#cyril overton

[no-side-us]

Letters From Watson Liveblog - Sep. 3

The Missing Three-Quarter, Part 2 of 2

A doctor should always strive to keep up to date with the state of the medical world, though I'll give Watson some slack since he lives with Holmes.

I won't say Dr. Armstrong is completely off base. I do think Holmes does good more often than he doesn't and generally for good reasons. But there are one or two times where maybe he rushed into things a bit too fast and caused some distress.

Moriarty, the center of a continental spider's web of crime, the man who "killed" Holmes, and he thinks Dr. Armstrong is a match? That is a high compliment. And just a compliment, as I don't see it as an insult really.

Game respects game. Holmes finally becomes the recipient of the sort of sarcasm and smarm that he himself usually deals out to snobby clients and over-confident detectives. I guess Dr. Armstrong really is like Moriarty if he can match Holmes here.

I wonder how many times Watson has woken up horrified to find Holmes, blank expression on his face, holding a needle while in some drug-induced stupor? I don't know why this story specifically about a missing athlete has such great little nuggets of Holmes' addiction and Watson's feelings on it, but I'm glad for it.

I would've loved to see Holmes get the assistance of Toby, but I don't mind the appearance of another dog. Pompey is also a great name for him, very good.

I'm sure there's some legal explanation for this, but I want to know the justification. Why would marrying someone deprive you of an inheritance? I could maybe excuse it as sexism if it were a woman losing her inheritance, but that's not the case here. Or is this a Lord Mount-James specific situation and he would take away the inheritance if he found out Godfrey was married? Maybe that's it.

The ending to this one is very sweet. Usually I would prefer something more, maybe a final conversation with the original client, but here none of that is necessary. I'm glad they didn't try to go talk with Godfrey again, or circle back to Overton or Lord Mount-James. They got the explanation, and that's all they needed.

Part 1 - Part 2

[dathen]

Letters from Watson: Worst Client poll 8

Link to poll 7

A batch of pretty vivid characters once again, fearing creepy codes and vampires and devils (or worst of all, sports team losses!)

We'll be heading into Round 2 of this to narrow down the most rancid client of them all while we wait for more cases to come out in the substack. As a hint for how these will go: there's a little bonus regarding votes that have tag explanations, so don't forget to include yours!

[holmesillustrations]

Left: “We looked up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the doorway.” Missing Three-quarter, FD Steele, Colliers Nov 24th 1904 Characters: Holmes, Lord Mount-James, Watson, Cyril Overton

Right: “I knocked down several books which he was carrying.” Empty House, Sidney Paget, The Strand Oct 1903 Characters: Holmes, Watson

[mariana-oconnor]

The Missing Three-Quarter pt 1

We were fairly accustomed to receive weird telegrams at Baker Street, but I have a particular recollection of one which reached us on a gloomy February morning some seven or eight years ago...

OK, so obviously my first question - in spite of knowing that time is made up in these stories and attempting to pin them down is an exercise in madness - is what year was this story published. Google provides: 1904. So we're supposedly looking at 1896-7.

Not that that means anything.

“Please await me. Terrible misfortune. Right wing three-quarter missing; indispensable to-morrow. — Overton.”

I mean if you're missing three quarters of your right wing, that does sound like a terrible misfortune, but I am interested in how a bird managed to send a telegram. Perhaps it is the trained cormorant! Or one of the canaries.

Despite being British and my brother having played it at school (and numerous other things about my life which mean I should know), the rules and terminology of rugby are completely beyond me. It is a massive gap in my knowledge that I have no real desire to fill in. I know William Webb Ellis and that there's League and Union, something something scrum, score a try, six nations. There. That's all I know.

But according to the post script in the last email, this is about Rugby, so I must assume that Right Wing three quarter refers to a playing position and that tomorrow there is a rugby game.

For years I had gradually weaned him from that drug mania which had threatened once to check his remarkable career. Now I knew that under ordinary conditions he no longer craved for this artificial stimulus, but I was well aware that the fiend was not dead, but sleeping; and I have known that the sleep was a light one and the waking near when in periods of idleness I have seen the drawn look upon Holmes's ascetic face, and the brooding of his deep-set and inscrutable eyes.

This is honestly a really interesting and serious discussion of drug addiction. We've had a few comments from Watson about it before, but never to this extent, I don't think. And the actual discussion of how he's been slowly getting Sherlock clean over the years. But the acknowledgement that it's always there, waiting. And it's always preying on Watson's mind, too.

Mr. Cyril Overton, of Trinity College, Cambridge

Of course he's from a Cambridge college and worrying about a rugby game. The only way this could be more Oxbridge is if it were the boat race he was worrying about.

Do you think it's an Oxbridge match or an intercollegiate one?

“I've been down to Scotland Yard, Mr. Holmes. I saw Inspector Stanley Hopkins. He advised me to come to you. He said the case, so far as he could see, was more in your line than in that of the regular police.”

Glad to see the police really care about missing people. Although 'university rugby player wandered off' isn't really that unusual in my experience. After a rugby social night you'd trip over them in the weirdest places. After the medical students, they probably had the most intense events.

"Whether it's passing, or tackling, or dribbling, there's no one to touch him..."

Do you dribble in rugby? I genuinely thought that was a football term.

(According to the All Blacks apparently you do... weird. I do not understand this game at all)

"Why, Morton or Johnson, the Oxford fliers, could romp round him."

Ah, it's an Oxbridge match. No wonder he's so put out about it.

“There is Arthur H. Staunton, the rising young forger,” said he, “and there was Henry Staunton, whom I helped to hang, but Godfrey Staunton is a new name to me.”

Just let me look in my book of people. Oh yes, he's not the one I had hanged... nope, don't know him. This is so funny to me.

“I suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton you don't know Cyril Overton either?”

His utter astonishment at Holmes not knowing about rugby is sweet and also hilarious. Also kind of arrogant, but I was expecting that.

...with many repetitions and obscurities which I may omit from his narrative, he laid his strange story before us.

Thank you, Watson.

"Half an hour later the porter tells me that a rough-looking man with a beard called with a note for Godfrey. [...] Godfrey read it and fell back in a chair as if he had been pole-axed. [...] Then he went downstairs, said a few words to the man who was waiting in the hall, and the two of them went off together. The last that the porter saw of them, they were almost running down the street in the direction of the Strand."

Oooh... long lost relative? But what's in the letter? Does Godfrey have a secret past? Is the bearded man a colonel? Has he trained some birds to do crimes? But if he had trained birds to do crimes, surely he could also train them to deliver messages without needing porters.

Even with Watson editing this down, the tone, pace and wording still convey Cyril's personality perfectly. Excellent character work. Chef's kiss.

“I wired to Lord Mount-James.” “Why to Lord Mount-James?” “Godfrey is an orphan, and Lord Mount-James is his nearest relative—his uncle, I believe.”

Ding-ding, we have some more evidence for long lost relative. Maybe crawling out of the woodwork to get money? If Godfrey is related to a Lord, that would make sense.

"Lord Mount-James is one of the richest men in England.”

Yep, there is definitely going to be at least an indication that money is involved. Although it may turn out to be one of those stories where that is a red herring.

“Yes, he was his heir, and the old boy is nearly eighty—cram full of gout, too. They say he could chalk his billiard-cue with his knuckles. He never allowed Godfrey a shilling in his life, for he is an absolute miser, but it will all come to him right enough.”

They are really building up the money motive. Makes me think it won't be that straightforward.

He was simply what the porter described as a “medium-looking chap”

Watson, king of describing people, faced with an ordinary person. You can feel the exasperation.

“It is a pity he did not write in pencil,” said he, throwing them down again with a shrug of disappointment. “As you have no doubt frequently observed, Watson, the impression usually goes through—a fact which has dissolved many a happy marriage. However, I can find no trace here. I rejoice, however, to perceive that he wrote with a broad-pointed quill pen, and I can hardly doubt that we will find some impression upon this blotting-pad."

Proper old school detective work going on. Blotting paper. Does anyone in the world still use blotting paper, I wonder. I spent my childhood reading Enid Blyton and Agatha Christie and wondering what it even was.

"But I dare say it may have come to your notice that if you walk into a post-office and demand to see the counterfoil of another man's message there may be some disinclination on the part of the officials to oblige you. There is so much red tape in these matters! However, I have no doubt that with a little delicacy and finesse the end may be attained."

How dare they protect people's privacy in that way! How dare!

Honestly, I find this kind of reassuring. I may have assumed that there was no security about these things at all in the Victorian era. Weird when you find something that they did better back then. By 'delicacy and finesse' does he mean 'bribery'? So... maybe not any better really.

...we looked up to find a queer little old man, jerking and twitching in the doorway. He was dressed in rusty black, with a very broad brimmed top-hat and a loose white necktie—the whole effect being that of a very rustic parson or of an undertaker's mute. Yet, in spite of his shabby and even absurd appearance, his voice had a sharp crackle, and his manner a quick intensity which commanded attention.

See, Mr Day-porter, this is how you describe a person.

"If he has any expectations it is due to the fact that I have never wasted money, and I do not propose to begin to do so now. As to those papers with which you are making so free, I may tell you that in case there should be anything of any value among them you will be held strictly to account for what you do with them.”

Huge Scrooge McDuck vibes from this guy.

“Heavens, sir, what an idea! I never thought of such villainy! What inhuman rogues there are in the world! But Godfrey is a fine lad—a staunch lad. Nothing would induce him to give his old uncle away."

Dude, hate to say it, but if you were my uncle I would absolutely give you away. In a heartbeat. I would be telling them every piece of information I knew about you so fast they'd have burgled your house before you could blink. Unless they showed me their faces, then I'd use the information as leverage to get away.

But you seem like such a great guy, I'm sure Godfrey wants to protect you with his life.

Totally.

"You must admit that it is curious and suggestive that this incident should occur on the eve of this important match, and should involve the only man whose presence seems essential to the success of the side."

I mean, if he hadn't gone off on his own accord, I'd definitely support the argument 'Oxford kidnapped him'. Makes perfect sense.

OH... Holmes meant people who had bet on the game.

My best bet currently is that he got news (real or false) about someone he cares about and left to try to help them. That would also explain the 'us'.

[whats-in-a-sentence]

He tore off a strip of the blotting-paper and turned towards us the following hieroglyphic:—

Cyril Overton was much excited. "Hold it to the glass!" he cried.

"The Illustrated Sherlock Holmes Treasury" - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

[tenth-sentence]

"I suppose, then, if you have never heard of Godfrey Staunton you don't know Cyril Overton either?"

"The Illustrated Sherlock Holmes Treasury" - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

[kierrasreads]

The Adventure of the Missing Three Quarter (The Return of Sherlock Holmes #12) by Arthur Conan Doyle Review

Plot

Mr. Cyril Overton hires Sherlock and Watson to track down missing rugby player Godfrey Staunton, who his team needs to win an important match against Oxford the next day. It's a race against the clock to figure where the missing three-quarter player is.

Discussion

Poor Godfrey and wife! Madly in love but forced to keep their marriage a secret because his miser uncle would throw a hissy fit and disown him. If I were Godfrey, I would've told my dear uncle to take his money and shove up where the sun doesn't shine, because I love my wife and will choose her over money with conditions. Or money in general. Also, why did Godfrey's father-in-law think it would be a good idea to not tell his son-in-law about her condition in the first place? So, shame on Godfrey's father-in-law and Dr. Armstrong for that! Plus, Uncle Lord Mount-James, you suck. You're going to die alone, you miserable prick. Seriously, why wouldn't you pay a detective/legitimate private investigator to find your missing nephew?!

Sorry for the rant, that part of the story pissed me off.

Rating

3/5

[mr-nauseam]

I read in a post that the story of "The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter" is horribly underrated and I agree. 😠

It has very good moments for example for me it is the story where it is observed in a explicitly way how connected Holmes and Watson are, they literally have a gigantic dialogue after Sherlock returns from his failed expedition where Watson reads his head and anticipates every possible course of action that Holmes could take.

Watson: “Could you not follow it?”

Holmes: “Excellent, Watson! You are scintillating this evening. The idea did cross my mind... -proceeds to explain how he do that-".

I don't know people, for Holmes it was very natural that his husband predicted every one of his actions but for me it is still stunning and adorable notice this. ❤

But continuing with my complaint there is a character in that particular story who IS HORRIBLY UNDERESTIMATED AND I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY AND YES, I TALK ABOUT THE FANTASTIC:

DOCTOR LESLIE ARMSTRONG.

Uhh that BITCH, are you going to ignore this genius who managed to make fun of Holmes the whole case? He is very clever, very cunning and let's go if Holmes said THIS SHIT ABOUT HIM:

"I have not seen a man who, if he turned his talents that way, was more calculated to fill the gap left by the illustrious Moriarty".

YOU READ THAT?

Holmes was seeing a potential Moriarty 2.0 and he really seemed so excited at this possible rival.

Also, at least in my opinion Dr. Leslie has one of those descriptions that betrays the bisexual disaster that Watson is:

"It argues the degree in which I had lost touch with my profession that the name of Leslie Armstrong was unknown to me. Now I am aware that he is not only one of the heads of the medical school of the University, but a thinker of European reputation in more than one branch of science. Yet even without knowing his brilliant record one could not fail to be impressed by a mere glance at the man,the square, massive face, the brooding eyes under the thatched brows, and the granite moulding of the inflexible jaw. A man of deep character, a man with an alert mind, grim, ascetic, self-contained, formidable—so I read Dr. Leslie Armstrong".

The implications that in the description he makes of Dr. Leslie adds a little extra information like Watson tell us when you discovered at the end that Armstrong was not a villain, you decided to go investigate this interesting man? Suspicious. 😈 (Although he could also know that from Holmes explaining for 2 hours why that man should have dedicated to criminal life and that idea seems hilarious to me).

Speaking of hilarious things, this story has several very funny dialogues and moments such as:

Dr Leslie A. : "I have heard your name, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, and I am aware of your profession, one of which I by no means approve".

Holmes: “In that, doctor, you will find yourself in agreement with every criminal in the country,” said my friend, quietly.

Or the whole coexistence between Holmes and Cyril Overton, begin with the telegram Cyril sent to Holmes and left him confused and thinking for a long time because he has no idea about rugby and it seemed almost that an encrypted message or Cyril collapsing because Holmes does not know who is Godfrey Stamerton or he saying that it will be the end of the world if loses their team.

[valentineforlemonandcherry]

Light and Dark | Part 13

Summary: Your sweetheart boyfriend, James Potter, can’t seem to hide his feelings for a certain beautiful redhead - who’s not you. Meanwhile, there’s a strange Slytherin boy, Cyrille Lestrange, famed even among purebloods for his lineage and inheritance, whose silver eyes somehow seem to always find you. [Multi-Post Story] [James Potter x Reader] [Cyrille Lestrange x Reader] [Warning: Story Contains Explicit Smut.] [Warning: Dom-Sub Overtones and Mentions of Sadism.] I want to say explicitly that this is fantasy. Any harassing and/or non-consensual behavior is totally unacceptable in reality. *Finally, please do not repost or copy my work without my permission. Thank You!

❦ Click Here for Light and Dark Home Page (All Chapter Links) ❦

How has it come to this? you wondered fuzzily, as you found yourself with your mouth open, the back of your head pushed hard against the line of books behind you as you were being roughly face-fucked by none other than Cyrille Lestrange - and on a mid-afternoon in the school library, no less. 

At least I had the sense to compromise before he pushed his cock into my mouth like this, you thought hazily. Although, maybe I should have negotiated more...

Because, some time ago, he’d had you with your knee up on the bookshelf, running his hand deftly over your thigh and ass, before he shifted closer to you. He’d given you his orders: “Except when you feel my cock enter you, you’re going to say ‘please,’ and when I cum in you, you’re going to say ‘thank you.’ Understood?”

Just as he guided his cock to your waiting pussy, you’d reached back and put your hand on his arm to stop him. “Wait,” you whispered, your voice already breathy.

He looked up at you, with confusion and want written across his face.

“Come here,” you said. “I need to tell you something...”

“What?” 

When he didn’t lean in, you grabbed the collar of his blazer and dragged him closer to you so that his face was level with yours, right over your shoulder. To keep from falling, Cyrille hastily put his other hand out, grabbing the bookshelf two rows above your head. His back pressed down into your chest.

“What?” he hissed at you. 

“I can’t be the only one to put something on the line here,” you told him. “So. If I moan, I become yours. Fine. But if you curse out loud or cum in me, you’re mine, too.” 

Cyrille hesitated. “That’s not how it works...”

“I don’t care how it works. I don’t care what deals you’ve made with other people or how you fucked them,” you said bluntly. “You’re with me now, Lestrange.”

Cyrille sighed. “Of course you don’t care... I can already tell you’re going to be a- Dare I say it? A brat.” 

Still reaching back, you gripped his shirt harder, your little hand folding into a demanding and tight fist. “Come on,” you coaxed, trying to adopt a playful tone. To be honest, you sounded terrible, even to yourself. But you pushed anyways,  “Lay something on the line with me.”

“Is this your attempt at seduction?” Cyrille asked you, highly amused. “Angel, you’re adorably out of practice.” 

“Fine,” you relented. “I’ll threaten you instead.”

Cyrille waited patiently for your “threat.”

“All right,” you finally said, going back to your more familiar territory of challenging him, “you said this was your domain. If you won’t even negotiate with me, then I’ll consider that a surrender. A true master knows how to counter every attack and isn’t afraid of taking risks.”

You paused, feeling foolish. “Right?” you said hopefully. 

Cyrille paused. He had to remind himself to be stern, but your hopeful face was making a mess of his brain. She doesn’t need seduction. Just look at her - all hopeful. Fuck, she’s going to make a fool of me. I can tell already. He mock-sighed and said in a quiet voice, “Fine.” 

“And remember,” you reminded him, “you said you’d be gentle with me.”

“Mm, I don’t think so,” Cyrille said lightly. “Well, I suppose I’ll always hold you gently...”

Cyrille brought his hand, which had been gripping the bookshelf above your head, down to gently stroke your cheek. Then, slipping his hand onto your neck, he pushed aside your hair to reveal your neck. Gripping the back of your neck rather tightly, he leaned down and whispered into your ear, “But I fuck. hard.” 

You felt yourself instinctively shiver at his words, and because the cold metal of his many rings were pressing into the back of your neck. Cyrille smirked, feeling you quiver against him. 

His hand slid down your neck onto your back and laid his hand flat between your shoulder blades, pressing your breasts up against the books a little.

“But if you beg and you follow all the rules like a good girl - then, I’m not opposed to giving you some soft kisses from time to time, angel,” Cyrille compromised. “Like this.” 

He replaced his hand with his soft, hot mouth as pressed an unexpectedly gentle kiss on your neck. just over your scar.

He murmured softly, “After all, your wish is my command...” 

You stiffened when he murmured those words. Why does he say that? you wondered. Is that some strange phrase to lure me into a false sense of security, into pretending to give me what I want? But if that’s true, then why do I feel a strange spark in my heart when he says it? Almost as though my mind is trying to remember something...

A strange mix of emotions rose within you, some tinge of memory, a dull sadness, and an overwhelming anticipation... anticipation of Cyrille actually touching you and being with you. Because even those the two of you were pressed together like this, in some strange universe of barely muted intensity with emotions and desire bleeding out all over the place, you still felt as though you couldn’t be sure as to who Cyrille really was and what he wanted from you. Any minute, he could pull out of this “game” we’re playing, and disappear. Vanish, you thought. Even if we showed up to the same classes, he could go right back to being a complete stranger to me - and I’d have nothing to say about it.  

“What are you thinking so hard about?” Cyrille whispered low in your ear. “If you’re trying to think of more ways to negotiate with me - well, I’m sorry, angel, but your time is up.” 

Just then, you gave a sudden start as he firmly yanked aside your panties. He tugged hard enough that you felt your hips being pulled along with the thin fabric. Cyrille had to catch you to make sure your hip wouldn’t run right into the bookshelf as you shifted sideways. 

“Merlin,” Cyrille said to you, “you can’t even stand properly.”

"Come on now,” he said impatiently. “Legs apart.” 

Ignoring his order, you began to retort, “It’s your fault for- “ but you were abruptly cut off when Cyrille reached down and slapped your ass - hard. 

A loud smack! rang out. You gasped loudly. “Ah!”

The sound pierced through the sleepy, mid-afternoon library air, sharp as shattering glass. 

Cyrille hurriedly covered your mouth with his other hand, and hissed in your ear, “Keep. Silent.” 

You reached up and pried his fingers off of your lips. You growled back, “You’re the one who made such a loud noise!”

Your ass was burning. You were pretty damn sure his handprint was going to be on your skin for a while. 

“Shush.” His single word, which slipped out so casually, seemed to sink into your mind. You felt yourself soften. Your voice was like velvet, even if his words were harsh as glass.

“But... But...” you said, suddenly finding yourself mumbling. I had something to say, I... Something about how he’s not playing fair. Oh, but... I just want him to take me. His cock is so close to being inside me. I want it. I want him. 

Wait, what? What are you telling yourself? Remember who this is. “No,” you insisted, almost to yourself. “You can’t just take me by surprise like that and expect me to be quiet.”

“I can, and you will,” he replied simply.

“Okay,” you said shortly, your ass still smarting from his hard slap. “Listen, mister, I don’t know what you did with your other ‘lovers,’  but you- ”  

Suddenly, Cyrille clamped his hand over your mouth. “You need to shut up,” he growled into your ear. “I think there’s someone around- ”

Then - a low cough rang out from somewhere. You froze. Oh Merlin, if someone were to catch us right now - I mean, it’s not as though we’ve done anything inappropriate, but still... It’s a bit obvious what we’re up to, I would think. The handprint on my ass is one indicator...

Suddenly, you were yanked away. Upon hearing the cough, Cyrille had quickly pulled down your skirt, and taking your hand, he led you away, further down the aisle. The two of you darted through the different bookshelves until you found yourself in the - 

“Restricted Section?” you whispered, your eyes taking in the unfriendly-looking books now stacked on the wall. “I don’t think we’re allowed in here.”

“We’re not allowed anywhere, for what we’re about to do,” Cyrille replied shortly. Turning around to face you, he said, “Now, present for me.”

“What?” you said, not sure what he meant.

“Down on your knees. Like this.” He put his hands on your shoulders and guiding you by pressing down on your shoulders, had you sit down in front of him.

“Oh...” A soft murmur of surprise left your lips as you felt your legs slowly fold under you. You blinked, suddenly finding yourself sitting in a quiet aisle of dusty-looking books, and looking directly at - 

“You know what to do,” Cyrille whispered. He remained standing. His gaze as he looked down on you was cold. Clearly, he was a man used to looking down on his lovers.

You frowned in distaste.

But just before you could pull away, Cyrille lifted his hand a little to trace a single finger down the side of your face. Then, his finger slid gracefully under your chin, and he pushed your face up, forcing you to look up at him.

“It’s your punishment,” he told you silkily, “for making such a naughty sound when I explicitly told you to be quiet.” 

“And...” His eyes tightened as his lips perked up in one corner. “Dare I say that that was a moan you let out?”

You shook your head, though your chin remained balanced on the tip of his finger. “No,” you told him. It was a bit difficult to speak with your head pushed back the way it was. “It wasn’t... a moan.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No...”

“Are you lying?” he questioned you, raising an eyebrow. 

“N-No...”

Suddenly, he leaned over and grabbed the back of your neck, so that your soft curls caught between his hand and your neck. Then, he yanked your head back even more, jerking the breath out of you. You felt yourself gasp a little as your head was forced back. 

You felt yourself gasp a little as the breath was jerked out of you as your head was forced back. 

“Don’t lie to me,” he hissed at you. “I know what I heard.”

Still, you held your ground. You glared up at him as much as you could and protested, “You must’ve heard wrong. I’ll never moan for you.”

Cyrille’s gaze became quite icy, with his silver eyes frosting over. But he merely let you go and scoffed. “Fine,” he said, straightening back up. “Have it your way. You won’t moan, angel?”

“Then.” He abruptly unzipped his pants and pushed them down, along with his briefs. “Let’s use that mouth another way.” 

You stared at his cock in front of you. It was long. There was no way you were ever going to be able to take all of that in your mouth. 

Seeing the look on your face, Cyrille tutted softly. “Should have been quiet, shouldn’t you have, angel?” 

Then, he reached down and gripped your curls and tilted your head up to take his cock. 

“Open your lips,” he commanded. “You’re going to take me now, angel. All of me. In that pretty little mouth of yours. It’s what you deserve. And whether you think that’s a gift or punishment - it’s up to you.”

You hesitated. Then, you managed to whisper, “Whimpers don’t count. I still won’t be yours... unless I moan, all right?” 

Cyrille began to sigh at your insistence for carve-out rules, but he stopped short when he saw that you, with your lips trembling slightly with anticipation, finally parted your lips for him. 

Mmm, Cyrille thought, admiring the perfect shape of your lips now open, just waiting for him to fill your pretty little mouth - first with cock, then with cum. 

“Good girl,” Cyrille whispered. 

Cyrille watched as the tip of his cock gently pushed open your lips wider, and then the length of his cock slowly began to disappear into your pretty mouth. He exhaled softly. He’d been imagining this ever since you’d sucked so fervently on his fingers last night. 

When he hit up against the back of your throat quicker than you expected, you whimpered slightly. 

“Sh,” he reminded you. “Do you want everyone to see you like this?”

You shook your head softly, with his cock still filling up your little mouth. His cock felt so warm and heavy on your soft tongue. Your little, hot, wet tongue flickered across his cock when you shook your head. 

Cyrille groaned internally when he felt your tongue against him. Oh Merlin, I just want to wreck that little mouth of hers... Have her tongue lolling prettily all over my cock. Yes... 

“Set your pace... while you have the chance,” Cyrille told you, and his silvery voice held the promise of wrecking you very, very soon. 

You knew, just by the tone of his voice, that he wasn’t joking around. So, you sat up a little, getting up onto your knees and putting your hands on your thighs to balance yourself. After taking a deep breath, you dutifully began to bob your head up and down along the length of his shaft.

Cyrille’s head tilted back and he breathed out a long sigh of relief. The pleasant feeling of your lips wrapped around his cock sent ripples of satisfaction through him. And when he gazed down at you, seeing you on your knees in front of him, hands in your lap, eyes wide and uncertain, mouth open for him... Fuck, he cursed in his head, but he remembered that he’d promised to be yours if he cursed aloud, and he wasn’t going to let you have what you wanted that easily.

You did your best for him, so focused on taking him in that you didn’t even notice yourself getting a little sloppy. Your own saliva started to wet your lips, making them glisten prettily, as you went up and down his length. 

Cyrille smirked and said approvingly, “Good girl. Working so hard for me, aren’t you?” 

“Mmpfh,” you replied incoherently, as you pushed your head forward on his cock. 

“Do I taste good, angel?” he asked you knowingly. You nodded up at him. He smiled and reached down for a moment to touch your cheek gently before he went back to pulling your hair back and encouraging you to take more of him.

If anybody were to come by the Restricted Section now, they would see you on your knees, your skirt flouncing up and down a little, your panties flashing, and the soles of your white sneakers lifting and falling a bit, as you rocked back and forth in your attempt to take as much of his cock as possible. They’d see your curls falling down your back in elegant waves. Although Cyrille was trying to hold back your hair as you sucked his cock, your hair was untamable and mostly spilling out of Cyrille’s hand. 

“Angel, you might have to get a bit messier than that,” Cyrille said, his voice sleek as a panther’s as he tried to coax you to let him into your throat. He didn’t want to cause you any discomfort, but he knew his cock was going to have to find its way into your throat, and you just weren’t quite there yet. 

You did your best to suck his cock obediently, to take as much of him as you could in his mouth. As it was, he did taste good, and you rather liked the feeling of the ridges of his cock sliding in and out between your lips, and the weight of the tip of his cock pressing down on your soft tongue. But as his cock began to respond, becoming thicker and longer, no matter how you tried, you gradually began to fit less and less of him in your little mouth.

You whined slightly at how hard it was to fit him in your mouth past a certain point, but a sharp glare from Cyrille, accompanied by a quick tug to your hair, silenced you. 

“More,” he demanded, pushing your head down a little. You glared up at him.

“Don’t give me that look,” he warned you. “I know you want more of me, too. Don’t you, angel?”

You ignored him, mostly because he was right. You did want more of him. It was just that his cock had already stuffed your mouth full, but you weren’t going to admit either of these things, so you found it best to stay quiet and continue to suck his cock.

Finally, panting a little, you sat back on the floor again and kissed the tip of his cock. 

Cyrille watched you for a moment as you wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. You were a little out of breath, but otherwise, not a hair on your head had been shifted. You were certainly a far cry away from “wrecked.”

“Maybe I should call you ‘princess’ instead,” he said thoughtfully. “You’ve clearly been treated as such.”

You looked up at Cyrille and frowned, not knowing what he meant.

“Your lower throat is virgin, isn’t it?” Cyrille said knowingly. His voice slipped into a deeper timbre as he growled softly, “Almost like you were waiting for my cock to pierce through to it first...” 

He muttered under his breath, mostly to himself, “I’m glad you left some firsts for me. After all, I was your first kiss. And I’d have been your first everything, if only things had gone a little differently... But I suppose that’s neither here nor there.” 

You cocked your head up at him curiously, not following him at all. 

“Listen,” he said suddenly, “and listen well. You’re going to open your mouth again, and you’re going to keep it open until I’ve fucked your little mouth hard enough and long enough to cum. Then, you’re going to swallow my cum like a good little girl. Am I clear?”

Don’t fall for it, you warned yourself. Don’t let him call all the shots.

But how do I respond? you mused, trying hard to think of something on the spot. What can I say to push back? 

“What... What about me?” you heard yourself say uncertainly. You paused. Instead of sounding commanding, you just sounded left-out. 

Predictably, Cyrille chuckled softly. 

“You can choose between my mouth and fingers, too, angel,” Cyrille promised you. “I’ve love to pleasure that sweet pussy of yours. I want to make you cum over and over, until you beg me to stop, and then I’ll make you cum again...”

“You’ll forget all of your limits,” Cyrille murmured, and his voice was so soothing despite his treacherous words. “You’ll forget you even had any. You’d be amazed at how well your body takes sex, and how it can cum and be filled with cum again and again and again...” 

The whole time that Cyrille was detailing how he was going to pleasure you until you came completely undone, you were watching him speak with mesmerized eyes. As he finally finished with his overly suggestive “again and again and again...” you suddenly shivered. Still sitting on the library floor, it took you a second to realize that you had cum. Your eyes widened as you realized that you’d just soaked your own panties to the sound of his voice promising you to ruin you... Embarrassed, you quickly looked away from him. 

Cyrille hesitated, wondering if he’d said something wrong, said something to frighten you. “Of course,” he reminded you quickly, “this is all subject to your permission, your consent. Sex is meaningless unless... you want it.” 

He tilted his head to the side as he looked down at you. “Do you?” he asked, his voice almost drawling. Speaking slowly to give you time to think, he asked you, “Do you want it, princess?” 

You stared up at him. The sunlight came down in shafts in the dusty depths of the Restrict Section, lying in stripes across Cyrille’s face and body. His long hair seemed to have a golden hue, and his eyes flickered between gold and silver, giving him a false veneer of mercy. 

No, you told yourself. He’s merciless. And he will be if you let him take your mouth...

But - his question: Do I want it? you pondered to yourself. You could feel your now-dripping pussy clench and your thighs tighten at the mere thought of swallowing his cum, tasting him, feeling his warmth inside your throat, and taking it into your tummy. 

I do, you thought. I want to know what he tastes like. I want him to cum in my mouth - hard. 

“Yes,” you breathed out. “Yes, please fuck my mouth. Please cum in my mouth.”

Cyrille’s eyes flashed. He stepped forward again. He let you clamber unsteadily back onto your knees (he didn’t realize you’d cum sitting there and had to sit up gingerly to keep your wet panties from touching your thighs) before he reached down with both hands to grasp your head. 

You opened your mouth again, and Cyrille slid his cock back in your mouth. He let you adjust for a moment before he thrust slightly. 

Surprised, you gagged slightly. You clutched at the hem of your skirt nervously as you felt your throat close up. 

“You’ll have to do better than that, princess,” Cyrille told you, his grasp on your head becoming tighter as he felt you instinctively starting to slide back already. 

But his voice was quite patient as he guided you and said, “Breathe through your nose. Relax your throat... I’m not going to hurt you. Trust me. Relax.” 

You listened to him, letting his words wash over you. Gradually, you relaxed. Cyrille thrust again, but slower and gentler this time. He rocked his hips back and forth rhythmically, feeling your lips running up and down his cock, catching slightly on the ridges. 

But as the minutes ticked by, he built back up to a rougher rhythm and faster speed. 

“M-mm, b-big,” you whimpered. “T-too big.” His cock was crammed into your mouth as far as you could take him without deep-throating him. 

“Relax,” he reminded you, trying to sound in control. 

But the next moment, Cyrille breathed out long and low and murmured, “Your mouth feels so good.” He thrust again into your mouth, rougher this time. 

Your eyes widened a little as you realized that despite his ever-cold and in-control demeanor, he was losing himself a little too as he pushed himself deeper into your mouth.

He’s affected by me as well, you thought. The thought relieved you, but there was something beyond that - you felt a sudden warmth spread through you body as you realized that you were happy that you affected him because you wanted to please him. 

You hesitated, surprised at yourself. Again, you wondered, while keeping your lips parted to let him fuck your mouth to his pleasure, what is Cyrille Lestrange to me? 

*     *     *     *��    *     *     *     *     *     *

As Cyrille watched you struggling adorably to take his cock in your mouth, he felt his desires split. A part of him wanted to melt, to fall to the ground with you, hug you tightly, and just kiss you all over until you both fell asleep. What did it matter if the two of you had sex or not? 

But the other half of him wanted you, and had wanted you this way for so long. After all, right after you’d promised yourself to him, you’d had your memory altered by none other than Albus Dumbledore himself. And straightaway, you’d gone and thrown yourself at James Potter, proclaiming your love for him. And maybe you did love him - that made it even worse.

Cyrille tried to forget you. He did. But, it never worked. You couldn’t even begin to imagine the number of nights Cyrille found himself panting and gasping against his bedsheets, hand running up and down his cock over and over again, imagining it was you - your mouth, your pussy, your ass - taking him in his all his demandingness and softness alike, letting him pound you like he loved you, and then - he’d shut his eyes as he pictured you just begging him for his cum, to fill you up because it was him that you were with - and he’d finally cum all over his sheets. 

He’d immediately feel ridiculous after doing so. There were so many women and men that he’d slept with. So why was it always you that found your way to him, you that delved into his fantasies and dreams every single night? When Cyrille learned of “incubus” and “succubus” in his Defense Against the Dark Arts class, he’d thought of you and wondered if “angel” was the wrong nickname for you, after all. 

With all of these thoughts crashing up against one another in his mind, Cyrille knew that he could never allow himself to hurt you, but he had to have you, to the extent that you’d let him, and he’d do everything in his power to widen that “extent” to infinity. He wanted every bit of you, and he wanted you to want him right back, to plead for him to touch you, to beg him to fuck you, to whine when he didn’t pound you hard enough, to thank him when he came in you, and to feel all of the feelings he had for you when he held you before, throughout, and after sex... 

But there was no language to show you this intense mix of feelings he had for you. And even if there was, your constantly doubting eyes made him realize that you wouldn’t believe him. You’d just think it was a trap.

So, what could Cyrille do, when the only way you allowed him to touch you, to come nearer to you physically and psychologically, to let him make you come all undone in his arms - was to sex you rough and hard until you broke?

There was only sex, Cyrille realized, as he watched you suck prettily on his cock. Sex seemed to be the only acceptable answer for any relationship between a villain and his princess. 

If only you knew what that mouth of yours does to me, just by being open and waiting to take me in... Cyrille thought. Who cares how good you are at taking cock in your mouth? Just the fact that you’re willing... The rest I can teach you, and I will. 

Overcome by his desire for you, Cyrille was experiencing a heady rush as he felt your mouth working desperately on his cock, but to no avail. He’d teach you exactly how to take him. After all, he thought, you’d always been a fast learner. 

Blood pounding in his ears, Cyrille abruptly and roughly dragged you by your upper arms over to the bookcase, your legs dragging over the rough carpet, and then he pushed you up against the bookshelf, all the while keeping his swollen cock in your mouth. 

A strange, soft, and high-pitched whimper escaped you as you felt your back hit the bookshelf. 

“You need to relax,” Cyrille told you, though his words were now coming out in a ragged whisper. “Unless you’d rather I pound the back of your throat... But that’ll hurt tomorrow.” 

You let out a choked gasp when you felt the tip of his cock ram into the back of your throat. Your hands flew out and scrabbled at his thighs for a moment.

“Come on, angel,” Cyrille whispered down to you, “you can do it. Right where I’m pressing you up against you - that’s where you should relax.” 

Knowing just how to get you to open your throat bit by bit, Cyrille reached down and tangling fistfuls of your hair in his fingers, he held your head down, forcing you to take the entire length of his cock in your mouth. 

A breathless and strangled whimper left you as you choked on his cock. So much... Uh... How can I - ? Uh, I can’t think straight...

“Sh...” Cyrille murmured to you, “just relax. Then you can take me, angel. I know you can.” 

Your thighs began to tremble as Cyrille held your head down. He backed off a little, to let you breathe, but you had finally learned to breathe through your nose. The wave of relief knowing that you weren’t choking anymore cause a cascade of sensations to go off in your body, to the point where your hips and thighs were quivering and moving side to side as Cyrille continued to cram his cock into your mouth. 

“Uh, yes, angel, you’re so close,” Cyrille breathed out. “You’re breathing properly now. And you’re almost there... Just about to let my cock push into your pretty little throat, aren’t you? Yes, angel.”

“Mm-mm!” You replied, proud of yourself for learning but still more than a bit trepid as to what Cyrille was planning to do to your throat. You squirmed a little bit, shifting around, though not enough to actually go anywhere - Cyrille made sure of that by keeping his hands firmly on your head, fingers quite possessively tangled in your hair, and anchoring you against the bookshelf behind you.

If someone were standing behind the two of you, they would see Cyrille’s hips pushing forward as he thrust his cock into you in a demanding but measured pace and his arms reaching forward to gently push your head against his cock to deep-throat him. Meanwhile, your chest rose and fell quickly in your attempt to breathe and not pass out, and your pretty hips and thighs squirmed under your skirt, needing to move somehow to counteract this intense tension building up in your throat and - though you were hardly aware of it - in your lower tummy. 

“There you go. Good girl. I feel that little throat opening up. Mmm... I think you can take me now. But angel, if it hurts at all, push against me with your hands hard,” Cyrille told you. “Don’t worry about hurting me. Just shove me away. I can’t do this unless I know you can do that for me. All right?”

He waited for you to give him one, dazed nod. 

Then, before you could comprehend what was happening, he was fucking your face quite roughly, and his cock pushing up against your throat forced you to start to open your throat up to him.

"That’s it,” Cyrille panted. “Good girl. Yes, just like that. Good girl. Mmm...” 

Your muffled, high-pitched whimpers filled the air. It was a good thing the two of you were in the abandoned Restricted Section, or else you’d have alerted the entire library by now with your desperate little whines escaping around Cyrille’s cock stuffed in your mouth. 

But no moans, you told yourself strictly, even as all kinds of little whimpers were coming out of your mouth, being squeezed out of your mouth by his hard cock pushing in and out of your mouth and against your lips. 

“Such a perfect little mouth,” Cyrille groaned, becoming rougher and rougher. “I could stay in this mouth, take you just like this all day. And even rougher, if you’d let me. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, princess?” 

Cyrille glanced down at you, waiting for a cheeky reply, but all that came out was a garbled, sloppy, almost pitiful whine. 

“Oh, right, you can’t talk,” Cyrille said. He smirked, and continued, “No matter. I already know that you would love it - me taking your little mouth like this for hours. You would love it. I know it, angel.” 

"See? There’s that little throat of yours all open for me now - just waiting - and uhn,” he exhaled, as he finally pushed his long, hard, waiting cock into your tight little throat. 

Cyrille jerked his hips back and forth, making good use of your mouth - and now, your throat, too. His cock pressing against your throat over and over again had taught you to relax your throat enough to take him. It was an entirely new sensation for you to feel a man’s thick, hard cock sliding in and out of your throat.

Your eyes widened in shock as his cock penetrated deep into your throat - much deeper than you’d ever taken anyone - and then shut tightly as you focused on breathing through your nose and letting him use your poor little throat however he wanted. 

Knowing that you were ready for him now, Cyrille was starting to slam his hips forward. You felt your head glancing off the bookshelf behind you, and your back was definitely hitting up against the shelf as Cyrille face-fucked you, slamming his cock down your throat over and over again.

Cyrille groaned blissfully. Fuck, she’s taking me so well. I knew she could do it. In his mind, he panted, good girl, good girl, good fucking girl...

“Uhn, ah, angel,” he finally breathed out. His soft, high moaning voice took you completely off guard.

Oh, you thought to yourself, as his cock rammed down your throat hard enough to rock your whole body against the shelf behind you, even as Cyrille attempted to kept your head anchored firmly between his large hands, both to keep you in place and to shield you from hurting your head. I never imagined he’d make sounds like that... you said, unexpectedly feeling little butterflies in your stomach. He must be close...

And he was. But “close” meant that his need for release was now overwhelming, and it translated into sloppy, rough thrusts into your still-open mouth. Your jaw was starting to get sore, but you obediently held your mouth open for him to use as he fucked your face to his orgasm.

“Uhn,” he gasped out softly in a tight, breathy voice. “Angel - ah, you’re taking me s-so well... Uh...”

He sounds like such a completely different person, you thought to yourself. All soft and like. Almost like... a little puppy? You wanted to giggle, but you couldn’t because your mouth was rather busy taking in every thrust of his swollen cock. 

Still, that soft noise he made... It’s so cute... The butterflies took off in a windstorm, and suddenly, you felt warm inside. And you wanted that warmth to become something real, something physical - you wanted him to cum in your mouth. In that moment, you wanted it so bad.

So when Cyrille roughly pushed your head down on his cock as he rode out his rising climax, making you deep throat him as he pushed his throbbing cock inside of your mouth, you held your breath for as long as you could. Finally, he moaned long and loud and your eyes shut tightly as you felt a hot spurt of warm, salty liquid explode in the back of your throat. You took as much of it as you could - it drenched your throat before filling up your mouth. And then - as it began to spill out of your mouth, you finally pushed at him slightly, your palms hitting up gently against his thighs. He immediately released you, staggering back a bit. 

You fell back against the bookshelf, sliding down entirely into a limp heap on the floor. Your face blushed a bright shade of pink all over, your cheeks warm and thoroughly flushed, and your mouth and lips were wet, warm, and quite red. Because of how much he’d cum and how it’d filled your mouth right up, a bit of his cum had spread out onto your pretty lips, so that as you breathed in and out, some of your hair caught on the cum on your lips and fluttered in and out as you tried to catch your breath. Your chest rose and fell rapidly as you gasped for breath. The buttons on your school button-up were straining a little as you attempted to collect oxygen back into your system.

And actually, Cyrille wasn’t the only cumming. A slow, but steady stream of sweet, sticky cum was spilling out into your panties, too. Because the fact that his warm, salty cum was making its way down to your soft little tummy made you feel so happy and full, made your little pussy clench and throb hotly...

“Open... Open your mouth. Show me...” Cyrille demanded, his voice inconsistently switching between strict and soft as he was trying to find his persona again.

You slowly opened your mouth to show him that your mouth was absolutely filled with his hot, white, cum.

Groaning a little and falling forward, Cyrille put one hand out on the bookshelf to support himself and with the other, he reached over and grabbed you by the throat. Cyrille forced you back up on your feet, though you were so limp that you had to hold onto his arm with both hands as you tried to find your feet. When you did managed to get your feet upright, it was only to find that your thighs were already caving in again. 

Cyrille kissed you hard, even though your lips were tightly shut as you swallowed all of his cum. With his hand against your throat, he felt you swallowing. In a hoarse voice, he whispered, “Is that you swallowing my cum?”

You nodded tiredly. 

“Mmm....” Cyrille’s hand softly traced your throat down to your chest, as though imagining his cum being taken into your body.

It felt very warm as it passed down your throat, and left you feeling quite satisfied.

Cyrille caught the subtle joy in your expression. “Are you happy, angel? Are you happy that you took my cock like that and swallowed all of my cum?”

You nodded again.

He finally laughed a little, and it didn’t sound cold or distant in any way.

You smiled, thinking he was softening with you.

But just then, Cyrille suddenly reminded you, “Say ‘thank you’” like a good girl.”

What...? you found yourself thinking blurrily.

“I told you - you say ‘thank you’ when I cum in you,” Cyrille reminded you again. “It doesn’t matter if it’s in your mouth, your pussy, your ass, or even your hands. You take it, and you say ‘thank you.’ Go on.”

“T-thank you,” you choked out, barely able to get the words out. You'd only just swallowed the last of his cum, and now you needed to breathe through your mouth again. 

“You’re perfect,” Cyrille whispered, wanting very much to praise you. 

Before you could draw a long breath of air, he kissed you again, much softer this time. “Angel,” he murmured sweetly against your lips. “Angel, angel, angel...”

You wanted him to keep kissing you forever, but your breaths had returned to shallow gasps, and you felt like your chest was going to explode from want of air.

Cyrille knew it. He let you go. 

You fell backwards, and your back hit the bookshelf again. You sank to the ground, your head ringing with a high-pitched buzzing sound and with a repeated string of Cyrille’s voice moaning out, “angel, angel, angel...” 

*     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *     *

“Angel? Are you all right?”

You suddenly felt yourself being lifted up. 

Your eyes opened blearily, as Cyrille led you to and draped you over one of the step ladders that students used to reach books on high shelves. The ladder was placed in front of a bookshelf, so you could reach out and steady yourself against the books as needed. 

But before he allowed you to fall forward tiredly over the step ladder, Cyrille reached over and hugged you to him with one arm so that your back was against his chest and your head was against his shoulder. With his other hand, Cyrille gently wiped your mouth with his sleeve. Some of your mascara had smudged just below your eyes, too, and he used his thumb to gently wipe off the errant marks. Closer to ‘wrecked,’ though not quite, Cyrille thought. But that’s all right. It’s you, after all. 

He then placed a warm kiss on your mouth, enveloping your lips in his and allowing you to pant softly into his. He loved catching all of your little, warm breaths in his own mouth, because it made him feel connected to you. 

For a moment, he closed his eyes and just held you in his arms, much like the way he had last night on the Astronomy Tower. You fit right inside his arms. You always had. He hoped more than anything, that you could feel it, too. 

“Now, angel, let me return the favor. Tell me what you want, and it can be anything,” Cyrille told you softly. “If you want to sleep, we can sleep. If you want me to pleasure you, I’ll do it until you tell me to stop. Just tell me.” 

He reached over and drawing your hand up, he kissed all of your fingertips gently before sliding his mouth down to your wrist, where the ribbon was. He smiled a little when he saw it and gave it a brief kiss, too, before finally pulling away. 

“Tell me,” he repeated. 

“Touch... me...” you mumbled, as you fell forward on the step ladder. Because you couldn’t help except remember that the last time he’d taken you back to sleep, he hadn’t wanted to be seen with you. He’d passed you off to Remus to take care of you. And you didn’t want that. 

You weren’t sure what you wanted more at the moment - whether you wanted to stay with Cyrille, or if you wanted Cyrille to want to stay with you. Both, you supposed, would be nice... 

Still, here he was with you now, and you wanted to keep it that way - at least for now. 

Am I going mad? you thought to yourself. How has this all spiraled so quickly? Only a few days ago, he was a complete stranger to me. Why, then, do I feel so familiar with him? As if... As if he was my home before I knew I had a home...

“Are you sure that’s what you want, angel?” he asked you softly, running his hand gently up and down your back. 

“Yes,” you breathed out. You’d fallen forward onto your stomach, but now you shifted up a little so that your ass was higher in the air, revealing your panties and your thighs to Cyrille. 

Cyrille put his hand on your thigh and slowly slid his hand up and towards the inside of your thigh. He kept his gaze on your face, though, to see whether this was what you wanted or whether you wanted to stop.

You nodded back at him and murmured, “I want to feel your fingers on me...” 

Cyrille nodded. “Your wish is my command.”

He lifted your skirt a little more, but when he saw your panties, he paused.

“Did you... already cum?” he asked you.

Oh God. I did. I came twice already. You shifted uncomfortably, hurriedly moving your hips down to hide how wet you were. I’d forgotten, but... I’m soaked through. Oh, no, this is so embarrassing...

But Cyrille quickly caught you by your hips and firmly pushed your ass back up in the air, so that he could make out the soft little fabric between your pretty thighs - and sure enough - “You’re wet,” Cyrille breathed out, and a victorious smirk passed over his face. “And when did this happen? I haven’t even touched you yet...”

You squirmed in his grasp, but it was too late. He’d seen it all.

“Did you cum when I was fucking your mouth?”

You paused. Actually, you’d cum twice - once when he was just talking to you, describing the things he wanted to do to you, and then, yes, for a second time, when he’d fucked your mouth to orgasm and came in you and made you swallow... You’d cum when you’d swallowed his cum. 

Your silence earned you another slap on the ass.

“Ow,” you hissed out at him.

“Answer me,” Cyrille demanded.

You sighed. “May...be...” you finally relented, breaking the word up into two shy and unwilling words.

Cyrille grinned at you. “Oh, you are an angel, aren’t you? Cumming without even being touched... Already so wet I bet I could fuck you right now and you could take it. It’d be tight, but you’re certainly wet enough. Mmm, this is a dream come true... You’re a dream come true.” 

He lifted his hand and for just a moment, you felt his fingertips graze your already soaked panties.

You shivered.

“So delicate, but as I said, you’d be surprised to learn just how much your body can take,” Cyrille said, watching a quiver run up your body.  “And right now, you still want to be touched, don’t you, angel? You want me to make you cum again...”

Eyes closed and breathing shallowly, you softly nodded at his words.

“You want my fingers in you, princess?” he asked you, his voice deceivingly gentle.

“Y-Yes,” you confessed, and clutched at the bookshelf in front of you. He makes me so nervous... Why? I’m usually not nervous around other people, even during sex. So what is this strange thrill inside of my tummy? I don’t... I don’t like it... It feels... too close to that feeling you get right before you cum... 

My nerves are already so stretched. If he stretches out my pussy, I might cum again. I don’t want to, not for him, not like this... But I don’t think I could help it. I just - I’ve got butterflies in my stomach. This is ridiculous... I’m a grown-ass woman. I’ve had plenty of sex. And yet, with him, I’m just so - 

At that second, Cyrille pressed a single finger against you, and he watched as your thighs immediately quivered and you leaned forward, almost as though away from him. But then you came right back, pushing your hips back out in the hopes that his fingers would be there again to touch you. 

But they weren’t. He’d pulled his hand away already. 

“You’re so sensitive,” Cyrille murmured, surprised but loving the way you were reacting to him. He’d pulled away his hand so that he could be much more deliberate as to exactly how he wanted to tease you. He’d fuck you with his fingers, sure - whenever you wanted, he’d love to - but if you were going to be so deliciously sensitive to him, he was also going to make sure to fuck up your mind... So that when you came, you would lose yourself entirely to him. Right now, some part of him wanted to stop everything and just run his fingertips down your bare back just to see how you would react.

But you were clearly not wanting him to test you this way. Because you were shouting at him, annoyed to all hell. Cyrille hid his smile as he watched you passionately whisper-yell at him. 

“I am not!” you protested indignantly, taking his words as a stab to indicate your supposed weakness. In a frustrated voice, you pushed back, “It’s only with you.”

Then, you paused. Wait, did I just admit...? 

“Oh, angel,” Cyrille exhaled suddenly, and his voice was far softer than you imagined it would be. Instead of taking advantage of your confession, he seemed to invite it in, to love it, because it freed his own restraints, made him able to love you right back. 

“I’ll reward you well for your confession,” he breathed out lovingly. “Only good girls confess. Isn’t that right, angel?” As he spoke, promising you heaven (or maybe it was sin - you couldn’t quite tell at this point), you felt his fingertips touch against your hips on either side, and then curl inwards to grasp your panties.

“Don’t yank at them,” you told him this time, referring to your panties, and the way he’d aggressively tried to pull them to the side to fuck you last time.

“All right, all right,” Cyrille conceded. “Merlin, you really such a princess, aren’t you?” he said, sighing a little. But, true to your command, he reached up and gently slid your panties off of you, and felt his cock throb when the thin cotton caught for a moment on the soft roundness of your ass. But he slowly pulled them down to your thighs. Then, he placed his large, warm hands on the insides of your thighs and spread you open as much as he could until your panties were stretched tight against your thighs.

He gazed for a moment at your pretty pussy, your puffy lips already all wet and glistening. 

“Angel,” he said quietly, and his voice was already all tight, “look at you.”

You hesitated, starting to feel a bit self-conscious. “Um, why?” you asked. Leaning your head against the books, you slowly reached behind yourself to touch yourself. Is there something wrong? Am I already creaming? Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if I were... 

Cyrille stopped you from touching yourself, grabbing your wrist. 

“No you don’t. Only I get to do that,” he whispered silkily. Then, grasping your other wrist as well, he used the ribbon you still had on to tie your hands together behind your back, restraining you so that your hands were stuck together and could only move level to your ass. You couldn’t raise them up or anything.

“Lestrange!” you whisper-shouted. “What the fuck -?” 

“Still calling me Lestrange?” Cyrille laughed softly. “Even though I have you all tied up like this? Even though I claimed your throat and came in that lovely little mouth of yours not five minutes ago?”

Without waiting for your reply, Cyrille’s voice suddenly switched to a cold demand. “Spread yourself open for me.”

“Like this.” Cyrille guided your hands so that your hands were on your ass and you were spreading open your ass for him, giving him a clear view of yourself, especially your waiting pussy.

Seeing you like that, panties stretched tight between your thighs, skirt pushed up practically to your midriff, curls running down your back, head pushed up against the books, hands back, wrists adorably tied together in a silk ribbon, and legs and ass spread to show those puffy pink lips of yours to him, it was all Cyrille could do not to pin you against the floor and fuck you silly until you cried with pleasure and relief. 

He tried to maintain his composure for you, even as he felt himself growing hard in his pants again. But he could feel himself slipping, and it came through his words, that were starting to slur together with want... 

“I can already tell, without even having been inside you yet, that your pussy just grips at cock, doesn’t it?” Cyrille murmured. “Mmm, yes, I bet it does. Just look at you - all tight and wet, and you’re bound to be so soft and pretty inside too, aren’t you, angel?”

You didn’t even notice him starting to lose his composure, though, because you were so far past him. It was taking everything you had not to moan. You were literally holding your breath and praying as you pressed your face against the books that you weren’t going to give away how badly you wanted Cyrille Lestrange by cumming for him before he’d even touched you. 

Because his voice, and - oh - the things that he said as he touched you - God, it made you so wet. You’d never, ever met anyone like him. Nobody else could make you cum with just their voice. 

And you were determined that he would never find out about the power he had over you. Never.

So, you softly clenched your teeth and held your breath until you felt light-headed. You prayed in your mind for him to touch you, to give you an excuse to react or make a noise - though no moans, you repeated to yourself quite sternly. There’s no way I’m losing to Cyrille Lestrange, no matter how many times he makes me cum - which, oh God, it might be a lot of times, judging from the fact that I’ve already cum twice and could cum a third time without even having taken any of his fingers, let alone his cock - his long, hard cock... Mmm... 

You bit down on your lower lip, trying desperately to still your imagination as your pussy throbbed hotly. 

Fuck, I want to moan. I need to moan! God, please...

“Touch me,” you breathed out, unable to take the anticipation any longer. You pushed your hips back and spread yourself out even more for him, your hands digging into your soft, round ass. “Please...” 

No, why am I already begging? I hate this, I hate this, I hate this...

But Cyrille didn’t move just yet. Because he was starting to notice.

His eyes narrowing ever so slightly, he said, “You’re dripping.” He enunciated the second word “drip-ping” to indicate that he was beginning to realize that you were already very, very close to cumming...

You shut your eyes tightly. Meanwhile, Cyrille’s gaze traveled up from the gorgeous sight directly in front of him (you, holding yourself open for him and your pussy becoming deliciously wetter and wetter without Cyrille having done anything) up to your face. Cyrille noticed that under your shirt, you seemed to be breathing rather hard already, stomach straining under your loose blouse, breasts rising up and down where the blouse was a little tighter, your Gryffindor pin barely hanging on as your breast pushed on it from the inside, nearly popping it open, and then your face- you’d let your curls fall in front of your face. 

And why would that be? Cyrille wondered. He slowly began to figure it all out - how your panties had already been soaked through right when you’d first draped yourself over the step ladder and lifted your skirt for him to why now, you seemed to be begging ever so reluctantly for him to touch you. 

You weren’t one to beg easily. Cyrille knew that. So, why, now, when he had you in such a vulnerable position, presenting yourself to him in the fucking Restricted Section of the library, in all places, with your hands tied behind your back, and pussy just waiting for him, did you suddenly beg for him? 

Then, the inevitable realization came - “Angel, tell me the truth. Does my voice make you cum?” 

The bastard was absolutely thrilled with himself.  You could just hear the smirk in his voice. Grr, you growled in your head. 

“Answer me, princess,” Cyrille said, his voice suddenly quite happy. “Does simply hearing me make you all wet and dripping for me? Hm?”

You gritted your teeth together and tried to duck your face under your hair even more, but Cyrille wouldn’t allow that. 

He leaned over you now, and gently tucked your hair back from your face. “Tell me,” he whispered, and you felt his sweet, warm breath across your face. 

“Oh, angel, you’re so flushed,” Cyrille realized, seeing your blushing face. “So, it must be true.”

He laughed lightly, right in your ear. “No wonder you kept trying to find loopholes - trying to put restrictions on me, trying to make whimpers allowed. I see it now. It’s because you are just so unable to control yourself, isn’t it, princess?” 

You couldn’t hold it in anymore. You fervently substituted the need to moan and cum and cry aloud with words, blurting out to Cyrille, “I hate you. I hate you.”

“Aw,” Cyrille said, his voice mocking, with only a thin veneer of clearly false sympathy, “has my poor little princess been found out? Is she suddenly feeling all shy and defensive?” 

“Y-You’re an ass,” you told him, stuttering slightly. 

Cyrille snickered. “You can call me anything you want, princess. Now that I know why...” 

No, no, no, you moaned. He can’t know. How did he find out so quickly? Am I really that wet already? God... 

“Well, it’s all right,” Cyrille reassured you, still smirking. “I’ll save you your pride, princess. Besides, as much as I’d love to taunt and torment you all day, we can’t be in the Restricted Section of the library all day, you know.”

“Some of us,” he said airily, clearly referring to himself, “have things to do.”

You bristled at the implication - that you would just be waiting for him to touch you, to relieve you.

“I- I need to study, too,” you panted out, not realizing how childish you sounded.

“I’m sure you do,” he said, still in that annoyingly self-effacing voice. “I bet I fucked everything you know right out of your head when I had you against the bookshelf, didn’t I? I saw you... You forgot how to speak. I asked you a question, and you just sat there, nodding, with my cock stuffed in your mouth. Oh, princess, you were so pretty...”

“And now,” Cyrille whispered into your ear, “as promised, I’ll return the favor. Just sit tight, angel, and let me take it from here.” 

Slowly, he reached down, letting his fingers play some nightmarish, yet sweet tune down your body until they fell over the curve of your ass, glancing off of your own fingers as you held yourself open for him. 

Then, he slowly ran his fingers over your clit.

You stiffened and lifting your head from the books you’d pressed yourself against, with your shoulders straining from the position you were in, leaning over with your arms pinned back, you bowed your head forward. Cyrille watched as your entire body trembled from the merest touch. He wanted to smirk at you again, but he couldn’t find it within himself to think of anything else beyond the marvel of you shuddering so beautifully under his touch. 

If she trembles so well for me, could I perhaps... make her mine someday? Cyrille wondered hesitantly, afraid even to hope. 

Cyrille sighed. No, remember who you are, and who she is. You chose your path, and she chose hers. She doesn’t even remember you anymore.

He pressed his fingers against you then.

When you felt his cold metal rings brush up against you, you found yourself gripping your own ass a little harder, leaving tiny crescents on yourself. 

“Getting all tense already?” Cyrille whispered.

“Please... I want your - your -” you stuttered out. But you bit down hard on your lower lip as a moan nearly escaped along with your trembling words.

Cyrille knew. “Yes,” he affirmed. “Remember, if you moan - even one little, barely there moan - you’re mine.” 

“As for what you want, I’ll give it you, angel. And when I give it to you, you’re going to cum for me. You won’t be able to stop until I say so. I imagine it’ll be new for you, princess, not being able to always have your way, but I promise you, you’ll enjoy it - even if you do have to beg for it.” 

With that, he plunged his long, punishing fingers into your wet, warm pussy.

For a moment, all you could perceive was a long string of exclamation marks ringing out in your mind. Your pussy flared up immediately, and clenched. He’s inside me. His fingers... They’re inside me... Oh Merlin, fuck, they feel so good. Why do they feel so good? And so long... Longer than James’, even. Oh, please don’t let me moan. Please don’t let me moan. I don’t - I don’t want to be ‘his’ before he becomes ‘mine’. I don’t - don’t want to lose to him. Pleas let me be quiet. Pleas- Uhnnn.... Your mind blanked out as you received pure pleasure from Cyrille working his fingers steadily into the warmth between your thighs.

“Mmm,” Cyrille sighed. “Oh, angel, you are so wet. I almost feel pity for you. How were you holding this in the whole time?”

“Well,” he said, almost flippantly, as he corrected himself, “I guess the whole point is that you didn’t.”

He shook his head a little and tutted at you, even as his fingers started to slowly and very deliberately pump in and out of you. 

“Cumming to my mere voice? God, it’s almost... pitiful.” 

“S-Shut up,” you told him, frustrated beyond belief. 

But Cyrille merely smirked. “You sounded so bold, demanding this and that from me. But as I said, I understand why now. You needed me to call your pathetic little bluffs to show this side of you. I’m glad I played into it. As I see it, this is not only an easy win, but a most pleasurable- ” he thrust his fingers deep, eliciting a delicious shudder from you - “win.” 

“Don’t call m-me pathetic,” you growled at him.

“Oh, angel knows how to growl, does she? So adorable,” Cyrille said, now clearly laughing. “But can she moan?”

He drew his fingers out to the very tip and then pushed them back in. You kept your lips together tightly, determined not to moan for this irritating son of a bitch. 

But the desire to fight back against him was difficult to sustain. You were having to resist and overcome quite a lot of thoughts and sensations currently running inside your head. In fact, it all looked a little something like this: 

Ah! Oh my God, ah... Hah... ah... Mmm, his fingers - They’re spreading me open so well. I didn’t - I didn’t even realize how tight I was until now. I must have been clenching my pussy all this time. I already feel... almost sore. And he’s pushing it all apart, forcing my walls open so that I have to take his fingers... Ah... Ah, fuck. Your internal monologue of moans and barely incoherent thoughts played out on your lovely face, eyes shut tight and lips trembling silently.

“You can moan, angel,” Cyrille whispered to you. “Let me hear your sweet little voice... Moan for me.” He could see you bucking slightly, with your tight little tummy and curvy hips shuddering against the rather unforgiving wooden surface of the crude step ladder you were lying on. He was well aware that everything about this situation - the demand to be as quiet as possible, the discomfort of being pressed up against hard wood (whether that was a bookshelf or a step ladder), and then of being under his touch and his control - was intensifying the experience for you, even if the influence was a touch subversive. 

But Cyrille trusted you. You were a bold one, and he loved that. It was the only way he could start to reveal himself to you, little by little - his need for you, and his conflicting desires to both overpower you and submit to you, all at once. 

But even now, you feverishly shook your head, rejecting his words. “N-No, not g-gonna moan. Not f-for you.”

“And why’s that, angel? Why not for me?” 

“I told you - I...” For a moment, you had to bit down on your lower lip yet again as you felt his fingers, now slick with your cum, pull out of you a little ways only to come thrusting back, sinking deep into your soft, hot, and dripping pussy.

“I hate you,” you managed to whisper, in a tightly controlled and tiny little voice.

Cyrille only smiled, knowing it was just a matter of time before you fell into his trap.

Even now, your hands slipped off of your ass (though they were still tied together by the ribbon) because your grip became too tight and your hands had involuntarily curled up into little fists.

In doing so, you had dragged unintentionally dragged your nails across your ass, and Cyrille looked down at you with a savage pride - he had made you leave your own marks on yourself. 

Fuck, if she isn’t an angel, I don’t know who is, Cyrille thought, his eyes glimmering with a possessive darkness as he watched you leave long, pink lines on your lovely, supple skin. 

You arched your back and threw your head back, abs straining with the effort it took to do so - as you couldn’t reach out and hold onto anything, you were literally just lifting the upper half of your body up in the air.

Cyrille watched your beautiful breasts straining, almost thrusting against your poor blouse. That Gryffindor pin’s taking a lot of abuse today, Cyrille thought mockingly, quite pleased with himself. I hope it falls right off. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to see it fall off right when she cums? Mmm, let’s try it. 

He began to thrust his fingers into you faster and harder, until his three fingers were stretching you out quite well and his knuckles were hitting up against your pussyhole. The rings that he wore contributed quite a bit to the sensation - the cold metal either forcing your pussyhole to open unexpectedly and unevenly and then sinking into you a little ways, or hitting up against you cold and brutal along with his knuckles. Sometimes, right when you thought they would only hit up against you and stay there, they just managed to stretch you open the tiniest bit further, but before you could comprehend it as more than just a pleasurable addition, they were gone again... You thought of your sticky, sweet cum soaking all of his family rings, and you wanted it... To defile that disgusting Lestrange emblem with your cum... Yes, you wanted to cover his hand in your cum - and fuck, you knew you could do it, too. Because - uhn, he was fingering you so good and you were- 

Your lips fell open wide in soundless gasps. You were close, you were close - Oh, you were so close - !

Abruptly, Cyrille pulled his fingers out of you. 

Wha-What? You found yourself totally confused and dazed. What happened? I was so close to cumming. Why did he stop?

You squirmed a little as you shifted yourself to be able to look at him. You frowned at him, your lower lip threatening to slip into a pout. 

There he was, Cyrille Lestrange, the old bastard, pausing to lick your cum off of his fingers. Fuck, she tastes... tantalizing, he thought to himself, groaning inside his head. I thought I’d be more satisfied, but I’m just hungrier. I want to bury my face between her legs...

“You’ll have to sit on my face some time, angel,” he commented lightly, as though he hadn’t just deprived you of your much-needed, heavily-chased-after orgasm. “You taste heavenly.” 

“Lestrange,” you growled at him. You managed to move your hips so that it knocked against his elbow, forcing him to stop sucking off the taste of you from his fingers.

That got his attention. “What?” he asked you, his voice severe. 

You fucking ass, as if you don’t bloody well know “what,” you thought angrily to himself. As it was, you hissed at him, “You must be fucking joking!” 

“Keep you voice down, angel, unless you want Madam Pince running over here and catching us like this...”

“Why did you stop?” you demanded furiously. 

“Oh, that.” Cyrille finally drew his fingers away from his mouth. He reached down and ran a single fingertip up and down your clit, driving you mad with want. You had been so close, and it had left you so intensely sensitive... As if you hadn’t been sensitive before, this was now a thousand times worth. You would do just about anything - anything - including dragging your hips up and down the hard wooden edge you were lying on, to get release. 

“Right. Well,” Cyrille drawled, lazily running his finger up and down your needy little cunt, “have you ever heard of ‘edging’?” 

You paused. “What’s that?” you asked him, lifting your head to try to read his face. Is he just playing around right now or is he serious?

“Pleasure drawn out by deprivation,” he replied succinctly. He tauntingly ran his finger around your pussyhole and even pressed his fingertip against you for just a moment, threatening to push his finger back into you. But he didn’t. 

You slowly drew in a long, low breath, and let it out.

“So, I just wanted to try something,” Cyrille went on, purposefully ignoring your sopping cunt except to tease it with the lightest touches of his fingertips. “Test my theory, as it were- ”

“I have theories for you,” you interrupted, cutting across his bullshit. “Many of them. All on how to painfully murder you.”

“Goodness,” Cyrille chuckled. “You didn’t learn all your lessons in church properly, did you, angel?”

“Lestrange!” you hissed at him, fed-up.

Having had more than enough, you started to try to get up, but Cyrille was quick to put his other hand down on your back and push you right back down onto the ladder.

“We’ll have to work on your patience, angel,” he said sharply, the teasing lilt from his voice completely gone. “Haven’t I already told you that you’ll get all the pleasure you want? But if you can’t wait for it, if you’re going to be a fucking brat about it, then I’ll give it to you all at once.”

With that, he leaned down, spread you apart himself, with impatient and forceful hands, and put his mouth directly on your pussy.

Your feet shot up immediately. Knees folding, your heels dug into his back. 

He ignored you entirely and holding your ass apart hard enough to pin you down against that damn step ladder that was now digging into your tummy and hips, he ate you out furiously - tongue delving in and out of your folds, teeth clenching and tugging at your clit, lips kissing your pussy wetly, then pressing down against your pussyhole hard enough to make you dizzy... Finally, his tongue thrust inside of you.

When it did, it took everything you had not to moan. Your hands were opening and closing tightly. God, I need to hold onto something - to grip something... 

“Mmm,” Cyrille growled heavily, and the vibration of his lips against you sent your mind spiraling off altogether. He moved his tongue expertly, tongue-fucking you hard and fast, mixing your cum with his saliva to make you wet, wet, wet... 

Your mental restraints were starting to break loose. Without even realizing it, and though you were restrained by that fucking ribbon Cyrille had tied your hands back with, you were doing your best to move your hips against Cyrille, rubbing yourself on his mouth, so that his tongue was taking your clit and letting you rub yourself all over him. He reached out and wrapped his hands around your thighs, pulling you harder against his face, encouraging you to rub yourself hard on his tongue until you were openly rolling your hips against him, running circles on his tongue, loving how hot and wet it felt against your desperate little sex...

Oh, God, please, let me cum, let me cum, let me cum, you thought hazily, your head lolling slightly back on your neck as you’d arched your back quite nicely in your attempt to push your pussy harder against Cyrille’s wonderful mouth.

So much better when he’s eating me out and now trying to spin my mind, you told yourself, though, you already knew that that wasn’t entirely true. His voice did things to you, and as it turned out, his tongue was all that you had ever wanted, ever needed to make yourself cum - including now. 

Your breathing hitched. I’m - I’m gonna cum, you recognized. And what was worse - I’m gonna moan! Your body was quivering all over with the effort it took to hold in your moans. No! I c-can’t! Uhn... But I- I need - I need to - Uhn! Please! 

Your wrists were straining desperately against the dark red ribbon. You still couldn’t hold onto anything - your heart was going to burst with frustration. Why, oh why, isn’t there anything to hold onto? Your fingernails dug deeply into your palms, drawing little red crescents of blood on your skin. 

But you mistook that pain for the utter, overwhelming need to hold something and to cum. 

“H-Hands!” you cried out, babbling. “Oh, please, please, please!” 

Cyrille quickly rose to his knees and bending his body over yours, he hurriedly clapped his hand over your mouth.

But you were too far gone to care. You whimpered loudly through his suffocating grasp on your mouth.

“Fine, fine,” Cyrille breathed out. “Sh... Sh... Whose hands, princess? Yours or mine?”

“B-Both!” you managed, not even knowing what in the world you were talking about.

But Cyrille did as you asked. He quickly untied your hands, and immediately after, he pushed his fingers hard back inside your pussy, which - once again, had been deprived of release. 

Internally, Cyrille was gloating. Edging works so well on her, doesn’t it? He thought, smirking as he watched you, hands messily flailing as your arms had gone numb from being restrained for too long. He smirked when he saw you mindlessly scrabbling at the books for a second before your hands found the bookshelf.

All right, all right, he told himself, sighing a little. Let’s let her cum before angel loses her mind...

He went back to fingering you hard, working his fingers deep inside your hot, pulsing pussy. He felt your walls starting to tighten, squeezing hard even though it was just his slender fingers that you were taking. 

Cyrille couldn’t help but imagine how it’d feel to have his swollen cock buried inside such a tight, warm, wet pussy. Eyes closed and groaning softly as he pictured himself taking your perfect pussy all for himself, he rutted his fingers into you harder, making sure to spread his fingers apart deep inside you, nearly forcing his knuckles inside you. 

Your hands shot out and you gripped the bookshelf in front of you so hard that your knuckles turned white. You shut your eyes tightly as your entire body trembled. 

“You’re close, aren’t you, angel?” Cyrille whispered, his own voice labored even though he wasn’t the one who was about to burst with needing to cum. He was amazed that you could still be quiet and hold back your moans, though he thought wryly that if whimpers were allowed, you’d have lost from the first second.

You were clever, he thought, and he knew he’d have to watch out for you. However, so long as he had you like this, Cyrille was damn well going to take his time - and make you writhe.

Your hips began to buckle, and your hands slipped off of the bookshelf and onto the books. 

Cyrille reached down with his other hand, so that he was pressing his left hand against your clit roughly, while, with his right hand, he was still finger-fucking you hard, pushing you towards your climax more and more until - 

A strained, high-pitched whimper rose from the back of your throat somewhere. Your pussy clenched tightly around his fingers, and your thighs closed together, wrapping around Cyrille’s wrists, inadvertently keeping his fingers deep inside of you. 

A moment later, you fell forward and your hands pushed the books through to the other side. They fell onto the floor with thumps, though luckily, the sound was muffled by the thick, dusty carpet of the Restricted Section. 

You didn’t care because finally, you were cumming and cumming and cumming - 

The feeling of release was so long-awaited that when it finally came, it was very, very intense, wracking your body with unbelievable pleasure, as though a tightly wound spring had finally let loose inside of you - and still, Cyrille was pushing his fingers in and out of you right through your orgasm, forcing another pool of cum to build deep inside your pussy.

‘S too much! you gasped in your head. Too much cum inside me, I’m gonna - I’m gonna - ! 

Cyrille had slipped his other hand up from your clit to slide it between your tummy and the step ladder. He pressed his large hand up into your lower tummy, right where you felt your cum pooling -

“No!” you cried out desperately, legs kicking. “Don’t!” 

But it was too late. 

With another loud gasp, your eyes flew wide open as you felt yourself squirt everywhere. Cum spattered everywhere, drenching your pussy, thighs, Cyrille’s hand and wrist, and even getting some on your little socks and shoes, as well as the wooden stepladder.

“Oh, angel, fuck,” Cyrille moaned softly, as your cum drenched his fingers, covering his rings with cum. 

Cyrille immediately fell to his knees behind you and leaning forward, he held your quaking legs in place as he lapped between your thighs thoroughly, making sure his tongue lapped every bit of your sweet cum into his mouth. You tasted like honey to him, with the slightest bitterness in the aftertaste that told him that this was your cum. 

He panted a little too as he licked you all up. He had worked hard for your cum, your pleasure - and watching you like this, falling forward with your sweet cum dripping all down your thighs... God forbid he didn’t get to taste you to his heart’s content. Your pleasure and his melded together for Cyrille. To see you like this - lost in sensation with him, responding to his touch, cumming on his fingers, it was all he wanted. And if ever there was a definition of a true dominant - this is what it was. He was the embodiment of it. 

After he licked you clean, he pushed his fingers back inside of you. It was so unexpected that you gasped out loud as you felt his fingers demand more from you.

“N-No,” you protested weakly, drawing your legs together. You covered your face with your hands. “I c-can’t. Please, no more.”

Cyrille paused, and then he immediately drew his hand away from you. “Angel.” While his voice was severe, the underlying emotion was so wonderfully soft and protective as he told you, “You only need to say ‘no’ once. And you never need to give a reason. I will never touch you unless you want it - unless you ask for it.” 

“Now,” he asked you, “will you let me hold you?”

Slowly, you pushed yourself up from your position, though a bit gingerly, as your ass felt a little raw, your thighs strained, and your pussy was still throbbing a bit. You revealed your face to him, and Cyrille took in, with a soft gaze, how flushed your face was, and how some of your front curls were pressed against your sweaty forehead... You were still panting a little, completing your dreamlike envisionage with sound.

How can she be this way? Cyrille wondered vaguely. Look this way, sound this way... Does she have any idea what she does to me? 

You managed to turn around and put your arms around Cyrille’s shoulders. His arms came up to hold you, and the two of you sank down onto the library floor, with you naturally sitting in Cyrille’s lap.

He gently pressed his fingers against your lips, just as you done to yourself this morning in the library as you sat there remembering sucking on Cyrille’s fingers. You could never have imagined this morning that this bizarre series of events would have unfolded today, and all in the span of one afternoon. 

What am I doing here, like this, with him? you thought, almost disappointed with yourself.

But then, Cyrille’s soft voice cut into your thoughts. “Here,” he said, his fingers, glistening with cum from deep inside your pussy, were pushing against your lips. “Taste yourself on my fingers.”

You hesitatingly opened your mouth, only a little - just enough for his fingers to slip in. You watched Cyrille curiously as you obediently sucked on your fingers, tasting yourself.

He watched you intensely, his eyes never leaving your pretty lips, once again wrapped around his fingers - but this time, his fingers were soaked with your cum.

Why does it feel so intimate? you wondered. Have we done this before? It’s not my mind that’s feeling shy, as much as it is my body... Why? Why am I trembling?

Finally, having sucked his fingers clean, you pulled away, more than a little embarrassed.

“Now share it with me,” Cyrille instructed you. “Kiss me.”

Your face, which was supposed to be less flushed after having cum so hard - literally, squirted everywhere - blushed even brighter at this simple request. 

Cyrille reached down and gently grasped your chin in his hand. “You don’t want to kiss me?”

Still avoiding his gaze, you shook your head a little. But your little hands grasped gently at his collar, tugging at him shyly to come closer to you.

Cyrille’s eyes softened. He knew what you meant. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to kiss him. It was just that you were feeling quite vulnerable and would prefer to have him kiss you.

That’s fine. More than fine. I can do that, Cyrille thought pleasantly. 

He pulled you to him, pressing your mouths together quickly enough to save you from thinking about it any longer and feeling any more embarrassed than you already were.

First kiss, a voice in the back of your head whispered to you. 

What? First... kiss? your consciousness replied back to that strange, vague voice whispering to you from the back of your mind...

“Mmm,” Cyrille sighed as he kissed you. “Tastes even better in your mouth, angel.” 

As he kissed you, and you returned his kiss, though a bit shyly, you slowly began to realize something else - something wonderful.

When Cyrille finally pulled back, you felt your lips curve up into a joyful smirk. 

Cyrille paused, licking his lips to finish tasting you completely. Seeing your victorious smile, his eyes suddenly became defensive. “What?” he said, a bit uncertain for the first time.

“You cursed,” you told him.

Cyrille blinked. “Yes... And?”

“You said ‘fuck,’“ you told him, calling him out proudly. The triumphant way in which you announced the word made you sound like a heathen.

Cyrille barely held back his smile. Instead, he managed to lift his eyebrow and say coldly to you, “So?”

“I told you,” you reminded him, and you sounded more pleased and arrogant than you ever had in your life. “If you curse, you’re mine. We bargained for it, remember? Those were my terms, and you accepted them.”

“So,” you stressed, wrapping your arms around him, “that means you lost. You’re mine.”

Cyrille watched in astonishment as a gorgeous smile spread across your face. Your cheeks became rounder, showing the apples of your cheeks, and your eyes crinkled into half-moon crescents... Your whole face lit up in such a lovely manner. It was as though you’d suddenly sprouted wings and a halo.

You embraced him tightly, and Cyrille was grateful for the way you buried your head against his chest, because it meant that he could smile the way he wanted to. It meant that he didn’t have to hide how happy you were making him, though he found it perfectly absurd that you could ever think that him becoming “yours” was a “loss” for him in any way. 

She’s played right into my arms, Cyrille thought happily. Although, he was impressed and more than a little ticked off about your ability to hold in a moan. He had rather hoped you could reciprocate the promise - that he could call you “his” right back.

But that would have to wait another day.

However, almost as though you’d read his thoughts, you suddenly popped back up into his vision.

He blinked. “Angel...?” he said, confused. 

“You’re... really hard,” you realized. As you’d hugged him tightly, you had felt something hard press up against your lower stomach. 

“Yes,” Cyrille said simply, shrugging a little.

“Well, aren’t you going to fuck me properly?” you asked him, matching his candor and flipping the tables on him. “I mean, with your cock... Not just your fingers. After all, I’m already all wet for you... Really wet for you...”

Cyrille swallowed hard. He did want to. Oh, Merlin knew he wanted to. But it had been a long time since the two of you had disappeared together, and you’d both made a fair amount of noise, what with the rough face-fucking, and you pushing books down while squirting all over... Somebody was bound to notice soon, if they hadn’t already, that the two of you were gone. 

Finally, Cyrille managed to say, “Let’s just call it a truce for today, hm? I’ll let you get away with your little victory. For now.”

Your eyebrows raised in surprise. “Really? You’re fine with that?” 

“You know what they say,” Cyrille replied calmly. “Lose the battle, win the war. I’d say I’m right on track.” He smirked at you.

You looked at him skeptically. “I didn’t moan,” you reminded him. 

Cyrille had a witty comeback, but when he saw how proud you were of yourself, he simply exhaled softly. God, she’s so happy that I became hers first, Cyrille recognized. She doesn’t even realize she’s walked right into my little trap. Because I know. I can read people - her most of all, because I’m so in tune with her, because I can’t stop thinking about her, and because, once... we were in love, though she will never remember that. 

And I know, that just as my weakness is my possessiveness, hers is vulnerability and control. No doubt her insecurities were exacerbated by that total dimwit, Potter, who had the fucking audacity to have eyes for another girl, but... Cyrille hesitated. I always see the game at least two moves ahead. I know she won’t ever be vulnerable if I hold out on her. I need her vulnerable. I want her vulnerable. To heal her. Although, I do have a tendency of corrupting everything I touch... 

Unable to help himself, he reached out and touched your cheek gently, almost as though he were stroking the wings of a dove. 

Could I be better for you? Cyrille wondered, lost deep in thought. I certainly want to be.

You paused when you felt his fingers softly grazing your cheek. “Lestrange?” 

Cyrille frowned a little. He pulled his hand away. “Now that I’m yours, stop calling me by last name.”

“Hm...” You pretended to consider for a moment before saying happily, “Okay!” 

Cyrille scoffed a little. “You’re drunk again.”

“What?” you said, confused.

“You’re drunk,” he repeated. “On power.” 

You blinked, surprised. 

Meanwhile, Cyrille reached down and picked up the red ribbon that had fallen to the floor, all curled up.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to you.

As you took it back, Cyrille frowned when he noticed the small crimson crescents scarring your palms.

“When did this happen?”

“Oh,” you said uncertainly, “I’m not even sure...”

“Well,” Cyrille told you, “maybe I should heal you.”

“After all...” He reached down and pulled your wrist up. The small bruise from his sucking on your skin last night was still there. He pressed his mouth carefully to it, making you shiver but not hurting you at all. 

“I don’t think you’re in danger of forgetting me anymore,” he murmured. 

You weren’t sure what he meant by that. 

“Do scars bother you?” you asked him quietly.

Cyrille sighed. “You could say that. I don’t like to leave marks... The pain should end when the pleasure does, don’t you think?” he mused. 

His head fell back against the wall and he looked up for a moment at the now-dampened sunlight pouring in weakly through the high windows. 

“It must be nearly dinnertime,” he spoke softly. “I spent a very long time here with you, angel.”

Something about the way he said that reminded you that this was not, by any means, a real relationship - just some strange, sudden, and unnamed rush of things - tension, mostly, with bursts of passionate release.

Your arms fell away from him, and you slowly fell back onto the floor, slipping off of his lap.

Cyrille looked down at you. He saw the darkness shadow over in your eyes. 

She feels abandoned, like this is all just a game, he realized. Leaning forward, he asked you gently, “May I have one more kiss - for good luck?” 

He didn’t even know what he was saying, because he knew that it wasn’t important. All that mattered to Cyrille was that he made sure that you felt loved, and wanted. 

You cocked your head at him, frowning. “Good luck?” you repeated, not getting it. “For wha-?”

But his lips were already pressed softly against yours.

“Mm- ” You hurriedly cut yourself off. Merlin, I nearly moaned just then. After all that...

You felt Cyrille smirk. He’d caught that. His hand drew up your shoulder and onto your throat. You felt his fingers tighten around your neck for a moment as he whispered to you, “I heard that, you little brat.”

Then, shooting you a devious smirk, Cyrille let you go and walked away.

*     *     *      *     *     *      *     *     *    *

It was strange for Cyrille to see you sitting in the Great Hall, over at the Gryffindor table, chatting away with your friends, eating food and happily drinking a milkshake, as though you hadn’t just swallowed a mouthful of his cum. 

That damn Gryffindor pin stayed on, Cyrille thought distastefully. But he only mused on that for a moment, because he had you to look at. 

He hadn’t meant to stare at you, but your eyes caught his. He immediately smirked, trying to hide his surprise.

To his relief and amusement, it worked better than he could have hoped for. 

Your friend had just asked you something, and you’d completely missed it.

“Oh,” you mumbled, dazed. “Um, yes.”

Your friend looked at you, concerned. “Honey,” she said, “put the milkshake down and have some real food. I think the sugar rush is getting to you.”

“No, no, I feel fine. I just need to... Uh... I’m hungry!” you blurted out suddenly and far too loudly.

Cyrille had to cover his face as he snorted loudly into his hand at your poor cover-up. 

Still, he thought, as he saw you desperately trying to explain yourself to your friends, you really had been quite good at holding back your moan. 

Which, of course, had not gone Cyrille’s way. He didn’t not want you to moan. Certainly not. He just wanted you to be his.

You were a stubborn little shit, he thought, but he was determined to make you moan and if - no, when - you did, you’d be his. All his. 

*     *     *      *     *     *      *     *     *    *

After a highly energetic dinner where you’d had to stop your friends from shoving “hearty food” down your throat, you made your way back up to your dormitory room with Emmeline.

“I’m going straight to sleep,” you groaned, exhausted. You flopped over onto your bed as soon as you entered the room.

Unfortunately, that meant that your skirt flopped up, too, revealing a bright red handprint, complete in detail with an outline of all the rings that Cyrille Lestrange wore, plastered on your ass. 

Emmeline saw it, and she shrieked in a piercing vibrato that made you fall off your bed. 

Your legs flailed in the air for a moment as you simultaneously yanked down your skirt and got back up on your feet. When you managed to pull yourself back up, Emmeline screeched at you, “That’s a handprint! Oh my God! Is Remus rough in b-?”

“No! Shhhh!” you shouted back, contradicting your own plea of silence with your loud reply, “What are you even saying, Em?”

“I’M SAYING REMUS SLAPPED YOUR ASS, DIDN’T HE?”

“NO! FOR MERLIN’S SAKE, BE QUIET!”

Next door, Mary MacDonald rolled her eyes and muttered, “It’s a little too late for that, you dullard.” 

[no-side-us]

Letters From Watson Liveblog - Sep. 1

The Missing Three-Quarter, Part 1 of 2

This story was published in 1904, so that would make this story take place around 1897 or '96, give or take a year because of how vague Watson is. Regardless, for people making timelines (who are braver than most), I imagine statements like this are either incredibly frustrating in pinning down an exact date, or a sweet reprieve because there's more freedom to pin it where you want.

I never considered it before, but maybe one of the reasons Watson moved back in with Holmes in Baker Street was to make sure he didn't fall back into his addiction. I like the idea that Watson is constantly helping Holmes through it in the background of all these adventures.

From what little I remember this is a missing persons case, so I'm not quite sure how that's more appropriate for Holmes than the police. Hopkins was probably just swamped with work and knew Holmes would be able to solve whatever was going on.

Cyril Overton is fun, a real gentle giant sort of character. I can also relate to Holmes' reaction and subsequent lack of sports knowledge. Although I feel he should be somewhat familiar if only in regards to the possibility of it pertaining to a case, but I guess that's what this story is for.

Ah, writing impressions. I remember doing those as a kid, taking my dad's notepad and finding some tax thing I was too young to care about. I'm surprised it took so long for it to appear in these stories.

Usually when a character says they are the only family someone has got, it's a sentimental line, and I'm not sure it works the other way. Funny, though. Anyways, I doubt Lord Mount-James is involved in Godfrey's disappearance, at least not directly. It just seems like too much effort for someone like him.

I'm not going to go through all the cases so far to see whether that's true. But Watson's not wrong, so far there's very little to go off. I hope it's related to rugby though, as I was disappointed at how Watson didn't talk about it at all in today's letter. I want to see him gush about it, reveal his favorite teams, players, use specific terminology, etc. Just utterly surprise Holmes with his sports knowledge. Hopefully in the next letter.

Part 1 - Part 2

[ilikefonts]

 Cocosignum - Geometric Sans & Script Fonts

♥ Download the BOLD weights for free! • Italico Bold • Maiuscoletto Bold

Cocosignum takes inspiration from the typography of the italian thirties. The imperial uppercase with its propaganda deco overtones is softened by a cursive lowercase geometric script in the Corsivo Italico version.

It comes in two styles and five weights, covering over forty languages using latin alphabet, as well as Greek and Cyrillic.

[holmesillustrations]

Vote for your favourite, the top 9 will proceed in the bracket. Since theyre all different shapes and sizes, make sure to click into the full views!

Paget Eliminations // Other Artist Eliminations

Full captions and details for each illustration below the cut:

All Sidney Paget illustrations are for the Strand Jul 1891 - Dec 1904

"A Drunken Looking Groom" Scandal in Bohemia Characters: Holmes

"He had stood behind that tree." Boscombe ValleyCharacters: James and Mr McCarthy, John Turner

"Which of you is Holmes?" Speckled Band Characters: Dr Roylott, Holmes, Watson

"I clapped a pistol to his head." Beryl Coronet Characters: Sir George Burnwell, Holmes

"Trust me, Jack!" she cried." Yellow Face Characters: Grant and Effie Munro

"There was no powder-blackening on the clothes." Reigate Squires Characters: William Kirwan, Holmes, Insp Forrester

"I've heard of your methods before now, Mr. Holmes." Naval Treaty Characters: Watson, Holmes, Insp Forbes

"Holding it only an inch or two from his eyes." Hound of the Baskervilles Characters: Holmes

"There he sat upon a stone." Hound of the Baskervilles Characters: Holmes, Watson

"Holmes smiled and clapped Lestrade upon the shoulder." Norwood Builder Characters: Lestrade, Holmes, Watson

"Shall I sign here?" he asked." Black Peter Characters: Patrick Cairns, Holmes, Hopkins, Watson

"Why, Mr. Holmes, I thought you knew things," said he."Missing Three-Quarter Characters: Holmes, Watson, Cyril Overton

[thedsp-blog1]

Dr. Death’s victim list

Acton, Lily Adams, Lizzie Adkinson, Sarah Adshead, Norman Adshead, Rose Ann Aitken, Irene Andrew, Dorothy Mary Andrew, Joseph Andrew, Mary Emma Arrandale, Albert Arrowsmith, Winifred Ashcroft, Netta Ashton, Dora Elizabeth Ashton, Ellen Ashworth, Ada Ashworth, Brenda Ashworth, Elizabeth Ashworth, James Ashworth, Sarah Aveyard, Clara Ethel Baddeley, Elizabeth Mary Baddeley, John Bagshaw, Bertha Barber, Squire Bardsley, Joseph Bardsley, Lily Bardsley, Nellie Barker, Elsie Barlow, Charles Henry Barnes, James Edward Battersby, Elizabeth Baxter, William Beech, Joseph Bell, Norman John Bennett, Ethel Bennett, Frances Bennett, Nellie Bennison, Charlotte Bent, Arthur Berry, Irene Bill, Edith Annie Birchall, Mary Ivy Bird, Violet May Black, Alice Boardman, Kathleen May Boardman, Mary Louisa Bogle, Geoffrey Bolland, Alice Bowers, Mary Elizabeth Bradshaw, Miriam Brady, Edith Bramwell, Harold Bramwell, Vera Brassington, Charles Geoffrey Brassington, Nancy Anne Bridge, Doris Bridge, Jane Brierley, Albert Brierley, Edith Broadbent, Lily Brock, Edith Brocklehurst, Charles Edward Brocklehurst, Vera Brooder, Irene Brookes, Lily Brookes, May Brown, Alice Brown, Mary Alice Brown, William Henry Buckland, Edward Buckley, Ethel Burke, Elizabeth Mary Butcher, Lydia Edith Cains, Ida Callaghan, Sean Stuart Calverley, Edith Campbell, Annie Carradice, Marion Carrington, Alice Carroll, Josephine May Cartwright, Hannah Chadwick, Wilfred Challinor, Ivy Elizabeth Challoner, Genevieve Chapman, Irene Chappell, Alice Chappell, Wilfred Charlton, John Charnock, George Cheetham, Albert Cheetham, Alfred Cheetham, Elsie Cheetham, Hena Cheetham, Norah Cheetham, Thomas Chidlow, Amy Clarke, Fanny Clayton, Elsie Clayton, Frances Clee, Beatrice Helen Clough, James Condon, Thomas Connaughton, Alice Hilda Connors, Michael Conway, Margaret Ann Coomber, Frederick Cooper, Ann Copeland, Erla Copeland, Sydney Hoskins Couldwell, Constance Anne Coulthard, Ann Coutts, Mary Couzens, Hilda Mary Cox, Eileen Theresa Crompton, Eileen Daphne Crompton, Frank Crompton, John Crossley, Lily Cullen, Lilian Cuthbert, Valerie Davies, Cissie Davies, Eric Davies, Fred Davies, Miriam Dawson, Fanny Dean, Elsie Lorna Dean, Joan Edwina Delaney, Bessie Denham, Christopher Dentith, Frederick Devenport, Ronnie Dixon, Alice Dobb, Edgar Dolan, Ethel Drinkwater, Alice Drummond, Joseph Dudley, Mary Rose Dutton, Elaine Earls, Doris Earnshaw, William Eddleston, Harold Eddleston, Monica Edge, Agnes Evans, Bethel Anne Everall, Hannah Everall, Joseph Vincent Farrell, Phyllis Fernley, Marie Antoinette Firman, Mary Elizabeth Fish, Hilda Fitton, Hilda Fletcher, Dorothy Fletcher, Elizabeth Floyd, Arthur Fogg, Leah Foulkes, Edwin Fowden, Thomas Fox, Moira Ashton France, John Freeman, Harold Freeman, Winifred Frith, Hannah Galpin, Minnie Doris Irene Garlick, Rose Garlick, Violet Garratt, Mary Alice Garside, Millicent Gaskell, Marion Gaunt, Mary Gee, Nellie Gess, Clifford Givens, William Goddard, Edith Godfrey, Elsie Golds, Annie Elizabeth Gorton, Alice Maude Graham, Edith Gray, Rebecca Greenhalgh, John Sheard Grimshaw, Annie Grimshaw, Muriel Grundy, Donald Anthony Grundy, Kathleen Grundy, Nora Hackney, Clara Hackney, Clara Hadfield, Violet Hague, William Hall, Josephine Halliday, Frank Hallsworth, Janet Hamblett, Leonora Hamer, Mary Emma Hammond, Caroline Veronica Hampson, Jesse Hancock, Christine Hannible, Elsie Harding, Joan Milray Harris, Charles Harris, Harriet Harrison, Christina Harrison, David Alan Harrison, Marion Harrison, Muriel Eveline Harrison, Samuel Harrop, Elsie Haslam, Mary Elizabeth Hawkins, Sarah Healey, Winifred Heapey, Clifford Barnes Heapey, Gladys Heathcote, Irene Heginbotham, Olive Hennefer, Ellen Hett, Mary Jane Heywood, Ada Heywood, Florence Hibbert, Hilda Mary Hickson, Robert Higginbottom, George Eric Higginbottom, Peter Higgins, Barry Higgins, Lily Higham, Marion Elizabeth Highley, Ruth Higson, Ellen Hill, Sarah Ann Hillier, Pamela Marguerite Hilton, Ada Matley Hilton, John Hirst, Emma Holgate, Ethel Doris Holland, Alline Devolle Holt, Alice Hopkins, Dorothy Doretta Howcroft, John Hulme, Hilda Hurd, May Iwanina, Jozef Jackman, Harold Edward Jackson, Maureen Lamonnier Jackson, Nancy Jameson, Ronald Jeffries, Beatrice Johnson, Norah Johnson, Richard Johnston, Leah Jones, Alice Mary Jones, David Jones, Hannah Jones, Ivy Jones, Jane Jones, Robert Edward Jordan, Mary Ellen Keating, Mary Kellett, Ethel May Kellett, Fred Kelly, Ellen Kelly, Moira Kennedy, Alice Killan, Charles Henry King, Elsie King, James Joseph Kingsley, Mary Kitchen, Alice Christine Lacey, Renee Leach, Florence Leech, Edith Leech, William Henry Lees, Olive Leigh, Carrie Leigh, Joseph Leigh, Wilfred Lewis, Elsie Lewis, Florence Lewis, Peter Lilley, Jean Lingard, Robert Henry Linn, Laura Frances Livesey, John Louden Llewellyn, Edna May Lomas, Harry Lomas, Ivy Long, Dorothy Longmate, Thomas Alfred Lord, Jane Ellen Lowe, Beatrice Lowe, Esther Lowe, May Lyons, Eva MacConnell, Charles Mackenzie, Selina Mackie, Christina McCulloch Mansfield, Mary Ann Mansfield, Walter Marley, Martha Marsland, Sarah Hannah Matley, Maud McDonald, Kathleen McLaren, William James McLoughlin, Gertrude Melia, Joan May Mellor, Elizabeth Ellen Mellor, Samuel Mellor, Winifred Meredith, Oscar Metcalfe, Margaret Middleton, Deborah Middleton, Mary Mills, Samuel Mitchell, Cyril Mitchell, Wilbert Molesdale, John Bennett Morgan, Emily Moss, Bertha Moss, Hannah Mottram, George Henry Mottram, Hannah Helena Mottram, Pamela Grace Moult, Thomas Mullen, Nellie Mycock, Miriam Rose Emily Needham, Nora Nicholls, Violet Nichols, Fanny Nichols, Lily Nuttall, Hervey Nuttall, Norah O'Sullivan, Thomas Ogden, Mary Oldham, Agnes Oldham, Samuel Oswald, Frances Elaine Otter, Enid Ousey, Margaret Ovcar-Robinson, Konrad Peter Overton, Renate Eldtraude Oxley, Phyllis Parker, Marjorie Parkes, Annie Parkin, Laura Victoria Parr, Bertha Pearce, Elizabeth Pedley, Rosetta Penney, Vara Pickering, Leah Pickup, Kenneth Pickup, Mavis Mary Pitman, Edith Platt, Elsie Platt, Marion Pomfret, Bianka Potts, Frances Potts, Reginald Powers, Annie Alexandra Preston, Ada Marjorie Prestwich, Alice Proud, Ethel May Quinn, Marie Ralphs, Anne Lilian Ralphs, Ernest Colin Rawling, Alice Reade, Audrey Redfern, Tom Renwick, Dorothea Hill Richards, Jose Kathleen Diana Richardson, Alice Riley, Stanley Roberts, Edith Roberts, Esther Hannah Roberts, Gladys Robinson, Eileen Robinson, Eveline Robinson, Lavinia Robinson, Mildred Rogers, Elizabeth Ann Rostron, Jane Frances Rowarth, Dorothy Rowbottom, Annie Rowland, Jane Isabella Royles, Elsie Royston, Betty Rudol, Ernest Russell, Tom Balfour Sankey, Margaret Saunders, Albert Edward Saunders, Gladys Scott, Edith Scott, Elsie Sellors, Kate Maud Sharples, Cicely Shaw, Joseph Shaw, Leonard Shaw, Lilian Shaw, Neville Shaw, Susan Eveline Shawcross, Edna Shawcross, Ernest Shawcross, Mabel Shelmerdine, Jack Leslie Shelmerdine, Jane Elizabeth Shore, Lily Sidebotham, Florence Sigley, Elizabeth Teresa Simpson, Kenneth Harry Slater, Albert Slater, Florence Slater, Lena Norah Slater, May Smith, Alice Smith, Dora Elizabeth Smith, Emma Smith, Kenneth Ernest Smith, Margaret Smith, Mary Alice Smith, Sidney Arthur Smith, Winifred Isabel Sparkes, Monica Rene Squirrell, Alice Stafford, Harry Stafford, Kate Elizabeth Stansfield, Joe Ainscow Stocks, Louisa Stone, John Stopford, Arthur Henderson Stopford, Harriet Strickland, Ruth Sumner, Grace Swann, Bessie Swann, Robert Swindells, Emmeline Taylor, Caroline Mary Taylor, Edna Mary Taylor, Florence Taylor, Lily Newby Taylor, Mary Tempest, Mary Ann Thomas, Alice Thomas, Sarah Ann Thornton, Maria Tideswell, Sarah Tierney, Angela Philomena Tingle, Walter Toft, Beatrice Tomlin, Mary Townsend, Margaret Tucker, Dorothy Tuff, Mary Tuffin, Winifred Amy Turner, Frances Elizabeth Turner, Irene Uttley, Stanley Vickers, Frederick Vickers, Margaret Mary Virgin, Lucy Vizor, George Edgar Vizor, May Wagstaff, George Lawton Wagstaff, Jessie Irene Wagstaff, Laura Kathleen Waldron, Margaret Anne Walker, Edward Walker, Ellen Walker, Henrietta Walker, Winifred Mary Waller, Harry Waller, Marjorie Hope Walls, Mary Walton, Sydney Warburton, Ada Ward, Maureen Alice Ward, Minnie Ward, Muriel Margaret Ward, Percy Wardle, Eric Wareing, William Hill Warren, May Wass, Kathleen May Watkins, Annie West, Maria Wharam, Ellen Frances Wharmby, Lavinia White, Mona Ashton Whitehead, Amy Whitham, Colin Whittaker, Maureen Whittaker, Violet Mary Whittingslow, Vera Whittle, Edith Wibberley, Edith Wilcockson, Joseph Frank Wilkinson, Annie Wilkinson, Maud Williams, Albert Redvers Williams, Emily Williamson, Sarah Jane Wills, Jack Wilmore, Margaret Wilson, Muriel Elsie Wimpeney, Mark Winston, George Winston, Olive Winterbottom, Mary Wood, Annie Wood, Charles Henry Wood, Fanny Wood, James Woodhead, Joyce Woodhead, Kenneth Wharmby

[materialofonebeing]

“Godfrey Staunton—you've heard of him, of course? [...] He's a fine place-kick, it's true, but, then, he has no judgment, and he can't sprint for nuts.” Client Cyril Overton in a torrent of words about the rugby star.

“Who?” [paraphrase] Holmes.

The Adventure of the Missing Three-Quarter

[thefeedpost]

SAPS Wars Part 2: It aint over till the fat Czech sings

Part 1 outlined a spat between Western Cape cops and how it overlays divisions in the provincial underworld. In Part 2, claims by Czech criminal Radovan Krejcir lift this murky mix onto a national stage – where high-level political overtones resonate with the Cape Town scene.

The Krejcir method

Radovan Krejcir made good use of his experience when he landed in Johannesburg as a fugitive from Czech justice in 2007. 

In his homeland he had profited from navigating the space between crooked politicians, gangsters, cops and spooks – and in South Africa he took up where he left off, only with a local cast.  He got to know bouncer boss and intelligence operative Cyril Beeka and controversial Western Cape businessman Mark Lifman, as well as an assortment of crime intelligence officers.

Before he ran out of road, Krejcir even fathered a child with former ANC and state intelligence operative Russel Christopher’s estranged daughter.

In 2013 Krejcir was arrested by Nkosana “Killer” Ximba, right-hand man to Richard Mdluli, the hugely influential former crime intelligence boss and Jacob Zuma ally.

Krejcir claims in an affidavit he signed last July at Leeuwkop prison, where he is serving a sentence for attempted murder and kidnapping, that Beeka introduced him to Duduzane Zuma, the then-president’s son, in 2010.

“Mr Beeka asked me to keep Mr Duduzani [sic] Zuma busy so that the Gupta family and Sahara which is one of the Gupta family company [sic] cannot get to him.”

Krejcir alleges that at some point Duduzane promised to assist him with obtaining asylum in South Africa and Krejcir agreed to pay him R5m for the service.

Krejcir claims he drove to Nkandla around February 2011 and handed over R2.5m in cash to Duduzane as a deposit, but that no help was forthcoming.  

Part 1 explained  that Beeka was murdered in March 2011 and how this impacted on nightclub security operations in Cape Town.

After Beeka’s murder, Krejcir states, his friendship with Duduzane deteriorated “because Mr Beeka, our common friend, was no longer there to keep the momentum going”.

Krejcir claims Ximba fabricated evidence that led to his arrest and conviction.

“I think this was as a result of a broken relationship between me and Mr Duduzani Zuma, the fact that I demanded my 2.5 million back from him. The other factor that contributed to my arrest is that I refused to be cash cow for Mr Ximba to pay him money like other business people did.”

City Press, which first broke the story of Krejcir’s affidavit, approached both Duduzane Zuma and Ximba for comment but received no reply.

Duduzane Zuma’s laywer, Rudi Krause, told amaBhungane that his client was abroad and that he was waiting to take instruction from him before responding.

A WhatsApp, SMS and email sent to a cellphone number and address apparently belonging to Ximba went unanswered.

Ximba is now Ekurhuleni mayor Mzwandile Masina’s chief of security. A staffer who knows Ximba conveyed amaBhungane’s query to him and later said it was unlikely he would respond.

Krejcir, Beeka, Lifman and Modack

It should be recalled that Krejcir got an entrée into the Johannesburg underworld not long after his arrival in South Africa – and that Beeka was soon in the thick of Krejcir’s business and personal dealings. 

Lifman was also allegedly part of this mix because, according to police evidence, he was part of a group that played cards with Krejcir. 

One of Krejcir’s former henchmen, Milosh Potiska, claimed that Krejcir fell out with Beeka, then allegedly made a brief alliance with Lifman.

In an affidavit handed in at a Krejcir bail hearing, Potiska said Krejcir attended Beeka’s 49th birthday party. 

“Krejcir and Beeka then had a fight at Beeka’s birthday party. Beeka beat up Krejcir, and as a result Krejcir went to hospital…  He had been publicly humiliated and wanted revenge. This is the way Krejcir is, if he gets humiliated, he wants to kill that person.”

According to other reports, the fight started when Krejcir hit someone who he thought was chatting up his mistress. Beeka intervened and slapped Krejcir, who fell and cut himself.

It is understood the person Beeka was protecting was none other than Nafiz Modack, who at that time was Beeka’s young protégé.

(In Part 1 we explained how the Western Cape’s underworld is currently split into two main groups, with one allegedly headed by Modack and backed by suspected gang member Colin Booysen. Police say this group is facing off against the second group, allegedly headed by Colin’s brother, Jerome “Donkie” Booysen, as well as Jerome’s associate, Lifman.)

Potiska stated: “After Beeka was killed, I flew to Cape Town with Krejcir and he met with Lifman and [Jerome] Booysen… Krejcir in my opinion ‘persuaded’ Lifman to kill Beeka, to open Cape Town up for Krejcir and Lifman to control all the night clubs and drugs in Cape Town. 

“As part of this new ‘partnership’, Krejcir said he would ‘invest’ in some property project of Lifman and this was agreed. However, Krejcir did not invest because he had no money, and then there was bad blood between Krejcir and Lifman. After this meeting, Krejcir said ‘We must get rid of this motherfucker, or we’ll have a big problem.'”

Lifman’s attorney, William Booth, told amaBhungane: “Mr Lifman is not in any way involved with Mr Beeka’s death – we reject the truthfulness of any one who says he is.”

Lifman has not been charged for Beeka’s murder and, as mentioned in Part 1, Jerome Booysen was in 2012 named a suspect in the killing, but nothing ever came of it.

After Beeka’s assassination, things didn’t work out for Krejcir the way he had according to Potiska’s affidavit planned.

Beeka’s murder galvanised investigations into Krejcir’s criminal activities and just two days after the killing, a police task force raided his Bedfordview mansion, purportedly finding a hit list that included Beeka’s name. 

But Krejcir had been tipped off and was not there.

Eventually in November 2013, the cop “Killer” Ximba, Mdluli’s right-hand man, struck and something stuck. Krejcir was convicted for a kidnapping and attempted murder unrelated to Beeka’s murder, for which no one has been charged to date.

The investigation into Beeka’s murder had hit a wall already a month before Krejcir’s arrest, when a key witness, Leon Davids, was gunned down in Cape Town after being lured out of witness protection.

Realignment – Vearey and Jacobs; Mbotho and Tiyo

Then, as now, the upheavals in the underworld took place against a backdrop of upheavals in the police, much of it seemingly driven by the power struggle around Zuma and access to the secrets and the secret funds of crime intelligence.

In Part 1 we showed how senior police officers Peter Jacobs and Jeremy Vearey, both ex-uMkhonto weSizwe operatives, seemed to fall foul of that power struggle when, in June 2016, they were for the time being side-lined in favour of two other officers, Major General Mzwandile Tiyo and Major General Patrick Mbotho.

During the brief tenure of acting national police commissioner Khomotso Phahlane, Tiyo replaced Jacobs as Western Cape head of crime intelligence and Mbotho replaced Vearey as the provincial head of detectives.But the moves against Vearey and Jacobs had significant antecedents.

In October 2011, then national commissioner Bheki Cele was suspended. This was at least partly because of his perceived alignment against Mdluli, the Zuma-supporting crime intelligence boss – although the public protector’s report on the SAPS leasing scandal provided the public justification. 

In 2012, Cele’s ally, KwaZulu-Natal Hawks commander Johan Booysen, was also suspended. This was based on a sensational Sunday Times report alleging that the Cato Manor serious and violent crime unit, which fell under Booysen, operated as a hit squad. 

Booysen was replaced by Mbotho, who was promoted to become Western Cape detective head when Veary was side-lined in 2016. Meanwhile Tiyo, who replaced Jacobs that same year, was engaged in battles of his own. 

In 2013 Tiyo, then acting provincial head of crime intelligence in the Western Cape, began monitoring the communications of the provincial commissioner, Lieutenant General Arno Lamoer.  

The investigation resulted in corruption charges against Lamoer – he and other senior Western Cape cops had received gratification from a local businessman, Saliem Dawjee.

Crime intelligence clashes 

Daily Maverick journalist Marianne Thamm has reported suggestions that Lamoer had been investigating elements in crime intelligence, which in turn resulted in him being investigated and caught out.  

It was also Tiyo’s monitoring of Lamoer’s communications that led crime intelligence to intercept a call during which then national police commissioner Riah Phiyega tipped off Lamoer about the investigation into him. 

The Phiyega link ties back into the Jacobs and Vearey 2016 transfer saga.

In an affidavit challenging his transfer, Jacobs said he and Vearey were “wrongly perceived” to be “Phiyega’s people” and were victims of a purge of those regarded as aligned to her.

Phiyega was suspended in 2015 following negative findings by the Farlam commission of inquiry into the Marikana massacre. 

“A false perception… arose because of our regular close co-operation with the suspended National Commissioner during our… firearm investigation,” Jacobs said.

He said the high-level work he and Vearey previously carried out also brought them into conflict with Khombinkosi Jula, the man who replaced Lamoer as Western Cape police commissioner. 

“When [Vearey] and I were tasked to develop an… approach to the inter-Provincial Taxi Violence… the assessment also covered the period during which Lieutenant General Jula was the Deputy Provincial Commissioner of the KZN Province… 

“Our enquiry into what had been done to address the taxi violence indicated a serious lack of operational co-ordination and a basic lack of operational leadership. [Jula] was compromised.”

Jula, in turn, criticised the quality of Jacobs’ work. 

In her response to Jacobs’ affidavit, the deputy national commissioner of human resources management, Lieutenant General Bonang Mgwenya, said Jula had previously expressed the view that Jacobs was not suited to retain the position of provincial crime intelligence head.

“The essential point made to me by the Provincial Commissioner was that he was not getting crime intelligence products that were adequate and sufficiently detailed to enable him to discharge his crime fighting function,” she said in an affidavit.

In Part 1, we touched on Kinnear’s complaint, lodged last December, which effectively accused a group of Western Cape officers – the “Tiyo group” – of misusing state resources to personally attack and work against Kinnear, Vearey, Jacobs and others.

Part 1 also outlined how, after Zuma’s ousting, Jacobs was promoted to head crime intelligence nationally and Vearey was reinstated as Western Cape detective head in a permanent capacity. But the war among cops and gangsters has seemingly intensified since then. 

The one side – claims

Kinnear’s formal complaint paints a picture of a deeply fragmented police service embedded with suspected criminals and officers who seem to be running interference and counter-investigations on outsiders’ behalves.

The sparring turns around Kinnear’s investigation of an extortion charge against Modack, the Beeka understudy who is essentially accused of muscling in on protection rackets being forced on Cape club owners.

Modack and his co-accused were arrested in December 2017 and released in February last year following a lengthy bail application. They are expected to go on trial in April.

Kinnear charges that the Tiyo group’s counter-investigations are aimed at trying to pin something on him and, most notably, the officer he reports to, Vearey.  

The crux of Kinnear’s complaint is that four of the six officers he singled out allegedly approached drug dealers and gangsters that he and his colleagues had investigated in the Cape Town suburb of Mitchells Plain a decade or more ago “and requested that they make statements and lay charges against us for any type of wrongdoing in order to have us arrested and subsequently discharged from the South African Police Service”.

Indeed, the Sunday Times this week reported that Vearey was under investigation for crimes including torture, kidnapping and defeating the ends of justice.

It said counter-intelligence officers were investigating Vearey and the Mitchells Plain station commander for trying to frame two men for the 2009 murder of an anti-drug activist. Vearey and the station commander declined to comment.

National police spokesperson Brigadier Vishnu Naidoo subsequently told Independent Online there was no investigation against Vearey, but rather an analysis of an old case.

Kinnear’s complaint identified a police captain, Alfred Barker, as allegedly being aligned to Modack and working with five other cops in the Tiyo group.

Part 1 revealed that Kinnear had accused Barker, who declined to comment to amaBhungane, of arresting Lifman irregularly in February last year.

Kinnear also alleged that:

* Barker had tried to see Modack in prison after Modack’s December 2017 arrest in the extortion case, despite instructions that Modack not receive any visits from other police officials.

* Two police officers he claimed were associated with the Tiyo group had visited another prisoner and warned him not to co-operate with Vearey as “the information would just be given back to Modack and his people”.

* Barker had also tried to interfere with the investigation of an attempted hit on Jerome Booysen, Lifman’s business partner. 

Jacobs’ letter – ‘rogue unit’

Meanwhile Jacobs, in a leaked internal memo following up on Kinnear’s complaint, alleged that officers in the Tiyo group reported to Brigadier Sanjith Hansraj who, Jacobs said, reported directly to Western Cape commissioner Jula.

Jacobs’ memo, dated January 18, pointed out that crime intelligence did not fall under Jula’s mandate and what he called “the Hansraj/Barker team” was operating without authorisation.

“The responsibility for the collection and management [of] Intelligence … is the exclusive responsibility of the Divisional Commissioner of Crime Intelligence [that is himself, Jacobs] and not a Provincial Commissioner,” Jacobs said.

“[It] is thus reasonable to conclude that the team is a rogue team within CI.”

He said Kinnear’s complaint listed cases in which he, Vearey and Kinnear were suspects, yet he had never been warned that he was the subject of any sort of investigation.

He also said that Barker was not a crime intelligence member.Jacobs said he asked the Western Cape’s crime intelligence head, Tiyo, about Barker’s placement and that Tiyo told him to ask Jula.

“Given that the [team of police officers in question] reported to Lt Genl Jula and not the Divisional Commissioner of CI… the [team] is operating ultra-vires and thus irregularly.”

Jacobs recommended that the team be disbanded.

On January 28, 10 days after Jacobs’ memo, Jula sent an email summoning 14 police officers – those named in Kinnear’s complaint as well as those allegedly being targeted – to a meeting with Mark Magadlela, the acting deputy national commissioner of crime detection.

Jula instructed them to hand in all dockets relating to the claims and counter-claims between colleagues – and instructed commanders to ensure that none of the police officers invited to the meeting took action against their colleagues.

Jula did not answer a call to his phone or respond to an SMS query about the meeting.

Tiyo declined to comment overall, saying he was not authorised to speak to the media. Western Cape police spokesperson Lieutenant Colonel André Traut referred queries about the meeting to national police.

National investigation

National police spokesperson Brigadier Vishnu Naidoo told amaBhungane the matter was internal, and Jacobs’ memo about Kinnear’s complaint was intended for internal purposes. However, Naidoo said national police commissioner Khehla Sitole had tasked two very senior officers to gather the dockets relating to the charges and counter-charges and elevate the investigations to national level.

Naidoo said the allegations contained in Kinnear’s complaint were “viewed in a very serious light”.

In mid-January the Independent Police Investigative Directorate (IPID) confirmed that a team, instructed by its national office, was also also investigating Kinnear’s complaint. 

While Barker has not provided public comment and Hansraj provided only a short response to the effect that he was addressing Kinnear’s complaint and the truth would emerge, some hints of the Tiyo group’s counter-allegations have emerged from the Modack bail application. 

The other side – counterclaims

In Part 1 we noted that while testifying in the Modack bail application, Kinnear revealed that Modack had alleged that Vearey and Kinnear were on the payroll of Lifman and Jerome Booysen.

Such claims are easy to make and deny, but Kinnear also found himself the target of more substantial allegations.

He was confronted with a picture of his son and Jerome Booysen’s son together, suggesting an unhealthily close relationship with the so-called Modack group’s rivals.

Kinnear countered that his children had been friends with Jerome Booysen’s sister’s children as they had schooled together. 

But Kinnear was also questioned about three encounters he had with Lifman – two involving him going to Lifman’s home.

On the flipside, Kinnear’s testimony throughout the bail application appeared calculated to isolate Modack by highlighting what he presented to be implausible claims that Modack had made against Kinnear and his police associates. 

Among allegations Kinnear made in court was that Modack had claimed in a recorded private conversation that Vearey, together with a 27s gang boss known as Red, had arranged the November 2016 hit on lawyer Noorudien Hassen. 

In Part 1 we noted that Hassan, like his close colleague advocate Pete Mihalik who was murdered in October 2018, had represented an array of underworld suspects.

AmaBhungane understands that Vearey is, or was, the subject of investigation in at least one of four dockets registered at the Cape Town central police station in May 2018 based on complaints lodged by two of Modack’s co-accused in the extortion case.

At one stage during the bail application Modack’s defence team alleged that Vearey had made a shooting motion at the accused while they had been in the holding cells.

Vearey has weathered many claims in recent years, with a series of often dubious sources claiming to link him directly to gang bosses.

Speaking to amaBhungane, Vearey said there had been continuous attempts to discredit him. “This is not the first time this is happening.”

So who are the criminals and who are the cops? 

No one knows the contours of the gangs better than Vearey, nor the way in which organised criminals and his own comrades – politicians and policemen – have sought to profit from those shifting alliances.

No one except, perhaps, Robert McBride.

Watch out for SAPS Wars Part 3: Bheki Cele, Robert McBride and the mysterious Mr Marimuthu

The amaBhungane Centre for Investigative Journalism, an independent non-profit, produced this story. Like it? Be an amaB Supporter to help us do more. Sign up for our newsletter and WhatsApp alerts to get more.

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