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cinema-tv-etc · 5 years

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Franco Zeffirelli, revered Italian director, dies aged 96

Sat 15 Jun 2019

Italian equally celebrated as director of films, theatre and opera over 60-year career

Franco Zeffirelli, one of Italy’s most revered artistic figures, has died at the age of 96.

In a career spanning more than 60 years, Zeffirelli was staggeringly prolific and equally celebrated as a director of films, theatre and opera. Several of his stage productions became successes on screen – most notably a vibrant version of Romeo and Juliet which starred a young Judi Dench at the Old Vic in London and led to an Oscar-winning box-office smash in the late 1960s.

Shakespeare inspired other hit movies for Zeffirelli: The Taming of the Shrew with Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, Hamlet with Mel Gibson and Glenn Close, and a film of Verdi’s Otello with Plácido Domingo. His lavish opera productions brought sensational performances by Joan Sutherland and Maria Callas; 25 years after the latter’s death he directed a biopic, Callas Forever, starring Fanny Ardant. His filmed operas reached large TV audiences and he was celebrated as a great populariser.

Zeffirelli believed he had inherited his passion for music from his grandfather, a conductor. He was born on 12 February 1923 and raised in Florence, the illegitimate son of a fashion designer, Alaide Garosi Cipriani, and wool merchant Ottorino Corsi, both of whom were married to other people. He was named by his mother after a line about zeffiretti (breezes) in a Mozart aria. Cipriani, whose career was damaged by the scandal, died when her son was six and he was taken in by his aunt.

His passion for theatre was sparked as a child during holidays spent in Tuscany where he saw performances by travelling players. “I’ve never believed anything at the theatre as much as the fantasies those storytellers brought us,” he wrote in his autobiography.

He attended a Roman Catholic school in Florence where he said he was sexually assaulted by a priest. When the second world war broke out, he joined the partisan effort, twice escaped death by firing squad and became an interpreter for the Scots Guards. In the postwar years he switched from plans to be an architect and began a career as an actor in radio productions, including a role alongside Anna Magnani in L’Onorevole Angelina. Many years later, he would direct Magnani’s return to the stage in the long-running show La Lupa.

Zeffirelli credited Luchino Visconti with changing his life. Visconti directed him in a small role in a stage adaptation of Crime and Punishment in Rome, then made him assistant director on his 1948 neo-realist classic La Terra Trema, filmed in Sicily using non-professional actors. Zeffirelli then assisted Salvador Dalí on his designs for As You Like It, directed by Visconti. His first task, he recalled, was persuading Dalí to use stuffed goats rather than real ones in the stage production.

In the mid-1950s, Zeffirelli directed Callas for the first time, at her request, in Rossini’s Il Turco in Italia. He went on to direct her in a series of spectacular operas including La Traviata in Dallas in 1958, which broke with tradition by opening with her character dying and then unfolding in flashback. He also directed Bellini’s Norma in Paris in 1964, featuring his own set designs, and Callas’s final operatic role, Tosca at Covent Garden in 1965.

The other soprano Zeffirelli enjoyed a lengthy collaboration with was Sutherland whose career exploded into stardom after he directed her in a blood-soaked version of Lucia di Lammermoor, conducted by Tullio Serafin, at the Royal Opera House in London in 1959.

Later that year, also at the ROH, Zeffirelli staged the short operas Cavalleria Rusticana and Pagliacci, giving them both an authentically realised Sicilian setting. These led to the Old Vic asking him to stage Romeo and Juliet with a similarly realistic Italian setting. Although anxious about directing Shakespeare in English and in England, Zeffirelli launched a youthful production of the tragedy, starring Dench and John Stride. It was dismissed by many critics but championed by the Observer’s Kenneth Tynan, who wrote that Zeffirelli: “approached Shakespeare with fresh eyes, quick wits and no stylistic preconceptions; and what he worked was a miracle … The director has taken the simple and startling course of treating [the characters] as if they were real people in a real situation.”

Zeffirelli’s film version of Romeo and Juliet was also a breath of fresh air. Starring teenagers Leonard Whiting and Olivia Hussey, it was partly shot outdoors, had an unstagy feel and reached a young audience. The film helped make Zeffirelli rich. For many years, he claimed, he had been getting by on freelance director fees and had supplemented his income by selling off a series of Matisse drawings given to him as a gift by Coco Chanel.

In between the theatre and film versions of Romeo, he staged a Sicilian-style Much Ado About Nothing at the Old Vic with Maggie Smith, Robert Stephens and Albert Finney, and shot The Taming of the Shrew with the combustible star power of Taylor and Burton. The couple partly funded the film, which was shot at Dino De Laurentiis’s studios in Rome.

Zeffirelli grew accustomed to stepping from one grandly ambitious project to the next, juggling theatre, TV and opera productions. In 1976, he directed Otello at La Scala with Domingo; the following year his epic TV film Jesus of Nazareth, with Robert Powell as Christ, Ian McShane as Judas Iscariot and Anne Bancroft as Mary Magdalene, was broadcast to a large audience. By 1978 he was preparing a remake of the sentimental drama The Champ, which would star Jon Voight and Faye Dunaway and become a box-office hit.

Further film projects included the 1981 romance Endless Love, starring Brooke Shields and released in an edit that upset Zeffirelli, a 1988 biopic of the conductor Arturo Toscanini and a 1996 adaptation of Jane Eyre with the title role shared by Anna Paquin and Charlotte Gainsbourg. The semi-autobiographical Tea With Mussolini (1999), starring Smith, Dench and Joan Plowright, was co-written by Zeffirelli and John Mortimer. The film followed Luca, a dressmaker’s son in Florence, who, like Zeffirelli, grows up playing with a toy theatre and has encounters with the partisans and Scots Guards during the second world war.

In 1994 Zeffirelli became a member of the Italian senate, representing Silvio Berlusconi’s Forza Italia party for seven years. He was made a Knight of the British Empire in 2004.

https://www.theguardian.com/stage/2019/jun/15/franco-zeffirelli-revered-italian-director-dies-aged-96

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threepennyopera-brecht-blog · 7 years

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Inside Three Penny

by Scoot Millar

background and analysis by Scott Miller

The Threepenny Opera focuses on the career criminal Macheath who plans to marry the innocent Polly, daughter to Mr. Peachum, the King of the Beggars, with the help of Mack’s friend Tiger Brown, the Chief of Police. So Peachum threatens to organize London’s beggars to ruin Queen Victoria’s coronation unless Tiger Brown arrests and hangs Macheath. Of course, at the last minute, the Queen pardons Mack, makes him a Baron and bestows a lifetime pension on him. Lots of double crosses and skullduggery combine into a scathing indictment of the dishonesty and cruelty of “polite society.”

But it all started way back in 1728, when Englishman John Gay wrote the ballad opera The Beggar’s Opera, a satirical comedy about corruption in London society, featuring many of the characters who would later appear in Threepenny. According to Richard Traubner’s Operetta: A Theatrical History, the original idea for the opera came from Jonathan Swift, who wrote to Alexander Pope in 1716, asking “…what think you, of a Newgate pastoral among the thieves and whores there?" Newgate (pronounced NOO-git) was London’s central prison.

Their friend John Gay decided that it should be a satire rather than a pastoral opera, and based his central characters on real people – the notorious criminals Jonathan Wild and Jack Sheppard became Jonathan Peachum and Capt. Macheath. In fact, it seems Peachum is really a mix of Wild and the pompous, long-serving prime minister Robert Walpole.

The story satirized politics, poverty and injustice, and everyday corruption at all levels of society. But The Beggar’s Opera is really more romantic comedy, laced with social commentary; while its descendant The Threepenny Opera is social commentary, laced with romantic comedy. (Laurence Olivier made a pretty decent film version of The Beggar’s Opera in the 1950s, which is now on commercial video.) Gay later wrote a sequel for Polly, set in the West Indies. The Beggar’s Opera continued to be revived for the next 200+ years.

In 1920, yet another revival of The Beggar’s Opera opened in London, and ran an impressive 1,463 performances, becoming a certified hit; then it played Austria, where it caught the attention of playwright Bertolt Brecht.

According to PBS.com:

Bertolt Brecht (1898-1956) offered a challenge to Aristotle’s ancient approach to theater as a spectator activity. He sought to stimulate the minds of his audience, integrating economics and politics into his plays, in hopes that those watching would respond with intellect, not emotion. As Eyre and Wright describe him, "He was a brilliant man of the theatre, highly receptive to the avant-garde of his day, quick to improve it and somewhat too precipitate to turn it into theory. He was a communist: not a left-winger, not a liberal, nor a humanitarian. From his twenties onwards, he thought and worked in terms of Marxist dialectic and he really wasn’t kidding.”

Over the course of his career, Brecht developed his so-called epic theater, in which narrative, montage, self-contained scenes, and rational argument were used to create a shock of realization in the spectator. To create a distancing effect, Brecht promoted acting and staging that would merely demonstrate what was being portrayed, thus giving the audience a more objective perspective on the action. In Brecht’s plays, say Eyre and Wright, “lucidity reigns: nothing is worse than a jumble of confused impressions.”

Throughout the 1960s and 70s, Brecht was revered by left-leaning theatricals as a sage whose slightest jottings could be relied on as a guide to morality, politics and life itself. In the 1990s the collapse of faith in Marxism put a stop to that. But although his Mao-like status hasn’t lasted, his plays (or some of them) have quietly entered the theatrical mainstream. Whether they’ve entered as what they are, or in disguise, is harder to say. Some productions get praised for following his thinking to the hilt, others get praised for throwing his boring theories out of the window. Sometimes both are said of the same production.

In the Beginning

After seeing The Beggar’s Opera, Brecht began to co-write with Elizabeth Hauptmann a new, contemporary, sociopolitical, satirically savage updating of the show called The Three-Penny Opera, with a dark, groundbreaking, jazz score by Kurt Weill (pronounced Wile by Weill himself, but usually pronounced Vile by others). Cultural historian Stanley Crouch has said that artists who want to express adult emotions, who want to move beyond adolescent emotions, use jazz. Musical theatre historian Cecil Smith later wrote, “It proves that a small musical show can be both engrossing and magnificently entertaining without sacrificing high imagination, acute intelligence, superbly unified and thoroughly artistic production, and an underlying sense of purpose.”

(An interesting side note: Elisabeth Hauptmann was originally listed as co-author of The Threepenny Opera, having purportedly written the majority of the text, and also having translated the English text of The Beggar’s Opera into German for Brecht and Weill to work on. But she gets virtually no credit today.)

Stephen Hinton writes in his book Misunderstanding The Threepenny Opera, “Weill conceived Die Dreigroschenoper as a work of experiment and reform. To use his term, it is a Zwischengattung, an ‘in-between genre,’ systematically between existing genres, historically a stepping-stone in a development toward a new type of musical theatre… It is not so much opera as opera about opera.” In other words, it’s a meta-musical, like many of the shows it later inspired. Hinton writes about “Weill’s implicit flouting of the traditions of nineteenth-century opera and music-drama. This is not full-scale, grand opera, but a cheap ‘threepenny’ version. The old grand operatic form is suppressed by [art song], cabaret song, and ballad.”

Very much like what Bat Boy and Urinetown did more recently.

Certainly, Three-Penny was a lot more adult than much of what had come before it. The show opened at the Theater am Schiffbauerdamm in August 1928. It was such a hit, additional companies were opened in Vienna, Budapest, Frankfurt, and Hamburg.

Bertolt Brecht was already forging a new kind of theatre in the early part of the twentieth century. He didn’t like the way most plays involved their audiences emotionally but not intellectually. Audiences laughed and cried but never thought about what was happening in the story. He wanted to create a theatre of ideas, a theatre of issues, and in order to encourage an audience’s intellectual involvement, he began to develop ways to continually remind the audience that they were in a theatre, to keep them from being too swept away by the story, to keep them from getting “lost” in the fictional reality that most other theatre writers strove to create and maintain.

Brecht would have actors step out of scenes to talk directly to the audience, and he would use songs that commented on what had just happened or was about to happen (again addressing the audience directly), rather than using only songs that sprang organically from the action. Today, this idea is not so revolutionary but when Brecht began to make theatre this way, it was bizarre. Today, concept musicals like Company, Follies, Kiss of the Spider Woman, Chicago, Evita, Assassins, Rent, Bat Boy, Urinetown, The Wild Party, Bloody Bloody Andrew Jackson, American Idiot, and perhaps most of all, Sweeney Todd, are all extremely Brechtian in their construction and style.

When the mid-1950s revival of Threepenny opened in London, critic Kenneth Tynan wrote, “A Brechtian, let me explain, is one who believes that low drama with high principles is better than high principles with no audience, that the worst plays are those which depend wholly on suspense and the illusion of reality; and that the drama of the future will be a wedding in which neither partner marries beneath itself.”

Dark, aggressive, and unrelenting in its social commentary, The Three-Penny Opera was a political satire for a new age and for a Germany on the brink of fascism and Nazism. The show also found success touring Europe, playing an estimated 10,000 performances over five years. One of Germany’s premier theatre critics, Herbert Jhering wrote in the Berliner Borsen-Courier:

The success of the Dreigroschenoper cannot be rated too highly. It represents the breakthrough into the public sphere of a type of theatre that is not oriented towards chic society. Not because beggars and burglars appear in it, without a thriller emerging, nor because a threatening underworld is in evidence which disregards all social ties. It is because the tone has been found that neither opposes nor negates morality, which does not attack norms but transcends them and which, apart from the travesty of the operatic model at the end, is neither parodic nor serious. Rather, it proclaims a different world in which the barriers between tragedy and humour have been erased. It is the triumph of open form.

Sounds a lot like Jerry Springer the Opera. The critic of Der Tag wrote:

Most important is what the thing as a whole attempts: to create from the dissolution of traditional theatrical categories something new that is all things at once: irony and symbol, grotesque and protest, opera and popular melody; an attempt which gives subversion the last word and which, leaving its theatrical claims aside, could represent an important phase in the otherwise directionless discussion about the form of the revue.

A decade later, Weill’s music publisher would write to him, “In certain private circles during the Nazi period, the songs of Die Dreigroschenoper were a kind of anthem and served as spiritual rejuvenation for many an oppressed soul.” The show’s opening song, “Die Moritat von Mackie Messer” (“The Ballad of Mack the Knife”) was based on a song form called “moritaten,” literally, murder-deed song. It soon became the most popular song in Europe.

A German film version was made, Die 3groschenoper, by Georg Wilhelm Pabst and starring original cast member Lotte Lenya (the original Jenny, the wife of the composer and, not incidentally, a former prostitute). The film was an interesting preservation of the piece but not a great film, disjointed, too stagey for film and too filmic to be just a recording of the stage play, it ended up wandering somewhere in the middle. Still, some considered it a masterpiece and the German government thought it might be good anti-capitalist propaganda.

The film version’s editor, Jean Oser, said in an interview, “Three-Penny Opera was a very hot property at the time: it had come out as a big theatrical hit; in fact in was almost phenomenal how much it influenced a complete generation. It formed the entire pre-Hitler generation until 1933; for about five years every girl in the country wanted to marry a man like Mackie. Apparently, the ideal man was a pimp.” The French made a film version, L’Opéra de Quat’Sous, filmed at the same time as the German film and on the same sets.

In 1933, Weill and Lenya were tipped off that they were on a list of Jewish intellectuals about to be arrested by the Gestapo. They escaped to Paris, and then to the U.S. Meanwhile, Hitler decided that Three-Penny was an attack on wholesome German family values and it was banned. In Hitler’s Museum of Degenerate Art (no kidding!), one room played songs from Three-Penny on an endless loop so that wholesome Germans could be outraged by them. But so many people came to listen to the great songs that the exhibit was hastily closed down.

The stage version of Threepenny (the hyphen now gone) was mounted in a total of 130 international productions already by 1933, when the show came to New York in a reproduction staging by Francesco von Mendelssohn. But New York was not yet ready for Brecht and it ran only twelve performances on Broadway. Critic Robert Garland wrote in The New York World Telegram, “A rebel of an operetta, it walks boldly and bitterly through the autumn in which we all reside, kicking up the leaves and applying lighted matches where lighted matches are sure to do the greatest harm. The trouble is that it does not laugh as it is doing so … You’ll know what I mean when I say that The 3-Penny Opera is as humorless as Hitler." Wow. No wonder it ran 12 performances!

Director Brian Kulick says, "America didn’t fully understand Brecht’s black humor until Vietnam and Watergate, and in a way we’ve caught up with his humor. It was always there, but we couldn’t hear it. His ironic, one might say cynical, outlook just didn’t fit with a Rodgers and Hammerstein world. And now, post all these horrible things that have happened in the twentieth century, we’ve learned how to laugh the way Brecht laughed.”

The show did better in Paris in 1937, in London in 1940, and in Milan in 1956. Desmond Vesey’s English translation of the show was preformed in America in 1945 and 1948, and later in a dual translation with Eric Bentley.

In 1934, fearing that his show would be misunderstood, Brecht wrote The Threepenny Novel, in which he expanded on his central themes, and gave us way more backstory of all the main characters. Brecht also continued to tinker with his show, making its satire, sharper, nastier, more truthful. After Kurt Weill’s death in 1950, fellow composer and lyricist Marc Blitzstein (who had written book, music, and lyrics for the very Brechtian The Cradle Will Rock, which he had dedicated to Brecht) decided to write a new translation of The Threepenny Opera. He had already worked on a few isolated songs from the score. With some strong nudging, Lotte Lenya agreed to allow a new production of Blitzstein’s translation. But they wanted her to recreate her original role of Jenny, and at age fifty-five, she didn’t think she could pull it off. Eventually she agreed to do it, and she became the cast’s stylistic advisor, teaching them Weill’s special style of speak-singing (sprechstimme), talking about the original production, about Weill and Brecht’s original intentions, and more.

The new Threepenny, directed by Carmen Capalbo, opened at the Theatre de Lys off Broadway in March 1954, using New York’s first thrust stage. Fifties Commie Hunter, Senator Joseph McCarthy, called Threepenny "a piece of anti-capitalist propaganda which exalts anarchical gangsterism and prostitutes over democratic law and order.“ Then the show was kicked out of the theatre after twelve weeks because of a prior booking. The public clamored for its return and so, a few months later, it came back to off Broadway in September 1955, and it ran 2,706 performances and six years, becoming the first off Broadway mega-hit, and causing a sea change in the philosophy of serious musical theatre in America.

Lotte Lenya won the 1956 Tony for her performance in Threepenny, even though the show ran off Broadway. The show itself was also given a Special Tony for "Distinguished Off Broadway Production.”

Before his death, Brecht read Blitzstein’s translation and called it “magnificent.” Weill’s widow Lotte Lenya mentioned in a letter to a colleague, “the admiration I have for [Blitzstein’s] work and my feeling that no other existing version gives a hint of Brecht’s poetry and power.” Hans Heinsheimer, head of the opera division at Universal Edition music publishers, said, “Marc Blitzstein’s English adaptation was so true to Bert Brecht’s German original that we are hearing essentially the same piece that had taken Germany by storm twenty-four years earlier.” Kim H. Kowalke writes in the Threepenny edition of the Cambridge Opera Handbooks series, “All in all, the final version of Blitzstein’s adaptation followed Brecht’s script more literally than it did Weill’s score. Although he had softened the tone of the original language in a number of places, made a few judicious cuts in the dialogue (the first preview still lasted nearly four hours), reordered some passages, and reinstated Gay’s opening to the brothel scene, Blitzstein’s script undermines the sense and shape of the 1928 libretto less obviously than does Brecht’s own literary version published in 1931 – the ‘authorized’ text, now often mistaken as the historically ‘authentic’ one.”

Blitzstein’s translation also gave the world one of its greatest pop hits, “Mack the Knife.” Unfortunately, stage censorship at the time prevented Blitzstein from being entirely faithful to the Brecht. Blitzstein’s version was also produced in London in 1956, and around the world since then, becoming the preferred translation. By the time it closed off Broadway, it had run longer than the longest-running Broadway musical at the time, Oklahoma! The Threepenny cast album had sold 500,000 copies, and “Mack the Knife” had forty different pop recordings, that had collectively sold over ten million copies.

In 1962 a lifeless, English-language film version was made called The Three Penny Opera (each version seems to have its own spacing and punctuation). In desperation, the producers tacked on a new, cheaply made opening to the film, in which Sammy Davis Jr. sang “Mack the Knife,” and then they sold the film as “starring” Davis.

Back in Germany, Brecht’s own Berliner Ensemble finally added Threepenny to its repertoire in 1960, four years after its playwright’s death. Director Erich Engel wrote about why he revived the show, “Today, as before, it is useful, by way of consciousness raising, to utilize such a satire in order to submit to the viewer’s critique the adulteration of life under capitalism.”

Threepenny returned to New York in 1976, starring Raul Julia, in a much grittier translation – free of 1950s censorship – for another 306 performances. Since that production, directors tend to cast “sexy” Macheaths, but that wasn’t what was intended. As Brecht himself wrote about his anti-hero, “He impresses women less as a handsome man than as a well-heeled one. There are English drawings of The Beggar’s Opera which show a short, stocky man of about forty with a head like a radish, a bit bald but not lacking dignity.”

An excellent 1989 film version, Mack the Knife, starring Raul Julia, rock singer Roger Daltry, Richard Harris, and Julie Waters didn’t do well either, but in many ways, this version was closer to Brecht’s philosophy and theories on theatre, and his famous distancing effect. There have been other high-profile revivals, one with Sting, one with Alan Cumming and Cyndi Lauper, but they weren’t particularly successful.

The Living Tool of Satan

One of the surprises audiences discover when they see Threepenny for the first time, is how different the original “Mack the Knife” is musically from the pop versions we’re all used to, and also how much darker the full lyric is. Sinatra and Bobby Darin didn’t sing about Little Susie’s rape.

Marc Blitzstein’s original stage translation starts by introducing the main character and the themes of the show.

Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear,

And he shows them pearly white.

Just a jackknife has Macheath, dear,

And he keeps it out of sight.

On a purely technical level, notice the sh sound repeated in the first two lines, and the ABAB rhyme pattern that’s set up, though the lyric won’t follow that consistently. These first four lines accomplish so much, in terms of content and structure. First of all, the show’s basic rules are set up right away. The Fourth Wall will be broken, the actors will directly address the audience, there will be story-songs, and there will be lots of dark, dark, dark irony.

Significantly, this very first image of the show is a shark. That tells you a great deal about what you need to know – this is a story about predators. But notice that the first line also invokes the idea of attraction with the word pretty, which acts as a hint at Mack’s seductive powers. As we watch the story unfold, we’ll remember this metaphor of a deadly predator to describe our (anti-)hero for the evening, Capt. Macheath. Then in a bit of delicious irony, we’re told that Macheath is less dangerous – he “just” has a jackknife, i.e., a switchblade, as if that’s not scary enough – and also that Mack is more discreet. Than a shark. He’s sort of bourgeois (and we’ll see more of that in the wedding scene). He doesn’t flaunt his weapon the way the shark shows off his. It’s the word just that gives this stanza its irony. There are lots of predators in the world, the lyric is saying; Macheath is the least of your worries…

But his discretion makes him all the more dangerous. You know the shark will get you. You never know when Mack will…

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professionalwritingserviceu-blog · 7 years

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What is a ‘blood and guts’ scene?

Five Great Quotations close Book Critics\nIt is Business of report advantageous to an author that his apply should be attacked as hygienic as praised. Fame is a shuttlecock. If it be struck at unmatched end of the room, it will before long fall to the ground. To keep it up, it essential be struck at both ends. - Samuel Johnson\n\nPay no attention to what the critics say; no statue has ever been erected to a critic. - dungaree Sibelius\n\nWhen a objet dart publishes a book, thither are so many stupid things bear tongue to that he declares hell neer do it again. The praise is closely always worse than the criticism. Sherwood Anderson\n\nI have long felt that any reviewer who expresses furiousness and loathing for a fresh is preposterous. He or she is resembling a person who has on the dot put on full phase of the moon armor and attacked a bitter fudge sundae or banana split. - Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. \n\nA critic is a man who knows the way but go offt narrow in the c ar. - Kenneth Tynan \n\nNeed an editor? Having your book, short letter document or faculty member paper proofread or edited before submitting it foundation prove invaluable. In an sparing climate where you face overweight competition, your writing needs a second eye to stop you the edge. Whether you live in a speculative city give care Phoenix or a small townsfolk standardised Starr, South Carolina, I bed provide that second eye.\n\n+\n\nWhat is a crosscurrent and guts picture show?\nIn reputationtelling, 18plot and cases are entwined to the speckle that one really could not pull round without the other. Arguably, a story centers on the assistant (character) solvent a bother (plot). A story doesnt exist if theres if theres no character attempting to solve a problem or if the character has no problem to solve. \n\nIn around stories especially action-adventure and space opera house pieces how the protagonist must break apart the problem requires that he take pr imal. In short, the character is unembellished of convention, artifice and propriety, according to CSFWs David Smith. Such an event in a story is nicknamed a blood and guts shot, a term that Smith coined. \n\nA good example of a blood and guts scene in modern storytelling is Arnold Schwarzeneggers character in the photo Predator, when he is forced to take on the alien alone. He covers himself in mud (to screen himself from the aliens top executive to spot heat via infrared) and relies purely on his animal instincts to filter the day. \n\nLiterary works withal sometimes makes use of blood and guts scene. The climax of Stephen cranes The Red badge of Courage essentially shows the protagonist becoming primal so he fanny realise the courage to live with the battle.\n\nNeed an editor? Having your book, chore document or academic paper proofread or edited before submitting it can prove invaluable. In an frugal climate where you face laborious competition, your writing needs a second eye to give you the edge. Whether you come from a big city like Cincinnati, Ohio, or a small town like Cincinnati, Iowa, I can provide that second eye.

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breedaboyd · 7 months

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Summary: Professor Stephen Tynan is your Human Sexual Behaviour Professor and you've had your eye on him for quite some time. Realising this isn't the most appropriate setting to be crushing (hard) on a person, you decide to ask if you can switch classes. But will that make any difference? And what will Professor Tynan have to say about your intentions on leaving his class?

Tag(s): Angst and fluff and smut, body worship, cum swallowing, daddy kink, hurt/comfort, oral sex, teacher-student relationship, trans male character, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex.

A/N: This is a kind of redo/remix of the first Prof!Tynan fic, which I still love! But this fic is much more emotional and drama-based so it depends what you're in the mood for. Happy reading!

#character: stephen tynan #source: beckett #misc: chariot writes #type: reader

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professionalessaywritingse-blog2 · 7 years

Text

What is a ‘blood and guts’ scene?

cinque Great Quotations about book Critics\nIt is Business of Writing beneficial to an author that his book should be attacked as well as praised. Fame is a shuttlecock. If it be stricken at iodine cobblers last of the room, it will soon hail to the ground. To keep it up, it must be struck at two ends. - Samuel Johnson\n\nPay no attention to what the novices say; no statue has forever been erected to a critic. - Jean Sibelius\n\nWhen a man publishes a book, thither are so umteen stupid things said that he declares hell never do it again. The praise is almost evermore worse than the criticism. Sherwood Anderson\n\nI shoot long felt that either reviewer who expresses rage and execrate for a novel is preposterous. He or she is wish a person who has just post on full fit out and attacked a hot disconcert sundae or banana split. - Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. \n\nA critic is a man who knows the bearing but cant drive the car. - Kenneth Tynan \n\n subscribe an editor? Having y our book, business written memorial or academic musical composition proofread or edit before submitting it can certify invaluable. In an economic clime where you face heavy competition, your make-up needs a split minute eye to give you the edge. Whether you kick the bucket in a freehand city like genus Phoenix or a baseborn town like Starr, southern Carolina, I can set up that second eye.\n\n+\n\nWhat is a split and keystone scene?\nIn themetelling, 18plot and personas are entwined to the point that one really could not make it without the other. Arguably, a story centers on the hero (character) solving a worry (plot). A story doesnt exist if in that respects if theres no character attempting to wreak a bother or if the character has no problem to solve. \n\nIn some stories in particular action-adventure and space opera pieces how the protagonist must resolve the problem requires that he be get down primal. In short, the character is stripped of convention , invention and propriety, according to CSFWs David Smith. much(prenominal) an event in a story is nicknamed a strain and guts scene, a termination that Smith coined. \n\nA high-priced example of a beginning and guts scene in modern storytelling is Arnold Schwarzeneggers character in the movie Predator, when he is forced to take on the alien alone. He covers himself in mud (to mask himself from the aliens ability to tarnish heat via infrared) and relies purely on his animal instincts to carry the day. \n\nliterary works also sometimes makes use of blood and guts scene. The climax of Stephen Cranes The Red Badge of endurance essentially shows the protagonist meet primal so he can garner the courage to live through the battle.\n\n take in an editor? Having your book, business document or academic write up proofread or edit before submitting it can hear invaluable. In an economic humour where you face heavy competition, your pen needs a second eye to give you the edge. Whether you come from a big city like Cincinnati, Ohio, or a small town like Cincinnati, Iowa, I can run that second eye.

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mega-top5internetsourcescol-blog · 8 years

Text

What is a ‘blood and guts’ scene?

Five Great Quotations close Book Critics\nIt is Business of committal to writing advantageous to an author that his disk should be attacked as comfortably as praised. Fame is a shuttlecock. If it be struck at unrivaled end of the room, it will concisely fall to the ground. To keep it up, it must be struck at both ends. - Samuel Johnson\n\nPay no attention to what the critics say; no statue has ever been erected to a critic. - blue jean Sibelius\n\nWhen a human beings publishes a book, thither are so many stupid things utter that he declares hell never do it again. The praise is well-nigh always worse than the criticism. Sherwood Anderson\n\nI have long matt-up that any reviewer who expresses rabidity and loathing for a unfermented is preposterous. He or she is kindred a person who has righteous put on in full armor and attacked a tooth near fudge sundae or banana split. - Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. \n\nA critic is a man who knows the way but cigarett thrust the car. - Kenn eth Tynan \n\nNeed an editor? Having your book, crease document or pedantic paper proofread or edited before submitting it place prove invaluable. In an scotch climate where you face sullen competition, your writing needs a second eye to generate you the edge. Whether you live in a bountiful city wish well Phoenix or a small township standardised Starr, South Carolina, I place provide that second eye.\n\n+\n\nWhat is a telephone circuit and guts blastoff?\nIn flooringtelling, 18plot and percentages are entwined to the bakshis that one really could not come through without the other. Arguably, a story centers on the fighter (character) resolution a line (plot). A story doesnt exist if theres if theres no character attempting to solve a problem or if the character has no problem to solve. \n\nIn some stories especially action-adventure and space opera house pieces how the protagonist must unfreeze the problem requires that he ferment primal. In short, the chara cter is au naturel(p) of convention, artifice and propriety, according to CSFWs David Smith. Such an event in a story is nicknamed a blood and guts guess, a term that Smith coined. \n\nA good example of a blood and guts scene in modern storytelling is Arnold Schwarzeneggers character in the depiction Predator, when he is forced to receive on the alien alone. He covers himself in mud (to block out himself from the aliens air leader to spot heat via infrared) and relies rigorously on his animal instincts to scarper the day. \n\nLiterary works too sometimes makes use of blood and guts scene. The climax of Stephen stretchs The Red label of Courage essentially shows the protagonist becoming primal so he prat pull in the courage to live through the battle.\n\nNeed an editor? Having your book, business document or schoolman paper proofread or edited before submitting it can prove invaluable. In an sparing climate where you face dull competition, your writing needs a second eye to institutionalize you the edge. Whether you come from a big city like Cincinnati, Ohio, or a small town like Cincinnati, Iowa, I can provide that second eye.

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breedaboyd · 1 year

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Cruel and Unusual Torture ~ Stephen Tynan

(Gif by me.)

Pairing: Stephen Tynan ☓ Damien Brooks.

Word Count: 1.4k+

CW: Chastity cages, daddy kink, dom/sub, sounding, watersports.

It's very convenient that Damien's working with Stephen in the US embassy today. Very convenient.

He supposes Stephen was feeling particularly cruel today, doing what he did this morning. Sure, Damien's gotten used to having his dick in a cage when he's been bad. Sure, that's become a staple, but adding a sound? Of all the inhumane, cruel, unnecessary actions... So he had to endure Stephen sliding a long steel rod into his urethra and even locking the whole thing with a padlock. Sadistic prick. He can ignore his own cock, for the most part. But now he needs to piss and, fuck, it's ruining him.

"Something the matter, baby?" Stephen teases him, playing up being sweet and concerned. Damien huffs and tries not to whine because his stomach's aching and he has this cramp that won't fuck off. "I think I know what's wrong here, baby, but I want you to tell me." Stephen says, smiling that cocky fucking smile that makes the younger man want to simultaneously kiss him and punch his lights out. Fuck it, that'll have to wait. Right now, he needs relief.

"Hurts, Stephen." He gasps. "Please..." He isn't proud of sounding like some pathetic bitch desperate for a pity fuck but in this moment he feels like it. "It's...so fucking deep in there..." Stephen kisses his forehead, gently, so affectionately that Damien's shocked. The gesture sends a brief wave of comfort over him before he remembers just how dire his predicament is.

"What d'you need, baby?" Stephen asks, knowing damn well what Damien needs.

"Let me out." The younger man hisses and pouts. He squirms and wiggles his hips before wincing and grabbing at his groin. "Please, please, take it out. I need to piss. Fuck, take it out. It's... Fuck, it's deep, Stephen." Damien looks at him, fluttering his eyelashes and pouting his mouth so pitifully. Stephen gently kisses his lips. "Need to go so bad... You did this... Now let me go. Just for a few minutes. I can put it all back on after I've pissed. Th-Then I could suck your cock? Would you like that, daddy? Like for your baby boy to suck you off? C'mon, yeah? Please?" Stephen gets more convinced by each and every one of Damien's pleas, shaking his head. "Please, please, Daddy... F-Fuck, feels like it's in my stomach, Stephen. I... I needed to piss a few hours ago but I was a good boy. Now I need to go and can't. Please, let me out." The older man chuckles. He leans back in his chair and pats his lap.

Damien, jumping at the chance to please him, rounds the desk and seats himself in Stephen's lap. The American tugs up Damien's shirt to get to his abdomen, gently stroking his fingertips along the flesh with is ever so slightly distended. The younger man groans weakly and, biting his lip, leans into Stephen's touch. But then Stephen presses down, fingers kneading into his swollen abdomen, and all Hell breaks loose. His eyes go wide and he wiggles and writhes so suddenly. He cries out in disbelief and squirms to escape Stephen's hand.

"STEPHEN!" Damien whines. "Fucking take it out! God— Fuck! FUCK, TAKE IT OUT! Please, Stephen... I have to piss. Stephen, Daddy, c'mon. Please. Please..." His stomach aches and he fears what comes next if he can't have release. Stephen doesn't give him any respite, continuing to massage and prod at his bloated abdomen. He cries out again, this time gasping and panting. "P-Please... Don't fucking do that. Hurts so fucking bad..." Stephen just hums. He snakes his hand into Damien's trousers to grab and stroke at his locked-up cock. Damien shakes his head and tries to push him away, crying out as Stephen presses into his gut.

"You've made it this far, baby. Done so good. You can make it home."

"No, no, no, no, no. You can't. S'too far. Please, please, let me take it out. N-Not at home. Not at home. Take the sound out. I can't hold it 'til we get back." Stephen shakes his head, not planning on showing any more of this mercy. "Stephen, n-no! I won't be able to make it all the way—" Stephan presses into his abdomen again, hard, and Damien lurches forward with a stifled cry, grabbing onto the brunette's offending arm. "O-Okay... I'll make it home but...we need to go *now*. Please, Daddy..." He huffs, squirming again.

"Alright, we'll head home."

The ride home is just as torturous as Damien thinks it'll be. With every swerve of the car, his guts lurch, making him even more aware of how fucked he is. When he'd begun this relationship with his American he'd never imagined that things would get this twisted. God, he loves Stephen, of course he does, but Stephen...has quite the streak of cruelty in him that only seems to manifest itself at the worst times. It's why Damien often finds himself agreeing with him when Stephen reprimands him or calls him names. It's a bitch of a thing to know and admit to yourself, especially when he lets the Americans walk all over him like this. But, fuck, there's a part of him that loves it.

They pull into the garage and Damien practically leaps out, fumbling with the keys to get inside. When the door's unlocked, he leaves it open for Stephen and rushes to the bathroom, turning on the light. Shoving down his pants and boxers, he whines as he glances down at his caged dick. Stephen follows closely behind, getting on his knees as he fishes the key for the padlock out of his pocket.

"Shh, baby. Daddy's gonna unlock your cage." He coos, running one hand soothingly up and down the younger man's thigh.

"Fuck... Please, don't take too long..." Damien breathes, inhaling sharply as he feels Stephen cup his balls with his free hand. Stephen unlocks and discards the padlock, carefully removing the cock cage and throwing it aside. Damien whines again, this time with relief. "Mmph... Thank you, Daddy. Such a nice Daddy. F-Fuck, Stephen..." He rambles as Stephen grabs the end of the sound, slowly inching it out. Seems he's not completely had his fun because he sure as Hell takes his time working it free. "Stephen, please!" The younger man yelps, lurching forwards and placing his hands on either side of Stephen's head. He cries out again as it feels like half his length is pulled free. Slowly, slowly, it's worked free and the pressure in Damien's bladder gets harder to ignore. "Need to piss so bad. Need to piss, need to piss, need to piss. C'mon, Stephen..." He chants, dropping a hand to his cock.

Suddenly it's out and then the dam breaks. Damien doesn't even think to turn or push Stephen out of the way of the toilet. He can't stop it. Stephen just gazes up at him, rock hard in his pants, as a hot jet of piss catches him just below the corner of his mouth. His eyes flutter closed as he sticks his tongue out and Damien lets out a choked whimper. His piss just drenches Stephen, the American licking up some stray drops with a satisfied groan. And, damn, Stephen's too fucking good-looking for his own good, looking like that. And it just keeps coming. There's so much. He's so backed up.

Piss runs in hot streams down Stephen's neck, soaking into his dress shirt and vest, making them cling to his skin. He slides his hands up the younger man's thighs to his hips, holding on tight as piss splatters against his shirt and pants. Damien's whimpers and groans mixed with the splashing of his piss are all that fill the room. The younger man's thighs tremble under Stephen's grasp and he pants through the last few shuddering spurts.

When it's finally over, Stephen leans in to drag his tongue along the tender slit of Damien's cock. Fuck. Just fuck. He licks up every stray drop, sighing lowly at the heady, musky scent. A deep flush covers the younger man's face, neck, and chest.

"... F-Fucking filthy son of a bitch, Tynan." He growls. "You were waiting...for that...all day, weren't you?" He huffs.

"You did Daddy so proud today, baby." Stephen purrs and, God, his eyes are glazed over and hazy with lust. He looks fucking ruined; knelt on the floor, twitching in his pants, drenched in piss and sporting a prominent tent in his dress pants. "Just so glad you made it home. Looked so fucking good doing it, baby."

Christ, what a way to find out Stephen Tynan had a piss kink.

#character: stephen tynan #source: beckett #misc: chariot writes #type: oc

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breedaboyd · 1 year

Text

Daddy's Boy ~ Stephen Tynan

(Gif by me.)

Pairing: Stephen Tynan ✕ Damien Brooks (M!OC).

Word Count: 4.8k+

CW: Anal sex, chastity devices, creampie, daddy kink, dirty talk, dom/sub, office sex, oral sex.

A/N: Sorry I've not been posting as much but I've been working on a project that I think you guys'll really like. 😏 Hope this makes up for it. (I know @bludpudding was looking forward to this one.)

Damien can't remember when Stephen put him in the cage. Probably after that time he wore that suit to work for the fifth day in a row. Y'know, that suit, with the tightest pants, with that shirt that's like two sizes too small and with the blazer that shows off the breadth of Damien's shoulders to sinful effect. The best part? The American had already fucked him in it twice. It smelt of him, of stale cologne, sweaty sex and cum and it drove Stephen up the wall.

After the fifth day, he'd had enough of wanting to fuck Damien into the wall every time he dropped by, the way his ass looked in those pants, the smell of him when he walked past.

So the next time they fucked, Stephen locked his dick in a cage, took the key and said; 'this is my cock now. You don't get to touch it 'til I say you can.'

It's been a week and the Brit is losing his mind.

Damien picks up the phone from his desk, dialling Stephen and begging he'll be allowed to cum. Every time, Stephen's denied him and denied him and every time, his dick hurts.

See, there are nights where Stephen fucks him, wraps his hand around Damien's hard, caged dick and pumps him 'til he cries, then goes down and eats him out like he'll die without his tongue in the taller man's sweet hole, then they both sleep like the dead. Then there are other nights where they kiss and kiss and kiss, Stephen moaning 'God, I want your dick in my mouth' in Damien's ear and the brunette lets him grind against his thigh until he's shivering. Then he doesn't even let D cum, only touch himself through the cage, brief flickers of skin on skin. Worst is that it's so fucking good.

The phone rings and Damien's heart thumps in his chest because, fuck, he needs to hear Stephen's voice right now. It goes through several rings before Stephen answers the phone, voice cheery but tight, like he's playing the part for the people in the office.

Stephen: Stephen Tynan.

And Damien's chest flutters as he pants heavily, cock throbbing, because the man attached to that voice is handsome and perfect and gorgeous and--

"Cage...too tight... Can you talk?" He asks breathily and Stephen feels a tug in his gut at how needy he sounds. "F-Fuck... My balls ache... D-Daddy, I need—"

Stephen: Calm down, baby... Daddy wants to let you out and ride your cock, baby, but you were such a bad boy last week so Daddy had to put you away, didn't he?

Damien makes the most miserable noise Stephen's ever heard; so breathy, so fucking depraved and the American's tempted to get his dick out and stroke it, nice and slow. He could moan down the line, tell Damien what he's missing. Damien squirms in his seat, dick trapped and aching in the steel cage. Over the line, he can hear a zipper pulled down and the rustling of fabric.

Stephen: I'll cut you a deal, if you come over after work and you suck my dick just right, I might let you out.

Stephen hears Damien whimpering into the phone.

Stephen: I miss touching your dick...

The Brit shivers at those words.

Stephen: Bet you miss my ass, spreading me open, fucking me deep.

"D-Daddyyyyyy..." Damien whimpers, covering his mouth and looking around his lonely office as if anyone could read his face or understand the humiliation spilling out over the phone. Stephen smirks to himself as he curls his fingers around his dick, rocking his hips into the grip. That's his boy.

Stephen: Come to my office after hours and I'll let you suck me off. If you do good enough, I'll take the cage off and you can fuck me, nice and deep and slow. Let you empty your load into me... You wanna be in Daddy's ass so bad, don't you, baby?

"F-Fuck, Daddy... Y-Y-Yeah, I wanna fuck Daddy's ass so fucking good b-but right now I need to— Want to— Can I grind against something, Daddy? Just to...take the edge off..." The man pants softly. Stephen hums at the idea, licks his lips, breathes in deep as his grip tightens around his cock.

Stephen: Sure thing, baby, but you know the rules; no cumming. Otherwise, when you come over later, I'll be able to tell and that cage'll stay on for another week, got it?

"Mhm..." The blonde man moans back. "Gotta save it all to fill Daddy's ass."

Stephen: That's my boy. Alright, I'm hangin' up. Have fun, baby. Remember the rule.

"Uhh... Daddy?" The Brit's voice is so soft, so uncharacteristically shy.

Stephen: Mhm?

"... Love you." The soft voice at the other end tells him and Stephen's eyes slip closed, mouth pressed to the phone. He would never say it first and, God knows, Dames has issues telling people he actually likes them and...fuck, Stephen's at his desk, dick in hand--

Stephen: ... I love you, too, baby. I'll see you tonight.

The receiver clicks and Damien's alone again, rock hard in his pants. At least he has permission to grind against something, at least he has that to tide him over. Minutes crawl by like years as Damien watches the clock. In a few hours, he'll be able to speed over to the US embassy building and earn his release but, until then, he has to at least pretend to be productive.

A few hours later and finally Damien's packing his stuff to go. Closing the door on his dark, lonely office feels like sweet relief. Down the hall, he leaves the building as fast as his legs can carry him. It isn't far to the car park and then it's about ten minutes to the US embassy and then Stephen— Fuck, Stephen... God, Damien can't wait to drop to his knees in front of the man, give him the best Goddamn blowie of his life and earn his freedom.

Finally, he's in the car park, making his way to the car and speeding across town.

Thankfully, it's not far to the US embassy and he parks his car — abandons, more like — and makes his way to the lobby. All he can think of is getting this fucking cage off, being able to cum again.

The people at the security checkpoint know Damien, he's in and out of this place a lot. They exchange pleasantries and Stephen's almost in-reach. Damien's twitching in the cage again at the mere thought of being able to cum as he practically pushes through the checkpoint to get to the elevator.

The elevator ride up is excruciating, long and quiet and lonely, but Stephen's so close so he just has to wait it out, foot tapping, fingers twitching. God, will Stephen actually take the cage off and let him cum for once or would he be cruel? Would he get to Damien to kneel and beg? He bites his bottom lip at the thought and walks out the elevator when it dings and opens.

When the door finally comes into view, he can see Stephen through the glass, behind his desk. God, he's gorgeous; all soft, honey-coloured hair, tortoiseshell glasses and blushing, kissable lips. Damien stops in his tracks for a minute just to stare at him. Handsome fucker. Finally, after a few moments of standing, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, he's knocking on the door to Stephen's office.

"Come in."

Damien drags himself inside, chest heaving, eyes wide, dick hard. He drops his satchel on the floor before pushing the door shut behind himself. Stephen's not wearing his jacket; instead, he has it draped on the back of the chair. Damien locks the door. He doesn't have to but he does it out of habit and closes the blinds while he's at it.

"Imagine seeing you here, Mister Brooks." Stephen grins, sipping at a glass of whiskey.

"Daddy... Today's been...so fucking long... W-Want to suck your cock, Daddy. Want you to take the cage off...h-haven't cum in a week." Damien almost shakes as he whimpers.

"You didn't cum before, did you, baby? After you called me?" The American asks, eyebrows cocked over the rim of his glasses. The taller man shakes his head.

"No... Been saving it for you, Daddy. L-Like I said." He swears. Stephen rolls the empty glass around his fingers for a second before nodding.

"Good boy. Come sit in Daddy's lap." Stephen's voice is soft and sweet and Damien is just so in love with him. After a moments pause, Stephen leans to put the glass down then scoots back in his chair, patting his lap and swallowing hard because, fuck, Damien's so Goddamn attractive when he's needy; rosy cheeks, blown pupils and bottom lip trapped between his teeth. This one fucks like a demon and gives better head than any hooker Stephen's ever hired and he loves him, more than anything.

Shivering, the Brit crawls into Stephen's lap, leans down to press their lips together in a feverish, wet, very needy kiss. Stephen hooks his finger into Damien's shirt collar, pulling him deeper into the kiss. "Tell me what you want, baby..." The brunette coos. Damien's eyes are heavy-lidded, his brain scattered.

"W-Wanna suck your dick, Daddy. Wanna make you feel good." His tone is so fucking reverent and pathetic and Stephen feels his dick twitch. "Wanna be a good boy for you so you let me out and let me cum. Want your— Want your ass. Want your... Fuck, I'm losing my mind... Don't remember the last time I came. Didn't touch myself after I called you, either, just left the office and— Fuck. I need to suck your dick, Daddy. Please." Stephen's eyes widen before he smiles softly. He snakes a hand down to cup Damien through his pants, slowly massaging his balls through the pants.

"Is that right, baby? Did you keep your promise?" He asks and the taller man nods, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. "What are you, hm?" The man asks before he presses his face into Damien's neck, takes in the sweet scent of him before sucking on his jawline. Damien's hands come to Stephen's shoulders, grip a little tighter as he lets out a shaky, relieved sigh. Touch... God, how he's needed touch...

"Y-Your boy, Daddy. I'm all yours." He manages, head tipping back. Stephen pushes the Brit off a little so he can look him in the eyes. Hazel meets sapphire, both heavy-lidded and wanting.

"That's my boy..." The brunette breathes. "Daddy's perfect, perfect boy." He says, hands on Damien's hips, squeezing, encouraging him to grind and rut.

"Fuuuuck... Daddyyy..." Damien whines. Stephen guides him along, humping him, kissing him, cooing sweet nothings.

When the blonde is positively squirming, hips bucking, cock leaking in its cage, ready and eager, Stephen guides the man out of his lap, pushing him down to his knees between the American's thighs. The Brit's mind is slipping further away by the second but, God help him, he's smiling at the promise of a dick down his throat.

Damien gets comfy on his knees, nuzzling his face against the zipper of Stephen's pants, taking in the musky-sweet scent of him, making these adorable, pleased noises. Stephen flushes pink, his cock thickening as his boy moans below him. The Brit kisses along his inseam, laying little kitten licks along the zipper. God, he can see the outline of Stephen's dick, half-hard, thick and filling and Damien wants it.

"Come on, baby, get Daddy's cock out..." Stephen encourages, hands going to Damien's head, pushing into his soft, blonde hair. "I know you want it, sweetheart. Want Daddy to fuck that pretty mouth of yours." The American encourages and the man on his knees purrs, cheeks bright red as he palms at Stephen's erection. Pupils so huge that there's only a ring of ice blue around them, Damien kisses up and down the outline before gently tugging the zipper down and popping the button. He drags the brunette's briefs down, the waistband resting just under his balls. Stephen has such a pretty cock; seven inches, thick but not huge, curved and standing to attention. And his balls are fucking gorgeous, too, ripe and heavy. Damien can feel his own cock weeping in the cage, his dick painfully trapped. The taller man leans down to take it into his mouth but Stephen gives his hair a tug, making him gasp. "Ask nicely." He orders. "Beg."

"Can I...suck your dick, Daddy?" Damien asks and Stephen chuckles. "Forgot how nice you... How nice you smell and how good you taste... Please." Those baby blues plead up at Stephen, the Brit's fingers itching at his own thighs. He goes on, rocking his hips for some friction. "Can I suck your dick, please? Daddy, I wanna be a good boy for you so you'll let me out, please..." Stephen's eyebrows lift, an affectionate smile slowly spreading over his lips. He winds his fingers in those golden locks, gives him a pet on the head. He's such a good boy.

"That's what you want?" He asks and the man on his knees groans in desperation, hips rocking on nothing, nuzzling his cheek against the heat of Stephen's cock. "Alright, then, baby. Open up, Daddy's gonna fuck that pretty face of yours."

"T-Thank you, thank you, th-thank you..." Damien keens, mouth dropping open and tongue lolling out like a good slut. The brunette gives a little sigh at the view. He slaps his dick on the flat of the blonde's tongue before sliding inside, grabbing onto his hair and pushing him down. Damien doesn't choke or squirm, he just lets him fuck his face, drool spilling down his chin, throat bulging as Stephen's fat cock slides inside again and again.

"Fuck, Dames, you're so pretty like this..." Stephen coos. When he bottoms out, Damien swallows around him and the American grins because, holy shit, the Brit's mouth was made to take cock. His cheeks hollow and, fuck, Stephen's gonna cum before they even get to the main event. He pulls back and slaps his dick on Damien's lips again. The blonde sucks on Stephen's cockhead, looking up at him adoringly and, dammit, Stephen falls a little more in love. He rocks his hips forward, pushing into his throat and repeating.

He stands up, one hand on the desk, the other buried in Damien's soft, golden locks. It's easier to fuck his mouth this way, holding his head still and driving his hips against the taller man's face. Once in a while, his boy looks up at him from beneath long, blonde lashes, gorgeous mouth stretched around Stephen's cock and dripping with spit. "Keep going, baby... Fuck, make me cum and...if you can do a good job, I'll let you out of the cage, alright?" And Damien doubles his efforts, drunk with pleasure, hips weakly rocking on nothing. Daddy's right here, Daddy's got him. "You gonna fuck me after, sweetheart? Open me up, spread me open, fill Daddy's ass up with cum? H-Hahh... You'll wanna cum first, huh, baby?" Damien moans out, the vibrations going straight to the base of Stephen's cock.

And then Stephen's cumming, bottoming out in Damien's throat and keeping him there, arms shaking as his boy swallows his load, gulping down everything his Daddy gives him. The American tips his head back, breathing heavy, eyes closed, thighs tense. There's no noise from Damien, not a one, as he drinks down every shot of thick, creamy cum that Stephen gives him. Finally, Stephen pulls out and gives the Brit a moment to breathe before petting his sweat-slick hair and praising him. "You did such a good job, baby. Now ask me for the key and I'll let you out of that nasty cage." Stephen says as he drops back into his seat.

Damien rests his head against the inside of Stephen's thigh for a moment, catching his breath, swallowing down the last of the cum the older man had filled him with.

"Can... Can I have the key, Daddy?" Damien asks. If the older man weren't totally boneless from such a great orgasm, he'd grab the Brit and kiss him again, taste himself on those sweet, pink lips.

"You gotta ask real nicely, baby. Mean it." The brunette says and Damien rubs his face against Stephen's thigh, like a big cat in want of attention. His cock's so hard in the cage, so desperately sensitive and leaking and aching. His balls hurt from being so full.

"Can I have the key, Daddy? Please, please, please. It hurts... Please! I'll make you cum again, let you fill my ass. Anything, Daddy, just let me out..." Damien's voice breaks as he rattles off, almost sobbing. His fingers are curled into Stephen's belt loops, more clingy than ever. The American frowns for a second. "Please, Mister Tynan." He blabbers, voice desperate.

"Sssh... Baby, calm down..." Stephen soothes, lifting Damien's head by his chin, then takes his cheek into one hand, stroking with his thumb. He's the most beautiful wreck Stephen's ever seen and he's almost certain he's going to fuck the blonde later, hold his wrists to the bed and tell him how much he loves him. The Brit's too needy for it right now. It'll be a waste. "Sit on my desk and I'll get the key for you, okay?" And Damien nods, cheeks ruddy, eyes brimming with desperate tears.

"Oh, God... Thank you, Daddy... Love you, love you, love you, you're the best..." He moans as he gets to his feet, knees sore from kneeling on the carpet so long. Stephen just grins and steadies the taller man as he sits back on the brunette's desk. A few hurried, shaky movements and Damien's unbuttoned his slacks and shoved down his boxers. The American takes the key out of his pocket and there's this long, wonderful moment where both men pause, just feeling how damn tense things have gotten. Damien huffs a sigh of relief as the caged-up dick is pulled free of his underwear. His cock is bound, stainless steel rings squeezing the blood out of it, strapping back to his balls. "Sh-Shit, D-Daddy..."

"Look at my pretty boy... Dames, you've— Fuck, how're you this pretty? You've been such a good boy and I'm so proud. Hold still while I get your dick out, okay, baby?" Stephen's heart is in his throat as his eyes roam over his boy's face, like a kid at Christmas. Damien smiles, blushing and eager and so damn excited to finally have his dick out.

Stephen slides the key into the padlock and twists, the shank popping free. He unhooks the lock and starts slowly working to remove it. It's a gentle process because Damien's so hard and he has to try and be careful. The Brit's whining and panting but he is so damn relieved when the cage comes off.

"Fuuuuuuckkk..." The blonde drawls out as his cock's freed, throbbing, thick and red. He's almost cumming, God, he's so close, and he only feels Stephen's deft fingers brushing his dick as he takes the rings off, setting them to one side on the desk along with the lock and key. His balls look about ready to burst, round and heavy, and there's so much pre-cum as Damien winces when the last ring is taken off and set down.

"There, there, baby, Daddy's got you." The American coos, resting his hands on Damien's thighs and his forehead on the Brit's chest. "So good, so pretty, such a good boy for Daddy, aren't you?" And Damien nods, whimpering. God, Stephen can't wait to see him cum. "Hey, baby, how about I make you cum before you fuck me, hm? Is that okay?" And the taller man wraps his arms around the older man, gently bucking into the air, desperate.

"Would like that a lot..." Damien whimpers as Stephen leans down, licking the oversensitive flesh from root to tip. Fuck, it feels so good. Even better when Stephen teases his slit with the tip of his tongue, lapping up the bitter pre that drips from the tip. His foreskin is pulled back and, fuck, Damien's right on the edge already, thighs trembling, chest heaving. The brunette takes a while tonguing and mouthing at his dickhead before he properly wraps his lips around it, suckling gently.

And it's all over so quickly. Damien grabs onto Stephen's hair, not pulling or tugging, but just holding, his own head thrown back, a garbled mess of pleasure pouring from his mouth. He couldn't breathe if he wanted to. His orgasm rocks him, wringing his body dry. Then he falls still, vision blurry, tears streaming. He doesn't usually cum so quickly but the sheer amount of pressure in his balls had him creaming at the slightest bit of attention. The brunette pulls off, pumping him with his hand, milking the last few thick, ropes of cum onto his tongue. Stephen always was thorough.

And then it's the real deal and Stephen's blindly searching for the lube in his desk drawer before tugging Damien over to the couch by the front of his shirt. He strips off his pants and plants his knees on the sofa, leaning over the back to put himself on display before chucking the half-empty bottle of lube over his shoulder for Damien to use.

"Get me open, baby. Daddy wants your cock now. F-Fuck, want you inside me..." The brunette demands softly. The Brit's hands are trembling, clumsy as he pops open the cap and squeezes some out on his fingers, spreading Stephen's cheeks to slide one into that delicious, still-tight heat. He moves his digits against that wonderful pressure, the clench of Stephen's insides around him. The older man's breathing hitches when Damien adds a second finger, a choked little groan escaping his lips. "Fuck...! Okay, okay, hurry up, Dames. D-Don't wanna wait anymore." Stephen huffs out. The brunette makes a desperate noise of want when those fingers slip out of him. He can hear the slick sound of Damien rubbing lube onto his dick behind him.

Finally, the blonde's cockhead is pressed into his hole and Damien whines. It's tight, just a little too tight, because Stephen never really stops being a cock-hungry slut and it hasn't been that long since he took a dick but now that it's happening, Stephen could sob because, fuck, it's bliss. He can feel the taller man's hips shaking, can hear the tremble in his breath, like he's fighting to go slow, to save Stephen the burn of too-fast, too-sudden. "Deeper, baby, just a little. Daddy's not taken your cock in a while, has he? When was it? A week ago? You want Daddy to remember how that fat dick of yours feels in him? How good you can fuck him?" Stephen drawls, turning his head to look at his boy as he bottoms out. "I'll tell you what, baby, if you're good tonight and you fuck Daddy like you mean it, I'll let you fuck me every day for the rest of the month, how's that sound?" Stephen says breathlessly and the taller man purrs, grabbing onto his slim hips and kneading the springy, spongy flesh of his ass.

"Fuck, yes, please, Daddy. G-Gimme a few seconds though. Don't... Don't wanna h-hurt you..." He stammers, breaths so heavy. Stephen gives a long, low moan. "God, missed you, Stevie. Missed this. Let me know when you want me to move." He says and Stephen appreciates just how caring he is, how cautious he is despite his natural instinct to be rough and just use the warm body in front of him. At last, Stephen nods.

"Okay, baby, you can move. Fuck, I wanna be walking funny by the time you're done with me, Dames." He lets out a whimper-moan as Damien pulls back and slides back in deep. "You treat Daddy so well! F-Fuck! C'mon, a little faster, baby." And Damien rocks his hips again. And then again. And again. Fuck, God, yes, there's the burn, the stretch. The blonde's hips are going faster and they've quickly found a rhythm. "H-Haah... Shit, sweetheart, you're always so good for Daddy... Always f-fuck him so good..." And Damien kisses down his back through the thin material of his dress shirt, hot and sweaty.

"N-Not always... If I was, Daddy wouldn't — fuck... — h-have punished me with...with the — hahh... — the cage, would he?" The Brit half moans. Stephen can't help it, he's grinning so wide, eyes closed. God, he loves him so much, head to toe. After a moment, the Brit's voice tapers off and he's only panting.

"Get your hands on me, Dames." Stephen demands breathlessly, curling his hips up and grabbing onto the couch. And, shit, he shouldn't have said anything because Damien grabs a handful of his hair and yanks him back, the taller man's chest pressing against his back and, at this angle, it's hitting his prostate just right. The new pace is a lot faster, a lot harder. Their skin claps together on every deep, sharp snap forward, hard and perfectly angled. He's wrapped, hot and tight, around Damien's dick, insides shifting and clenching as they get closer and closer to their second orgasm of the night. The taller man's panting into his ear, cheek nuzzling against his. He wants to beg to be kissed, to beg for Damien to lick inside his mouth but he doesn't, just focuses on the heat pooling in his belly.

After a moment, Damien's hand snakes around to grab onto Stephen's throat, to hold him close, and the American almost fucking loses it right there. He's tight around the taller man's dick and his breathing is shallow and it's all so fucking perfect. And, Lord knows, neither of them can stand it any longer.

"You want me to fill you up, Daddy? Fill you 'til you leak..." Damien whispers and Stephen can only nod.

"Fuck yeah, baby. Wanna know I'm yours. Tell me..." Stephen half-sobs, brows drawn together, eyes screwed shut. "Fuck, Dames, tell me I'm yours."

"You're mine, Daddy. Only mine. Everybody knows I tamed this fucking bastard of an American diplomat. Bend him over and just fuck him into his Goddamn desk every other day..." The Brit pants out, their rhythm shaky, messy, frantic and, God, they're losing it. Damien's holding onto Stephen's throat as tight as he can and Stephen's whining, bucking back.

"Yeah... Fuckin'... Ssshitt, D-Damien, I'm c-cumming...! Oh, fuck!" Stephen manages to get out through heaving breaths and gasping moans, head thrown back, jaw slack. He cums in thick, white ribbons across the couch cushions, dizzy and aching. Damien follows close after, slamming forward and shooting his load inside the older man, leaving his knees weak and shivery.

And then... It's quiet, just the men's laboured breathing filling the office. At least until Stephen gets sick of it and sits himself down on the couch, pulling Stephen into his lap, cock still pressed deep into him.

"Christ, Stevie..." Damien's voice is soft and gentle as he rolls his hips to grind his cum inside of the older man. They're both groaning at the pressure, the sensation of each other. "So good to me..." The Brit coos, arms wrapping around the American's shoulders, his forehead resting on Stephen's. All the brunette can think as Damien presses soft kisses to his face, over and over, is; Goddamn it, the fucker really did tame him. Stephen leans against Damien's chest, face pressed against his throat. He can feel him here, he's safe. He tugs the Brit even closer, wraps his arms tight around his shoulders and kisses his collarbone where the shirt's unbuttoned.

"Love you, Dames... Y'know that, don't you, baby? Y'know Daddy loves you?" He murmurs and the taller man practically melts, holding his lover so close.

"I know, Stevie. Love you, too." ...

The morning after, Stephen's walking a little funny, thighs pressed together, as he makes his way up to his office. Some of his co-workers give him funny looks but he gives them a stiff 'good morning' and they scurry away, heads down.

When he gets to his office, Stephen stops in his tracks. There's a Pink Drink and a slice of lemon loaf perched in front of his keyboard. There's no note but he damn-well knows who it came from. Kicking the door closed behind himself, Stephen doesn't hide the grin as he grabs his phone from his pocket and sends a simple message; 'Just got to work. You'll never guess what someone left on my desk.' It doesn't take long for Damien to reply.

'Oh? I hope they got your favourite. ;)' He replies and Stephen finally gives in, dropping into his desk chair and cradling his phone to his chest. Jesus, Dames is so damn cute sometimes...

#character: stephen tynan #source: beckett #misc: chariot writes #type: oc

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breedaboyd · 7 months

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Summary: You've had your eyes on Professor Stephen Tynan ever since you walked into your Human Sexual Behaviour class, in the second year of your Psychology degree. He's handsome, smart and charming, what's not to love? Especially when he seems to flirt with you so effortlessly…

Tags: Daddy kink, dom/sub, oral sex, sex toys, teacher-student relationship, trans male character, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex.

A/N: If you use CHAI AI, you can chat with the specialised Prof!Stevie bot I made, here.

#character: stephen tynan #source: beckett #type: reader #misc: chariot writes

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breedaboyd · 11 months

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Day 17 ~ Pushed Too Far

(Gif by me.)

Prompt: Edging.

Pairing: Stephen Tynan × Damien Brooks (M!OC).

Word Count: 3.4k+

CW: Anal fingering, dom/sub, edging, facials, oral sex, spanking.

The mid-afternoon sun casts a warm glow over the city of Athens, filtering through the blinds of Stephen Tynan's office on the third floor of the US embassy. The room is adorned with a couple knick-knacks from Greece, a blend of ancient history and modern diplomacy. A framed photograph of the Parthenon overlooks Tynan's polished oak desk, where neat stacks of papers await his attention. But he's taking a break from work at the moment.

Stephen's hauled over his desk, pants and boxers pulled down around his knees, as two fingers push deep into him. He's keening and moaning and his glasses are crooked on his nose from where he's been frantically kissing Damien Brooks, a diplomat from the UK embassy. It's a welcome respite from the paperwork, his erection straining against his belly, just shy of being fully hard. There's a glimmering sheen of sweat visible on his forehead but his clothes otherwise remain neatly intact.

"That wide enough, Stephen, or are you gonna need more?" Damien asks as he scissors his fingers and hears the other man moan.

"Just...one more... One more should be good."

"You want the stretch, don't you, love?"

"Fuck. Obviously." Stephen whimpers. Damien adds a third finger and slowly inches his fingers in and out of the other man, enjoying the feeling of being tightly pressed inside him. "Ugh, okay... Okay, please. Damien, I'm ready." Stephen says impatiently.

"Wow, someone's getting needy." Damien says with a cocky smirk.

"Shut up!" But then those three fingers paw at Stephen's prostate and he's mewling, clawing at the edge of his desk and rocking back on Damien's hand. "Please, please, please..."

"No, we can't be all messy and sweaty for the meeting we have in..." He checks the watch on the wrist of his free hand. "Fifteen minutes."

"Then stop doing this now!" He yelps but Damien just slides those fingers in again and it keeps him pinned, desperate for the pleasure, clinging to the hope that the man behind him might have mercy and finally fuck him. But there's no hope. Damien works Stephen open, bullying his prostate, as the other hand wraps around the brunette's dick. Stephan bucks into the grip but it's nowhere near tight enough to get him off. Damien's teasing the life out of him and loving every second of it. "You're such...a bastard...y'know that, Dames?" He hisses and Damien leans down, tonguing at the mark just below Stephen's collar. That little kitten lick and a bite manages to unravel him a little. His legs start to shake, the sensation building even though Damien refuses to give him anything substantial.

"Am I, though? You asked me to come over early. Isn't this what you wanted?" He squeezes his fingers in deep, pushing at Stephen's prostate and making the other man see stars.

"Yes! N-No! ... Shut up!" He's so close to cumming, just on the edge and it's fucking with his head, making his eyes roll and his hands tremble. "F-Fuck, it's— Hnnggh!" He slams a hand over his mouth, whimpering behind his palm, desperate not to out them.

"Aw, c'mon, Stevie. Don't cover your mouth, you'll spoil the fun." Then the bastard slides his hand slowly down the base of Stephen's dick, fingertips skimming the throbbing vein on the underside, trailing a fingertip behind his balls and delighting in the way the brunette's hips stutter. Then the hand grabs his sac and gives it a firm squeeze, not to mention the fingers going to town, stretching his ass open.

"Argh, no, no, no, f-fuck, Damien, I— Hnggg... I c-can't... Ohhhh, God. Ohhmygodohmygodohmygod. Jesus fuckin' Christ...!" He keens, trying his hardest to be quiet, a shiver rattling through him. He wants to slap the stupid grin off the other man's face because it's all Damien's fault that he's like this, straddling the gap between orgasm and overstimulation.

And then there's a sound and it's Damien's phone. He reaches into his pocket with the hand that's not buried knuckle-deep in Stephen's ass and answers the call.

"Damien Brooks. Oh, hey, how are y— Yeah. Uh-huh." He doesn't ease up, the fingers sliding away and suddenly pumping so roughly into him that Stephen can't help but choke on a sob. The long fingers inside him move like pistons and Stephen grinds his teeth, covering his face with both hands as he's wracked with aftershocks of pleasure. He's oversensitive and tired but still leaking from his erection. He needs — so needs — to cum but Damien's talking. He never stops fucking Stephen while he talks on the phone, fingers just working his prostate mercilessly. "Yeah. Yeah. Sounds great. I can do that. Uh-huh. Mhm. I'm actually with Stephen right now so we'll head on over. Yep. Yeah, absolutely. Alright then. See you soon." Then Damien hangs up, pockets the phone and eases his fingers from Stephen's loose hole. The American's knees are trembling and he can feel his cock throbbing, a few drops of precum still dribbling from the slit, creating a damp patch on the carpet.

"God-fucking-dammit, Damien." He breathes through heavy panting.

"We need to be heading over to the bar now to meet Alexei and Jenna and don't you go finishing yourself off while I'm in the bathroom either."

"Asshole."

"C'mon, wash up and you can scowl at me in the elevator." Damien winks, halfway out the door.

"I didn't even get to cum, you fu—"

"Always so greedy, Stevie. Don't worry, I'll let you cum after we've had a drink." Then Damien steps out, listening to Stephen's groan echo down the hallway after him. It's an indication that this is going to be a very, very long night.

Thankfully, the beer garden is nice and airy, which is just what Stephen and Damien need as they order two bottles of Greek beer. Jenna's opted for some locally-produced wine. She's a small thing; slim-faced and round-shouldered, with gentle blue eyes and dark freckled skin that screams that she spends most of her time outside. Despite only really knowing her from official meetings, Stephen's always found her pleasant to speak with. Alexei, however, is a bitter piece of shit, all schedules and policies and he just gets a soda water. Neither of them are much fun though, they're just co-workers after all. Damien, on the other hand, has this habit of gripping at Stephen's thigh when they're sat together in front of people. His hand inches a little further north and Stephen's brain dissolves into static before he remembers the purpose of their meeting.

"What was that convention you were telling me about the other day, Alexei? Something about tourists or..." Damien asks.

"It's been an event that occurs annually for the past few years. My government believes it would be a good way to raise awareness of different cultural celebrations and expand the image of our beautiful country, rather than simply offering travel opportunities." Alexei explains.

"I agree completely. Stephen, did Damien tell you that we're already organising some more activities to help engage people with the history of the regions?" Jenna asks and Alexei makes a face.

"No, he didn't." Stephen cuts in, with a strained smile. "But it's such a great way to celebrate the city. Honestly, I think it's a great idea."

"Great, we can liaise more when the papers are available, hm?" Jenna says, a smile curving her thin lips. But Stephen's head is still swimming with want, his appetite still not sated from before, in his office.

"Damien, isn't this something that could be really impressive for your British tourists? Didn't you have a recent research meeting, as well?" Alexei asks.

"Oh, that was last week but—"

"Excellent, so perhaps you'll put in another funding request? The money is currently split evenly but having extra funds for one particular region could be more useful." Fucking numbers. Stephen scoffs quietly into his beer and the hand on his thigh squeezes slightly. For a moment, he thinks he's actually gone and offended the Brit but then he feels Damien's fingers shift higher and rub against the bulge in his trousers and he nearly chokes.

"Sorry, I'm...feeling a little queasy." Stephen says dismissively, quickly taking another sip of beer to hide his embarrassment. "Damien, if there's no budget left, maybe a fundraiser or a personal appeal would—"

"Have you tried garlic pills?" Alexei suggests, narrowing his eyes in a way that makes the glare bounce off his wireframe glasses. "I would avoid sausage. Or is it salmon? No, it must be feta..."

"Alexei, the feta's just fine." Stephen replies, trying to stop the way the colour is flushing up his neck. And this is just a regular meeting between the four diplomats.

An hour goes by and the sky is painted violet. As the group finishes their drinks, they make idle chit chat and decide that a simple conference would be suitable for the festival. Calendars are filled and everyone walks away happy. Well, everyone except Stephen, of course. He's tired and sweaty and vaguely aware that Damien owes him a fucking orgasm.

As they walk back to the US embassy, the Brit saunters happily at his side, as if he's not completely wrecked Stephen's nerves all afternoon. He's whistling the way that Stephen hates and they're definitely drawing attention from passers-by in the street. Damien's cockiness is the straw that breaks the camel's back and, when they're nearing the embassy building, the American snaps. He grabs Damien's shirt collar and presses him to the wall in a nearby alley, trapping the (only slightly) taller man. He's got this bright, smarmy look in his pretty blue eyes that go dark the moment Stephen strikes; he knows what just happened. Stephen's cages him in, breathing hard against his neck.

"You've pushed your luck, Dames." He murmurs against the other man's throat and Damien swallows audibly, knowing he's invoked Stephen's ire.

"I-In fairness, Stevie, I thought you'd be finished by the time we had to leave, y'know? So, I tried to just—"

"Stop. Talking. You don't get to say a Goddamn thing." He bites back and Damien shuts his trap, teeth snapping together with the speed he closes his jaw. The brunette leans in close, voice a low purr. "My office. Right now." He releases the Brit but it barely makes a difference. Damien has this slack expression on his face — half-horrified, half-aroused — as Stephen leads the way into the embassy.

Thankfully, when they arrive at the door to Stephen's office, it's unlocked and all the pieces of paper on his desk have been tidied away. He stalks over to the mahogany drawers and rips the top one open to reveal a couple envelopes and his old passport, as well as a handkerchief-wrapped set of cuffs and a bottle of lotion that are designed for private use between him and his man. Oh, his kissable, fuckable asshole of a man. He takes out the lotion and the cuffs and throw them on the desk.

"Over the desk, Brooks."

"Look, Stephen, I really—"

"Now." He bites back and Damien huffs out his name under his breath, a desperate appeal for clemency. "Dames... I'm giving you twenty seconds. Twenty." Damien glances around the room, like he might find an escape route. "...Nineteen." Then the Brit's suddenly grabbing the chair, shoving it aside and hopping over the desk. And, only five seconds later, he's already lost his pants and boxers, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

He bends himself over the desk, feeling the way Stephen's hands find his ass. Then they're spreading him open and he expects a couple of fingers inside. Instead, there's a firm palm cracking across the curve of his ass. Damien can't help the surprised help that leaves him, his back arching and nails scraping at the surface of the desk. "So, what was that earlier, Dames?" Stephen asks, palming at the Brit's ass. "Did you think I wouldn't finish on time?" Another crack that leaves a red mark on his bare ass. The air is suddenly electrified and the sharp blow has awakened a part of the taller man's brain that usually only wakes up if Stephen decides he wants to top.

"Oh, fuck, S-Stephen, I'm sorry! I wanted to tease you a bit, I didn't—" Then another firm blow. It's making his whole body sing. Stephen Tynan is the only person in the world who can render him pliant and incoherent this way, on the verge of begging already. It's not enough but he's so, so in love with how he ends up here. Another smack that has him biting his lip to stop the cry falling from his lips. Fuck, the door isn't even closed! "Stephen, I'm— Fuck, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

"Yeah, you better be sorry, Damien. Have I ever treated you the way you treated me today, huh?"

"N-No, never, Stephen."

"What am I gonna do with you, Damien Brooks?"

"Oh, God, Stevie, not my full— Mnh!" And in a swift movement, Stephen's cuffed Damien's wrists behind his back, his hair pulled roughly enough to cut his sentence short. Then a smack rings out, again and again, the muscles in Stephen's arm working as he pushes the Brit's shirt tails up his back with his free hand. His pale skin glows a delectable shade of pink and Damien's mewling quietly with each shot to his backside. He can feel how hot his skin is, the ache becoming a pleasant sting and he relishes in every sensation.

Just as Damien's getting used to it, though, Stephen stops and his eyes are watering as his lover trails a hand across the soft backs of his thighs. There's something about the ghost of contact that gets the Brit's heart pumping, knowing the pain's going to come soon. He doesn't have to wait long. A sharp, stinging blow makes him jerk forwards, followed by a crack that echoes through the room, tears brimming. And then, Stephen rakes his nails along the reddened skin, making the taller man moan out, the sound echoing out into the hall. He's powerless, exposed, the man above him a force he's chosen and can't resist. All he can do is lie back and enjoy the ride.

"Gimme a colour, Dames."

"Guh... Green, Stephen. Green, g-green, green... Fuck, please..."

"You wanna cum, baby?" Another sharp smack echoes through the room and Damien's mind grows hazy as Stephen keeps reigning down blow after blow, turning his skin a fierce shade of scarlet.

"Pl-Please, Mister Tynan... Please...let me... Hnngh..." That always gets him a harsh spank; a reminder of who's in charge. It hurts so good and Stephen keeps at it, letting his arm flop down when he's broken the tall brunette into shuddering cries.

"I'll think about it." Stephen murmurs as he sits back in his leather desk chair, just admiring his handiwork. He'd be a lot more hard-hearted if Damien wasn't his man, his slutty, needy whore of a man.

"Get down here." Stephen orders, tapping his foot and nodding the to space between his legs. He can already tell that Damien's having trouble following the instructions with his hands cuffed behind his back but he does it anyway. "Good. Now, let's finish what you started." He reaches down to unbuckle his pants, pulling them open and carefully untucking his dick from his underwear. Then he watches Damien's eyes widen. He's so clearly hungry for it, chewing on the inside of his bottom lip. He might be used to fucking Stephen and making him cum hard but his ability to swallow everything down is just shy of perfect.

Before Damien can really think about it, Stephen grabs the back of his head and pushes him down. "Fuck, yeah... There we go, Dames... Swallow it all, like a good boy. Yeah... Take it deep... Theeeere you go..." He murmurs. His tone is soft and encouraging, hands stroking his partner's face as the other brunette falls apart. He's choked by it, tongue working the underside while his nose presses to the wiry, dark curls at the base of Stephen's cock.

Damien might talk big and act big but, when it comes down to it, he sucks cock like a fucking champ. Stephen's had him every way he can think; held him down, spitroasted him, stuffed him up, choked him, made him beg. And the best bit is that Damien loves it all. God, Stephen just can't ever get over how much the Brit is a little, fucking freak. He looks so damn good; blissed-out and mellow, tears streaming down his cheeks, saliva all over his chin and it's just adorable.

His stamina always catches Stephen off guard, though. And this isn't an exception. The brunette's well and truly enthralled, watching his man choke around his thick cock, looking him in the eye. He almost stops, because Damien's eyes have glazed over and he's stopped moaning or tapping out, his chest heaving, and all he can do is drool. Mister Big-Talk until he has a cock in his mouth. Then he just looks blissed-out and totally absent, like he's slipped into some other world, and Stephen can use his sloppy, slutty mouth like a fleshlight. "Gonna cum all over your pretty, little face and you're gonna go home smelling of cum like the cock-hungry slut you are." And Stephen doesn't last long because he's been hanging onto this climax for an hour already.

He laces his fingers in Damien's blonde locks, pulling his head away, as Stephen jerks himself to cumming. "Keep that mouth open, baby. You wanna taste some of it, right?" He grins, breath coming quick as his chest heaves. He can feel his hips bucking as he teeters on the edge, the sticky slick of saliva covering his fist. "Fuck... Want you to see what you did." He huffs as he edges that little bit closer. And with a few more strokes, he cums; thick, white strands of cum landing on Damien's face, painting over his lips, across his nose, decorating his pale, sweaty skin. And, with what feels like the last bit of his strength, Stephen grabs the Brit's chin.

Then he realises. A long, sticky strand of saliva is hanging from Damien's bottom lip, nearly reaching the floor, pooling between his legs. His mouth is still wide open and his eyes are still watering, fixed up on the man who just wrecked him. Stephen can't help the burst of filthy pride that rushes through his veins. "That's a pretty face, Dames. Nice and messy, just how you like." He says gently, releasing his grip and letting Damien fold between his legs, panting. After a good, hard session with some heavy ropes or a particularly naughty punishment, it takes a couple of minutes for Damien to come back to himself. He kneels there, getting his breath back, watching the floor and waiting for the pounding in his chest to slow...

When Damien comes back to himself, he's sore and red and covered in thick, creamy cum. The aftercare starts slowly, with Stephen uncuffing Damien's wrists and grabbing some tissues from his desk to clean up with. He wipes the thick ropes of semen from his lover's face and chin. Oh, he just looks to perfect, all ruined and tired and fucked out.

"Was... Was it good for you, Mister Tynan?" Damien manages to croak. The scratchiness of his throat already a reminder of what he'd just taken.

"It's always good, baby." He chuckles, helping him stand. "How you feeling, Dames? Ass sore?"

"Yeah... Fuck... Did a number on me this time, Stevie."

"C'mon, lemme take you home, handsome, and then you can get your own back." Stephen winks and, despite being a fucking mess, Damien smiles as he kisses him on the cheek.

"... Gonna hold you to that." Damien sighs. "... And don't expect to walk straight tomorrow morning."

Then, sure enough, the next day, everyone keeps stopping Stephen in the hallways to ask if he's alright, if he's slept funny or if something's happened because, fuck, he's limping and aching like a motherfucker. And every time it happens, every one of those embarrassing questions, he just smiles the smuggest fucking grin that says it all. Stupid sexy British bastard...

#character: stephen tynan #source: beckett #misc: chariot writes #type: oc #misc: boydtober 2023

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