AN: This chapter contains material that some may find highly troubling/triggering. I've marked the material off. Feel free to skip it if you get uncomfortable.
Severus
Her desperate cry wakes me from my slumber in a panic. "Mother?" I call out, still half swaddled in the tendrils of a long forgotten memory. I rub the sleep from my eyes, wondering if the voice had been a figment of my imagination, when it comes again—a shriek echoing through the worn floorboards between my bedroom and the room below.
"Severus!"
I leap out of bed and race down the rickety steps, through the cramped sitting room, to the oversized fireplace, where I spot her floating head, her fair skin turned ghastly green by the flames billowing about her.
"Please, Severus," she pleads without preamble. "There is no time! They're going to Azkaban! They blame Lucius for The Dark Lord's death! I have to save him! Please, you must take Draco! Keep him safe!"
"Of course," I reply, burying the apprehension that surfaces in me upon hearing her request. "Whatever you need."
She thanks me with a hasty nod and then she is gone. A moment later, the flames burst into an emerald rage, their eerie light touching every corner of the room. Two figures appear in the belly of the inferno, clutching each other as they spin, first with blinding speed and then slowing gradually to a halt.
Narcissa steps out of the hearth first, followed closely by her son. I watch as she pulls him into her embrace. The words she murmurs to him are incomprehensible over the roaring green fire, but there is no mistaking the love in her eyes. A mother's love, I think as an unexpected shard of longing lances my heart.
After bestowing a final pair of kisses upon either of Draco's cheeks, she turns to me.
"I am in your debt," she says, and without waiting for my reply, she strides back into the fireplace to be engulfed by the blaze once more.
In the wake of her departure, I stand frozen in the dark, temporarily stunned by how quick the universe is to make a fool of me. For years, I have maintained a cautionary distance from my godson. His parents assumed that my discomfort stemmed from a lack of experience, and I saw no reason to correct them. I believed the lie would keep me safe, yet here Draco stands in my house, thrust upon me in the dead of night. He has grown considerably since the last time I allowed myself to have a good look at him. The hallmarks of childhood have faded, leaving only long limbs and lean muscle.
"Aren't you going to show me to my room, Godfather?" he asks, breaking the trance.
Without a word, I turn on my heels and retrace my steps through the house, only this time, stopping at the first door at the top of the stair. Its hinges wail in protest as I push it open, not having been so disturbed in years, and the smell of stale memories fill my nostrils.
"It's not as luxurious as the accommodations you're used to—" I say, scanning the barely moonlit little bedroom in which I spent my childhood feeling like a prisoner to my own fear.
"You're not wrong about that," he interjects, taking no care to be discreet, as he peers in from behind me.
"—but it should do until your mother returns," I continue. "The lavatory is across the hall, should you need to wash and—"
With an indignant huff, he shoulders past me and slams the door closed behind him, leaving me and the rest of my sentence alone in the darkened landing. The rage flares up from deep within me. Immediately, I feel a powerful urge to blast through the door and punish him for his insolence, but I hold back.
He's been through an ordeal, I tell myself. He is fatigued. Forgive him.
And the ire subsides enough for me to walk away. When I return to my bed, it is not in search of rest, but satisfaction.
~o~
As the light of dawn begins to peek through my little window, I reach the height of my carnal ministrations for the third time, gasping and shuddering to my mind's rendition of his pleas for mercy. Laying hands upon myself has brought me physical satisfaction, but no relief. I can still feel his presence just on the other side of the paper-thin wall; it clings to me like an invisible layer atop my skin and beneath the sheath of sweat from my restless morning. I feel like I am suffocating, drowning in it, so I rise and dress.
Walking past the room in which I knew him to be sleeping is another exercise in self-control. With my hand suddenly pressed against his door, I see myself silently slipping into the bedroom, binding each of his limbs to the four corners of the narrow bed, exposing every inch of his perfect white flesh and turning it raw and red, black and blue, with stroke after stroke of my leather strap; I hear his terror, his agony, his desperation as he begs me, "No more! No more!"
My heart is thundering again, my breaths ragged, my cock stiff and aching for even the slightest touch. I could do it right here, separated from him only by a hollow door and a mere few inches of air, and it would be far more satisfying than any other time. Or, better yet, I could treat myself to the sight of him. These muggle constructions are so shoddy; one careful exertion of force and the door would swing free and I wouldn't have to imagine his lanky body splayed out upon the mattress or his lips, slack and slightly parted in sleep—
No, I think, snatching my hand away. Severing contact pulls me out of the mire and in a rush of clarity I realize I need distance. Before I can convince myself otherwise, I take to the stairs and don't breathe again until I've reached the other side of the closed kitchen door.
I never thought the day would come when this room was once again my sanctuary and yet, here I am, seeking shelter from a monster. The sense of déjà vu is strong in here. I could be seven years old again, throwing all of my weight against the door, fighting desperately to keep it closed while my father pounds at the other side.
"Open this door, you little shit," he screams, and I can hear his belt buckle clink and jingle menacingly through the hollow wood. "I'm gonna whip the living piss out of you!"
I start to cry because I still have the marks from last time—Oh, how every lash had burned!—and my arms are getting tired and my bare feet are slipping on the tiled floor. He's ramming the door with his shoulder, now, and I swear my fear is the only thing keeping that door closed because my strength should have given out by now.
Please, please, please! I pray to whomever might be listening, not even sure of what I'm praying for.
"I'm gonna tear all the skin from your bones, you miserable welp!" he screams. "I'll rip you limb from limb and feed what's left of you to the dogs! Open this goddamned door!"
"Tobias? Tobias!" I hear my mother's muffled voice cry.
"Get off me, woman!"
The pounding stops and I sob with relief, letting my body slide limply to the floor. I lay my head back against the door, listening to my mother work her magic on the other side.
"What's the matter, dear?" she asks, bringing her voice down to the soothing coo that sometimes worked to calm the beast.
"There's something wrong with that boy, Eileen," my father growls. "He's not right, I'm tellin' ya."
"He's just a child," my mother pleads. "He's curious!"
"He was doing things to the neighbor's cat! Vile things! The sounds coming out of his room—"
"His little game got a bit out of hand," she assures him. "He didn't mean any harm."
Then, I hear her heels clip-clop to the kitchen door and I know what's coming.
"Sev?" she calls to me through the barrier. "It's Mother. Please, come out, darling."
I do as I'm told, pulling myself onto my shaky legs and opening to find my mother standing in the doorway. My father looms like a vulture directly behind her, belt hanging by his side and a skeptical look on his ugly face.
"Apologize to your father," Mother says sternly.
I put on my best impression of remorse.
"I'm sorry, Father," I say, quietly.
He flares his nostrils and utters a low grunt in response. Before either of us speaks again, my mother turns to face him and places a gentle hand on each of his cheeks.
"There," she says. "All better." And she pulls him down into a kiss. He doesn't take his beady, coal black eyes off me, not even as he shoves his tongue into my mother's mouth, so I stare right back at him until my mother moves his hand onto her backside and he squeezes her in silent acceptance of her offering. I can't stand to see any more. My cheeks burn and hatred roars in my ears.
Thankfully, their embrace doesn't last long. With a large whiskey that will never need refilling and whispered promises of a hot supper, my mother coaxes my father onto the sofa, in front of the television, where she and I both know he'll stay all night, so long as he isn't disturbed.
I had to understand, she told me when she returned to the kitchen, I wasn't like other children. I was special and Father was jealous. I simply had to learn to control myself and she was going to teach me. I didn't understand, but it didn't matter, because, in the calm that followed the storm, she was mine. She stayed with me, whiling away the hours it would take for my father to drink himself into a stupor, turning this rundown little kitchen into our special place.
As I look around the room, I realize with a pang of guilt that I've allowed our sanctuary go to ruin.
"Always begin by cleansing your workspace," I remember Mother telling me at the start of our lessons. "A blank canvas does wonders for the mind."
Like a good boy, I drop to my hands and knees and lay into the thick blanket of dust on the floor with an old brush and a bucket of water. The physical demands of the work are a welcome distraction for my body. I relish in the rough wooden brush handle scraping against my palms, the unyielding tiles gnawing at my knees, the fire growing in my muscles as I scrub and scrub and scrub. When the floor runs out more quickly than I expect it to, I turn my attention to the higher surfaces: the grimy countertops and grease stained cupboards, the table riddled with water rings and the cooktop peppered with splatters of burned-on food. I wash and rinse and dust and polish until all evidence of my neglect has been obliterated.
"Next, lay out your tools," she says, and I can almost feel her gaze over my shoulder. "Having them within reach keeps the process smooth."
I rummage through the drawers to find what I need—a whisk, a spatula, a battered frying pan, a bowl, two plates, two forks, and a knife (there was never any need to set a place for my father.)—and arrange them across the counter in the order that I'll need them.
"Very good, Sev. Now, prepare your ingredients."
This step, I realize as I pull open the cupboards and find only bare shelves, is going to require some creativity. I stand at the window above the sink and scan the outlined buildings of my tiny neighborhood, as my mother had done whenever my father's expectation of a hot meal surmounted his ability to provide for one.
"Mrs. Friedman over there," she'd whisper, pointing through the open window to the house on the other side of our back garden, "is growing some lovely rosemary and Mr. Pogget—" She pointed to the house at the end of the road. "—had thirteen little hatchlings last spring that will have matured nicely by now."
Despite the bleakness of the circumstance, I secretly longed for these times, for it was only in desperation that she broke my father's rule about keeping magic out of the house. She squared her shoulders and pulled a short, dark, wooden wand out of her apron pocket. I smiled in giddy anticipation. She waved the wand, first at the window and then at the counter and before I could blink, there was a fat hen clucking in our kitchen. Mother silenced it with a jab of her wand and a flash of green light, and then set me to the task of plucking its feathers.
Mrs. Friedman and Mr. Pogget have both long since perished, but there is a large chain muggle grocery not too far away that surely wouldn't miss a half dozen eggs and some bacon. I pull my wand out of my pocket and make the ingredients appear, along with some salt and pepper for flavor.
Now, I think, smiling for the first time since the start of the summer holidays, the real work commences.
I set the frying pan on the cooktop and lay as many strips of thick bacon into it as will fit. In a matter of minutes the room is filled with the sound and smell of sizzling meat. As the bacon cooks, I crack the eggs into the bowl, sprinkle in the salt and pepper, and begin to beat the mixture with the whisk.
"What in Merlin's name are you doing?"
My body jerks violently and I nearly drop the bowl. His chuckle dances across the room. I right myself quickly, resolving not to lose control, but when I turn around and see him wearing nothing but a smirk from the waist up, my convictions aren't so strong. I clear my suddenly tight throat.
"You're awake," I say, stiffly. "Good. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. Have a seat."
To my surprise, he sits at the table without a word. When I resume my cooking, however, he finds his voice.
"Cooking your own food?" he drawls as I take up whisking the eggs once again. "Don't you know you can do that by magic?"
"I am well aware of what I can and can't accomplish by magic, thank you," I reply. "I choose to cook by hand."
"Why?"
"My reasons for doing anything are none of your concern."
His lack of a retort tells me I have upset him. Clearly, he's not used to not getting his way.
Good, I think with a triumphant smirk of my own.
The smell of the cooked bacon fills the empty air between us, signaling its doneness. I divide the strips of meat evenly between our two plates. Then, I take out my wand and wave it over the still warm frying pan. The majority of the grease disappears, leaving just enough for scrambling eggs.
"This place is a dump," he says over the eggs crackling as they hit the hot pan. I ignore this feeble attempt at provoking me and carry on swirling the eggs around the pan. "And that closet you made me sleep in," he continues, "hasn't got any bloody air in it. I couldn't even stand to have my clothes on."
The thought of his nakedness does stir me, but not in any way he can see. I can feel his annoyance at my lack of a reaction burning a hole into my back, but I scoop some perfectly fluffy eggs onto his plate as if absolutely nothing has occurred. Then, solely for his benefit, I tap the edge of the plate twice with the tip of my wand. His breakfast hovers up to eye level and floats to the table, landing in front of his seat with a soft rap.
As I prepare my own plate, I hear the unmistakeable scraping sound of his food traveling across the table punctuated by the sharp tinkle of ceramic smashing against tile. I know there will be a mess when I turn around—I've prepared myself for the sight of my efforts all over the kitchen floor—but nothing prepares me for the look on his face.
"Whoops," he says, eyebrow cocked above the self-satisfied smile.
I let out a sharp exhalation.
"Clean it up," I command.
"You're the one who's determined to act like a house elf," he challenges. "You clean it."
The shred of restraint I've been holding onto evaporates. I fly at him with outstretched arms. He screams and wrenches himself away but my fingers close around a hank of his hair. I rip him out of his seat, bend him over the table, and, holding him down by the small of his back, lay into his rear with the spatula.
"I—will not—be—dis—respected—in—my—home!" I scream, emphasizing each word with a swat to his perfectly white posterior.
The slotted metal whistles through the air as I whip him, smacking loudly against his skin, drawing up angry red welts that make my mouth water. He screams and cries and tries to fight me off, but I hold him fast, bearing my full weight upon his back. The monster inside me demands more pain, so I swing harder, grunting like an animal as I hit him more ferociously, teeth bared and chest heaving with the effort. He pushes against me again, mid-swing. I lose my balance and fall back against the fridge. He runs, stumbling over furniture, his clothes, his own two feet. He's out of the kitchen, running through the living room toward the front door.
"No, you don't!" I growl as I tear after him.
My fingers close around the fabric of his pajama bottoms just as his fingertips graze the doorknob. I draw him back with a sharp tug and the screech of stretching seams mingles with his anguished cry.
"No!" he screams as his body catapults back into mine. "Let me go!"
The monster snarls with savage pleasure. My arms clamp around Draco's torso, pinning his arms to his sides, but he is still fighting for freedom. He thrashes his body every which way in attempt to loosen my hold, and, when that doesn't work, he kicks his legs wildly into the air to try to unbalance me. Undeterred, I half carry and half drag him to the old sofa, toss him unceremoniously onto the cushions, and mount his back.
"Please," he begs. "Please! I'm sorry! I'm—Argh!"
I pull his arms back and pin them down with one hand. His pleas make me dizzy and my cock rigid with excitement. I didn't know just how badly I wanted him until now, until I felt him writhing against me, until I could taste his fear, and I wonder fleetingly if he is afraid for knowing or not knowing what I am about to do to him.
CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAUTION / CAU
"You are a wicked boy," I growl, using my free hand to pull his loosened pajama waistband down to uncover his backside. "and you need to be punished."
His flesh is a map of intersecting avenues. The welts that run across his cheeks are raised, now, and so warm to the touch. My pulse quickens as I trace the paths I've made with my fingertip, remembering the intense satisfaction of landing each blow, but I still want more. I stray off course, wandering into the valley where his innocence lies. His whole body tenses at my approach. I push one digit through the ring of tightened muscle, sinking into him past the first knuckle, then the second. His screams melt into sobs and a torrent of shivers dances down my spine.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he wails, and I'm sure that, for the first time in his lavish little life, he truly and sincerely is, but the time for mercy has long passed. The monster has stepped out of the shadows craving recompense, and I have no intention of denying him.
"You are a wicked boy," I repeat breathlessly, intoxicated by his heat, "and you need to be punished."
I can no longer bear the weight of my desire. My body is screaming for release. Panting with anticipation, I end my exploration in favor of removing the barriers between his flesh and mine. I lift the front of my robes and draw my throbbing arousal from my undergarments. A shift in position has me pressed against his tightly clenched buttocks, gasping as his every jolt and twitch threatens to pelt me into rapture; a hard thrust propels me through the cleft between his cheeks. His resistance is commendable, but no match for my strength, and when I force my way into his body—when I bury my shaft deep inside of him—he fills the musty little room with the screams I've only ever heard in my fantasies.
My breath comes in erratic little gasps as I take my pleasure from him like a beast, rutting with abandon, rocking the old sofa to the melody of his howls. His pain is more delectable than I could have imagined—the feeling of his flesh stretching and tearing around mine, the sweet sounds of his agony. I can't see, can't breathe for the exquisite pressure building in my groin. The ascent is swift, and then, before I can savor even a moment of it, I plunge into an earth-shattering release. Currents of ecstasy rip through me while my essence spills out. I pump into him like mad, desperate to draw out every last tender morsel of pleasurable sensation his body has to offer, and when the well runs dry, an absolute fatigue descends upon me; my body wilts, my skin tingles, and I am overcome with a feeling that I can only describe as pure satisfaction.
END / END / END / END / END / END / END / END / END / END / END / END / END /
He shivers beneath me, trembling like a frightened bird as I regain my breathing. It brings me such elation to see him so broken, to know that he has finally tasted my power, but even now, the reality of my indulgence has begun to set in. I have seen men suffer greatly for far less grievous acts committed against Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy's precious son; I doubt even my god-fatherhood could exempt me from a similar fate. I will have to erase his memory, and perhaps send him to back to his bed with the subtle suggestion that any residual unpleasant feelings are the result of a bad night's sleep.
But the memories, I think as I dip my head to his hair and inhale his scent. They are mine to keep.
The moment I remove my weight from his body, he scrambles over the sofa arm and across the floor to the farthest corner of the room. He sits with his back pressed against the spines of my volumes, his arms binding his knees tightly to his chest. His silver eyes shine with tears as he stares at me, caught between terror and hatred.
"I would apologize," I say as I stand to rearrange my robes, my body still pulsing with exaltation, "but it seems rather indecent of me to lie."
I take a step toward him and he flinches.
"St–Stay away from me!" he croaks, a panicked flush rising to his cheeks.
"The only comfort I can offer," I continue, taking another step forward, "is that you will not have to remember this. I will relieve you of the burden of this memory, see to your injuries, and it will be as if this never happened."
"Don't touch me!"
His breath quickens and his eyes dart around the room in search of what—an escape? A weapon? I wonder if he is too shocked to understand.
"Draco, I want to help you," I say slowly, but I can see him growing more and more frantic. I must act quickly. I draw my wand. "Stupe—"
A pillar of emerald flame fills the cold hearth, pulling my attention away from the boy. A cloaked figure spins in its center. She lurches forward, arms outstretched, and I lunge toward the fireplace to catch her.
"Narcissa!" I gasp as she lands hard against my chest. I cradle her head in the crook of my arm and use my free hand to push the loose strands of silk—now crusted with blood and filth—away from her face, and as her blue eyes clouded with anguish lock onto mine, the thousand questions teeming over the tip of my tongue fall still.
"Where's Father?" Draco demands from the floor. "You said you would bring him back. Where is he?"
Unexpectedly, my heart breaks for him, for his foolish, unwavering belief that both of his parents would return to him unscathed. Narcissa grimaces at her son's words and I know that her heart is breaking, too. Her eyes flutter closed. The mask of perpetual sang-froid crumbles to reveal her devastation. She slips out of my supportive embrace and for a moment I think she will fall, but she catches herself, stands, and limps to her son.
"Mother?" he begs, looking at her with eyes full of the question whose answer he already knows and yet still cannot bear to hear.
She kneels before him, captures both of his cheeks in her slender, bloodstained hands, brings her forehead to his and murmurs, with eyes closed, the awful truth she'd fought so hard and failed to spare him. They break down together, mother and son, sobbing and clinging to one another in their shared grief, and I have never felt more unwelcome.
~o~
It took mere hours for word to trickle through the few old pureblood families left untouched by the Ministry—Lucius Malfoy killed in Azkaban! Lucius Malfoy buried in an unmarked grave amongst murderers and thieves!—and Narcissa, being no fool, knew she must act quickly. My invitation arrived on doves' wings not one hour after her departure. The service was to take place the next morning and in the precious few hours before, she would scrub every bit of darkness from her family's home.
When I arrive at the Manor I am bombarded with tribute upon tribute to Lucius Malfoy's greatness, his heroism, his philanthropic efforts, his dedication to his family. I can focus on none of it. Thirteen hours have passed since Draco left my living room—thirteen panic-riddled hours which I have spent regretting and readying myself for Narcissa's inevitable retribution. When the morning dawned undisturbed, I knew that this would be my only chance to save myself.
The work on the interior of the Manor is impressive, but as I move through the house to the beautifully landscaped grounds, the truth proves to be more difficult to conceal. Rows and rows of solid gold chairs serve as audience to a marble dais and lectern, rows and rows that should be overflowing with family and friends, sitting vacant as a stark reminder that even the best intentions and the most prodigious magical skill cannot conjure loyalty.
The few seats aside from mine that are occupied hold the press, who erupt in a flurry of shutter clicks and flashes when Narcissa rises from her seat next to me to deliver her husband's eulogy. She is a vision of tragic beauty, in flowing dress robes of white and gold, but they want nothing of her pain; they seek only to document that the deepest pockets in British wizarding society could not convince a witch or wizard of repute to honor a known Death Eater. Nevertheless, she stands with poise as she speaks of Lucius's bravery, of how he sacrificed his life to save his family, with her head held high above the whispers.
Her determination would move me under different circumstances, but on this particularly gray morning, my anxiety is all-consuming. My eyes from wander over the grounds again and again, disappointment following every pass that ends with no sign of the boy, until a flicker of movement draws my gaze to the house. He stands in the large window of Lucius's study on the topmost floor, barely visible in the gap between two heavy curtains, but unmistakeable with his silver blonde hair. Our eyes meet and my stomach lurches. Then, I blink, and he is gone. The urge to leap from my seat and chase after him is a difficult one to suppress, but somehow I manage. When the service finally ends—with a conjured flock of doves that soars in formation before converging into a shining white obelisk to modest applause—I offer the grieving widow my solemn condolences and excuse myself.
When I push through the solid oak door of the study, I am shocked by the sight of him reaching into the glass case next to his father's desk. I didn't expect him to have stayed after spotting me on the grounds.
My instincts begin to urge me. Do it now! And, indeed, my fingers twitch for my wand, but curiosity stays my hand.
He is dressed in white and gold to match his mother's costume of mourning, but carries none of her elegance in his grief. His robes are disheveled, his hair unkempt, his eyes puffy and red, and his gaze is glassy and unfocused. As I watch him pull a large bottle of amber liquid and an ornately etched crystal tumbler out of the cabinet, completely unperturbed by my appearance, I can't help but wonder how much of this breakdown is my doing.
"Draco?" I query, taking a few cautious steps into the room.
"Have you come to wish me a happy birthday, Godfather?" he slurs, without looking up from the task of pouring himself a generous measure of the libation.
The question catches me off guard and I stop, mid-stride. Has he done something to himself, I wonder, damaged his mind while attempting to erase his own memory?
"No?" he carries on without waiting for my answer. "Don't worry. My own mother didn't remember. Why should you?"
His unsteady hand sloshes more of the drink over the glass's rim than into it. I hesitate before replying. "Well, Draco, I'm sure that, given the circumstances, you can forgive her mistake."
"Ha!" he laughs bitterly, slamming the bottle down onto the polished wooden surface of the desk. "Do you really think so, Godfather? Do you really believe I can be so magnanimous—" He smiles to himself, as if impressed by his own cleverness. "—as to forgive such a betrayal? I wonder what else you think I'm capable of forgiving."
His eyes flick up to me for my reaction and, for the briefest of moments, I see in them, not sadness or confusion, but excitement. It seems that I have underestimated him. My finding him here was clearly by his design.
"I know you must be hurting," I tell him in a calm low murmur. "Let me help you ease at least some of the burden."
"I thought," he carries on as if he hasn't heard me, "that I was going to have to end my private celebration when Mummy caught me drinking her special elf wine. She wasn't very happy. Locked me out of the cellar. Then I remembered this little gem! Father bought it on the day I was born. He told me he was saving it to share with me on my seventeenth birthday. It's a bit early, but I'm sure he won't mind." With his eyes still trained on mine, he brings the glass to his lips and smirks. "Given the circumstances."
The little concern I have left vanishes as quickly as the liquor drains from his glass. His face contorts into a grimace as his throat burns and my nostrils flare in indignation. "Enough!" I snarl. "I am trying to help you, Draco. I don't appreciate being mocked!"
"Well, I don't appreciate being raped," he retorts, "but here we both are."
He pours himself another drink and I can only watch, taken aback by his blasé attitude. I know it is foolish—I should be relieved!—but I cannot keep the feeling of insult at bay. The image of yesterday's crying, quivering, broken mouse of a boy has stuck so fast in my mind that to see him behaving so nonchalantly infuriates me.
"What's the matter, Godfather?" he taunts, seeming to have read my thoughts. "Lost your confidence? Worried you didn't make a strong enough impression?"
He knocks the second helping back and shudders as the alcohol hits him again. In the time it takes for him to put the glass down again, I close the gap between us. Suddenly, his finely embroidered lapels are bunched in my fists and I am breathing in the pungent fumes curling from his mouth.
"You stupid little shit," I hiss into his face. "You insolent welp!" My body is pressed against his, pinning him to the desk, the end of my nose barely an inch from his. Even in my ire—or perhaps because of it—my body is reacting to being so close to him. The urge to punish him is impossible to ignore, and why should I? I've done it once before and he certainly learned his lesson then. "You—"
"Wicked, wicked boy," he supplies, and as he speaks, I feel the peculiar sensation of his legs sliding up the sides of mine. He hoists himself onto the desk and wraps his legs around my hips, thrusting his groin against mine.
I choke on a groan. "What are you—"
His arms snake around my neck and pull me down. "Go on," he breathes hotly into my ear. "Do it! Punish me! Make me hurt!"
He smashes his lips against mine, forces his tongue past my teeth. I pull away and push him down. The back of his head hits the desk with a dull thud. My hands creep up to his neck as my heart hammers in anticipation.
"Say it again," I hiss, closing my fingers around his throat and his mouth breaks into that maddening, triumphant smirk.
"I am a wicked boy, and I need to be punished. Punish me."
AN: Many thanks to supertallscandinaviangiant for beta reading for me! I couldn't have finished without you. This chapter was rough, but my favorite so far. Leave your thoughts in the reviews! Next chapter probably won't be up til after Christmas because it's knitting season!