presses himself against you. One of his hands slips of the table, fiddling with his robes and undoing his fly. For a moment he yields to his mind, feeling his hardness through his boxers. He was about to pull his straining cock out when the grandfather clock that stood behind him chimed twelve midnight. 

His eyes flicked open and he grimaces, all of a sudden feeling rather stuffy in his room. His eyes flick back to his marking and he stands abruptly, needing some fresh air. "This is just a crush" he mutters to himself as he makes his out of the dungeons and finds himself in the main greenhouse. It was dark and cool, with the soothing sound of rain patterning against the glass. Every so often the moon stole a peek through the cloud, illuminating the space with a silvery sheen.

"Up late I see" a voice says from across the room.

"Pomona" Severus replies, keeping his eyes straight toward a large flowering ditany plant.

"Do you need anything?" she asks, coming closer toward him

Severus ignored her.

"You've seemed rather distracted" she murmurs. After a moment of silence she continues. "Is it the tournament?" she asks "and the ghost of a past life?"

"the ghost is manageable" Severus replies curtly, thinking of Igor's constant pestering. 

Pomona senses his dark tone and quickly changes the subject "well is there any plant matter needed for your stock?" she asks

"Nothing at this time" he replies.

"Well (y/n) has been rather wonderful at her job" Pomona replies, her pride for you beaming as brightly as the moon shone at that moment. Severus on the other hand scowls, he had left his quarters to escape his thoughts, yet now they all came flooding back again. The moon had disappeared behind cloud and he pulled at his collar, once again feeling claustrophobic in his thick robes.

"I might just steal her away for some teaching hours" she adds

"You shall do no such thing" Severus snaps but immediately he shuts his mouth, realising what he said. He pulled further at his collar.

"is she too good to lose?" she titters. "Well I cannot change her job description till the end of the school year, so enjoy her till then" she shakes her head and turns. "Nighty Night Severus"

Severus doesn't reply, quickly making his way out of the greenhouses. Through the dark he strides feeling even more suffocated and awkward. To his horror he turns a corner and comes face to face with you, a lit wand in your hand. He shrinks backwards into the shadows but it was too late.

"Severus" you say, a smile forming on your lips. Severus doesn't reply, for a moment frozen but quickly he recovers.

"Professor" he replies and gives you curt nod as he speeds past you like a bat fleeing from a hungry owl. It doesn't take him long to return to the sanctuary of his personal quarters before he makes a bigger fool of himself.

"It's just a silly figment of my imagination" he repeats as sheds his heavy robes off himself and dragging himself into bed, finally finding comfort in his warm covers.

Your POV:

You had a fright when Severus materialised out of the darkness as you returned from patrol. You where partly glad he had barreled past you in a hurry. You still feeling rather embarrassed from that morning. Of being wedged between Severus and the wall, him staring down at you with his intense black eyes. You could feel his body beneath his robes and smell his black musk and exotic incense aftershave which clung to his body. He was so dangerously overpowering in that moment, making you completely disorientated, your heart pounding in anticipation, your cheeks burning and your body tingling.

"Severus" you murmur and unconsciously you pressed further against him. Severus seemed to snap out of his trance and looked away from your eyes and slowly backed out of the cupboard. This movement opened the door, letting light stream into the dark space. Part of you was disappointed at this reaction, your body beginning to ache in all the right places. Quickly you bounded out of the cupboard and into the hallway. For a moment you stood still, trying to calm your breathing and hugging your notepad close to your bosom.

You held the same notepad now as you made your way to your private quarters, keeping your eyes open for the dominating potions master

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

A few days has past and you hadn't seen Severus in that time, being kept busy with growing and preparing mandrakes for the second year class. Before you knew it the yule ball was upon the school and it was abuzz with excitement. Pomona was supposed to be on chaperoning duty for the afterparty, but feigned, with a twinkle in her eye, that she was stricken with rather nasty migraine. and now you stood there in your quarters in your mucky robes starting into your cupboard with dismay. If only she had burdend this with you earlier, rather than coming in a few hours before while you where tending to the plants and joking that "no you cannot bring a mandrake as your date".

Your eyes catch your smartest robe and a similarly coloured flowing dress which seemed to match the dress code of a grand winter celebration.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It didn't take long for you to be ready and congregate in the great hall. You marveled at the magnificence of the decoration, a huge Christmas tree stood on the back platform and from it white and grey effervescent fabric was draped and ballooned out above your head. The roof mirrored the dark sky, with little white crystal flakes falling about you and disappearing before they touched the ground.

"No Pomona tonight?" Minerva asks, coming up behind you and standing with you.

"She sends her apologies" you say

"Well she isn't one for parties, nor partial to uncomfortable clothes" Minerva replies, "but you look splendid"

"thank you" you reply in surprise, taken aback. "and so do you"

"Thank you dear" she replies. "Now your duties for tonight will be to enjoy yourself at the dance and then patrol to" she pauses for a moment unsure how to say. "to interrupt intrepid students in the castle and her grounds"

You cringe at the thought and wished you had refused to fill in for Pomona.

Soon students began to assemble and the doors closed, ready for the champions and their dates to enter. You stand off to the side, watching Severus slips in and stands with Minerva and Albus. He seemed to have not put much thought into his outfit, donned in his signature black. You try your best not to think about him, his dark eyes and the way his body pressed into yours. Thankfully, with the doors opening you where able to watch as the champions entered and began to dance to the music skillfully conducted by Filius. Soon Albus and Minerva join them and you inch forwards closer to the dance floor. You hadn't noticed Severus had done the opposite and you meet each other a few steps away from the waltzing,

"Professor" he says, straightening his back and clasping his hands behind him.

"Here to dance?" you ask, looking up at Severus as scoffs at your suggestion. Now closer to him, you noticed that Severus wasn't in his usual garb, he was donned in a black frock coat and he had slightly curled the front few strands of hair. He meets your eyes and you are immediately taken back to a few days ago and you quickly look away, analysing the dancers.

Severus joins you in watching them. He hadn't expected you to attend as your name was not on the rota. When his eyes fell on you his mind raced. He found, regretfully, that he couldn't take his eyes off you in your robe and formfitting dress that was so different from your usual dirt covered flaxen outfit.

"I am waiting for the opportune moment to leave" he replies after a while of silence.

"Yes this isn't really my cup of tea" you reply, watching as the students became more rowdy, pulling their partners to the dance floor. "and not what I thought I'd spend tonight doing"

"Yes I noticed you have stood in for Professor Sprout"

"She said she had a migraine"

"Perhaps I too have a migraine" Severus says flatly and begins to move backwards. He was fed up of watching others dance and was beginning to feel rather hot under the collar again.

"Perhaps I can find some mistletoe" you reply absent mindedly, trying to follow him. Severus raises one eyebrow and you realise "Mistletoe, it is used for a simple poison antidote" you add, trying not to go red in embarrassment at the connotation. By Merlin you wished that he had kissed you in the closet, at least then it might be less awkward.

Severus moves further back. He was so conflicted, he wanted you but he knew the danger of letting himself have you, knowing he wouldn't be able to control himself if you let him. To his dismay and excitement you edge backwards with him and soon you find yourself in the small hallway that led to the back of the great hall.

The door swings shut behind you with a click and you stand together in the shadowy corridor which still held the echo of music from the main chamber. You stand a few inches apart and for a moment you stare at each other in the same way you both did before in the closet .

"Severus I" you begin, your breath catching in your throat and your fingers tingling. You moved forward, filling the gap between you and your hands slightly graze his. Severus looks down at you, his own hands begging to clench. Suddenly Severus' gaze becomes deeper, as you let him into your head. In surprise Severus finds you as needy and begging for his touch as he has for you. For a moment he stops, is this right? But he made up his mind, and in one movement he pushes you against a stone wall into the shadows behind the inside of the door. His breath was sharp and deep, for a moment you stare at each other and then his lips where roughly on yours, pushing ever further. Your heart skips a beat and after a moment of surprise you kiss back, your hands reaching up and resting against Severus' sides. One of his reaches up, cupping your cheek in his cold hand to lift your face even closer. All other things dissipated in that moment, the stress and responsibilities which burdened you both giving way to two people hungry and desperate for each other.

For a moment you become dizzy and your lips part and you breathe heavily against each other. He stares into your eyes, his nose grazing your cheek. He wanted more, feeling his hardness struggle against his tight trousers. In an instant his lips where back on yours with deeply fervent kisses, while his other hand slips under your robe, lightly caressing your dress-clad sides, it felt wrong to grab your skin, well at least for the moment. His leg pushes between your legs, touching your aching core and making you for him to press against it. For a moment the two of you are in shaking bliss, not wishing ever to stop then suddenly the door clicks and part of the hallway is filled with light.

Immediately Severus lets go of your lips and presses himself against you, his chin above your head, nuzzled into your hair. He couldn't help but smell your scent and feel the softness of your strands against his cheek. You try not to make a noise, your face wedged between the stone and Severus' hard chest. Together you hide in the shadows, Severus' black robes shielding you as the person walks away from the pair of you.

You both stand silently as the person walks away and after what seemed like an age the door clicked back into place, tenebrosity enveloping the hallway once again. Tentatively Severus moves away, this hallway was not the right place for these deeds to occur.

"Come" he says flatly, grasping your wrist and pulling you away into the darkness.

You stumble forward, your heart beating out of your chest as he pulls you down a spiral staircase into the dungeons, along a corridor and through a door. He pulls you in, closes the door and pushes you against it, two arms by your ears.

"Severus" you say, your body aching deeply

"you have haunted my mind" Severus almost spits at you in frustration, his face was so close to yours and again you began to spiral, the same smell, the same eyes. Being in private Severus felt he could kiss harder and faster, intertwining his hands through your lovely smelling hair. His other hand traces your hips again and grippes you, holding you close against him. 

You stop for a moment, breathing heavily. You felt completely overcome with need for him and you press your lips against his once again. He eagerly meets you, and maneuvering your hair he pushes you ever further into him. Severus becomes more intense, biting at your lip in turn and his leg pushing between yours again. You sigh against his kisses at his movements, your body beginning to ache deliciously. You begin to push against his leg, craving so much more and relief. A wicked smirk seems to form on Severus' lip and your lips part.

"Tell me you need this" Severus whispers

"I do" you stutter over your words in anticipation. "Please Severus I need you". In response he pulls you backwards, letting you go and makes his way through a door. You realised you where in his personal quarters and had been kissing in his private potions lab. The room was large and cold, filled with dark green light. Slowly you follow behind Severus and find yourself in his bedroom. It was tall and clad in green. His bed to your left and the potions master stood in front of it on a a thick rug. He had taken off his great coat and came to the final button of his robes revealing a smart white shirt. Shakely, due to the cold of the room and the exhilarating events, you pull of your robe. Severus comes toward you and takes it from your hand, hanging it with his great coat and sits on the bed, watching you as he slowly removes his cufflinks and places it on his nightstand.

You advance, toward him and he stands, cupping his cold hand against your warm cheek and his other hand going to your back and fiddling at the zip of your dress. Agonisingly slowly he pulls it down, causing you to break out in goosebumps across your body. For a moment which seemed like forever you just stare at each other as he teases your zip down. You couldn't bare it any further and you quickly fiddle with your dress, completely pulling it down. You shiver against the cold air and his colder hand. Your hands reach out to his dress shirt and begin to undo his buttons, revealing skin underneath which you brush with your fingers. You noticed how pronounced his collar bones are and how he had a slight trail of hair beginning at his lower abdomen. One hand you rest against his bare chest and your other you begin to pull his shirt of but he takes your wrist to stop you and pulls you closer, with a hand snaking round and undoing your bra. Being so close to Severus you feel his bulge which pressed through the fabric of his trousers against your lower abdomen. Your breath catches and he pushes closer, his hardness brushing your aching core. You breath heavily, letting Severus slowly move you so your back was now to the bed and gently he pushes you down. You where completely bare to him bar your panties which you knew where completely sodden. You watch as Severus fiddles with his trousers, his fingers brushing his hair as he does so and in a swift movement he pulls them down and climbs above you on the bed. His white shirt still clung to his back as he lowers himself and presses his cool flesh against yours.

It felt like Severus was made for you and your arms snake under his shirt and grip his back, pulling him further into yourself. Severus tried his best to be gentle, as he once again laced his fingers through your hair and pulled you to his lips.

It felt so right as your lips met again, your body fitted together perfectly like two puzzle pieces and you pressed against each other wishing that two could become one in the mere act. Severus let his full weight lean against you as his other hand brushes against your skin and meeting your breast, feeling how soft and supple it was in his fingers. To this you begin to push your pelvis against his, feeling his warm throbbing dick through your panties and against your lower stomach. Oh how much you needed him inside you.

You kiss harder, trying your best to signal to your lover your desperate need of him. Severus on the other hand was trying not to lose control and tear your body apart with his own. He was so mesmerised with you how warm and soft your skin was. He needed to feel your warmth all over him. You both let go and you stare up at him with so much need in your eyes. Severus looked down, his hair perfectly framing his face. He no longer could he hold himself back.

With a tug of your hair he pulls your head round and lowers so that his lips touched your ear. "I'm going to tear you apart" he whispers, and bites your ear greedily, his hot breath tickling your skin. You writhe and whimper against him, your whole body now aching for him to stimulate you. Severus lets go and his hand reaches down, pulling down your panties and cupping you in his hand. He is taken aback at how warm your core is and pushes his ring and middle finger into you. You take a sharp breath in and thrust your hip against his hand. He was so cold and you moan quietly has he pulls out and stares at his fingers slick with you. Severus edges back, kneeling over your hips and teasing his cock with his wet fingers.

Your breath hitches at the sight of the potions master, his hair tussled, shirt hanging limply against him and his large dick already glistening with precum. Your heart beats in your throat as he once again leans over you, guiding his tip against you. For a moment he leaves himself there savoring the moment as you grind your hips against him in your selfish need for motion and feeling. Without warning and a grunt, Severus thrusts deeply into you. You moan loudly at this, closing your eyes and gripping his dark green sheets in your hands in pleasure. Unlike his fingers, his dick was so warm and thick, filling you up so perfectly.

Severus could hardly constrain himself and he leans further down, levering himself so he could quicky and affectively thrust in and out of you without mercy. This was exactly what he wanted, it felt so right to be  enveloped by your soft and warm body and for him to use it to whatever he seemed fit.

One hand moves to your breast, feeling it's softness in his fingers and your hard nipple which he pinches harshly. You shiver at his cold fingers and close your eyes ever tighter, feeling overstimulated by his actions. The aching of your clit becomes worse and you begin to rock your hips with the potions master's heavy movements, needing to find some relief. Severus notices this and slowly he traces his way down from your hard nipple down to your diaphragm to your stomach and further till he reaches a few inches from your aching clit. You groan in anticipation, rocking your hips again to try and feel the sensation you where longing for. What seemed like an age occurred of him hitting your insides and teasing your clit by his fingers resting ever so closely. 

"Severus" you whimper, one of your hands grabbing his and trying to force his fingers to move against your throbbing bud. In response Severus slaps your hand and completely stops. The room is suddenly silent, your heavy breathing filling it completely. 

"Be patient" he snarls "Or I shan't continue" you mewl weakly to this, slowly removing your hand from his. "Good girl" he cooes and after a few moments of agonising waiting he continues his onslaught. Finally his fingers rest on your clit and he slows his thrusts to draw large circles against your aching bud with his two fingers.

You murmur his name again, tears beginning to sting your eyes. You feel his dick throbbing against your walls and you can tell he was so close. You open your eyes to see that Severus had closed his and a look desperation had befallen upon it. His hair was disheveled and slightly sticking to his sweaty face. You reach up and pull him further toward you by the back of his head, catching his lips in yours. He groans against your lips, kissing back slowly as his hand on your clit stops and he grabs your hips in effort to push himself further and further, trying to chase his orgasm which was so so close. His lips let go of yours and he leans his head above your shoulder, taking your skin in his teeth and biting hard as he cums deeply inside you, completely filling you with his warmth. Immediately his full weight leans against you and his thrusts become sloppy as he chases it to the end.

You let out a shaky breath, your aching feeling ever more urgent. Severus on the other had was still and silent. His eyes where closed against the covers, he was trying his best to come down from the dizzy high and also noticing the exhaustion which was pulling at his body. Sleep called for him but he ignored it, shakily pushing himself back above you and pulling out. He noticed the way his cum oozed out of you and his face contorts to disgust at the way it seeped onto his sheets. 

"Severus" you groan, pulling him out of his trance. He looks at you with his dark eyes, the intensity had gone from them and you noticed how tired he looked. You frowned, looking away feeling bad at how much you still throbbed for his touch. Severus reads this and his hand returns to you, his fingers moving through your folds, feeling the mixture of your juices. Slowly he edges further up, finding your clit again and begins his circling once more, this time with a purpose. You breath out a sigh of happiness as your hips shake with your building pleasure. Severus enjoyed watching this, the way you reacted at his every move and touch, you where completely at his mercy and such a fact grounded him. 

"Faster, please faster" you groan and he obeys, his fingers twirling your clit deliciously. His other hand reaches up and takes your nipple again, stimulating it between his two fingers in such a way that left you shaking and moaning for him. You where so close. Your hips tremble as you orgasm for him, the wave of pleasure completely wash over you. You let out a broken moan, grasping at the blankets and for a moment all you can think is Severus. 

The pleasure passes and you lie there in the aftermath, your eyes half closed and your clit throbbing with pleasure. Severus shifts away from you, sheds his shirt and lies beside you, face staring at the dark roof. There you two rest. The tension between the two of you completely quenched, giving way to contentment.

[sips---tea]

I'm mourning for my wattpad account that has seemed to have been banned. Rip seven years of fanfiction😵‍💫

[snapesno1thighrider]

WHATT???? HUH?? IF YOU'RE MOURNING THEN I'M GRIEVING TOO. I HAVE MEMORIES IN YOUR FANFICS, I CAN NO LONGER REREAD THEN AGAIN????

[alanrickmangifs]

ALAN RICKMAN as Antoine Richis PERFUME: THE STORY OF A MURDERER (2006) dir. Tom Tykwer

[muiitoloko]

Warnings: Smut

Frank felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket halfway through turning the sausages.

It was a small, insistent buzz against his thigh, nearly lost beneath the easy noise of his son’s garden; laughter drifting from the patio, glasses clinking on the table, one of the grandchildren shrieking triumphantly over some invented lawn game, and his son insisting from three feet away that he absolutely knew what he was doing with a barbecue.

Frank did not believe that for a second.

“You’re going to cremate those,” Frank said, flipping two pieces of meat with the authority of a man who had commanded rooms full of generals and ministers and was now applying the same tactical focus to a grill.

His son gave him a look. “They’re fine.”

“They are not fine. They are moments away from becoming evidence.”

A laugh went around the garden.

Frank allowed himself the smallest smile, then lifted his beer and took a measured sip. The afternoon had softened into that golden hour where everything looked more forgiving than it really was. The grass was bright, the smoke from the grill curled lazily into the air, and across the garden, seated beneath the shade of an umbrella, you looked perfectly harmless.

Too harmless, perhaps.

You sat with your legs crossed beneath your summer dress, one hand curled around a glass, listening politely to whatever his daughter-in-law was saying. The picture of innocence. Young, pretty, composed. His wife. Still an impossible fact some days, though Frank had stopped pretending he disliked the way people looked twice when he introduced you that way.

The phone buzzed again.

Frank sighed through his nose, set the tongs down, and wiped his hand on a towel before fishing the mobile from his pocket. He expected something official, out of habit more than reason. A message from someone who still believed retirement meant “available for consultation.” Perhaps some tiresome forwarded article from an old colleague. Perhaps his son, absurdly texting him from across the garden to stop interfering with the grill.

But it was your name on the screen.

Frank glanced up.

You did not look at him.

That was suspicious.

He brought the phone closer to his face, squinting slightly because his reading glasses were inside on the kitchen counter and he was not about to admit he needed them in front of half his family. The first line came into focus.

Then the second.

Then the third.

For a moment, Franklin Benson, Lieutenant General retired, decorated, disciplined, and famously composed under circumstances that made other men sweat through their shirts, simply stared at his phone.

His expression did not change.

That was training.

Inside, however, something very much did.

Heat moved through him with disgraceful speed, low and immediate, catching him off guard so sharply that his fingers tightened around the bottle of beer in his other hand.

He read the message again, slower this time, as though repetition might somehow make it less indecent.

It did not.

I keep thinking about you bending me over the table inside and fucking my pussy with that thick cock of yours until I can’t stay quiet.

Frank inhaled once.

Carefully.

A little too carefully.

The smoke from the grill stung his eyes, or at least that was what he told himself when he blinked.

Across the garden, you lifted your glass to your mouth and took a small sip. Calm. Sweet. Almost angelic.

Then your eyes flicked to him.

Only for half a second.

It was enough.

Frank’s hazel eyes narrowed.

You looked away again immediately, lips pressing together as if you were trying not to smile.

Oh, you dangerous little thing.

“Dad?” his son asked. “Everything okay?”

Frank locked the phone with a precise click and slid it back into his pocket.

“Perfectly.”

His voice came out lower than usual, a deep baritone roughened at the edges. He cleared his throat and turned back to the grill, moving the meat away from the hotter coals before anything caught fire—anything else, at least.

“You sure?” his son asked.

Frank gave him a dry look. “I have survived considerably worse than a barbecue.”

That much was true.

Though at present, the barbecue was making a valiant effort.

For the next ten minutes, Frank performed the role of respectable grandfather, competent father, and harmless older husband with exceptional discipline. He turned the food. He accepted compliments. He answered a question about politics with enough vagueness to avoid ruining the afternoon. He told his grandson not to run near the grill. He smiled when required.

And all the while, your message sat in his pocket like a live round.

Every time he glanced across the garden, there you were, apparently absorbed in conversation, lashes lowered, mouth soft, hands folded in your lap as though those same hands had not just sent filth directly into his bloodstream.

Another buzz.

Frank did not move immediately.

He waited. Counted to three. Turned a piece of chicken. Took another sip of beer.

Then he checked.

Don’t look so serious, darling. You know you want to.

Frank’s jaw tightened.

A second message appeared before he could respond.

I want your hands on my hips. I want your voice in my ear telling me to take it.

His thumb hovered over the screen.

He should not answer.

Not here.

Not at his son’s house, surrounded by family, children, smoke, salad bowls, and paper plates. Not while his daughter-in-law was asking whether anyone wanted more bread rolls. Not while you were sitting ten yards away with your knees pressed neatly together, pretending you were not deliberately trying to undo him in public.

Frank looked at you again.

This time, you met his eyes.

There was nothing innocent in your face now.

Not quite.

Your expression remained soft, yes, but your gaze held his a fraction too long. Challenging him. Teasing him. Waiting to see what the very controlled, very proper Frank Benson would do.

He typed with one hand.

Behave.

He sent it.

You looked down at your phone.

Your smile appeared slowly.

Frank regretted the message at once.

Because he knew you.

And because he knew, with the grim certainty of a man watching a poor decision unfold in real time, that telling you to behave had never once made you behave.

Your reply came less than a minute later.

Make me.

Frank stared at those two words.

His blood rushed south so abruptly he had to shift his stance.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” his son asked.

“Nothing.”

His son leaned closer to inspect the grill. “You sure that one’s done?”

Frank turned his head very slowly. “Do you want to cook, or do you want to question the man preventing you from poisoning your guests?”

His son lifted both hands. “Fine, fine.”

Frank returned his attention to the phone.

His thumb moved before his conscience could stop him.

You are playing a very dangerous game.

Your answer came almost instantly.

I know.

Then:

That’s why it’s fun.

Frank closed his eyes briefly.

When he opened them, you were no longer watching him. You were laughing at something someone had said, head tilted slightly back, throat exposed, sunlight catching the curve of your cheek. You looked warm and bright and entirely too pleased with yourself.

He hated how much he loved it.

He hated, more specifically, how well you knew what it did to him when you provoked him in places where he could not immediately put his hands on you.

Frank was not a reckless man. He had built an entire career on restraint, calculation, measured action. He was not easily baited. He did not lose his head over a look, a smile, a filthy little text sent from across a garden.

Except, apparently, when it was you.

Another message.

I can still feel you from this morning.

Frank’s grip tightened around the phone.

Careful, he typed.

You answered:

Or what?

Frank looked at you then, really looked at you, and something in his expression must have changed, because your smile faded by a degree. Not from fear. Never that. From recognition.

There he was.

Not the polite husband at a family gathering. Not the man flipping meat on the grill. Not the grandfather pretending he had no wicked thoughts beneath his button-down shirt and sensible shoes.

Your Frank.

The one with the low voice and heavy hands. The one who could pin you with a look before he ever touched you. The one who could make you feel naked from across a room.

He typed slowly.

Or I will take you inside, bend you over the nearest table, lift that pretty dress, and give you exactly what you are asking for.

He paused.

Then added:

And you will have to keep quiet while I do it.

He sent it.

Across the garden, you looked down.

Frank watched your face carefully. The slight parting of your lips. The way your fingers tightened around your glass. The small, almost imperceptible shift of your thighs under the table.

Good.

His mouth curved.

Only barely.

Your reply took longer this time.

I don’t think I can keep quiet.

Frank’s pulse beat heavily in his throat.

He glanced around. No one was paying attention to him. His son had wandered off toward the drinks cooler. The grandchildren were arguing over a football. His daughter-in-law was gathering plates.

The respectable thing would have been to stop.

Naturally, Frank did not.

Then I shall have to put my hand over your mouth.

You looked at your phone.

Then at him.

Frank could almost see the words moving through you.

Your cheeks had colored. Not much, but enough. You hid it by taking another drink.

He sent another before he could think better of it.

Or perhaps I’ll make you bite down on my fingers while I fuck that needy little pussy properly.

You lowered your glass too quickly.

Frank’s satisfaction was immediate and deeply improper.

For a while, neither of you moved toward the other. That was the worst part. The waiting. The ordinary conversation. The public decency stretched thin over something filthy and private. Frank handed out plates of food. You accepted yours with a polite “thank you” when his daughter-in-law brought it over. Someone asked you if you wanted more salad, and you answered sweetly, while Frank stood across the garden imagining your dress rucked around your waist and your hands braced against polished wood.

It was intolerable.

You made it worse by sending one more message.

I’m wet.

Frank read it once.

That was all it took.

He set his beer down.

Calmly.

“Excuse me,” he said to no one in particular. “I need to fetch something from inside.”

No one questioned him.

Why would they?

Frank Benson did not look like a man walking toward a bad decision. He looked composed. Mildly distracted, perhaps. A little flushed from the heat of the grill. White hair neat, shoulders squared, shirt stretched slightly over the softness of his middle, hooked nose giving his profile that severe, almost hawkish authority you found unfairly attractive.

He passed behind your chair on his way to the house.

His hand brushed the back of your neck.

Briefly.

Casually.

To anyone watching, it was nothing.

To you, it was a command.

You waited nearly a full minute before rising.

“I’m just going to use the bathroom,” you said.

Frank heard your voice from the kitchen doorway and almost smiled.

He continued inside.

The house was cooler, quieter, dimmer after the bright garden. He walked through the kitchen, past the dishes, past the large wooden table where bowls and condiments had been arranged before being carried outside. He stopped beside it.

A moment later, you entered.

You closed the door behind you.

For one second, neither of you spoke.

The muffled noise of the barbecue continued outside, distant and harmless. Inside, the air had changed entirely.

Frank stood with one hand resting on the back of a chair, his phone still in the other. His hazel eyes moved over you slowly, from your face to your dress to your bare legs and back again.

“You,” he said, voice low, “are a menace.”

Your mouth twitched. “I didn’t do anything.”

Frank’s eyebrows lifted.

He unlocked his phone and held it up.

“You sent your husband pornography at a family barbecue.”

“You liked it.”

“That is not a defense.”

“It’s a little bit of a defense.”

“It is absolutely not.”

You took one step closer. “Then why did you answer?”

Frank’s gaze darkened.

That was the mistake.

You knew it as soon as you said it.

He set the phone on the table with deliberate care and moved toward you. Not quickly. Frank rarely did anything quickly when he wanted you nervous. He approached with that measured, assured pace that made your stomach tighten before he even touched you.

“You want to know why I answered?” he asked.

His baritone voice dropped lower on every word.

You swallowed.

“Yes.”

Frank stopped in front of you. Close enough that you could smell smoke on his shirt, beer on his breath, and the clean, familiar warmth of his skin beneath it.

“Because,” he said, “my young wife decided to sit in my son’s garden looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth while telling me she wanted my cock.”

Your breath caught.

Frank noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

“She decided,” he continued, “to tease me while I was expected to smile, serve lunch, and pretend I was not imagining bending her over this table.”

Your thighs pressed together.

Frank’s gaze dropped.

“Ah,” he murmured. “There it is.”

You tried to look composed. “There what is?”

“That look.” His hand came up, thumb brushing your lower lip. “The one you get when you realize you may have pushed me far enough to get what you wanted.”

Your lips parted under his thumb.

Frank’s expression tightened.

“Dirty little thing,” he said softly.

The words went through you like heat.

“I’m not,” you whispered.

“No?” His thumb dragged slowly along your lip. “You didn’t write to me about your wet pussy while sitting ten feet from my grandchildren?”

Your face burned.

Frank leaned closer, mouth near your ear.

“You didn’t tell me you wanted me to bend you over and fuck you with my thick cock?”

Your knees nearly gave.

He caught the change at once. One of his hands closed around your waist, firm and possessive.

“Careful,” he murmured. “I haven’t even touched you properly.”

“You’re touching me now.”

“This?” His fingers tightened. “This is polite.”

“Frank.”

His name came out smaller than you intended.

His eyes sharpened.

“There,” he said. “That is better.”

You looked up at him. “Are you going to kiss me or lecture me?”

Frank’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous.

“I can do both.”

Then he kissed you.

It was not gentle. Not after those messages. Not after the sight of you sitting outside, crossing your legs and pretending innocence while sending filth to his phone. Frank kissed you like he was making a point, one hand at your waist, the other sliding into your hair, holding you still while his mouth took yours with controlled hunger.

You gripped his shirt.

He made a low sound in his throat.

“Don’t wrinkle it,” he murmured against your lips.

You laughed breathlessly. “Seriously?”

“I still have to go back outside.”

“Then maybe you should behave.”

Frank went still.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “That was unwise.”

Your pulse jumped.

Frank turned you before you could answer, guiding you toward the table. Not rough enough to hurt. Never that. But firmly enough that your breath left you in a rush when your hips met the edge.

His mouth came close to your ear.

“Hands on the table.”

You obeyed.

Frank’s palm slid down your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades until you bent forward slightly. The position was not enough to expose you completely, not yet, but enough to make your body understand exactly where this was going.

Outside, someone laughed loudly.

You froze.

Frank leaned over you, broad and warm, his stomach pressing against your back, his voice a dark murmur beside your ear.

“Now you remember where we are?”

“Frank…”

“No, sweetheart. You were very brave over text.” His hand skimmed over your hip. “Let’s see how brave you are now.”

He gathered the hem of your dress slowly.

Too slowly.

The fabric whispered up your thighs, inch by inch. You gripped the table harder.

Frank looked down.

A breath left him.

“God help me,” he said, voice rough now. “You really are wet.”

You turned your face slightly, embarrassed. “I told you.”

“Yes.” His hand settled heavily on your hip. “You did.”

His fingers traced the edge of your underwear.

“Did you sit out there like this the entire time?”

You closed your eyes. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Yes.”

Frank hummed, low and disapproving, though you could feel exactly how much he liked the answer.

“You sat at my son’s table with this pretty cunt soaked for me?”

Your breath trembled.

“Answer me.”

“Yes.”

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, touching you with maddening restraint.

You gasped.

Frank’s other hand came over your mouth instantly.

“Quiet,” he murmured. “Unless you want everyone outside to know what you begged me for.”

Your eyes fluttered.

He touched you again, slower.

“Is that what you wanted?” he whispered. “For them to hear you? For them to know I brought you inside and put my hands under your dress because you couldn’t behave?”

You shook your head against his palm.

“No?” His voice was velvet-dark. “Then be good for me.”

You nodded.

Frank rewarded you with a kiss to the side of your neck, surprisingly tender compared to the obscene patience of his fingers.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl.”

Your body melted at the praise.

He noticed that too.

“Ah. You like that.” His fingers moved again, firmer this time. “You like being filthy and praised for it.”

You made a small sound behind his hand.

Frank’s breath warmed your ear.

“I know,” he said. “I know, sweetheart.”

For a few moments, there was only the muted garden noise, your uneven breathing, and Frank’s low voice guiding you through the heat he had built between you.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Bent over my son’s kitchen table because you couldn’t wait until we got home.”

You whimpered.

His hand tightened over your mouth.

“Careful.”

You nodded desperately.

“That needy?” he asked. “You needed my cock badly enough to risk this?”

Your fingers curled against the wood.

“Yes,” you breathed when he eased his hand just enough to let you answer.

Frank groaned quietly.

The sound alone almost undid you.

He pressed his hips against you, letting you feel the hard evidence of what your messages had done to him. For all his composure, all his restraint, all that calm authority wrapped around him like a uniform he had never quite removed, he was still a man. Your man. Warm, solid, aroused, breathing harder than he wanted to admit.

“Feel that?” he asked.

You nodded.

“That is what you did to me.”

“I wanted to.”

“I know you did.” His hand stroked your thigh. “Shameless thing.”

You pushed back against him slightly.

Frank’s grip on your hip became iron.

“Do not start something you cannot finish quietly.”

“I can be quiet.”

He laughed once, softly, wickedly.

“No, you can’t.”

Then his mouth was at your neck again, his hand between your thighs, his voice in your ear, saying all the things he would never say outside that room.

“I want you shaking before I give you my cock.”

“Frank—”

“I want you so wet I can slide into you easily.”

Your eyes closed.

“I want you thinking about this when we go back outside,” he continued, each word deliberate. “Sitting there at the table, smiling politely, with my come still inside you.”

The words hit so hard you nearly made a sound too loud.

Frank covered your mouth again.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That is the one you liked.”

You were burning now, trembling against the table, caught between embarrassment and need and the awful thrill of being so close to discovery. Frank’s hand left you only long enough to deal with his belt, the sound small but unmistakable in the quiet kitchen.

Your heart pounded.

He paused.

For all the heat in him, all the roughness in his voice, his hand came to your waist with sudden gentleness.

“Still with me?” he asked quietly.

You turned your head enough to see him.

His face had changed. The desire was there, yes, unmistakable in his eyes and the tension around his mouth. But beneath it was Frank as he always was with you in the moments that mattered: attentive, careful, steady.

You nodded. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “I want this.”

His expression softened for a fraction of a second.

Then his hand slid up your back and pressed you down again.

“Good.”

The word was almost a growl.

He shifted behind you, one hand on your hip, the other braced beside yours on the table.

“Then keep quiet for me.”

The first push of him made both of you go still.

You clapped a hand over your own mouth before he could do it for you.

Frank exhaled sharply through his nose, head lowering, white hair brushing your temple as he fought for control.

“Christ,” he breathed. “You feel perfect.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

He filled you slowly, not because he lacked urgency, but because Frank Benson could turn restraint into its own kind of cruelty. Inch by inch, he gave you what you had asked for, his body heavy behind yours, his hand gripping your hip under your bunched-up dress.

When he was fully inside you, he stopped.

You made a broken little sound into your palm.

Frank’s mouth brushed your ear.

“That thick enough for you, sweetheart?”

You nodded helplessly.

“No.” His voice was rough. “Words.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, Frank.”

His hand slid around to your stomach, holding you against him.

“You wanted me to fuck this pussy?”

“Yes.”

“Here?” he asked, drawing back just enough to make you gasp. “In my son’s house?”

“Yes.”

“Filthy girl.”

Then he moved.

Slow at first. Deep. Controlled. Each thrust measured enough to keep the table from making noise, but not merciful enough to let you breathe properly. Your fingers spread against the wood. His hand came over yours, large and warm, pinning it there.

Outside, someone called his name.

Frank stopped.

You froze beneath him, eyes wide.

“Dad?” his son’s voice came faintly from the garden. “You find what you were looking for?”

Frank did not pull away.

Did not even seem to panic.

He leaned over you, one hand covering your mouth again, his cock still buried deep inside you.

“Yes,” he called, voice astonishingly calm. “Just a minute.”

You nearly sobbed against his palm.

Frank’s mouth touched your ear.

“Not one sound,” he whispered.

Then, impossibly, cruelly, he gave one slow thrust.

Your whole body jerked.

His hand sealed tighter over your mouth.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Take it.”

You could feel the smile in his voice.

“You wanted dirty talk, didn’t you?” he murmured. “You wanted me talking in your ear while I fucked you where anyone could walk in.”

You nodded, dizzy with it.

Frank’s pace changed then, still controlled, still careful of the noise, but harder. More certain. He held you exactly where he wanted you, using short, deep thrusts that made your legs tremble.

“Such a wet little cunt for me,” he whispered. “So desperate. So sweet when you’re trying not to cry out.”

Your nails scraped lightly against the table.

“That’s it. Hold on.”

His breath was heavier now. His voice less polished. The composed officer slipping, the husband taking over, the man who had read your message and spent the last half hour pretending he was not imagining this.

“You feel what you do to me?” he said. “You feel how hard you make me?”

“Yes,” you breathed behind his hand.

“You’re mine like this.”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

When he eased his hand away, you whispered, “I’m yours.”

Frank’s hips stuttered once.

His jaw pressed against your temple.

“Again.”

“I’m yours.”

“Good girl.”

The praise broke something in you.

You clenched around him, and Frank made a low, dangerous sound, his grip tightening almost painfully on your hip.

“Careful,” he warned, but it was useless now and you both knew it.

He slipped his hand between your thighs again, still moving inside you, and your body went rigid.

“Frank—”

“I know.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.” His voice was all command now. “Quietly.”

You bit down on your own hand as pleasure built too fast, too hot, your whole body trembling against the table. Frank kept you there, held you through it, his mouth at your ear.

“That’s it. Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You shattered silently, or as silently as you could manage, a muffled cry trapped behind your hand as your body tightened around him.

Frank groaned.

“God, sweetheart.”

His control frayed after that.

Only then.

His thrusts became rougher, less perfect, his breathing uneven against your neck. He buried his face briefly against your shoulder, hands gripping you as though you were the only solid thing in the room.

“Where?” he asked hoarsely.

“Inside,” you whispered. “Please.”

That did it.

Frank’s whole body tensed behind you. He pushed deep, holding himself there as he came with a low, broken sound that he barely managed to swallow against your skin.

For several seconds, neither of you moved.

The world returned slowly.

The garden. The barbecue. The muffled voices outside. The smell of smoke still clinging to his shirt. Your dress bunched around your waist. Frank’s weight warm behind you, his breath gradually steadying.

At last, he kissed the back of your shoulder.

Once.

Then again.

Gentler now.

“You,” he said quietly, “are going to be the death of me.”

You laughed softly, still breathless. “At least you’ll die happy.”

Frank huffed, but the sound was fond.

He eased away carefully and helped you straighten, turning you toward him before you could fix your dress yourself. His hands were tender now, smoothing the fabric down, adjusting the straps, checking your face with the same quiet attention he gave to everything important.

Your cheeks were flushed. Your lips were swollen. Your eyes were bright.

Frank looked deeply pleased with himself.

“You look guilty,” he said.

“You look smug.”

“I have reason to be.”

You slapped his arm lightly.

He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles.

Then, because he was Frank, because he could say the most obscene things in the same tone he used to request tea, he leaned close and murmured, “When we get home, I am going to put you in our bed, spread your legs properly, and take my time with that pretty pussy until you forget every reckless thought in your head.”

Your breath caught again.

Frank smiled.

“Assuming,” he added, straightening with maddening composure, “you can make it through dessert without sending me another filthy message.”

You looked up at him.

Then slowly, deliberately, you reached for your phone on the table.

Frank’s eyes narrowed.

“Do not.”

You smiled sweetly.

Outside, his son called again. “Dad?”

Frank closed his eyes for a moment, as though appealing to whatever remained of his self-control.

Then he opened them and pointed one stern finger at you.

“We are finishing this later.”

You slipped your phone back into your hand.

“I hope so.”

Frank gave you a look so dark and promising that your stomach flipped.

Then he picked up his beer, smoothed one hand over his white hair, and walked back toward the garden looking, to any reasonable observer, like a perfectly respectable retired officer who had simply gone inside to fetch something.

You followed a minute later.

At the table, no one seemed to notice anything except that Frank looked slightly more relaxed and you could not quite meet his eyes when his daughter-in-law asked if you wanted more potato salad.

Frank sat across from you, hazel eyes calm over the rim of his glass.

Then your phone buzzed.

You looked down.

A message from him.

Behave until we get home, and I’ll reward you.

A second later:

Misbehave, and I’ll reward you anyway.

[muiitoloko]

Warnings: Smut

Frank felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket halfway through turning the sausages.

It was a small, insistent buzz against his thigh, nearly lost beneath the easy noise of his son’s garden; laughter drifting from the patio, glasses clinking on the table, one of the grandchildren shrieking triumphantly over some invented lawn game, and his son insisting from three feet away that he absolutely knew what he was doing with a barbecue.

Frank did not believe that for a second.

“You’re going to cremate those,” Frank said, flipping two pieces of meat with the authority of a man who had commanded rooms full of generals and ministers and was now applying the same tactical focus to a grill.

His son gave him a look. “They’re fine.”

“They are not fine. They are moments away from becoming evidence.”

A laugh went around the garden.

Frank allowed himself the smallest smile, then lifted his beer and took a measured sip. The afternoon had softened into that golden hour where everything looked more forgiving than it really was. The grass was bright, the smoke from the grill curled lazily into the air, and across the garden, seated beneath the shade of an umbrella, you looked perfectly harmless.

Too harmless, perhaps.

You sat with your legs crossed beneath your summer dress, one hand curled around a glass, listening politely to whatever his daughter-in-law was saying. The picture of innocence. Young, pretty, composed. His wife. Still an impossible fact some days, though Frank had stopped pretending he disliked the way people looked twice when he introduced you that way.

The phone buzzed again.

Frank sighed through his nose, set the tongs down, and wiped his hand on a towel before fishing the mobile from his pocket. He expected something official, out of habit more than reason. A message from someone who still believed retirement meant “available for consultation.” Perhaps some tiresome forwarded article from an old colleague. Perhaps his son, absurdly texting him from across the garden to stop interfering with the grill.

But it was your name on the screen.

Frank glanced up.

You did not look at him.

That was suspicious.

He brought the phone closer to his face, squinting slightly because his reading glasses were inside on the kitchen counter and he was not about to admit he needed them in front of half his family. The first line came into focus.

Then the second.

Then the third.

For a moment, Franklin Benson, Lieutenant General retired, decorated, disciplined, and famously composed under circumstances that made other men sweat through their shirts, simply stared at his phone.

His expression did not change.

That was training.

Inside, however, something very much did.

Heat moved through him with disgraceful speed, low and immediate, catching him off guard so sharply that his fingers tightened around the bottle of beer in his other hand.

He read the message again, slower this time, as though repetition might somehow make it less indecent.

It did not.

I keep thinking about you bending me over the table inside and fucking my pussy with that thick cock of yours until I can’t stay quiet.

Frank inhaled once.

Carefully.

A little too carefully.

The smoke from the grill stung his eyes, or at least that was what he told himself when he blinked.

Across the garden, you lifted your glass to your mouth and took a small sip. Calm. Sweet. Almost angelic.

Then your eyes flicked to him.

Only for half a second.

It was enough.

Frank’s hazel eyes narrowed.

You looked away again immediately, lips pressing together as if you were trying not to smile.

Oh, you dangerous little thing.

“Dad?” his son asked. “Everything okay?”

Frank locked the phone with a precise click and slid it back into his pocket.

“Perfectly.”

His voice came out lower than usual, a deep baritone roughened at the edges. He cleared his throat and turned back to the grill, moving the meat away from the hotter coals before anything caught fire—anything else, at least.

“You sure?” his son asked.

Frank gave him a dry look. “I have survived considerably worse than a barbecue.”

That much was true.

Though at present, the barbecue was making a valiant effort.

For the next ten minutes, Frank performed the role of respectable grandfather, competent father, and harmless older husband with exceptional discipline. He turned the food. He accepted compliments. He answered a question about politics with enough vagueness to avoid ruining the afternoon. He told his grandson not to run near the grill. He smiled when required.

And all the while, your message sat in his pocket like a live round.

Every time he glanced across the garden, there you were, apparently absorbed in conversation, lashes lowered, mouth soft, hands folded in your lap as though those same hands had not just sent filth directly into his bloodstream.

Another buzz.

Frank did not move immediately.

He waited. Counted to three. Turned a piece of chicken. Took another sip of beer.

Then he checked.

Don’t look so serious, darling. You know you want to.

Frank’s jaw tightened.

A second message appeared before he could respond.

I want your hands on my hips. I want your voice in my ear telling me to take it.

His thumb hovered over the screen.

He should not answer.

Not here.

Not at his son’s house, surrounded by family, children, smoke, salad bowls, and paper plates. Not while his daughter-in-law was asking whether anyone wanted more bread rolls. Not while you were sitting ten yards away with your knees pressed neatly together, pretending you were not deliberately trying to undo him in public.

Frank looked at you again.

This time, you met his eyes.

There was nothing innocent in your face now.

Not quite.

Your expression remained soft, yes, but your gaze held his a fraction too long. Challenging him. Teasing him. Waiting to see what the very controlled, very proper Frank Benson would do.

He typed with one hand.

Behave.

He sent it.

You looked down at your phone.

Your smile appeared slowly.

Frank regretted the message at once.

Because he knew you.

And because he knew, with the grim certainty of a man watching a poor decision unfold in real time, that telling you to behave had never once made you behave.

Your reply came less than a minute later.

Make me.

Frank stared at those two words.

His blood rushed south so abruptly he had to shift his stance.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” his son asked.

“Nothing.”

His son leaned closer to inspect the grill. “You sure that one’s done?”

Frank turned his head very slowly. “Do you want to cook, or do you want to question the man preventing you from poisoning your guests?”

His son lifted both hands. “Fine, fine.”

Frank returned his attention to the phone.

His thumb moved before his conscience could stop him.

You are playing a very dangerous game.

Your answer came almost instantly.

I know.

Then:

That’s why it’s fun.

Frank closed his eyes briefly.

When he opened them, you were no longer watching him. You were laughing at something someone had said, head tilted slightly back, throat exposed, sunlight catching the curve of your cheek. You looked warm and bright and entirely too pleased with yourself.

He hated how much he loved it.

He hated, more specifically, how well you knew what it did to him when you provoked him in places where he could not immediately put his hands on you.

Frank was not a reckless man. He had built an entire career on restraint, calculation, measured action. He was not easily baited. He did not lose his head over a look, a smile, a filthy little text sent from across a garden.

Except, apparently, when it was you.

Another message.

I can still feel you from this morning.

Frank’s grip tightened around the phone.

Careful, he typed.

You answered:

Or what?

Frank looked at you then, really looked at you, and something in his expression must have changed, because your smile faded by a degree. Not from fear. Never that. From recognition.

There he was.

Not the polite husband at a family gathering. Not the man flipping meat on the grill. Not the grandfather pretending he had no wicked thoughts beneath his button-down shirt and sensible shoes.

Your Frank.

The one with the low voice and heavy hands. The one who could pin you with a look before he ever touched you. The one who could make you feel naked from across a room.

He typed slowly.

Or I will take you inside, bend you over the nearest table, lift that pretty dress, and give you exactly what you are asking for.

He paused.

Then added:

And you will have to keep quiet while I do it.

He sent it.

Across the garden, you looked down.

Frank watched your face carefully. The slight parting of your lips. The way your fingers tightened around your glass. The small, almost imperceptible shift of your thighs under the table.

Good.

His mouth curved.

Only barely.

Your reply took longer this time.

I don’t think I can keep quiet.

Frank’s pulse beat heavily in his throat.

He glanced around. No one was paying attention to him. His son had wandered off toward the drinks cooler. The grandchildren were arguing over a football. His daughter-in-law was gathering plates.

The respectable thing would have been to stop.

Naturally, Frank did not.

Then I shall have to put my hand over your mouth.

You looked at your phone.

Then at him.

Frank could almost see the words moving through you.

Your cheeks had colored. Not much, but enough. You hid it by taking another drink.

He sent another before he could think better of it.

Or perhaps I’ll make you bite down on my fingers while I fuck that needy little pussy properly.

You lowered your glass too quickly.

Frank’s satisfaction was immediate and deeply improper.

For a while, neither of you moved toward the other. That was the worst part. The waiting. The ordinary conversation. The public decency stretched thin over something filthy and private. Frank handed out plates of food. You accepted yours with a polite “thank you” when his daughter-in-law brought it over. Someone asked you if you wanted more salad, and you answered sweetly, while Frank stood across the garden imagining your dress rucked around your waist and your hands braced against polished wood.

It was intolerable.

You made it worse by sending one more message.

I’m wet.

Frank read it once.

That was all it took.

He set his beer down.

Calmly.

“Excuse me,” he said to no one in particular. “I need to fetch something from inside.”

No one questioned him.

Why would they?

Frank Benson did not look like a man walking toward a bad decision. He looked composed. Mildly distracted, perhaps. A little flushed from the heat of the grill. White hair neat, shoulders squared, shirt stretched slightly over the softness of his middle, hooked nose giving his profile that severe, almost hawkish authority you found unfairly attractive.

He passed behind your chair on his way to the house.

His hand brushed the back of your neck.

Briefly.

Casually.

To anyone watching, it was nothing.

To you, it was a command.

You waited nearly a full minute before rising.

“I’m just going to use the bathroom,” you said.

Frank heard your voice from the kitchen doorway and almost smiled.

He continued inside.

The house was cooler, quieter, dimmer after the bright garden. He walked through the kitchen, past the dishes, past the large wooden table where bowls and condiments had been arranged before being carried outside. He stopped beside it.

A moment later, you entered.

You closed the door behind you.

For one second, neither of you spoke.

The muffled noise of the barbecue continued outside, distant and harmless. Inside, the air had changed entirely.

Frank stood with one hand resting on the back of a chair, his phone still in the other. His hazel eyes moved over you slowly, from your face to your dress to your bare legs and back again.

“You,” he said, voice low, “are a menace.”

Your mouth twitched. “I didn’t do anything.”

Frank’s eyebrows lifted.

He unlocked his phone and held it up.

“You sent your husband pornography at a family barbecue.”

“You liked it.”

“That is not a defense.”

“It’s a little bit of a defense.”

“It is absolutely not.”

You took one step closer. “Then why did you answer?”

Frank’s gaze darkened.

That was the mistake.

You knew it as soon as you said it.

He set the phone on the table with deliberate care and moved toward you. Not quickly. Frank rarely did anything quickly when he wanted you nervous. He approached with that measured, assured pace that made your stomach tighten before he even touched you.

“You want to know why I answered?” he asked.

His baritone voice dropped lower on every word.

You swallowed.

“Yes.”

Frank stopped in front of you. Close enough that you could smell smoke on his shirt, beer on his breath, and the clean, familiar warmth of his skin beneath it.

“Because,” he said, “my young wife decided to sit in my son’s garden looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth while telling me she wanted my cock.”

Your breath caught.

Frank noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

“She decided,” he continued, “to tease me while I was expected to smile, serve lunch, and pretend I was not imagining bending her over this table.”

Your thighs pressed together.

Frank’s gaze dropped.

“Ah,” he murmured. “There it is.”

You tried to look composed. “There what is?”

“That look.” His hand came up, thumb brushing your lower lip. “The one you get when you realize you may have pushed me far enough to get what you wanted.”

Your lips parted under his thumb.

Frank’s expression tightened.

“Dirty little thing,” he said softly.

The words went through you like heat.

“I’m not,” you whispered.

“No?” His thumb dragged slowly along your lip. “You didn’t write to me about your wet pussy while sitting ten feet from my grandchildren?”

Your face burned.

Frank leaned closer, mouth near your ear.

“You didn’t tell me you wanted me to bend you over and fuck you with my thick cock?”

Your knees nearly gave.

He caught the change at once. One of his hands closed around your waist, firm and possessive.

“Careful,” he murmured. “I haven’t even touched you properly.”

“You’re touching me now.”

“This?” His fingers tightened. “This is polite.”

“Frank.”

His name came out smaller than you intended.

His eyes sharpened.

“There,” he said. “That is better.”

You looked up at him. “Are you going to kiss me or lecture me?”

Frank’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous.

“I can do both.”

Then he kissed you.

It was not gentle. Not after those messages. Not after the sight of you sitting outside, crossing your legs and pretending innocence while sending filth to his phone. Frank kissed you like he was making a point, one hand at your waist, the other sliding into your hair, holding you still while his mouth took yours with controlled hunger.

You gripped his shirt.

He made a low sound in his throat.

“Don’t wrinkle it,” he murmured against your lips.

You laughed breathlessly. “Seriously?”

“I still have to go back outside.”

“Then maybe you should behave.”

Frank went still.

Slowly, he lifted his head.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “That was unwise.”

Your pulse jumped.

Frank turned you before you could answer, guiding you toward the table. Not rough enough to hurt. Never that. But firmly enough that your breath left you in a rush when your hips met the edge.

His mouth came close to your ear.

“Hands on the table.”

You obeyed.

Frank’s palm slid down your spine, pressing between your shoulder blades until you bent forward slightly. The position was not enough to expose you completely, not yet, but enough to make your body understand exactly where this was going.

Outside, someone laughed loudly.

You froze.

Frank leaned over you, broad and warm, his stomach pressing against your back, his voice a dark murmur beside your ear.

“Now you remember where we are?”

“Frank…”

“No, sweetheart. You were very brave over text.” His hand skimmed over your hip. “Let’s see how brave you are now.”

He gathered the hem of your dress slowly.

Too slowly.

The fabric whispered up your thighs, inch by inch. You gripped the table harder.

Frank looked down.

A breath left him.

“God help me,” he said, voice rough now. “You really are wet.”

You turned your face slightly, embarrassed. “I told you.”

“Yes.” His hand settled heavily on your hip. “You did.”

His fingers traced the edge of your underwear.

“Did you sit out there like this the entire time?”

You closed your eyes. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Yes.”

Frank hummed, low and disapproving, though you could feel exactly how much he liked the answer.

“You sat at my son’s table with this pretty cunt soaked for me?”

Your breath trembled.

“Answer me.”

“Yes.”

His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, touching you with maddening restraint.

You gasped.

Frank’s other hand came over your mouth instantly.

“Quiet,” he murmured. “Unless you want everyone outside to know what you begged me for.”

Your eyes fluttered.

He touched you again, slower.

“Is that what you wanted?” he whispered. “For them to hear you? For them to know I brought you inside and put my hands under your dress because you couldn’t behave?”

You shook your head against his palm.

“No?” His voice was velvet-dark. “Then be good for me.”

You nodded.

Frank rewarded you with a kiss to the side of your neck, surprisingly tender compared to the obscene patience of his fingers.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Good girl.”

Your body melted at the praise.

He noticed that too.

“Ah. You like that.” His fingers moved again, firmer this time. “You like being filthy and praised for it.”

You made a small sound behind his hand.

Frank’s breath warmed your ear.

“I know,” he said. “I know, sweetheart.”

For a few moments, there was only the muted garden noise, your uneven breathing, and Frank’s low voice guiding you through the heat he had built between you.

“Look at you,” he murmured. “Bent over my son’s kitchen table because you couldn’t wait until we got home.”

You whimpered.

His hand tightened over your mouth.

“Careful.”

You nodded desperately.

“That needy?” he asked. “You needed my cock badly enough to risk this?”

Your fingers curled against the wood.

“Yes,” you breathed when he eased his hand just enough to let you answer.

Frank groaned quietly.

The sound alone almost undid you.

He pressed his hips against you, letting you feel the hard evidence of what your messages had done to him. For all his composure, all his restraint, all that calm authority wrapped around him like a uniform he had never quite removed, he was still a man. Your man. Warm, solid, aroused, breathing harder than he wanted to admit.

“Feel that?” he asked.

You nodded.

“That is what you did to me.”

“I wanted to.”

“I know you did.” His hand stroked your thigh. “Shameless thing.”

You pushed back against him slightly.

Frank’s grip on your hip became iron.

“Do not start something you cannot finish quietly.”

“I can be quiet.”

He laughed once, softly, wickedly.

“No, you can’t.”

Then his mouth was at your neck again, his hand between your thighs, his voice in your ear, saying all the things he would never say outside that room.

“I want you shaking before I give you my cock.”

“Frank—”

“I want you so wet I can slide into you easily.”

Your eyes closed.

“I want you thinking about this when we go back outside,” he continued, each word deliberate. “Sitting there at the table, smiling politely, with my come still inside you.”

The words hit so hard you nearly made a sound too loud.

Frank covered your mouth again.

“There it is,” he murmured. “That is the one you liked.”

You were burning now, trembling against the table, caught between embarrassment and need and the awful thrill of being so close to discovery. Frank’s hand left you only long enough to deal with his belt, the sound small but unmistakable in the quiet kitchen.

Your heart pounded.

He paused.

For all the heat in him, all the roughness in his voice, his hand came to your waist with sudden gentleness.

“Still with me?” he asked quietly.

You turned your head enough to see him.

His face had changed. The desire was there, yes, unmistakable in his eyes and the tension around his mouth. But beneath it was Frank as he always was with you in the moments that mattered: attentive, careful, steady.

You nodded. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “I want this.”

His expression softened for a fraction of a second.

Then his hand slid up your back and pressed you down again.

“Good.”

The word was almost a growl.

He shifted behind you, one hand on your hip, the other braced beside yours on the table.

“Then keep quiet for me.”

The first push of him made both of you go still.

You clapped a hand over your own mouth before he could do it for you.

Frank exhaled sharply through his nose, head lowering, white hair brushing your temple as he fought for control.

“Christ,” he breathed. “You feel perfect.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

He filled you slowly, not because he lacked urgency, but because Frank Benson could turn restraint into its own kind of cruelty. Inch by inch, he gave you what you had asked for, his body heavy behind yours, his hand gripping your hip under your bunched-up dress.

When he was fully inside you, he stopped.

You made a broken little sound into your palm.

Frank’s mouth brushed your ear.

“That thick enough for you, sweetheart?”

You nodded helplessly.

“No.” His voice was rough. “Words.”

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, Frank.”

His hand slid around to your stomach, holding you against him.

“You wanted me to fuck this pussy?”

“Yes.”

“Here?” he asked, drawing back just enough to make you gasp. “In my son’s house?”

“Yes.”

“Filthy girl.”

Then he moved.

Slow at first. Deep. Controlled. Each thrust measured enough to keep the table from making noise, but not merciful enough to let you breathe properly. Your fingers spread against the wood. His hand came over yours, large and warm, pinning it there.

Outside, someone called his name.

Frank stopped.

You froze beneath him, eyes wide.

“Dad?” his son’s voice came faintly from the garden. “You find what you were looking for?”

Frank did not pull away.

Did not even seem to panic.

He leaned over you, one hand covering your mouth again, his cock still buried deep inside you.

“Yes,” he called, voice astonishingly calm. “Just a minute.”

You nearly sobbed against his palm.

Frank’s mouth touched your ear.

“Not one sound,” he whispered.

Then, impossibly, cruelly, he gave one slow thrust.

Your whole body jerked.

His hand sealed tighter over your mouth.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “Take it.”

You could feel the smile in his voice.

“You wanted dirty talk, didn’t you?” he murmured. “You wanted me talking in your ear while I fucked you where anyone could walk in.”

You nodded, dizzy with it.

Frank’s pace changed then, still controlled, still careful of the noise, but harder. More certain. He held you exactly where he wanted you, using short, deep thrusts that made your legs tremble.

“Such a wet little cunt for me,” he whispered. “So desperate. So sweet when you’re trying not to cry out.”

Your nails scraped lightly against the table.

“That’s it. Hold on.”

His breath was heavier now. His voice less polished. The composed officer slipping, the husband taking over, the man who had read your message and spent the last half hour pretending he was not imagining this.

“You feel what you do to me?” he said. “You feel how hard you make me?”

“Yes,” you breathed behind his hand.

“You’re mine like this.”

You nodded.

“Say it.”

When he eased his hand away, you whispered, “I’m yours.”

Frank’s hips stuttered once.

His jaw pressed against your temple.

“Again.”

“I’m yours.”

“Good girl.”

The praise broke something in you.

You clenched around him, and Frank made a low, dangerous sound, his grip tightening almost painfully on your hip.

“Careful,” he warned, but it was useless now and you both knew it.

He slipped his hand between your thighs again, still moving inside you, and your body went rigid.

“Frank—”

“I know.”

“I can’t—”

“You can.” His voice was all command now. “Quietly.”

You bit down on your own hand as pleasure built too fast, too hot, your whole body trembling against the table. Frank kept you there, held you through it, his mouth at your ear.

“That’s it. Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You shattered silently, or as silently as you could manage, a muffled cry trapped behind your hand as your body tightened around him.

Frank groaned.

“God, sweetheart.”

His control frayed after that.

Only then.

His thrusts became rougher, less perfect, his breathing uneven against your neck. He buried his face briefly against your shoulder, hands gripping you as though you were the only solid thing in the room.

“Where?” he asked hoarsely.

“Inside,” you whispered. “Please.”

That did it.

Frank’s whole body tensed behind you. He pushed deep, holding himself there as he came with a low, broken sound that he barely managed to swallow against your skin.

For several seconds, neither of you moved.

The world returned slowly.

The garden. The barbecue. The muffled voices outside. The smell of smoke still clinging to his shirt. Your dress bunched around your waist. Frank’s weight warm behind you, his breath gradually steadying.

At last, he kissed the back of your shoulder.

Once.

Then again.

Gentler now.

“You,” he said quietly, “are going to be the death of me.”

You laughed softly, still breathless. “At least you’ll die happy.”

Frank huffed, but the sound was fond.

He eased away carefully and helped you straighten, turning you toward him before you could fix your dress yourself. His hands were tender now, smoothing the fabric down, adjusting the straps, checking your face with the same quiet attention he gave to everything important.

Your cheeks were flushed. Your lips were swollen. Your eyes were bright.

Frank looked deeply pleased with himself.

“You look guilty,” he said.

“You look smug.”

“I have reason to be.”

You slapped his arm lightly.

He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles.

Then, because he was Frank, because he could say the most obscene things in the same tone he used to request tea, he leaned close and murmured, “When we get home, I am going to put you in our bed, spread your legs properly, and take my time with that pretty pussy until you forget every reckless thought in your head.”

Your breath caught again.

Frank smiled.

“Assuming,” he added, straightening with maddening composure, “you can make it through dessert without sending me another filthy message.”

You looked up at him.

Then slowly, deliberately, you reached for your phone on the table.

Frank’s eyes narrowed.

“Do not.”

You smiled sweetly.

Outside, his son called again. “Dad?”

Frank closed his eyes for a moment, as though appealing to whatever remained of his self-control.

Then he opened them and pointed one stern finger at you.

“We are finishing this later.”

You slipped your phone back into your hand.

“I hope so.”

Frank gave you a look so dark and promising that your stomach flipped.

Then he picked up his beer, smoothed one hand over his white hair, and walked back toward the garden looking, to any reasonable observer, like a perfectly respectable retired officer who had simply gone inside to fetch something.

You followed a minute later.

At the table, no one seemed to notice anything except that Frank looked slightly more relaxed and you could not quite meet his eyes when his daughter-in-law asked if you wanted more potato salad.

Frank sat across from you, hazel eyes calm over the rim of his glass.

Then your phone buzzed.

You looked down.

A message from him.

Behave until we get home, and I’ll reward you.

A second later:

Misbehave, and I’ll reward you anyway.

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Day 14 of Rickation 2026: Sex on the Beach🏖️

Author's Note: We've made it to the end of the event! Thank you so much to everyone who participated! A special thanks to @deepperplexity, who has written an amazing new series, and helped launch the first-ever Summer Rickation! I will be coming out soon with an exit poll of the event to learn what went well and what should be tweaked for next year (creators are always welcome to DM me with their input!). Once again, thank you everyone!

My requests are now officially open (my box is still empty atm!) although I expect to be slow this week after finishing up the event.

It felt so good to write for Sinclair again, guys; it's been far too long...

Character(s): Sinclair Bryant x Female Reader

Summary: While traveling for a work conference, a tipsy Sinclair finds himself at a bar with another woman. Conversation leads to you asking him to come back to your hotel room...it turns out the hotel is a little too far away...

Warning(s)‼️: Alcohol/Drinking. Drunk Sex. Beach Sex. PIV Sex. Sinclair with Low Self-Esteem.

Word Count: 2.6k

Read on AO3 or below the break:

Sinclair Bryant was well past the age when getting plastered after a business meeting was socially acceptable. 

But Sinclair Bryant was far from home—the Virginian beach his company had chosen to locate their conference filled with upbeat music blaring from portable boomboxes, women in low-cut bikinis, and the sound of hundreds of people enjoying the last days of summer—before the calendar inevitably turned over.

He was slumped over the open bar—his cream-colored suit jacket gone—vanished to some location he had yet to bother to identify—too caught up was he in the darkness of self-pity. He was no closer to happiness six years after Natalie’s betrayal. The divorce—when it finally went through—had felt like a drug injected straight into his veins. Now he was left waiting for a high that would never come.

His wrist trembled, the crystal glass holding the dregs of his scotch on the rocks shaking emphatically—and he knew it was definitely time to call it a night—lest he end up in the wrong hotel room. The last thing he needed was his name in the papers—a disgraced man leading the Monday morning headlines.

A woman far younger than him sat one stool to his right, hair disheveled and makeup slightly smearing at the corners. He watched you order something that sounded distinctly American—gaudy, crass, and yet still appetizing—his brow rising without his permission when the brightly-colored drink was deposited before you by the bartender. He sipped the last of his whiskey without comment.

“Is it any good?” He slurred, sounding far from the posh, polished Englishman he was raised to be. You smiled, and he felt something deep within himself crack.

“That depends on how willing you are for the taste of oranges to stick on your tongue, and the eighties to stick on your mind.”

“I liked the eighties,” he mumbled, wistful. “I don’t ever remember having to deal with this much bullshit.” You snorted, sliding into the stool next to his, holding up your cocktail three-quarters of the way to his lips.

“Agreed—want a sip?” He stared down at the sugar-coated rim of your glass in disbelief—as if he did not believe the circumstance he was currently living in.

“Do you normally offer up your beverage to strange, foreign men?” You giggled, and his mind was suddenly put at ease, despite his lingering skepticism. The skepticism taught by the skeletons kept tightly locked in his closet.

“Only the cute ones—I’ve seen you before, at this resort. You’re with that English financial firm, yes?” He decided to ignore the compliment—it was easier to accept that he had imagined the words in his hazy, drunken state. Or perhaps you were in need of a stronger optical prescription. 

“Unfortunately.” He leaned forward, his cold fingers brushing against your warm hand holding the glass as he took a sip. “Bloody hell, that’s delicious—I’ll have—what’s the ridiculous name of it?”

“Sex on the Beach,” you proudly answered, smiling good-naturedly at his excitement.

“I’ll have a glass of Sex on the Beach, then!” 

An identical cocktail was placed before him, and Sinclair began to eagerly down the sweet concoction.

“May I ask the name of my drinking partner?” You asked, interestedly, but he was far too distracted by the alcohol to notice.

“Sinclair. Sinclair Bryant.” You chuckled, though not unkindly. Finding your drink drained, you waved your hand at the bartender for another.

“That sounds so…regal.” You stared at his handsome features—slightly unkempt dirty blond hair, Roman nose, sharp hazel eyes the color of sunlight hitting the ocean waters in the shallows. Sinclair was blissfully unaware of your examination. “My name is Y/N, Y/N L/N.” 

“That sounds so…pretty. Like one of those best-selling novels where everything comes together perfectly—where everyone’s all content.”

“You read?” You questioned, excited. It was very rare for you to come across well-read men in your travels. Sinclair looked at you as if you had started speaking a completely different language.

“Anything I can get my hands on,” he slurred, and you noticed his drink was already gone. “Although I prefer mysteries and—and b–bio–biographies.” Sinclair was more than a little tipsy, your own head feeling too light as you started on your second.

It was probably too early—probably ill-advised to ask of a man you’d known for less than an hour—but the liquid courage combined with something sitting in your gut eerily close to fate persuaded you to ask your loaded question to Sinclair—a man who seemed not to realize how impressive he actually was. “Would you like to spend the night in my hotel room?” You bit your lip, holding your breath in, fingers crossed hidden underneath the bar-top. 

Sinclair felt his vision blacken at the edges, felt his stomach drop, and the earlier crack near his chest shattered in a bazillion pieces. A pretty woman was asking him out—a pretty woman was asking him out, and he hadn’t said yes yet. He had been mid-sip in his drink—the alcohol burning as it went down the wrong pipe. He coughed, eyes watering, mentally praying you did not immediately rescind your invitation. Oh, how embarrassing would that be? “Yes,” he choked out, clearing his throat with another sip as he wiped the salty tears he had not permitted to run down his cheeks.

 He only hoped he did not cock-up this night.

Then again, the night was still young.

The beach was dark—the beach was uncomfortably dark—and he was uncomfortably drunk at the moment. He hadn’t minded the two extra drinks he had ordered at the time—it gave him an excuse to continue the lively conversation and prevent your inevitable disappointment in him. But now, walking in a straight line was entirely impossible—the sand seemed to shift underneath him like–like—well, like waves of sand rolling in the breeze. What was difficult in the light of day and sans alcohol was now a Herculean task. 

His foot shifted, body off-balance as he tumbled to the ground, cool sand falling down his shirt, down his trousers, and even further down his Oxfords. He was about to curse his luck, until he was stopped—your laugh in the moonlight darkness like another shot of whiskey to his system.

“Sorry,” you giggled, offering him a hand. Except your own balance was not much better—your body falling forward on top of his, as if it knew what you had been wanting since he sipped your proffered drink. 

“Ouch,” he grunted, before breaking into raucous laughter—deep, manly, and sounding as if it had been ages since he had allowed himself to. You only wished the stars in the sky and the light from the crescent moon were brighter—wished the shadows were not so ink black—not so impenetrable.

“Oops,” you giggled, one hand shooting to grip his waist, the other carefully caressing his cheek, tenderly wiping his tears of silliness away. 

“No harm, no foul,” he spoke, cool baritone voice coarse—sending a surge of arousal straight to your core. “Can’t believe I can’t make it two blocks to the bloody resort,” he muttered self-deprecatingly, your mind instantly sobering to a degree. 

“It’s my fault—I ordered a drink too many and–and I’m sorry for making you feel like—”

“Don’t—I ought to know my limits.” He thickly swallowed, and you stroked the sandy hair from his eyes. “I rarely drink—couldn’t resist on my last night here.” 

“Last night?” Your heart sank low into your stomach—like a rock thrown straight into the ocean waves, plummeting to the hard sea floor. 

“Back to good-old London,” he half-sang, but there was no excitement, no fondness in the melody. “Yipee,” he flatly ended, and you couldn’t help the pang of jealousy curdling your belly. 

“I’d give anything to go to London,” your voice softly danced in the short distance between the two of you, your legs still straddling Sinclair’s thighs. His fingers idly stroked your knee—gently fidgeting.

“You’re right, I shouldn’t complain. I’m–I’m a man of extraordinary privilege—but that doesn’t mean life’s piercing arrows don’t pain me—the wounds are easily cleaned, but the scars still sting all the same.” The fingers at your knee stopped, the small flecks of green visible in his hazel eyes as you stared. 

He was daring you to do something—but what was a whole other question entirely. You hummed.

“Let me guess—your wounds were sustained fighting a losing battle with the opposite sex?” He grunted an affirmative, teeth biting his lower lip.

“Something like that, I suppose.” He paused, choosing his next words with intention. “No affection lost, I assure you,” and there was a harsh bleakness edging his tone that had never inhabited his tone before—a darkness you did not wish to hear again.

“I can help you forget.” His pulse beat like mad at his cheek—beat in time to the fast-paced rock you’d be listening to tomorrow on the shore when the man you had foolishly fallen for was halfway around the globe. “To hell with the hotel—I’m eager for another taste of sex on the beach.” 

You held your breath, counting to ten until you were forced to count higher, simultaneously mentally cursing your forwardness. You could not even land yourself a one-night stand properly. Idiot.

“I’m not going to use you to forget,” he snapped, passionate, his cheek warm, pulse continuing to thrum quickly. “That’s—that’s indecent, but–but I’m not opposed to creating a new memory—a better memory—that won’t be relegated to the bin come Monday.” He was breathless, chest rapidly rising and falling, and reality seemed to crash like the waves against the rocks. 

“So that’s a yes, pretty boy?” He looked at you strangely, hazel eyes dazed. “‘Cause I’ve been wanting to take this off all night.” You tapped the center of his shirt, and he looked down at your finger, swallowing hard.

“Yes,” he all but whimpered, and you began undoing his buttons. “But won’t someone see?” 

“Not unless we’re still here in the morning.” You helped him out of his shirt, drinking in every bare inch of pale skin newly uncovered, and he froze for a minute, rigid as a marble statue, before he remembered to move on to his trousers. You lifted your blouse over your shoulders, Sinclair’s eyes locked on the white lace bra you wore, fingers stilling against his silver belt buckle. “Help me?” You innocently asked, watching him suck in a deep, steadying breath.

“Absolutely.” Nervous fingers undid the spaghetti-thin straps, the lace falling away, the wire digging into your skin blessedly gone. “May I?” Sinclair meaningfully looked at your nipples, hands nervously hovering near the round, plump flesh of your breasts. You nodded, surprised at how tenderly he explored this new, unblanketed territory—gently tweaking your rosy buds and squeezing your soft tissue. “Gorgeous,” he mumbled, and an unexpected heat trailed down your cheeks to your chest. 

You worked on loosening his belt while he was distracted with your boobs, working the offending trousers down to his ankles. When he noticed your intentions, he smiled, sheepish, slipping them off the rest of the way. “Sorry,” he murmured. “You’re too distracting.” You could say the same of him, you thought to yourself, utterly besotted with the compliment.

All too soon, the two of you were bare, the sand touching your skin cool in the night’s snow-colored moonlight and hesitant warm breeze, the ocean’s waves a constant, swooshing crash against the coast. “May I kiss you?” you asked, sounding far more fearful of rejection than you probably should, considering you were both naked at the moment of birth.

“I’d like that,” he smiled, crooked teeth glinting as the shadows shifted, as you leaned forward to close the chasm between the two of you. It felt like heaven—it felt like this beach vacation was supposed to go—like endless sunshine, shared secrets, and a day of blissful, healing relaxation. And you were drunk with just one kiss. 

Wetness now coated your thighs, Sinclair’s rock-hard erection throbbing underneath you. He was just slightly below-average in size—but that hardly mattered. Not when he was making you feel things no man ever had before.

“Ready?” He exhaled, breathless. You felt just the same, nodding in the darkness emphatically. 

Holding himself tightly, he guided his stiff penis past your lips, breaking the remaining barrier cast up between you two. Gasping, he held still, in case you needed to adjust, but you had other plans in mind. “Please, can I—”

“---God, yes,” he grunted, and you began to ride him, every thrust sending him deeper inside. “Fuck,” he mumbled right before you kissed him passionately, kissed him like the world would end that morning. And in many ways it would. 

Your fingers burrowed deep in his shaggy hair, and you tried to ignore the sand disappearing into places that it had no right to disappear in. Sinclair rolled you over mid-kiss, your bum now planted in the sand, each thrust deeper now that his hips had room to freely maneuver. The silent moonlight beach was filled with your uneven pants and Sinclair’s whimpers as he inched closer to orgasm, and you were equally at pace, your walls fluttering as he continued to hit your g-spot every time he re-entered.

“I’m so fucking close,” you mumbled, nails biting his ribs. He moaned, bracing a hand in the sand behind your head as he found your clit with his free thumb, rubbing the button of your pleasure center in slow, clockwise circles. You were trembling, toes curling in the open air, bony knees digging into Sinclair’s hips. 

“Cumming,” he grunted, continuing to shallowly rut as his balls emptied. The waves crashed—loud and insistent—your own orgasm following suit.

“Ohhh,” you whined, voice unnaturally high as you spiralled into pure pleasure, Sinclair’s fingers retreating when your moans grew painful from overstimulation. 

He had pulled out, cock falling limp against your leg, his strong, lean arms wrapping around your torso like they had belonged for decades as you lay on your backs to face the sparkling stars. The waves had quieted, panic returning to riot in your mind as you thought of dawn—as you thought of your new reality of living far away from the lover you were utterly smitten with. It seemed like the worst sort of torture one could sentence, and it had yet to truly start.

“You’re quiet,” Sinclair whispered, his words kissing the still air. His eyes found your own—the gentle light making them look honey-colored—and far too tender. 

“I’m going to miss you.” He smiled, turning onto his side, propping his chin up by his hand. 

“I’ll—I’ll miss you too,” he choked out, cheeks tinged pink. “Ah, here,” he stood up, sand falling off his body in the simple breeze as he shifted, searching for the location of his trousers. “There,” fireworks leftover from earlier sparked as your fingers touched around a thin slip of paper, small and rectangular in shape. “My business card—so–so you can call me. If–-if you want, although—although you don’t have to if you don’t—want.” He finished, sounding awkward, fingers disappearing as he returned to lounge at your side. “I ehm—I wouldn’t mind doing this again—though perhaps not in the sand.” You heard him swallow thickly and laughed—laughed at how free you felt—how much less daunting sunrise seemed.

“I can’t believe my best fuck thinks I wouldn’t do it again,” you snorted, the worry lines carved in Sinclair’s handsome face easing into thin creases. “Although I too would prefer anywhere but the sand.” He laughed—long and hearty—your fingers landing on his chest to reassuringly card through the sparse hair.

And the waves remained only white noise to the inappropriate thoughts spinning in your head concerning yourself and a certain Englishman you were now hopelessly in love with.

[alanrickmangifs]

ALAN RICKMAN as Detective David Friedman JUDAS KISS (1998) dir. Sebastian Gutierrez

[imjustheretoseetheprivateblogs]

I just couldn't post clips of Robin Hood Prince of Thieves while leaving out Alan Rickman's Sheriff of Nottingham (aka George). Here's a deleted scene fleshing out his relationship with the witch Mortiana.

[alanrickmangifs]

ALAN RICKMAN as Alexander Dane / Dr. Lazarus GALAXY QUEST (1999) dir. Dean Parisot

[lonelytwilightwrites]

Day 13 of Rickation 2026: The Sand Between His Toes🏖️

Author's Note: Sorry, friends, I totally planned on writing some smut today, but I'm afraid I'm not feeling the best (and I don't want to get off track for tomorrow). Anyway, please enjoy this very short drabble with an established Snape/Reader relationship!

Character(s): Severus Snape x Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: You and Snape walk along a beach once familiar to him a long time ago...

Warning(s)‼️: None. Romance/No Smut.

Word Count: 0.2k

Read on AO3 or below the break:

“Join me?” You softly called out to him, not expecting an answer. Severus Snape was quick with words when his temper grew inflamed—at all other times—in moments where tenderness was demanded of him—speech seemed harder than dragonhide to compose; he always reacted as if you struck him with a wordless Slowing Charm.

“Yes,” He murmured, walking barefoot beside you, the sand between his toes cool and squishy. Your hand sought his, and he relented in allowing you to lock your fingers with his much longer, narrower digits. 

“Is this place just as you remember it?” He frowned, thin lips pinched together in thought—as if he were considering the question just as delicately as any of his potion experiments.

“No,” he breathed out, deep voice low and ragged. “It is not.” 

You waited, but often waiting for an explanation from Severus meant waiting until Christmas. “What has changed?” He stopped in his tracks, long black cloak ceasing to billow out behind him. He hummed, looking around as if he were truly taking in the Welsh beach for the first time.

“The trees are taller—the beach has shrunk,” he paused, leaning in close, lips inches away from your own parted ones. “And I have you by my side.” He closed the gap, tongue claiming yours in a fit of passion, fireworks set off in your veins despite the dreary grey sky. 

And the salty ocean wind felt a little less bitter that day.

[snapesno1thighrider]

Awwwwhhh a beach kiss 🥺