This 'story idea' has crawled out of the depths of hell and implanted itself in my brain. It was pure smut and, at that, entirely tasteless. For this reason, I will not be publishing the... climax... of the story, but you can have this little tidbit, you pervs.
*skipping down the road at night, singing* I'm going to hell I'm going to hell I'm going to hell
The small lantern by her desk barely illuminated the basement enough to write out her words on the wall with the new chalk Papa bought her the day before. The soft rise and fall of Max's chest and her hands were the only things moving. She practiced her handwriting while he slept. His light breathing was a pleasant rhythm she followed when pausing between letters. It had been like this for weeks. She would sneak down into the basement every night to work on her words and sentences. Only this night Papa and Mama were out for a gathering that she wasn't allowed to go to. She had protested childishly against their wishes for her to stay at home and look after Max, which only solidified their ground that she was too young to go. They didn't tell her what it was even. So here she sat, at nearly midnight, listening to Max breathe and writing out a story in the walls.
She was so lost in her thoughts that when she heard the sound of a raw groan of anguish she nearly jumped out of her skin. She turned to put her back against the wall, trying to calm her heart that was beating heavily in her ears. She stared at where the sound has come from; Max. At first she thought he was having a bad dream so she tiptoed her way over to him and knelt down. She couldn't see his flop of brown feathers anywhere– only the thin blanket that sheltered him from the cold. He tossed and turned a bit under the cover. She tentatively laid her hand on what she thought was his chest. She couldn't tell the difference from his body parts and nervously fumbled around his body trying to find his shoulders to wake him up from his bad dream. Her hand landed on something hard that might've been his wrist and she squeezed experimentally, trying to get a grip on it. The same groan sounded again he tossed again, rolling towards her this time. His head and one shoulder fell out from under the blanket and her sixteen year old mind suddenly realised where her hand was. It couldn't be his wrist for it was in the centre of his body and it was an odd width.
She connected the dots and her eyes widened into the bridge of her eyebrows.
Rudy left her only a month ago and there was still two more to go before he came back. Without him she was lonely and Max could only keep her company as long as she stayed in the basement, so she had taken to spending her days underground with him.
The thing in her hand was standing up proudly straight at this point and she had no quells about what it was. She couldn't let go through her mortification. Her right hand squeezed again softly. It twitched. His breathing sped up and his face twisted into a pained look. Another moan was halfway being ripped through his throat when his eyes shot open. He was facing her as she leaned over him with her hand on his manhood. There was no explanation she could give him to prove her innocence, she realised dejectedly. Without her own volition her right hand crept up his length and settled on his tip trough his thin trousers and cotton blanket. Her eyes stayed on his the whole time, neither of them having the courage look at what she was doing to him. His face had a deer-caught-in-the-headlights look and her own cheeks were flaming too. Small movements of her right hand had him closing his eyes again as he flinched away another groan.
"Liesel," he whispered into the cold air of the basement. He pulled the blanked off his roasting body and her hand fell away, "What are you doing?"
She replied in a whisper, "I was helping." A raw and broken laugh escaped his throat that was so recently moaning under her touch.