Jun 26, 2025
Alan Rickman + IMDb trivia
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Alan Rickman + IMDb trivia
Title: Cramped
ᯓ★ 7 minutes in Heaven with Eli Michaelson!
Pairing: Eli Michaelson x f!Reader || Nobel Son Warning: dry humping, clothed
˚₊⊹ masterlist: Cramped ✧ Tumblr | Ao3 ˚ ₊⊹
word count: 1k
"We can't fit in here together," "Oh, thank you for telling me. I was blissfully unaware until you said it," growled Eli as he tried to keep the lab supply cupboard's door shut. He yanked it hard until it clicked, shutting. His shoulders felt the pressure of the door against them, and he tried to roll them slightly to get more comfortable, which was hard.
Especially considering how large he was already.
He was a chemistry fellow, but physics and mathematics, although not his favourite, didn't escape him. Albeit it didn't take a genius to observe that, with you inside too, it was quite physically and mathematically impossible to fit in comfortably. Or to fit in, in general, for that matter.
"Why are you always acting like a dick? Is that really necessary?"
Eli scoffed, his hips rolling up against you. Had this been anyone else, you could've called it an accident, but this was Eli at the end of the day. Whatever he did, you'd better know it was intentional. He growled slightly, feeling the tightness of his trousers acutely frustrating as it kept him trapped. But better than nothing, right? Friction like this would at least provide him some pleasure. So he rolled his hips up into you again, managing to ride up against your butt.
Great how you got trapped in there back to him. Absolutely incredible. How you got to feel his boner squished against your butt, and his hands roughly grappling to make room to catch your hips.
"Shut it. You know I don't like it when you give me an attitude." "You don't like anything." "Listen to me, you cheeky girl-"
You rolled your eyes, pushing your butt back, forcing even more pressure against his boner, and he grunted. He couldn't do anything to put you in your place when this cupboard restrained you both. But to your advantage, you could always shut him up like this. Not that it didn't have repercussions. He buried his fingers into your skin roughly and pushed forward into you, his hips gaining a sort of motion that was making him twitch. Oh, he wasn't letting you come out of here without finishing off, even if it cost him the trousers. A stain was a stain, replaceable.
How will he explain it?
That was something he'd concern himself with after he made the most of this.
"I hate you," "You hate that you can't boss me around. I am not some stupid schoolboy. Besides, it doesn't sound or feel like you hate this. Or me." "I do hate you," "Of course you do, and still you want to get that A+, don't you?"
Eli continued to grind up against your ass, his belly pressing into you from behind. There was no room, and the cupboard was starting to make some sounds that made it clear it wasn't fixed to the flooring. At least not properly. Moreover, his shoulder was pressing into the door, making it creak, so close to busting open.
Not that the door was the only one about to bust.
"Don't be like this! We both know you never get generous with scores even if I-" "Even if you what? Go down on me? Take me like a good little slut?"
Eli taunted with a low growl against the back of your shoulder, his movements rougher. Sharper. Causing the cupboard to creak and screech. Your face pressed against one of its inside walls, and it sent a jolt through you from how cold and sterile it felt. It smelt of weird substances, and for a second your mind thought of the possibility that drugs could be snuck somewhere in here. But Eli's erection pressed into your arse snapped you back into sense.
He grunted by your ear. Eli licked the shell before he laughed mockingly. Yet the laugh was not fully amused. It was sprinkled with needy groans.
"You little slut, fuck. The things I do for you…" "For me?" "For you, yeah. Not my fucking idea to be trapped in here."
Eli gasped, growing closer with each rocking motion of his hips.
"Not mine either." "You said the office bored you-" "Because it does? A fucking hotel would've been much nicer." "Oh, don't get greedy with me. Enjoy the change of scenery. After this, we're back in the office."
Eli gasped again, his breathing coming back shallower, his chest pressed hard into you, almost as if he was attempting to make you one with the back wall of the cupboard.
"You're not any fun…" "I'm trying to fuck you, not make you entertained." "You're fucking yourself more than me."
Eli snapped at that, his hand slithering angrily to your front, between your legs, shoving itself roughly forward. It slithered between your thighs and cupped your cunt impatiently before he started to blindly tease you with his ring and middle finger over your trousers.
"Come on, you little slut. You want to tease me? Fine, there you have it. See how you manage to keep standing in this fucking cupboard with your legs weak."
Eli grunted with frustration, latching onto his tone, fingers teasing you. His hips kept rocking, but this time, yours jerked too with the jolting spark of pleasure caused by his fingers. You tried to reach back and hold onto him, but the space was far too tight, and all you could do was squirm. Eli didn't let you try to break loose, humping you energetically whilst using his fingers to bring you closer to.
"Come on, wanted to cum, hm? Come on. Do it. See how you come out of here on your own two feet then." "Stop it, Eli. Fuck, stop it."
But Eli didn't stop.
He kept going, thrusting his hips into you until he came, twitching with his orgasm, his trousers stained irretrievably. But even so, he didn't stop until he felt you come undone too. Not because he cared that much to make you feel good, but because he wanted to see how you would manage to keep yourself upright after this, all by yourself.
"I am sure you'll be grateful to use the office from now on." "I can't stand you, cocky bastard." "I would keep the insults for when you're spread open on my desk."
ALAN RICKMAN as Eli Michaelson NOBEL SON (2007) dir. Randall Miller
study Alan Rickman's (my husband) face for my soul ! ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ
Belonging Theory
Summary: When the line between obsession and love blurs, Eli Michaelson begins to unravel—haunted by a past he refuses to name and a girl he swore he’d never need.
Pairing: Eli Michaelson × Fem! Reader
Warnings: Smut, Angst
First, Second, Third and Fourth part here.
Also read on Ao3
Eli suddenly pulled out of you without warning, dragging a broken sob from your throat as your body clenched around nothing, shaking, slick, undone. You barely had time to gasp before he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you—just lifted you like it cost him nothing, like you weighed less than a grudge.
You clung to him out of instinct, half-limp and overstimulated, your body a trembling mess, your hands fisting the collar of his shirt. His cock was still hard between you, thick and soaked with you, twitching against your thigh as he carried you up the driveway and through the front door like a man possessed.
He didn’t say a word.
Not when the hallway lights flicked on. Not when your head lolled against his shoulder and your lips brushed his neck. His jaw was set, nostrils flared, baritone breath hissing through clenched teeth like he was holding himself back by inches. By threads.
He carried you into the bedroom and set you down on the mattress—his bed, sharp and cold and immaculately made—and you sank into the sheets, boneless and dazed, your thighs still sticky, your heart still pounding.
But Eli didn’t climb on top of you. Not yet. Instead, he straightened, adjusted his shirt with one hand, and turned toward the door.
“Stay there,” he said—gravel-soft, voice like a warning shot muffled by velvet. “Don’t fucking move.”
You blinked, watching him disappear down the hallway. You heard the sound of the fridge. The hum of something opening. Running water.
When he returned, he had a bottle in one hand—glass, not plastic. Chilled. Condensation beaded across his fingers.
He handed it to you without comment.
You stared at it for a beat, confused, your breath still coming in shallow little gasps. “What is this?”
Eli arched a brow, his hazel eyes burning with a slow, mocking patience. “It’s water, sweetheart. Try not to look so offended.”
You took it with trembling hands, fingers brushing his. The bottle was cold—blessedly cold—and you took a long sip without thinking, the liquid soothing your dry throat, your fried nerves.
Eli sat on the edge of the bed.
He still hadn’t come. He was hard. You could see it, thick and angry between his open trousers. But he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. He watched you instead, his hooked nose casting a sharp line of shadow across his cheek, his lips parted just slightly, like he was cataloguing every twitch of your bare, ruined body.
“You’re flushed,” he murmured. “Pulse high. Still leaking.”
Your thighs clenched involuntarily.
He tilted his head, voice lowering to a dark purr. “I like you like this.”
You swallowed. “Like what?”
“Ruined,” Eli said, eyes raking over your body. “Fucked open. Full of me.”
You tried to shift, to close your legs, but his hand was already there—firm, warm, splaying across your inner thigh to keep you open.
“You begged for it,” he murmured. “You begged for my tongue. My cock. You screamed when I gave it to you.”
You whimpered softly. “I said stop.”
Eli’s expression flickered—just for a second.
“You said ‘stop leaving,’” he replied coldly. “There’s a difference.”
Your lips parted, but no sound came.
“And you said it with my cock halfway down your throat,” he added, cruelly calm. “So don’t rewrite the story now. You knew what you were doing.”
Silence.
Then, softer—quieter, with something almost like… restraint:
“I’m not done with you yet.”
You were about to speak—maybe protest, maybe surrender—when he reached out and took the bottle from your hands, setting it on the nightstand with a quiet clink.
“Lie back,” he said.
You did.
And when he climbed over you, the weight of him pressed into your chest like a verdict. His baritone voice was low, but not gentle.
“I want to feel you come around me again. Slow this time.”
His cock brushed your inner thigh, slick and hot. His nose nuzzled against your jaw, voice whispering like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud.
“And then I want to come inside you,” he breathed. “So deep it doesn’t leave for days.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Your body already had.
An hour later, the room was quiet. Still. The sheets tangled at your waist, your skin flushed and glistening, your breath soft with sleep.
Eli sat on the edge of the bed, seminude, elbows resting on his knees, one hand running slowly through his disheveled hair. His back was tense—broad shoulders hunched, spine rigid with something restless and unspoken. He stared at the floor like it might offer an equation he could solve, something he could fix, categorize, dismiss.
But there was no solution here. Just the sound of your breathing. The faint imprint of your body on his sheets. The smell of sex still hanging in the air.
You were asleep.
He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. Not when his mind was churning like this—chaotic, volatile, embarrassing.
It shouldn’t be like this. You were supposed to be the toy. The subject. The willing object of his control, his money, his precision. The lab rat who signed her life away for a stipend and some tuition coverage.
He was supposed to be the master. Detached. Amused. Unreachable.
But here he was. Awake. Haunted.
The image of you moaning his name still vivid behind his eyes, raw and hungry and real. Too real. Your voice still echoing in his head. The way you clung to him. The way you looked up at him, even in anger—even when you said no, even when you said enough—like he was something that mattered.
It was infuriating.
He shouldn't be this affected. Shouldn’t care if you walked out. Shouldn’t care what you did after the contract ended. Who you fucked. Who you laughed with. Who you trusted instead of him.
But he did.
God, he did.
The thought of you with someone else—some eager little academic with soft eyes and cleaner hands, someone who smiled too much and said “good job” when you passed a test instead of ripping the paper apart with red ink—that thought made his stomach twist. Made his jaw lock. Made his hands tremble.
He didn’t get possessive. That wasn’t who he was. He didn’t want things. He used them. Controlled them. Discarded them.
Except you.
He couldn’t discard you. Not when your scent was still on his skin. Not when your voice still lingered in his ear like an echo carved into bone.
He ran a hand over his mouth, exhaling through his nose. His hazel eyes flicked toward you—still sleeping, still warm, curled half on your side like you belonged there. In his bed. In his world.
You didn’t even look scared anymore.
You looked safe.
And that scared the shit out of him.
He hated that you made him hesitate. That you made him reconsider. That you turned fucking into feeling, even when he swore he’d never be that weak.
It was supposed to be control. That’s what it had always been.
Power.
Not... whatever this was. This heat in his throat. This ache in his chest. This absurd desire to slide back into bed and wrap himself around you, to pull you close and stay.
He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly. He’d paid your bills. He’d erased your contract. He’d memorized your body, your laugh, the exact cadence of your moans when you were seconds from coming apart.
He didn't own you. But he'd carved his name into you anyway. And now? Now he couldn't bear the idea of anyone else touching you. Not academically, not emotionally, not physically.
He clenched his jaw, shaking his head once like that might dispel the thought. You should’ve just been a phase, he told himself. A mouth. A cunt. A warm body that obeyed when he said bend over.
But no.
You’d become something else. Something messier. Something dangerous.
And the worst part? You didn’t even know it.
You still believed he could let you go.
Eli turned slightly, looking back at you over his shoulder. His baritone voice broke the silence—low, quiet, like he didn’t mean to speak aloud.
“You think I’m ever letting you leave?”
He stared at you, chest tight. Then he reached for the blanket and pulled it up gently over your bare shoulders, smoothing it down with a hand that didn’t shake.
But his breath did.
And that was worse. He closed his fist and bit down on it hard, knuckles white, the sting sharp against his teeth.
Get your head together, Michaelson. Get your fucking head together.
But he couldn’t. Not tonight.
Not with your scent still on his skin. Not with the taste of your still ghosting his mouth, sweet and salt and defiance. Not with your sleeping in his bed like she belonged there, like you’d carved out a place in his life that he never meant to give.
Eli shoved himself off the edge of the bed, pacing across the room like a caged thing, breath shallow, heartbeat thudding loud in his ears. He wanted to punch something. A wall. A mirror. His own fucking father’s smug face.
Frank.
That bastard.
He hadn’t seen Frank in person in two years, not since the last pathetic attempt at a family gathering—an awkward dinner where Frank tried to play father over roast chicken and Merlot, like decades of contempt could be erased with polite conversation and a plate of fucking carrots. Eli had made it thirty-seven minutes before snapping, calling him a sanctimonious bastard and storming out.
Frank kept trying, though. Kept calling. Kept sending books, tickets, awkward little gifts with too many commas in the card—“Just thought you might find this interesting, son.” As if that word still meant anything.
Eli didn’t answer. He never answered. Not after what that man had done. Not after he’d replaced everything Eli’s mother ever was with a child bride and a do-over kid.
Thomas. That boy.
Eli ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging hard enough to hurt.
He hated Frank. Hated the way he’d softened in his old age, as if marrying that cheerful, oblivious woman had magically absolved him of a lifetime of being a cold, withholding, judgmental bastard. Hated the way Frank treated Thomas like some kind of fucking golden boy—soft pats on the head, school awards on the fridge, bedtime stories and father-son science kits.
Where the hell was that version of Frank when Eli was seven? Or fifteen? Or twenty?
Eli had never known a Frank who laughed. Or hugged. Or called just to check in.
All he got was expectations. Orders. And disappointment.
And when his mother died, that already-icy world turned to frost. The only softness in Eli’s life disappeared with a hospice breath and a white hospital sheet.
That was the moment, really.
The rupture.
The hole that opened and never closed.
Eli tried to fill it with drugs at first. Ecstasy. Coke. A few trips into darker corners of chemistry labs where supervision was light and ambition high. He got smart about it. Started making his own. Microdosing during lectures. Popping molly before oral exams. Conducting peer reviews with pupils like dinner plates.
Frank found out. Of course he did. Had him yanked out of his PhD program and shoved into some elite rehab clinic outside of Boston. Military connections. Clean linens. No privacy. Eli had screamed. Begged. Bartered. Nothing worked.
“You’ll thank me for this,” Frank had said at the door, not unkindly.
Eli had laughed in his face.
He got clean. Stayed clean. Got out. Moved to California, poured everything into his research, won awards, published papers.
Married Sarah. Slept with a dozen others. Got Sarah pregnant. Stayed married out of obligation and spite. Screwed his way through graduate assistants, conference attendees, the occasional colleague’s bored wife. Control. That’s what it gave him. If he couldn’t be loved the way he needed, he could be wanted. Owned. Obeyed.
Sex filled the gaps.
Briefly.
Until her.
Until the girl now tangled in his sheets like she might belong there, like she might stay.
And that was the real problem.
Eli closed his eyes and pressed his fist to his mouth again, harder this time.
Don’t be fucking stupid.
She was just another body. Another bright young thing who let him push her too far and came back for more. He paid her. She posed. She stayed. And she would leave. Eventually, they all did.
But this one? She made him hesitate.
And that hesitation—that crack in his armor—made everything else worse. Sharper. Uglier. It reopened every old wound. Every unmet need. Every bitter fucking memory of being the wrong son.
Thomas didn’t have to beg for approval. Thomas didn’t get told he was too much. Thomas didn’t get dragged out of a lab and locked away like a disgrace. Thomas got bedtime stories and field trips and a version of Frank Benson that Eli had never even imagined.
And yet…
God help him…
Eli liked the boy.
No.
He envied, loved him.
Couldn’t help it. Thomas called him “big brother” like it meant something. Drew him pictures. Asked him science questions. Told him he wanted to be “a cool genius like Eli” when he grew up.
It was impossible not to get attached.
And that made Eli hate Frank more.
Because it meant the bastard could have been that man all along. He just chose not to be. Not for Eli.
The rage surged again, and Eli grabbed a glass from the nightstand, flinging it against the far wall. It shattered, the sound sharp and immediate, waking the girl in the bed with a startled jolt.
“Eli?” you whispered, eyes wide.
He turned his back.
“Go back to sleep.”
You sat up, covers pulled to your chest, your voice shaking. “What happened?”
Eli said nothing. Not right away. Then, quietly, too quietly: “Wrong life. Wrong fucking life.”
You didn't ask what he meant; you held out your arms to him.
And Eli hesitated. He stood near the broken glass, baritone breath tight in his throat, his jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jumping along his cheek. The light from the hallway painted his naked back in pale, sharp lines—tension carved into every vertebra. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
But he didn’t walk away either.
Your voice was soft, hoarse with sleep. “Come here.”
Still, he didn’t turn. His hand twitched at his side, fingers curled like they were deciding whether to clench or reach. Logic screamed at him—Don’t. Don’t let yourself go soft now. Don’t fall for the warmth in your voice, the pity in your eyes. This wasn’t love. This was a trap. A soft little nest of feelings that would only leave him exposed. Dependent. Pathetic.
He went anyway.
Eli crossed the room in two strides, dropped to his knees by the bed, and let you wrap your arms around his shoulders.
You held him gently. Like he wasn’t the man who’d threatened you. Fucked you. Bought you. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Just tired. Just human.
“Are you hurt?” you asked softly, brushing your fingers through the hair at his temple. “Did you cut yourself on the glass?”
“No,” Eli grunted.
“Then why—?”
“I don’t want to talk.”
But you didn’t stop. You never did.
“Is it about earlier?” you whispered. “About what I said—about the breakup?”
His shoulders tensed beneath your hands. His breath caught.
“I’m still going to finish the contract, Eli. I said I would. I’m not going back on that.”
He pulled away—not violently, but fast enough to break your grip. Fast enough to sting. He stood, pacing, his hand dragging through his hair, tugging hard at the strands like they were guilty of something.
“What’s wrong?” you asked, sitting up fully now. “Talk to me. What is it?”
“Everything!” Eli snapped, spinning on you, eyes blazing. “Everything is wrong!”
You flinched at the volume—more from the rawness than the rage. His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, baritone unraveling like a string pulled too tight.
He ran both hands down his face, then turned from you, talking too fast, too loud, like something inside him had finally come unhinged.
“Since the beginning, alright? Since the goddamn beginning. Since the day my mother died and that bastard of a father turned me into a fucking cadet!” His voice shook, rough and splintered. “Treated me like I was a project. A soldier. A fucking experiment.”
You didn’t speak. You just watched.
He paced again, bare feet crunching softly near the shards of the glass he’d thrown.
“And now look at him,” Eli spat. “Look at Frank. Smiling in every photo like he didn’t choke the life out of his first kid. Father of the year. Model citizen. And Thomas—”
He stopped, a ragged sound tearing out of his throat. He looked up at the ceiling like he might find the words carved into it.
“I love that kid,” Eli said, quieter now, but the fury hadn’t left his voice—it just folded in on itself, tighter. “And I hate that I love him. Because he gets everything I didn’t. Everything I should have had. And it’s not his fault. He’s just a kid. But I still want to scream every time he calls me big brother like it’s some fucking badge of honor.”
He turned toward you again, eyes dark and wild. “And then there’s Barkley.”
You blinked. “Your son?”
“My thieving, lying son,” Eli snapped. “Ran off with half my fucking money. I gave that boy my name, my blood, my legacy, and he pissed on all of it. And now, when I look at him, I don’t see a son—I see every single mistake I ever made shoved into a leather jacket and a smug grin.”
He shook his head, pacing again, hands clenching. “And now you—” he stopped, staring at you like you’d started this fire in his chest, “—you think you’re going to walk away? For what? For that scarf-wearing, open-mic-night philosophy major? Jordan?”
You opened your mouth.
“Don’t lie to me!” he shouted. “I see the way you look at him. Like he’s your salvation. Like he’s going to love you gently and say all the right things and touch you like you’re made of glass.”
He stepped forward, pointing, breath sharp.
“But he doesn’t know you. Not like I do. He didn’t see you beg. Didn’t see you scream. He didn’t drag the truth out of you like splinters. He didn’t pay your fucking bills.”
You stood too, hands shaking. “That’s not love, Eli. That’s control.”
“I don’t know how to love!” he bellowed, and the silence that followed was devastating.
Eli stared at you, chest heaving.
“I don’t know how,” he repeated, quieter now. “I only know how to keep people. How to own them. Protect them. Pay for them. Fuck them. Ruin them.”
His voice cracked again. “Because every time I loved something, it got taken. Or left. Or died.”
You took a step toward him. “I’m not—”
“Don’t,” he warned, voice hoarse. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”
The air between you hung heavy with something unspoken. Something broken.
Then, softer, like a confession he hadn’t meant to give: “If you leave, I don’t think I’ll know who the hell I am anymore.”
You exhaled.
And despite everything—every awful word, every ugly truth—you held out your arms again.
Eli looked at them. Looked at you. And this time, when he came to you, it wasn’t with hunger. It wasn’t with control.
It was with grief.
And need.
And something dangerously close to love.
The two of you didn’t talk about that night. Not about the bed. Not about the glass. Not about the confession that cracked open like a wound under your ribs and spilled something too fragile for either of you to name.
Eli stopped calling. He didn’t cancel your contract. Didn’t cut off your funds. He simply… stopped being there. The apartment was quiet. No more sharp baritone echoing through the halls, no more “Fix your goddamn posture” mid-study session, no more smirking commands to sit on the desk, to arch your back, to “earn your rent.”
And you didn’t go after him.
Not because you didn’t want to. But because you were tired. Because your final exams were looming, your hands were shaking every morning from too much coffee and not enough sleep, and every time you picked up your phone to text him—Are you okay?—you remembered the way he’d shouted, I don’t know how to love.
So you gave him space. Weeks passed like molasses. You studied. You worked. You kept your head down and your mouth shut. No more Playboy. No more photo shoots. Just you and your books and the deafening silence where Eli used to be.
And then, one afternoon, everything changed.
It was a Thursday. Warm. Early summer. The air outside still held the ghost of pollen, and your backpack was too heavy, and you were running on three hours of sleep and two Red Bulls. The exam had gone better than expected. You’d even smiled on the way out.
And Jordan was waiting at the curb.
He leaned against his motorcycle, helmet tucked under one arm, his scarf flapping in the breeze like a flag of hipster rebellion. He grinned when he saw you—wide and unguarded—and you couldn’t help it. You smiled back.
Eli saw it happen. He was crossing the lot, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other, heading for his battered Mercedes like it owed him a favor. He wasn’t even looking for you. Not consciously.
But he looked up. And froze.
You were laughing—laughing—as Jordan handed you a helmet and gestured for you to climb on. He was helping you fasten the strap under your chin, his knuckles brushing your throat, his voice soft, close.
Eli’s breath caught. He didn’t move. Just stood there, half-shadowed under the curve of the building, hazel eyes locked on the image in front of him like he couldn’t quite process it.
You climbed on behind Jordan, wrapped your arms around his waist, and held tight.
And Eli—
He felt something snap. Not a loud break, not a scream. Just a quiet, internal fracture, like a glass vial under pressure finally giving way. His hands clenched at his sides; his breath came sharply through his nose.
The motorcycle roared to life.
Jordan laughed.
You pressed your cheek to his back, grinning, hair whipped by the wind.
And Eli Michaelson, Nobel laureate, academic tyrant, expert in quantum chemistry and the systematic disassembly of human emotion, stood in a parking lot watching the only person who had ever understood him ride away on a fucking motorcycle with a boy who wore scarves in June.
He didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. But his keys dug so hard into his palm, they drew blood.
And his baritone voice, when he finally spoke hours later into the hollow quiet of his kitchen, was so quiet it felt like a funeral.
“She wants him.”
He didn’t say it with anger. He said it like a sentence. Like a fact of the universe. Like gravity.
And somewhere deep inside—past the pride, past the genius, past the carefully constructed shell of control—Eli Michaelson finally felt fear.
Eli, the stupid fucking idiot Eli, found himself at a bar. Not a fancy one—not some sleek rooftop lounge where Nobel laureates went to be admired in dim lighting over overpriced whiskey. No. This was a dive. Sticky floors. Flickering TV mounted in the corner. One of the barstools had duct tape wrapped around the seat like a tumor. Eli took it anyway.
He was on his third scotch.
Maybe fourth. The bartender had stopped counting.
He felt ridiculous. Humiliated. Bitter.
Suffering. Over a girl. A girl.
He laughed—quiet and mirthless, more air than sound—and rubbed a hand over his face. His baritone rasped out low and sharp: “Christ, you’re pathetic.” He ordered another.
How ironic the world was. How small. How cruel.
He shouldn't have bought that Playboy magazine. He shouldn’t have picked it up in the first place—shouldn’t have flipped through the pages like some pervert. But he had. Like a fucking idiot.
He shouldn’t have chased you. Shouldn’t have dragged you against his car and shoved his mouth between your thighs like an addict licking the spoon. Shouldn’t have begged you to stay.
Idiot, idiot, idiot.
He took another drink. At a nearby table, a woman had been watching him for the last twenty minutes. Pretty. Young. Too much makeup. The kind who liked her men older, tragic, and bleeding from the edges.
Eli glanced at her.
Then glanced again.
She smiled.
He raised his glass. Called the bartender. “Send her one of these.”
The man nodded, wiping his hands on a towel. Eli leaned back, glass dangling from his fingers, already seeing it—her in his bed, her knees spread, her mouth open, moaning his name like she’d known it forever.
Yes, he thought. That’s going to fix this. That’s going to make him forget you.
He was about to stand. About to walk over. About to slide back into the skin he wore best: charming, cruel, fuckable.
Then—
His phone buzzed. He frowned, dug it from his coat pocket, already preparing to ignore it.
Thomas.
He sighed. “Of course.”
He answered anyway.
“What is it, Thomas?” he muttered, pressing the phone to his ear. “You know these calls are expensive.”
The line crackled faintly. Then his brother’s voice came through, bright and unbothered.
“Hi, bro! Sorry, I just— I wanted to tell you—yesterday in school I did this project about chemical reactions, and I used vinegar and baking soda, and it exploded all over my shoes, and my teacher said I should be a scientist like you!”
Eli closed his eyes. Rubbed his temple. He didn’t respond.
Thomas kept going. “And I told her, I said, ‘My big brother’s a genius. He’s got awards and everything. He won a prize from Sweden!’ And she said—”
Eli cut in, voice sharp. “Tell Dad. He’s the one who cares. I’m sure he’d love to hear all about it. His favorite son. His beloved second chance.”
Thomas was quiet on the other end.
Too quiet.
Eli blinked, something in his gut twisting—but before he could say anything, the boy’s voice returned. Softer. Confused.
“…He always talks about you.”
Eli froze.
Thomas went on, his voice a little smaller now, but no less certain. “Dad has this album. He keeps it in the study. It’s full of newspaper clippings. Photos. Your name. Your speeches. Even the one where you looked really mad and your hair was all messed up.”
Eli didn’t breathe.
“He always says you’re the pride of the Benson family,” Thomas added. “That you were the first person to show the world what we could do. He says I’ll be like you one day.”
Silence.
The bar faded.
The woman disappeared.
Even the scotch in his hand felt weightless.
Thomas kept speaking, unaware of the thunder cracking inside Eli’s skull. “He says he was a bad dad to you. That he messed up. But he never stops talking about how smart you are. He brags about you all the time. It’s kind of annoying.”
Eli let out a breath. Just one. Shaky. Quiet.
He didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing.
And for the first time in a long time, that silence wasn’t filled with bitterness. It was filled with grief.
And something dangerously close to... relief. But he wasn’t ready. Not yet.
So he swallowed it. Like poison. Like medicine. Like everything he’d ever swallowed in his father’s house.
Then he cleared his throat and said, voice hoarse, “Go to school, Thomas.”
The boy hesitated. “…Okay. Good Morning, Eli.”
“Night.”
He hung up. The drink sat untouched in his hand. The woman across the bar was still watching. But Eli didn't move. He just sat there.
And for the first time in his life, he didn’t know who he was trying to forget. His father. Himself.
Or you.
There was a loud knock on your apartment door. Sharp. Repeated.
It was 2:11 in the morning.
You sat up fast, heart pounding, still dressed in the oversized shirt you wore to bed. No one should’ve been at your door. Not at this hour.
You grabbed the bat from under the side table—the old aluminum one you kept there for moments just like this—and padded silently to the door, bare feet cold against the tile. You peered through the peephole, every muscle in your body braced for a stranger, a threat, a face you didn’t know.
But it wasn’t a stranger.
It was Eli. Drunk. Disheveled. His white dress shirt wrinkled, the collar half-popped, and his dark coat askew over one shoulder like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it. His hazel eyes were glassy, bloodshot. His hooked nose looked sharper in the hallway light, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable.
You lowered the bat slowly.
Then you opened the door.
“Do you think my father loves me?” Eli slurred.
You blinked. “…What?”
He leaned against the doorframe, eyes not quite meeting yours. “You’re smarter than you look. What do you think? Is it love when someone makes you bleed and calls it discipline?”
You swallowed. “Eli, I don’t—I don’t even know your father—”
“Didn’t ask if you knew him,” he snapped, baritone thick and broken. “I asked if you think he loves me.”
Your mouth opened. Then closed. There was no right answer.
Before you could respond, he pushed off the frame and leaned toward you—too fast. His hand caught your shoulder, and then his mouth was on yours, rough and uninvited. He kissed you like a man falling off a ledge, desperate to take something down with him.
You pushed him back with both hands. “Eli, what the fuck—”
“I can’t—” He ran a hand through his hair, breath shaking. “I can’t do this. Not if you’re with him.”
“Who?”
“Jordan,” Eli spat the name like it burned. “That fucking… cardigan-wearing… golden retriever.”
You stared at him. “Are you seriously here, drunk, at two in the morning, because you’re jealous?”
He exhaled sharply. “I’m not jealous.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“I’m not,” he insisted, hazel eyes flashing. “Jealousy is wanting something someone else has. You’re not his. You’re mine.”
You sighed, the ache in your chest blooming again. “It’s not fair, Eli. You sleep with whoever you want. I’m not even allowed to talk to another guy without getting a lecture from you?”
“I haven’t,” he cut in.
You blinked. “What?”
His jaw clenched, the words slow and deliberate now—like they hurt. “I haven’t slept with anyone else. In months. Not since you.”
You stared at him, stunned.
“I tried,” he said, quieter. “Tonight. I tried. Bought a drink for someone. Took her home. She said yes.”
He looked away, jaw tight.
“But when I touched her… I felt nothing. Nothing. Like kissing the wrong ghost.”
You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.
Eli met your gaze finally, eyes darker now, his voice cracked and low.
“Do you have any idea what that means for me? I don’t do this. I don’t lose sleep. I don’t chase anyone. But you…” He trailed off, mouth twisting like the taste of your name was a confession.
You stood still, your fingers twitching at your side.
“I couldn’t fuck her,” he said finally, like it shamed him. “Because all I could think about was you. Your mouth. Your laugh. The way you never flinch when I’m cruel. You just stare back like you’re waiting for me to be human.”
You looked at him then, really looked. At the bloodshot eyes, the cracked knuckles, the tilt of his mouth like he was halfway between begging and breaking.
He took a step closer. “Don’t be with him,” he whispered. “Please.”
You swallowed hard. “Why? Because you can’t get it up for anyone else?”
“No.” His voice dropped. “Because I’m in love with you.”
Silence.
Then:
“Christ,” Eli muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I actually said it.”
You didn’t move.
Neither did he. He just stood there in your doorway, every inch of arrogance stripped away, and waited to see if you’d slam the door in his face—or let him in.
And you…
You stepped aside.
Not because you forgave him. Not because it was simple. But because somewhere deep inside, under all the wreckage, you wanted to believe it.
Wanted to believe he meant it, even if he didn't know how.
Alan Rickman Characters & Their Favorite Toys --- Part Two
Author's Note: I decided to write a part two to this fun ask I received a few months ago. Let me know if you'd like to see a part three!!
👉 Part One Here.
Character(s): Hans Gruber x Gender Neutral Reader, Frank Benson, The Interrogator x Gender Neutral Reader, and Eli Michaelson x Female Reader.
Warning(s)‼️: (Given under each individual story, below the break).
Word Count: 1.2k
Author’s Note: Most of the “toys” in this edition are not traditional sex toys, but rather equipment or a type of play. I really wanted to make sure each character was different (I’m hoping if I end up making another part, I don’t end up duplicating. However, if that were to happen, I plan on making that particular drabble stand out).
Hans Gruber - Gun (Play)
Warning(s)‼️: Rape/Non-con Elements. Oral Sex. Cockwarming. Come Swallowing. Desk Pet.
Hans Gruber, a lover of sex toys? Bitte! He was a busy man, an enjoyer of luxury and wealth to the extreme. Sex toys were made for lesser men, those who wanted pleasure but never could manage to retain a date. He was no limp-dicked loser, ending the day with his cock burrowed in a lube-coated fleshlight. An exceptional thief, he was more than capable of stealing hearts and persuading both women and men alike to service him sleep with him. That was what his Glock was for, after all…
Hans sat at his desk, his handgun lazily pressed inches from his latest pet’s heart (aiming for the back of their skull was perhaps more persuasive, but not tenable at the moment for obvious reasons).
You lunged forward, eagerly slurping his heavy, lengthy cock all the way down your throat, his full, aching balls dangerously close to following suit. Cocking the hammer, he enjoyed your flinching back in fear—enjoyed how you, his pet, hollowed your cheeks in the manner that he absolutely adored, the manner that nearly always sent him over the edge. And this time was no different, his balls drawing up in preparation, cock spilling down your throat without warning.
A low grunt left Hans’ thin lips against his pristine, tightly held self-control, his hips, shallowly thrusting, finally stilling with his finish. His slowly softening erection remained on your tongue, the salty, slightly bitter taste of his seed lingering on your lips as he placed the cocked gun back onto the desk’s surface. Hans had other matters to now attend to…
Frank Benson - His Hand
Warning(s)‼️: Male Masturbation.
Mmmmph. Lieutenant General Frank Benson was a busy man—his calculating, sarcastic mind frequently rewinding the news from his latest intelligence briefings and visiting offensive strategies even whilst off-duty. Frank Benson was a simple man. He did not have the time for such luxuries as self-pleasure.
He utterly despised waking up in the middle of the night, his thickly veined cock that curved to the left hard and aching, and keeping him from achieving the little sleep his demanding position allowed. Frank groaned aloud, groaned into the pitch-black silence of his bedroom, knowing full well he’d hate himself in fifteen minutes time.
Frank rolled onto his back, hazel eyes staring at the plaster beginning to peel across the ceiling, slipping his large hand into his boxers to tightly grip his unrelenting, completely undisciplined erection with an unrestrained moan. He gave the tip a harsh squeeze, precum bubbling out of the slit, his fist painfully pumping his partially dry member in an attempt to spread the meager, clear liquid around.
Shame seized his chest as he began to pant, already embarrassingly close to the point of no return. Frank loathed being captive to physical need, but after years of ignoring his cravings, he’d discovered giving in was easier—at least it meant a quick return to blissful, untroubled sleep. He never wanted to enjoy the feeling—never bothered to invest in the creative catalog of toys of that nature he’d casually glimpsed in taboo magazines.
No, Frank thought, as his hot, sticky cum erupted across his fingers, simultaneously coating his sheets, naked skin, and bedclothes, his hand was more than enough to get him by.
The Interrogator - Bondage & Restraints
Warning(s)‼️: Non-con Elements. Pain Play.
A tall man with dark brunette hair that waved at the edges stood alone in a slate grey room, a maze of white fluted columns surrounding him. Well, nearly alone. A seated figure lay before the well-dressed man, their back stiff and upright, body unnaturally still.
The interrogator silently admired his handiwork—thick ropes wrapped tightly around you, his prisoner’s wrists, torso, and ankles, securing your body to the wicker chair. He loved the way your skin bulged where the bonds dug too deep—when he removed the restraints hours later, the skin there would be red and chafed. Raw.
He walked behind the chair, fingertips elegantly removing the silk blindfold from your eyes, marveling at the way you ever so slightly leaned into the physical contact. He always knew just how to make someone desperate, how to make someone painfully wanting.
He’d enjoy breaking you. Yes, indeed.
Effortlessly, he tilted the lightweight chair back on his hind legs, smirking at the look of unconcealed terror blooming across your face.
He let the chair fall back to the floor with a sharp clatter.
Eli Michaelson - His Students
Warning(s)‼️: Unbalanced Power Dynamics (Professor/Student). PIV Sex. Desk Sex. Creampie. Spanking. Mentioned Cheating (By Reader).
Esteemed Professor Eli Michaelson stood up from his desk, unbuckling his trousers in one fluid motion, pleased at his latest toy’s, err, student’s, punctual arrival. Nothing compared to the real thing, in his mind, he thought with a chuckle. No, nothing beat a young girl’s desperation to earn an A, even if it meant letting their professor fuck them across his desk into utter oblivion.
He sank himself into your pussy without preamble, delightfully wet from his encounter hours before. Eli was eager, dreadfully eager, to leave his mark once more upon you, laying a swift succession of smacks across your arse as he continued to thrust from behind. Your nose was unceremoniously buried in a stack of papers he’d been marking until you’d waltzed in—make-up now smudging the white sheets as sweat mixed with your tears of pleasure.
Eli was smirking—your total ruination was quite satisfactory. It was like an aphrodisiac—for he knew you weren’t untethered, you still saw your out-of-town boyfriend on the weekends during the school year. Yet, here you were, whoring out your body for a grade—students were so simple.
He was close—balls heavy and full, smacking against your cunt with every one of his rushed thrusts. Eli was grunting—his low baritone gravelly and absolutely out of breath. He burrowed into you, his lengthy cock fully sheathed in your warmth, his stocky arms wrapped around your body a little more intimately than he would have liked as he came, rope after white rope of thick cum.
Eli pulled away, breath not fully controlled, droplets of sweat dribbling down his back underneath his unbuttoned dress shirt. He tucked himself within his trousers without any embarrassment, admiring the view of his student’s, your, naked arse, his essence slowly trickling out your pussy. He pushed his seed back inside and pulled your panties up, giving you a playful smack to let you know that he was done.
“And Y/L/N,” he called, as you were straightening yourself up, attempting to fix your make-up, but to no avail.
“Yes, sir?” His soft cock gave a twitch at that. “Stay after class.” You, his student, exited his office, off to take your seat in his lecture hall. Five minutes passed before Eli permitted himself to chase after.
Day 162: Alan as Eli Michaelson - Nobel Son (2007)