Title: Poor Thing

Author: Head Girl

Rating: R

Pairing: Turpin/Lucy

Word Count: 610

Warnings: non-con

Summary: Turpin's thoughts during that night so long ago.

He walked toward her as she sat, a bewildered expression on her face. She was delicious in her confusion, so unexpecting. Turpin reflected how the moments before were nearly as delicious as sweet consummation. The moments full of the sound of blood pounding in his ears, the feel of his trousers tightening uncomfortably. That moment when innocent eyes gazed up in surprised horror. He was thrilled to find that she didn't dissapoint him.

She made her struggles, to be sure. Turpin almost felt guilty as it aroused him more, her body straining beneath his to be free. Her chest heaved, pushing her supple bossom rhythmically against him. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She groaned as he placed a hand on her thigh, working her dress upward and her undergarments downward until creamy skin was bared for all to see.

Even though others watched, it was as though nothing else existed but this moment. Not their prying eyes, not their whispers and looks of excitement or poorly disguised horror. There was only her soft skin beneath him, smelling of perfume tainted with her sweat. There was only her panting breath warming the skin of his neck and her writhing form pinned beneath him as he tried to unfasten his trousers. And then there was the glorious moment when she went lax. Turpin was unsure if it was resignation or the tiredness of body, but she went still, pressed against the cushions, gasping as he pressed close.

And when he pushed, she was gloriously warm and snug despite bearing the barber a child. She struggled again then in earnest, gold hair flying, making her look all the more disheveled. All the more ravished. Every time he surged, she'd quiver and groan until the moment came when she went still again save for her heaving chest, her head turned to the side and away. Turpin planted kisses on the column of her throat, suckling the delicate skin there, almost pleased when she didn't try to pull away. Almost, since by her struggles he knew that she was still with him and not some place far away. He wanted all of her, not just her body, but her mind as well, here with him and feeling this. Growling, he grabbed one of her creamy thighs hard enough to bruise, surging forward harder as need drove him to seek more sensation, more of her cradling warmth. She was back now, back down from where she'd fled, her body tensing beneath his, her hands clenched into fists, her breath expelled in harsh puffs on every thrust. As Turpin began to thrust raggedly, losing what little was left of his control, she groaned, her body arching almost as if she were trying to get away, but he knew differently. He felt how her warmth tightened around him, quivering. She melted against the couch with a sob and a faraway look in her eyes.

Leaning back, he looked at her, lying disheveled on the cushions, her eyes closed tightly as if with that she could blot out the room of voyeurs, the rest of the world, her own tormented thoughts. Turpin felt a pang of something that might be guilt, chasing away his sated lust. He almost wanted to tell her how he needed this, to slake his lust so, needed it like the air he breathed. He almost wanted to make her understand. Leaning down, he planted a kiss on her cheek and brushed a stray lock of hair away with his hand. A thumb moved to wipe a tear away travling down her cheek. A woman who'd had to break for his sake. Poor thing.