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muiitoloko · 13 days ago

Note

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.

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader

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veephoenix · 1 year ago

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zutto — chapter two | wc: 3k | series masterpost | prev. chapter

chapter summary: lia and noah's first morning together in her apartment after returning to los angeles.

tags and trigger warnings: best friends to lovers, conflicted feelings, subtle mentions of overdose, ptsd, angst/comfort, noah's having nightmares of lia dying, insomnia, lia's still suffering from slight disorientation, but she's totally in love with noah and so is he with her, even though they're grappling with the aftermath of what happened and taking things slow. there's also obvious sexual tension that will just keep on escalating until it can't be contained anymore.

general trigger warnings: This work addresses and depicts issues related to addiction, abuse, & violence, contains explicit sexual content, and explores themes of childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised. +18

As Lia slowly emerged from the depths of slumber, the soft embrace of morning sunlight kissed her eyelids, coaxing her back to consciousness. Her fingers idly traced the familiar contours of her bed, noting the untouched expanse beside her. Noah’s absence sent tendrils of unease snaking through her, and suddenly, her heart felt heavy with fear.

She slipped from the warmth of her covers, her bare feet touching the cold tiles of the floor. The faint aroma of breakfast wafted through the air as she exited her bedroom. She walked sleepily but panicked to the kitchen.

There, in the gentle glow of dawn filtering through the windows, she found Noah, clad in his sweatpants and a black t-shirt, his hair a bit ruffled but looking wide awake.

A wave of relief spread through her. Lia fluttered her eyelashes a couple of times, adjusting to the domesticity Noah exuded as he prepared breakfast in her kitchen.

“Noah.”

She caught his attention, and he gifted her a beautiful pained smile.

“Hey. I didn’t think you’d wake up so early,” he said, his voice also indicating that he’d been awake for some time now. There was an empty cup of coffee resting by the stove.

Lia inspected him. The dark circles under his eyes and the stubble on his chin made him look older than he was, and another pang of guilt hit her.

She ignored his comment, unable to remember when she had finally fallen asleep the night before. The last thing she recalled after holding each other as they cried was being curled up next to Noah on the couch, playing with the strings of his hoodie as a Tim Burton movie flickered on the TV. She couldn’t tell if she’d slept for four hours or eight, but her body still felt the fatigue and weakness of the previous days. She attributed her exhaustion to something else, though: to the fact that Noah hadn’t spent the night beside her.

“Where did you sleep?” she asked. Her voice trembled with a mixture of fear and longing as she uttered the question.

Noah’s gaze, warm and tender yet tinged with a hint of sorrow, met hers. He watched her carefully, paying particular attention to the color in her cheeks, her still sleepy eyes, and her messy hair.

His response was a silent gesture, a wordless admission. He tilted his head towards the tiny living room, silently indicating the sofa.

A surge of emotion threatened to engulf her as she stood there, her eyes falling on the crumpled blanket where Noah had spent the night, using it to shield himself from the cold. Amidst the delicate dance of morning shadows, she yearned to bridge the distance that separated them, to shatter the barriers that confined their hearts. But she was still afraid, and she didn’t know when that fear would let her fall right into his arms; the place where she belonged.

“You don’t have to sleep there,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

“I just wanted you to get a peaceful sleep,” he replied, briefly glancing up from the strawberries he was cutting.

Lia hesitated, overwhelmed again by Noah’s attention and constant care. She wasn’t sure if she would ever get used to it, but she knew she didn’t want to live without it. Those had always been the only constants in her life.

It had always been Noah.

Noah.

She nervously touched the calf of her opposite leg with the heel of her left foot, her eyes wandering over the kitchen counter as she deliberated. She watched as Noah scrambled to prepare two bowls of oatmeal with frozen berries he’d found in the freezer.

Summoning some courage, she managed to voice her feelings. “I don’t want you to sleep on the sofa.”

Her words didn’t surprise Noah, but the determination in her voice did. It was the first time in a long while that he’d hear her speak with such clarity and intensity. Her statement was more than just words; it carried the weight of an imminent solution, and they both understood what that solution entailed because they both wanted the same one.

Noah had refrained from sleeping in her bed for many reasons, but mainly because his own insecurity had told him not to cross that line unless Lia asked him to. Now, with her recent statement, it was clear she was asking.

Still, Noah needed her to be explicit. He couldn’t handle any more silences, any more behaviour he didn’t understand, or secrets between them. He needed Lia to be transparent about everything as he was willing to be; he needed the good and the bad. He needed her honesty and he needed her to verbalize what she wanted—if she wanted him.

His heart raced as Lia approached him with slow, small steps. Her brown eyes never leaving his until one of her hands rested on the edge of the countertop. Her eyes and fingers slowly drifted to the wooden board where he was slicing the strawberries. The ice had melted; the frozen berries had released their juice; his fingertips were stained a sweet pink as he cut the strawberries in two.

Noah followed Lia’z gaze, trying to decipher her thoughts.

Lia’s fingers trailed over the wooden board until they touched Noah’s. Before he could warn her about getting dirty, her fingertips demanded control over his, and then she was running the length of his long digits from the inside, smearing the strawberry juice and spreading the color over both her fingers and his hand. Noah should have felt, at the very lest, confused by her actions, but he found himself in a trance, focused solely on the sensation of her strawberry-stained fingers gliding over his skin. The scent of the fruit mingled with her subtle vanilla scent, blocking out everything else.

“I want you to sleep with me,” she whispered, a confession that sent butterflies fluttering in his stomach.

When his eyes met Lia’s again, he saw the conflict in her gaze. It was as if by expressing what she wanted, she felt somewhat guilty.

Noah didn’t want her to feel culpable about anything. He just wanted her to prioritize herself and be honest, both with him and with herself.

He was tempted to tell her there was nothing he wanted more than to sleep with her. He had barely slept the night before. After making sure Lia was asleep and untroubled by physical discomfort or nightmares, he had flopped down on the couch with a blanket he found in a closet. He tried to fall asleep but ended up spending hours listening to music and podcasts with his AirPods on and watching pointless videos on his phone. When he finally drifted off, it was only for a couple of hours, interrupted by a nightmare of Lia dying in his arms, then Lia in the hospital, and then a doctor telling him that there was nothing to be done; that Lia was gone.

When he woke up from the nightmare, it was five in the morning. He was drenched in sweat, his t-shirt clinging to his chest and back, his hair sticking to his temples. Almost scared to death, he had gotten up and gone to Lia’s room to make sure she was still there, still sleeping in the same position he had last seen her in, her breathing steady, soft. Then, he had locked himself in the bathroom, spent ten minutes in silence facing his reflection, containing his anxiety before taking a shower, changing clothes, and giving up on sleep for the night.

Lia’s confession, her desire, spread through him like a wildfire.

Lia lifted her hand from his, breaking the spell.

Noah felt petrified, a part of him unable to believe Lia’s words, increduluous at the gentleness and pain in her beautiful eyes and delicate face. Then, Lia’s strawberry-stained fingers touched his cheek, cool but pleasant, and her thumb came to rest on his lower lip, where her gaze fell.

A twitch between Noah’s legs added to the flutter of butterflies in his stomach and the tears he knew would escape his eyes if Lia continued to touch him so tenderly.

Oh, such a mess they both were.

Noah wanted to do so much, to do so many things for her, with her. He wanted to help her recover, to be patient with her and offer her his space. Another part of him wanted to cry and be held by her, to surrender in her arms, with the sound of her heartbeat against his ear. He wanted her hands caressing his face, maybe her voice singing a song to him, one that showed him there was hope, that they would both make it through. Another part just wanted to pick her up, place her on the counter and kiss her, feed her the same strawberries that now stained his lip and cheek, to watch as Lia nibbled on the small fruit and the juice that dribbled down her chin. He wanted to clean her with his kisses and then take her to bed, make love to her until she forgot everything that had happened and could only think of the bright future ahead of them.

And yet…

Lia’s eyes had a spark on them.

“Noah, I…”

Noah nearly parted his lips, ready to touch Lia’s thumb with the tip of his tongue. Just then, the shrill tone of his iPhone snapped them out of their trance. Lia’s hand fell swiftly from his face, and she took a step back, her expression changing as she apologized.

Noah clicked his tongue, swiping the back of his hand across his cheek to wipe away the strawberry residue before quickly cleaning his fingers with a rag. He reached for his iPhone with one hand while wrapping his other arm around Lia’s waist, holding her close to his side.

“It’s Jolly,” he announced looking down at the screen.

Without preamble, he answered the call, trying to focus on the manly voice on the other end while ignoring the way Lia innocently and absentmindedly licked the thumb that had been on his lips just moments before. She reached for the same rag Noah had used, and after a moment, she leaned against him, trying to listen to what Jolly was saying with a small furrow between her brows.

Noah offered the phone to her, muttering, “He’s with Emery. She wants to talk to you.”

Of course. Lia’s phone had been off for the past three days. The battery had died, and she hadn’t bothered to charge it again. Emery, one of her best friends, must have been worried sick. Lia assumed Jolly had informed her of everything, and that he was with her now after the weeks spent away on tour.

With a nod, Lia took the phone from Noah’s hand, and reluctantly, he let her go. With a soft greeting and praying she wouldn’t break down again while talking to Emery, Lia made her way around the kitchen counter that separated the kitchen and the living room, heading to the balcony. Noah was left with the ghost of Lia’s thumb on his lips.

Lia’s time on the phone with Emery went as expected. Within minutes Lia was in tears. She hadn’t needed to explain what had happened, for Jolly had already filled Emery in. The fear and worry Emery expressed made Lia feel like a bad person. This time, though, Lia took control of the conversation and assured her friend that none of it was her fault. If anything, Lia blamed herself for not letting others help her sooner and drowing herself in her own misery.

By the time the call ended with a promise of seeing each other soon, Lia was sitting on the corner of the couch, one foot barefoot on the floor and the other leg tucked under her. She sighed heavily, preparing to lock Noah’s phone when she noticed his wallpaper: one of her designs from years ago, a private one that never made it onto the Bad Omens merch or onto her website. It was a beautiful white dragon escaping from a mountain on fire, reaching for the sky with its wings spread open, creating a magnificient shape. Lia had told Noah that she felt the dragon represented her. Although the design had been kept in her MacBook, Noah had somehow obtained it and set it as his wallpaper, perhaps to use it as a reminder that his Lia was stronger than she believed.

Lia felt too emotionally exhausted to cry any more. She simply locked Noah’s iPhone and set it down next to her. Looking up at the empty balcony, she noticed the clothesline in the corner, with their tour clothes hanging to dry.

“Did you do the laundry?” Lia asked then, turning her head toward Noah at the other end of the room.

“Yeah,” he answered, closing the fridge. “I was up early,” he continued, carrying the two bowls of porridge to the coffee table in front of the couch. “Besides, I don’t have any clothes here except the ones I took on tour so, I had to get them washed,” he explained, setting the bowls. Lia moved to grab two mats from the shelf underneath and placed them on the table. “As comfortable as it feels to dress homeless, we’ll need to go out at some point to get groceries, and I’d rather do it looking a bit decent.”

That finally made her smile a little.

He settled next to her, pulling the table closer to them. He grabbed the bowl with one hand and the spoon with another.

“I should shave, too, but I’ll do that tomorrow,” he mentioned casually.

At the mention of it, Lia’s eyes fell to his stubble and the facial hair growing above his upper lip. During their teenage years, when Noah’s mustache had started showing, Lia had teased him occasionally. However, once she realized it made him uncomfortable, she stopped. Weeks later, she had stood at the bathroom door at his grandparents’ house, watching as Noah’s grandpa taught him how to shave. It was a random memory, but seeing him now so comfortable with himself warmed her heart. Growing up meant adapting and accepting changes in one’s body, and Lia was glad Noah had moved past insecurities of his youth, which just added to his appeal as a man.

Noah glanced at her as he took the first spoonful of breakfast. He was still replying the intimate moment they had shared in the kitchen before Jolly’s call interrupted, but seeing Lia play with her spoon in her bowl brought him back to the present.

“It’s not too bad,” he mentioned, referring to the frozen berries. “There was nothing fresh, and I thought about making a shake, but I know you prefer porridge, so…”

“Anything is fine. There’s nothing in the fridge, anyway,” she acknowledged. “I should have thought about it yesterday. Maybe we could have gone to get something from the mini-mart down the street.”

“We can go later if you’re feeling okay,” he leaned back, digging into his food and settling into the slow morning with her.

Lia nodded. She felt uncertain about resuming her usual routine, but she was aware that if she didn’t do the effort, she wouldn’t get any better. So, the sooner she started getting back on track, the better. And if she tripped, Noah would be there to catch her.

“Maybe we should also get some new plants and spend some time replanting the ones that died. Will keep our minds occupied.”

It was a good idea, and Lia appreciated every suggestion he made as she ate little spoonfuls of porridge, slowly filling her food-starved body.

“Do you feel like going out, though?” he asked, eyeing her with evident concern.

The gesture she made as she set her bowl down on the sofa and tucked her hair behind her ear was sweet and comforting. A part of Noah felt a pang of jealousy that she did it herself when he could have done it for her.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, “but I want to try. I want to get back to normal as soon as possible…”

She shouldn’t rush things, but she didn’t want to delay, either. The upcoming tour in Japan was in the back of her mind, though she didn’t mention it. She knew Noah’s stance on it; he didn’t think it was wise for her to travel so far so soon. She had even overheard him considering canceling the tour to stay with her and help her fully recover.

She wouldn’t allow that, wouldn’t let it happen.

“Maybe working a little might…”

“No, no work for a while, Lia,” he interjected firlmy, shaking his head.

She didn’t argue, just let her shoulders drop.

“Let’s finish breakfast and then we’ll decide together, okay? We’ll make a plan for the next few days,” he proposed, “including calling your therapist and scheduling a doctor’s appointment for next week.”

“Noah, I don’t think a doctor’s appointment so soon is req—”

“Are you going to argue with me on that? Seriously?”

“No, but—”

“Therapist,” he repeated, leaving no room for discussion. “And then a doctor’s appointment.”

She huffed.

“Okay.”

Her defeated expression made his features soften. He reached out and touched her chin with his fingers, drawing her tired eyes to meet his.

“I only want to make sure everything is okay. We need to get you off the meds, and I want to do things right with you, Lia. I’m not losing you again.”

The sincerity in his words would never fail to move her. She managed a smile; tiny but a smile after all. When it mirrored in his expression, he leaned forward. Lia thought he was going to kiss her lips, but it ended up being a tender peck on her forehead before he resumed eating his breakfast.

Before Lia continued on hers, she told him: “you won’t.”

— prev. chapter | chapter three

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