severussimp

[severussimp]

"Because now, he had hands.

But nothing left to hold."

Just kill me now, why don't cha 🫠

Tail End Justice

Summary: There were rules to the curse. Turpin just never listened. He thought being human again would be salvation—but it was the cost of loving someone who deserved better than him.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Masturbation, Angst, Death.

Also read on Ao3

Turpin still couldn’t get used to it.

This century—this godforsaken, mad, swirling abomination of progress and equality—was an affront to everything he once ruled with an iron gavel. Women speaking freely. Women wearing trousers. Women voting. It was a sickness. A complete moral collapse.

And now, apparently, women running countries?

He would’ve strangled someone if his current body had fingers.

Instead, he hissed. Loudly. From beneath a rusted trash bin behind a pub in South London.

Rain poured in sheets, soaking his already-matted black fur. His once-immaculate tail—so proudly preened in better years—now twitched like a dirty shoelace. He was wet, cold, miserable, and worst of all… degraded.

It had been centuries since the witch cursed him—an old crone with wild eyes and a mouth full of teeth like a rotting graveyard, shrieking something about “redemption” and “true love.” He hadn’t listened to the rest. He’d been too busy sentencing her to death for theft. A loaf of bread, was it? Or a spoon? Something equally insignificant.

Apparently, she hadn’t appreciated the ruling.

One flash of green light and a wretched puff of sulfur later, he was no longer Richard Turpin, respected judge of London, feared and revered in equal measure.

He was now… a cat.

A common, street-filthy, rat-chasing cat.

Not that he hadn’t tried to make the best of it. He had standards, after all.

Turpin had once been adopted by a duchess—a pale, elegant widow who lived in a grand manor with velvet cushions and roast quail every Sunday. For twelve glorious years, he’d slept on marble floors and clawed antique chaise lounges. He'd been brushed daily. Respected.

But humans are fragile, and when the duchess died, they noticed something strange.

The cat didn’t age.

The staff whispered. Visitors gawked. A priest tried to drown him in holy water.

He bit the man and leapt from a second-floor balcony, never to return.

That had been nearly fifty years ago. Since then, he’d been… selective. Not just any idiot could adopt Richard bloody Turpin. He preferred the wealthy, of course. Preferably lonely women, widows—he had a type. But fate had a habit of mocking him.

Like that wretched man who gifted him to his shrill, horrible child.

She’d named him "Snugglewhiskers."

Snugglewhiskers.

Turpin still twitched at the memory. That demon child had carried him like a sack of potatoes, dressed him in doll clothes, thrown him into a paddling pool. He’d barely escaped with his dignity intact (and tail singed after she tried to "dry him" with a hairdryer).

He swore off children after that. In fact, he avoided entire neighborhoods that reeked of fruit snacks and sticky fingers.

Which brought him to today.

Rain. Cold. Hunger. And the cherry on top?

His shelter was gone.

Some fat, orange bastard had taken over his old hideaway behind the fishmonger’s. Turpin had tried to fight him, of course. Puffed up his chest, arched his back, gave a menacing hiss straight out of a gothic novel.

The other cat smacked him once.

Turpin fled.

Now he sat, a drenched heap of fury and former authority, ears back, growling under his breath.

“I presided over courtrooms,” he muttered, tail twitching violently. “Commanded armies of clerks. Ordered executions. And now… now I lick my own backside for warmth.”

Somewhere in the alley, a drunk stumbled past, laughing with a friend. A woman’s voice—loud, free, unapologetic—cut through the air like a knife.

Turpin narrowed his eyes.

“Blasted harpies,” he muttered.

He sneezed. Loudly.

And somewhere, faint and mocking, he could almost hear the witch’s cackling voice, still dancing on the wind after all these years:

“You’ll learn to love, Richard. And that… that will be your undoing."

He hissed again, curling tighter under the bin.

“Not today, witch.”

But he had a sinking feeling.

That “today” was getting closer.

The staff door creaked open with a groan of old hinges, spilling warm yellow light onto the slick stones of the alleyway. Turpin flinched, his ears flattening instinctively, muscles coiled for flight. He stared, sharp hazel eyes narrowing as a figure stepped out—silhouetted by the doorway, dragging behind her a bulging sack of rubbish.

A woman.

In trousers.

Turpin’s lip curled in silent outrage. Of course. This blasted century had fully surrendered to madness. First the vote, then the Parliament, and now—pants?

She heaved the sack into the bin beside him with a grunt, then brushed a damp lock of hair from her brow. Rain dotted her cheeks like dewdrops, clung to her lashes. She looked tired. Earthy. Young, perhaps, though something in her gait told Turpin she had endured more than her fair share of storms—both literal and metaphorical.

He made a point of looking away.

The nerve of her, out here alone at night, trousers sticking to her legs like a second skin. He might have scolded her—if he still had vocal cords that weren’t made for mewling.

Instead, he hissed.

A low, guttural sound born of pride, insult, and general disgust.

But she didn’t startle.

She looked down—and spotted him.

“Oh—hey there, friend,” you said softly, crouching with slow, easy grace.

Turpin’s eyes flared. Friend? He hissed louder, tail flicking dangerously.

You ignored the warning.

Of course you did. Modern women didn’t understand hierarchy, didn’t respect rank or station. Once, he could clear a courtroom with a glare. Now? A growl from his half-soaked, malnourished feline body earned nothing but soft eyes and an outstretched hand.

He bared his teeth.

You reached further.

“Poor thing… You’re soaked to the bone,” you murmured.

Then—without ceremony—you scooped him up.

Turpin thrashed, claws twitching, growl caught in his throat, but you held firm. Not rough. Not smothering. Just… steady. Like you’d done this before.

He hated how bony he felt in your arms. Hated the warmth of your coat against his fur. Hated how his shivering stopped as soon as your body surrounded him.

“I know, I know,” you cooed, voice soothing. “It’s okay. Pub’s closed. Just you and me now.”

Pub?

He twisted his head and saw it—the dark interior, the smell of old wood and spilled ale, still thick in the air. Dim lighting, chairs flipped atop tables, a crooked dartboard on the wall. Familiar, in a way. But warmer. Lived-in.

You carried him across the floor and placed him gently on the bar counter.

He leapt off instantly.

Damn you, he thought as he scrambled under a table, you will not place me like a vase.

You didn’t chase him. Just moved calmly behind the bar and retrieved a towel—fluffy, red, slightly frayed at the edges. He watched you kneel a few feet away, towel in hand, not speaking. Just… waiting.

Waiting for him.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” you said quietly. “You’re freezing. Let me help.”

Turpin’s nose twitched. The scent of soap clung to your fingers. There was no lie in your voice. He hated that he could tell.

Still, he stayed where he was—huddled and glaring, droplets of rain clinging to his whiskers like accusation.

You left the towel on the floor.

No sudden movements. No bright lights. Just the soft creak of old floorboards as you turned away, giving him his space. You could still feel the weight of him in your arms—skinny beneath all that sodden fur, trembling but proud. He reminded you of the men who stumbled into the pub after a lost bet or a worse marriage. Stubborn. Lonely.

“Right,” you muttered to yourself, glancing over your shoulder at the narrow shape still crouched beneath the table. “Let’s see what I can do for you.”

Up the narrow staircase behind the bar you went, back into the tiny flat above the pub. It smelled faintly of pine cleaner and old paperbacks. A stack of laundry waited for you in a basket. A damp coat hung by the radiator. The sort of cluttered warmth that came from living alone too long but never quite giving up the idea that someone else might show up.

You opened the fridge. Half a pint of milk. A wilting cucumber. And—ah, salvation—a bit of roasted chicken from last night. Only slightly dry.

Perfect.

You tore it into smaller pieces, tossing them into a chipped porcelain bowl with blue ivy painted around the rim, then padded back down the stairs with a tired smile curling your lips.

Only to stop in your tracks at the sight of him.

He was rolling. Actually rolling—in the towel you’d left for him, of all things. Paws in the air, back twisting awkwardly, trying to scrub the scent of the alley from his fur. He grunted as he flopped onto his side, wrapping himself half in the fabric, half in indignity.

You laughed. Softly. Fondly.

A mistake.

The cat froze mid-roll, ears flicking back like knives. His eyes darted to you—wild, suspicious, betrayed. And in an instant, he bolted, scurrying back under the table with a huff that somehow conveyed mortal offense.

“Sorry,” you murmured, crouching slowly, setting the bowl on the floor a few feet from his hiding place. “Didn’t mean to startle you, grumpy.”

Turpin didn’t move at first.

He merely glared.

A contemptuous, withering look that said How dare you. How dare you laugh. How dare you witness. How dare you offer help.

But then... the scent hit him.

Chicken.

Real chicken. Warm. Savoury. Not half-chewed fish guts or moldy crusts or, God forbid, that dry cereal nonsense people put in bowls and pretended was sustenance. No—this was meat.

His stomach betrayed him with a loud, gurgling growl. Turpin inched forward—only barely, only enough to seem in control of his own disgrace—then crept the rest of the way toward the bowl. He sniffed it with dramatic caution, as though expecting poison, before finally, finally, lowering his head and eating like a man five days from death.

You watched him, arms folded, leaning against the bar as you murmured, “Hungry, huh?”

He didn’t respond.

Obviously.

But he did hiss when you crouched again and reached out, fingers brushing gently over the damp fur between his ears. He lifted his head just enough to show teeth. Hazel eyes flared with warning.

But you didn’t stop.

You scratched lightly behind his ears, and he should have leapt away. He should have clawed your hand and dashed for the door.

Instead… he kept eating.

Because, damn it, the chicken was good.

“You’re cute,” you said with a soft laugh, brushing a few raindrops from his head. “Grumpy. But cute.”

Cute?

CUTE?

If Turpin had still possessed the power of speech, he’d have unleashed a tirade so blistering it would’ve made grown men weep. Cute was a word for children and fools. He was not cute. He was—had been—a judge, a feared patriarch of the court, an enforcer of law and order! Women once wept at his verdicts! Clerks bowed at his passing!

“I’m not cute, woman!” he wanted to snarl. “I’m majestic!”

But he couldn’t.

So he swatted at your hand half-heartedly, then returned to his meal with the air of one enduring great indignity for the sake of survival.

You chuckled again, sitting cross-legged beside him now, chin resting in your palm. “So. What do I do with you, huh?”

He ignored you.

You kept talking.

“I could take you to a vet. But they’d probably think you’re just another stray.”

A flick of his tail.

“Or I could let you back out into the alley, but I don’t think you’d last long.”

He wanted to say he’d managed quite well on his own for years, thank you very much.

No need for rescuing. No need for pity. Certainly no need for a woman—especially not one who smelled faintly of cheap shampoo and overcooked potatoes—to start talking about “taking care of him.” He'd survived plagues, the Blitz, electric kettles. He was resourceful, resilient, and entirely self-sufficient.

But then you—utterly oblivious to the severity of your trespass—kept murmuring things like:

“Maybe I could stay with you.”

Stay?

Stay?

If Turpin had possessed vocal cords, he’d have howled.

Stay. With him.

As if the arrangement were mutual. As if this rickety tavern-wench of a woman—this woman who worked behind a sticky oak bar, who mopped floors and poured pints for drunkards—could offer him, Richard Turpin, a place to stay.

If he could have laughed, he would’ve.

Instead, after finishing the chicken and licking the bowl with quiet, practiced dignity, he stood and padded around the barroom, tail high, eyes narrowed. He surveyed the room like a landlord inspecting a property he had no intention of purchasing.

The floorboards creaked.

The wallpaper peeled at the edges.

A single dusty chandelier hung crooked over the bar, swaying gently with the draft.

No.

Honey, no.

He had standards.

None of them included living with a poor woman who owned a pub where the ale was stale and the curtains smelled of mildew.

He glanced at you with a look that could only be described as judicial contempt.

You watched him circling the room—chin lifted, tail swaying, a slow, imperious march across the scratched floorboards—and you couldn’t help it.

You laughed. You actually laughed.

“God, you’re judgmental,” you said, shaking your head. “Like a cute little judge or something.”

Turpin froze mid-step.

Cute.

There it was again. That foul, emasculating word. As if he were some dainty bobble for the mantle. He turned and glared at you over his shoulder, ears flat, the very picture of offended dignity.

But it only made you laugh more.

“Alright, alright,” you murmured, holding your hands up in mock surrender. “No offense, your honor.”

You stared at him for a moment longer, then smiled—softly this time. Thoughtfully.

“I think I’ll keep you,” you said. “You’re grumpy, and you hate me already, but… I’m lonely. And you’re warm.”

Oh, splendid. Adopted by a spinster. He might as well write his own funeral.

You picked him up again—he allowed it, barely—and carried him up the narrow stairs to the flat above the pub. Turpin cast one last despairing glance at the tavern floor as it disappeared beneath him. The stale smell of beer clung to your coat, and the lightbulbs overhead flickered like dying fireflies.

This was not happening. You set him gently on the bed—a sad little thing with mismatched sheets and a lopsided quilt. The room was tiny. Cramped. Faintly scented with lavender and loneliness. The curtains didn’t match. A single armchair slouched by the window like it had given up.

Turpin turned in a full circle.

He blinked once. Twice.

No. Absolutely not.

He’d rather return to the alley. To the rain. To the rats. He’d lived in the stately homes of aristocrats. He’d lounged on imported rugs, bathed in sunbeams filtered through stained glass.

This?

This was a shack.

He leapt from the bed, about to make a dramatic exit, when—

You pulled your soaked blouse over your head.

Turpin froze.

Your back was to him, skin pale and freckled beneath the light, and for the briefest moment he caught the swell of your breasts, full and soft beneath the wet lace of your bra.

He sat up.

Actually… perhaps this room wasn’t entirely without merit.

You hummed softly to yourself, unbothered by his stare, moving toward the wardrobe in search of dry clothes. Turpin’s eyes followed you, his earlier disdain temporarily forgotten.

Then you wrapped yourself in a robe.

He hissed in protest.

You glanced over, startled. “What?”

Turpin sat on the bed, tail twitching. His glare was unmistakable.

You raised a brow. “You’re a very opinionated cat.”

He continued glaring.

“Alright, alright,” you said with a chuckle. “I guess I’ll need to name you, huh?”

Turpin narrowed his eyes.

“Let’s see,” you said, sitting on the edge of the bed, robe tied at your waist. “Whiskers?”

Hiss.

“Max?”

Hiss.

“Shadow?”

HISSS.

You sighed. “Okay. So that’s a no.”

You pulled out your phone, thumbing through a search engine. “Cat names…”

He watched, annoyed. You read each name aloud with growing amusement.

“Pumpkin?”

Hiss.

“Lord Fluffington?”

Violent hiss.

“Mephistopheles?”

A pause. Then—

Hiss.

You laughed so hard your eyes watered. “God, you’re such a snob.”

You scrolled again. “Okay, okay. What about…” You paused. Smiled a little to yourself.

“Richard?”

Turpin stilled.

You waited.

No hiss.

“Richard,” you repeated.

He flicked an ear. But remained otherwise motionless.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” you murmured, a crooked smile on your lips. “You like it.”

He gave you a slow blink. The closest thing to agreement you were going to get.

You reached out, brushing your fingers lightly behind his ears again. “Alright then, Richard. Guess it’s you and me now.”

And though he’d never admit it—

Though he’d scoff, and sneer, and cast judgment on every floorboard and threadbare pillow—

He didn’t move when you turned off the lamp.

Didn’t protest when you lay beside him.

And when your arm curled sleepily around his furry, begrudging frame…

Richard stayed. Just this once.

In the days that followed, Turpin noticed many things about you. Not that he cared. He was merely observant—an essential skill from his former life, back when his voice filled courtrooms and his verdicts emptied gallows.

Still.

He noticed.

You were lonely.

You didn’t speak of it, not aloud, but he could see it. In the way you lingered behind the bar after closing, wiping the same glass over and over. In the half-finished jigsaw puzzle by the window. In the way you always kept the telly low, as if the sound of other voices might fool your own mind into believing the house wasn’t quite so empty.

And you worked too much.

Always rushing—hands deep in dishwater, hair up in that same messy knot, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, muttering to yourself as you counted coins or argued with the radiator. Turpin watched it all from his usual perch atop the bar shelf, tail curled regally around his paws, passing judgment like it was second nature (which, of course, it was).

He’d seen enough harried barmaids and bitter landladies in his time to know you were fast becoming both. But unlike them… you cooked.

And God, could you cook.

The first time you made stew, Turpin nearly wept. He didn’t, of course. He was above weeping. But the scent of beef and thyme and buttered rolls wafted through the flat like a hymn, and he found himself sitting by the stove, ears perked, tail thumping, trying not to look as eager as he felt.

You made a small dish for him.

Set it gently on the floor with a smile.

He sniffed it with suspicion, then ate like a condemned man at his final feast.

From that day on, he refused to touch the dry, generic dog food you’d mistakenly bought him.

"Come on," you'd grumbled one morning, holding the bag aloft like it had personally offended you. "It was cheap, and I thought cats ate anything."

He glared at you.

As if he would condescend to eat that.

“No effort, no soul,” he seemed to say, flicking his tail in open disdain. “Do you think me a mongrel?”

You sighed and scraped the kibble into the bin, muttering something about spoiled cats and royalty in a past life.

If only you knew.

You tried again, of course. Salmon in gravy. Tuna pâté. A gourmet pouch labeled “Organic Cod Delight,” which, frankly, sounded like the sort of euphemism Beadle would’ve giggled over in court.

He refused them all.

He only ate what you made. Lamb stew. Roasted chicken. The occasional sausage snuck from your breakfast plate. If it didn’t come from your hands or your kitchen, it wasn’t worthy of his tongue.

He also noticed your body.

A great deal, in fact.

It wasn’t his fault. You were always half-dressed. Shirts slipping from shoulders, robe tied loosely around your waist, trousers clinging with indecent ease to thighs he tried valiantly not to admire.

Tried, but failed.

There were moments—quiet, twilight moments—when you undressed with your back to him, thinking yourself alone, and Turpin would pretend to nap, eyes slitted open just enough to observe. It wasn’t lust, he told himself. It was... curiosity. Morbid fascination. Nothing more.

Except it was more.

It was everything.

It was the curve of your hips, the sway of your breasts beneath a too-thin shirt, the little sighs you made as you slipped into bed, unaware that the ancient soul beside you once stood robed in judgment and now lay beside you in humbled fur.

And so he stayed.

He could’ve left. Any night, really. There were still gutters and alleys, rats to chase and old cemeteries to haunt. But he stayed. Because you undressed in front of him. Because you fed him with care and cooked with spices. Because—against every screaming protest in his soul—he liked the way you spoke to him. As if he were someone.

And then you started buying him things.

With what little money you had, scraped together from beer sales and spilled tips, you began to shop.

First came the collar.

Red, with a little brass tag. "Richard," it read.

He was mortified.

He wore it only once, for ten seconds, before tearing it off and hiding it behind the radiator. You spent half an hour looking for it, swearing under your breath the whole time. He watched with smug satisfaction from atop the fridge.

Then came the bed.

A soft, ridiculous thing shaped like a crown. He sniffed it once. Ignored it forever.

He slept with you instead.

Every night.

Right on your chest, purring in time with your heartbeat, tail curled along your collarbone like it belonged there. You muttered about spoiled cats, but never pushed him off. Not once.

The scratching post arrived after the third time you caught him clawing at your velvet sofa.

“Hey!” you shouted, brandishing a dish towel. “I just got that reupholstered!”

He hissed. Not out of guilt. Just irritation at being interrupted.

But when you stood there, arms crossed, lips pursed in that way that reminded him disturbingly of a headmistress, he paused.

And—against all logic—he stopped.

From that day on, he never touched the couch again.

Not because he respected it.

But because he hated how disappointed you looked.

And that… was far worse.

Yes, Turpin noticed many things about you.

He noticed the way you hummed when you cooked, and cursed when you stubbed your toe. The way you sang out of tune when you thought no one was listening. The way your voice cracked when you read aloud from old books—the lonely kind, he realized, with endings that weren’t happy, but weren’t entirely sad either.

He noticed that you let him come and go.

That you didn’t ask for anything in return—not affection, not even loyalty.

And somehow, that made him give you all two.

Not that he’d admit it. Not yet.

Certainly not that night. Not that wretched, ridiculous night when you—bartender, landlady, full-grown woman with a spine forged in pub fights and beer kegs—had finally taken the night off, only to discover that your enemy wasn’t tax returns, or a leaky ceiling, or even the creep who tried to flirt with you by comparing your eyes to “lager in moonlight.”

No. It was a rat.

A single, common, greasy little rat.

Turpin was dozing by the radiator, his fur warmed and paws tucked under his chest like a proper gentleman resigned to his exile, when he heard it—

The scream.

A bloodcurdling, theatrical wail so piercing it nearly singed his whiskers. He jolted upright, ears flat, claws twitching.

Then: “RICHARD!”

He stared at the ceiling. Blinked once. Twice.

Another scream.

“Richard, for God’s sake, where ARE you?!”

He leapt from the windowsill in a flurry of fur and disdain, padding down the staircase with the regal indignation of a man summoned from a fine brandy to attend a street brawl. The moment his paws touched the bar floor, he saw it:

You.

Balanced atop a barstool, barefoot, robe askew, hair wild from sleep and fury, brandishing a broom like a pitchfork. Your eyes were wide with panic, and your voice—normally warm, weary, and pleasantly low—was now shrill enough to haunt opera houses.

“Richard!” you shrieked again. “Do something!”

Turpin froze mid-stride.

Do something?

He followed your gaze to the creature in question: a small, twitchy-nosed rat scurrying along the baseboard near the dartboard, utterly unimpressed by your theatrics. It paused. Sniffed. Wiggled its tail.

You screamed again.

The rat blinked. Turpin did too.

This? This was the cause of your distress?

Turpin sat down, tail curling neatly around his paws, and stared at you in disbelief.

He had watched you throw out four drunk rugby players last Friday. Had seen you break a glass on the bar counter just to shut up a man who tried to slap your ass. He had witnessed you carry barrels of ale up narrow stairs without flinching.

And now—now—you trembled atop a stool like a damsel in some cheap novel because of one rat?

“RICHARD!” you bellowed, jabbing the broom in his direction. “It’s going to crawl on me! Kill it!”

He blinked, slowly.

Kill it?

Turpin, once the feared Judge of Fleet Street, scourge of London’s criminal underbelly, had sentenced men to death for crimes no graver than tax evasion. He had ordered whippings, hangings, hard labor. He had dined with earls and condemned children for pickpocketing.

And now he was expected to chase vermin like a common alley cat?

The rat darted behind a crate.

You shrieked and danced on your toes. “Richard! Please! I can’t—I can’t live here if it’s still in here!”

Turpin stared at you.

Then he sighed.

Yes. Actually sighed.

A deep, world-weary exhale that rattled from his feline chest like the breath of an old man watching civilization crumble brick by brick.

He stood. Stretched. Flexed one paw, then the other, and stalked forward like the executioner you begged him to be.

The rat, sensing death, scuttled toward the bar cabinet.

Turpin pounced.

It was quick—efficient, brutal. He pinned the wretched thing beneath a paw, claws slicing through its spine with a sickening snap. A twitch. A squeak. Silence.

He sat back.

Tail flicked once.

Finished.

You stared at him, still frozen on the stool, wide-eyed and breathless.

Turpin licked his paw.

“Good God,” you whispered. “You actually—Richard, you saint—”

Saint?

He gagged a little.

You slid down from the stool, half-hopping, half-sliding, and nearly dropped the broom in your haste. You scooped him up, pressing his damp, furry body to your chest with the fervor of a knight embracing a holy relic.

He yowled in protest, more at the indignity of being squeezed against your breast than the actual rat corpse cooling behind him.

“You’re amazing,” you mumbled into his fur. “Absolutely bloody amazing. I’ll give you steak. No—tuna. No—both.”

He stared up at you with narrowed hazel eyes.

Yes. He’d done it.

But not for you. Certainly not.

He’d done it because vermin belonged in sewers—not pubs. Not homes. Not in places where men drank bitter and made off-color jokes. Not where women—tired, brave, bewilderingly infuriating women—slept in thin robes and begged ancient men for help.

You kissed his head.

He hissed. Loudly.

And you just laughed.

“Alright, hero,” you said. “You win. Full royal treatment.”

You carried him up the stairs like an offering, muttering promises of chicken and head scratches and “no more pet store food, I swear.” He endured it. With silent, bitter dignity.

Later, curled on your lap while you absently stroked his ears and sipped your wine, Turpin watched your reflection in the darkened TV screen.

You were humming again.

He’d never admit it.

But he liked that sound.

Still.

He narrowed his eyes at your bare legs stretched out across the sofa and thought grimly to himself—

If another rat shows up…

He’ll make it suffer.

Just a little longer than necessary.

For pride’s sake.

There were other nights, too.

Nights quieter than rain, when the world held its breath between streetlight flickers. Nights when the pub was closed, the lights were off, the floors cleaned, the fire dying low in its grate—and still, Turpin could not sleep.

Not that he dreamt, not anymore. Dreams belonged to men with souls, and his had been wrung out centuries ago, bled dry on the altar of ambition and law. No, when he stirred from slumber now, it was not from restless conscience, nor nightmare.

It was from you.

It always was.

Turpin would rouse from his curled position on the bed—sometimes at your feet, sometimes by your ribs, depending on which half of your body radiated more warmth that evening—and he’d find the air heavy. Warmer. Scented.

Then he’d turn his head.

And see you.

Breathing shallow beneath the quilt. Chest rising just a little faster. One hand clutched at the sheets. The other—

Buried between your thighs.

Your eyes half-lidded. Lips parted. A quiet, breathy sigh slipping through the dark.

Turpin would freeze. Every time.

As if caught in something obscene and sacred at once. He should look away. Turn his head. Leap from the bed in a hiss of disgust and moral outrage.

He never did.

Because he was still a man. Somewhere, beneath the fur and the cursed silence—he was still Richard bloody Turpin.

And Richard bloody Turpin had desires.

Oh, he’d try to rationalize it later. Tell himself it was curiosity. That he was simply keeping watch, ever vigilant, like the predator he was. That it was his duty, really, to ensure you didn’t perish in some strange modern ritual under the covers.

But that was a lie.

Because his eyes would lock on your fingers—how they slipped beneath the fabric with slow, practiced confidence. How your breath hitched when your palm pressed lower. Sometimes your hips rolled, just slightly, lifting toward your own touch with a desperation he knew intimately. You’d whimper into the dark, eyes fluttering shut—and that sound, that raw little plea, always made his claws dig into the blanket beneath him.

But worst of all…

Sometimes you used that thing.

That grotesque, shimmering pink monstrosity tucked into the drawer beside the bed. He’d seen you take it out. He knew what it was for. But he still didn’t understand it—not really. Not in the marrow-deep way men of the old world understand knives or gallows.

It was obscene. Alien. Silicone, you had muttered once under your breath, as if that explained anything.

The first time he saw it, he recoiled. Leapt from the bed with an offended yowl and landed in your laundry basket like a feline corpse tossed from a gallows. You had cursed, then laughed, tossing a pillow at him without missing a beat.

“Jealous?” you murmured through your panting, your voice thick with heat. “Sorry, Rick. This one doesn’t scratch.”

He’d hissed and slunk beneath the radiator, refusing to look at you for the rest of the night.

But he’d still listened.

Because even with that ridiculous thing between your legs, even with your head thrown back against the pillow and your thighs shaking under the duvet, you groaned.

And he listened.

But most nights, the moment you realized he was still there—still watching—you’d mutter a curse, shove him with your foot, and order him out like some lecherous voyeur caught peeking at the vicar’s daughter.

“Off, you creep,” you’d whisper, half-laughing. “Go chase a mouse or something. Let a girl have some privacy.”

He’d hiss in offense—never guilt—and leap from the bed as if the mattress itself had committed treason. His pride in tatters. His ego raw. His tail twitching like the blade of a guillotine.

But he never went far.

He’d settle at the door. Just far enough to feign indifference.

And every now and then, when the sounds resumed—the wet, hushed rhythm of pleasure, the gasp you tried (and failed) to swallow—he’d close his eyes.

Not in shame.

In hunger.

Because no toy, no battery-powered mockery of manhood, no whispered fantasy conjured in the dark… could ever do what he would do, if he had the chance.

If he had the body.

If he had you.

And oh, he would have you.

One day.

When the witch’s curse cracked and the old magic unraveled. When the flesh returned to his bones, when the robes replaced the fur, when his baritone voice once again filled a room with command and cruelty alike—

He’d take you.

Not sweetly. Not gently.

He’d make you beg. Just to prove he could.

But for now, he waited.

Watched.

And when you fell asleep at last, trembling and spent, your limbs lax and throat bruised from silence, he would return.

Curl beside you.

Rest his head on your ribs.

And pretend, just for a few hours, that he didn’t ache like a man lost in time.

That he didn’t love like one, too.

You tried to bring men, once.

Of course you did. You were modern, free, perfectly within your rights to take lovers—or, at the very least, companionship that didn't leave fur on your clean linen or hiss at your attempts to sweep.

Turpin had tolerated much. He’d endured the indignity of shared baths, those scandalous nights you padded into the kitchen barefoot, half-naked, humming some tune from your girlhood. He’d accepted—grudgingly—the ridiculous names, the kisses to his head, the tender way you sometimes whispered “love you” when you thought he was asleep.

But another man?

In his house?

No. 

You met the man at the pub. Of course you did. It had been a long night—too many patrons, too many pints, and not enough patience. The rain clattered against the windows in waves, and the fire behind the bar struggled to keep up with the damp. You’d laughed more than once at some stranger’s bad joke, wiped tables with the weariness of a woman carrying the whole bloody establishment on her back, and when he walked in—tall, square-jawed, charming in that slippery way that made Turpin immediately suspicious—you smiled.

Turpin, from his usual perch atop the shelf above the bar, narrowed his eyes.

Something about the man didn’t sit right. Too much tooth in the smile. Too much gel in the hair. One of those types who looked in the mirror just long enough to forget anyone else existed. Turpin watched him, tail twitching like the tip of a whip, already plotting his demise.

But you… you laughed at his stories. Laughed at him. And when the pub finally closed—when the chairs were flipped and the lights dimmed and the last drunk had been escorted home with a bag of chips—you invited him upstairs.

Turpin did not approve.

But of course, no one asked his opinion.

He followed silently, tail lashing with every step as the two of you ascended the narrow staircase. Your hand was on the stranger’s chest, giggling under your breath, and the man’s arm found your waist far too easily. Turpin hissed softly, but no one noticed. You were too busy exchanging kisses—your back pressed to the wall near the coat rack, your mouth tugged into a smile beneath his.

He tried not to look.

Tried.

But he watched from the foot of the stairs, ears flat, tail coiled tight with disdain.

It wasn’t until you murmured, “I’ll get wine,” and slipped toward the kitchen that Turpin made his move.

The man leaned against the wall near the bookshelf, smug and idle, already unbuttoning his shirt as if he owned the place. As if he owned you.

Turpin approached soundlessly.

He sprang.

A streak of black fur and fury, he landed claws-first on the man’s leg, teeth bared, hissing like all of Hell’s fury lived in his tiny, cursed body. The man let out a startled yelp, stumbling back.

“The fuck—!” he snapped, shaking his leg. “Get off me, you little freak!”

Then came the kick.

Not hard. Not meant to kill. But sharp enough to send Turpin skidding across the wooden floor with a painful thud. He meowed—loudly. Piteously. Dramatically.

The kind of meow that could curdle milk and raise the dead.

You came running.

“What happened?!”

Saw him sprawled, fur disheveled, a pitiful whimper rising from his throat. His hazel eyes wide with betrayal, his chest rising in shallow, theatrical breaths.

“What the fuck,” you snapped. “Did you just kick my cat?”

The man blinked. “He attacked me!”

You didn’t care. Not even a little.

“No one hurts Richard,” you said coldly.

And with that, you opened the door.

“Out.”

“What—?”

“Out. Now.”

The man scoffed. Tried to protest. You didn’t flinch.

He left with a string of curses muttered under his breath, and the door slammed shut behind him like a gavel in the hand of an angry god.

Turpin watched you from the floor.

Still lying dramatically on his side, as if his spine had been shattered and his will to live stolen by a single leather boot.

“Oh, Rick,” you whispered, kneeling beside him. “Oh, my darling boy. Are you alright?”

He meowed. Pitifully. Theatrically.

You gathered him into your arms, cradling him like a child, one hand stroking over his fur with a gentleness that made his bones ache. “You scared me,” you murmured. “You brave little fool.”

He tucked his head under your chin, partly because it masked his satisfied smirk, and partly because he wanted to feel your heart thudding in your chest—fast and furious on his behalf.

“I love you, Richard,” you whispered. “You know that? I love you. And I’ll never, ever let anyone hurt you.”

He purred then.

Low and deep and victorious.

Because, for the first time in nearly two centuries, someone had chosen him. Not for status. Not for power. Not even for convenience.

You had chosen him.

And damn it all to hell—

He liked the way it felt.

But then you betrayed him.

Oh, how he hated you in that moment.

It began with a lie.

A casual, smiling lie. The kind that dripped from your mouth like honey, sugar-coated with good intentions.

“We’re just going for a quick check-up,” you’d said, scooping him into that horrid plastic cage with the nerve of someone who hadn’t just condemned an ancient soul to needles and indignity.

He should’ve known.

Should’ve recognized the glint in your eye, the overly sweet tone, the way you tried to distract him with bits of chicken as you buckled the cage into the car.

“Just a check-up,” you repeated, as if saying it twice made it true.

Liar.

He returned from the vet sullen, sore, and half-drugged, his once-glorious tail drooping like a broken banner. They’d prodded him. Injected him. Taken fluids and hair and—God help him—inserted a thermometer where no respectable judge should ever suffer intrusion.

And you had held him there.

Held him still while they pierced his dignity with every sterile tool in that damned white-tiled torture chamber.

When you brought him home, murmuring sweet apologies and stroking his ears like that could erase the betrayal, he did not purr. He did not nuzzle. He did not blink slowly in truce.

He plotted.

And he bided his time.

Two days later, his vengeance was swift and cold.

The bar was empty. The lights low. You were upstairs, likely fussing over invoices or warming tea or doing whatever trivial thing occupied your modern female mind while Turpin, noble creature that he was, took his rightful place upon the counter.

There it stood.

Your favorite bottle of whiskey.

The expensive one.

The one you saved for special occasions—or, more recently, long nights and quiet cries you thought he didn’t hear.

He stared at it.

Considered.

Then, with the poise of a king passing sentence, he raised one paw…

And swatted.

The bottle toppled. Shattered.

Amber liquid fanned out across the bar like spilled blood.

Your scream was immediate. “RICHARD!”

He leapt down before you reached the room, tail high, utterly unrepentant, already trotting toward the stairs.

You thundered after him, slippers smacking the old wood, fury crackling in your voice like thunder.

“Richard, you little shit, you broke the—don’t you dare—RICHARD!”

Too late.

He was on the counter in the kitchenette now, beside the sink, eyes locked on your favorite mug—the chipped porcelain one with the blue ivy pattern, the one you cradled like a relic every morning as you shuffled sleepily toward the kettle.

He lifted a paw.

You froze in the doorway, breath caught in your throat. “Richard. Don’t. Do. That.”

He looked at you.

And knocked it over.

The crash echoed like a gavel striking the block.

You screamed. Furious. Gut-deep. The kind of sound that rattled windows and made grown men turn on their heels.

But he didn’t run.

He walked away slowly, tail curled in smug satisfaction, pausing at the doorway to lick his paw with exaggerated delicacy. He didn't even look back.

Until he heard it.

Not a shout. Not another curse.

A sniffle.

He stopped. Turned his head, ears twitching.

You knelt beside the shattered mug, silent now. Gathering the pieces in your hands—not carefully. Not mindfully. Just… slowly. Desperately. Blood smeared the shards. A thin, red line across your palm.

Turpin blinked.

You didn’t look at him. Just sat on your knees, cradling the largest piece in your hand like a dead bird.

“It was the last thing my mom gave me,” you murmured. “Birthday gift, just before she got sick.”

Turpin’s tail flicked once.

“I didn’t even like it, at first,” you whispered. “Said it was too plain. But she said it looked like something from a garden. Said it’d keep me grounded.”

Your voice broke.

“I should’ve taken better care of it.”

You stood slowly, clutching the shards, ignoring the blood on your fingers, your wrist, even as a drop hit the counter.

Turpin padded forward, quiet now.

You set the pieces gently down beside the kettle and began rummaging in the drawer. “I can fix it,” you muttered. “I can glue it. It won’t be pretty, but—”

He leapt onto the counter.

You didn’t stop him.

Didn’t even glance up.

You only pressed the broken handle to the base and squinted at the seam. Blood smeared the porcelain, but you didn’t seem to notice.

Turpin watched. Listened.

Felt something in his chest ache like an old scar reopening.

It wasn’t guilt.

He was above guilt.

But… he didn’t like the smell of your blood. Didn’t like the tremor in your fingers. Didn’t like the way your eyes looked so far away even as you sat right beside him.

He nudged your arm once.

You blinked.

He licked your wrist, once. The barest touch.

“Careful,” you whispered. “There’s glue.”

He didn’t care.

You glanced down at him then, truly looking, and let out a wet, broken laugh.

“You’re a bastard, you know that?”

He blinked slowly.

You wiped your hand on a tea towel. Picked up another piece. “But I guess I’m stuck with you.”

He sat beside you.

Watched as you tried to rebuild something shattered.

He didn’t purr. He wouldn’t give you that.

But he stayed close. He pressed into you. He lingered in your lap when you cried and didn’t ask him to move. It was the only apology he could offer, the only language left to him.

And you… seemed to forgive him.

You smiled when he followed you up the stairs. Scratched behind his ears absently as you read. Let him curl on your chest again at night, your hand resting lightly on his side.

But Turpin noticed.

He noticed that you remained quiet in the mornings now.

You didn’t hum while you cooked.

You didn’t talk to him as much.

Each evening after closing, you sat with the broken mug—your mother’s mug—trying, again and again, to piece it back together. The cracks never fit. The handle wouldn’t stay. The glaze crumbled under your fingers.

Some nights you muttered angrily to yourself. Others, you said nothing—just stared at the ruined porcelain, your lips tight and eyes red. And when you finally gave up and slipped into bed, Turpin climbed atop your chest and pressed his tiny skull to your chin.

He hated it.

He hated that he couldn’t fix it. That he had no opposable thumbs, no voice, no clever way to undo the damage he had caused. He had once passed sentence over men for lesser sins. And now here he was—reduced to fur and silence, curling into your sadness because there was nothing else he could do.

On the fifth day, it broke.

You stood by the bin with the mug in your hands, cradling it one last time. Your fingers trembled. You didn’t cry. You just… stared.

Then you let it go.

It clattered to the bottom of the trash like a funeral.

Turpin sat on the windowsill, tail wrapped tight around his paws, watching you as you whispered into the still air:

“I guess… it’s just you now, Richard. You’re all I’ve got.”

His ears twitched.

He didn’t like the sound of that.

Not because he didn’t want to be yours—but because of the way you said it. Hollow. Defeated. Like you’d accepted loneliness as your fate. Like your mother, and the mug, and whatever warmth you had once wrapped yourself in had all quietly left you behind.

And Turpin—Richard bloody Turpin—found himself wishing for hands. For words. For something beyond mewls and narrowed eyes.

Because he wanted to say:

No.

You are not alone.

You have me.

And I won’t leave you.

Ever.

So he stayed.

He stayed at the bar every night after closing. He perched on the counter like a little sentry, hazel eyes fixed on the door. When the regulars got rowdy, he bristled. When a man leaned too close across the bar, he hissed.

And when some greasy, red-faced drunk slapped your ass with a laugh and a slurred “What’s a girl like you doing alone this late, eh?”, Turpin sank his teeth into the man’s hand.

The drunk screamed.

You reacted instantly—shoving the man back with a growl, your voice low and fierce. “Out. Now.”

“But—!”

“I said out.”

You didn’t even look at the blood on his knuckles. Just pointed to the door and dared him to argue. When it slammed shut behind him, you turned to Richard, who still sat on the bar, tail twitching.

And you smiled.

“Good boy,” you whispered, ruffling his ears. “My little guard dog.”

Turpin felt it then. Something stupidly warm bloom in his chest. Pride.

He could get used to this.

Used to your fingers in his fur. Used to your laugh. Your low voice in the morning, that little mutter of “come on, lazybones” as you coaxed him out of bed with scraps of sausage. Used to the way you always left the bathroom door open and sang in the shower like nobody was listening.

He could get used to you.

But fate…

Fate is cruel.

It was a Thursday night. Quiet. Rain tapped at the windows. The last of the patrons had trickled out an hour ago. You were humming as you wiped the counter, your back to the door, your body tired but loose with routine.

Turpin was on the bar, watching you. Drowsy. At peace.

Then—crash.

The door slammed open.

You turned, cloth still in hand.

A man.

Hooded. Masked. Something glinting in his hand.

You froze.

Turpin leapt down, fur bristling.

“Register,” the man growled. “Now.”

You stared, slowly raising your hands. “Look, I don’t—there’s barely anything in there—”

“OPEN. IT.”

Turpin saw the gun. He saw your hands tremble.

He didn’t think. He lunged.

A blur of black fur, claws out, teeth bared—he latched onto the man’s arm with a snarl that didn’t sound like any cat should be capable of making.

The thief howled. Swung.

Turpin flew across the room.

He hit the wall hard.

Yowled. You screamed. And you moved.

You moved before thinking. Before breathing. You grabbed a bottle from the shelf and smashed it against the man’s shoulder.

He turned.

Raised the gun.

And shot.

One shot.

Turpin barely felt his paws under him as he scrambled to you, as you fell—so slow, too slow—knees buckling, body twisting, blood blooming across your stomach like spilled wine.

The man grabbed the till. Ripped it open. Shoved money into a bag.

Didn’t look back. Didn’t care.

The door slammed shut behind him.

And you… you were on the floor. Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Blood pooling beneath you, spreading like grief across the cracked tile.

Turpin pressed himself to your chest, his tiny paws scrabbling at your shoulders.

No.

He meowed—loud, desperate, ugly.

No, no, no, no—

He nuzzled your cheek, pressed his head to your neck, where your pulse still fluttered weakly, but fading.

You gasped, barely there.

“Rich…ard…”

He meowed again, louder. Pushed at you with his nose. Curled around your hand.

Stay.

Stay.

Please.

Don’t leave me.

Don’t leave me alone.

You’d said he was all you had—but you… you were all he had left, too.

And he couldn’t lose you.

Not you.

Not you.

Not you.

Your eyes closed.

Turpin meowed again.

Pressed his face to your chest.

And wept.

As only a cat could.

In silence. In stillness. With nothing but the echo of your final breath ringing in his ears.

And the promise he’d made—long ago now, stupid and whispered and silent—

I’ll take care of you.

He had failed.

And the witch's curse whispered on the wind again, cruel and quiet:

“You’ll learn to love, Richard. And that… that will be your undoing."

He wouldn’t leave.

Not the first day. Not the second. Not even after the rain had soaked him through and the wind had clawed at his fur like it wanted to peel him apart.

They buried you on a Wednesday.

A modest plot at the edge of the cemetery—behind the church, just beyond the crumbling wall where the ivy grew too thick to prune. No family. No mourners, save a few of the pub regulars who drank in silence and whispered about “the girl with the cat.” They left flowers. One brought a flask.

And him.

Richard Turpin, once a man feared across London, now a soaking, silent heap of black fur curled atop your fresh grave.

He’d been there when they lowered you in. Watched from the treeline, still bloodied from that night. His eyes never left the pine box as it disappeared into the dirt, one shovelful at a time.

And when they were gone—when the rain came and the sun didn’t—he climbed atop the mound and stayed.

The gravediggers tried, of course.

They threw stones first. Small, harmless things. “Shoo, cat!” one muttered. “That ain’t your spot.”

Turpin didn’t move.

Next came sticks. Not sharp, not cruel. Just prods. Nudges.

He hissed once. Bared his teeth.

They stopped trying after that.

“Kind of cute,” one muttered, scratching at his beard as he watched the soaked creature curl tighter against the headstone. “Poor thing. Loyal, ain’t he?”

“Aye,” said the other. “He’s been there all night. Bloody hell, even I wouldn’t sleep in this cold.”

But Turpin did.

He slept there every night, even as the winds came screaming off the moors and the frost turned the earth to stone. He didn’t hunt. Didn’t eat. Didn’t drink unless the rain gave him puddles. He didn’t care. His ribs showed. His fur thinned.

But he stayed.

For you.

He hated you for it. Hated that you had undone him, softened him, mattered. Hated that your touch still lingered like warmth in his memory. That your scent haunted the edges of every dream.

He wanted to scream—but cats couldn’t.

So he lay in silence, tail curled, paws tucked, eyes hollow, the headstone cold beneath his chin.

Until one day, she came back.

It was twilight.

The sun barely pierced the low, grey clouds, and Turpin was half-asleep, dreaming of warm kitchens and the sound of your laugh when you caught him judging your stew. He didn’t hear her approach.

Not at first.

Only when the wind shifted—when the air suddenly smelled of sulfur and spite—did he blink.

He opened his eyes.

And there she was.

The witch.

Old. Wild-eyed. Teeth still like crooked gravestones. Her shawl tattered. Her voice soft and mocking as she crouched beside the grave and smiled down at him like a cat smiling at a mouse.

“Well, well,” she said, voice honeyed with rot. “Look what the wind’s dragged back into the mud.”

Turpin didn’t move.

Not at first.

Then—slowly, stiffly—he rose from the grave, fur soaked, eyes narrowed, tail lashing behind him. He stared.

She laughed. A dry, rasping sound. “Took a long time, Judge Turpin. But here you are. Still clinging to a corpse.”

He growled.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she crooned. “I warned you. Or… tried to. But you weren’t listening, were you?”

Turpin bared his teeth.

She grinned wider.

“You heard the first part,” she said. “You remembered that, didn’t you? ‘You’ll live as a cat until you learn to love.’ Such a tidy curse. Neat. Poetic. But you never listened to the rest.”

Turpin blinked.

The witch leaned closer, voice like ice in his ear.

“When you do learn to love… when your soul finally stirs, when your cold, selfish heart beats for another…”

She touched the gravestone lightly, fingers grazing your name.

“…you’ll watch them die and that… that will be your undoing.”

Turpin stiffened.

His claws dug into the earth.

The witch smiled, teeth yellow and sharp. “That’s the price, Judge. That’s the punishment. You wanted power. I gave you helplessness. You never cared for others. So now—every time you do, you’ll lose them.”

Turpin launched at her.

Fangs bared, claws out, a hiss erupting from his throat like fire.

But she was gone.

Vanished into the wind.

And where she’d stood—only mist.

Turpin landed hard in the dirt, his body twisting—bones stretching, cracking, reshaping. His scream tore from his throat as his limbs elongated, spine cracking like dry wood. Pain flared. Heat. Pressure.

He collapsed.

When the dust settled, he was no longer a cat.

He was a man.

Human.

Again.

Naked, trembling, soaked in sweat and soil—but unmistakably Richard Turpin.

He gasped, clawing at the grass, his fingers twitching, his breath fogging in the cold.

Hazel eyes. Hooked nose. That same cruel mouth.

But it trembled now.

He sat up slowly, staring down at his own hands—calloused, veined, bloody from the transformation. He looked toward your grave.

And for the first time in a century…

He wept.

Not as a cat. Not as a judge.

As a man.

A man who had loved—and learned too late that love, for someone like him, could only end in grief.

He crawled to your headstone.

Pressed his forehead to the cold stone, breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Y-you…” he rasped, voice hoarse, unfamiliar after so long. “You were mine.”

Silence.

“And I… I was yours.”

No answer.

Just the wind.

And the truth:

By loving you… he had damned you.

He fell to the earth, arms curled around your grave, cheek pressed to the dirt.

And for the first time since his cursed sentence had begun…

Richard Turpin—once Judge of London, feared, proud, cruel—

Broke.

And begged.

“Bring her back,” he whispered.

But the earth stayed silent.

The curse had been fulfilled.

And now, finally human again, all Turpin could do was scream into the dirt.

Because now, he had hands.

But nothing left to hold.

[severussimp]

[severussimp]

[severussimp]

A very specific plot, but it's one I've had in my head for years from a book I wanted to write. I know you can take it and make it better than I ever could, so here it is:

Y/N is a secretary at a recording studio when AR comes in to dub lines for a movie, but is distraught despite trying to keep her mind on her work due to a call from her soon-to-be ex husband about their divorce being finalised. AR walks in, sees Y/N, is awestruck, love at fiest sight, and immediately concerned when he sees the divorce papers signed and lying on the desk beside Y/N and her having been crying. The next day when Y/N walks in, there's a fresh bouquet of flowers waiting on the desk for her, and when AR comes in that afternoon to work on recording lines, he admits to being the one who sent the flowers and offers to walk Y/N home as he's still there finishing up at closing. Fast forward to him asking Y/N out for dinner and then Y/N is dealing with deep seated feelings because of the divorce and she needs the touch of a man, and then comes the smut.

Please have fun.

Title: Retakes

Summary: Alan lied—about the takes, about the timing, about how long he could keep his hands off her. But when truth comes wrapped in lingerie and vulnerability, he doesn’t stand a chance.

Pairing: Alan Rickman × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Also read on Ao3

Alan stepped out of the black town car with a quiet breath, smoothing his coat with a practiced hand. The morning air was crisp, filtered through faint city smog and the anticipation that always accompanied new work. He squinted up at the recording studio, tall glass and steel, unremarkable to anyone but him. To him, it was Wonderland.

He smiled faintly at the thought. Absolem. He’d been looking forward to this. The cadence. The detachment. The wit hidden behind smoke and riddles. It suited him. Perhaps too well.

“Alan!” came a familiar voice.

Tim Burton, clad in a mismatched coat and chaos-colored scarf, ambled toward him with the enthusiasm of a man whose imagination had not yet found the bounds of age. Alan smiled.

“Tim,” he drawled warmly, shaking the director’s hand. “I was beginning to suspect you were a figment of my imagination.”

Tim chuckled. “Oh, I am. But one with a schedule.”

Alan followed him into the studio, his coat draped over one arm, the other tucked in his trouser pocket as they made their way through the sleek corridors. He nodded politely at every technician, every assistant that passed them. It was reflex by now—politeness with just enough detachment to feel charming, without inviting unnecessary conversation.

And then he saw you.

You were standing just outside the sound booth, a tablet in hand, listening intently as Tim updated you on the schedule. You weren’t looking at Alan. Which was why, of course, he couldn’t stop looking at you.

Something hitched in his chest. The smallest, most inexplicable pause.

Not stunning. Not in the overly deliberate way he was used to on film sets. But beautiful, yes. And poised. Your features soft but sharp where it mattered. There was a knowing in your eyes. A grace in your stillness. A curve to your mouth that hinted at quiet sarcasm and hidden affection in equal measure.

He blinked.

Control yourself, Rickman.

He'd seen beautiful women before. He’d kissed half of them on set, sometimes more than once. Most of the time in front of an entire crew and a boom mic. He could recite the lines, hit his mark, flirt with a tilt of his brow and a flick of his voice.

But this was different.

You were different.

He didn’t know why—only that he felt the difference like a chord struck in his chest.

Tim gestured vaguely in his direction and you finally turned to him, offering a polite, professional smile.

“Mr. Rickman,” you said. Your voice was warm. Calm. Not flustered. Simply kind. “Welcome.”

He extended his hand before he could think better of it. “Please,” he murmured, voice dropping to that rich baritone, the one he sometimes forgot could still make people turn. “Alan will do."

You reached out. Your hand met his.

And there it was.

The cool band of metal against his fingers. A wedding ring. Slim. Silver. No diamonds. Worn on instinct.

His expression didn’t change. His smile remained steady. But inwardly, something in him tightened. Just slightly. Not regret. Not exactly.

Disappointment.

Of course, he thought. Of course she's married. Someone saw her first.

He pulled back his hand with practiced grace, tucked both into his pockets now, as if they’d never reached for anything.

“Well,” he said lightly, lips twitching into something dry and self-deprecating. “If I butcher the caterpillar, you’ll know who to report me to.”

You laughed—a real laugh. And it startled him, how much he liked the sound.

“I think you’ll be brilliant,” you said, glancing down at your tablet, already back to business. “You’ve got the perfect voice for riddles and passive aggression.”

Alan blinked, then barked a soft laugh of his own. “High praise. Especially from someone who hasn’t heard me scold a young actor in rehearsal.”

You smiled again, and Alan followed Tim into the booth, casting one final glance over his shoulder.

Careful, he told himself. She’s married. And she’s kind. And beautiful. And your type. And none of that means a thing.

But as the studio door shut behind him and the mic lit up, he couldn’t help but wonder—just once—if you wore that ring because you were happy…

…or because you were loyal.

Alan spent hours in the studio, chasing the exact tone he wanted—slippery, elusive, like smoke curling through a locked door. He tried rasping the lines. He tried slouching into the mic, tried closing his eyes, tried letting his voice slide like a snake across each syllable. Still, it wasn’t right.

“Again,” he said, after take fourteen. “It needs to feel like the listener is being watched. Judged. By something ancient. And mildly annoyed.”

The voice assistant, a young man with tired eyes and a Starbucks addiction, let out a polite cough. “Maybe we take five, Mr. Rickman?”

Alan blinked. Not at the suggestion, but at the “we.”

He nodded, slowly unwinding his long frame from the stool. “Five, then,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Or forever, if I can’t find this bloody voice.”

Outside the booth, the hallway felt overly bright, artificial light humming above him. His stomach grumbled. Loudly.

Tim, of course, had vanished hours ago—“Back soon!” he’d said cheerfully, disappearing in a flurry of scarf and ambition. Alan suspected he’d wandered off to consult a costume rack or possibly a shrub.

But before he'd left, Tim had tossed over a distracted suggestion. "If you need anything—lunch, help, translation of Gen Z slang—go to [Your Name]. She runs the schedule and the galaxy."

Alan had smiled politely. He remembered the way your eyes hadn’t lingered on him too long. He liked that. You didn’t seem to orbit him like others did. You had your own gravity.

And so, with measured steps and some invisible inward groaning, Alan made his way through the corridors, hoping—innocently, of course—that you might recommend a nearby restaurant. Perhaps even… join him. As two people. Eating food. Conversing.

Married, Rickman, he reminded himself again. That ring didn’t just appear on her finger by accident. You’re not twenty-five. You don’t do this.

But then he turned the corner and stopped.

You were alone, seated at the far end of a desk, tablet dark in front of you, your shoulders curled ever so slightly inward. Your hand moved slowly, wiping beneath one eye. Then the other.

Tears.

Alan's heart paused mid-beat. He stood there for a moment, caught between instinct and restraint, but something about the soft, almost embarrassed tilt of your head made the choice for him.

He stepped forward gently, voice low and warm. “Forgive me,” he said. “I was hoping to beg a restaurant recommendation off you. But I seem to have chosen the worst possible moment.”

You startled slightly, blinking up at him with flushed cheeks and watery lashes. “Mr. Rickman—oh, I’m—God, I’m so sorry. It’s nothing. Really. Just… tired.”

Alan didn’t sit, not quite, but he lowered himself enough to meet your eyes without looming. “Actors lie for a living,” he said gently. “That doesn’t mean I enjoy being lied to.”

Your smile was brief. Fragile. “I promise I’m not usually this much of a mess.”

“I don’t believe that,” Alan said softly. “You strike me as the kind who only melts down when the building is already on fire.”

You laughed once, dry and short—and that’s when he saw it. The manila envelope. Half-tucked beneath your tablet. Its top curled open just enough for him to glimpse the header.

Superior Court – Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

Ah.

And yet, the ring was still there.

Alan’s throat tightened. He shouldn’t be… glad. Not like this. Not at the quiet wreckage of someone else's love unraveling. But still—someone saw her first. And now, it seemed, someone let her go.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, meaning it.

You sniffed, brushing the tears away with your sleeve, embarrassment creeping in again. “It’s mutual. It’s civil. It’s overdue.”

Alan watched you a moment longer, then finally sat on the edge of the desk across from you, folding his long fingers together. “And the ring?” he asked gently, with just enough wryness to soften it. “Habit? Sentiment? Legal requirement?”

Your fingers curled over the band. Your smile was faint. Tired. “I’m not sure. Maybe all three.”

He nodded, as if that made perfect sense. And it did. People held onto things. Not because they wanted to go back. But because letting go took more time than signing a name.

You looked at him. Really looked. “Were you always this intuitive, or is it part of the actor training?”

Alan’s lips twitched. “I was born a nosy bastard, I’m afraid.”

That made you laugh. A real one this time. He watched it lift some of the weight off your shoulders, just slightly.

“I do know a quiet place, if you’re still hungry,” you offered after a moment, voice steadier now.

Alan’s brow lifted. “And would this place object to a woman crying into her sandwich and a cranky Brit muttering about vocal cords?”

You smiled—weakly, apologetically—as you reached for the tissue tucked into your sleeve.

“I won’t be joining you,” you said, voice low, careful. “Not today. I just… I’d rather be alone, you know?”

Alan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. There was no visible disappointment, no performative understanding, just a soft nod—measured, respectful.

“I understand,” he said simply.

You managed another smile, grateful and small, then turned to the desk, rifling through a drawer. “There’s a place two blocks down,” you said, tugging out a notepad and pen. “No frills. Good bread. Owner sings badly in French.”

Alan chuckled softly, watching as you scribbled the address in looping script.

“I’ll tell him to prepare for a cranky Brit,” you added, tearing off the page and handing it to him.

He accepted it with a little nod of thanks, folding it neatly.

“And if you change your mind,” Alan said gently, “or if… you need someone to talk to—someone who doesn't offer advice or interrupt—I’m around.”

You smiled again, this time politely, as if to say that’s kind, but you didn’t take it seriously. He was being courteous. British. Warm, but distant. You nodded anyway, and with a faint incline of his head, Alan rose from the edge of your desk and walked away.

You sat for a while afterward, fingers brushing the edge of the note you’d written, the silence around you somehow louder now that he’d gone.

The next morning, you were back at your post, tablet charged, hair hastily tied, coffee in one hand and stress in the other. It was quiet, for the moment—no Tim yet, no studio hum. Just you and the comfort of solitude.

Then the door opened.

A man in a brown jacket stepped in, holding a bouquet large enough to obscure most of his torso. Reds. Oranges. Deep purples. Not cheap. Not generic.

“Delivery,” he muttered, peeking over the top.

You blinked. “For who?”

He glanced at the name on the tag. “[Your Name]”

You frowned. “There must be a mistake.”

“Office 302. That’s this, right?”

You nodded slowly, standing. The bouquet was absurdly lovely—wild but somehow elegant, the kind of thing someone chose intentionally, not at the last minute.

“Is there… a card?”

The man shook his head. “Didn’t see one.” He set the bouquet down on the corner of your desk. “I just do the drop-offs.” And with that, he was gone, whistling faintly as he vanished down the hall.

You stared at the flowers.

Your first thought, illogically, was Robert.

But no. That didn’t make sense. He hadn’t sent flowers when you got the job. Or when you got the promotion. Or when you spent a night in the ER with the flu. Flowers weren’t… Robert.

Still, a compulsion took over. You found yourself picking up your phone, pressing the number you knew too well. It rang twice.

“Yeah?” came Robert’s voice, distracted, as always.

“Did you send me flowers?”

A pause. “What?”

“Did you—never mind. Of course not.”

He let out a sigh. “Did someone die?”

“No,” you said softly. “Not today.”

You hung up before he could ask what you meant.

The rest of the day passed in strange anticipation. You kept glancing at the flowers, rearranging them slightly in their vase, brushing one petal with your fingertip like it might tell you something.

And then, just past four, the studio door opened again. Alan Rickman stepped in, scarf loose, coat unbuttoned, eyes warm as he offered a faint smile to the receptionist before making his way down the corridor. You felt the shift in the air before you saw him.

He stopped just short of your desk.

And when his hazel eyes flicked to the bouquet and then back to your face, you saw the flicker of something—relief, embarrassment, amusement—all fighting for dominance behind his expression.

“I take it,” he said carefully, voice low and smooth, “that the flowers arrived.”

You blinked, a little stunned. “That… was you?”

Alan cleared his throat. “I spent all morning berating myself,” he said, a touch too quickly, “convinced I’d overstepped. Too forward. Too familiar. Possibly even unprofessional.”

You looked at the bouquet, then back at him. “I thought it might be my ex-husband,” you admitted.

Alan’s brows lifted faintly. “That would’ve been… unfortunate.”

You laughed—quiet, surprised, soft. “He never sent me flowers. Not once. I think he considered them cliché.”

Alan tilted his head, and his mouth curved ever so slightly. “Then I suppose I’ve just committed a beautifully executed cliché.”

You studied him a moment. The subtle lines around his eyes. The slight pink in his cheeks. He looked pleased—but sheepishly so, like a schoolboy who wasn’t sure if he’d passed the exam or destroyed the classroom.

“They’re beautiful,” you said quietly.

His smile grew, just a little. “Good.”

A pause.

“Thank you,” you added. “For the flowers. And… for yesterday.”

Alan dipped his head slightly, as if acknowledging something unspoken between you.

“You’re very welcome.”

And with that, he walked past your desk toward the recording booth—but not before his hand brushed lightly, briefly, over your shoulder.

Warm. Gentle. No pressure. Just presence.

Just enough.

And this time, you didn’t let yourself wonder why he did it.

You only smiled.

In the days that followed, Alan became a fixture in the studio. You tried not to read into it—tried to convince yourself that he was simply being thorough. Professional. That his drawn-out sessions behind the mic were the result of artistic perfectionism and not, as your wildly uncooperative heart insisted, a thinly veiled excuse to linger near you.

But then he’d step out of the recording booth, raking one elegant hand through his silver-threaded hair, lock eyes with you, and say—

“Well. That was dreadful. I suppose I’ll need another go tomorrow.”

And your stomach would flutter like it was nineteen and at the stage door again.

You spoke every day. Little things at first—lines, scripts, jokes about Tim’s newest scarf (which looked suspiciously like it had been knit by a colorblind octopus). But gradually, the conversations deepened. He asked about your day. Your dreams. Whether you'd ever wanted to act. You told him about the stage plays you’d done in college—nothing professional—and how, despite the thrill of it, you’d somehow ended up here, behind a desk instead of a spotlight.

“And do you regret that?” he asked once, his hazel eyes sharp but not unkind.

You shrugged. “Not really. I like watching other people create. There’s something… intimate about it.”

Alan’s brow twitched slightly, and his voice dropped a note lower. “Yes,” he said, almost to himself. “There is.”

Somewhere between his quips and your awkward coffee offers, you exchanged numbers. It was casual. Almost accidental. He asked for a recommendation for a bookstore. You texted him three. He replied with a thank-you and an emoji you were fairly certain he’d used ironically, but still.

You had Alan Rickman’s phone number.

Alan bloody Rickman.

You didn’t freak out.

Not outwardly.

Inwardly? You binged Truly, Madly, Deeply and Sense and Sensibility and then rewatched Die Hard at 2 a.m., because you suddenly needed to remind yourself that he was, in fact, also terrifying. Which didn’t help. Because even when he was terrifying, he was hot.

You got a little hysterical during Galaxy Quest.

It was fine.

Mostly.

Meanwhile, Alan was making questionable professional decisions.

He’d finished nearly all of Absolem’s lines by the end of the third day. There weren’t many—Absolem wasn’t that chatty—and yet somehow, here he was on Day Eight, sitting in the booth with a cup of Earl Grey and murmuring, “I think I need to try that last one again. It sounded too... conclusive.”

Tim Burton, to his credit, had said nothing.

Until Day Nine.

Alan had just emerged from the booth, hair slightly askew, scarf slung rakishly over one shoulder, when he was ambushed.

Tim appeared like a gothic jack-in-the-box from behind a sound panel, arms crossed, expression deeply unimpressed.

“Oh good,” he said. “You’re here. Still. Again.”

Alan blinked innocently. “Is there a problem?”

“You’ve finished the damn lines.”

“Have I?”

“Yes, Alan. Twice. I even stitched the takes together in post just to be sure. You’ve done the voice, the inflection, the bloody smoke effect. The caterpillar is complete. He's in chrysalis now. Let him go.”

Alan exhaled slowly, adjusting his scarf with theatrical patience. “I simply want to ensure the emotional arc of the—”

“Oh, stuff it,” Tim cut in, eyes narrowing. “You’re dragging this out so you can keep seeing her.”

Alan froze. Just briefly.

Then he blinked, tone dry. “That’s a rather bold assumption.”

Tim leaned closer. “Alan. My friend. I’ve known you since you wore velvet unironically. And I know when you’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That brooding, long-game, broody thing. The one where you pretend it’s all just art and creative rigor while you’re actually falling in love and being British about it.”

Alan didn’t respond. Just raised one brow. Tim barreled on.

“So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to invite her to dinner. Tonight. Somewhere nice. Not pretentious. With actual lighting. You’re going to say something charming—actually charming, not sarcastic and emotionally vague—and you’re going to finish the damn lines.”

Alan stared at him.

“If you don’t,” Tim added sweetly, “I’ll tell her myself. I’ll say, ‘Did you know Alan’s been faking retakes for five days just to loiter near your desk?’ And then I’ll show her the footage.”

Alan blinked again. “Footage?”

Tim smiled. “Studio security. You gaze at her like a man watching the last crêpe at brunch. It’s tragic.”

There was a long pause. Then:

“I hate you,” Alan murmured.

“Dinner, Alan. Or I will narrate your romantic failure to Danny Elfman in sonata form.”

Alan sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “God help me.”

Later that afternoon, you were sorting the latest revisions when a soft knock came at your office door.

You looked up.

Alan leaned in, that crooked half-smile on his lips, hands tucked deep in his coat pockets.

“Hello,” he said, a little too casually.

You blinked. “Hi.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“I was wondering,” Alan began slowly, “if you might join me for dinner this evening. There’s a place I know. Decent food. Poor lighting. And I promise not to monologue about Shakespeare unless provoked.”

You stared.

He looked… nervous. Not visibly. But you knew what to look for now. The slight tension in his jaw. The faint crease in his brow.

You smiled.

“I’d love to.”

Alan’s shoulders dropped just enough for you to notice.

He smiled back.

And behind a wall two rooms over, Tim Burton quietly pumped his fist and whispered, “Victory.”

The last thing you expected to do at dinner with Alan Rickman was to get sentimental. And yet there you were—elbows on the edge of the candlelit table, eyes slightly too bright, voice too loud, talking about your divorce like you were on a therapy podcast instead of sitting across from a man you’d fantasized about for the last week straight.

God. You were being annoying. You knew it.

It wasn’t even a good restaurant for this kind of conversation. It was intimate—yes—but designed for soft laughter, lingering glances, the clink of wine glasses. The bread was warm, the lighting golden, and Alan, ever the gentleman, had pulled out your chair without comment and asked if he could order the wine.

You had smiled and nodded and adjusted your dress three times before the waiter even brought the menu. And now… now you were halfway through a monologue about how your ex had once labeled your career ambitions as “hobbies” and how, on more than one occasion, he’d sighed at the idea of “emotional maintenance.”

“God,” you muttered, pushing your fork aside and sinking back in the chair, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m talking about him. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

Across the table, Alan—gracious, composed, maddeningly kind—simply tilted his head slightly and said, “I did ask how your week had been. Technically, this counts.”

You let out a short, guilty laugh and shook your head. “I swear, I’m not usually like this.”

Alan’s lips curved into that barely-there smirk you were beginning to recognize as his version of teasing. “Trauma dumping over carpaccio? You hide it well.”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “Please don’t be nice to me about this. It’s so much worse when you’re nice.”

He raised one brow, eyes warm. “Would you prefer I be cruel?”

“Yes,” you said immediately. “Be a complete bastard. Mock my emotional baggage. Call me tragic.”

Alan paused thoughtfully, then reached for his wine glass. “You’re tragic,” he said, deadpan. “Worse than a soggy Shakespeare adaptation.”

You laughed—genuinely this time. The knot in your chest loosened slightly. And then, because the universe had no sense of timing, your thoughts circled back to the one thing you absolutely could not admit: that you’d spent twenty minutes in front of your mirror debating whether to wear the red lingerie. That you’d chosen it, just in case. That your hands had trembled a little as you fastened the clasp, wondering if Alan would notice, if the night would even go there, if you could handle it if it didn’t.

Now, though, you were certain it wouldn’t. Not after this. Not after you’d emotionally backed into a corner of vulnerability and opened your mouth like a faucet. You were lucky he hadn’t excused himself to the bathroom and climbed out a window.

“I really am sorry,” you murmured, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. “It’s just… this is the first time I’ve gone out with anyone who isn’t him. And I guess I didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

Alan studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, softly: “What does it feel like?”

You met his gaze, and for once, didn’t look away.

“Like I’m cheating,” you said. “Even though I’m not. Even though he didn’t even fight for me. It’s stupid, I know.”

Alan’s fingers idly traced the stem of his glass. He didn’t smile this time. Didn’t offer a quick retort or brush it off with a joke.

Instead, he leaned in slightly, baritone soft. “It’s not stupid.”

You blinked.

“It’s honest,” he said. “And if you weren’t feeling something—loss, guilt, confusion—then I’d be concerned. The people we loved… even badly… don’t leave us cleanly. They leave fingerprints.”

You swallowed. The words struck something deep, unexpected. He didn’t pity you. He just understood.

“Alan,” you said quietly, “you really don’t have to sit here and listen to this. I wouldn’t blame you if you ran.”

He smiled, just barely. “Darling,” he said, voice velvet-smooth, “if I were going to run, I wouldn’t have ordered dessert.”

You stared at him. Then you saw the corners of his eyes crinkle, ever so slightly.

“You ordered dessert?”

“I did. Chocolate tart with sea salt. I’ve been told it pairs well with oversharing.”

You let out a shaky breath and smiled. A real smile. The kind that reached your eyes.

“I wore red lingerie,” you blurted before your brain could catch up.

Alan blinked.

You stared down at the table in horror. “Oh my God. I—forget I said that.”

He tilted his head. “Too late.”

You covered your face again, burning alive. “I’m going to crawl under the table now.”

He reached out and gently touched your wrist—warm, careful. Not pushing.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Please.”

You looked at him.

And this time, the look he gave you wasn’t polite. It wasn’t detached or charmingly aloof. It was slow. Intentional. His hazel eyes darkened slightly, lingering on your lips, then drifting just enough to make your breath catch.

“Red, was it?” he murmured.

You swallowed. Nodded, barely.

His fingers left your wrist—but not your mind.

“Good,” he said, sipping his wine with maddening calm. “Then we’ll make sure the evening doesn’t go to waste.”

And just like that, your heart dropped to your heels. Not because you were afraid, but because you suddenly, desperately wanted to see what Alan Rickman would do about red lingerie.

And this time, you were done apologizing for it.

You gasped against Alan’s mouth as your back hit the edge of a narrow console table in the hallway of his home, the polished wood cold against your spine, his body warm and solid against the front of you. The kiss was deep, hungry—none of the genteel pacing you’d expected, no carefully laid seduction. Just need. Pent-up, deliberate need, finally given permission to unravel.

Something clattered to the floor beside your feet—metal or glass, maybe—and you started to look, your head tilting in reflex. But Alan growled low against your lips, one hand sliding around to cup the back of your head and keep you still.

“Don’t,” he murmured, his breath hot against your mouth. “Ignore it.”

You obeyed.

The kiss deepened again. His other hand was on your ass now, large and warm and possessive, squeezing once—firm, greedy. It pulled a sound from your throat you didn’t recognize, but Alan did. His lips twitched faintly against yours, satisfied. Encouraged.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he broke the kiss. He didn’t move far—just pulled back enough to speak, his voice rough and low, lips brushing yours with every word.

“These are your options,” he said, his hand still gripping your waist, fingers spread across the curve of your hip. “Same ones I gave you in the car.”

You swallowed, breathless, chest rising and falling against his.

“One,” he continued, baritone steady, eyes locked to yours, “I take you home. We stop this. I drive you to your door, and we never talk about the fact that you wore red lingerie under that gorgeous little dress.”

Your breath caught, mouth parting, but he wasn’t finished.

“Or two,” he said, his voice even lower now, almost a whisper. “You let me take you upstairs. And I peel that dress off you inch by inch. And I finally—finally—get to see what you’ve been teasing me with all evening.”

Your fingers clenched in the fabric of his coat, your pulse a deafening drum in your ears.

“Your call,” he murmured, his hooked nose brushing yours, hazel eyes unreadable but burning. “But I need you to say it. I won’t assume.”

He waited. Still. Solid. Barely breathing.

And you knew, somehow, that if you told him to take you home, he would. No protest. No regret. Just a soft nod and the quiet crumpling of a man swallowing his own hunger.

But if you didn’t—

You lifted your gaze to his.

“Take me upstairs,” you whispered.

Alan exhaled—one long, low breath—like he’d been holding it for years.

“Thank God,” he said.

And then he kissed you again—deeper, slower, but no less urgent—as his hand slid down to hook behind your knee, lifting your leg just enough to press you harder against the table, his thigh firm between yours, the heat of him making you dizzy.

This was not going to be gentle.

Not tonight.

He kissed you a little more. Caressed you a little more. Slow, thoughtful strokes of his hands over your hips, your back, the nape of your neck—like he was memorizing you, not claiming you. He murmured something against your jaw—soft, unintelligible, but warm. Then he drew back just enough to take your hand in his, threading your fingers together without hesitation.

“Come with me,” he said, voice low, velvet-smoke, utterly calm.

You followed.

He led you up the stairs, the creak of the steps underfoot oddly intimate. Everything in his home was elegant but lived-in—books piled on the steps, a half-finished cup of tea on a hallway table, dim lighting that felt more like candlelight than electricity. You wanted to pause and examine everything, but your heart had begun to thud wildly in your chest.

Then you saw the bed.

Large. Impossibly so. Dark wood frame, thick mattress, soft-looking sheets in deep charcoal grey. The kind of bed you only saw in movies. Or in the homes of actors. Or, apparently, when you let Alan Rickman take you upstairs.

And for some reason, that’s when it hit you.

Oh God.

Your steps faltered. You blinked. The red lingerie suddenly felt too deliberate. Too hopeful. Your heart dropped, thudding hard.

He’s an actor.

A famous one. A rich one. A man who could quote Shakespeare and own a mattress that probably cost more than your last three paychecks combined. And you… You were a glorified secretary. A scheduling assistant with a student loan, a broken sink, and a newly finalized divorce. You weren’t glamorous. You weren’t his type.

Oh my God. What if this was a one-night stand?

You hadn’t stopped to think about that. Hadn’t let your brain catch up to your body. Idiot. Idiot. Of course it was a one-night stand. Look at him. Look at you. He dated actresses. Models. Women with power, or clout, or at least an assistant of their own. Not someone who spent her days chasing down production notes and keeping Tim Burton from getting lost in the parking garage.

You took a step back.

And bumped right into him.

Alan had been behind you, mid-motion, hands at his belt buckle, and your sudden movement startled you both. You turned quickly, wide-eyed, face burning, and he blinked in confusion, fingers pausing at the silver clasp.

He immediately dropped his hands from his belt. His expression shifted—softened, alert, but not demanding.

“Are you—” his baritone was careful now, almost quiet. “Are you regretful?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Shame crawled up the back of your throat, hot and sharp. “No,” you murmured, eyes on the floor. “No regrets. Just…"

His eyes searched your face, waiting.

“…I need to ask something.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t pressure. Just nodded once.

“Is this…” You took a breath, fingers curling into your palm. “Is this a one-night stand?”

Alan stilled.

Completely.

No immediate reassurance. No flirty denial. Just silence, the kind that sat heavy in the space between you. You swallowed. The quiet stretched. You couldn’t bring yourself to look up.

Then, softly:

“Do you want it to be a one-night stand?”

You lifted your head. His hazel eyes were unreadable. Not cold. Not closed off. Just… waiting.

“I—” you bit your lip, heart racing, unsure how much to admit.

Alan exhaled slowly and stepped forward, just enough to be near you again—but not to touch. His voice was quiet, steady, utterly sincere.

“Look,” he said. “I didn’t spend nine days coming into that studio, pretending to still be recording, just to get you into bed for one night.”

You blinked. “You what?”

He gave a soft, almost rueful smile. “I finished Absolem on Day Three. You know it. I know it. Tim knows it. And he’s been threatening to blackmail me with security footage for days.”

Your mouth parted in shock. “You were pretending?”

Alan nodded, only slightly self-deprecating. “Pretending to need more takes. More nuance. More smoke.” He raised a brow. “When in truth, I just… wanted to see you. Talk to you. Linger.”

You stared at him, stunned. Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You did all that for me?”

He looked at you then—really looked. The smile faded from his lips, but something warmer stayed behind.

“I liked you,” he said, simply. “I like you. Not for one night. Not for the lingerie, though that’s… rather excellent, if I may say so.” His voice dipped, just enough to make your pulse jump. “I like your mind. Your sarcasm. The way you look when you’re pretending not to be tired. The way you don’t look at me like I’m some character I once played.”

Your breath hitched.

“And if I’ve misread this,” he added quietly, “if you do want it to be one night—I’ll take you home. No pressure. No bitterness.”

You hesitated. Your lip trembled, just a little. Then you stepped forward and placed a hand on his chest, right over his heart.

“You didn’t misread anything,” you whispered.

Alan’s breath left him in a soft exhale. His shoulders relaxed. His hand came up to gently cover yours.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’d rather not pretend anymore.”

Then he leaned in, slow and certain, and kissed you—less hunger this time, more promise.

And this time, it was you who reached for his belt.

Alan stilled against your mouth, breath catching the moment your fingers brushed the leather—deliberate, confident, far from shy now. He didn’t stop you. He didn’t move. He just kissed you slower, deeper, until he felt the metal buckle shift beneath your hands.

Then he pulled back—barely—but just enough to watch you.

Hazel eyes dark with something molten, his baritone soft and rough around the edges as he murmured, “Taking initiative, are we?”

You smiled. Almost smug. “I thought you liked that.”

“I do,” he said, voice lower now, eyes dropping to your fingers. “God help me, I do.”

You slipped the belt open with ease, letting the weight of it fall apart, the soft clink of metal grounding the moment. His trousers loosened under your touch, and you let your hand linger—pressing the heel of your palm against the thick outline beneath his boxers. He twitched under the contact.

Alan’s lips parted. A quiet breath. Barely audible, but felt.

You rubbed slowly, deliberately. Not teasing. Not tentative. You meant it.

“Will you let me?” you whispered, your voice warm velvet against the silence. “Will you let me suck you?”

Alan’s eyes snapped to yours. Whatever restraint he had left slipped, just slightly. His jaw tightened, the muscle twitching. His hands—previously resting lightly on your waist—curled with sudden tension, like he wasn’t sure whether to drag you up for another kiss or drop to his knees in gratitude.

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. “You say that like I’m in any position to deny you.”

You grinned, fingers dipping beneath the waistband, tugging down until his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, and twitching with want.

Alan groaned, head falling back for a breath, and when he looked at you again, he looked wrecked.

“Christ,” he rasped. “You’ve barely touched me and I already want to thank you.”

You sank to your knees in front of him with a smile that wasn’t entirely innocent. He’d seen this coming. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he thought this was still a seduction you needed to be eased into. But now your eyes were fixed on him like a promise.

And Alan Rickman was about to learn exactly what you meant by initiative.

You wrapped one hand around the base of his cock, firm but careful, and leaned in—eyes locked to his as your tongue flicked once over the head. Just enough to taste.

Alan swore under his breath. One hand flew to your shoulder, not to stop you—God, never that—but to ground himself.

And when you took him into your mouth, slow, inch by thick inch, the groan he let out could’ve cracked the walls.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his accent rougher now, swallowed by lust. “That’s—God, your mouth.”

You hummed around him, and his hips bucked just slightly, involuntary. His cock throbbed in your mouth, hot and heavy, and the way he looked at you—like you were art and sin and salvation all at once—nearly made you moan.

“You look perfect like that,” he muttered, fingers brushing your cheek. “On your knees for me. So eager.”

You bobbed your head slowly, letting your tongue trace the sensitive underside, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t take. You glanced up at him, watching him fall apart—his head tilted back, throat exposed, the soft grays at his temple catching the light, his baritone unraveling into broken praise.

“Christ—if you keep that up, I won’t last,” he warned, eyes fluttering open just enough to watch you again. “And I’m not done with you, sweetheart. Not even close.”

You pulled off with a wet pop, smiling wickedly. “Then fuck me, Alan,” you whispered. “Hard.”

He growled—growled—and pulled you to your feet, mouth crashing into yours with filthy promise. He helped you take off your dress with deliberate care, not rushing, not fumbling—just steady, sure hands sliding the zipper down your spine. The fabric peeled away with a soft rustle, slipping from your shoulders like silk water, pooling at your feet in a whisper.

And then he saw it. The red lingerie.

His breath caught. “Oh,” Alan said softly, blinking. “Well. That’s… spectacular.”

You flushed immediately, your arms twitching like you might cover yourself, suddenly shy. You’d sucked his cock—wet, open, moaning around him like a woman possessed—and yet now, standing in his bedroom in matching red lace, you felt awkward and exposed.

Alan’s brow furrowed slightly at your expression. “Are you—embarrassed?”

You looked down, cheeks burning. “A little.”

He smiled—slow and bewildered, like he couldn’t quite make sense of it. “Darling,” he murmured, stepping closer, his hazel eyes sweeping over you, warm and intense, “you dropped to your knees and made me see stars… and now you’re blushing over a compliment?”

You huffed a laugh, covering your face with your hands. “I know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing,” Alan said gently. “I like it. It’s… lovely. Unexpected.”

He kissed you then—slow, reverent—his hands grazing your waist, thumbs brushing the lace at your hips.

“Red,” he murmured against your lips, voice curling into that low baritone. “Definitely my new favorite color.”

You shivered.

He nudged you back slowly, guiding you to the bed, his hands warm on your waist as you sank down into the sheets. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, soft and cool against your skin, and you watched as Alan straightened, his long fingers working at the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with quiet purpose after he helped you remove your heels.

You didn’t look away. You wanted to see all of him. He shed the shirt, then the undershirt, and you took in the plane of his chest—soft but broad, lined with age and strength, not perfect, not sculpted, but real. His belly was rounder than it once was, his chest dusted with salt-and-pepper hair, and the sight of him—so human, so his—made something in you ache.

You reached out instinctively as he climbed onto the bed beside you, your hands sliding up his arms, your fingers curling into his shoulders as if anchoring yourself there. His skin was warm. Solid. Alive.

Alan settled above you, his weight gentle, his gaze unreadable for a moment. Then you whispered it, quiet and unthinking:

“Do you… bring a lot of women here?”

There was a pause.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t joke. He just answered honestly.

“A few,” he said. “Not as many as you probably think.”

You nodded, swallowing. “Okay.”

His brow furrowed faintly. “Is that all right?”

You didn’t answer with words. Just pulled him closer, arms wrapping around his neck, lips brushing his cheek.

Alan exhaled, his head bowing slightly.

Then he kissed your collarbone.

Soft. Thoughtful. His mouth trailing down, brushing the delicate skin, your sternum, the curve just above your bra.

His voice was barely a breath. “God, you smell good.”

You arched slightly, needing more, and Alan’s hands slid beneath your back, fumbling just a little.

He grunted. “Christ—these clasps are a bloody puzzle box.”

You laughed breathlessly. “Do you need help?”

“No,” he said stubbornly, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m a trained actor. I’ve unfastened corsets on stage. I will conquer this bra.”

It popped open a second later, and you both grinned as he peeled the red lace away, revealing your breasts.

Alan paused. His eyes darkened.

And when he spoke again, his voice was rough velvet.

“Beautiful,” he said.

You got shy again. It crept up on you like a cold draft—uninvited, unannounced. One moment you were arching under Alan’s mouth, dizzy from the slow heat of his kisses, the next you were staring down at your bare chest, exposed in the soft light of his bedroom, your arms twitching toward yourself in reflex.

“Well,” you mumbled, eyes darting away. “It’s not as pretty as a model’s, for example—”

You didn’t finish.

Because Alan Rickman, with all the grace and timing of a seasoned stage actor, interrupted you by taking one nipple into his mouth.

Your gasp caught in your throat. A sharp, unfiltered sound—half-moan, half-shock—as your back arched into the sudden heat of him. His lips were soft, reverent, but his tongue—Christ—his tongue circled your nipple with a purpose that stole your breath. Not hesitant. Not hesitant at all.

His hand came up to cup your other breast, thumb brushing the nipple there, slow and rhythmic, as if reminding you to feel. To stay.

You whimpered—helplessly, without thinking—and Alan hummed against your skin, the low baritone of it vibrating straight through your chest.

When he finally released your nipple with a wet sound, he looked up at you, hair mussed, mouth glistening, hazel eyes burning with something tender and fierce all at once.

“Don’t,” he said softly. Firmly. “Don’t say that.”

You blinked down at him, still dazed. He kissed your sternum, then your breastbone, then the soft slope of your other breast—each press of his lips deliberate, grounding.

“You are not a photograph,” Alan murmured, voice low, lips brushing your skin with every syllable. “Not a painting. Not a standard to compare against.”

He kissed the valley between your breasts. “You are breath.” He kissed the other nipple, his tongue flicking once, making you shudder. “Warmth.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours. “You are real. And I find you…” His voice dipped, laced with sincerity that made your throat close. “…utterly devastating.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your lips parted, but the only thing that escaped was another soft moan as his mouth found your breast again, this time sucking gently, his hand still teasing the other nipple with slow, aching strokes.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping lightly as you tilted your head back and closed your eyes.

His kisses descended slowly.

Each one deliberate, warm, unhurried—like punctuation marks tracing a sentence he hadn’t finished writing. His mouth lingered between your breasts, down your ribs, over the soft curve of your belly. Your breathing was shallow now, fingers tangled in the sheets, your hips lifting ever so slightly in anticipation with each inch he traveled lower.

Alan noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“Easy,” he murmured, the words pressed into your skin just above your navel. His baritone curled around the syllables like a silk ribbon. “You’ll get what you want.”

His hands skimmed along your thighs, thumbs dragging slow lines inward, coaxing your legs farther apart. And then—

He kissed your pussy over the panties.

You gasped, hips jerking slightly off the bed, but he held you down with those long, steady hands, palms flat against your hipbones like anchors.

“Stay,” he murmured. “Let me do this.”

You whimpered as he kissed you again—mouth pressing firmly over the lace, his breath hot, tongue flicking in slow, maddening motions against the damp fabric. He groaned softly when he felt how soaked you already were, his nose brushing the soft elastic, his voice muffled but amused.

“Fucking beautiful lingerie,” he murmured, lips dragging across the lace. “Red lace. Perfect bloody color. Where did you buy it, hmm? La Perla? Agent Provocateur?”

You stiffened. There was a beat of silence.

Alan glanced up, a brow arching just slightly. “Go on. Indulge me.”

“…Walmart.”

He froze.

Actually froze.

His mouth paused mid-kiss, his body gone utterly still, as if someone had hit the mute button on reality. His hazel eyes blinked once, then again, brows lifting slowly in what you could only describe as theatrical disbelief.

And then—

He laughed.

A real laugh. Loud, rich, startled. The kind of unrestrained, belly-deep laugh that tore through the air like warm thunder. His whole body shook with it, head bowing slightly, forehead resting against your thigh as the sound tumbled out of him like a damn breaking.

You stared, horrified. “Oh my God—Alan—stop—it was on sale—!”

That only made him laugh harder. His hands were still holding your hips, but now he was gasping for breath, his baritone cracking slightly as he wheezed, “Christ—I was—about to praise the stitching—like it was bloody bespoke—”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m taking it off. Right now.”

Alan’s laughter gentled then, tapering into chuckles as he raised his head, still breathless, still smiling, his hazel eyes gleaming. “Don’t you dare,” he said, voice low and fond. “That might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You peeked at him from behind your fingers, mortified. “Walmart?”

“Precisely,” he said, still grinning as he leaned over you, brushing a kiss to your inner thigh. “Darling, any woman who can make Walmart lingerie look like Parisian seduction incarnate deserves to be absolutely worshipped.”

You giggled helplessly, shoulders shaking, your embarrassment melting into affection and arousal all over again. “I was trying to be sexy,” you whispered, breath hitching as his hands slid down your thighs again.

“And you are,” Alan murmured, nuzzling against your center once more. “Incredibly. Devastatingly. Sexy.”

He pressed another kiss to your clit through the lace, humming softly as he tasted you again.

“And now,” he added, voice low and dark, “I’m going to make you come in this cheap red lace, and you’re going to remember it every single time you pass a clearance rack.”

Your mouth fell open.

And then his tongue slipped beneath the edge of the panties—

—and you stopped remembering anything at all.

He ate you like a starving man. No restraint. No patience left. Just raw, reverent hunger—buried between your thighs, his mouth working your sex like it was salvation, his breath hot against your slick skin as he groaned low in his throat, as if your taste alone could wreck him.

And it did. God help him—it did.

Alan had gone down on women before. Of course he had. He was British, not barbaric. But never like this. Never with this desperate, shaking need that made his fingers dig into your thighs, made him groan with every flick of his tongue, made him want to stay down here forever.

Walmart.

The word echoed in the back of his head and he nearly laughed again, mouth wet against your cunt, tongue dragging firm and steady against your clit. Walmart. He still couldn’t believe it. The lingerie that had haunted his thoughts all dinner, clinging to your hips like a lover, had cost less than his lunch.

And yet you looked divine in it.

Better than divine. A fucking revelation.

A wonderful, wicked woman—real and soft and sharp-tongued—wearing red lace and moaning under his tongue like it was the only prayer you knew.

He groaned again, arms locked around your thighs, mouth pressed to you like a man drowning. Your hips bucked, desperate, your fingers tugging at his hair, your breath hitching in tiny, wrecked whimpers.

He wasn’t gentle. Not now.

He licked you with purpose—broad, firm strokes from slit to clit, then slow circles around the swollen bud, teasing and pressing until you were gasping his name like it hurt to say anything else. When your thighs trembled and your cunt pulsed around nothing, aching, needing, he sucked your clit between his lips and flicked it with his tongue, fast and focused, until your cry caught in your throat.

He could feel you coming undone. Could hear it. Smell it. You were so close, your hands clawing at the sheets, your body arched off the bed, every breath a plea.

And then—

He stopped.

Pulled back.

You whimpered—high, frantic, a sound of sheer betrayal—and Alan’s mouth hovered just above your cunt, lips wet, chin slick, his hazel eyes dark with something you didn’t understand yet.

But you would.

He looked up at you, brow lifted, voice wrecked and rasping but still smooth. “How many times,” he murmured, low and dangerous, “did your ex-husband make you come in a night?”

You blinked, dazed, the edge of your orgasm still buzzing in your spine. “Wh—what?”

Alan tilted his head slightly, breathing hard, his mouth so close to your cunt you could feel the ghost of his words on your skin. “Robert. How many times did he do this to you?”

Your eyes fluttered. “I… I don’t know. Three? Maybe two?”

He watched your face closely, waiting.

You swallowed hard, your hips twitching in frustration. “It’s been a while,” you admitted. “A long while. I don’t—he didn’t always—” You bit your lip. “Sometimes I faked it.”

Alan blinked once.

Then he exhaled slowly, a soft, deep sound of pure disbelief and growing fury. You whimpered again, your hands flying to your own thighs, trying to chase that pleasure back, to find it again before it faded completely—but his hands stopped you. Firm. Gentle. Final.

“No, darling,” he said, his baritone curling around the syllables like smoke. “That’s mine to give you.”

And then he buried his mouth in your cunt again.

Like he meant it. Like it was his job.

Like he had something to prove.

You screamed—helpless, broken, as his tongue found your clit again, faster this time, relentless and skilled, each flick calculated, devastating. His lips wrapped around the swollen bud and sucked hard enough to make your hips lift off the bed, your entire body tensing as that orgasm ripped through you like a snapped wire.

“Fuck—Alan—”

But he didn’t stop.

Not when you came. Not after.

He kept licking, kept sucking, kept teasing your clit until your legs shook uncontrollably and your fingers clawed at his hair, babbling, begging, gasping.

“I can’t—oh my God—I can’t—”

“Yes,” he growled, the vibration of it sending another shockwave through you. “You can. You will.”

Your second orgasm tore through you like fire. Wet. Violent. Shaking. And Alan only groaned, sucking you through it, one hand moving to press gently on your lower belly as he licked you like he was trying to commit you to memory.

Wonderful woman, he thought wildly, half-delirious with the taste of you. Where the hell have you been all this time?

Married. Of course.

His tongue dragged through your slick folds, slow now, reverent, as your body twitched with aftershocks.

But he wasn’t done.

Not nearly.

Alan kissed the inside of your thigh, the curve of your hip, then slid two fingers into you—slow, careful—and pressed upward until he found that spot. That aching, hidden place. You gasped, fresh and wrecked and already unraveling.

He kissed your stomach.

Then your sternum.

Then your lips.

You tasted yourself on his mouth, hot and slick, and he whispered against you, “That’s two.”

You blinked up at him, dazed.

Alan smiled—a soft, wicked thing—and began again.

You’d forget Robert by sunrise.

But you’d never forget Alan Rickman’s mouth.

He made you come a third time with just his thick fingers and his voice in your ear. No tongue. No thrusts. Just that steady, curling pressure inside you—two fingers stroking exactly where you needed them, coaxing another orgasm out of your trembling body while his voice spun low and dangerous spells against your throat.

“Good girl,” Alan murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re doing so well for me. That’s it. Give it to me, darling. Let me feel you come.”

You shattered like silk torn at the seams.

Your whole body clenched around him, your thighs trembling, hips lifting, mouth open in a silent cry as the third climax crashed through you. Alan groaned against your shoulder as your cunt pulsed around his fingers, wet and desperate, your slick dripping down his knuckles.

He slowed only when your breath stuttered and your legs began to twitch.

Then, carefully, reverently, he eased his fingers from you, pressing one last kiss to your shoulder as you collapsed back against the bed, boneless and ruined and gloriously limp.

You barely registered the words he whispered next.

“Catch your breath, sweetheart. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

He slid from the bed like a gentleman fleeing temptation, long limbs moving with catlike grace. His cock was still painfully hard—thick and flushed, bobbing between his thighs—and you were distantly proud that you’d wrecked him too, even if only a little.

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he disappeared into the en suite bathroom, muttering something about a condom and bloody drawer organization. But not before he paused at the doorway and, with a casual flick of the wrist, turned on the ceiling fan for you.

Air stirred overhead—cool, clean, grounding.

You exhaled slowly, letting your body melt into the bed, your limbs splayed like a woman freshly exorcised.

Three orgasms.

Three.

You laughed softly to yourself, still winded. “Jesus Christ.”

No answer. Just the hum of the fan and the distant sound of Alan rummaging through drawers.

You let your gaze wander around the room.

You hadn’t really looked earlier—too distracted, too flustered, too busy being undressed (physically and emotionally). But now, in the afterglow, your curiosity stirred. Slowly, your eyes adjusted to the golden lamplight, drinking in the space.

It was exactly what you’d imagined and nothing like it all at once. Elegant. Understated. Warm woods and dark tones, with subtle splashes of color—burnt orange, navy, moss green. A bookshelf took up one entire wall, every shelf full, some books stacked horizontally in chaotic rebellion. Plays, scripts, worn hardbacks with crinkled spines. Shakespeare, of course. But also poetry. Physics. A biography of Galileo. A thin, crooked copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar nestled between Nietzsche and The Tempest.

You stared.

“Oh my god,” you whispered aloud.

Professor Snape’s bedroom.

You were lying in Professor Snape’s actual bed. Or—technically—Alan Rickman’s bed. But that distinction was hard to hold when you were naked in soft sheets, covered in your own slick, surrounded by warm lighting and very expensive furniture.

Your gaze slid to the coat rack in the corner, where an old, heavy wool overcoat hung like a ghost. Black. Familiar. Possibly the same one from Love Actually?

You didn’t know whether to swoon or scream.

Hans Gruber’s room, your brain reminded you unhelpfully.

Oh Christ.

You rolled your head the other way, trying not to cackle. Rasputin’s room. Colonel Brandon’s room. Absolem’s room, your mind added, helpfully and cruelly.

You covered your face with both hands and groaned.

You were naked in Absolem’s bed. A talking caterpillar’s bed. A smoking caterpillar’s bed. You burst out laughing, a low, delighted noise muffled by your palms.

Alan’s voice drifted from the bathroom. “What on earth is so funny?”

You wheezed. “I’m having a mild existential crisis.”

There was a pause. Then, in that slow baritone laced with dry amusement: “I do hope it’s not the decor.”

You peeked toward the bathroom door. “Do you keep a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar next to Nietzsche on purpose?”

A soft chuckle. “Of course. Balance is everything.”

You let out another laugh, breathless and warm, still basking in the scent of his cologne on the sheets. He emerged a moment later—barefoot, bare-chested, condom in hand, silver hair mussed and damp from where he'd splashed water on his face.

And when his hazel eyes landed on you, legs still spread, body flushed and pliant in the soft lamplight, his smirk faded into something quieter.

Something reverent.

He crossed the room slowly and knelt on the bed beside you, one hand brushing your thigh, the other cupping your face as he leaned down to kiss you.

Not hungry. Not greedy.

Just… there.

Present. Gentle. Bare.

“Ready?” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours.

You nodded.

But your voice was steadier than you expected. “Yes,” you whispered. “But only if you promise to read me Nietzsche after.”

Alan grinned against your mouth, low and wicked. “You’ll be lucky if I let you walk tomorrow.”

He rolled the condom down his length with careful fingers, his eyes never leaving yours. The sound of the foil tearing still echoed in your ears, faint and final, a little sad. You wanted him bare. Wanted him deep. Wanted that primal, overwhelming closeness—but not tonight. Not yet.

Alan shifted his weight and settled between your thighs, the mattress dipping beneath his knees. He was careful with your hips, his large hands firm but reverent as he slid them under your thighs and pushed your legs up—up, until your knees were bent toward your chest and your ankles rested on his shoulders. The position opened you completely, baring you to him, stretching you wide and vulnerable under his hungry gaze.

You blinked, breath catching. “Oh.”

Alan raised a brow, voice low and amused. “Not what you expected?”

“I thought you were going to be… traditional,” you murmured, flushed.

He smirked—slow and devastating. “I am. This is the oldest position in the book.”

And then he thrust.

Slow. Measured. Thick.

Your mouth fell open, a breathless gasp escaping as the head of his cock breached your entrance, the condom slick but distant, the drag of it foreign and maddening. Your cunt stretched around him, the walls fluttering with the ache of taking him—God, he was thick—and you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as the pressure bloomed deep.

“Jesus,” you choked, back arching off the mattress.

Alan stilled—halfway in—his hands curling around the backs of your thighs, holding you in place.

“Too much?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, rough with restraint.

You shook your head wildly. “No—God, no. Just—keep going.”

He nodded, a single slow movement, and sank deeper. He filled you inch by inch, pushing past the tight heat of your entrance, stretching you until your legs trembled on his shoulders. The condom dulled the sensation for him—he couldn’t feel the slick suction of your cunt the way he wanted to—but still, he groaned low in his throat as your body accepted him, slow and snug, wrapping around his cock like a vice.

“You feel… incredible,” he rasped, head bowing toward your shoulder, sweat already beading at his temple. “Fucking perfect.”

You whimpered again, the burn fading into something sweeter, deeper. Your fingers gripped the sheets, your mouth falling open as he bottomed out—fully sheathed inside you, the thick ridge of his cock pressing against a place you hadn’t known was there.

Alan stilled, watching you carefully, his hazel eyes dark. “There?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

He grinned—wicked, pleased—and drew his hips back, slow and deliberate, until just the tip of him remained, teasing your entrance.

And then he thrust forward—sharp, precise.

You screamed.

Stars. Real ones. Your vision dotted with white as he struck that sweet, perfect spot again, his hips grinding forward just enough to keep the pressure there, to push you toward the edge with ruthless skill.

“Fuck,” Alan hissed, his jaw tight, his voice a broken rasp. “You take me so fucking well.”

He rocked into you again—harder this time—and the bed creaked beneath you, the slap of skin against skin joined by your choked cries, the heat of your slick wrapping around the condom and dragging every groan from his throat.

Your legs slipped from his shoulders, trembling, and he let them, bracing one thigh with a hand while the other arm slid under your back, lifting your hips just enough to change the angle—and oh god—

“Alan—fuck—don’t stop—”

“Not planning to,” he growled.

He kept hitting that spot, again and again, his hips snapping into yours with filthy precision, his thrusts deep and unrelenting. You sobbed his name, fingernails scraping down his back, your thighs quivering with every impact. You could feel your orgasm building again—your fourth—rising fast, wild, unstoppable.

“I’m gonna—Alan, I’m—”

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice low and firm, a director calling action on your climax. “Let go. Now.”

And you did.

You shattered beneath him, your cunt pulsing wildly around his cock, your vision white, your cry sharp and unrestrained. Your whole body convulsed, your arms flying around his neck, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.

Alan groaned—deep, pained—his thrusts faltering as you clenched around him. “Fuck—you’re—Christ—”

He thrust once more, hard and deep, and came with a grunt, his body shuddering as he filled the condom. His hips stilled, his breath ragged against your neck, one arm still locked around your back as if he couldn’t let go.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just breath. Heartbeats. The trembling afterglow of something holy. Then he slowly withdrew, groaning low at the sensitivity, and collapsed beside you, chest heaving.

You stared at the ceiling, still shaking, limbs splayed like a crime scene.

Alan turned his head slowly, blinking. “Four?”

You nodded faintly, eyes wide. “Four.”

He smirked. “Well,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “I suppose I am a traditionalist after all. One for each season.”

You turned to look at him, dazed and gleaming with sweat. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” he said, brushing your hair back, “are magnificent.”

You rolled into his chest, breath still catching.

He held you close.

And for the first time in what felt like years—you slept without dreaming of someone else.

[severussimp]

ah yes my two neglected & abused halfbloods❤️ they would be besties if they had met as kids

[severussimp]

This user supports AO3

This user is anti-censorship

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[severussimp]

Attention all Alan Rickman lovers! It's time for...

A CLASH OF ALANS (2!)

Last year, we took a vote on our favourite Alans and you voted Snape the No.1 Alan of all time. Are we surprised? No.

This year we're doing it again, but this time, by popular vote, Snape will be excluded on the grounds that he will just sweep the competition again and we want to give the rest of the Alans a fair go.

Round 1 is OPEN NOW and will be open until 9pm UK time, 19th June. As last year, each round will be approximately 24 hours, though this may change depending on my schedule, but it will always be at least 24 hours.

VOTE LINK

[severussimp]

Title: To Love Is To Burn

Summary: It all started with a trip to the grocery store — and a very dramatic fall. Who knew that tripping, literally, could land you straight into the arms of a dangerously handsome stranger with a smirk, a secret, and the patience of a saint?

Author's note: Hey, my dear readers, this is my first take on writing our darling Sinclair, and it all started from that one scene of him sitting in the aisle — I couldn't resist using that gif for this one-shot, so let me know what you think. Hope you guys enjoy reading it🥰

Pairing: Sinclair Bryant x Fem Reader

Cross-posted on AO3

=============================================

The supermarket lights buzz faintly overhead — cold, commercial, and unforgiving. You’re fresh off your final lecture of the day, still mentally crunching data sets and seriously regretting choosing fruit over a proper lunch. Your backpack digs into one shoulder like a boulder as you chew on the remaining banana you never finished from breakfast.

You're here out of duty. Your parents were stuck in a meeting, your brother had something to do at his university, and someone had to pick up groceries. Naturally, that someone was you.

And because you're you, you're determined to make the most of it. Maybe sneak in a few guilty-pleasure snacks and pretend you're not internally screaming from information overload.

So here you are, still in your university clothes, with sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, worn trainers, chewing on a banana like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart, skimming through your list like it holds the meaning of life.

You exhale sharply and mutter, “Okay… bread, milk, eggs, avocado, softener… and don’t forget chocolate.”

You’re weaving between aisles, back and forth from your list to the shelves, And then— BAM.

Your foot catches on something solid.

You go flying, arms flailing, your banana shooting out of your hand like a javelin.

You hit the ground with a graceless thud. Something rolls away from you. You blink.

A banana. Your banana.

And then you see him.

A man, no, a man — sitting on the floor of the aisle with one leg stretched out, tying the laces of what are easily the most expensive dress shoes you’ve ever seen outside a Bond film.

You’re furious. Flustered. And now bruised.

“Oh my God, who the hell ties their shoe in the middle of an aisle?!”

Sinclair hadn’t meant to sit there that long.

He’d come in for wine. Maybe chocolate. Something meaningless and indulgent, anything to distract from the mess Natalie had left behind.

That… disaster.

He should’ve known. It was never going to last. He had built a dream out of glass and watched it shatter. Again.

Now here he was, in a grocery store, tying a shoe that didn’t even need fixing.

He wasn’t thinking clearly.

His mind kept drifting to New York, to the house they almost bought, to late-night conversations that always stopped just short of honesty.

He tugged the laces tighter. Useless habit.

And then, chaos.

A weight slammed into him. A body. A noise. A voice. Furious. Feminine. Sharp.

"Oh my God, who the hell ties their shoe in the middle of an aisle?!"

He blinked.

A young woman early twenties, maybe, was sprawled beside him, hair slightly windblown, a banana peel clinging to her hoodie. Her banana had rolled away, landing near a stack of soup cans like something out of an action film.

And yet somehow, she looked like the most vivid thing he’d seen in weeks.

He straightened and said, “Apparently, someone with poor timing. Are you hurt?”

You wince, muttering, “Just my dignity. And my banana.”

Your eyes follow the doomed fruit. Neither of you speaks for a moment.

Feeling mildly guilty and oddly intrigued, Sinclair offers, “Please… allow me to pay for your groceries.”

You’re already dusting yourself off, refusing help with the stubborn pride of someone who’s had one too many long days.

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got to get back to my shopping and back home, and I don’t let strangers pay for my bananas.”

He rises too, slowly, brushing off his coat. His eyes linger on you — not inappropriately, but with the quiet curiosity of a man who hasn’t been surprised in a long time.

You turn to leave.

He hesitates, then asks again, “You’re sure?”

You glance over your shoulder, a little softer now. “Yes. And maybe next time you feel like tying your shoe… don’t do it in a public walkway.”

A ghost of a smile plays at his lips. You roll your eyes and walk off, muttering something about human hazards and banana casualties.

But he doesn’t stop watching you go.

Later that night, in your room

You collapse onto your bed after unloading the groceries, helping your mum prepare dinner, and in the end, you manage to get yourself ready for bed.

You're exhausted, your body sore, your brain fried, and all you want is to sleep. And as you were dozing off, you were thinking of what you learned and did today.

But instead of lecture notes, formulas, or even what you forgot to buy for your snacks, he flashes across your mind.

Shoes. Perfect hair. An accent you’re sure could make the word “mayonnaise” sound poetic.

And he sat in the middle of the bloody aisle.

You smirk to yourself.

“He tripped me,” you mumble to no one. “Like. Full-on tripped me. With his....shiny Oxford shoes.”

A small laugh escapes your lips. You hate that it bubbles up so easily.

Still. You have to admit…

He was kind of cute.

Elsewhere, Sinclair's Manor

Sinclair set down the wine bottle he didn’t even want.

The lights are dim. His coat hangs untouched on the back of a chair. His mind, however, refuses to shut down.

She had that look — someone just barely keeping it together, but still too stubborn to crumble. And a banana. God, she threw the banana like a weapon.

He let out a faint exhale, rubbing his jaw.

What was her name?

He didn’t ask. He never asked.

But still, somehow, she stayed in his thoughts.

Not Natalie. Not the past. Just the girl in the hoodie and the trainers… and the banana.

It’s been a few days since the supermarket incident, but the memory lingers.

Not always. Sometimes, you’re too busy — finishing coursework, wrangling your schedule, helping your mum around the house. Sometimes your focus holds.

You hadn’t meant to think about him this often — the man with the sharp jaw and sharper wit, the one who looked at you like you were both absurd and amusing. But every now and then, when your mind drifts, when you flip open Sense and Sensibility, unfortunately, a certain stranger’s amused smirk always slips in right after the good Colonel’s name.

That strange man with the disarming charm, stupidly expensive shoes, and the nerve to quote poetry with his posture alone.

You don’t know his name. You didn’t ask. But he sure looked like the kind of person who had a middle name and a coat for every day of the week.

You’ve mostly convinced yourself it was a one-time, freak coincidence.

Until tonight.

You’re dressed simply but well — wide-leg jeans, a nude knit long-sleeve top, white sneakers. Casual. Comfortable. A little flushed from the summer air and the walk over.

Your parents walk ahead with your brother, chatting about work or something equally boring. You trail behind, nose deep in Austen. Something is comforting in Austen’s rhythm, something soothing in Colonel Brandon’s quiet loyalty. You’ve read it dozens of times, but still… he always shows up when Marianne least deserves him. And he always stays.

The restaurant is just ahead. You’re almost at the door.

And then—

Your sneaker catches on something solid. Not pavement. Not a crack in the sidewalk.

Someone.

Your book goes flying. Your arms flail. And then you’re falling — straight into the chest of someone stepping out of the restaurant.

There’s a dull thud. An involuntary oomph.

And then... silence.

You blink.

Of course it’s him.

Standing tall, elegant as ever, in that same coat, charcoal grey, perfectly cut, and that same frustrating smirk just starting to curl at his lips.

“Are you following me?” he asks, voice calm, eyes flickering with unmistakable amusement.

You groan into his coat. “No. No, no, no. Not you again.”

You push yourself upright, mortified, brushing off your top with the grace of a cat falling off a shelf. You don’t even have time to process how good he smells — clean, expensive, something citrusy and warm — before the sarcasm starts up again.

He steps back slightly, adjusting the sleeve of his coat. “I do admire the consistency. You’re becoming quite good at this.”

You give him a deadpan look. “You have some sort of gravitational pull, clearly.”

He stoops to pick up your book, turning it over in one hand. “Sense and Sensibility,” he notes.

Then, his smirk deepens — just a bit.

“To love is to burn,” he quotes smoothly, voice low and steady. “To be on fire.”

Your head snaps up. “Do not quote Colonel Brandon at me, sir.”

You snatch the book back with dramatic annoyance, cheeks absolutely aflame.

You’re seconds from melting into the floor — and that’s before your brother arrives.

Your older brother, ever the eagle-eyed sibling, always ten seconds away from delivering a public roast, materializes beside you, arms crossed and eyebrow raised in pure big-brother judgment.

“Oh,” he says dryly, surveying you and the stranger. “So this is what happens when we let you walk five feet behind us.”

Your cheeks are burning. Your parents are staring. Your dad has paused mid-step, one brow raised. And your mum? She looks between you and the tall stranger, lips twitching.

“You alright, love? Did that gentleman break your fall?”

You want to die. Immediately.

“I’m fine. No one broke anything. Everything is perfectly unbroken. We’re going to our table now. Goodbye.”

You gather your book, your dignity, and your limbs, and hurry toward the hostess stand like it’s the only exit from your shame.

Behind you, your family is whispering. Laughing.

And Sinclair?

He simply rights his posture, smooth as ever, brushes imaginary dust off his coat, and nods politely toward your mum.

They are visibly stunned by his entire Bond meets Jane Austen aura.

As you disappear into the restaurant, you catch the faintest sound — just under the soft piano notes and clinking glass.

Sinclair, amused, murmurs to himself, “That’s twice.”

Restroom

Later, you excuse yourself to the restroom after your brother won’t stop teasing, and your dad makes a scene out of calling him your future son-in-law.

The restroom is blissfully empty, the lighting soft and the air cool. You lean over the sink, gripping the porcelain edge like it might explain the last ten minutes to you.

What is wrong with the universe? Why does this man keep appearing every time you let your guard down? First the supermarket, now this?

Twice in one week and you don’t even know his name.

You shouldn’t care. But your heart is still doing that weird fluttery thing and your cheeks are still flushed.

And damn it, when he smiled at your parents like that…

You take a deep breath, shaking your head at yourself.

Then you catch it — just the faintest trace of something on your sleeve.

You lift it to your nose.

It’s his scent.

Something clean. Citrusy, maybe. Or saffron. You’re not sure. But it’s really good. The kind of cologne that lingers — expensive, subtle, and completely unfair.

You exhale, half-laughing to yourself.

“Even if he tripped me... I liked the way he quoted Colonel Brandon, and did I hear him mutter that twice? ” You mumble to your reflection.

Keep calm.

It’s fine. Just a weird coincidence. Nothing more.

Still... you wouldn’t mind running into him again.

Just… maybe not face-first.

Restaurant Car Park

Whereas, at the restaurant car park, Sinclair walks slowly to his car, sliding his hands into the pockets of his coat.

He should be annoyed. Most people bumping into him unannounced would earn a glare, not a smirk.

But there’s something… different about you.

Not just the way you mutter like you’re narrating your own personal Greek tragedy. Not just the book in your hand. Or the way your family looked half-concerned, half used to it.

It’s you.

You, with your wide eyes and your dramatics and your stubborn refusal to let him be amused at your expense.

He smirks again, under the streetlight.

She never asked for my name.

He lets out a soft laugh to himself — the kind that escapes before he can catch it.

“And what the hell was I thinking quoting Colonel Brandon?” he mutters.

Still, he’s grinning as he unlocks the car. Slides in.

And for the first time in a while, he’s still thinking of someone… hours later.

Maybe next time, he’ll stop being so polite. Maybe next time, he’ll ask your name first.

Or, better yet — maybe you’ll crash into him again.

Your university’s annual fundraising gala was the kind of event you never really looked forward to — too many clinking glasses, too many preppy alumni pretending to remember your name, and too many professors trying to out-wine-snob each other. But you had to admit… they did know how to decorate.

Golden fairy lights hung like fireflies overhead. Glass chandeliers glimmered above velvet-draped tables. It felt like stepping into the ballroom of a storybook. A very expensive, overly-academic, still-kind-of-awkward storybook.

You were dressed to match the magic tonight — in a silk corset lace-up evening gown that hugged your curves like it had been stitched with intentions. Deep midnight blue. Satin sheen. Your hair curled, your cheeks kissed with shimmer, your lips painted with pink gloss.

And heels. Heels. The worst betrayal of the night.

“Remind me again why I agreed to come in these?” you muttered, wobbling slightly.

Emily laughed beside you, clinking her champagne flute against yours.

“Because I dared you. And because this is the only time in the semester you’ll be able to dress like a Bond girl and actually get away with it.”

You snorted. “Yeah, except Bond girls have balance.”

Your friends were all dressed to the nines, grouped together by the champagne table, laughing and doing their best not to look like broke grad students in a room full of very rich donors.

You didn’t bring a partner — not that it was required. Most people came solo or with friends. But your thoughts kept wandering…

The gala didn’t require a partner, but as you sipped cheap white wine with Emily and the others, his face kept flashing behind your eyes. The accidental touches. The sarcasm. The smirk.

“You good?” Emily asked, nudging your shoulder.

“Huh?”

“You were staring at the pianist like he owes you money.”

“I’m just dizzy.”

“Girl, you’re tipsy.”

“I’m elevated.”

Emily snorted. “Just don’t fall again. No tall men in tailored suits around to catch you this time.”

You grinned. “Tragically.”

She gave you a look. “Right. Sure.”

Before you could retaliate, someone called your name across the room — you turned toward it, the cheap white wine in your system making the floor sway just enough to be treacherous — and then:

Your heel twisted.

You stumbled.

And you crashed directly into a man in a black suit.

Again.

“Shit—” Your hands braced against a chest. A familiar one. Solid. Warm.

He caught you like he always seemed to — with both arms around you and a low, surprised grunt in your ear.

“…We must stop meeting like this,” he muttered into your hair.

You groaned into his shirt. “I swear to God, this one wasn’t your fault.”

You looked up. It was him. The guy who tripped in the aisle and at the restaurant entrance. Moreover, the guy who replaces Colonel Brandon in your dreams.

“I’m beginning to suspect fate has a rather wicked sense of humour,” he said, dry as ever.

You tried to step back. Your heel wobbled again. He kept a hand steady at your waist — the contact making your stomach flip.

“Do you follow me or… do I just naturally fall on you wherever I go?” you asked, trying for humor but breathless.

“Well, if it’s not intentional, it’s certainly impressive. Three times now?”

You laughed, still pink. “Are you keeping score?”

“Just curious how many falls it takes before someone lets me buy them a drink.”

You blinked at him. God, he looked good. His suit was tailored. Dark. Under the string lights, there was a softness to his features that hadn’t been there before. A flicker of something behind his eyes.

“…You can buy me water,” you said. “I think I need one.”

His smile deepened.

He guided you gently toward a quieter table off to the side, away from the main party. His hand brushed your arm as you sat. You noticed the way his eyes lingered on you — more lingering than before.

“You clean up…” he said slowly, voice low. “Devastatingly well.”

You gave him a look. “Was that a compliment or a warning?”

He chuckled. “A little of both.”

You both sat, eyes lingering now. Curious. Charged.

He tilted his head, gaze soft.

“I just realized,” he said, “I still don’t know your name.”

You smirked. “You’ve caught me mid-fall three times and now you ask?”

“I like to take my time,” he said, voice dropping.

You stepped a little closer, playful. “Hmm… you first, then.”

He hesitated, then offered a hand.

“Sinclair Bryant.”

You blinked. “Sinclair?”

He nodded, amused.

You squinted dramatically. “That sounds like the name of a man who owns a vineyard and casually sails on Thursdays.”

“And what do I actually look like I do?”

“Secret vigilante. Or tech billionaire.”

Sinclair smiled, eyes narrowing. “Your turn.”

“Y/N Carrington.”

His lips twitched. “That doesn’t match the woman who just tackled me in front of academia’s finest.”

“Would it help if I said Carrington is the name I give when I flirt with strangers at galas?”

His eyes darkened. “Are you flirting, Carrington?”

You winked. “I’m wearing heels and drinking wine. What do you think?”

You both laughed — easy now, a little wine-sweet and curiosity-drunk.

“So… Mr. Sinclair,” you mused. “Are you always this conveniently placed when I lose my balance? Or are you secretly hired as my personal crash pad?”

“Only on weekends,” he replied. “But I do offer loyalty discounts.”

You grinned. “I’m studying to be a data analyst at University of London, by the way. Which sounds cooler than it is, I promise.”

Sinclair blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“…No?”

“I am one. Or was. Now I just manage a bunch of brilliant ones.”

You squinted. “So you’re the boss everyone secretly rolls their eyes at.”

He gasped, mock-offended. “I am delightfully tolerable, thank you.”

You giggled, tipsy and warm. Then, without thinking—

“So… does Mr. Sinclair happen to be dating anyone?”

He paused. Just for a second. His gaze shifted — from your lips to your eyes.

“Not at the moment,” he said softly.

“‘Not at the moment’ sounds suspiciously like heartbreak,” you teased, voice gentler now.

“…Maybe,” he murmured. “It’s hard to let someone in when you’ve been a placeholder before. You start wondering if people are ever meant to stay.”

There was a pause — quiet, heavy.

“…There was someone,” he added after a beat. “Natalie. We were… something. She said I was too serious. Too quiet. Too much of a placeholder until the ‘real thing’ came along.”

Your heart squeezed.

Not because he was broken. But because of how carefully he held the pieces.

Without thinking, you reached out and touched his hand. Just briefly. Just enough.

“You’re not a placeholder,” you said softly. “You’re the main plot twist.”

He looked at you like you’d surprised him. Like maybe no one had said something like that before.

Then your name rang out again — Emily, waving from the entrance.

“Driver’s here! Come on, babe!”

You stood, smoothing your gown. He rose with you, instinctively offering his hand again.

There was a pause.

You thought of kissing him on the cheek. Be brave, girl. Just this once. Kiss him. Before you talk yourself out of it.

Then, without thinking more, you leaned forward and kissed him. Just lightly. Just on the cheek.

“Try not to catch anyone else tonight, Mr. Sinclair.”

You walked off into the crowd, heels clicking, heart racing, dress shimmering. And as you settled into the car, you thought,

That man’s going to be the death of me. Why didn’t I give him my number? Who knows, maybe I might trip over him again?

And just like that, the gala faded behind you. But something else?

Was just beginning.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Well, technically he was — the invite had come straight from one of the charity wings his company sponsored, and the university's gala was just another smiling obligation in his corporate calendar.

But he didn’t feel like smiling.

Too many professors use trading jargon. Too many teenagers pretending to be wine judges. Too many tight handshakes and tighter smiles.

Sinclair nursed a glass of red and drifted near the edges of the ballroom, where the chandeliers didn’t glare quite so hard. His suit was tailored, tie loose, hair behaving for once. He looked the part. As always.

But his mind was far from here.

Her.

That damn girl who barreled into him at the supermarket.

And then again at the restaurant.

A walking hazard. A beautiful, infuriating, sharp-tongued hazard. The girl, he quoted Colonel Brandon, too.

He caught himself scanning the crowd, like he had any right to expect her here.

Come on, Bryant. You're at a university fundraiser, not in some sappy romance drama.

He turned his head, about to retreat to the outer hall for some air—

Crash.

Something, someone, collided with his chest. Hard.

His arms went around her automatically, steadying instinct kicking in before his brain caught up.

A familiar scent. Familiar hair. Familiar chaos.

His eyes widened.

No. Bloody. Way.

“…We must stop meeting like this,” he muttered into her hair, trying not to smile.

She groaned into his shirt. “I swear to God, this one wasn’t your fault.”

God, it’s really her.

He glanced down. Midnight blue. Corset gown. Glossy lips. Glittering eyes.

His breath stuttered.

He hadn’t even known he’d memorised her. And yet here she was — falling into his arms like the universe was playing matchmaker with a sense of humour.

“I’m beginning to suspect fate has a rather wicked sense of humour,” he said, keeping his tone light even as his heart jackhammered.

She tried to step back — and stumbled again. He caught her waist.

Her eyes met his, wide. Breathless. Slightly wine-blurred.

Dangerous. Absolutely dangerous.

“Do you follow me or… do I just naturally fall on you wherever I go?” she teased.

He raised a brow. “If it’s not intentional, it’s certainly impressive. Three times now?”

She laughed, cheeks flushed. “Are you keeping score?”

He was. Against his better judgment.

“Just curious how many falls it takes before someone lets me buy them a drink.”

He said it like a joke.

He didn’t mean it like one.

They ended up at a smaller table tucked to the side, and Sinclair hadn’t realized how loud the room had been until her voice was the only one he wanted to hear.

Her dress shimmered when she sat. He followed, slower — trying to recalibrate.

Trying not to stare.

Failing.

“You clean up…” he said slowly, letting his eyes trail from her shoes to her cheekbones, “devastatingly well.”

She gave him a look. Witty. Suspicious. Beautiful.

“Was that a compliment or a warning?”

Yes.

He chuckled. “A little of both.”

Her name came later. Y/N, Carrington. Soft on the tongue. Slightly posh. But her delivery? Full sass.

She winked. Teased. Flirted.

Sinclair hadn’t flirted like this in years. Hadn’t wanted to.

There was something in her. Spark and softness. Fire under gloss. When she touched his hand, barely, it felt like someone had struck a match along his skin.

Then she asked a question that made him skip a breath.

“So… does Mr. Sinclair happen to be dating anyone?”

He paused.

Just for a second. His gaze drifted — from her lips to her eyes.

“Not at the moment,” he said quietly.

“‘Not at the moment’ sounds suspiciously like heartbreak,” she teased, voice gentle now.

He gave a short breath of a laugh — but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“…There was someone,” he admitted. “Natalie. We were… something. She said I was too serious. Too quiet. Too much of a placeholder until the ‘real thing’ came along.”

He hadn’t meant to say that much. But the words tumbled out anyway, carried on the hush between them.

He hadn’t said her name in months. Not out loud.

Natalie had always craved noise — parties, people, constant motion. She loved socializing, especially with her brother.

But with her, he’d never felt seen.

Only… kept.

And in the end, discarded — like a well-worn book on a crowded shelf.

Then her voice cut through the quiet, calm and certain.

“You’re not a placeholder.”

His eyes lifted.

“You’re the main plot twist.”

That line hit harder than it should’ve. Knocked the air right out of him.

Then, as he was in a daze, Sinclair heard her friend calling. She stood, smoothing her gown, and he rose with her, instinctively offering his hand again.

But there was a pause, and leaning forward, she kissed him. Just lightly. Just on the cheek.

“Try not to catch anyone else tonight, Mr. Sinclair.”

She walked off into the crowd, heels clicking, heart racing, dress shimmering.

Sinclair didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stood there, stunned, hand drifting to the place her lips had touched.

Her words still echoed in his ears.

Her warmth still lingered on his skin.

That dress.Her laugh. The way she looked at me. God. How did I not ask for her number?

But maybe who knows, she might trip over me and I might be there to catch her again, Sinclair thought, smiling to himself.

He walked back into the gala again.

It had been nearly two months since the gala.

In the time between, life had dissolved into a blur of textbooks, final exams, and nights where you fell asleep with highlighters tangled in your hair. The cold halls of the university library never felt lonelier than during finals week — and somewhere between caffeine-fueled essays and restless dreams, you stopped allowing herself to think about him.

Sinclair.

Even his name felt like a risk now. Like breathing smoke.

You hadn’t given him your number. At first, you told yourself it was an accident. Later, you realized you were afraid. Because what if it had only been a moment? One of those rare, crystalline nights that wasn’t meant to follow you home?

And then came the envelope.

It appeared on your dorm desk the day you returned to pack up your things. Neatly placed. Ivory cream, thick parchment, sealed with an old-fashioned wax stamp the color of deep plum. Across the front, in elegant cursive, was written:

Miss Carrington Dorm Room 7 – West Wing University of London

Your fingertips tingled as you traced the letters.

Inside was a single folded sheet. The ink was dark, pressed in with purpose. No smudges, no mistakes. The lines were clean — but you could almost feel the hesitation behind the words, the way the writer had sat with them, rewritten them silently a dozen times before finally committing them to the page.

Miss Carrington, If this letter reaches you — and I hope to God it does — I would very much like to see you again. Hyde Park. Friday. 4 PM. Please. To love is to burn, to be on fire.

No name. But you knew.

The letter trembled in your hands.

That night, you lay on your childhood bed, staring at the ceiling while the letter sat on your nightstand like a question mark that had taken form. You kept reading the last line over and over.

To love is to burn, to be on fire.

Had he meant it metaphorically? Had he written it in haste or truthfully? Did he feel what you felt that night — the sense that everything had shifted the moment they met?

The next morning, your mother caught you in front of the mirror, brushing your hair with a kind of nervous focus you hadn’t seen in a while.

“Going somewhere?”

You hesitated. “Meeting someone.”

Her mum raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “A boy?”

“…Sort of.”

Your mother grinned. “Then wear the pink one. The floral sundress. You always look beautiful in that one.”

“I don’t know…”

“He’ll like it,” her mum said with conviction, already walking to the closet. “You look like a dream when you dress up.”

You didn’t say it aloud, but part of you remembered how Sinclair had looked at you that night, in that blue satin gown. How he’d murmured something about you looking “well cleaned up.” The phrase had echoed in your mind like a compliment.

So you wore the sundress. Pale pink, delicate flowers blooming across the hem like secrets. It danced around your knees when you walked. Your mother gave you a ride, fussed over your hair one last time before you stepped out near the park’s entrance.

“Call me if you float away from happiness,” your mum teased.

You smiled nervously. “I’ll try.”

Meanwhile, Sinclair had been sitting on the same bench for the last twenty minutes.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Maybe nothing. Maybe he just wanted to feel like he’d tried.

Sending that letter had been a gamble. The University of London had hundreds of students. But he remembered Carrington. He remembered the way she held herself. The faint northern accent in her voice. The way she’d laughed despite herself at his terrible, dry jokes.

He’d tracked down to the west wing, by bribing the porter with an espresso and two quid just to find and double-check room numbers. Dorm Room 7. Miss Carrington. That was as close to fate as he could get.

Now he sat there, black coat buttoned, pretending to read the same page of his book for the fifth time.

Maybe she wouldn't come.

Maybe she’d laugh at the note. Maybe it never reached her at all.

He closed his book and let the spring sun warm his skin. If she didn’t come, he would leave in fifteen minutes. Maybe ten. He hated waiting.

But then, a flicker of pink.

A shape moving just beyond the hedge-lined path. A flash of hair he hadn’t realized he’d memorized. And the dress — soft, sunlit, unmistakable.

His heart stopped.

She was walking toward him.

You saw him the moment you rounded the corner.

He was there. Black coat. Paperback in hand. Sitting on the park bench like something out of a forgotten poem.

The sight of him knocked the wind from your lungs.

He looked up. Both of your eyes met. And something in his expression shifted — a quiet storm settling into still water.

You walked faster. Then slower. Then tried to act like you weren’t staring.

And just as you passed, the universe, yet again, conspired.

Your foot snagged on a root curled through the path. You pitched forward, gasping.

But before you could fall, strong arms caught you.

“…Got you,” he murmured.

Your palms pressed into his chest. One hand gripped his shoulder. His hands were at your waist, warm and sure.

Your froze. The world tilted — not from the stumble, but from him.

Their faces were inches apart.

You could see the gold light reflecting in his eyes, and you could feel his breath against your cheek. He wasn’t smiling now. No teasing. Just… watching you. Like he had so many things he wanted to say, and didn’t know which to begin with.

“Why is it always you?” you whispered.

His voice was quiet. “Maybe it’s always supposed to be me.”

Something broke open in your chest.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I think I’ve been falling for you this whole time.”

For a moment, nothing moved. And then, the tiniest shift.

His lips quirked. Not in amusement. In something else. Admiration, maybe.

He leaned in.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

The kiss was soft.

Certain.

A quiet promise stitched together from every unsaid word, every unspoken longing. It was warmth and ache and relief all at once — the kind of kiss that made the world hush and time fold in on itself.

When both of you finally pulled apart, breathless, you didn’t fall.

You floated.

And this time, he was there to catch you anyway.

Two years later

The sun poured like honey through the wide windows of their home — their home — nestled just past the city, where the trees bloomed thick and the air always smelled like fresh beginnings.

Their daughter, barely steady on her legs, toddled across the garden with all the determination of a storm. She was small and soft and completely fearless — and like you, her mother, had a curious knack for tripping over invisible things at just the right moment.

And as always, Sinclair was there.

He caught her mid-fall, scooping her up with practiced ease. She squealed with delight.

“Well now,” he said, lifting her with mock-seriousness, “another girl in this family who falls at my feet.”

You snorted from the patio.

“She didn’t fall for you, she just fell near you.”

He grinned. “Close enough.”

You walked over and gently swatted his arm. “Arrogant.”

He kissed your temple. “Married you, didn’t I?”

The baby giggled between you, clapping her hands as if she'd understood the joke. Her curls caught the sunlight — like yours — and her little nose crinkled just like his when she laughed.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, arms wrapped around the both of them.

He held you tighter.

And in that moment, warm garden air, baby laughter, a little chaos, a lot of love, you knew.

You’d fall for him all over again.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

[severussimp]

Belonging Theory

Summary: When the line between obsession and love blurs, Eli Michaelson begins to unravel—haunted by a past he refuses to name and a girl he swore he’d never need.

Pairing: Eli Michaelson × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, Angst

First, Second, Third and Fourth part here.

Also read on Ao3

Eli suddenly pulled out of you without warning, dragging a broken sob from your throat as your body clenched around nothing, shaking, slick, undone. You barely had time to gasp before he hooked his arms under your thighs and lifted you—just lifted you like it cost him nothing, like you weighed less than a grudge.

You clung to him out of instinct, half-limp and overstimulated, your body a trembling mess, your hands fisting the collar of his shirt. His cock was still hard between you, thick and soaked with you, twitching against your thigh as he carried you up the driveway and through the front door like a man possessed.

He didn’t say a word.

Not when the hallway lights flicked on. Not when your head lolled against his shoulder and your lips brushed his neck. His jaw was set, nostrils flared, baritone breath hissing through clenched teeth like he was holding himself back by inches. By threads.

He carried you into the bedroom and set you down on the mattress—his bed, sharp and cold and immaculately made—and you sank into the sheets, boneless and dazed, your thighs still sticky, your heart still pounding.

But Eli didn’t climb on top of you. Not yet. Instead, he straightened, adjusted his shirt with one hand, and turned toward the door.

“Stay there,” he said—gravel-soft, voice like a warning shot muffled by velvet. “Don’t fucking move.”

You blinked, watching him disappear down the hallway. You heard the sound of the fridge. The hum of something opening. Running water.

When he returned, he had a bottle in one hand—glass, not plastic. Chilled. Condensation beaded across his fingers.

He handed it to you without comment.

You stared at it for a beat, confused, your breath still coming in shallow little gasps. “What is this?”

Eli arched a brow, his hazel eyes burning with a slow, mocking patience. “It’s water, sweetheart. Try not to look so offended.”

You took it with trembling hands, fingers brushing his. The bottle was cold—blessedly cold—and you took a long sip without thinking, the liquid soothing your dry throat, your fried nerves.

Eli sat on the edge of the bed.

He still hadn’t come. He was hard. You could see it, thick and angry between his open trousers. But he didn’t reach for you. Not yet. He watched you instead, his hooked nose casting a sharp line of shadow across his cheek, his lips parted just slightly, like he was cataloguing every twitch of your bare, ruined body.

“You’re flushed,” he murmured. “Pulse high. Still leaking.”

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

He tilted his head, voice lowering to a dark purr. “I like you like this.”

You swallowed. “Like what?”

“Ruined,” Eli said, eyes raking over your body. “Fucked open. Full of me.”

You tried to shift, to close your legs, but his hand was already there—firm, warm, splaying across your inner thigh to keep you open.

“You begged for it,” he murmured. “You begged for my tongue. My cock. You screamed when I gave it to you.”

You whimpered softly. “I said stop.”

Eli’s expression flickered—just for a second.

“You said ‘stop leaving,’” he replied coldly. “There’s a difference.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

“And you said it with my cock halfway down your throat,” he added, cruelly calm. “So don’t rewrite the story now. You knew what you were doing.”

Silence.

Then, softer—quieter, with something almost like… restraint:

“I’m not done with you yet.”

You were about to speak—maybe protest, maybe surrender—when he reached out and took the bottle from your hands, setting it on the nightstand with a quiet clink.

“Lie back,” he said.

You did.

And when he climbed over you, the weight of him pressed into your chest like a verdict. His baritone voice was low, but not gentle.

“I want to feel you come around me again. Slow this time.”

His cock brushed your inner thigh, slick and hot. His nose nuzzled against your jaw, voice whispering like a secret too dangerous to speak aloud.

“And then I want to come inside you,” he breathed. “So deep it doesn’t leave for days.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Your body already had.

An hour later, the room was quiet. Still. The sheets tangled at your waist, your skin flushed and glistening, your breath soft with sleep.

Eli sat on the edge of the bed, seminude, elbows resting on his knees, one hand running slowly through his disheveled hair. His back was tense—broad shoulders hunched, spine rigid with something restless and unspoken. He stared at the floor like it might offer an equation he could solve, something he could fix, categorize, dismiss.

But there was no solution here. Just the sound of your breathing. The faint imprint of your body on his sheets. The smell of sex still hanging in the air.

You were asleep.

He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. Not when his mind was churning like this—chaotic, volatile, embarrassing.

It shouldn’t be like this. You were supposed to be the toy. The subject. The willing object of his control, his money, his precision. The lab rat who signed her life away for a stipend and some tuition coverage.

He was supposed to be the master. Detached. Amused. Unreachable.

But here he was. Awake. Haunted.

The image of you moaning his name still vivid behind his eyes, raw and hungry and real. Too real. Your voice still echoing in his head. The way you clung to him. The way you looked up at him, even in anger—even when you said no, even when you said enough—like he was something that mattered.

It was infuriating.

He shouldn't be this affected. Shouldn’t care if you walked out. Shouldn’t care what you did after the contract ended. Who you fucked. Who you laughed with. Who you trusted instead of him.

But he did.

God, he did.

The thought of you with someone else—some eager little academic with soft eyes and cleaner hands, someone who smiled too much and said “good job” when you passed a test instead of ripping the paper apart with red ink—that thought made his stomach twist. Made his jaw lock. Made his hands tremble.

He didn’t get possessive. That wasn’t who he was. He didn’t want things. He used them. Controlled them. Discarded them.

Except you.

He couldn’t discard you. Not when your scent was still on his skin. Not when your voice still lingered in his ear like an echo carved into bone.

He ran a hand over his mouth, exhaling through his nose. His hazel eyes flicked toward you—still sleeping, still warm, curled half on your side like you belonged there. In his bed. In his world.

You didn’t even look scared anymore.

You looked safe.

And that scared the shit out of him.

He hated that you made him hesitate. That you made him reconsider. That you turned fucking into feeling, even when he swore he’d never be that weak.

It was supposed to be control. That’s what it had always been.

Power.

Not... whatever this was. This heat in his throat. This ache in his chest. This absurd desire to slide back into bed and wrap himself around you, to pull you close and stay.

He stared down at his hands, flexing his fingers slowly. He’d paid your bills. He’d erased your contract. He’d memorized your body, your laugh, the exact cadence of your moans when you were seconds from coming apart.

He didn't own you. But he'd carved his name into you anyway. And now? Now he couldn't bear the idea of anyone else touching you. Not academically, not emotionally, not physically.

He clenched his jaw, shaking his head once like that might dispel the thought. You should’ve just been a phase, he told himself. A mouth. A cunt. A warm body that obeyed when he said bend over.

But no.

You’d become something else. Something messier. Something dangerous.

And the worst part? You didn’t even know it.

You still believed he could let you go.

Eli turned slightly, looking back at you over his shoulder. His baritone voice broke the silence—low, quiet, like he didn’t mean to speak aloud.

“You think I’m ever letting you leave?”

He stared at you, chest tight. Then he reached for the blanket and pulled it up gently over your bare shoulders, smoothing it down with a hand that didn’t shake.

But his breath did.

And that was worse. He closed his fist and bit down on it hard, knuckles white, the sting sharp against his teeth.

Get your head together, Michaelson. Get your fucking head together.

But he couldn’t. Not tonight.

Not with your scent still on his skin. Not with the taste of your still ghosting his mouth, sweet and salt and defiance. Not with your sleeping in his bed like she belonged there, like you’d carved out a place in his life that he never meant to give.

Eli shoved himself off the edge of the bed, pacing across the room like a caged thing, breath shallow, heartbeat thudding loud in his ears. He wanted to punch something. A wall. A mirror. His own fucking father’s smug face.

Frank.

That bastard.

He hadn’t seen Frank in person in two years, not since the last pathetic attempt at a family gathering—an awkward dinner where Frank tried to play father over roast chicken and Merlot, like decades of contempt could be erased with polite conversation and a plate of fucking carrots. Eli had made it thirty-seven minutes before snapping, calling him a sanctimonious bastard and storming out.

Frank kept trying, though. Kept calling. Kept sending books, tickets, awkward little gifts with too many commas in the card—“Just thought you might find this interesting, son.” As if that word still meant anything.

Eli didn’t answer. He never answered. Not after what that man had done. Not after he’d replaced everything Eli’s mother ever was with a child bride and a do-over kid.

Thomas. That boy.

Eli ran a hand through his hair, fingers tugging hard enough to hurt.

He hated Frank. Hated the way he’d softened in his old age, as if marrying that cheerful, oblivious woman had magically absolved him of a lifetime of being a cold, withholding, judgmental bastard. Hated the way Frank treated Thomas like some kind of fucking golden boy—soft pats on the head, school awards on the fridge, bedtime stories and father-son science kits.

Where the hell was that version of Frank when Eli was seven? Or fifteen? Or twenty?

Eli had never known a Frank who laughed. Or hugged. Or called just to check in.

All he got was expectations. Orders. And disappointment.

And when his mother died, that already-icy world turned to frost. The only softness in Eli’s life disappeared with a hospice breath and a white hospital sheet.

That was the moment, really.

The rupture.

The hole that opened and never closed.

Eli tried to fill it with drugs at first. Ecstasy. Coke. A few trips into darker corners of chemistry labs where supervision was light and ambition high. He got smart about it. Started making his own. Microdosing during lectures. Popping molly before oral exams. Conducting peer reviews with pupils like dinner plates.

Frank found out. Of course he did. Had him yanked out of his PhD program and shoved into some elite rehab clinic outside of Boston. Military connections. Clean linens. No privacy. Eli had screamed. Begged. Bartered. Nothing worked.

“You’ll thank me for this,” Frank had said at the door, not unkindly.

Eli had laughed in his face.

He got clean. Stayed clean. Got out. Moved to California, poured everything into his research, won awards, published papers. 

Married Sarah. Slept with a dozen others. Got Sarah pregnant. Stayed married out of obligation and spite. Screwed his way through graduate assistants, conference attendees, the occasional colleague’s bored wife. Control. That’s what it gave him. If he couldn’t be loved the way he needed, he could be wanted. Owned. Obeyed.

Sex filled the gaps.

Briefly.

Until her.

Until the girl now tangled in his sheets like she might belong there, like she might stay.

And that was the real problem.

Eli closed his eyes and pressed his fist to his mouth again, harder this time.

Don’t be fucking stupid.

She was just another body. Another bright young thing who let him push her too far and came back for more. He paid her. She posed. She stayed. And she would leave. Eventually, they all did.

But this one? She made him hesitate.

And that hesitation—that crack in his armor—made everything else worse. Sharper. Uglier. It reopened every old wound. Every unmet need. Every bitter fucking memory of being the wrong son.

Thomas didn’t have to beg for approval. Thomas didn’t get told he was too much. Thomas didn’t get dragged out of a lab and locked away like a disgrace. Thomas got bedtime stories and field trips and a version of Frank Benson that Eli had never even imagined.

And yet…

God help him…

Eli liked the boy.

No.

He envied, loved him.

Couldn’t help it. Thomas called him “big brother” like it meant something. Drew him pictures. Asked him science questions. Told him he wanted to be “a cool genius like Eli” when he grew up.

It was impossible not to get attached.

And that made Eli hate Frank more.

Because it meant the bastard could have been that man all along. He just chose not to be. Not for Eli.

The rage surged again, and Eli grabbed a glass from the nightstand, flinging it against the far wall. It shattered, the sound sharp and immediate, waking the girl in the bed with a startled jolt.

“Eli?” you whispered, eyes wide.

He turned his back.

“Go back to sleep.”

You sat up, covers pulled to your chest, your voice shaking. “What happened?”

Eli said nothing. Not right away. Then, quietly, too quietly: “Wrong life. Wrong fucking life.”

You didn't ask what he meant; you held out your arms to him.

And Eli hesitated. He stood near the broken glass, baritone breath tight in his throat, his jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jumping along his cheek. The light from the hallway painted his naked back in pale, sharp lines—tension carved into every vertebra. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But he didn’t walk away either.

Your voice was soft, hoarse with sleep. “Come here.”

Still, he didn’t turn. His hand twitched at his side, fingers curled like they were deciding whether to clench or reach. Logic screamed at him—Don’t. Don’t let yourself go soft now. Don’t fall for the warmth in your voice, the pity in your eyes. This wasn’t love. This was a trap. A soft little nest of feelings that would only leave him exposed. Dependent. Pathetic.

He went anyway.

Eli crossed the room in two strides, dropped to his knees by the bed, and let you wrap your arms around his shoulders.

You held him gently. Like he wasn’t the man who’d threatened you. Fucked you. Bought you. Like he wasn’t dangerous. Just tired. Just human.

“Are you hurt?” you asked softly, brushing your fingers through the hair at his temple. “Did you cut yourself on the glass?”

“No,” Eli grunted.

“Then why—?”

“I don’t want to talk.”

But you didn’t stop. You never did.

“Is it about earlier?” you whispered. “About what I said—about the breakup?”

His shoulders tensed beneath your hands. His breath caught.

“I’m still going to finish the contract, Eli. I said I would. I’m not going back on that.”

He pulled away—not violently, but fast enough to break your grip. Fast enough to sting. He stood, pacing, his hand dragging through his hair, tugging hard at the strands like they were guilty of something.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, sitting up fully now. “Talk to me. What is it?”

“Everything!” Eli snapped, spinning on you, eyes blazing. “Everything is wrong!”

You flinched at the volume—more from the rawness than the rage. His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, baritone unraveling like a string pulled too tight.

He ran both hands down his face, then turned from you, talking too fast, too loud, like something inside him had finally come unhinged.

“Since the beginning, alright? Since the goddamn beginning. Since the day my mother died and that bastard of a father turned me into a fucking cadet!” His voice shook, rough and splintered. “Treated me like I was a project. A soldier. A fucking experiment.”

You didn’t speak. You just watched.

He paced again, bare feet crunching softly near the shards of the glass he’d thrown.

“And now look at him,” Eli spat. “Look at Frank. Smiling in every photo like he didn’t choke the life out of his first kid. Father of the year. Model citizen. And Thomas—”

He stopped, a ragged sound tearing out of his throat. He looked up at the ceiling like he might find the words carved into it.

“I love that kid,” Eli said, quieter now, but the fury hadn’t left his voice—it just folded in on itself, tighter. “And I hate that I love him. Because he gets everything I didn’t. Everything I should have had. And it’s not his fault. He’s just a kid. But I still want to scream every time he calls me big brother like it’s some fucking badge of honor.”

He turned toward you again, eyes dark and wild. “And then there’s Barkley.”

You blinked. “Your son?”

“My thieving, lying son,” Eli snapped. “Ran off with half my fucking money. I gave that boy my name, my blood, my legacy, and he pissed on all of it. And now, when I look at him, I don’t see a son—I see every single mistake I ever made shoved into a leather jacket and a smug grin.”

He shook his head, pacing again, hands clenching. “And now you—” he stopped, staring at you like you’d started this fire in his chest, “—you think you’re going to walk away? For what? For that scarf-wearing, open-mic-night philosophy major? Jordan?”

You opened your mouth.

“Don’t lie to me!” he shouted. “I see the way you look at him. Like he’s your salvation. Like he’s going to love you gently and say all the right things and touch you like you’re made of glass.”

He stepped forward, pointing, breath sharp.

“But he doesn’t know you. Not like I do. He didn’t see you beg. Didn’t see you scream. He didn’t drag the truth out of you like splinters. He didn’t pay your fucking bills.”

You stood too, hands shaking. “That’s not love, Eli. That’s control.”

“I don’t know how to love!” he bellowed, and the silence that followed was devastating.

Eli stared at you, chest heaving.

“I don’t know how,” he repeated, quieter now. “I only know how to keep people. How to own them. Protect them. Pay for them. Fuck them. Ruin them.”

His voice cracked again. “Because every time I loved something, it got taken. Or left. Or died.”

You took a step toward him. “I’m not—”

“Don’t,” he warned, voice hoarse. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

The air between you hung heavy with something unspoken. Something broken.

Then, softer, like a confession he hadn’t meant to give: “If you leave, I don’t think I’ll know who the hell I am anymore.”

You exhaled.

And despite everything—every awful word, every ugly truth—you held out your arms again.

Eli looked at them. Looked at you. And this time, when he came to you, it wasn’t with hunger. It wasn’t with control.

It was with grief.

And need.

And something dangerously close to love.

The two of you didn’t talk about that night. Not about the bed. Not about the glass. Not about the confession that cracked open like a wound under your ribs and spilled something too fragile for either of you to name.

Eli stopped calling. He didn’t cancel your contract. Didn’t cut off your funds. He simply… stopped being there. The apartment was quiet. No more sharp baritone echoing through the halls, no more “Fix your goddamn posture” mid-study session, no more smirking commands to sit on the desk, to arch your back, to “earn your rent.”

And you didn’t go after him.

Not because you didn’t want to. But because you were tired. Because your final exams were looming, your hands were shaking every morning from too much coffee and not enough sleep, and every time you picked up your phone to text him—Are you okay?—you remembered the way he’d shouted, I don’t know how to love.

So you gave him space. Weeks passed like molasses. You studied. You worked. You kept your head down and your mouth shut. No more Playboy. No more photo shoots. Just you and your books and the deafening silence where Eli used to be.

And then, one afternoon, everything changed.

It was a Thursday. Warm. Early summer. The air outside still held the ghost of pollen, and your backpack was too heavy, and you were running on three hours of sleep and two Red Bulls. The exam had gone better than expected. You’d even smiled on the way out.

And Jordan was waiting at the curb.

He leaned against his motorcycle, helmet tucked under one arm, his scarf flapping in the breeze like a flag of hipster rebellion. He grinned when he saw you—wide and unguarded—and you couldn’t help it. You smiled back.

Eli saw it happen. He was crossing the lot, briefcase in one hand, car keys in the other, heading for his battered Mercedes like it owed him a favor. He wasn’t even looking for you. Not consciously.

But he looked up. And froze.

You were laughing—laughing—as Jordan handed you a helmet and gestured for you to climb on. He was helping you fasten the strap under your chin, his knuckles brushing your throat, his voice soft, close.

Eli’s breath caught. He didn’t move. Just stood there, half-shadowed under the curve of the building, hazel eyes locked on the image in front of him like he couldn’t quite process it.

You climbed on behind Jordan, wrapped your arms around his waist, and held tight.

And Eli—

He felt something snap. Not a loud break, not a scream. Just a quiet, internal fracture, like a glass vial under pressure finally giving way. His hands clenched at his sides; his breath came sharply through his nose.

The motorcycle roared to life.

Jordan laughed.

You pressed your cheek to his back, grinning, hair whipped by the wind.

And Eli Michaelson, Nobel laureate, academic tyrant, expert in quantum chemistry and the systematic disassembly of human emotion, stood in a parking lot watching the only person who had ever understood him ride away on a fucking motorcycle with a boy who wore scarves in June.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t move. But his keys dug so hard into his palm, they drew blood.

And his baritone voice, when he finally spoke hours later into the hollow quiet of his kitchen, was so quiet it felt like a funeral.

“She wants him.”

He didn’t say it with anger. He said it like a sentence. Like a fact of the universe. Like gravity.

And somewhere deep inside—past the pride, past the genius, past the carefully constructed shell of control—Eli Michaelson finally felt fear.

Eli, the stupid fucking idiot Eli, found himself at a bar. Not a fancy one—not some sleek rooftop lounge where Nobel laureates went to be admired in dim lighting over overpriced whiskey. No. This was a dive. Sticky floors. Flickering TV mounted in the corner. One of the barstools had duct tape wrapped around the seat like a tumor. Eli took it anyway.

He was on his third scotch.

Maybe fourth. The bartender had stopped counting.

He felt ridiculous. Humiliated. Bitter.

Suffering. Over a girl. A girl.

He laughed—quiet and mirthless, more air than sound—and rubbed a hand over his face. His baritone rasped out low and sharp: “Christ, you’re pathetic.” He ordered another.

How ironic the world was. How small. How cruel.

He shouldn't have bought that Playboy magazine. He shouldn’t have picked it up in the first place—shouldn’t have flipped through the pages like some pervert. But he had. Like a fucking idiot.

He shouldn’t have chased you. Shouldn’t have dragged you against his car and shoved his mouth between your thighs like an addict licking the spoon. Shouldn’t have begged you to stay.

Idiot, idiot, idiot.

He took another drink. At a nearby table, a woman had been watching him for the last twenty minutes. Pretty. Young. Too much makeup. The kind who liked her men older, tragic, and bleeding from the edges.

Eli glanced at her.

Then glanced again.

She smiled.

He raised his glass. Called the bartender. “Send her one of these.”

The man nodded, wiping his hands on a towel. Eli leaned back, glass dangling from his fingers, already seeing it—her in his bed, her knees spread, her mouth open, moaning his name like she’d known it forever.

Yes, he thought. That’s going to fix this. That’s going to make him forget you.

He was about to stand. About to walk over. About to slide back into the skin he wore best: charming, cruel, fuckable.

Then—

His phone buzzed. He frowned, dug it from his coat pocket, already preparing to ignore it.

Thomas.

He sighed. “Of course.”

He answered anyway.

“What is it, Thomas?” he muttered, pressing the phone to his ear. “You know these calls are expensive.”

The line crackled faintly. Then his brother’s voice came through, bright and unbothered.

“Hi, bro! Sorry, I just— I wanted to tell you—yesterday in school I did this project about chemical reactions, and I used vinegar and baking soda, and it exploded all over my shoes, and my teacher said I should be a scientist like you!”

Eli closed his eyes. Rubbed his temple. He didn’t respond.

Thomas kept going. “And I told her, I said, ‘My big brother’s a genius. He’s got awards and everything. He won a prize from Sweden!’ And she said—”

Eli cut in, voice sharp. “Tell Dad. He’s the one who cares. I’m sure he’d love to hear all about it. His favorite son. His beloved second chance.”

Thomas was quiet on the other end.

Too quiet.

Eli blinked, something in his gut twisting—but before he could say anything, the boy’s voice returned. Softer. Confused.

“…He always talks about you.”

Eli froze.

Thomas went on, his voice a little smaller now, but no less certain. “Dad has this album. He keeps it in the study. It’s full of newspaper clippings. Photos. Your name. Your speeches. Even the one where you looked really mad and your hair was all messed up.”

Eli didn’t breathe.

“He always says you’re the pride of the Benson family,” Thomas added. “That you were the first person to show the world what we could do. He says I’ll be like you one day.”

Silence.

The bar faded.

The woman disappeared.

Even the scotch in his hand felt weightless.

Thomas kept speaking, unaware of the thunder cracking inside Eli’s skull. “He says he was a bad dad to you. That he messed up. But he never stops talking about how smart you are. He brags about you all the time. It’s kind of annoying.”

Eli let out a breath. Just one. Shaky. Quiet.

He didn’t know what to say. So he said nothing.

And for the first time in a long time, that silence wasn’t filled with bitterness. It was filled with grief.

And something dangerously close to... relief. But he wasn’t ready. Not yet.

So he swallowed it. Like poison. Like medicine. Like everything he’d ever swallowed in his father’s house.

Then he cleared his throat and said, voice hoarse, “Go to school, Thomas.”

The boy hesitated. “…Okay. Good Morning, Eli.”

“Night.”

He hung up. The drink sat untouched in his hand. The woman across the bar was still watching. But Eli didn't move. He just sat there.

And for the first time in his life, he didn’t know who he was trying to forget. His father. Himself.

Or you.

There was a loud knock on your apartment door. Sharp. Repeated.

It was 2:11 in the morning.

You sat up fast, heart pounding, still dressed in the oversized shirt you wore to bed. No one should’ve been at your door. Not at this hour.

You grabbed the bat from under the side table—the old aluminum one you kept there for moments just like this—and padded silently to the door, bare feet cold against the tile. You peered through the peephole, every muscle in your body braced for a stranger, a threat, a face you didn’t know.

But it wasn’t a stranger.

It was Eli. Drunk. Disheveled. His white dress shirt wrinkled, the collar half-popped, and his dark coat askew over one shoulder like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it. His hazel eyes were glassy, bloodshot. His hooked nose looked sharper in the hallway light, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable.

You lowered the bat slowly.

Then you opened the door.

“Do you think my father loves me?” Eli slurred.

You blinked. “…What?”

He leaned against the doorframe, eyes not quite meeting yours. “You’re smarter than you look. What do you think? Is it love when someone makes you bleed and calls it discipline?”

You swallowed. “Eli, I don’t—I don’t even know your father—”

“Didn’t ask if you knew him,” he snapped, baritone thick and broken. “I asked if you think he loves me.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed. There was no right answer.

Before you could respond, he pushed off the frame and leaned toward you—too fast. His hand caught your shoulder, and then his mouth was on yours, rough and uninvited. He kissed you like a man falling off a ledge, desperate to take something down with him.

You pushed him back with both hands. “Eli, what the fuck—”

“I can’t—” He ran a hand through his hair, breath shaking. “I can’t do this. Not if you’re with him.”

“Who?”

“Jordan,” Eli spat the name like it burned. “That fucking… cardigan-wearing… golden retriever.”

You stared at him. “Are you seriously here, drunk, at two in the morning, because you’re jealous?”

He exhaled sharply. “I’m not jealous.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“I’m not,” he insisted, hazel eyes flashing. “Jealousy is wanting something someone else has. You’re not his. You’re mine.”

You sighed, the ache in your chest blooming again. “It’s not fair, Eli. You sleep with whoever you want. I’m not even allowed to talk to another guy without getting a lecture from you?”

“I haven’t,” he cut in.

You blinked. “What?”

His jaw clenched, the words slow and deliberate now—like they hurt. “I haven’t slept with anyone else. In months. Not since you.”

You stared at him, stunned.

“I tried,” he said, quieter. “Tonight. I tried. Bought a drink for someone. Took her home. She said yes.”

He looked away, jaw tight.

“But when I touched her… I felt nothing. Nothing. Like kissing the wrong ghost.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

Eli met your gaze finally, eyes darker now, his voice cracked and low.

“Do you have any idea what that means for me? I don’t do this. I don’t lose sleep. I don’t chase anyone. But you…” He trailed off, mouth twisting like the taste of your name was a confession.

You stood still, your fingers twitching at your side.

“I couldn’t fuck her,” he said finally, like it shamed him. “Because all I could think about was you. Your mouth. Your laugh. The way you never flinch when I’m cruel. You just stare back like you’re waiting for me to be human.”

You looked at him then, really looked. At the bloodshot eyes, the cracked knuckles, the tilt of his mouth like he was halfway between begging and breaking.

He took a step closer. “Don’t be with him,” he whispered. “Please.”

You swallowed hard. “Why? Because you can’t get it up for anyone else?”

“No.” His voice dropped. “Because I’m in love with you.”

Silence.

Then:

“Christ,” Eli muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “I actually said it.”

You didn’t move.

Neither did he. He just stood there in your doorway, every inch of arrogance stripped away, and waited to see if you’d slam the door in his face—or let him in.

And you…

You stepped aside.

Not because you forgave him. Not because it was simple. But because somewhere deep inside, under all the wreckage, you wanted to believe it.

Wanted to believe he meant it, even if he didn't know how.

[severussimp]

At fifteen, Lily told Severus he was obsessed. That he should be grateful James saved him. That he needed to stop fixating.

Years later, she marries James.

And one day, she stumbles across a map that shows every student’s movements in real time. An invisibility cloak that lets you follow anyone, anywhere, unnoticed. And she learns Remus was a werewolf—had been for years, right there at school.

And maybe, just for a moment—just one— she feels the weight of that realization:

“He wasn’t obsessed. He was scared. He didn’t feel safe… and I didn’t listen.”

[severussimp]

Fic recs, anyone 🥺

"Severitus where it's slow burn" overused, good, but a tad overused.

I see it, and I raise you Severus completely and utterly favoring Harry in literally every aspect. Like, he makes a somewhat passable potion? That's the prime potion, no one comes near that level. He has a paper cut? Someone might as well have told him he had cancer. Oh no, Harry's getting teased? They better hide because they ain't running.

[severussimp]

Title: Collateral Tension

Summary: Comfort is dangerous when your heart’s already spoken for. Jealousy doesn’t wait for its turn. For you and Frank… it might already be too late.

Author's note: Well, well, well… you guys asked, so I delivered 🫡. What started as a one-shot quickly turned into a whole series because, honestly, Frank and you guys just wouldn’t let me stop. Here’s the sequel packed with all the chaos, heartburn, and messy feelings you didn’t know you needed. Thank you for your support, and I hope you guys enjoy it, because Frank and you definitely aren’t done yet. 😉

Pairing: Frank Benson x Fem Reader

Warnings: Emotional Tension, Jealousy, Angst, Mild Violence and Language

Part 1 and Part 2 here

Cross-posted on AO3

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Summer came with long, quiet mornings—and too much time to think.

Your friends had scattered with the season. Chloe was off tanning on some remote beach with cousins who had more swimsuits than manners. Amanda was glued to her desk, caught in the soul-crushing grip of budget audits. And Liam was deep in a hush-hush private security contract that had him disappearing off the radar for weeks.

That left you alone, with far too much idle time and a heart that had been drifting places it shouldn't.

You’d been scrolling through local community outreach boards—more out of habit than anything—when a post caught your eye:

"Summer Volunteers Needed – Youth Cadet Workshops & Base Assistance (Non-Military Personnel Welcome!)”

It wasn’t your world, but it felt like a lifeline. Organising, helping, giving back—that was your thing. And the idea of keeping busy, of being needed, made your fingers hover over the registration link for just a second before you clicked “Apply.”

You didn’t think of him when you applied.

Okay, maybe you did.

Frank Benson.

Since that chaotic, unforgettable birthday dare—the break-in, the confrontation, the guilt that led to coffee—he hadn’t been far from your thoughts. That afternoon in the café had left something unspoken hanging between you. He was quiet, intense, but there was a warmth beneath it. A steady calm you hadn’t realized you craved until it was gone.

And it wasn’t there. Not really. A wave here, a nod there, like distant ships passing. But nothing more. No conversations. No follow-ups.

Just… silence.

Surprisingly, the base accepted you quickly. Civilian volunteers were rare and welcomed. They gave you light duties: organising gear donations, helping with obstacle drills for visiting cadets, managing first-aid workshop signups. You weren’t military, but you worked hard. Asked questions. Learned the rhythm of the place. And before long, respect followed.

So maybe, just maybe, the volunteer work was a way to drift back into his orbit.

Even if it meant doing it alone.

You adjusted your base-issued lanyard and stepped onto the training field, clipboard in one hand and a half-melted iced coffee in the other. The morning sun already bore down with ruthless enthusiasm, and the scent of sweat, dust, and just a hint of cologne hung thick in the air.

A row of cadets stood near the obstacle course, barking jokes and shoving one another like boys on a school pitch—not exactly the image of stoic military discipline.

“Uh,” you called out, raising your clipboard, “Hi. I’m the volunteer coordinator for the workshop rotation. I’m looking for Group Charlie?”

One of the cadets—a wiry, red-haired guy with a constellation of freckles and zero shame—grinned wide. “That’s us, ma’am. Or are you here to sign us up for yoga and embroidery?”

The others burst into laughter.

You smirked. “Only if you think you can hold a downward dog for more than ten seconds without crying.”

A wave of “oohs” followed. One cadet gave a theatrical gasp.

“Careful,” another chimed in, grinning. “She’s got jokes. I like her.”

“Name’s Jake,” the redhead said, stepping forward. “That’s Caleb, Sam, Denny—and Alex’s late, as usual. Probably off fixing his hair again.”

You chuckled, noting names on your clipboard. “Got it. You’ll all be rotating between equipment checks, first aid stations, and drill setups. I don’t give orders—I just make the chaos slightly more organized.”

“You sound way too nice to be working here,” Caleb said, squinting. “You ex-military?”

“Nope,” you replied. “Just a civilian with a clipboard and a talent for controlled disasters.”

Denny snorted. “A brave soul.”

Before you could respond, a voice cut through the chatter—low, dry, and unmistakably amused.

“If you’re done harassing the new volunteer, we’ve got rope stations to set up.”

The group straightened instantly.

You turned—and there he was.

Alexander Carrington.

Tall, broad-shouldered, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms dusted with rope burn and confidence. His hair was tousled, the kind of mess that looked effortless but definitely involved a mirror. His grin was lazy, practiced.

“You must be Clipboard Girl,” he said, stepping closer and offering his hand. “Alex Carrington. You’re either new or lost.”

You shook it. “Neither. I’m here for the summer volunteer program.”

“That so?” His gaze flicked to your lanyard. “God help you.”

“I’ve heard that a lot today,” you said, trying not to smile. “But I’ve survived worse.”

One brow lifted. “You local?”

“Sort of,” you said. “I volunteer around town when I can. Found the base notice while doomscrolling summer boredom.”

Jake snorted. “If she’s bored now, wait till someone makes her untangle the rope station. That thing’s cursed.”

“Speaking of which—” Alex bent, grabbed a coiled rope from the grass, and tossed it at you. “Think fast.”

You fumbled but caught it. Barely. It was heavier than it looked.

“Welcome to the team, Clipboard Girl.”

You adjusted the mess of tangles in your arms. “Is this my official initiation?”

“Nope,” he said, already walking toward the climbing frame. “That comes later. Usually involves a water balloon and a lot of shouting.”

You rolled your eyes but followed.

Frank, on the other hand, had yet to show.

Since that day, Alex has always been the first to lend a hand and the last to leave the mess hall. He took to you immediately—easy banter, harmless flirting, and a surprising sincerity that didn’t ask for anything in return. In just a few weeks, he'd become your closest friend on base. Like a brother.

Well… a brother who flirted in a way that made your stomach flip sometimes.

But you knew he came in from time to time. You’d heard the instructors mention him—“Retired, but they still call him in for the real tactical stuff.” Briefings. Seminars. Advanced training observations. The kind of presence that left a ripple in the room.

You figured he was just too busy.

Or maybe…

Maybe he was avoiding you.

One morning, with the sun already climbing and your nerves tight for no good reason, you asked Alex as the two of you passed a knot of instructors by the tent.

“So… do all the instructors cycle through here, or just the unlucky ones?”

Alex followed your gaze, sharp enough to catch what you weren’t saying. “Most rotate in and out. Some just swing by for specialty sessions.”

You kept your tone casual. “Does Frank Benson still come around?”

Alex blinked. “You know Frank?”

“Sort of,” you said. Carefully. “We’ve… met.”

He gave a low whistle. “Huh. That’s rare. Most people just try not to get caught in his crosshairs. The guy’s a ghost—shows up, terrifies everyone with one look, then disappears.”

You smiled faintly. “Sounds about right.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Wait—is he why you signed up here?”

“What? No!” Too fast.

He smirked and bumped your shoulder. “Sure. Okay. Your secret crush on the Phantom of the Base is safe with me.”

You laughed it off. Brushed it off. Swore you wouldn’t think about it again.

Until the day it stopped being theory.

You were juggling a clipboard, a water bottle, and two tangled ropes, cursing under your breath, when you saw him. Across the training field, near the seminar tent.

Frank Benson.

He was talking to another officer, arms folded across that broad chest, dark shirt rolled to the elbows. The sun caught the silver streaks in his hair. He hadn’t changed—still composed, sharp, magnetic in a way that pulled your breath short before you could stop it.

And before you could second-guess yourself as soon as the officer moved away, your feet were already moving.

“Hey! Frank.”

He turned. His eyes flickered over you. Blank. “Yes?”

You faltered. “I—I’m volunteering here for the summer. I saw you and thought I’d say hi.”

You blinked. “Yeah. I’ve been mostly with the cadets, helping with—”

A pause. Then:

“That’s good,” he said. Flat. “They could use the help.”

“I’m late for a debriefing,” he cut in. “Excuse me.”

He turned and walked away.

Just like that.

You stood there in the heat, heart pounding—not from the sun. From the slap of it. The cold shoulder. The utter dismissal.

The Frank you remembered—steady, kind, reserved but warm—was gone.

That night, you told yourself to forget it. To move on. To focus on the work. To not read into it. To not dig into old wounds and half-remembered things that had never really been anything.

This one?

He looked through you like you were no one.

And the next morning, when Alex bumped your shoulder with his usual grin and easy warmth, you leaned into it. Let yourself smile back.

You weren’t going to chase someone who didn’t want you.

Frank Benson was not easily rattled.

But he’d thought about her.

Too much.

Ever since that absurd night—the break-in, the challenge, the coffee. Her apology, soft and sincere. Her fingers brushing his when she handed him the sugar. The way she looked at him, like he was more than just a hardened shell of uniform and scars.

It had crept in—uninvited. That flicker of possibility.

He should’ve shut the door on it. But he didn’t. And now it lingered in the corners of his mind like smoke after gunfire.

Work helped. Even post-retirement, the base still called him in. Briefings, strategic planning, advising cadets. He kept busy. Deliberately.

Until the day she showed up.

She walked across the training field like she belonged there—ponytail bouncing, clipboard in hand, laughing at something one of the younger officers said. She had that natural glow, the kind that drew people in without even trying.

He’d felt it too. Dammit.

“Hey! Frank,” she called, jogging up to him. Sunlight danced in her lashes, her smile nervous but warm. “I—I’m volunteering here for the summer. Just saw you and thought I’d say hi.”

Frank’s stomach twisted. She looked happy. Hopeful.

Dangerous.

He stood straighter, voice clipped. “That’s good. They could use the help.”

A pause. Her smile faltered. “Yeah. I’ve been mostly with the cadets, helping out with—”

“I’m late for a debriefing.” His tone was ice. “Excuse me.”

He didn’t look back as he walked away. But God, he felt it—the way her expression crumpled, just out of sight.

Frank watched from a distance.

Unreadable eyes as she and Alex ran drills, shared stories over rationed coffee, and moved in sync like they’d done it for years. And every time they were paired?

A sudden reassignment.

Split apart. Every time.

“Carrington, med tent.”

“Carrington, equipment check.”

“Carrington, mess duty.”

No one questioned it. Rank had its privileges.

Jealousy is a quiet poison. And Frank was starting to choke.

You noticed.

How his eyes would meet yours, only to flinch away. How his voice turned sharp whenever you were assigned near him.

And so you avoided him. Stopped waving hello. If you saw him in the corridor, you turned the other way. If you were forced to speak to him, you kept it professional. Eyes lowered. Tone dull. As if you didn’t care.

But you did.

God, you did.

It got worse when Alex found her crying behind the supply tent one evening. He said nothing at first—just sat next to you, handed you a water bottle, let the silence speak.

“You okay?” he finally asked, voice low.

You wiped your eyes roughly. “Just tired. Just… tired.”

But Alex had seen the way you looked at Frank. Everyone had. And he knew.

“He’s an idiot,” Alex muttered.

You let out a bitter laugh. “You have no idea.”

Alex nudged your shoulder. “Then let him be. He doesn’t get to treat you like a ghost.”

But you already felt like one.

As the pattern continues, one day it leads to a breaking point. Like the saying nothing lasts forever.

Late-night duty. Inventory check. You and Alex were assigned to the old storage unit—dusty tents, ration crates, leftover gear. At first, it was quiet. Then came the teasing. Then soft laughter.

But morning didn’t come with sunlight.

And then—

You both passed out on opposite mats, boots still on, backs sore, the air heavy with heat and exhaustion.

It came with a storm.

“Get up,” he growled.

You stirred, half-conscious, as the metal door clanged open.

Frank Benson stood in the frame—arms crossed, face stone, eyes burning.

Your stomach dropped. “Frank—wait—”

But he was already walking away.

You scrambled to your feet, boots half-laced, stumbling after him. “Frank, it’s not what it looked like. Nothing happened. We were working late and just—”

You stopped cold. “You think I’d fall for some kid when I can’t get you out of my goddamn head?!”

He spun. Fast. Fury rippling off him.

“You wanted my attention?” His voice cracked. “You got it.”

Frank’s eyes darkened. He stepped in close, and you stepped in closer.

“Then stop trying to replace me,” he hissed.

“You thought wrong.”

“Then stop pushing me away!”

Your voice shook. “I’ve tried, Frank. I’ve tried not to want this. You keep shutting me out and I keep showing up like a fool because I thought—”

You moved again—anger crackling in your chest—but as you reached for his arm, he shoved past you.

And you slipped.

Your foot caught on a rock. The gravel bit into your palms. You hit the ground with a startled gasp.

You stared up at him, heart pounding. “You’re a bastard.”

Frank froze. His expression twisted in something like regret.

But he didn’t help you up.

He looked at you like you’d just sliced him open.

“I never loved you,” he said.

“I was a mistake. You—” His voice broke. “You’re chasing a ghost. Go back to the boy. You’re good at pretending.”

Something tore.

Not just in you—but in him, too.

You got to your feet slowly. Dust on your hands. Rage and heartbreak in your eyes.

“You’re lying.”

He didn’t answer.

You turned and walked. Not because you wanted to.

Because you had to. Yet, you turned one last time, one tiny hope that he might come to you, but he just turned.

That Night

You couldn’t sleep. Again.

Alex found you curled in the rec tent, wrapped in your jacket, staring at nothing. You didn’t even flinch when he sat beside you.

“You okay?”

You didn’t answer.

“You want me to deck him?”

That made you laugh—soft, wet, broken. “Might feel good.”

Alex smiled, handed you a blanket. “Then I will.”

You looked at him. At his kind eyes, his steady hands, his unwavering loyalty.

Frank’s Bedroom

But he wasn’t Frank.

He never would be.

And you hated your heart for knowing it.

He didn’t sleep.

Couldn’t.

He sat in the dark, elbows on his knees, fists pressed against his mouth like he could hold the words in this time. But it was too late for that. They were already out.

Already done.

Each one echoed in his skull like shrapnel. He could still see your face—wide-eyed, furious, wounded. That moment when your mouth trembled but you held it together, that fierce glint in your eyes as you walked away, jaw tight, shoulders set like a soldier marching from a battlefield already lost.

“I never loved you.”

“I was a mistake.”

“Go back to the boy. You’re good at pretending.”

Goddamn idiot.

He panicked. Like a coward.

He hadn’t meant to push you—physically or otherwise. But when you stepped forward, when you said those words—“You think I’d fall for some kid when I can’t get you out of my goddamn head?!”—it was too much.

Too honest.

Too close.

And then you fell. Literally. The sound of your body hitting the gravel was louder in his memory than it should’ve been.

But all he did was look at you… and lash out again.

He should’ve helped you up.

Should’ve said something—anything.

“You’re a goddamn fool.”

He muttered it now, aloud, to the dark.

To the stillness pressing in from every wall.

Frank clenched his fists tighter, jaw locking as if pain might quiet the regret. But nothing could silence the sight of you walking away—dust on your palms, heartbreak in your stride, dignity intact despite the wound he’d carved with his own damn mouth.

You were better off without him.

Better off with someone like Carrington—young, open, unafraid. He didn’t carry ghosts. Didn’t flinch when things got too real. He could sit beside you, offer you warmth without setting himself on fire.

He hated himself for that.

And he didn’t.

You’d looked back once. Just once.

Eyes glassy.

Not asking him to follow—just wondering if he ever would.

And now?

Because Frank Benson didn’t know how to stay when it mattered.

Only how to push and destroy and regret it in silence.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

He’d broken what little you had left.

And there was no one to blame but himself.

[severussimp]

Hello! Just wanted to sneak this ask in. You can do this after your sabbatical lol. I was thinking of an Alan Rickman oneshot where he meets his unknown daughter. Like he had this fling when he was younger and more reckless and the mother never told him. And now the mother passed and the daughter needed a guardian or she'll be shipped off to a foster home. I'm thinking of a teen girl. I'm not quite sure how he'll find out yet. Either the girl goes to him very friendly and profesional and asks for his signature so she can request emancipation in court so she won't go into foster care. She assumed that Alan won't want her and would gladly sign it and was shocked when Alan didn't know. All her life she thought her father abandoned her and her mom.

I'm craving for some platonic angst and fluff hehe. If it's a bad idea u can scrap this lol

Title: Paper Daughters

Summary: She came with a name, a photo, and a fury sharpened by sixteen years of silence. All she wanted was a signature—what she found was the father she never dared believe in.

Pairing: Alan Rickman & Daughter! Reader

Warnings: Angst

Author's Notes: Yes, yes, I cried writing this fanfic 😅 Thank you so much for your request, and here are the songs I listened to while writing it—I'd recommend playing them while you read: "Family Portrait" by P!nk, "The Night We Met" by Lord Huron, "No Choir" by Florence + The Machine, "To Build a Home" by The Cinematic, and "All I Want" by Kodaline. Enjoy! 😊

Also read on Ao3

The year was 1992, and life wasn’t supposed to be hard when you were sixteen. It was supposed to be school and friends and awkward crushes and cheap lipstick and mixtapes. But not for you. Life had always been heavy on your shoulders, like you were born already carrying a debt you didn’t owe. You were poor, and that word meant more than just second-hand shoes and dinners that came from cans—it meant invisible. It meant quiet shame. It meant your mother working too much and smiling too little, raising you alone in a flat with cracked windows and walls that echoed your silences.

You never knew your father. You only asked once—when you were seven, maybe eight—because it was Father’s Day and your classroom was full of children drawing big stick figures with “DAD” written in bright colours, proud and bold.

You didn’t have a dad to draw, so you asked. “Where is he?” you said, simple, soft, not knowing that some questions cut deeper than they should.

Your mother looked at you as if you’d handed her a knife. She didn’t yell; she just cried quietly. She turned her back and pretended to clean the stove while her shoulders shook. You never asked again. You didn’t need to know badly enough to see her cry like that a second time.

Then you turned fourteen, and things that were already bad somehow got worse. Your grandfather died that spring, and two months later your mother got sick—seriously sick, the kind where the neighbours started whispering and casseroles appeared at your door.

You tried to juggle school, work, and keeping her alive, but you weren’t a magician. You were a kid. A tired, stubborn, angry kid with burnt-out dreams and a heart that kept beating only because it didn’t know how to stop. And now—now you were sixteen, and she was gone. One month ago. Thirty days since the last time you heard her voice. And all you had left of her was a letter, a fading photograph, and a name.

Alan Rickman.

It sounded made-up when you first saw it. She’d left the photo in the old biscuit tin where she kept her secret things—birth certificates, ration coupons from her father, a crumpled love letter never sent. You found it when you were going through her things for the last time. She had written the name on the back in neat, nervous handwriting: “Me and Alan. 1975.”

You didn’t recognise him—not really. You didn’t have time for movies. You had laundry to do and night shifts to cover. But you’d read about him once or twice in newspapers left behind on the bus. He was someone. An actor, British, rising through the world like a balloon you could never afford to chase. You didn’t believe it at first. But the letter confirmed it.

He was your father.

It should have mattered more than it did. Should have broken something open inside you. But instead, all you felt was tired. It was just another cruel thing—like the universe had held out this card all these years and now decided to slap it on the table, just a moment too late. Too late for answers. Too late for mother. Too late for care.

And now you were being told you were going into foster care. Sixteen, nearly grown, and they wanted to shove you into a stranger’s house with new rules and new sadness. No. You weren’t going to let that happen. You didn’t care if Alan Rickman was a world-famous actor or a cardboard cut-out. You needed him to sign a paper. That’s all.

So that’s how you found yourself on a bus to London, the photo in your backpack and your mother’s letter folded three times in your coat pocket. The city greeted you with its usual indifference—grey skies, busy people, the smell of wet stone. You had no plan, no address. Just the name of a theatre company and the hope that, if you looked desperate enough, someone might point you in the right direction.

You didn’t want anything from him—not affection, not apologies. You weren’t chasing a fantasy, you just needed to stay out of the system, you needed a signature. Just that.

But deep down, in the smallest part of yourself—the part you still hadn’t drowned—there was a question you hadn’t dared ask.

Would he look at you and know? Would he see your mother in your face? Would he feel anything at all? You didn't know, not yet.

People didn’t take you seriously at the theater company. A possible daughter of Alan Rickman? They laughed.

Not cruelly. Not to your face, anyway. It was the kind of laughter people used to soften disbelief—like you’d just told them you were descended from royalty or aliens or someone who mattered. One woman with a clipboard blinked at you for a long second, then gave you a smile so polished it almost squeaked. “We get all sorts, love,” she said kindly, but with a tone that meant run along now. Another man, older, with round glasses and a frayed scarf, muttered something about “fans” and the things they’d do for “a glimpse.”

You’d left with hot cheeks and your jaw tight, humiliated and furious.

You weren’t his fan, damn it.

You didn’t want an autograph. You didn’t want to breathe the same air or see the ghost of Sheriff of Nottingham or Hans Gruber or whatever role he was playing these days. You didn’t want to fall to your knees in reverent worship like the girls outside the back entrance who clutched flowers and notebooks and phone cameras like they were holy relics.

You didn’t even want to know him.

Why would you want to be a fan of someone who had never been to a single birthday? Someone who had never sent a card, or a letter, or a scrap of money when the electricity was cut off in winter and you and your mother spent a week wrapped in coats and shame? What kind of idiot wanted to admire that?

No. You weren’t a fan. You were a problem that had finally arrived at his doorstep with a name and a photograph and a law that said if you were really his, he owed you something.

And right now, you were sitting on a park bench with the wind stabbing at your cheeks, biting into a sandwich that tasted like wet paper, trying to keep from crying.

You sighed, staring down at the half-eaten thing in your hands. Ham and margarine, maybe. Cheap bread that stuck to the roof of your mouth. You chewed anyway.

You knew Alan Rickman was going to perform at the theatre one day. The posters were everywhere—plastered onto lampposts and the sides of buildings, smoothed across tube walls like they were announcing the second coming. Alan Rickman in rehearsal now… limited run… book early. Some play you’d never heard of, something that sounded elegant and tragic and expensive.

Tickets cost more than you had in your pocket.

Hell, shelter cost more than you had in your pocket.

You’d spent half of what you owned on the bus fare to London, the rest on this sandwich and a bottle of water you were already rationing like it was liquid gold. You’d considered finding a hostel, but that would burn through the last of your coins in a single night, and then you’d have nothing. Nothing but pavement and cold air and that stupid letter folded in your coat like a prayer you weren’t sure you believed in anymore.

So you'd decided.

You’d sleep on the street. Save up what little you could. Skip meals if you had to. Wait outside the theater until the night of the performance, until the lights went down and the curtain dropped and the crowd came pouring out in expensive perfume and soft murmurs.

You’d wait.

And when he walked out—when Alan Rickman, actor, stranger, maybe-father, finally stepped into the London night—you’d be there. You’d walk right up to him. You’d show him the photograph. You’d hand him the letter.

You didn’t care if he laughed.

You didn’t care if he sneered, or denied, or walked away.

All you needed was his signature on a form. A signature that said you were no longer the government’s problem. That you could be your own problem, and no one else’s. Maybe, if you were really feeling reckless, you’d ask him for money for a return ticket. Or a meal. Or a coat.

Would he at least give you that?

Probably not, you thought bitterly, shoving the last bite of sandwich into your mouth. But you’d ask. And if he didn’t—well, fuck it. You’d find a way.

You always found a way. Even if this time, it meant waiting in the rain, invisible and shaking, with nothing but a coat that didn’t zip and a mother’s ghost at your side.

That’s what you did the next night.

You waited. The air was colder than before, the sky darker somehow, pressing in with that thick, heavy London damp that seeped into your socks and your spine. You stood outside the theatre with your coat zipped as far as it would go and your hands stuffed into your sleeves. Around you, a small crowd gathered—mostly women, some men, clutching programmes and pens and hopeful smiles.

They weren’t here to change their lives.

They just wanted a piece of him.

You didn’t expect so many. Not on a weeknight. Not in the cold. But there they were—dozens of them, all eager for a glimpse, a signature, a photo. Eager for a bit of Alan Rickman. They whispered excitedly to each other, some clutching cameras, others reciting favourite lines under their breath like prayers. The kind of devotion you’d never known from anyone, not even your own mother in her final months.

And then the doors opened.

Other actors came out first—cheerful, gracious, easily missed. But then he stepped through.

Alan Rickman.

You froze.

There was no thunder, no dramatic cue, no orchestral swell. But still—it felt like something cracked open. There he was, larger than life and somehow smaller too, wrapped in a long black coat, a scarf looped lazily around his neck, a slight stoop to his tall frame that made him look both exhausted and eternal.

God, he was tall. And his nose—crooked and sharp, exactly like the one you hated seeing in the mirror.

You stared.

And then you stared some more.

You must’ve been frozen too long, because someone pushed past you, and then another. A few elbows caught your ribs, a bag clipped your arm, someone’s perfume filled your throat. People were shouting now—“Alan! Alan, over here!”—shoving programmes and cameras forward like offerings.

You blinked, snapped back to yourself.

Right. This wasn't a dream, this wasn't fate, this wasn't about any of that.

You weren't here to worship; you were here for a name. You pushed through the crowd, the photograph clenched in your hand so tight it crumpled at the corners. “Excuse me—sorry—I need to talk to him—” but no one heard. No one cared. They were all too busy smiling and gasping and crying over the man in the middle.

Alan was patient. Smiling. Signing things with quick flicks of his wrist. Someone handed him a box of chocolates. Someone else gave him a book. Another woman, breathless and beaming, reached out and touched his coat like it was holy fabric. He didn’t flinch. Just kept signing, kept charming, kept nodding with that easy half-smile of his, like all of this meant nothing and everything at once.

And still, you pushed forward.

You tried to speak—“Mr. Rickman, please—”—but your voice was too soft. It was swallowed whole by the chorus of desperate strangers calling his name.

So you did the only thing you could.

You held out the photograph.

The one of him and your mother, dated 1975, her smile so soft, so young. You held it in front of him, pointing, praying he’d look.

He didn’t.

His eyes didn’t flick down. His brows didn’t crease. His voice didn’t falter. He took the photo like it was any other, scrawled his name across the front in that fast, practiced script—“Much love, Alan Rickman”—and handed it back to you before moving on to the next outstretched hand.

You stared at it.

At the impossible thing in your fingers—his signature across the only proof you had that he’d ever known your mother.

He hadn’t even looked.

A laugh caught in your throat, but it wasn’t laughter. It was something uglier. Something hollow. You looked up at him—still smiling, still surrounded, still adored. This man who might be your father. This man who hadn’t seen you.

You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or laugh until your ribs cracked.

Instead, you just stood there, invisible in the crowd, clutching the signed photo like it meant something. Like he meant something.

You’d come all this way for a signature. And he’d given you one.

Just not the right kind.

And maybe that was the most perfect thing of all. Because that was your life, wasn’t it? A little too late. A little too wrong. A little too quiet for anyone to notice.

You crumpled the photo in your fist.

You bastard. He would never give you anything. Not time, not attention, not even a goddamn glance. You could’ve been invisible. You were invisible. Just another hand in the crowd, another fan, another face.

No. He didn’t even bother to look. Or maybe—maybe he did. Maybe he looked right at you, right into your mother’s eyes in her face, and still chose to turn away.

Your breath hitched, your vision swimming with tears and fury and cold. You didn’t even know what you were doing until your hands were in his coat, grabbing, shaking, pulling.

“You bastard!” you screamed, your voice hoarse, feral, “You don’t get to pretend—you don’t get to walk out here and smile and sign your fucking name like you’re some goddamn hero!”

Alan Rickman staggered back, eyes wide behind the soft fall of his scarf, hands up in alarm. The crowd gasped—someone shouted for security—but you didn’t care. You couldn’t care. You were breaking in half, and he was standing there, rich and warm and well-fed and safe.

“Do you know how many birthdays I prayed for a father?” you sobbed, still clutching his coat like it could anchor you to something real. “How many nights I watched my mother cry herself to sleep because we didn’t have heat, because we didn’t have hope?”

He looked stunned. Silent. Maybe he didn’t know what to say. Maybe he never did.

“You had everything,” you shouted. “And I had nothing. Nothing but her. And now she’s gone and all I wanted was a signature! Just a fucking name on a piece of paper so I wouldn’t get tossed into some stranger’s house—”

That was when the guard grabbed you.

You twisted in their grip, still shouting, still crying, the photo still crushed in your fist. You fought like your life depended on it, like something inside you had snapped and was spilling out unchecked.

“You could’ve saved us!” you screamed. “You could’ve called! Cared! You knew her—you knew her! And you left!”

“Miss—let go—”

“I HATE YOU!” you shrieked, wrenching an arm free long enough to hurl the photo at his chest. It hit him, bounced off, fluttered to the pavement like something shamed and small. He flinched.

And then they pulled you away—dragging you back through the crowd, people staring and whispering and filming on phones, too stunned or too entertained to help. Another guard stepped in, blocking Alan from view, shielding him like you were dangerous.

Maybe you were.

Maybe grief was.

Alan didn’t move at first.

He just stood there—heart hammering, chest rising and falling, scarf askew, the crowd’s voices buzzing like gnats in the background. He was still staring at the ground where the photo lay, half-trampled, smudged from your hand, the ink of his careless autograph bleeding at the edges.

He stooped, slowly, and picked it up.

And that was when his breath caught.

The smile faded completely. The tension in his shoulders changed—not fear, not confusion. Something deeper. Something older.

Because he recognized her.

The girl in the photo wasn’t a stranger.

She was her.

She was—her.

His hand trembled slightly as he turned it over, saw the writing on the back. Her handwriting. Neat. Nervous.

“Me and Alan. 1975.”

The sound around him blurred. The guards were speaking—“Mr. Rickman, sir, this way, please, car’s ready”—but he barely heard them. His eyes were scanning the crowd, frantic now, sharp, searching.

“Where is she?” he asked, breath low, rough.

“Sir?”

“The girl. The one who threw this.”

“Escorted off, sir. She's being—"

“Stop them.”

“Sir?”

“Stop them. Bring her back.”

The man hesitated—clearly torn between protocol and a very sudden shift in priorities—but Alan Rickman didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to. His baritone dropped into that dangerous register people usually only heard on stage.

And the man ran.

Alan stood there, the photograph clenched in his hand, the world shifting beneath him. Because now he wasn’t just a stranger in a crowd. Now he had a question ringing in his ribs, one louder than anything he’d said in tonight’s performance.

Was that my daughter?

And if it was…

What the hell had he done?

Alan didn’t even realize he was back inside the theatre until the heavy door clicked shut behind him. The noise of the crowd fell away like the end of a dream. He was standing in the wings now, the warm scent of old velvet and stage dust rising around him, the soft shuffle of crew members moving equipment in the background. But he didn’t see them. Didn’t register the quiet voices asking if he was alright. Didn’t notice the coat someone tried to drape around his shoulders.

He just stood there.

Still holding the photo.

Still staring at her face—her face from 1975. That damned summer. Her eyes, her smile, the way she curled slightly into him like she always used to when she was laughing. The girl in the photograph had been everything once. And then—nothing.

He hadn’t meant to leave like that. God, he hadn’t meant to vanish. But ambition was loud and youth was selfish. He’d chased theatre like a drowning man clings to breath. Came to London with a suitcase and twenty pounds and the arrogance of someone who believed love could wait.

It hadn’t waited.

They’d fought—ugly, stupid, loud. He remembered her standing in the rain, soaked to the skin, telling him not to come back if he walked away. And he had. He walked away. Thought he’d write. Thought he’d call.

He didn’t.

He meant to. At first.

But then roles happened. Auditions. Failures. More auditions. Life pulled him under. By the time he’d tried to track her down again, she was gone. No address. No phone. No trace.

Eventually, he stopped looking.

And now…

Now there was a girl. A girl who could be hers. A girl who was hers. Her voice, her fury, her grief—it had been like listening to a ghost yell through her own child’s mouth.

He didn’t know how long he stood there, still staring at the photograph, fingers smudging the ink of his own careless autograph.

Until he heard it.

“I’m sorry for attacking you.”

Alan blinked, looked up. You were there. Flanked by two security guards, your hands shoved in your coat pockets, your shoulders hunched like you were trying to be smaller than you were. One of the guards gave a soft nudge, and you stepped forward, clearing your throat.

“I was hungry,” you added bluntly. “Makes me stupid. And aggressive.”

Something flickered in Alan’s expression. A smile, barely there. “That’s a refreshingly honest diagnosis.”

You looked at him, blinking. His voice was so different in person—richer, deeper, like warm gravel. And his eyes… his eyes were the same colour as yours.

The moment held too long. Too quiet. Too strange.

And then the door creaked shut behind you, and it was just the two of you, the silence thick with something raw and unspoken.

Your body moved before your mind caught up. You reached into your coat and yanked out the crumpled paper—the emancipation form. You strode forward, slammed it down onto the nearby table, smoothed it with shaking fingers.

“There,” you said. “That’s what I want. One signature. That’s it.”

Alan stared at it. Then at you.

You kept going, voice hard, a practiced speech tumbling out. “You sign that, and I’ll be gone. You won’t have to see me again. You won’t have to worry about headlines or stories or some bastard daughter marching through your beautiful career. I don’t care who you are to anyone else. I’m not here to ruin your life.”

You hesitated. Swallowed.

“I just… need to not go into foster care.”

Silence.

Alan didn’t say anything. His eyes were still on your face.

It made you squirm.

“What?” you snapped. “What are you staring at?”

He blinked, his voice quiet. “You have my nose.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah. Thanks. I got the ugliest part of you.”

Alan huffed a laugh—soft, surprised. “It’s not ugly. It’s… distinctive.”

You gave him a look, unimpressed. “It’s a beak.”

He smiled at that, something flickering behind his eyes—amusement, yes, but also something else. Something deeper. Something unsteady.

“You really do look like her,” he said, his voice lowering. “The mouth. The face. You even stand like her—like you’re ready to hit someone if they get too close.”

You folded your arms. “Funny. Maybe I am.”

Alan stepped closer, slowly, as if approaching a wild animal.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

You flinched. “Yeah, right.”

“I didn’t.” His voice was firmer now, but not angry. Just true. “If I had known… God, if I had even suspected—”

“She left you?” you interrupted.

Alan's mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “We both did,” he said quietly. “In different ways. But I never… I didn’t know she was pregnant.”

You stared at him, trying to read the truth in his face. It was hard. His voice was so calm. But there was something tight around his mouth. Something haunted in his eyes.

“I would’ve found her,” he said. “I tried to find her.”

“Not hard enough,” you muttered.

“Maybe not,” he admitted.

There was a pause. You looked away, blinking fast, your throat burning. Alan watched you for a moment, then picked up the paper from the table.

“This what you want?”

You nodded. “I don’t want money. Or help. Or hugs. I just want to not belong to the state.”

Alan looked at the form. Then at you.

He stepped to the desk. Took out a pen from his coat. Clicked it.

Then stopped.

“You said you’re sixteen?”

“Yes.”

He nodded. Looked at the paper again. Then slowly, carefully, signed his name.

When he was done, he placed the pen down.

“You have it now,” he said. “Your freedom.”

You didn’t thank him. You didn’t smile. You just took the paper, folded it, and shoved it back into your coat. You turned to leave.

“Wait.”

You stopped. Alan’s voice was softer now. “Do you have somewhere to go tonight?”

You didn’t answer.

He stepped closer. “You said you didn’t want money. Fine. But I don’t… I can’t let you go sleep on the street.”

“Why not?” you whispered. “You did it for sixteen years.”

That hit him like a slap. His face twisted with something ugly and helpless. “I didn’t know,” he said again. “And I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”

You said nothing. And Alan Rickman—tall, revered, elegant—stood in front of you, looking suddenly smaller. Older. Human.

“Let me put you up somewhere,” he said. “Just one night. You don’t owe me anything. I just… I need to know you’re safe.”

You hesitated.

“Please,” he added.

And for the first time, he looked like a man who was afraid. Not of you—but of losing you.

You nodded. Once. Barely.

Alan exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for sixteen years. He offered you his coat. You didn't take it, but you walked beside him when he led you out the side door into the night.

And maybe… just maybe…

It wasn’t too late after all.

Alan drove you to his house in silence. It wasn’t the kind of silence that asked for conversation. It was thick. Tense. The kind of silence that fills up the space between strangers who suddenly have too much history and not enough language to carry it.

You stared out the window most of the way, fingers curled into the sleeves of your coat. The rain had started again—light, persistent, just enough to blur the London streets into watercolour. Alan didn’t speak. But he kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye like he was trying to memorize the shape of your profile. Like he’d missed the first sixteen years and was trying to catch up all at once.

His house was nicer than you expected—not lavish, not cold, but clean and book-heavy. The kind of place where every corner looked like someone had once paused there with tea and a thought. Tall shelves. Dark furniture. Curtains that actually matched. You stood in the hallway awkwardly, soaking slightly, your hands stuffed into your pockets, while Alan hung up his coat and then just… watched you.

He didn’t know what to say.

So he said, “I have food.”

You followed him into the kitchen.

There were leftovers in the fridge—some kind of roasted vegetables, cold chicken, a few potatoes in a pan. You didn’t wait for an invitation. You didn’t ask. You just sat at the table and started eating. Fast. Focused. Not messy—but with the quiet urgency of someone who hadn’t had a warm meal in days and didn’t trust this one wouldn’t be taken away.

Alan stood at the counter, arms crossed, watching you like he couldn’t decide whether he was heartbroken or fascinated. Maybe both.

When your fork scraped the bottom of the plate, you hesitated—then pushed it slightly forward. Not quite asking. Not quite done.

Alan took it. Wordless. Refilled it. Brought it back.

You ate more slowly this time. Still quiet. Still watchful. But you were chewing, not inhaling. That counted as trust.

“You eat like me,” Alan said suddenly, his voice low, wry. “Always have. My mother used to say I attacked food like it owed me money.”

You didn’t look up. Just mumbled, “It kind of does.”

He huffed a laugh at that—quick, dry, surprised by the truth of it. The next few minutes passed with only the sound of your chewing and the occasional clink of fork against plate. Then—

“You’re staring,” you said, not unkindly, eyes still on your food.

Alan blinked. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

“I suppose not,” he muttered, running a hand over the back of his neck. “But I’ve always been annoyingly well-mannered.”

You glanced up at that. Your lip twitched. He noticed.

He tilted his head slightly. “Was that a smile?”

“Maybe.”

“Good,” he said, quietly. “You have hers.”

You looked back down at your plate.

He cleared his throat. “When… when did she pass?”

You didn’t even pause your chewing. “Month ago.”

Alan’s fingers twitched slightly on the edge of the counter. He nodded once. Slowly. “I see.”

“Leukemia,” you added around a mouthful of potato. “Quick. Ugly.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

Another pause.

“Did she ever talk about me?”

You swallowed.

“No.”

Alan’s jaw flexed. “I see.”

You wiped your mouth with your sleeve. “I found out on my own. There was a tin. You know. A biscuit tin. Blue. The kind that always lies about being full of actual biscuits.”

“I know the one.”

“There was a picture inside. Of you. With her. And a letter. She never sent it. But she wrote your name.”

Alan didn’t speak for a while. He just leaned against the doorway, hazel eyes far away. When he finally said something, his voice was quieter.

“She said once that I’d break her heart if I left.”

You stabbed a piece of carrot. “Did you?”

“Yes.”

“Then maybe that’s why.”

Another silence. This one less sharp. Less cold. You were both sitting in the middle of a broken thing, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like you were enemies.

Alan stood in the doorway for a moment, watching you finish the last of your food with that same quiet focus you’d had since arriving. The plate was nearly empty now, your fork resting on its edge. You hadn’t said much—not after the story of the biscuit tin, not after the picture.

But something had changed.

He could feel it. Like a pane of fogged glass between you both was starting to clear. Alan stepped forward slowly, the soft creak of the old floorboards betraying his hesitation. His voice was gentler than you’d ever heard it. Still baritone, still steady—but careful now. Like it had weight, and he was trying not to drop it on you.

“You can stay, if you want.”

You didn’t look at him.

So he kept going, his fingers tightening slightly on the back of a chair.

“I mean… this house. It’s yours if you need it. I can—” He paused, frowning slightly, then exhaled. “I can take care of you. If you’ll let me.”

Your gaze dropped to the table, lashes lowering, jaw tight.

Alan’s voice softened further. “I won’t reject you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

Still, you didn’t look up. Not yet. But your fingers curled inward, like you were holding yourself in.

“You don’t have to call me ‘dad’ or anything,” he added quickly, almost stumbling over the word. “Christ, you don’t even have to like me. But… let me do the right thing, now. Please.”

Your breath hitched.

Alan stepped closer, more confident now, his voice warmer, steadier—drawing on that quiet gravity he always carried onstage but rarely used off it.

“You’ve done enough surviving. Let someone else do the heavy lifting for once.”

That's when you finally looked up at him. Your eyes were glassy, rimmed red. You weren't crying. Not yet, but close.

“I used to be jealous,” you said, your voice hoarse, quiet. “Of the other girls at school. The ones who had dads who picked them up, who came to parent night, who… who sent sandwiches instead of coins in an envelope.”

Alan didn’t speak. Just listened.

You swallowed hard. “They used to make us draw our families in primary. For Father’s Day. I never had anyone to draw. So I drew a house. A stupid little house with a chimney, and told the teacher my dad lived far away, but he sent letters. I was seven. I made up letters.”

The silence in the room shifted. Thickened. You weren’t angry anymore—you were breaking.

You kept going. “Some of the kids figured it out. They laughed. Said I was too ugly to have a dad. Said even he didn’t want me.”

Alan inhaled sharply. Not loudly—but it was there. Like something inside him had folded in half.

You sniffed. Your fingers curled tighter. “So I stopped drawing. I stopped asking. I just… got on with it.”

Alan stepped closer, slowly, like approaching something delicate—something precious that might bolt or shatter if he moved too fast.

He reached across the table, resting his hand lightly atop yours.

“Daughter,” he said.

The word broke something.

Your fork clattered onto the plate, and you slapped your hands to your face—hard, as if trying to hold everything in. But the tears came anyway, streaming between your fingers, fast and hot and unrelenting.

Alan didn’t hesitate.

He walked around the table and pulled you to your feet, arms wrapping around you with the kind of certainty that didn’t ask permission. He held you, tight and warm and unshaking, his chin resting gently against your hair as you wept into his chest, your small frame trembling in his arms.

“My daughter,” he whispered again, and it was a prayer this time. “My daughter. My girl.”

You clung to him like you were drowning. Like he was the only solid thing in a world that had always asked too much and given too little.

He didn’t let go.

He didn’t want to let go.

His eyes were wet too, though he’d never admit it aloud. His hand cradled the back of your head, the other wrapped tight around your shoulders, and for the first time in your life, you felt what it meant to be held without expectation. Without condition.

Just held.

Alan Rickman—your father—held you while you cried.

And nothing had ever felt more real.

[severussimp]

Title: Collateral Attraction

Summary: A stupid dare. A locked house. A very armed, very grumpy Frank Benson. She was supposed to run, not come back for coffee.

Author's note: Hi, my dear readers! This is my very first Frank Benson story, and I had so much fun writing it. I hope you enjoy the chaotic tension, awkward flirting, and soft banter as much as I did! Please let me know what you think 😉

Pairing: Frank Benson x Fem Reader

Warnings: Language and Mild Violence

Cross posted on AO3

===========================================

Your living room smelled like takeout, cheap rosé, and candle wax from the third failed attempt to light the "Happy Birthday" sparkler cake. Streamers clung to the ceiling fan like casualties of war, and glitter was everywhere — a sure sign that your best friends, Chloe, Liam, and Amanda, had taken over décor duty.

“You’re officially 22,” Chloe declared, handing you your third slice of pizza like it was your birthright. “Time to do something legendary before the night’s over.”

“Legendary how?” you asked, wiping sauce off your chin.

Chloe’s grin was pure chaos. “Truth or dare.”

You barely had time to protest before everyone was already sitting cross-legged on the floor, drinks in hand, the tension building like a bad horror score. The first few rounds were harmless: someone drank hot sauce, another admitted to kissing their cousin’s boyfriend. Then it was your turn again.

“Dare,” you said, full of birthday bravado.

Chloe’s eyes gleamed. “I dare you… to sneak into General Frank Benson’s house and get out again. Without him noticing.”

The room froze.

Even the playlist paused like Spotify itself whispered: “Girl, no.”

“You’re joking,” you blinked, halfway between laughing and throwing your pizza.

Amanda screeched, “That’s a literal suicide mission! Have you seen that man? He probably sleeps with a bayonet under his pillow!”

Liam leaned forward, solemn as a war general. “Then I’ll command the mission. You’re my agent. I’ll be in your ear. Like the hot ones in spy movies.”

Chloe held up her hand like she was swearing into Congress. “Five hundred dollars if you do it.”

And suddenly, it wasn’t a joke anymore.

You glanced toward the window — at the looming Victorian next door, shrouded in shadow and pulsing with generational trauma. That was his house. Everyone in the neighborhood knew it: the fortress of General Frank Benson — retired military legend, silver-haired menace, living scarecrow of your childhood.

You’d been afraid of him since you were six. Literally.

Your parents used to weaponize his existence like bedtime folklore.

“If you don’t get home by curfew, the General will snatch you and ship you off to boot camp!” “Don’t run off — Frank Benson might put you in a tank and roll you into a battlefield!”

One Halloween, you dared to ring his doorbell.

He didn’t answer.

But the porch light flickered on.

You screamed so loud you peed a little and ran home with your witch’s hat falling off.

Since then, even walking past his house made you clutch your mom’s hand and whisper apologies to the wind.

But now?

You were older. Bolder. And… just the tiniest bit intrigued.

Especially after the annual neighborhood committee meeting a few months back — the first he’d attended in years.

You remembered it too clearly. He’d walked in wearing a sharp black coat, silver hair slicked back, eyes cold and assessing like he was planning battle formations. He barely spoke — but when he did, his voice was low and gravelly and cut through the chatter like a bullet through glass.

And something inside you shifted.

You weren’t afraid anymore.

You were… fascinated.

And maybe, okay, kind of into the whole grumpy, emotionally disturbed war-daddy thing.

“Come on,” Chloe was saying now, waving her phone like a stopwatch. “He’s probably not even home. Just sneak in, sneak out. Easy. We’ll be waiting by the back gate with your victory pizza slice.”

Amanda looked like she was going to throw up from secondhand panic. “If she gets arrested, I’m not bailing her out. But I will organize a candlelight vigil.”

Liam saluted dramatically. “For honor. For glory. For the birthday girl.”

Your heart pounded. Your brain screamed are you serious, but your ego — freshly 22, slightly tipsy, and painfully susceptible to peer pressure — just whispered:

Let’s do it.

“…Fine,” you muttered, pushing off the couch and finishing your wine like it was armor. “But if I get court-martialed, I’m haunting all of you forever.”

Chloe whooped. “Operation: Birthday Break-In is a GO!”

“Okay, squad. Stick to the plan. Eyes sharp. Feet quiet. Asses low.”

Liam crouched behind the overgrown rhododendron bush like he was auditioning for Mission Impossible- Suburban Edition, holding a plastic cup of wine like it was a grenade. Amanda was huddled beside him, just out of sight from Frank Benson’s back fence.

Chloe, ever your partner in crime, adjusted her hoodie like she was going to war. “I swear if I die out here, I want ‘Dare Queen’ on my gravestone.”

“I’m already designing the shirt,” Amanda whispered, pulling out her phone to record. “You two are legends in the making. If this goes viral, I want credit.”

You glared at her, “If this goes to prison, I want a decent lawyer.”

Everyone else chuckled nervously. The stakes were stupidly low and yet wildly high. You peeked past the bush.

Frank Benson’s house loomed at the end of the yard — tall, dark, dignified. A once-white Victorian that had surrendered to time: ivy clung to its brick like secrets, and its turreted attic window glared down at the street like a silent sentry. The back of the house had a small porch with a flickering light and two steps leading down to a mossy stone path. Two gnarled oak trees flanked the yard like bodyguards.

You could see three windows on the ground floor: one half-open, one shut tight, and one obscured by heavy drapes.

“Alright, here’s the plan,” Liam said, dragging a stick through the dirt like a military strategist. “You two — that’s you, birthday girl, and Chloe — take the side gate, sneak across the back yard, and go through the half-open window. It’s probably the kitchen. You go in, sneak to the other side of the house, and come out through the sunroom window on the east side. That’s the one facing the hedge. We’ll be posted there with flashlights and pizza, ready to pull you out and declare victory.”

“Simple enough,” Chloe muttered, tying her hair up. “Break in, sneak across, break out. No blood, no alarms.”

“Exactly,” Amanda said, filming you in selfie-mode now. “Tonight’s forecast: 30% chance of arrest, 70% chance of glory. Let’s go.”

You inhaled sharply. The house looked still. No lights in the upstairs windows. No movement.

“Alright,” you said, pulse quickening. “Let’s do this.”

The gate creaked as you and Chloe slipped through, then padded silently across the dew-covered grass. You both wore black hoodies and sneakers, looking like the worst-dressed spies imaginable. You paused at the half-open window.

Chloe gave it a gentle push. It opened with a soft screeetch.

You winced.

“…That sounded like a horror movie door,” she whispered.

“Keep going,” you hissed, heart hammering.

The kitchen was exactly what you imagined Frank Benson’s kitchen would look like: neat, cold, and full of sharp corners. The countertops were spotless. The lights were off. There was a kettle on the stove — black and steel — and a single mug next to it, like he was halfway into making tea for one.

You stepped inside first, Chloe right behind you. Your feet made the faintest sound on the tile. You both paused, eyes wide.

Nothing.

Just the faint tick… tick… of an old grandfather clock somewhere deeper in the house.

“Alright,” Chloe breathed. “East side window. Let’s move.”

You crept through the kitchen and into a narrow hallway with wooden floors. On your right was a darkened sitting room, all leather armchairs and old bookshelves. On your left was what looked like a dining room, table polished, a lone set of dog tags resting on the center dish. You glanced at them — initials etched in metal. F.B.

Your stomach twisted. You felt like an intruder.

Because you were.

“Chloe,” you whispered. “I think we should—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

Because you tripped on the edge of the hallway rug.

Your foot slipped.

You fell like a plank of wood.

Chloe toppled after you, landing hard on your back with a loud thump.

You both froze.

Tick… tick…

Creaaaak.

There was a sound from upstairs.

A door opened.

Floorboards groaned under heavy footsteps.

Then — light.

A hallway light flicked on.

And footsteps began descending the staircase fast.

“OH MY GOD!” Chloe hissed, jumping off you and scrambling toward the sunroom.

“I found the exit, hurry up!” she cried, pulling open a window.

You staggered up, adrenaline surging.

But it was too late.

A shadow lunged down the stairs, and before you could reach the exit, a strong hand grabbed your arm, spun you around, and slammed you down on the floor with a practiced, efficient force.

You yelped, wind knocked from your lungs.

“STOP RIGHT THERE!” a voice barked.

It was gravel and thunder, and it made the air vibrate.

The figure above you slammed the sunroom window shut with one hand, blocking Chloe’s exit route as she screamed your name from outside.

He turned on the light.

And there he was.

General Frank Benson.

Silver-haired, towering, broad-shouldered in a black t-shirt and loose sweatpants — but somehow still looking like he could command a battalion. His jaw was clenched, eyes sharp and full of fury. There was a glint of something silver in his hand — a gun. Not pointed at you, but very, very present.

You blinked up at him, stunned into silence, face flushed from the fall, the fear, the fact that he was... ridiculously hot in this lighting.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled. “And what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing in my house?”

You gulped, lips trembling, and scrambled to explain.

“Sir—it was a dare! A stupid $500 birthday dare! I swear, I didn’t mean any harm—my friends dared me to sneak in and out—I didn’t even think you were home—I tripped—Chloe—Chloe was supposed to—”

He glared at you, nostrils flaring, eyes scanning your face like a threat assessment.

“...A dare?” he repeated, incredulous. “You break into my house... for five hundred bloody dollars?!”

Frank Benson was halfway through pouring himself a cup of Earl Grey when he heard it.

Thump.

His entire body froze.

He didn’t move — not at first. Years in combat zones taught him that reacting too soon was how you got killed. First came the listen. Then came the lock.

He strained his ears. There it was again. A scrape. A muffled whisper. Someone — two someones — moving in his home.

His jaw tightened. The mug was already back on the counter, untouched.

He moved.

Fast. Silent. Lethal.

A shadow ghosting up from the kitchen to the hallway. His left hand grabbed the pistol off the console drawer near the stairs — muscle memory. His right flicked on the light in a single fluid motion as he descended the staircase in three thunderous steps.

Footsteps.Too light for a grown man.Maybe teens. Maybe a weapon. Maybe not. Doesn’t matter — unknown is a threat until proven otherwise.

He saw movement in the hallway and bolted forward — years of force recon training kicking in. His body moved before his brain could catch up.

Target. Two. Female. Not armed. One tripped. Second, trying to run—

He grabbed the first — you — and brought you down with a sharp twist of the arm and shoulder, pinning you hard but careful, just enough pressure to restrain without crush.

You yelped.

The girl in the hoodie outside screamed and fumbled at the sunroom window.

He snapped it shut with one arm, blocking her escape route, then pointed the gun not at you, but toward the floor — visible. A warning. His voice followed, deep and sharp like thunder cracking open the sky:

“STOP RIGHT THERE!”

Your eyes were wide, terrified, blinking up at him like prey caught in headlights.

No weapon. No mask. Just panic. Not a threat. Not yet.

He exhaled slow, steadied the beast inside.

“Who the hell are you,” he growled, “and what the bloody hell do you think you’re doing in my house?”

You stammered, breath shaking. "Sir—it was a dare! A stupid $500 birthday dare! I swear, I didn’t mean any harm—my friends dared me to sneak in and out—I didn’t even think you were home—I tripped—Chloe—Chloe was supposed to—”

Frank stared at you like you’d grown a second head.

A fucking dare? Jesus Christ.

“You break into my house... for five hundred bloody dollars?!”

You nodded weakly.

He scoffed, the sound sharp as flint. “You’re lucky I didn’t break your neck. What kind of idiot thinks sneaking into a veteran’s home is a good idea?! You’re lucky I didn’t assume you were a threat and react accordingly.”

God, where do they grow kids like this? Is idiocy contagious?

You opened your mouth again, but he raised a finger — commanding silence.

“And you,” he barked toward the window. “Get your friend back here before I call every emergency service this side of the state line.”

Chloe let out a terrified squeak from outside.

“I—I—sorry!!” she stammered, stumbling back in through the front door, looking white as a sheet.

Frank looked between you and Chloe, eyes narrowing, jaw grinding. Then… something shifted.

His posture eased. Not soft, but no longer a threat.

“You’re the kid that used to hide behind your mum whenever I walked past,” he said slowly.

Your eyes widened. “You remember that?”

He chuckled — a low, rasping sound, like a car engine after too long in the cold. “Hard to forget a child who screamed like she saw a ghost every Halloween.”

Of course, I remember. You were the little,wide-eyed thing who used to cry if you saw me in uniform. Your mum once said they used me as a bedtime threat — ‘Come home before dark or General Benson will send you to boot camp.’ Bloody hell. I’ve become the neighbourhood bogeyman.

“I—um—I guess I did…”

He stood straighter, lowering the gun to his side — no longer threat-mode, but still on edge.

“So now you’re all grown up and sneaking around my yard,” he muttered, giving you a long, appraising look.

You’re not a kid anymore. That much is obvious. Hair’s longer. Lips trembling. That’s a woman’s jacket, not a school uniform. Goddamn. She’s trembling like I’m going to arrest her. I should. But hell, if this isn’t the most excitement I’ve had in months.

Then your next words caught him off guard.

“I… I saw you at the committee meeting.”

You blushed fiercely, gaze darting away. “I… I saw you at the committee meeting.”

He blinked once. Twice.

Ah. That’s it.

Not a dare. Not really. Curiosity. Maybe something more.

Shit. He shouldn’t let that twist of intrigue hit him. But there it was.

He gave a small smirk. Nothing warm — just sharp. Teasing. Testing.

“Well,” he muttered, holstering the gun, “if you wanted to know what’s inside my house so badly… next time just knock. Like a normal bloody person.”

You stared. Then let out a weak, nervous laugh.

Chloe looked like she wanted to disappear into the nearest plant.

Frank folded his arms. “Tell your friends you managed to ‘escape’ through the back window. Go get your prize money. And get the hell out of here before I change my mind.”

You hesitated, still rattled. Your gaze flicked to the door. But Frank was watching you closely now.

Your flushed cheeks. Your parted lips. The way your chest rose and fell in the silence.

She’s not a kid anymore. That realisation sank in like cold water down the back of his neck. Christ, I shouldn’t even be thinking that.

He paused.

Then, quieter: “...Happy birthday, by the way.”

Your head whipped up. “How did you—?”

He lifted a brow. “You think I don’t know what the neighborhood kids are up to? Liam and Amanda aren’t exactly CIA material.”

He turned and walked back into the shadows of the hallway, the light fading behind him.

And you were left standing there in his kitchen, adrenaline still high, heart pounding, and the terrifying realisation that the man you once feared… now occupied a very different corner of your imagination.

You ran like hell.

You and Chloe locked eyes—both pale, panting, done.

“Bloody hell,” she whispered.

You didn’t answer. You were already running.

Straight out the side gate, heart hammering, hair sticking to your forehead, lungs burning like a bonfire lit under your ribs. You didn’t even realize your knees were scraped until your friends came sprinting from the alleyway, cheering like lunatics.

Chloe came jogging a moment later, wheezing. “He looked at me and I panicked! Like—retired general death glare level ten!”

“YOU SURVIVED!”

“Oh my god, she did it!”

“You better have filmed it, Chloe—wait, where’s Chloe?”

You wheezed out a breathless laugh-slash-sob and stumbled into Amanda’s arms, who immediately started shaking you like a maraca.

“YOU LEGEND!! YOU JUST EARNED FIVE. HUNDRED. DOLLARS. Do you know how many bubble teas that is?!”

Liam tossed a hoodie over your shoulders like it was a medal of honor.

“General Frank Freaking Benson. The man who made our dads stand up straighter at neighborhood barbecues. You just walked into his den and LIVED. What was it like? What did he say? Did you get a peek at his kitchen? Was it cold and terrifying? Did he say anything like, ‘You have 10 seconds to explain before I neutralize you’?”

You stared at them, still breathless, trying to piece together the shock and the adrenaline and the very real fact that you had just been pinned down by Frank Benson’s arms, and that he had remembered you, and that he had said—

“…Happy birthday, by the way.”

Inside the house, Frank stood at the second-floor window.

Lights off.

Curtains parted.

Just him, silently watching the gaggle of chaotic teens erupt into hugs and fist bumps and high-fives.

Idiots, he thought. No sense of danger. No sense of consequences.Except her.

His eyes found you — standing just slightly apart from the group, hand still hovering near your arm where he’d grabbed you, eyes a little far-off. Processing.

He felt it in his chest. A sharp, quiet pull.

She looked at me like I was a monster. But now... not quite.That’s the look someone gives when the monster turns out to be a man.

He frowned.

Backed away from the window.

She’ll stay away now. They always do.Good. Better that way.

He turned, heading for the stairs.

So why the hell am I still standing here thinking about her?

You’re still catching your breath when Chloe grabs your arm like a human grappling hook.

“Say nothing about the gun. Just look cool. Say you Mission: Impossible’d your way in and out. Got it?”

You nod. Kind of.

Back at the house, your friends are waiting with pizza crumbs, half-filled cups, and $500 in a cereal box because apparently Liam thought that was “stealthy.”

You glance at Chloe.

“SO?”

“Did you do it?”

“Did you survive General Doom himself?!”

“Yeah. Slipped in through the side window, skirted the dining room, ducked when I heard footsteps. Almost got caught. But didn’t.”

She does the tiniest nod.

And you go full Bond Girl.

The group goes feral.

Liam throws the $500 at you like confetti. Amanda screams into a pillow. Someone cranks up music again and shoves a slice of pizza into your mouth mid-laugh.

Only Chloe sees how you keep glancing out the window.

The Next Morning

You knocked on his door at 8:13 a.m.

The door opened a sliver, and there he was.

Why?

Because you couldn’t sleep.

Because your guilt was loud.

Because something about him—his voice, his eyes, the way he hadn’t yelled just to yell—was still stuck to your skin like aftershave.

Sleep-ruffled hair. T-shirt and sweats. No weapon in sight, just an eyebrow raised like a challenge.

“You again,” he said flatly.

“I—um—just wanted to say thank you. For not calling the police. Or yelling louder. Or shooting.”

Frank stared at you.

Then let out a breath that sounded like half a laugh, half a groan.

“You’re here to say thank you for trespassing?”

You winced. “Also to tell you that I got the $500.”

His eyes narrowed. “And that’s supposed to impress me?”

You grinned. “No. I was thinking I could treat you to something. As an apology-slash-celebration. Coffee? Bagels? Explosives?”

A beat.

Then Frank opened the door a little wider and leaned against the frame.

“You really think I’d let a little idiot like you buy me breakfast?”

You shrugged. “I mean, you tackled me. So I figure we’re close now.”

He smirked. A very dangerous, very warm smirk.

“…Next time,” he said, “let me be the gentleman.”

Your heart may have actually skipped.

You nodded. “Okay.”

You walked home lighter.

“Good,” he said, and shut the door again.

But not before giving you one last glance—measured, curious, not entirely annoyed.

Still scraped, still bruised, still $500 richer.

But also—

Something had started.

You just didn’t know what yet.

He leaned against the door after it closed, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

That damn kid. That crooked grin. That stupid, reckless heart.

He should’ve been furious. Still could be. But instead...

He sighed.

“…Coffee,” he muttered to himself. “God help me.”

Then he went to put on real pants.

The coffee shop smelled like cinnamon, burnt espresso, and bad decisions.

EPILOGUE

Local Café | Two Days Later

You sat across from him, two mugs between you. Yours was adorned with whimsical doodles and the phrase “Espresso Yourself.” It was a plain, no-nonsense black ceramic mug. Classic.

You stirred your latte three times before sipping. “So...General, do you come here often, or only when you’re guilt-tripped by teenage gremlins who trespass on your property?”

Frank raised an eyebrow over his coffee. “I’m still deciding if this is penance or a government experiment.”

You smirked.

He came. He actually showed up. On time, no less. He still looks like a man who has backup plans for backup plans. But his jacket’s unzipped. His hair’s still a little windblown. He looks… less like a warning label. More like a question mark. And I’m not sure if I want the answer or the chase.

He didn’t smile. Not exactly. But his eyes? They didn’t look away.

She’s nervous. She’s trying not to show it, but she is. And yet she’s here. After everything. After the fence hop, the bruises, the chaos. She sat down across from me like it wasn’t a death wish. Like maybe… she wanted to. Idiot kid. Brave kid. Dammit.

A beat passed. Then you slid your phone across the table. The lock screen was a screenshot of your bank app. $500.00. Still untouched.

“Proof I haven’t spent the blood money yet,” you said.

Frank leaned back, arms crossed. “Didn’t say you had to keep it.”

You tilted your head. “Didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

He huffed—something between a scoff and a laugh. “Troublemaker.”

You grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

And for the briefest moment, in the lazy warmth of a café too small to hold this much tension, something softened. Not broken. Just… bent. In a good way.

But maybe… worth it.

Two mugs.

One look.

No promises.

Just the beginning of something slightly stupid.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

[severussimp]

I haven't thought about this idea until now: Turpin who is looking for a wife and arrives at Reader's family home and is curious to why Reader isn't being presented as an option for a wife but when he sees her he's immediately caught by her unique beauty (she's albino) and does everything to get her to fall for him (we know Turpin can be impatient sometimes but is patient with the Reader) perhaps she kisses him when visiting him at his office, their first ever kiss together?

(Sorry, I had to send it before it slipped my mind forever)

Title: I See You

Summary: Forgotten by society and dismissed by her own blood, she had long accepted invisibility—until Richard Turpin arrived, and chose her above all.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None

Author's Notes: I want to thank @smilingformoney for helping me with the title of this story, and I hope you all enjoy it! Sorry for not adding the kiss; maybe I'll do it in part two.

Also read on Ao3

As Richard Turpin stepped down from his carriage, the crisp London air wrapped around him, carrying the faint scent of damp stone and coal smoke. He straightened his coat, his sharp hazel eyes flicking up at the grand façade of the mansion before him. The house was newly acquired, though it bore the timeless elegance of old money, its columns proud, its windows glowing softly in the evening light.

Before he could rap the knocker, the great oak doors swung open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man with a welcoming smile.

"Richard!" The voice was warm, familiar.

Charles Langford, a recently relocated Londoner and old acquaintance from law school, had hardly changed over the years. His hair had silvered slightly at the temples, but his jovial energy was undimmed. Without hesitation, he reached forward, grasping Turpin’s hand in a firm shake before pulling him into an embrace, laughing as he clapped his friend on the back.

"You've hardly changed, Richard," Charles said, stepping back and beckoning him inside.

Turpin allowed himself to be led through the grand foyer, his gaze moving across the fine furnishings, the gilded mirrors reflecting the light of an ornate chandelier. It was clear that Charles had done well for himself.

"I must say, London suits you," Turpin remarked, his voice a smooth baritone, edged with its usual severity.

"As does it you," Charles replied, leading him toward the drawing room. "Come, I insist you meet my wife."

He turned and called toward the staircase, summoning his wife with the ease of a man accustomed to obedience. A moment later, a stately woman appeared, dressed in the refined fashion of the day, her manner poised yet warm as she greeted Turpin.

"It is an honor to finally meet you," she said with a pleasant curtsy. "My husband has spoken highly of you."

Turpin inclined his head, offering a stiff smile. "The honor is mine, madam."

They moved into the drawing room, where a servant had already begun preparing tea. The fire crackled in the hearth, lending the room a comfortable glow as they settled into conversation.

"You must tell me, Richard," Charles said after a time, his expression keen with interest. "Do you have a family of your own now?"

Turpin’s lips curled into a thin smirk. "Not as yet," he admitted. "But I am seeking a suitable wife."

Charles's face lit up at the words. "Splendid! That is wonderful news, indeed," he said, setting down his tea. "I find myself in the opposite predicament—I have five daughters, all in need of suitable husbands."

Turpin’s brow lifted slightly. Five daughters? It was a most fortunate coincidence.

Charles turned to his wife. "Darling, would you be so kind as to call the girls down?"

The woman nodded at once, rising gracefully from her seat. "Of course," she said before sweeping from the room.

Turpin took a slow sip of his tea, his mind already turning. He had not come here intending to secure a match, but perhaps fate had its own designs. Charles had always been a man of good standing, respectable lineage, and considerable wealth. If his daughters were of sound character and beauty, then this could be an opportunity worth seizing.

Minutes later, footsteps descended the grand staircase, followed by the soft murmur of female voices. The drawing room door opened, and in stepped four young women, their figures draped in the elegant silks and muslins befitting ladies of their status.

The eldest, a poised young woman with light brown hair pinned into an intricate style, held herself with quiet grace. Her features were delicate, her gaze intelligent, yet there was a reserve about her—a carefulness that Turpin recognized as the mark of one who observed more than she spoke.

Beside her stood a striking dark-haired girl, her posture impeccable, her lips slightly pursed as though she had already formed an opinion on the guest before her. Her eyes met Turpin’s unflinchingly—a sign of spirit, though whether that was a flaw or a merit, he would have to decide.

The third daughter, golden-haired and fair, smiled politely but kept her hands clasped together, her demure manner making her the most traditionally ladylike of the group.

The youngest present, a girl who could be no more than sixteen, lingered slightly behind her sisters, her curiosity evident but tempered by youthful shyness.

Charles gestured proudly toward them. "Turpin, may I introduce my daughters: Beatrice, Eleanor, Margaret, and Louisa." The girls curtsied in unison, their movements graceful, well-practiced.

Turpin inclined his head, his gaze assessing. They were well-bred, certainly. Each carried themselves with the refinement expected of women raised in a proper household.

"It is a pleasure," he murmured, his deep voice carrying the weight of measured approval.

The eldest, Beatrice, returned a polite smile, though her expression was cautious. "Likewise, sir."

Charles, beaming with satisfaction, gestured for his daughters to sit. "Come, my dears. Mr. Turpin is an old friend, and I hope you shall treat him as such."

The young women took their places, though there was an air of guarded curiosity between them.

Turpin observed them closely as conversation resumed. He was a man who prided himself on careful selection, and while he had not yet decided which—if any—of these young women would become his, the prospect had certainly become intriguing.

He set his teacup down, his sharp hazel eyes narrowing slightly. “You said five daughters, Charles.” His voice was smooth, measured, carrying the weight of unspoken curiosity. “And yet, I see only four before me.”

A shadow flickered across Charles’s face, his jovial expression faltering for the first time that evening. He hesitated, his gaze shifting toward his wife before clearing his throat and forcing a light chuckle. “Ah, well. Yes, that is true, my friend. But I doubt you would wish to make the acquaintance of my eldest. She… she is quite frail, you see. Past the age of marriage, besides.”

Turpin arched a brow, his expression unreadable. “Frail?”

Charles sighed, looking almost apologetic. “She was born with a rare condition. It—ah—it affects her appearance, among other things.” He waved a hand dismissively. “It is something we have long since accepted. I have made peace with the fact that she will remain with us. It is best for all involved.”

Turpin leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he studied Charles with quiet amusement. “And yet, you did not think to introduce me. Do you believe me so easily deterred?”

“Richard,” Charles began, his voice dropping, “it is not a matter of offense. It is simply—”

“I should like to meet her.” Turpin’s words were deliberate, cutting through whatever polite excuse Charles had been about to offer. His gaze was unwavering, the smirk on his lips as cool as the firelight playing against the fine mahogany walls.

Charles hesitated, clearly uncomfortable, before exhaling a defeated breath. With a reluctant nod, he gestured for a servant. “Send for Miss—” He paused, as if uncertain, then muttered, “Tell her she is wanted in the drawing room.”

As the servant disappeared, Charles shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Richard, I must warn you—”

But Turpin barely heard him. His ears picked up only fragments—“unusual”—“a fragile constitution”—“best if she stays out of the public eye”—before all sound faded into a low hum.

Because he had seen you.

Descending the grand staircase, your posture was measured, composed—almost as though you were bracing yourself for the weight of expectation. Your skin, pale as the moon’s glow, was almost luminous in the candlelight. Hair like spun silk, an unnatural shade of white, cascaded in soft waves over your shoulders, unadorned, unstyled, as though no one had taken much care to present you.

You were unlike your sisters, your presence something ethereal, haunting, as though you belonged to a world untouched by the trivialities of men.

Turpin stood without realizing it, his breath slow, deliberate, as his gaze roved over you with dark fascination. Albino.

He had seen few in his life, and none like you. You were an apparition, a ghostly vision made flesh, and yet—undeniably, strikingly—alive.

Charles shifted uneasily beside him. “She is—”

“Exquisite,” Turpin murmured, almost to himself.

You reached the foot of the staircase, lifting your gaze to him. Your eyes, pale as ice and framed by near-invisible lashes, met his without hesitation. There was no fear there, only a quiet, solemn understanding.

You were used to being looked at, scrutinized, judged. But Turpin was not a man so easily unsettled. If anything, his intrigue deepened.

“Miss Langford,” he said at last, his baritone voice low, rich. He stepped forward, offering his hand. “It is a pleasure.”

For a moment, you hesitated. Then, with the practiced grace of someone who had been taught to obey, you extended your fingers to him.

Turpin took your hand, and the moment his skin met yours, a dark thrill curled through him, cold and fragile. And yet, there was something else—a quiet, enduring strength beneath the delicacy; a mystery worth unraveling. Turpin smiled, slowly and knowingly.

Yes, you would do perfectly.

Charles clapped his hands together, breaking the strange, charged silence that had settled over the room. “Well, then! Now that introductions have been made, let us move to the dining room. A meal will do us all good.”

Turpin inclined his head, his sharp hazel eyes still lingering on you as Charles gestured for everyone to rise. The sisters, ever obedient, stood gracefully, following their father’s lead. You, however, moved with deliberate slowness, as though you had long learned that haste served no purpose when one was always overlooked.

The dining room was grand, its long mahogany table gleaming under the light of the chandelier. Silverware glinted, and the delicate porcelain dishes bore intricate floral patterns, a mark of wealth and refinement. Servants moved silently, ensuring that every place was set with precision.

Turpin took his seat at Charles’s right, the honored guest, while the daughters arranged themselves opposite and beside him. You sat at the far end, next to your mother, your posture impeccable but distant, as though you had already resigned yourself to fading into the background.

As the meal began, the sisters wasted no time in attempting to engage Turpin in conversation. Eleanor, ever curious, tilted her head slightly, her dark gaze fixed on him. “Sir, my father mentioned that you and he were acquainted in college. Is it true you studied together?”

Turpin, who had been idly swirling the deep red wine in his glass, lifted his gaze to meet hers. “Indeed, Miss Langford. Your father and I spent many years as classmates.” His baritone voice was smooth, deliberate, every word measured.

Margaret, the golden-haired sister, leaned forward slightly. “What was he like?” she asked with a small, mischievous smile. “I can hardly imagine my father as a young man.”

Charles let out a hearty chuckle, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, I am sure Richard has more important matters to discuss than my youthful indiscretions.”

Turpin, however, set his glass down and studied Charles with the faintest smirk. “On the contrary,” he said. “I remember your father well. Always diligent, always proper… but not without his moments of mischief.” He took a slow sip of his wine, letting the words settle before adding, “He had a fondness for music, as I recall.”

At this, Charles’s face lit up with nostalgia. “Ah, yes! I remember you enjoyed music as well, Turpin. You were always quite particular about it.”

Eleanor, intrigued, glanced between the two men. “Did you play, sir?” she asked.

Turpin shook his head. “No, but I did appreciate a fine performance.”

Charles beamed at this. “Well, you are in luck, my friend! Beatrice plays beautifully.” He turned to his eldest daughter. “Perhaps, after dinner, you might indulge us with a piece?”

Beatrice, ever the dutiful daughter, gave a poised nod. “If it pleases our guest, I shall.”

Turpin offered a polite smile, but his gaze, once again, drifted toward you. You had not spoken. You had not even looked at him. Instead, you focused on your meal, your fingers delicate as they handled your silverware, your every movement precise and controlled.

His eyes gleamed with intrigue, and so, he asked, “And what of you, Miss Langford?”

You did not raise your head. Instead, you took a small sip of your soup before replying in an even, unhurried tone, “I am not as interesting as my sisters, sir.” A brief silence followed.

Charles forced a laugh, though it was a touch strained. “Come now, my dear, you are far too modest. Richard, she plays the piano as well, though—” he chuckled, shaking his head “—of course, not as well as Beatrice.”

Turpin said nothing. He merely watched you. A flicker of something crossed your face, though it was gone before anyone but he could catch it. A quiet, resigned acceptance. You did not contest your father’s words, nor did you seek to prove yourself otherwise. You had long since learned your place.

He lifted his wineglass once more, swirling the liquid as he considered you. This was becoming more interesting by the moment.

As the last note of Beatrice’s performance faded into the air, polite applause filled the drawing-room. The sisters exchanged murmurs of approval; their mother beamed at her second-eldest daughter’s talent, while Charles nodded with pride.. Turpin, however, merely inclined his head, his expression unreadable. His sharp hazel eyes flicked once—just once—to where you sat at the far end of the room, your hands folded neatly in your lap, untouched by the evening’s pleasantries. You had neither clapped nor smiled, your presence as muted as the candlelight flickering against the walls.

You were accustomed to being overlooked, but Turpin? He noticed.

When Charles suggested retiring to his office for a drink, Turpin agreed without hesitation. The two men rose from their seats, leaving the women to their quiet conversations, their skirts rustling softly as they bid them good evening. As Turpin followed Charles down the dimly lit corridor, his polished boots tapping against the wooden floor, he let the sound settle into his mind, a measured rhythm to accompany his thoughts.

Charles’s office was a stately room—high shelves of thick leather-bound books lined the walls, and an ornate mahogany desk sat before a great window overlooking the gas-lit street below. A decanter of whiskey and two glasses awaited them, as though Charles had anticipated this discussion well before it had begun.

Charles poured them both a generous measure, his face already set in the expression of a man who relished a good conversation. “London has been kind to you, I see,” he remarked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass before taking a thoughtful sip. “Though I must confess, I never expected to find you still a bachelor.”

Turpin did not respond at once. He took his seat opposite Charles, his fingers closing around the cool glass, but he did not drink yet. His gaze, sharp and penetrating, settled on Charles with calculated ease. “I had little interest in such matters,” he said finally, his baritone voice smooth, measured. “Until now.”

Charles brightened, chuckling as he leaned back in his chair. “Ah, yes. Beatrice is a fine girl. Graceful, accomplished. She would make an excellent wife.” He lifted his glass in silent toast, clearly pleased with himself. “You have good taste, my friend.”

Turpin did not immediately correct him. Instead, he brought his whiskey to his lips, took a slow sip, and allowed the warmth to settle in his chest. Then, setting the glass down with deliberate precision, he said, “It is not Beatrice I desire.”

Charles blinked. His jovial expression faltered, confusion knitting his brows. “Not Beatrice?” He sat forward slightly, his glass lowering as he studied Turpin with renewed curiosity. “Then—”

“Your eldest,” Turpin interrupted, his voice unwavering. “She is the one I intend to take as my wife.”

Silence stretched between them. Charles did not immediately speak, nor did he move. For the first time that evening, his confident, affable demeanor wavered, giving way to something more guarded. He exhaled slowly, setting his whiskey down with a muted clink.

“My friend,” he began, his voice quieter now, less assured, “you cannot be serious.”

Turpin tilted his head, his hooked nose casting a shadow under the flickering lamplight. “Do I appear to jest?” His tone was cool, edged with the sharpness of a man who was not accustomed to being questioned.

Charles exhaled, rubbing a hand over his chin. “I… do not misunderstand me, Turpin. It is not that I am ungrateful for your interest. But…” He hesitated, as though searching for the right words. “She is—she is different.”

“I am aware.”

“She will not make the wife that Beatrice would,” Charles pressed, his voice lowering, as though reluctant to even discuss the matter. “She is quiet. Withdrawn. You are a man of reputation, Richard. You require a wife who can stand beside you with confidence, who can hold her place in society.”

Turpin smirked. “And you believe she cannot?”

Charles hesitated, glancing toward the window as though searching for answers in the gas-lit streets below. “She is… unlike her sisters,” he admitted finally. “You saw as much tonight.”

Turpin merely leaned back in his chair, studying Charles with mild amusement. “That is precisely why she interests me.”

Charles let out a quiet breath, clearly at war with himself. He lifted his glass once more, took a slow sip, and then set it down with finality. “How long do you intend to court her?”

Turpin’s smirk widened, his sharp hazel eyes glinting with satisfaction. “That depends,” he murmured. “How long would you deem appropriate before I take her as my wife?”

Charles considered this for a long moment. His fingers tapped idly against the armrest of his chair, his expression unreadable. Then, finally, he gave a slow nod. “Three months,” he said at last. “No less.”

Turpin inclined his head in agreement. “Very well.”

For a brief moment, it seemed the matter was settled. Charles sighed, lifting his glass once more, his friendly smile beginning to return. But then—just as Turpin reached for his whiskey—Charles’s expression darkened.

The warmth vanished from his eyes, the affability stripped away in an instant. He straightened, his broad shoulders stiffening as he leaned slightly forward.

“I must warn you, Turpin,” he said, his voice lower now, heavier, carrying a weight that had not been there before. “If you so much as cause her the slightest harm—if I hear of any cruelty, any neglect, anything less than the respect she deserves…” He paused, his gaze cold as steel. “I will kill you.”

The room fell deathly silent. Turpin, to his credit, did not flinch. His smirk barely wavered, his fingers still wrapped loosely around his glass. For a long moment, he simply regarded Charles with that same knowing amusement, his hazel eyes glinting under the dim light.

Then, at last, he arched a brow and murmured, “A lawyer, making threats? How very unseemly.”

Charles’s lips twitched, his smile returning just as quickly as it had vanished. He let out a hearty chuckle, shaking his head as he took another sip of his whiskey. “Ah, you know me, Turpin. Always protective of my own.”

Turpin chuckled softly, lifting his glass in silent toast before taking a slow, deliberate sip. But beneath his cool amusement, he knew well—Charles Langford was not a man who made idle threats.

And that, perhaps, made this arrangement all the more interesting.

In the days that followed, Turpin found himself engaged in the peculiar challenge of courting you. He had expected resistance, of course. A woman such as you—hidden away from society’s cruel gaze, long resigned to a life of quiet obscurity—would not yield so easily. But he had not expected this.

You were not defiant, nor were you openly disdainful of his presence. You were not like other women, fluttering their lashes or feigning modesty while hoping to secure his favor. No, your rejection was a quiet, measured thing, a simple insistence that you were not worth his trouble. You did not argue or refuse his gifts outright, but there was always that same, unwavering look in your pale eyes—a silent urging for him to give up.

And yet, how could he?

Turpin had never been the sort to let something slip through his fingers once he had set his sights on it, and you were no exception. If anything, his fascination only grew, deepening like ink spilled into water. You were an enigma, a delicate wraith confined to the dim glow of your father’s grand estate, emerging only under the strictest of circumstances, veiled and gloved as though even the sun itself had no right to touch you. He learned quickly that you hardly ever left the house, and when you did, you were so covered from head to toe that he often wondered if you even felt the warmth of the world beyond these walls.

And so, his courtship was relegated to the house. Always, there was someone present—your mother, a sister, a servant lingering in the background, their presence a barrier he could not yet breach. Not that it mattered, for you rarely granted him an opening, offering only polite acknowledgments and little else. When he spoke, you listened with quiet composure, your hands resting primly in your lap, your expression unreadable. Other times, you would sit at the piano, your fingers moving deftly over the keys, the music a more honest conversation than any words you ever deigned to offer him. And sometimes, you would simply read, your gaze cast downward, absorbed in some novel while he watched you in silence, studying you as one might study a portrait of great intrigue.

Turpin learned more of you through others than through you yourself. Your sisters, eager to fill the silences, provided glimpses into your world—small, seemingly inconsequential details that he tucked away with growing interest.

You liked to read. That much, he had observed.

You liked to bake pies, though you rarely did so now.

You liked tulips, though none adorned the house.

You could speak the language of the deaf.

That last revelation had caught him off guard. He had learned, through the idle chatter of your younger sisters, that years ago, your father had represented a deaf client, and you, acting as his secretary at the time, had taken it upon yourself to learn sign language in full so you could communicate with the man directly. It was, they had said, a testament to your patience, your intelligence. A skill you still possessed but rarely used.

Turpin did not know why the knowledge unsettled him, why it lingered in his mind long after the conversation had ended. He had no need for such a thing, no particular use for it. And yet, two days later, he sought out a tutor, meeting twice a week in secret. His progress was slow, and at times, his patience wore thin, but he persisted. He was not certain why.

Perhaps it was because no one else had bothered to do such a thing for you, perhaps it was because he wanted to see something other than resignation in your eyes, or perhaps it was simply because he enjoyed surprising you. Whatever the reason, the moment finally came.

Turpin had just stepped out of the house, the weight of another evening spent in your presence pressing against him as he approached his waiting carriage. But something stilled his steps. He felt it before he saw it—that peculiar sensation of being watched, the slow crawl of awareness along his spine.

He turned, and there you were.

Standing at the window, shrouded in candlelight, you were barely more than a ghostly silhouette against the glass. Your gaze met his, quiet, unreadable, as it always was.

And for once, Turpin did not smirk. He did not speak. Instead, he raised his hand, fingers shaping the words with the careful precision he had spent weeks learning.

I see you.

Your expression did not change at first. For a moment, you simply stared, as though uncertain whether you had truly witnessed what you had seen. Then, slowly, your pale lips parted, and though no sound emerged, he caught the faintest exhale, the ghost of a breath.

And then—at last—your eyes flickered with something new.

Surprise.

Not admiration. Not awe. Not any of the simpering nonsense he was accustomed to receiving from women. No, this was something deeper. You were not impressed; you were astonished. It was as if, for the first time, someone had acknowledged that you existed beyond what the world saw of you.

It wasn't enough, but it was a start; and Turpin, ever ruthless, ever determined, would take whatever ground he could gain.

[severussimp]

Sirius black: if you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.

Also Sirius: Bullies a poor, ugly student who is below him in blood purity standards.

Also Sirius: Terrorizes a slave to his family and believes him incapable of having human like feelings.

[severussimp]

more frank smut pls?😛🫦❤️🫶😍🫶💋

Title: Strip It Down

Summary: A lonely soldier and a dancer with sharp eyes find something real under neon lights and whispered promises. One night, a private dance becomes the beginning of something neither expected.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Also read on Ao3

Frank Benson settled into a table near the stage, the heavy wood creaking slightly under the weight of his broad frame. The lighting was low—neon blues and purples slicing through the dark, a haze of cigarette smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling fans. He kept his head down, mostly, letting the brim of his cap shadow his face, but he didn’t bother hiding the uniform tonight. It had been a long day, longer week, and he didn’t have the energy for pretense.

Four weeks now. Four weeks of faithfully coming to this place—slipping into the same corner table near the edge of the stage, ordering the same scotch he nursed slow as molasses, waiting for the same dancer. You.

Maybe it was foolish, he thought, tracing the rim of his glass with one thick, calloused finger. Maybe it was pathetic, a man like him getting attached to a girl who danced half-naked for strangers. But then again, what part of his life hadn’t been foolish lately? Two years since the divorce finalized. Two years of empty houses and quieter meals, of restless nights spent flipping through channels and dreading the way the silence in his own home echoed too loud.

Frank wasn’t young. The silver in his hair didn’t lie. Neither did the slight softness around his middle, the way his joints ached when it rained. Midlife crisis, maybe. Or maybe just loneliness that had finally worn him down.

There was only so much detached sex with prostitutes could offer a man before it all started feeling like static in his veins. So he stopped chasing climax for the sake of climax. And he started coming here instead.

Because here, there was you.

You moved differently than the other dancers—smooth, deliberate, sensual without ever crossing into vulgarity. You didn’t get fully naked, not like the others. You always kept your panties on, a tiny, teasing barrier that drove the other men mad and, for reasons he couldn’t quite name, drove Frank wild in a different way. It wasn’t what you showed; it was what you didn't.

He liked that. Liked you. Liked your eyes—sharp and clever beneath the heavy lashes. Liked the way your mouth curled when you smiled, wicked but genuine. Liked the way your breasts swayed with your movements, full and soft, catching the light in ways that made his palms itch to touch.

He’d watched you enough times from afar before finally working up the nerve to request a private dance. He’d thought it would be like every other dance he'd seen. Routine. Mechanical.

It wasn’t.

You didn’t just move your body; you moved your energy, your focus. You made eye contact, leaned in just close enough to let him smell the faint sweetness of your perfume. You let him feel wanted. Not bought. Not rented. Seen.

Frank never laid a hand on you. Not even once. He just sat there, legs spread, leaning back in the low leather seat, watching you sway in his lap—close enough to tease, far enough to stay just out of reach. And when he tipped you—heavily, always heavily—he tucked the bills carefully into the waistband of your panties, slow and deliberate, his thick fingers brushing just the barest bit of skin at your hips.

You never flinched. Never recoiled. You smiled down at him—soft, warm, a little secret tucked in the curve of your mouth.

And you listened.

God, that was almost the worst part. The best part. When the music slowed and the backroom emptied out for a few precious minutes, Frank found himself talking. Not much. Just scraps, pieces he didn’t know he needed to let go of—the traffic on the way over, a story about a bratty junior officer he was mentoring, a vague memory about his son when he was small, back before everything got complicated.

You listened, nodding, sometimes teasing a small smile from him with a well-placed joke. You didn’t ask questions you shouldn’t. You didn’t press. You just… stayed.

And Frank, for the life of him, couldn’t stay away. So he sat there tonight, uniform still stiff from the long hours, drink sweating against his palm, waiting for you to take the stage. Waiting for the part of his week that felt—somehow—less hollow. Less transactional. Less lonely.

And when the lights shifted and the first notes of your song hit the speakers, Frank straightened slightly in his chair, hazel eyes sharpening with focus. Because you were here now, and for a little while, at least, so was he.

You were dressed in purple lingerie tonight—a soft, dusky violet that caught the haze of neon and clung to the curves of your body like a secret promise. Lacy straps framed your breasts, delicate and inviting, and when you moved, spinning slow and languid around the pole, the tiny flashes of thigh and the sway of your hips seemed to slow the whole damn room.

You wore glasses too tonight—thin, dark frames perched on your nose, the lenses catching glints of the stage lights whenever you tipped your head just right. It shouldn’t have undone him. Frank had seen every trick in the book. But somehow, you—standing there in satin and silk, spinning, smiling behind those glasses—made something twist low and hard in his gut.

Men tossed bills onto the stage in lazy handfuls, a rain of notes slipping down around your heels, but Frank didn’t move. He never did. Just sat there, the brim of his military cap shading his hazel eyes, watching you with a stillness most men couldn’t maintain.

And then you spotted him.

Frank saw the flicker of recognition in your eyes—the little spark of mischief you always got when you found him lurking in his corner like some brooding gargoyle. You smiled, slow and real, a private little curve of your lips meant only for him. It wasn’t like the practiced smiles you gave the other patrons. No, this one was different.

Frank dropped his gaze to the table, embarrassed by how quickly it wrecked him. He wrapped his fingers tighter around the glass, scowling faintly at himself. Christ, he thought. Pull yourself together.

When the dance ended and the crowd shifted, when the men whooped and cheered and threw more bills at the next girl climbing the stage, Frank stayed seated, heart thudding too loud in his ears.

Later, after the rounds had cooled and the music softened to a hum, Frank did what he always did—nodded to the manager near the bar, quietly slipping the man a folded bill to arrange a private dance. No fanfare. No shouting across the floor like the younger men who didn’t know any better. Just a glance, a nod, a few words spoken low.

And like clockwork, you came.

You slipped into the private booth with a little bounce in your step, your heels clicking faintly against the cheap carpet, your face lighting up when you saw him waiting there. “Hey, Frankie,” you teased, the nickname now a regular fixture between you, spoken in that warm, teasing lilt that always made Frank’s ears burn.

Frank stood as you approached, pressing the brim of his cap in both hands, worrying it between his fingers like a schoolboy. He wasn’t shy. Not normally. Frank Benson wasn’t built for shyness. He was built for orders and hard stares, for barked commands and dry wit sharper than a whetted blade. In the field, he was rough, bossy, protective to a fault. Hell, after a few scotches he could even get downright cheeky, slinging lazy jokes in that deep, dry baritone that made soldiers snort into their beer.

But with you—Jesus Christ, with you—he felt shy.

You perched lightly on the edge of his knee, careful not to press too close, as you always were with him. Respectful. Sweet. Your perfume curled around him in soft tendrils, warm and familiar, making his chest tighten painfully.

"You came early tonight," you said, your fingers idly toying with the edge of his sleeve, light and innocent, not the teasing touch you used on the others.

Frank cleared his throat, the sound rough, like gravel dragged over stone. "Long day," he muttered. "Needed a better end to it."

Your smile widened, and God help him, it was so goddamn genuine it made him dizzy.

"You never touch," you said softly, almost like you were thinking aloud. "Never even try."

Frank shrugged, adjusting his grip on the cap still crushed in his hand. "Wasn’t raised that way."

You leaned in a little closer, your voice dropping conspiratorially. "Most aren’t."

Frank chuckled under his breath, the sound low and warm, his hazel eyes lifting just enough to meet yours. "Maybe I'm just old-fashioned."

You tilted your head, studying him through your lashes, glasses slipping just slightly down your nose. "Nah," you said, voice light. "You're just better than the rest."

Frank swallowed thickly, feeling something sharp and dangerous crack open inside his chest. He didn’t know what to say to that. Didn’t know how to hold it without squeezing too tight and ruining it.

So he just sat there, stiff and awkward, while you leaned in and pressed a kiss—light, just the whisper of a touch—to the corner of his mouth.

"Missed you, Frankie," you whispered.

And Frank, big, broad, battle-tested Frank Benson—felt the world tilt quietly off its axis. Because no one had said that to him in a long, long time.

And he realized then: you weren’t just the part of his week that made the loneliness quieter. You were the part that made it hurt less, and maybe—just maybe—that was worth hoping for.

You smiled at Frank, settling more comfortably against his lap, your hands light on his shoulders, careful as always. The muted thump of bass from the main stage drifted faintly under the door, but here, in this tiny private booth, it felt like you and him were tucked away in your own quiet world.

“So, Frankie," you murmured, the nickname rolling off your tongue easy, affectionate. "What’s it gonna be today? A lap dance, a pole dance, or…” you tilted your head, smiling gently, “you wanna just talk?”

Frank chuckled low, that familiar rough baritone vibrating under your palms. He shifted, the heavy leather of the seat creaking under his broad frame. His hazel eyes lifted to meet yours—warm, a little surprised, a little wary like he always was when you saw too much.

He opened his mouth to answer, but you cut in, teasing lightly, “You had that lunch today, didn’t you? The one you told me about last night—with your ex-wife?”

For a second, Frank just stared at you, blinking like you’d knocked him off balance. Then a slow, almost sheepish smile curved his mouth, deepening the faint lines around his eyes.

"You remember that?" he asked, sounding a little surprised. Maybe even a little touched.

"Of course I do," you said softly, brushing invisible lint off the front of his uniform sleeve. "You seemed… nervous about it."

Frank huffed a breath, setting his cap down on the low table beside you. He leaned back in the seat, the tension easing out of his big frame bit by bit.

"Yeah," he said after a moment. "I went. It was... fine, I guess." His voice was careful, measured like it always was when he was picking his words. "She cooked. Chicken and something else. Talked about our son for most of it. Surface-level stuff, you know."

You nodded, encouraging him to go on with a small smile.

Frank hesitated, then added, "She asked if I was seeing anyone. I told her no. She said maybe we should have lunch again sometime. Soon."

You smiled gently, warmth blooming in your chest for him—not pity, never pity. Just the simple, honest affection you’d grown for this big, gruff, painfully earnest man.

“Well,” you said, tilting your head, teasing, “did you at least wear the black shirt I told you to? The one I said makes you look really damn good?”

Frank’s mouth twitched at the corners, a reluctant little smirk peeking through. “Yeah. Figured it couldn’t hurt.”

Your smile widened, pleased. “Good. It suits you. Makes you look...” You trailed off, tapping your finger against his chest with playful finality, “...like the kind of man a woman would regret letting go.”

Frank's gaze sharpened slightly, searching your face. "You think she wants to get back together?"

You snorted, half-amused, half-exasperated at how blind men could be sometimes. You leaned in a little closer, your voice dropping conspiratorially. “Frankie. Come on.”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting.

You ticked the points off on your fingers. "First, she invited you over for lunch. Not coffee. Not a quick catch-up. Home-cooked meal. Second, she made your favorite, didn’t she?"

Frank hesitated, then nodded slowly.

"Third," you continued, "she asked if you were seeing anyone—and sounded real happy when you said no."

Frank's brow furrowed slightly.

"And fourth," you said, tapping the air with your finger for emphasis, "she suggested another lunch. 'Soon.' Not next month. Not sometime. Soon."

You smiled softly, letting your hand settle lightly against his chest again, feeling the slow, steady thump of his heart under your palm. "Frank... women don’t invite their ex-husbands over, cook for them, ask about their dating life, and suggest hanging out again unless they're thinking about something more."

He stared at you for a long moment, something complicated flickering behind his eyes.

You gave a little shrug, your voice softening. "I’m just saying… from where I’m sitting? She’s testing the waters."

Frank let out a slow, heavy breath, rubbing the back of his neck, the muscles under your hand shifting. "Maybe," he muttered, not exactly agreeing, but not exactly disagreeing either.

You smiled again—gentle, real—because you cared about him, more than you probably should. You brushed your fingers once, lightly, over his shirt, tracing the stitching without really thinking.

"And if she does," you added, your voice quieter now, a little sad around the edges, "I'll miss you."

Frank’s eyes snapped back to yours, sharp and intent.

You gave a small, shy laugh, glancing down at your lap. "You seem like the kind of man who doesn’t keep coming to places like this once he's got someone at home waiting for him." You looked up at him again, a little braver now. "And you shouldn’t. You deserve better than this."

Frank didn't say anything right away. His hand lifted, big and warm, and for one dizzying second you thought he might reach for your face, tuck a strand of hair behind your ear the way you’d daydreamed about once or twice when you let yourself get stupid.

But he didn't. He just rested his hand lightly over yours, rough palm covering your smaller one against his chest, his grip firm but gentle.

"You don't need to worry about that," he said, gaze steady, almost stern. "I’m not going anywhere. Even if she wants to get back together... I don't want to."

You blinked at him, searching his face, your fingers unconsciously curling tighter into the fabric of his uniform. "You don't?"

Frank shook his head once, slow and sure. His white hair caught the low lighting, casting silver highlights through the thick strands. He let out a breath, almost a laugh but without the humor. "No," he said. "Not like that. Not anymore."

You tilted your head slightly, heart hammering, your voice soft with cautious hope. "Why not?"

Frank hesitated, his hazel eyes dropping to where your hand rested over his heart. He seemed to consider his words carefully, like he always did, the corners of his mouth pulling down in that familiar, thoughtful way.

"There's someone else now," he said finally, voice dropping even lower, almost shy in a way that made your chest ache. He shifted his weight a little, glancing away toward the closed door, embarrassed. "A beautiful dancer who takes pity on sad old men like me."

The last part was said so quietly you barely caught it, but you did. Before he could retreat further into himself, you reached up and touched his cheek—fingertips brushing lightly over the slight roughness of his five o'clock shadow, guiding his face back toward you.

"Frank," you whispered, your voice breaking just a little.

He let you turn him, his hazel eyes finding yours again, uncertain and raw in a way that made your heart twist. And then, without thinking, without planning, you leaned in and kissed him.

At first, Frank froze.

Then—slowly, achingly—he kissed you back. His lips were warm, careful at first, like he couldn’t quite believe this was real. His hand lifted from the table to rest at your waist, big and steady, thumb rubbing instinctively against the soft fabric of your lingerie. His other arm slid around you, tentative, cradling you against him like something precious.

You deepened the kiss, guiding his hand lower, your fingers gentle but insistent as you pressed his palm over the curve of your ass.

Frank groaned softly against your mouth, the sound low and wrecked, his fingers flexing instinctively around the soft flesh as he pulled you closer into his lap, his thick thighs spreading wider to make room for you.

You didn’t break the kiss. Didn���t let him pull away.

And Frank didn’t want to.

He held you tighter instead, the world narrowing to the slow, aching slide of your mouths together, the warmth of your body in his hands, the dizzying, impossible reality of you choosing to be here—with him.

Frank pulled back first, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, both of you breathing hard in the charged quiet. His hand stayed warm on your waist, fingers flexing slightly like he didn’t quite trust himself to let go.

He cleared his throat, voice rough. “You know the bouncer’s still at the door, right?” His thumb brushed your side, tentative. “If you want to stop this... you just have to say the word.”

You let out a small, almost incredulous laugh, your eyes fluttering closed for a second. God, he was always like this—so careful, so determined to protect even when you wanted nothing more than to be reckless with him.

“He won’t come unless I call,” you said softly, your fingers brushing lightly against the front of his uniform, feeling the steady, hammering beat of his heart beneath the fabric. “We’re fine.”

Frank exhaled heavily, something deep loosening in his chest, but even then—even then—he looked at you like he was waiting for you to change your mind. Like he was ready to pull away if you so much as breathed the wrong way.

“I don’t want you to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said quietly, his baritone a low, rumbling oath.

You stared at him for a moment, chest tight with so many things you hadn’t said yet, things that had been building for months. And then—God, you couldn’t help it—you rolled your eyes, letting out a soft, breathless laugh that made Frank’s brows furrow in confusion.

“You think I don’t know that?” you whispered, cupping his jaw gently. “Frank, most men…” you paused, letting your thumb brush along the line of his hooked nose, the stubborn set of his mouth, “...most men steal touches. They push. They force. They take what they want without asking.”

Frank’s hand tightened just slightly at your waist, his jaw ticking at the implication.

“But you?” You smiled, a little sad, a little amazed. “You’re the one man I want to do all those things... and you never do.”

Frank’s breath hitched. His hazel eyes darkened, searching your face like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

You leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper, raw and aching. “You don’t know how many nights I’ve laid in bed, stuck my fingers in my pussy, and imagined it was you.” You swallowed, cheeks burning, but you didn’t look away. “Imagined it was your hands. Your voice in my ear. Your weight over me.”

Frank’s mouth parted slightly, a soft, wrecked sound escaping him. His fingers gripped your waist tighter, and you could feel the way his body tensed—like a man on the edge of losing every ounce of restraint he had left.

You smiled, softer now, running your hand through the silver at his temple. “I want you, Frank. Not because you’re safe. Not because you’re nice. But because you’re you.”

He still didn’t move—still so heartbreakingly careful—but you could feel the war inside him, the way his body trembled with the effort it took to stay still.

You tilted your head, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, feather-light. "Please," you whispered. "Don't make me imagine anymore."

And something in Frank finally, finally broke. He kissed you, rough, a low, broken sound tearing from his throat as he fisted the back of your neck in one big, calloused hand. His mouth claimed yours, hot and desperate, his teeth scraping your lower lip as he pulled you closer, closer, until there was no space left between you. His other hand found your ass, squeezing firmly, hungrily, tugging you flush against the thick, solid heat of his cock straining beneath his uniform trousers.

You gasped into his mouth when you felt it—felt him—so hard, so real, pressed against your belly. Frank groaned at the sound, the vibration of it against his lips making him squeeze harder, almost like he couldn’t believe this was really happening.

Without breaking the kiss, his hand slipped down, under the skimpy strip of your panties, his rough fingertips dragging over the soft flesh of your ass, feeling the heat of you, the dampness already seeping through the thin cotton. His fingers flexed, possessive, hungry, a low rumble vibrating from deep in his chest when you ground your hips into him, offering yourself shamelessly.

But he didn’t let it stay like that for long.

Frank shifted you with an ease that made your breath catch—a reminder of just how strong he really was under the softness he wore so easily. He lifted you, adjusting you like you weighed nothing, and turned you in his lap until your back was flush against his chest, your thighs spread wide over his thick ones. His hands were everywhere now, big and warm and sure, one arm banded tight across your middle, anchoring you, the other sliding down your belly, slow and deliberate, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties.

You whimpered, arching your back slightly, your head tipping against his shoulder. Frank’s breath was hot against your ear, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur that made your whole body shiver.

"Tell me," he rasped, his fingers trailing lower, teasing, circling the edge of your clit without touching it. "Tell me how you imagined me touching you."

You whimpered again, your thighs shaking under his slow, cruel teasing. Your hands clutched his forearm, the thick muscle flexing under your touch.

"I—I imagined..." You swallowed, your voice trembling with need. "That you'd take your time... that you'd be rough, but careful... that you'd... hold me open like this and just... tease me until I couldn't think."

Frank groaned softly, his nose nudging your temple, his fingers finally slipping lower to brush your clit in a light, slow circle. You jerked in his lap, a soft gasp escaping you.

"Like this?" he murmured, his baritone thick and smoky.

"Yes," you breathed, legs falling wider as your hips moved instinctively into his touch.

His fingers pressed a little harder, circling just the way you had dreamed about on those lonely nights when only your own hands and your traitorous imagination kept you company. He rubbed slow and steady, his breath hot against your ear, his cock a thick, throbbing presence beneath you.

"And then what, sweetheart?" Frank asked, his voice a rough whisper, grinding against you just enough to make you feel the impossible hardness of him. "Tell me what else you wanted."

"I wanted..." you whimpered, nearly incoherent now, your body writhing under the slow, relentless pleasure. "Wanted you to... slip your fingers inside. Stretch me. Make me... ready for your cock."

Frank cursed low against your skin, the sound full of raw need. He pressed his fingers more firmly against your clit, rubbing tighter, faster, dragging a soft, broken cry from your lips.

"You imagined my fingers stretching this tight little cunt," he growled, nipping lightly at your earlobe, his voice pure filth and molten affection all at once. "You imagined me filling you up, didn't you?"

You nodded frantically, grinding against his hand, desperate for more.

"Good girl," he rumbled, his fingers dipping lower to tease your entrance, slick and ready. He pushed one thick finger inside you, slow, savoring the tight heat that gripped him immediately. You cried out, hips canting up, but Frank held you firmly against him, keeping you spread open for him to touch and taste and claim as he pleased.

"You feel that?" he whispered, sliding his finger deep, curling it slightly to press against that perfect spot inside you. "That's mine now."

You sobbed his name, your hands clawing at his arm, the muscles flexing under your frantic grip. Frank added a second finger, stretching you wider, filling you, his thumb still circling your clit with agonizing precision.

You could barely breathe, barely think, the pleasure blinding, hot and thick as honey.

"You think about me fucking you like this?" he gritted out, his own voice shaking now, his cock throbbing against your soaked panties. "Slow at first, deep enough you feel it in your fucking soul?"

"Y-yes, Frankie," you gasped, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes from how good it felt.

"You think about me holding you open, filling you up until you can't take any more?" His fingers thrust harder now, scissoring slightly, working you open, relentless.

"Yes—oh God—Frank—"

He growled against your ear, thrusting his fingers deep one last time before dragging them out slow, slick and glistening.

"Good girl," he whispered, kissing your temple, the rough scrape of his stubble making you shiver. "You're ready for me now. You're perfect."

Frank slid his fingers into his mouth, slow and deliberate, sucking your taste from them with a low hum of satisfaction. His hazel eyes fluttered closed for just a moment, savoring you, and you watched him, utterly entranced. The sight of it—the roughness of his knuckles, the glint of wetness on his lips, the raw, primal hunger he didn't bother hiding—made your thighs press together, desperate for friction.

You whimpered softly, the sound breaking free before you could stop it.

Frank’s eyes snapped open at the noise, locking onto you. His pupils were blown wide with hunger, the hazel barely a thin ring around the dark. He pulled his fingers from his mouth with a soft, wet pop, watching you with a slow, predatory smile.

Without a word, you slid off his lap, the movement smooth and unhurried, sinking to your knees between his wide-spread thighs. You ran your hands up his legs, slow and reverent, feeling the strength beneath the soft fabric of his uniform trousers. Your fingers reached his belt, fumbling slightly in your eagerness, and Frank—God bless him—just leaned back, spread his arms along the back of the booth, and let you work.

You caught the way his hand dipped briefly into the pocket of his military coat, pulling out his worn leather wallet. His fingers moved deftly, checking for a condom with the same quiet efficiency he handled everything else in his life. He found one, looking satisfied—and when he glanced down and caught you watching him, you gave him a small, wicked smile.

“Take off your coat,” you murmured, your voice low, needy.

Frank arched a brow but didn’t argue. He shrugged out of the heavy coat with a grunt, tossing it aside onto the seat. It left him in his button-down—olive green and clinging to the broad line of his shoulders—his army tie still neatly knotted at his throat, and his gun holster strapped snug across his chest.

You bit your lip at the sight.

Frank caught it, his mouth curling into a slow, dangerous smirk. “Like what you see, sweetheart?” he rasped, voice thick with amusement.

You nodded, almost shy, your hands drifting up to rest lightly on his thighs, feeling the heat of him even through the layers. Your voice was barely a whisper when you answered, honest and trembling with want. “I love it. I love you like this.”

Frank’s smirk faltered, something raw flashing through his eyes, and for a long second, he just stared at you—like he was trying to memorize this moment. You, on your knees. Him, still half in uniform, flushed and breathing heavy, about to lose every shred of control he prided himself on.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, his hands flexing once, gripping the seat behind him.

He let you undo his belt slowly, your fingers working open the heavy buckle, tugging it free with a soft clink of metal. You popped the button of his trousers, dragging the zipper down slow, and Frank lifted his hips just enough to help you shove the fabric down, exposing the thick, heavy line of his cock straining against his boxers.

“Go on, baby,” he rumbled, his voice dropping even lower, the gravel in it thick and dark. “Daddy’s not gonna stop you.”

Your breath caught at the way he said it—Daddy—low and rough, full of possession and aching affection all at once.

With trembling hands, you slipped your fingers under the waistband of his boxers, tugging them down and freeing him. His cock sprang free, thick and flushed, already leaking at the tip. You moaned softly at the sight, leaning forward without hesitation, nuzzling your cheek against the heavy length of him like he was something precious.

Frank groaned, low and wrecked, his hips jerking slightly. His hand found your hair, fingers threading through the strands, anchoring you.

“That’s it, baby,” he rasped, voice shaking. “You want Daddy’s cock, don’t you?”

You nodded, mouthing along the base of him, pressing open-mouthed kisses up the thick shaft, savoring the taste of his skin, the way he trembled under your touch. You licked a slow stripe up to the head, swirling your tongue around the tip before taking him into your mouth, slow and deep.

Frank cursed, his hand tightening in your hair, his head tipping back against the seat with a soft thud. His hips twitched, but he held himself still, letting you set the pace, letting you worship him the way you wanted to.

“Good girl,” he groaned, his voice a broken wreck of baritone and need. “Fucking perfect. So good for Daddy.”

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking him deeper, your hands stroking the parts of him your mouth couldn’t reach, and Frank just sat there, undone, his broad chest heaving, the holster still cutting tight across his frame like some dark, perfect reminder of who he was.

Your hair fell into your face as you worked him, and Frank, ever the steady hand, reached up to brush it back for you. His touch was surprisingly tender—his thick fingers curling gently behind your ear, tucking the messy strands away so he could see you properly. His other hand, rough and warm, slid down to lightly cup your breast through the thin lace of your bra, his thumb brushing teasingly over your nipple in slow, lazy strokes.

He let you worship him for a few precious minutes, his head tilted back, chest heaving, every rough sound that escaped him a reward you cherished. His cock twitched in your mouth, and when you glanced up at him—your eyes glassy, cheeks hollowed around his thickness—Frank cursed under his breath, his hand flexing in your hair.

But then, with a groan of regret, he pulled you away, his cock slipping free from your lips with a slick pop. You whimpered softly, already chasing him, but Frank only gave you that slow, wicked smile—the one that made your knees weak—and grabbed the condom from the seat beside him.

You watched, heart hammering, as he tore the foil open with his teeth, his broad chest rising and falling while he carefully rolled the latex down his heavy shaft. His hands were steady despite the shaking tension in his thighs, and you couldn't help but moan softly, the sound desperate, needy, as you peeled your soaked panties down your thighs and let them fall to the floor.

Without hesitation, you climbed into his lap, straddling his thick thighs, your bare skin pressing flush against the rough fabric of his uniform trousers. Your hands rested lightly on his chest for a moment—feeling the solid weight of him beneath you, the steady thud of his heart.

But Frank didn’t pull you down onto him right away. He held you there, hands firm on your hips, his hazel eyes searching yours. He didn’t say anything—didn’t need to—but you could feel the question in the way he held you steady, waiting, offering you the chance to back out if you wanted. Waiting for your choice.

You smiled softly, feeling your heart crack wide open for him, and leaned forward, wrapping your hands around the thick straps of his holster, clutching them tight like lifelines. You held his gaze, steady and sure, and in one slow, deliberate movement, you sank down onto him.

The stretch was breathtaking. You gasped, your head tipping back, thighs trembling as you felt every thick, impossible inch of him fill you. Frank groaned, a low, wrecked sound that vibrated straight through your core, his fingers digging into your hips as he fought to keep still and let you take your time.

“F-fuck,” you whimpered, your body clenching around him, your nails biting into the leather of his holster. “Daddy… so big—so thick—”

Frank growled, the sound ripped straight from his chest, raw and dangerous. His hips bucked slightly beneath you, instinctive, desperate, but he still held back, letting you set the pace, letting you adjust to the heavy weight of him inside you.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he rasped, voice like crushed velvet, his baritone thick with wrecked pride. “Taking Daddy’s cock so fuckin’ good.”

You whimpered, rolling your hips experimentally, feeling the stretch, the perfect drag of his cock against your fluttering walls. You leaned forward, clutching the holster tighter, burying your face in the curve of his neck, inhaling the warm, faintly musky scent of him—soap and leather and something distinctly Frank.

“You’re mine now,” Frank growled, his hand sliding up your back, cupping the back of your head as he rocked his hips up into you with a slow, punishing grind that made your toes curl. “Every inch of this tight little pussy belongs to me.”

“Yes, Daddy,” you sobbed, clinging to him, your body trembling from the overwhelming fullness, the slow, deliberate way he was claiming every part of you.

Frank chuckled low against your ear—a dark, dangerous sound that promised you hadn’t even scratched the surface of what he was willing to give you tonight.

Frank grunted low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your skin as he shifted beneath you. Before you could fully register what was happening, his thick arms tightened around your waist, muscles flexing with a strength that took your breath away.

In one fluid motion, he stood up, lifting you with him—your thighs wrapping instinctively around his broad hips, your arms locking around his neck for balance. His uniform pants pooled around his ankles, forgotten, and you whimpered at the sudden change in angle, the new depth as his cock sank even deeper inside you.

"Jesus Christ, Frankie—" you gasped, clinging to him as your body jolted with every powerful thrust.

He fucked up into you hard, deliberate, his hazel eyes burning with something dark and hungry as he braced your back against the nearest wall, using it as leverage. Each thrust rocked you higher, forced soft, desperate sounds from your lips as he pinned you between his thick frame and the cool, painted surface.

"Fuck," you whimpered against his throat, your voice breaking. "Daddy’s so strong... my big, strong bear..."

Frank growled at the praise, a deep, primal sound rumbling from his chest as he drove into you harder, faster, like he needed to prove just how much strength he still had left in his aging, battle-scarred body.

"That's right, sweetheart," he rasped, baritone thick and filthy. "Daddy’s still got it. Still strong enough to fuck his girl standing up... fill her up good and deep."

You nodded frantically, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity, your entire body burning, stretched and trembling with how hard he claimed you. His hips snapped up into you with brutal precision, the slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls.

"You're fuckin' perfect," he muttered harshly against your ear, punctuating each word with a thrust. "So fuckin' tight... clinging to me like you never wanna let go."

"Never," you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Never wanna let go, Daddy."

Frank grunted, the strain low and heavy in his throat, his arms trembling slightly from the effort of holding you pinned between the wall and his thick, aching body. One hand gripped your ass firmly, the other fumbling at his neck, yanking at his tie. The damned thing felt like it was strangling him, the stiff knot digging into his throat, trapping his breath in his chest. He tugged it loose with a muttered curse, the fabric sliding rough and clumsy against his flushed skin, his white hair damp with sweat where it curled against his temples.

You whimpered against his mouth, tugging insistently at the straps of his holster, your thighs tightening around his waist. "Frank—" you gasped, your voice breathless but certain, "—put me down. I don't want to hurt you."

He froze for half a second, breathing hard, the commanding part of him ready to argue. But one look at you—your pupils blown wide, your body slick and trembling against him, your fingers tugging pleadingly at the leather across his chest—and Frank obeyed.

Slowly, carefully, he shifted his grip, bracing you tighter as he lowered you to the ground. His knees groaned a little in protest, but he ignored it, focusing only on you—on making sure you landed safe, steady, cradled by his body even now. He eased you down until your back met the scuffed carpeted floor, your legs still wrapped loosely around his waist, your hands slipping from his holster to frame his flushed face instead.

"Bossy little thing," he muttered, voice thick and rough as gravel, a crooked grin curling his lips.

"You love it," you whispered back, brushing your nose against his hooked one, feeling the hot, damp rush of his breath against your cheek.

Frank huffed a short, wrecked laugh, his hazel eyes burning down at you as he adjusted his grip, sliding one large hand beneath your thigh, hitching your leg higher over his hip. He lined himself up again, the heavy, leaking head of his cock nudging at your soaked entrance. You whimpered, clutching at the back of his shirt, desperate for him, aching for the weight of him inside you again.

Frank didn’t tease this time. He thrust forward with a slow, brutal slide, burying himself to the hilt in one steady, breathtaking motion that had both of you gasping. His forehead dropped to yours, the soft silver strands of his hair brushing your skin, his breath ragged and broken against your mouth.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he groaned, voice wrecked, his baritone fraying at the edges. "You're so goddamn tight—so good—"

You whimpered, your body arching under him, your fingers clawing at the broad line of his back as he started to move, slow at first, grinding deep with every heavy thrust, making you feel every thick inch of him dragging against your walls. His stomach brushed your clit with each roll of his hips, sending jolts of desperate pleasure sparking through you.

Frank grunted, sweat sliding down his temples, his hand slipping between your bodies to thumb your clit in messy, desperate circles. "Come for me again," he panted, his forehead pressed hard to yours, his body grinding into you with single-minded determination. "Wanna feel you milk my cock, sweetheart—fuckin' ruin me."

You sobbed his name, nails digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders, your body tensing, tightening, burning up from the inside out.

"That's it," Frank growled, his thrusts rough and deep now, his voice a wrecked rasp against your ear. "Give it to me, baby. Let me have it. Let Daddy feel how much you need him."

You shattered with a cry, your pussy clamping down around him so tight it punched a deep, guttural moan from his chest. Frank cursed, his hips stuttering, his whole body shaking as he spilled inside you, filling the condom with pulsing, desperate thrusts until he finally collapsed over you, panting, trembling, undone.

He stayed there for a long moment, his weight braced carefully on his elbows so he didn’t crush you, his heart hammering hard against your chest. His nose nudged yours, his breath hot and shaky, his hands still stroking you—gentle now, reverent.

When he finally found the strength to speak, his voice was a low, broken rumble. "Jesus, baby... what the hell are you doing to me?"

You smiled weakly up at him, your fingers slipping into his damp white hair, stroking slow and soothing. "Making you stay," you whispered.

Frank laughed—a rough, wrecked sound full of something dangerously close to hope—and kissed you, slow and deep, like a promise.