evans23

[evans23]

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[evans23]

A Clash of Alans 2

Round 1 Closes/Round 2 Opens

I guess the surefire way of making sure your host isn't rigging the results is by voting out her favourite cowboy in the first round 😭

Results under the cut. Round 2 is open until 12pm, 21st June. Excuse me while I go and cry about Elliott's early elimination.

VOTE HERE

Battle 1: Eli Michaelson (76%) v Antoine Richis (24%)

Battle 2: Frank Benson (53.8%) v Dwight Billings (46.2%)

Battle 3: Jamie (66.7%) v Ed (33.3%)

Battle 4: David Friedman (82%) v Lukas Hart III (18%)

Battle 5: Joe (17.6%) v Marvin (82.4%)

Battle 6: Elliott Marston (43.1%) v Franz Anton Mesmer (56.9%)

[evans23]

Loving you is a losing game - Part IV

Pairing : Judge Turpin x Reader OC

Summary : You love Richard. And you want him to love you. Entirely. In your flesh.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Mention of domestic violence. Slight mention of woman killing her man. Smut !

A/N : Hello dear 😁 I didn't proofread, but I hope you will enjoy.

Part I - Part II - Part III

Also read on AO3 Also read on Wattpad

The next day, you woke up in Richard's arms with a contented sigh. It was still early, but you knew that Richard, still asleep, would soon wake up. Indeed, you could hear the first sounds of the city buzzing from outside, even though it was still dark.

You pressed yourself against him, enjoying the warmth emanating from his strong body when you felt his length pressing against the small of your back. You opened your eyes wide, knowing full well what it was. You knew the biological process of this... male condition that normally occurred every morning, but you also knew what it meant for a man. Even more so for a man like Richard, who, even if he had never told you about his depravity, you suspected was far from innocent on that matter. Indeed, he owned numerous highly explicit books from around the world, and it was common knowledge that he frequented high-class brothels. A thought that tugged at your heartstrings.

Richard's arm, which had been resting on your hip, wrapped around your stomach, pressed you closer to him, growling. Yet, his steady breathing told you he had done this completely unconsciously, he was still asleep.

His cock pressed harder against your buttocks now, and you found yourself having thoughts that were unsavoury for a young girl from a good family. Yet, you weren't a young girl from a good family, you were from a low-middle-class family, and even if you were still pure, your curiosity on the subject had gotten the better of you years ago.

And then, since Richard and you had grown closer, slowly, surely, and since last night when he held you in his arms as you confided in him your fear of thunderstorms, a new bond had been created between you. And you realized that new feelings, other than love, were also forming. You desired him. Sexually.

You blushed at the thought, but you didn't have time to elaborate further on what you felt, because Richard stirred behind you, grumbling. He wasn't asleep anymore, and you immediately closed your eyes, pretending to be.

Richard sighed contentedly, a slight smile tugging at his lips as he saw you there, in his arms, where you had slept soundly all night. He had dreamed of this moment so much, and now that his patience had been rewarded, he loved you even more.

He observed your beautiful face, your pink lips, and your pale cheeks hidden by strands of hair. He gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and brought his lips close to yours, making you shiver in spite of yourself.

"I know you're not asleep, my dear."

You immediately opened your eyes, a little embarrassed, still aware of his length against your buttocks, but if Richard had noticed, he had the decency to act as if nothing had happened.

"Hello, my dear wife."

"Hello," you whispered, gazing into his hazel eyes.

You could have drowned in his eyes, they made you feel a thousand emotions in just a few seconds. His eyes expressed so much more when you took the time to really observe them than his stoic face and his cold, stoic appearance.

In fact, you had realized over time, and with the help of the staff who seemed to hold Richard in high regard despite his stern, hard, and sometimes even mean nature, that there was much more to the man you married than you had initially thought.

"I'm afraid I have to get up," he said, kissing your temple.

"Do you really have to?" you asked playfully.

"Ah, my dear wife ! Justice doesn't wait."

And with that, he reluctantly let go of you to begin his ablutions. You watched him disappear into the bathroom adjoining your bedroom, a pang of disappointment coursing through your body at the loss of his body against yours, of his warmth, and also by his usual coldness that had returned to haunt him. You had naively hoped that with you, he would be warmer in your everyday life, in the privacy of the manor, especially after these last few days, which had only solidified what had started as a forced marriage and evolved into a strange friendship, finally becoming love. At least for you, because for Richard, it had always been love.

When Richard reappeared, he was wearing black trousers and a gold waistcoat that accentuated his height. His stature. He acted as if nothing was wrong, and in theory, it was, if you hadn't been indiscreet enough to listen at the door to eavesdrop him... pleasure himself with his hands.

"Love," he growled in his baritone voice, "I'll be back for supper," it sounded like a promise, and you knew it was.

He kissed your lips gently, caressing your cheek with his fingertips, his hand lingering longer than necessary, then left without looking back.

Alone, in the darkness of your large bedroom, you sighed, closing your eyes. You knew Richard wasn't going to try anything, or at least you suspected it. His desire to conquer you permanently was stronger than his desire to make you his, and he wouldn't try anything if you weren't the one initiating the act. Yet, just because you'd read strange things when you were younger didn't mean you were versed in the art of love.

Indeed, having grown up without a maternal figure, no woman had ever explained to you what the act itself truly entailed. Of course, you'd heard women speak of it as a duty, something they couldn't refuse their husbands as it was a marital duty, and most of them were more than dissatisfied. Some even said they suffered terribly every time. Yet, you'd read that pleasure wasn't just for men and that a woman could feel it too... provided she was with the right lover.

Was Richard that kind of man ? The one who would make your first time pleasurable enough for you to want to do it again, to experience what was described as pleasure, or was he like all the other noblemen who took what he wanted without a care for his wife ? You couldn't be certain, but a man who went to brothel probably didn't care much about women's pleasure, did he ?

"Is everything all right, my Lady ?" Mrs. Dormer asked, helping you with your hair.

You nodded yes, but you were still consumed by your recent desire to be claimed by your husband and, at the same time, by the fear of being nothing more than a trophy to him, who would revel in what you had given him, while for you, once you had given him everything, it would be too late.

You wanted to discuss all this with the maid, whom you considered more of a friend and confidant than anything else, but the subject was somewhat delicate and embarrassing.

"Are you sure, my Lady ? You are very calm this morning."

You closed your eyes, feeling tears welling up in your eyes. You'd already felt lonely since your marriage, especially when Richard decided things needed to change for you after you'd provoked him one too many times, but this was something else. A feeling of terrible loneliness, knowing you had no real friends to confide in, except for Maya, but since her marriage to an abusive and controlling man, you hadn't really had any contact with her. Your other friends were more acquaintances you acknowledged on the street or at the rare events you'd attended in the past.

You considered William, your editor, as your best friend, but he was a man. A man with particular tastes, something you'd discovered by accident when you unexpectedly walked into his office while he was busy with another man. You still remember with a nostalgic smile how he begged you not to say anything, that he'd do anything to keep you quiet, even if it meant bribing you, while you were just amused to have learned by complete chance that a man as virile and masculine as he preferred... well, had other preferences.

"That's a cliché, [Y/N], man with muscles can... well... it's none of your business." he had told you, blushing slightly.

However, and although surprised by your complete indifference, the fact that you weren't bothered by his disinterest in women, but rather intrigued and fascinated, had strengthened your friendship, making you the best friends you were today. Yet, you felt that talking to him about your own sex life was somewhat inappropriate.

"You were married once, Mrs. Dormer," you said suddenly.

It wasn't a question; you knew the maid had had a husband in the past.

"Indeed, my Lady," Mrs. Dormer replied cautiously.

You felt her stiffen behind you, as her hand gripped a lock of your hair more firmly than you'd intended, pulling it back.

"Was it a love match?" you wanted to know.

"Not really, my Lady, although it wasn't an arranged marriage either. I... I was already 21, and my parents saw me more as a burden than anything else. At the time, I was working as a housekeeper for an elderly lady who owned a much more modest house than this one, but she was ill and it was obvious I won't get another job as she didn't have any heir. I married my husband, whom I'd known since childhood, to relieve my parents."

You felt sad to hear that. Yet, being a woman yourself, you knew it could be a terrible source of worry for parents if they couldn't arrange a marriage before their death, as in most cases a woman couldn't inherit her father's fortune or his house. Unless she had a generous brother willing to take her into his home, a spinster often ended up in an asylum if she couldn't find a job, often a poorly paid one.

"Was it a happy marriage?"

You saw her face turn cold in the mirror and immediately regretted asking.

"Not really, my Lady."

"Did he allow you to work?"

You could see that Mrs. Dormer was growing increasingly uncomfortable, but you couldn't stop asking all these questions.

"No, my Lady, I went back to work after he died."

"How did he die?"

She froze, her face ashen. You realized you'd gone too far and immediately apologized.

"It's nothing, my Lady. It's just... Sometimes the past should stay in the past. But I owe your husband a lot, my Lady. He... I owe him a lot, and I'm very grateful to have worked for him all this time and that he deemed me worthy of being your personal maid."

You understood. Not quite, but you understood that the old woman's past hid something that connected her to Richard, and that she probably owed him much more than a roof over her head and a paying job.

"And I'm glad to have you as a friend," you said sincerely.

She didn't answer because she was well aware that your difference in status didn't allow you to be true friends, even though she was flattered to hear you say so.

"As a friend... I would like to ask you a question... a specific one," you continued hesitantly.

"My Lady ?"

"You know I grew up without a maternal presence, and even if I'm not totally ignorant, I... well... I..." you stammered, "well, I know no one here at the manor is fooled. You all know that Richard and I didn't... And I... and you see..."

"What do you want to know, My Lady ?" she interrupted you, suppressing an amused smile.

"I want him. Completely. And I want him to want me," you said straightforwardly.

"I'm certain he does, My Lady," not at all taken aback by your blunt frankness.

"But I'm scared. I've heard women talk about... that... and I also have my very good friend Maya who sometimes confided in me when she was still allowed to see me and... well... What I heard was nothing like what I've read," you said, feeling your cheeks flush.

Mrs. Dormer sighed as she placed the last crystal star in your hair.

"I'm afraid I don't have a better story to tell you, and apparently, I don't have much to teach you," she added mischievously.

You smiled shyly, looking down.

"My Lady, if you already know what there is to know, then you should speak with my Lord. He is... experienced enough to guide you if that's truly what you want."

"But what if he's like the other s? What if he just enjoys himself without a care for me ? After all, he hangs out with the whores in the upper-class neighbourhoods," you said bluntly.

"That's true, my Lady," the maid admitted, "but not since your marriage, that's for sure. You are the one and only he desires, and he would never have done anything to break your trust. A trust, if you'll allow me to be blunt, my Lady, that he had to earn with a patience no one has ever seen him display here at the manor. That says a lot about the love he feels for you."

With that, she gave you a slight bow and left the room, leaving you alone with yourself. Little did you suspect that Richard had the same kind of thought in mind. He knew you'd felt his cock pressing against your back that morning, but he hadn't wanted to make you uncomfortable. He didn't want to rush you into something you might not be ready for yet, and even though he knew you were far from the innocent little thing you appeared to be, he didn't want to tease you about sex, not when he'd waited so long for a tender gesture from you. Now that you seemed willing to give him your affection willingly, there was no way he was keeping you away from him because of his own carnal desire.

However, he had to admit he was growing frustrated. Just this morning, he relieved himself alone in the bathroom, imagining it was your mouth around his cock and not his hand. He pictured you sucking his cock, your tongue curling around the head of his penis as he gripped it tightly.He gently rubbed your hair, moaning your name.

"Patience, Richard," he said to himself, feeling himself harden in his pants. This wasn't the time; he had a case to preside over in less than five minutes.

In fact, he'd hoped the weekend in the country you knew nothing about would witness your first time. A first time he wanted to be passionate, fiery, and with you screaming his name thanks to the pleasure he fully intended to give you again and again. Richard may have been in his fifties, but he was still vigorous and had no shortage of energy. Especially not for this.

As promised, and thanks to The Beadle taking care of some more private matters for him, he returned home in time to share dinner with you. But your sudden newfound shyness around him left him perplexed. You had parted on good terms in the morning, what was wrong with you ?

"My love, is there anything you want to talk to me about ?"

You braced yourself, mustering up the courage you needed to just breathe an almost imperceptible yes.

"I'm listening," he said, setting down his wine glass.

"Not now," you murmured, "after supper, if you don't mind."

He nodded, even more intrigued than before. You went to the parlour together where you sat in front of the fire, and Richard waited and waited and waited for you to decide to open up to him, in vain. You remained calm, although he noticed your nervousness from the way you fiddled with the pages of your book, a book you were looking at without really reading. He didn't know whether to push you to talk to him or if it would be better to let you come to him. He chose the second option, certain that you wouldn't last until the end of the day with what was on your mind. You were far too nervous for that; you certainly wouldn't sleep... and neither would he.

"Should we go to bed ?" suggested Richard.

He wasn't feeling particularly tired, but he hoped the privacy of your bedroom would help you relax. You nodded and let him lead you to the bedroom, where you each went your separate ways to get ready for bed.

"Love, do you need help ? Do you want me to call Mrs. Dormer ?" you asked Richard when he reappeared in his dressing gown while you were still fully dressed.

"No," you breathed, "I..." you hesitated for a moment, biting your lower lip as you blushed, "I wish it were you who helped me," you finally managed to say, never daring to look at him.

If you had looked up at your husband, you would have seen him stricken with a whole host of conflicting emotions, but the predominant one was the love he felt for you.

He reached you in just two strides and stood behind you. One hand on the back of your neck, he caressed your skin, sending shivers down your spine.

"My dear..."

You didn't let him continue; you turned around quickly and crushed your lips to his, a little too quickly, but not enough to really surprise him.

"My dear wife," he said, pulling away from you to catch his breath, "what got into you ?"

Your eyes darkened, matching his, which were already filled with desire.

"I... Richard..."

You struggled to find the right words, and Richard was determined not to help you. Whatever you wanted, he wanted to hear it. He wouldn't take anything without your consent, he wouldn't start anything without your consent.

"Make love to me, Richard," you finally managed to whisper.

That was all it took for him to melt into you, kissing you passionately, his burning desire sending shockwaves through your body. He gently turned you over, and his fingers deftly undid your dress, which fell to your feet. You took a step back, as Richard turned you back to face him.

You were beautiful. Your hair hung in cascades down your back, and there you were, in nothing but your underwear and your breasts, two perfect globes that you refused to confine in an uncomfortable corset that made it hard to breathe, only increasing Richard's arousal, as your eyes revealed a mixture of pleasure and fear. You were there before him in all your vulnerability, and he reveled in it.

"Are you sure, my love ?"

"Yes, Richard. I want you. Make me yours."

He easily lifted you as if you weighed nothing and placed you on the bed. His hands ran up your thighs, his fingers unhooking the elastic of your underwear, pulling it to the foot of the bed. He helped you remove his dressing gown, and you caressed his firm, despite his age, chest while his tongue licked one of your nipples.

"Richard," you said, placing your hand on his shoulder.

He looked up at you, arching an eyebrow, frustrated at beingHe was interrupted in the delicate task of making your nipples harden.

"I... It's the first time, you know..." you said shyly.

His features softened immediately, and he placed a light kiss on the tip of your nose.

"Fear not, my dear wife, I know. Of course, I know. I shall be gentle. I swear to you, even if I can't completely stop you from hurting, I swear that before the night is over, you'll be screaming my name in pleasure," he said in his thunderous voice, sending electric shocks through your entire being.

He went back to work, licking and sucking your nipples one after the other, cupping your firm breasts in his calloused hands while one of your legs wrapped around his hips. You could feel the tip of his cock brushing against your thigh, but Richard wasn't there yet. He knew that before claiming you, he had to prepare you.

His fingers found your entrance, and you were already wet. His thumb caressed your clitoris while one of his fingers entered you more easily than he expected. He rolled his finger inside your walls, which he felt were tight. Even though you were wet and wanted it as much as he did, he was going to have to be careful.

He continued to caress your clitoris while another finger joined the first in a heated dance that made you arch your back to feel him deeper inside you. Richard chuckled at your reaction, even though his mouth was still busy pleasuring your breasts.

"Richard... Richard... I'm going to..." you slurred, gripping his hair, pressing his head a little harder against your breasts.

You didn't have time to finish your sentence before you were swept away by your climax.

"Richard," you said breathlessly.

He kissed you passionately, promising you this was only the beginning. There was so much he wanted to do with you, things he was sure your curious mind would enjoy. Yet, he couldn't do that now, not when it was your first time. He had to settle for plain vanilla sex. But he could be gentle. For you, he could.

You felt the tip of his cock tease your entrance as he positioned himself between your spread legs, and you suddenly stiffened. As much as you wanted to, the fear of pain was stronger.

"Relax, my love. It's going to hurt, it's inevitable, but if you relax, the pain will quickly fade, I promise you. I shall be gentle, fear not."

Although still nervous and slightly stiff, you nodded to encourage him to continue. He began to enter you gently, slowly, kissing your breasts one after the other. He pushed in a little deeper, kissing your throat and the hollow of your neck. He felt a slight resistance, your intact hymen refusing to be breached. He pushed a little harder, kissing your left cheek, a little harder still, your right cheek, the tip of your nose, and finally, he thrust forward, capturing your mouth with his to stifle your cry of pain.

He froze, his tongue forcing the barrier of your lips to play with yours as your ragged breathing told him you were having more trouble than he'd anticipated fully accepting him inside you. Your walls were so tight around his cock, all he wanted to do was thrust into you deeply, wildly, but he stayed still, waiting for you to calm down.

"Are you okay, love ?" he asked after a moment.

In response, you kissed his hooked nose that gave him such presence, even though at that precise moment, nothing remained of the stern, cold, and stoic man you had married, and so his harsh demeanour intimidated all of London. No, he had transformed into a gentle, tender, and passionate lover. He was your husband, completely adoring you. Only you.

You clung to his shoulders as he began to move cautiously, pulling his cock almost completely out, then pushing it back in with a slowness that seemed almost unbearable to him. He heard you moan, but it wasn't a moan of pleasure. You were in pain, he knew it, but he also knew that the pain would soon fade, replaced by the pleasure he intended to give you tonight and every night.

After several thrusts, you finally felt something more powerful than the initial pain. A sort of itch that was building in your lower abdomen and growing with each of his thrusts.

Richard leaned on one of his forearms, while his free hand teased your folds, searching for your bundle of nerves. He found it easily and stroked it slowly with his thumb to help you surrender more quickly.

"Richard," you murmured, feeling something you'd never felt before invade you.

"Yes, my love ! Give it up, give it all," he whispered, nibbling your earlobe.

You moaned again, and this time it wasn't a moan of pain but of pleasure. With each moan, Richard pushed deeper into you, wanting to hear your little cries again and again.

"Richard... Haaa ! Richard !"

"Tell me what you want, love, tell me and you'll have it."

"More... faster, Richard," you managed to say in a whisper, your breath hitching as your pleasure mounted.

Richard didn't need to be asked twice and increased his pace, pushing harder with each thrust. Both his hands were now cupping your face, and overwhelmed by passion, you closed your eyes, both hands firmly gripping his shoulders to pull him as close as possible to you.

"Open your eyes. "I want to see your eyes when you scream my name," he commanded, and you obeyed.

With two final thrusts, he made you come undone. And as he had promised, you cried out his name at the heart of your shared carnal passion. Your walls contracted violently around his length, and it didn't take much longer for his own orgasm to ripple through you, filling your vagina with his juices, which he hoped would be fertile.

Richard withdrew cautiously, and even though you hissed with discomfort, you also felt a new sense of contentment you'd never known before. He lay down on his side of the bed, his head in the pillows, and opened his arms to invite you to come and take refuge, which you did immediately. He chuckled slightly, kissing the crown of your head.

"You did well, love. Very well,” he praised you.

“Did... did I live up to it ?” you asked timidly as he pulled the covers up over your two naked, entwined bodies.

“Oh, my little wife, you were more than up to it.”

You smiled with a mix of pride and happiness, knowing that you were enough for him. Basked in the solace of his arms and the afterglow of your encounter, you slowly fell asleep. Richard watched you affectionately, his heart swelling with love, joy, and an animal pride at finally getting what he wanted. He had made you his through marriage. He had made you fall in love with him, and now he had claimed you in the flesh and made you his, definitively, irrevocably, forever.

His thoughts then wandered to a future he hoped was near. A future where you would have white marks on your rounded belly, carrying his children, another way for you to belong to him forever. And he couldn't wait to get to work and condemn you to be his forever by becoming the mother of his heirs.

[evans23]

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

[evans23]

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.

[evans23]

Champagne Problems

Chapter 7. Daylight

Lionel/Reader

Summary: Mergers, acquisitions, investments - these are all things Lionel Shabandar can do in his sleep. But reviving his relationship with you? That's the most daunting task Lionel has ever faced. Fortunately, you're in this together, and Lionel is determined to make it work.

Word Count: 8.4k

All chapters here!

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If Lionel had to put the key to his success into one word, that word would be: planning.

Ever since he was a teenager, he knew what he wanted in life, and he had a plan to get it. But he didn’t just have one plan, oh no. He had back up plans and back up plans for the back up plans. He never took a risk without knowing exactly what his plan was if the risk didn’t pay off. That was how he always won — he knew what he would do if it looked like he might lose.

Although he’d never admit it, he could never have achieved his goals without Sinclair. While Lionel was able to plan for every possibility, Sinclair had an uncanny ability to predict which possibility would occur. That was what made him such a brilliant analyst; he could predict business trends and advise clients accordingly.

If he wanted to, Sinclair could be as rich as Lionel, if it weren’t for his ability to spend. He knew how to make money, but he knew how to spend it too. Fortunately, he was always willing to pass his predictions on to his cousin, leading Lionel to make some very sound investments early on in his career. Thus, when the Sunday Times published its first Rich List in 1989, Lionel found himself at the very top of the list, the only person wealthier than the Queen, even if only by a small margin.

Everything was going according to plan. He was rich, successful, and he was building up an impressive art collection in his country house. The Shabandar lion was standing proud at the top of the world.

Except… there was something missing.

There was one possibility he hadn’t accounted for. One flaw in the plan that, although it didn’t hold back his success, did hold back his happiness, preventing him from ever feeling truly satisfied.

You.

He hadn’t planned to fall in love - especially not so young - but when he did, he adjusted his plans accordingly. He would still do everything he planned, but with you by his side. That was better, in fact — he had someone to come home to. Someone who would love and support him, who he would love and support back, who he could do it all for.

But you’d thrown a spanner in the works of that plan when you refused his proposal. Of all the possibilities, he’d never considered that. Not just that you would say no, but that you would leave without another word, without explanation. You ignored his calls, returned his letters to sender, and when he resorted to knocking on your door, your mother just told him to leave.

Lionel was always very good at adapting when his plans had to change. He could spend months planning to close a particular business deal, only for circumstances to change, and he would change his plan — and the deal he spent so many months on would be discarded, not given a second thought.

But when it came to you, he struggled to let go. He would lie in bed at night, years later, remembering the days he spent with you. He tried to move on; he had plenty of women throwing themselves at his feet, especially as he became richer, more successful, even famous. Add in his good looks and his charm, and Lionel could have any woman he wanted.

A few women piqued his interest for more than just a short fling. He tried to date them, but there were always two glaring issues: first, he was a busy man, and he couldn’t always spare the time to lavish a woman with the attention she desired. Second, none of them could hold a candle to you.

Sometimes Lionel even frustrated himself. He had beautiful women begging for his love, and he - despite his protests to the contrary when Sinclair suggested it may be the case - was still pining for the girl he found hiding behind the art block, peeking into the classroom for a glimpse of a Monet. It was pathetic and unbecoming of a lion like him to be pining for someone, especially someone who’d broken his heart so many years ago.

He thought about looking for you, but he was a proud lion, he didn’t go looking for a woman. Women came to him. He was confident he was famous enough that you knew where to find him if you wanted to come crawling back to him.

On his 36th birthday, Lionel was reminded of a conversation he’d had with you on your very first date. He’d sworn to you that he’d be the biggest name in business by the age of 36, and he’d far surpassed that expectation. He wanted you to know, wanted you to see what had become of him. Perhaps it was immature of him, but he wanted to know that you knew just what you’d missed out on when you’d turned him down.

So he finally decided to seek you out. He knew a private investigator he sometimes hired to find dirt on people he was in business dealings with. The PI took over a month to find you, and to Lionel’s frustration, it turned out that you were no longer in Winchester or Basingstoke but you’d been in London for the last decade, and you’d spent the last seven years running a shop on Cornelia Street, less than a mile away from his office building, selling picture frames. He may even have unknowingly bought frames from you; his PA did all that for him, and he never bothered to look at where the frames came from, only that they were suitable for the masterpieces in his collection.

He didn’t know what to expect when he went to find you. He didn’t have Sinclair to tell him what was likely going to happen; there was no way Lionel was going to tell his cousin what he was up to until after the fact. For once, he was going in blind, and Lionel had only to hope that the charm that worked on so many women would work on you.

Of course, it didn’t. You even had the audacity to slap him, to be angry at him, as if you weren’t the one who’d left him crestfallen on the landing all those years ago.

Then he made the mistake of confiding in Sinclair about it. Naturally, his cousin went straight to find you, and what did you do then? Did you slap him and turn him away? No, you showed up at his bloody wedding, outshining every single person in the room. The guests at that wedding had spent hundreds if not thousands of pounds on outfits, make up, hair, just to be outshone by you with your natural, effortless beauty.

He tried to speak to you again. How could he not? You were outside in the smoking area, all on your own - how did you even make smoking a cigarette look like an act of beauty? - and he was drawn to you like a moth to the flame.

He went out to speak to you with no game plan, and that was what frustrated him so much about you. You made him act on instinct, following his heart instead of his head. He didn’t plan what he would say or how he wanted the conversation to go — he just wanted a conversation with you at all.

You threw him another bloody curveball when you dropped the bombshell that you had a child. His child. A son. He had a bloody son, and he didn’t know. You’d raised the boy alone, acting on the assumption that he wouldn’t want to be a father. The conversation turned into a shouting match, of course — he was furious that you would make such a decision for him. No one decides what Lionel Shabandar does except the man himself.

Lionel didn’t think he’d see you again after that. You made it plain you didn’t want anything to do with him, nor did you want him near your son. Fine. He had everything he wanted. He had money and art and fame and the phone numbers of dozens of beautiful women who’d happily drop everything and come running when he asked them to come over.

So why, when he called them up, did he imagine they were you?

But there was no real harm done. Everything was still how it was supposed to be. You were just a frustrating glitch, his love for you an everlasting fire in his heart that he’d ignored for seventeen years, he could do it for the rest of his life.

Oh, but you weren’t done with him yet. You still had one final spanner to throw in the works.

You showed up again almost a year later, walking into his office looking for answers and offering your own. Once again, you did something he could never have predicted nor planned for — you gave him another chance.

And by God, he was going to take it. He wanted — no, needed you in his life, that much was plain. And in whatever way you would let him, he would be in yours too.

He knew that would include your son. He had never wanted children — babies and toddlers in particular repulsed him. They were loud, sticky, and they shat themselves constantly. But a child who was past that stage, who was almost an adult himself… Lionel could accept that. Especially if the child in question was half him and half you. It was a recipe for the perfect human being.

Lionel knew it wouldn’t be easy. He was a difficult man to love. To admire him from afar, to idealise him; that was easy, women did it all the time. But they always made the same mistake, in fact the same mistake his business competitors often made: they assumed he had it easy.

They thought all he had to do was wear a suit and look important, and the money would just roll in. Oh, how wonderful it would be if that were true. But the truth was that Lionel had to work long, hard hours to keep his empire running. He was often stressed, coming home late, missing dinner, rescheduling dates.

Women were always surprised when he didn’t have much time to romance them, and competitors were always surprised when he worked his arse off to get deals done the way he wanted them.

So when faced with the prospect of earning back not just your trust but that of the son who no doubt wondered where his father was, daunting as the prospect was, Lionel was undeterred. He wanted this more than he wanted any business deal or acquisition. He wanted you more than anything else in the world.

It was one of the hardest tasks he’d ever undertaken, and the hardest part was, it was constant. It was nothing like a business deal, which concluded with the signing of contracts and exchanging of monies. Every day, Lionel had to continue earning your trust, he had to continue building a relationship with his son, and one wrong move could bring the whole thing toppling down.

It was so hard, and yet… it was so easy. Being with you was the easiest thing in the world. Whatever it was you were doing, whether you were making love, watching TV, eating dinner, going out to private parties — it was the most natural and comfortable Lionel had ever felt. You were the only person in the world who saw every single side to him, and you still loved him. You loved him when he was busy, when he was stressed, when he was downright angry, just as much as you loved him when he was his best self. You soothed him when he was frustrated, teased him when he was obnoxious, and when he was able to, he tried to be what you needed too.

When Cole told you he was choosing Glasgow for university, you were upset, and Lionel soothed you. And when you walked into a shop one day to find the magazine stand asking Who is Lionel Shabandar’s mystery woman? accompanied by a picture of you and Lionel at a private party that was supposed to be no cameras allowed, you were the one who had to convince him not to murder the publisher’s CEO. Despite your insistence otherwise, you must have found his instinct to defend your honour arousing, because you had him close the blinds and lock the door to his office so you could spread your legs for him over his desk. You both felt much better about it after letting off some steam, even if he did miss two hours of meetings.

In February, Lionel took the week off from work and insisted that you did too. He left all thoughts of business behind and arranged for Cole to stay with Sinclair for the week as he whisked you off to Italy on his private jet for a week-long holiday to coincide with Valentine’s Day, and though you did spend plenty of time having romantic dates and eating delicious local food, you also spent a lot of time in the villa he’d rented, and as you discovered when you took advantage of the fact the villa was isolated and you had no neighbours to disturb, you both loved fucking outside.

Whenever you had sex with Lionel, it was impossible to determine just how long you’d be going at it. Sometimes it was a one and done scenario; other times, he would just keep going until you had to call an end to it because you were exhausted.

You figured out after a while that you could always tell when he’d had his last orgasm for the night, because he would smoke a cigarette. As soon as you saw him reach for a packet of fags, you knew he was done.

“I know I say this all the time, chérie, but you really are fucking amazing,” Lionel sighed as he sank into the pool to relax in the water. Just an hour ago, he’d been in the water eating you out as you sat on the edge of the pool, and now he was in the same position, except his lips were reaching for a cigarette instead.

He took a long drag while he watched you picking up your discarded clothes from the floor to gather them in a pile on a sun lounger.

You winked at him, and he grinned when you turned away and he saw several juicy bruises forming on your arse, some from his hands, some from his teeth. He loved leaving his mark on you, even if nobody else saw it.

You climbed into the pool with him and Lionel turned around to put an arm around your shoulders as you cosied up to him.

“Babe, can I ask your advice on something?”

Lionel smiled. He loved it when you called him babe. To everyone else, he was sir or your Lordship or your Lordship, sir. But not you — to you, he was babe. It was something small and intimate, something that real, normal couples called each other. It made him feel the way you and only you saw him — like a normal human being.

“Of course, chérie, you can ask me anything.”

He could tell you were nervous about something, because your eyes were cast downwards, avoiding his gaze, and you fidgeted by tracing meaningless shapes above his navel.

“If… hypothetically… a person had left school, say, twenty years ago, and they never went to university or anything…”

“Mmm?”

“…but they were doing pretty well for themselves and ran a small business… say that person wanted a change and they were interested in getting into something like finance… how would one, in theory, go about doing that?”

“Well… if this entirely fictional person who is absolutely not in this pool right now were to ask her boyfriend very, very nicely, he might consider looking into his own finance department —”

“No, her boyfriend doesn’t have any openings for her in his finance department,” you said, looking up at him firmly.

“Oh?” Lionel said with amusement. “Does he not?”

“No, he’s not gonna help her. He’s not gonna give her a leg up or get her an interview or give her a job or anything. She’s gonna do it all on her own.”

“Ah, I see, she’s an independent sort. Well, in that case, I suppose she’d be best off going to university.”

Lionel took a final puff from his cigarette, then stubbed it out on the floor. He reached under the water to grab your thighs and wrap them around his waist as he floated the two of you out into the water.

“Of course, it’s possible to get into finance without a degree, but it would be very, very difficult. She probably would have to use some sort of connection to get an interview, and swallowing a media mogul’s cum three times in one day is a very good connection indeed. So it’s really a matter of whether she wants to go to university for three years, or swallow her pride as well as she swallows cum and ask her boyfriend if he has any jobs in his finance department.”

“I don’t want you to give me a job, Lionel,” you said seriously.

“Then you’ll need to go back to school, love.”

Lionel stroked your hair out of your face affectionately. You smiled and wrapped your arms around his neck to hold onto him as you floated without direction in the pool.

“I can’t just go to uni, though. Even if I close the shop and get a part-time job, I can’t balance work, school, looking after Cole and seeing you. I can barely balance three of those at the moment. Although I suppose I can look into a part-time degree, but then that would take six years, I wouldn’t graduate until I’m 45.”

“Well, let’s look at each of those in turn, shall we?” Lionel said, his thumbs gently caressing your hips in the water as he spoke. “Cole’s going to university in September, which means he’ll be moving out. Even if he didn’t move out, he’ll be eighteen soon, he can look after himself. You don’t need to factor him into your schedule. As for me, I’ll take whatever morsel of your time you’ll give me, we can make that work. And you’re right, six years is a long time to be studying, you really want to be doing a full-time course. Which means you shouldn’t be working. Now, let’s see…”

Lionel pulled an over-exaggerated thinking face.

“No Cole at home to look after… you won’t be earning money, so you need to not have bills to pay… you want to spend as much time as possible with me… well, then, that settles it, doesn’t it?”

He kissed your neck, your skin and his lips wet from the pool water, and you giggled when he nibbled on your earlobe.

“You’ll just have to move in with me,” Lionel said softly in your ear.

Your eyes widened and your breath hitched, and Lionel chuckled with amusement at your reaction as he leant back to look at you.

“Come, chérie, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why should you be paying bills and rent to wake up alone when you could be paying nothing to wake up next to me every single morning?”

“Lionel, I can’t just live with you rent free…”

“Why not? I own the building, remember? No rent, no mortgage. Services and tax are all I pay, and the rent I receive for the other apartments far outweighs that. I make a profit from living there, chérie, it would be criminal for me to ask you to pay.”

“I don’t know…”

Lionel rolled his eyes. “Honestly, love, you are impossibly stubborn. I have four empty bedrooms, Cole can take one of them when he comes home between terms. You can move out of that house and the council can give it to another single mother, someone who doesn’t have a disgustingly rich boyfriend begging her to let him provide for her.”

“No, but I spent eighteen years insisting I didn’t need you to provide for me!” you whined, and Lionel thought you looked just adorable, arms and legs wrapped around him under the water, your face still showing signs of sweating from taking his cock for the last two hours, yet still petulantly insisting that you didn’t need him. “Past me would be very disappointed to know I let myself rely on you.”

“Well, past you didn’t know how good having a rich boyfriend could be, did she?” Lionel teased. He kissed the end of your nose affectionately, and you giggled. “She didn’t know how much fun it would be to wake up next to me every morning, to spend her Friday nights and Saturday mornings fucking until the sun came up. In all her anger, past you forgot just how madly in love with me she was… and just how madly in love with you I am, was and always have been.”

He kissed your lips softly and smiled.

“[Y/n], you’re not with me for my money. I know that. And I don’t need to buy your love. You know that. So why not let me give you what you need so you can go and get what you want?”

“But what if… what if we break up?” you said in a small voice. “What if I close my shop, give up my house, move in with you, and then we break up? What if…”

You sighed and let go of him to push yourself up and sit on the nearby edge of the pool, your calves remaining dangling in the water. Lionel stayed in the water but floated next to you, one hand rubbing your knee affectionately while the other held onto the side of the pool, and he looked up at you curiously.

“I want to trust you, Lionel,” you said. “And I do… mostly. But if we do this, if I move in with you, if I put not just all of my eggs in your basket but Cole’s too, and then you cheat on me again… it would be a lot harder to leave you if I have nowhere to go.”

Lionel was silent for a few moments, his eyes cast downwards as he considered what you’d said. Because you were right, he realised — he was looking at the best case scenario. You had to consider the worst. Of course he had no intention of hurting you again, and your trust had come a long way in the last few months, probably much further than he deserved, but there was still a way to go. And the worst case scenario for you was a lot worse than it was for him. If you broke up, he’d be devastated, but he’d still have everything he had before. But you… you’d have no home, no job, no financial support. You’d be left with nothing.

Lionel pushed himself out of the pool and joined you in sitting on the edge, his calves similarly dangling into the water.

“[Y/n], regardless of your pride, I owe you a lot of money. I owe you a lot more than that, but I do owe you money. However much you spent on raising Cole over the past eighteen years, I owe you half of that. That’s an irrefutable fact. So how about this: we agree a number, and I pay you every penny of child support I owe. You put that money in a savings account, somewhere I can’t touch it.” He placed a hand on your thigh firmly. “Now, I assure you with every fibre of my being that I will never hurt you again, but if we were to go our separate ways, you’d have that money to support yourself while you started a new life.”

You looked up at him. You knew he was right. If you wanted to be together for the rest of your lives, then you had to be together. You had to let him help you. Yes, have a contingency plan for the worst… but it should be a backup plan, not the expected eventuality.

“Lionel, would you… would you be willing to put your name on Cole’s birth certificate?”

He hesitated.

“We could do it after his birthday,” you said quickly. “That way it won’t really change anything. You know, he’d be an adult, neither of us could make decisions for him anyway. But I think he’d appreciate it. And… well, the other thing I’ve been worrying about is if you died, I don’t know if he could get anything if you’re not legally his father.”

“Do you expect me to die soon?” Lionel said wryly.

“I didn’t expect my mum to die either, but it happened.”

Lionel took your hand in his comfortingly and threaded his fingers through yours.

“Well, you don’t need to worry about money if I die tragically, chérie. I wrote a will in… ‘74, it must have been. Everything gets split equally between you, Sinclair, Helen and Mum.”

You stared at him.

“You… put me in your will?”

“Yes, of course,” Lionel shrugged, as if it were nothing. “That was the year Mum and Helen transferred the country house into mine and Sinclair’s names, and anyone who owns property should have a will, of course.”

“1974?”

“Yes, they gave us the house as a graduation gift. Not much of a gift, of course, we still had to pay land tax on it — mmph!”

Lionel’s musings about the horrors of being given a free mansion in the country were cut short when you kissed him. He gladly kissed you back, and you practically threw yourself at him to straddle his lap, holding his head in your hands to kiss him deeper.

Even though he’d already had his post-final orgasm cigarette, Lionel was quite happy to forgo the rules of that little habit when he had his beautiful, naked, wet girlfriend straddling him, kissing him as if she’d only just realised she was extremely attracted to him.

You unstuck your lips from his, gasping for breath.

“1974,” you repeated.

“Yes, 1974. Does that matter?”

“Two years after I dumped you. We weren’t talking. We were never gonna see each other again. And surely… surely you must have dated someone else by then.”

“Yes, a few. But I’ve told you many times, [Y/n] — you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. And the solicitor said our beneficiaries should be the people we loved. The people we would think about on our deathbeds; ‘so long as this person’s looked after, I can die peacefully.’ And so I thought of you.”

You were kissing his neck now, and he chuckled.

“So all it’ll take for you to accept my money is for me to die, is that it?”

“You didn’t think you’d see me again,” you repeated between kisses. “You didn’t know we had a child. You’d be dead, so you wouldn’t be around for me to show my gratitude. You…”

You kissed him on the lips again.

“You weren’t buying my love,” you whispered, leaning your forehead against his. “You were showing yours.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do now, chérie,” Lionel said softly. “Let me show you how much I love you.”

Your hand trailed down his chest. His skin was wet and warm, and you could feel the love radiating from him. Because he did, he loved you, he really loved you. You knew that already, of course you did… but a part of you had never fully believed it.

Your hand moved lower, and sure enough, you could feel Lionel’s cock ready for you.

“Trust you to get a hard-on when talking about money,” you teased as you wrapped your fingers around his warm flesh.

Lionel grunted as he felt your grip tighten a little.

“I have an erection because my naked, wet girlfriend is sitting on top of me,” he said through gritted teeth. “We could be talking about Prince Philip’s ballsack and I’d still be hard.”

You laughed.

“It’s a good thing sitting on top of my naked boyfriend gets me so wet,” you teased. “Otherwise I couldn’t do this…”

You began to lower your hips, but Lionel grabbed your thigh.

“[Y/n], I’m not wearing a condom.”

“I know. I trust you. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Lionel said immediately. “Of course I do.”

You held his cock still in your hand while you lowered your hips onto him, and you both groaned simultaneously as his cock filled you up, as it had so many times before, but this time it felt so much better, so much more sensitive…

“Oh my god, Lionel…”

“Fuck, [Y/n]…”

You slid onto him easily, your cunt so used to him now, and you really were still very wet, and not just from the pool water. You didn’t move at first, both of you savouring the feeling of his raw cock stretching your warm, wet walls.

“No wonder blokes talk about how good it feels raw,” Lionel grunted. “You feel… fucking amazing.”

“You’ve never done it raw?”

Lionel shook his head.

“Well, you may be a manwhore, but at least you whore yourself out safely,” you teased.

He cocked an eyebrow at you.

“Manwhore no more, chérie. This lion is completely, utterly yours. Now, you’d better start bouncing on my cock, love, or I’ll flip you onto your hands and knees and fuck your raw cunt until you’re begging for mercy.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

Lionel nipped your bottom lip between his teeth.

“Both. Now, do as your lion says, and get. bouncing.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fucking you raw seemed to have recharged Lionel’s stamina, because it was another two hours before you saw another cigarette between his lips, after taking you in the shower where you’d been trying to clean yourself up. You had a dressing gown on and a towel over your shoulders to catch the water dripping from your hair, and you smiled when you saw him, spread out on the couch, still wet from both the pool and the shower, and of course he was still naked.

He exhaled the puff of smoke he’d just taken and raised an eyebrow at you.

“Admiring the view?”

“You look relaxed.”

Lionel barked a laugh. “I just fucked you for a good four hours, sweetheart. What I am is exhausted.”

“You’re always so stressed,” you said as you crossed the room to join him. You perched on the edge of the sofa and reached out to stroke his face affectionately. “Always worrying about some deal or preparing for a meeting or tired from putting out fires. It’s nice to see you not thinking about work for once.”

Lionel smiled and kissed the palm of your hand. He sat up, stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, then swung a leg either side of you to embrace you from behind. He rested his chin on your shoulder and held you close.

“Thank you,” he murmured in your ear.

“For what?”

“You. For existing, for being wonderful, for putting up with my shit. For giving me a second chance. For… everything.”

You smiled and embraced the arms that were wrapped around your torso.

“Thank you for this free holiday. I knew dating a rich boy would pay off one day.”

Lionel laughed, and you felt it where his chest was pressed up against your back. It was deep and low, as if it came from the very depths of him.

“You know I’ll give you anything, chérie. And… I’ll put my name on Cole’s birth certificate, if that’s what you want.”

You turned your head to look at him.

“Only if you want to, Li…”

“I do. I love you, [Y/n], and everything that comes with you. I’ve known since the moment you fought your way past reception to burst into my office that I can’t have you without him. He’s my son, our son, and I’m not afraid of that. Not anymore.”

You smiled. You kissed him, and he kissed you back, and for once there was no animalistic hunger in it — it was soft, gentle, but deep. It was romantic. The world around you disappeared, and it didn’t matter if you were in Italy or London — you were in Lionel’s arms, and that was all that mattered.

---

Your favourite café was much busier than usual today. Normally you had lunch with Lionel or Sinclair, but today they were both stuck working through their lunches, so when you locked up the shop for your lunch break, you made your way down to David’s Café, a small, tucked away little eatery down the road that did the best sandwiches.

It only had a few tables, and when you placed your order at the till and went to sit down, you found that every table was occupied.

You considered taking your food to go and just eating it in the shop, but you liked having an hour away from the place. It was far too rainy to sit outside and eat it either, so you decided to do the very un-British thing and impose on someone. After all, the place was full, and yet there was a bloke sitting at a four-seater table all on his own.

You hesitated, but the guy didn’t look like a weirdo. He had short dark hair and glasses, a sort of boyish look about him, and he looked to be a little younger than you. He was reading through a small black notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration. You got the impression he wasn’t intending to hog a whole table to himself, but was so absorbed in his little notebook he had no idea the place was even busy.

You approached the table and waved to get his attention.

“Excuse me, hi. Do you mind if I sit here? All the tables are full.”

The man looked up, blinking rapidly as you pulled him from his bubble, and looked around in surprise as he realised the place was full.

“Oh, gosh, how rude of me, taking up a whole table to myself. Yes, of course. I mean, no. I don’t mind. You can sit there.”

“Thanks. I won’t be a bother.”

“Oh, no bother at all!” the man said with a friendly smile as you sat diagonally from him, giving him his space. “I’m surprised I haven’t been kicked out. I hadn’t even realised it was busy.”

David the café owner arrived with your order, and you thanked him as he placed the tray in front of you.

“Anything else for you, mate?” he asked your table companion.

“Oh, another pot of tea would be lovely, thanks.”

“Sure.” David took the man’s empty teapot and left to refill it. The man turned his attention back to his notebook, and you opened your handbag to fish out the book you’d brought with you. It was an exhibition catalogue of Impressionist paintings Cole had bought you for Mother’s Day, a rather chunky book but it had to be large to properly demonstrate the paintings printed inside, along with descriptions and background information about the paintings and their artists.

You laid the book flat on the table behind the tray so that you could flick through it with one hand while you picked at your lunch with the other.

David returned with a fresh teapot, which Notebook Guy accepted gratefully, and as he went to pour himself a cup, he happened to see the page of the book you were on.

“Oh, Monet! Are you a fan of his work?”

You glanced up at him.

“Yeah, I’d say so. I like Impressionism in general, though of course some would say Monet is the Impressionist.”

“Interesting you say that, actually, the Impressionism movement was named after that painting,” Notebook said, indicating the painting on the page in front of you, which was indeed named Impression.

“Yeah, I was just reading that. I knew it was named after one of his paintings, didn’t know it was this one.”

“Did you know it was stolen?”

You frowned. “What, the painting?”

Notebook nodded. “Yes, about six years ago. It was recovered last year, I believe they’re putting it back in the Marmottan in Paris at some point.”

“You seem to know your stuff.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m actually an art curator and something of an enthusiast for Monet. In fact, not to toot my own horn, but some might even say I’m an expert on Monet.”

“Oh, really?” you said with amusement. “Who’s ‘some’? You and your mum?”

Notebook laughed, but he blushed a little, as if you’d caught him out in his exaggeration.

“Do you work at an art gallery or something then?” you asked, diverting the conversation away from Notebook’s little white lie.

“Ah — well, I don’t work anywhere at the moment. I have a job interview this afternoon to curate a private collection.” He held up his notebook and wiggled it a little. “I’m just revising before I head over. I don’t know if he’ll quiz me, but better safe than sorry, eh?”

“Alright, then. How about a pop quiz?”

You picked up your book and placed it on your lap so Notebook couldn’t see it and began flicking through the pages.

“What year was… Women in the Garden?”

“Estimated around 1866 or 7,” Notebook said immediately. “It’s in the Orsay, I believe.”

“Wrong! It’s in the Louvre. Got the year right, though, that’s impressive. I can’t even remember what year it is now half the time. I wrote 1989 on a receipt the other day.”

“Oh, er, actually, your book must be a little out of date, I’m quite certain it’s in the Orsay. It was moved there in 1986.”

You looked at the copyright page. “1985. Alright, I’ll take you at your word. Okay, next one…”

You opened a random page and smiled when you saw a very familiar painting.

“Haystacks Dawn.”

“1891. Private collection. The Duke of Westminster has it.”

“Wrong. Lionel Shabandar has it, he bought it last year.”

“Oh, really? I hadn’t heard about that.” Notebook opened his notebook and flicked to a blank page to make a note. “That might be helpful information, actually. I don’t suppose you know how he got hold of it, or how much for, do you?”

“£12 million at a charity auction for the Terrence Higgins Trust.”

Notebook nodded thoughtfully, his tongue between his teeth as he wrote. “Interesting, thank you. How did you know that?”

“It was in the news,” you said, only half-lying. “It was a big charity donation, Shabandar made sure it was on the front page of every paper he owns. It has a twin, actually.”

You flicked over the page to look at the page for Haystacks Dusk. Notebook looked up at you, confused.

“…Shabandar has a twin?”

You laughed. “No! Though his cousin looks so much like him they could be twins. No, I meant Haystacks. Shabandar has Dawn, and Dusk is missing.”

“Oh, right, yes! Missing since the Nazi raids. Probably in some war veteran’s garage gathering dust. Whoever has it probably doesn’t even realise they’re sitting on a gold mine.”

You continued chatting for a while and testing him on his knowledge while you worked on your sandwich and he on his pot of tea. Eventually, Notebook glanced down at his watch.

“Ah, I’d better go. I don’t want to be late for my interview.”

“Oh, good luck! I’m sure you’ll do great. You’ve certainly impressed me.”

Notebook paused as he was pushing in his chair. He looked like he was about to say something, but apparently thought the better of it.

“Er — thank you. Have a good afternoon.”

He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and left. You thought it was about time you got back to the shop, so you tucked your book back into your handbag, waved goodbye to David, and followed Notebook out into the rain.

It kept raining all afternoon, and since most people don’t bother going out in the rain for non-essentials like picture frames, you didn’t have a single customer. You looked at your sales from the morning, calculated how many unlikely sales you’d need to make it worth staying open, and come 3 o’clock you decided it wasn’t worth staying open for the rest of the day.

You closed up the shop and stepped outside with an umbrella. You could go home, but you’d have to get the bus, and getting the bus in the rain was never a fun experience. Everything was wet and umbrellas poked at you and it always smelt funny. You could go to Lionel’s place and wait for him, but that would also involve getting the bus.

You decided to go and say hello to Lionel, since his office was only a short walk away. You’d bring him something to eat, since he’d worked through lunch, and if he was too busy to see you, at least you could leave him with some food so your journey wouldn’t be completely wasted.

You stopped by David’s again and bought a sandwich to go, and you grabbed two muffins as well, one for Lionel and one for you.

When you entered the reception area of the Shabandar Media tower, after placing your umbrella in the umbrella stand, you waved a friendly greeting to the receptionist, who was in the middle of a call. She smiled at you and pressed a button to let you through the barriers.

You emerged from the lift on the top floor and turned the corner down the hallway that led to Lionel’s office.

“Hey, Rachel. Is he free?” you said to Lionel’s PA, whose desk sat opposite the door to Lionel’s office.

“Should be soon. He’s just in with an interviewee at the minute, but it’s been about half an hour so they’ll probably be done soon. Ooh, that smells good. Think he’ll notice if I sneak a bite?”

“Yes, and he’d have you fired.”

“Ha, probably. Oh, it looks like they’re done.”

You turned your attention to the office door, which opened and out stepped… the notebook guy.

He looked just as surprised to see you as you were to see him.

“Oh! Hello — er, so sorry, I never asked your name.”

“It’s [Y/n]. I never asked you yours either.”

“Harry. Harry Deane. What are the odds of two chance meetings, eh?”

“Who says it’s a chance meeting? Maybe I followed you here,” you joked.

“Oh! Well, um - that is - er, did you go back for seconds?” Harry indicated the bag in your hands.

“Oh, this isn’t for me.”

“I see. Well, I’m glad to see you again. I left without, erm, asking for your number. Do you think you’d like to —” 

Harry was interrupted when the door swung open behind him and Lionel emerged, his face lighting up when he saw you.

“I had a feeling there was something gorgeous out here,” he said with a grin, walking past Harry as if he were invisible. You smiled, and Lionel pointed at the food bag. “Please tell me that’s what I think it is.”

“Garlic cheese steak, no tomatoes, extra red onion, just how you like it.”

Lionel grasped at his heart. “You are a literal angel sent from the Heavens. You always know just what I need. You could learn a thing or two from her, Rachel,” he said to his PA jokingly.

“Hmm, there are things she does for you that I don’t think she’d want me copying,” Rachel said with a polite smile, and Lionel roared with laughter.

“Too right. Give it here, then, [Y/n].”

He took the bag from you and inhaled the smell with a grunt of food-based desire.

“Rachel, if anyone calls for me, tell them to sod off.”

“Yes, sir.”

“[Y/n], my afternoon just got freed up – let’s have a look at your application form now, shall we?”

Lionel turned to head back into his office, and was startled when he came face-to-face with Harry, who was awkwardly standing behind him.

“Oh, Deane. What are you still doing here?”

“Sorry, sir, I was leaving but you’re, uh… you’re blocking the way, sir.”

“And now you’re blocking my way. Go on, move aside, I’ve got to eat this delicious sandwich before it gets cold.”

Harry stepped aside, and you mouthed an apology at him as you followed Lionel into his office.

When the door closed, Harry turned to Rachel with a frown. “Does she work here? [Y/n], I mean.”

Rachel snorted. “If she did, he’d never get any work done.”

She glanced over Harry’s shoulder and nodded. Harry turned, and through the all-glass walls, he could clearly see you in Lionel’s office — and in Lionel’s arms as he embraced you, his lips devouring yours hungrily, the sandwich sitting forgotten on the table.

Harry’s heart sank.

“…Ah.”

“Sorry, mate,” Rachel grimaced. “Good thing his Lordship didn’t hear you ask for her number, or your chances at the job would be out the window. He doesn’t appreciate other men flirting with her.”

Lionel’s hands were on your arse now, and you were laughing as he kissed your neck.

“We had an office get-together the other week and the Head of Marketing tried to flirt with her, not realising she was the boss’s girlfriend. He showed up on Monday to box his stuff up and never came back.”

Harry’s eyes were still on you. You said something that made Lionel let go of you, though not before slapping your arse, and you reached for the food bag you’d brought to pull out a sandwich and two muffins. You kept one muffin for yourself and settled into the sofa while Lionel unwrapped his sandwich. You said something, and Harry could hear Lionel’s hearty laughter through the glass wall.

You caught a glimpse of Harry in the corner of your eye and glanced over at him. He blushed and looked away quickly.

“Er, well, thanks a lot, Rachel,” Harry mumbled. “See you.”

He scurried away towards the lift, and back in the office, you watched him go thoughtfully.

“Weird coincidence, but I met Harry at lunch,” you said.

“Who?”

You rolled your eyes at Lionel, who was now completely focused on stuffing as large a mouthful of sandwich into his mouth as he could.

“Harry Deane. The guy you just interviewed. I went to David’s for lunch and it was really busy so I ended up sitting on the same table as him. We got chatting, he said he was interviewing for an art curator position but I didn’t realise it was with you. He’s really nice, and he knows his stuff. Are you gonna hire him?”

Lionel shrugged. “Eyeunnoyeh,” he said through a mouthful of food.

You picked a raisin out of your muffin and flicked it at him.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. I can see where Cole gets his table manners from.”

Lionel chewed a little more, then finally swallowed.

“I said, I don’t know yet,” he said, much more clearly. “I have another bloke in mind but he’s in Germany, I’d have to convince him to move over here, so his price is much higher.”

“Well, I think you should hire Harry. He knows his Monet, and he’s clearly passionate.”

“Hmm, he’s a little needy though, don’t you think? A bit desperate.”

“I thought you liked needy?”

Lionel raised an eyebrow at you. “I like you needy. I like you horny and desperate and begging for my cock. I don’t look for the same qualities in an art curator. I don’t need him to impress me, I need him to get the job done.”

“If he’s so desperate to impress, he’ll go the extra mile in looking for rare pieces. He might even find Haystacks Dusk.”

Lionel stopped mid-chew and looked at you thoughtfully. He swallowed, then said, “You make a good point there. Dawn’s without its other half. It’s like me before you waltzed back into my life: incredible, powerful, brilliant —”

“Humble.”

“— but lonely. Dawn needs Dusk like this lion needs his lioness. Do you think Deane could find it?”

“I think he’ll try.”

Lionel grinned, his eyes lighting up at the thought of having the complete set of Dawn and Dusk.

“Yes, alright. I’ll hire him. And then we’ll have Dawn and Dusk together at last. In fact, why don’t we pay a visit to Dawn this weekend? We haven’t been down to the country house for a while.”

“You gonna get your kit off to look at it again?”

“Of course. Art is best appreciated in the nude. Are you going to get on your knees and suck my cock while I look at it again?”

“Of course. Your cock is best appreciated down my throat. Or in my pussy. Or between my tits, I do love it when you do that.”

Lionel’s eyes sparkled menacingly. “What about in your arse?”

“Only when you’re good.”

“I’m always good, aren’t I?”

You laughed. “Good? Lionel Shabandar, you are a menace. ”

Lionel grinned and put an arm around you. He leaned in… and took a bite out of your muffin.

“Hey!” you protested, but he just laughed through a mouthful of muffin.

“Admit it, chérie. You love that I’m a menace.”

“Lord help me, I do,” you sighed. You surrendered the rest of your muffin to him and leaned into his embrace as he sat back, victorious, grinning to himself for having claimed your muffin.

Outside, the rain was still pouring, hammering down against the window panes, and London was hardly visible in the thick rainclouds. Lionel quite literally lived and worked with his head in the clouds, and though you did your best to keep him grounded, sometimes he did or said things completely seriously that were completely ridiculous to you — like taking off his clothes to look at a painting, and having you suck him off at the same time.

But you wouldn’t have him any other way.

[evans23]

Champagne Problems

Chapter 7. Daylight

Lionel/Reader

Summary: Mergers, acquisitions, investments - these are all things Lionel Shabandar can do in his sleep. But reviving his relationship with you? That's the most daunting task Lionel has ever faced. Fortunately, you're in this together, and Lionel is determined to make it work.

Word Count: 8.4k

All chapters here!

Read on Ao3 or WattPad or below the cut:

If Lionel had to put the key to his success into one word, that word would be: planning.

Ever since he was a teenager, he knew what he wanted in life, and he had a plan to get it. But he didn’t just have one plan, oh no. He had back up plans and back up plans for the back up plans. He never took a risk without knowing exactly what his plan was if the risk didn’t pay off. That was how he always won — he knew what he would do if it looked like he might lose.

Although he’d never admit it, he could never have achieved his goals without Sinclair. While Lionel was able to plan for every possibility, Sinclair had an uncanny ability to predict which possibility would occur. That was what made him such a brilliant analyst; he could predict business trends and advise clients accordingly.

If he wanted to, Sinclair could be as rich as Lionel, if it weren’t for his ability to spend. He knew how to make money, but he knew how to spend it too. Fortunately, he was always willing to pass his predictions on to his cousin, leading Lionel to make some very sound investments early on in his career. Thus, when the Sunday Times published its first Rich List in 1989, Lionel found himself at the very top of the list, the only person wealthier than the Queen, even if only by a small margin.

Everything was going according to plan. He was rich, successful, and he was building up an impressive art collection in his country house. The Shabandar lion was standing proud at the top of the world.

Except… there was something missing.

There was one possibility he hadn’t accounted for. One flaw in the plan that, although it didn’t hold back his success, did hold back his happiness, preventing him from ever feeling truly satisfied.

You.

He hadn’t planned to fall in love - especially not so young - but when he did, he adjusted his plans accordingly. He would still do everything he planned, but with you by his side. That was better, in fact — he had someone to come home to. Someone who would love and support him, who he would love and support back, who he could do it all for.

But you’d thrown a spanner in the works of that plan when you refused his proposal. Of all the possibilities, he’d never considered that. Not just that you would say no, but that you would leave without another word, without explanation. You ignored his calls, returned his letters to sender, and when he resorted to knocking on your door, your mother just told him to leave.

Lionel was always very good at adapting when his plans had to change. He could spend months planning to close a particular business deal, only for circumstances to change, and he would change his plan — and the deal he spent so many months on would be discarded, not given a second thought.

But when it came to you, he struggled to let go. He would lie in bed at night, years later, remembering the days he spent with you. He tried to move on; he had plenty of women throwing themselves at his feet, especially as he became richer, more successful, even famous. Add in his good looks and his charm, and Lionel could have any woman he wanted.

A few women piqued his interest for more than just a short fling. He tried to date them, but there were always two glaring issues: first, he was a busy man, and he couldn’t always spare the time to lavish a woman with the attention she desired. Second, none of them could hold a candle to you.

Sometimes Lionel even frustrated himself. He had beautiful women begging for his love, and he - despite his protests to the contrary when Sinclair suggested it may be the case - was still pining for the girl he found hiding behind the art block, peeking into the classroom for a glimpse of a Monet. It was pathetic and unbecoming of a lion like him to be pining for someone, especially someone who’d broken his heart so many years ago.

He thought about looking for you, but he was a proud lion, he didn’t go looking for a woman. Women came to him. He was confident he was famous enough that you knew where to find him if you wanted to come crawling back to him.

On his 36th birthday, Lionel was reminded of a conversation he’d had with you on your very first date. He’d sworn to you that he’d be the biggest name in business by the age of 36, and he’d far surpassed that expectation. He wanted you to know, wanted you to see what had become of him. Perhaps it was immature of him, but he wanted to know that you knew just what you’d missed out on when you’d turned him down.

So he finally decided to seek you out. He knew a private investigator he sometimes hired to find dirt on people he was in business dealings with. The PI took over a month to find you, and to Lionel’s frustration, it turned out that you were no longer in Winchester or Basingstoke but you’d been in London for the last decade, and you’d spent the last seven years running a shop on Cornelia Street, less than a mile away from his office building, selling picture frames. He may even have unknowingly bought frames from you; his PA did all that for him, and he never bothered to look at where the frames came from, only that they were suitable for the masterpieces in his collection.

He didn’t know what to expect when he went to find you. He didn’t have Sinclair to tell him what was likely going to happen; there was no way Lionel was going to tell his cousin what he was up to until after the fact. For once, he was going in blind, and Lionel had only to hope that the charm that worked on so many women would work on you.

Of course, it didn’t. You even had the audacity to slap him, to be angry at him, as if you weren’t the one who’d left him crestfallen on the landing all those years ago.

Then he made the mistake of confiding in Sinclair about it. Naturally, his cousin went straight to find you, and what did you do then? Did you slap him and turn him away? No, you showed up at his bloody wedding, outshining every single person in the room. The guests at that wedding had spent hundreds if not thousands of pounds on outfits, make up, hair, just to be outshone by you with your natural, effortless beauty.

He tried to speak to you again. How could he not? You were outside in the smoking area, all on your own - how did you even make smoking a cigarette look like an act of beauty? - and he was drawn to you like a moth to the flame.

He went out to speak to you with no game plan, and that was what frustrated him so much about you. You made him act on instinct, following his heart instead of his head. He didn’t plan what he would say or how he wanted the conversation to go — he just wanted a conversation with you at all.

You threw him another bloody curveball when you dropped the bombshell that you had a child. His child. A son. He had a bloody son, and he didn’t know. You’d raised the boy alone, acting on the assumption that he wouldn’t want to be a father. The conversation turned into a shouting match, of course — he was furious that you would make such a decision for him. No one decides what Lionel Shabandar does except the man himself.

Lionel didn’t think he’d see you again after that. You made it plain you didn’t want anything to do with him, nor did you want him near your son. Fine. He had everything he wanted. He had money and art and fame and the phone numbers of dozens of beautiful women who’d happily drop everything and come running when he asked them to come over.

So why, when he called them up, did he imagine they were you?

But there was no real harm done. Everything was still how it was supposed to be. You were just a frustrating glitch, his love for you an everlasting fire in his heart that he’d ignored for seventeen years, he could do it for the rest of his life.

Oh, but you weren’t done with him yet. You still had one final spanner to throw in the works.

You showed up again almost a year later, walking into his office looking for answers and offering your own. Once again, you did something he could never have predicted nor planned for — you gave him another chance.

And by God, he was going to take it. He wanted — no, needed you in his life, that much was plain. And in whatever way you would let him, he would be in yours too.

He knew that would include your son. He had never wanted children — babies and toddlers in particular repulsed him. They were loud, sticky, and they shat themselves constantly. But a child who was past that stage, who was almost an adult himself… Lionel could accept that. Especially if the child in question was half him and half you. It was a recipe for the perfect human being.

Lionel knew it wouldn’t be easy. He was a difficult man to love. To admire him from afar, to idealise him; that was easy, women did it all the time. But they always made the same mistake, in fact the same mistake his business competitors often made: they assumed he had it easy.

They thought all he had to do was wear a suit and look important, and the money would just roll in. Oh, how wonderful it would be if that were true. But the truth was that Lionel had to work long, hard hours to keep his empire running. He was often stressed, coming home late, missing dinner, rescheduling dates.

Women were always surprised when he didn’t have much time to romance them, and competitors were always surprised when he worked his arse off to get deals done the way he wanted them.

So when faced with the prospect of earning back not just your trust but that of the son who no doubt wondered where his father was, daunting as the prospect was, Lionel was undeterred. He wanted this more than he wanted any business deal or acquisition. He wanted you more than anything else in the world.

It was one of the hardest tasks he’d ever undertaken, and the hardest part was, it was constant. It was nothing like a business deal, which concluded with the signing of contracts and exchanging of monies. Every day, Lionel had to continue earning your trust, he had to continue building a relationship with his son, and one wrong move could bring the whole thing toppling down.

It was so hard, and yet… it was so easy. Being with you was the easiest thing in the world. Whatever it was you were doing, whether you were making love, watching TV, eating dinner, going out to private parties — it was the most natural and comfortable Lionel had ever felt. You were the only person in the world who saw every single side to him, and you still loved him. You loved him when he was busy, when he was stressed, when he was downright angry, just as much as you loved him when he was his best self. You soothed him when he was frustrated, teased him when he was obnoxious, and when he was able to, he tried to be what you needed too.

When Cole told you he was choosing Glasgow for university, you were upset, and Lionel soothed you. And when you walked into a shop one day to find the magazine stand asking Who is Lionel Shabandar’s mystery woman? accompanied by a picture of you and Lionel at a private party that was supposed to be no cameras allowed, you were the one who had to convince him not to murder the publisher’s CEO. Despite your insistence otherwise, you must have found his instinct to defend your honour arousing, because you had him close the blinds and lock the door to his office so you could spread your legs for him over his desk. You both felt much better about it after letting off some steam, even if he did miss two hours of meetings.

In February, Lionel took the week off from work and insisted that you did too. He left all thoughts of business behind and arranged for Cole to stay with Sinclair for the week as he whisked you off to Italy on his private jet for a week-long holiday to coincide with Valentine’s Day, and though you did spend plenty of time having romantic dates and eating delicious local food, you also spent a lot of time in the villa he’d rented, and as you discovered when you took advantage of the fact the villa was isolated and you had no neighbours to disturb, you both loved fucking outside.

Whenever you had sex with Lionel, it was impossible to determine just how long you’d be going at it. Sometimes it was a one and done scenario; other times, he would just keep going until you had to call an end to it because you were exhausted.

You figured out after a while that you could always tell when he’d had his last orgasm for the night, because he would smoke a cigarette. As soon as you saw him reach for a packet of fags, you knew he was done.

“I know I say this all the time, chérie, but you really are fucking amazing,” Lionel sighed as he sank into the pool to relax in the water. Just an hour ago, he’d been in the water eating you out as you sat on the edge of the pool, and now he was in the same position, except his lips were reaching for a cigarette instead.

He took a long drag while he watched you picking up your discarded clothes from the floor to gather them in a pile on a sun lounger.

You winked at him, and he grinned when you turned away and he saw several juicy bruises forming on your arse, some from his hands, some from his teeth. He loved leaving his mark on you, even if nobody else saw it.

You climbed into the pool with him and Lionel turned around to put an arm around your shoulders as you cosied up to him.

“Babe, can I ask your advice on something?”

Lionel smiled. He loved it when you called him babe. To everyone else, he was sir or your Lordship or your Lordship, sir. But not you — to you, he was babe. It was something small and intimate, something that real, normal couples called each other. It made him feel the way you and only you saw him — like a normal human being.

“Of course, chérie, you can ask me anything.”

He could tell you were nervous about something, because your eyes were cast downwards, avoiding his gaze, and you fidgeted by tracing meaningless shapes above his navel.

“If… hypothetically… a person had left school, say, twenty years ago, and they never went to university or anything…”

“Mmm?”

“…but they were doing pretty well for themselves and ran a small business… say that person wanted a change and they were interested in getting into something like finance… how would one, in theory, go about doing that?”

“Well… if this entirely fictional person who is absolutely not in this pool right now were to ask her boyfriend very, very nicely, he might consider looking into his own finance department —”

“No, her boyfriend doesn’t have any openings for her in his finance department,” you said, looking up at him firmly.

“Oh?” Lionel said with amusement. “Does he not?”

“No, he’s not gonna help her. He’s not gonna give her a leg up or get her an interview or give her a job or anything. She’s gonna do it all on her own.”

“Ah, I see, she’s an independent sort. Well, in that case, I suppose she’d be best off going to university.”

Lionel took a final puff from his cigarette, then stubbed it out on the floor. He reached under the water to grab your thighs and wrap them around his waist as he floated the two of you out into the water.

“Of course, it’s possible to get into finance without a degree, but it would be very, very difficult. She probably would have to use some sort of connection to get an interview, and swallowing a media mogul’s cum three times in one day is a very good connection indeed. So it’s really a matter of whether she wants to go to university for three years, or swallow her pride as well as she swallows cum and ask her boyfriend if he has any jobs in his finance department.”

“I don’t want you to give me a job, Lionel,” you said seriously.

“Then you’ll need to go back to school, love.”

Lionel stroked your hair out of your face affectionately. You smiled and wrapped your arms around his neck to hold onto him as you floated without direction in the pool.

“I can’t just go to uni, though. Even if I close the shop and get a part-time job, I can’t balance work, school, looking after Cole and seeing you. I can barely balance three of those at the moment. Although I suppose I can look into a part-time degree, but then that would take six years, I wouldn’t graduate until I’m 45.”

“Well, let’s look at each of those in turn, shall we?” Lionel said, his thumbs gently caressing your hips in the water as he spoke. “Cole’s going to university in September, which means he’ll be moving out. Even if he didn’t move out, he’ll be eighteen soon, he can look after himself. You don’t need to factor him into your schedule. As for me, I’ll take whatever morsel of your time you’ll give me, we can make that work. And you’re right, six years is a long time to be studying, you really want to be doing a full-time course. Which means you shouldn’t be working. Now, let’s see…”

Lionel pulled an over-exaggerated thinking face.

“No Cole at home to look after… you won’t be earning money, so you need to not have bills to pay… you want to spend as much time as possible with me… well, then, that settles it, doesn’t it?”

He kissed your neck, your skin and his lips wet from the pool water, and you giggled when he nibbled on your earlobe.

“You’ll just have to move in with me,” Lionel said softly in your ear.

Your eyes widened and your breath hitched, and Lionel chuckled with amusement at your reaction as he leant back to look at you.

“Come, chérie, it makes sense, doesn’t it? Why should you be paying bills and rent to wake up alone when you could be paying nothing to wake up next to me every single morning?”

“Lionel, I can’t just live with you rent free…”

“Why not? I own the building, remember? No rent, no mortgage. Services and tax are all I pay, and the rent I receive for the other apartments far outweighs that. I make a profit from living there, chérie, it would be criminal for me to ask you to pay.”

“I don’t know…”

Lionel rolled his eyes. “Honestly, love, you are impossibly stubborn. I have four empty bedrooms, Cole can take one of them when he comes home between terms. You can move out of that house and the council can give it to another single mother, someone who doesn’t have a disgustingly rich boyfriend begging her to let him provide for her.”

“No, but I spent eighteen years insisting I didn’t need you to provide for me!” you whined, and Lionel thought you looked just adorable, arms and legs wrapped around him under the water, your face still showing signs of sweating from taking his cock for the last two hours, yet still petulantly insisting that you didn’t need him. “Past me would be very disappointed to know I let myself rely on you.”

“Well, past you didn’t know how good having a rich boyfriend could be, did she?” Lionel teased. He kissed the end of your nose affectionately, and you giggled. “She didn’t know how much fun it would be to wake up next to me every morning, to spend her Friday nights and Saturday mornings fucking until the sun came up. In all her anger, past you forgot just how madly in love with me she was… and just how madly in love with you I am, was and always have been.”

He kissed your lips softly and smiled.

“[Y/n], you’re not with me for my money. I know that. And I don’t need to buy your love. You know that. So why not let me give you what you need so you can go and get what you want?”

“But what if… what if we break up?” you said in a small voice. “What if I close my shop, give up my house, move in with you, and then we break up? What if…”

You sighed and let go of him to push yourself up and sit on the nearby edge of the pool, your calves remaining dangling in the water. Lionel stayed in the water but floated next to you, one hand rubbing your knee affectionately while the other held onto the side of the pool, and he looked up at you curiously.

“I want to trust you, Lionel,” you said. “And I do… mostly. But if we do this, if I move in with you, if I put not just all of my eggs in your basket but Cole’s too, and then you cheat on me again… it would be a lot harder to leave you if I have nowhere to go.”

Lionel was silent for a few moments, his eyes cast downwards as he considered what you’d said. Because you were right, he realised — he was looking at the best case scenario. You had to consider the worst. Of course he had no intention of hurting you again, and your trust had come a long way in the last few months, probably much further than he deserved, but there was still a way to go. And the worst case scenario for you was a lot worse than it was for him. If you broke up, he’d be devastated, but he’d still have everything he had before. But you… you’d have no home, no job, no financial support. You’d be left with nothing.

Lionel pushed himself out of the pool and joined you in sitting on the edge, his calves similarly dangling into the water.

“[Y/n], regardless of your pride, I owe you a lot of money. I owe you a lot more than that, but I do owe you money. However much you spent on raising Cole over the past eighteen years, I owe you half of that. That’s an irrefutable fact. So how about this: we agree a number, and I pay you every penny of child support I owe. You put that money in a savings account, somewhere I can’t touch it.” He placed a hand on your thigh firmly. “Now, I assure you with every fibre of my being that I will never hurt you again, but if we were to go our separate ways, you’d have that money to support yourself while you started a new life.”

You looked up at him. You knew he was right. If you wanted to be together for the rest of your lives, then you had to be together. You had to let him help you. Yes, have a contingency plan for the worst… but it should be a backup plan, not the expected eventuality.

“Lionel, would you… would you be willing to put your name on Cole’s birth certificate?”

He hesitated.

“We could do it after his birthday,” you said quickly. “That way it won’t really change anything. You know, he’d be an adult, neither of us could make decisions for him anyway. But I think he’d appreciate it. And… well, the other thing I’ve been worrying about is if you died, I don’t know if he could get anything if you’re not legally his father.”

“Do you expect me to die soon?” Lionel said wryly.

“I didn’t expect my mum to die either, but it happened.”

Lionel took your hand in his comfortingly and threaded his fingers through yours.

“Well, you don’t need to worry about money if I die tragically, chérie. I wrote a will in… ‘74, it must have been. Everything gets split equally between you, Sinclair, Helen and Mum.”

You stared at him.

“You… put me in your will?”

“Yes, of course,” Lionel shrugged, as if it were nothing. “That was the year Mum and Helen transferred the country house into mine and Sinclair’s names, and anyone who owns property should have a will, of course.”

“1974?”

“Yes, they gave us the house as a graduation gift. Not much of a gift, of course, we still had to pay land tax on it — mmph!”

Lionel’s musings about the horrors of being given a free mansion in the country were cut short when you kissed him. He gladly kissed you back, and you practically threw yourself at him to straddle his lap, holding his head in your hands to kiss him deeper.

Even though he’d already had his post-final orgasm cigarette, Lionel was quite happy to forgo the rules of that little habit when he had his beautiful, naked, wet girlfriend straddling him, kissing him as if she’d only just realised she was extremely attracted to him.

You unstuck your lips from his, gasping for breath.

“1974,” you repeated.

“Yes, 1974. Does that matter?”

“Two years after I dumped you. We weren’t talking. We were never gonna see each other again. And surely… surely you must have dated someone else by then.”

“Yes, a few. But I’ve told you many times, [Y/n] — you’re the only woman I’ve ever loved. And the solicitor said our beneficiaries should be the people we loved. The people we would think about on our deathbeds; ‘so long as this person’s looked after, I can die peacefully.’ And so I thought of you.”

You were kissing his neck now, and he chuckled.

“So all it’ll take for you to accept my money is for me to die, is that it?”

“You didn’t think you’d see me again,” you repeated between kisses. “You didn’t know we had a child. You’d be dead, so you wouldn’t be around for me to show my gratitude. You…”

You kissed him on the lips again.

“You weren’t buying my love,” you whispered, leaning your forehead against his. “You were showing yours.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do now, chérie,” Lionel said softly. “Let me show you how much I love you.”

Your hand trailed down his chest. His skin was wet and warm, and you could feel the love radiating from him. Because he did, he loved you, he really loved you. You knew that already, of course you did… but a part of you had never fully believed it.

Your hand moved lower, and sure enough, you could feel Lionel’s cock ready for you.

“Trust you to get a hard-on when talking about money,” you teased as you wrapped your fingers around his warm flesh.

Lionel grunted as he felt your grip tighten a little.

“I have an erection because my naked, wet girlfriend is sitting on top of me,” he said through gritted teeth. “We could be talking about Prince Philip’s ballsack and I’d still be hard.”

You laughed.

“It’s a good thing sitting on top of my naked boyfriend gets me so wet,” you teased. “Otherwise I couldn’t do this…”

You began to lower your hips, but Lionel grabbed your thigh.

“[Y/n], I’m not wearing a condom.”

“I know. I trust you. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” Lionel said immediately. “Of course I do.”

You held his cock still in your hand while you lowered your hips onto him, and you both groaned simultaneously as his cock filled you up, as it had so many times before, but this time it felt so much better, so much more sensitive…

“Oh my god, Lionel…”

“Fuck, [Y/n]…”

You slid onto him easily, your cunt so used to him now, and you really were still very wet, and not just from the pool water. You didn’t move at first, both of you savouring the feeling of his raw cock stretching your warm, wet walls.

“No wonder blokes talk about how good it feels raw,” Lionel grunted. “You feel… fucking amazing.”

“You’ve never done it raw?”

Lionel shook his head.

“Well, you may be a manwhore, but at least you whore yourself out safely,” you teased.

He cocked an eyebrow at you.

“Manwhore no more, chérie. This lion is completely, utterly yours. Now, you’d better start bouncing on my cock, love, or I’ll flip you onto your hands and knees and fuck your raw cunt until you’re begging for mercy.”

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

Lionel nipped your bottom lip between his teeth.

“Both. Now, do as your lion says, and get. bouncing.”

“Yes, sir.”

Fucking you raw seemed to have recharged Lionel’s stamina, because it was another two hours before you saw another cigarette between his lips, after taking you in the shower where you’d been trying to clean yourself up. You had a dressing gown on and a towel over your shoulders to catch the water dripping from your hair, and you smiled when you saw him, spread out on the couch, still wet from both the pool and the shower, and of course he was still naked.

He exhaled the puff of smoke he’d just taken and raised an eyebrow at you.

“Admiring the view?”

“You look relaxed.”

Lionel barked a laugh. “I just fucked you for a good four hours, sweetheart. What I am is exhausted.”

“You’re always so stressed,” you said as you crossed the room to join him. You perched on the edge of the sofa and reached out to stroke his face affectionately. “Always worrying about some deal or preparing for a meeting or tired from putting out fires. It’s nice to see you not thinking about work for once.”

Lionel smiled and kissed the palm of your hand. He sat up, stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, then swung a leg either side of you to embrace you from behind. He rested his chin on your shoulder and held you close.

“Thank you,” he murmured in your ear.

“For what?”

“You. For existing, for being wonderful, for putting up with my shit. For giving me a second chance. For… everything.”

You smiled and embraced the arms that were wrapped around your torso.

“Thank you for this free holiday. I knew dating a rich boy would pay off one day.”

Lionel laughed, and you felt it where his chest was pressed up against your back. It was deep and low, as if it came from the very depths of him.

“You know I’ll give you anything, chérie. And… I’ll put my name on Cole’s birth certificate, if that’s what you want.”

You turned your head to look at him.

“Only if you want to, Li…”

“I do. I love you, [Y/n], and everything that comes with you. I’ve known since the moment you fought your way past reception to burst into my office that I can’t have you without him. He’s my son, our son, and I’m not afraid of that. Not anymore.”

You smiled. You kissed him, and he kissed you back, and for once there was no animalistic hunger in it — it was soft, gentle, but deep. It was romantic. The world around you disappeared, and it didn’t matter if you were in Italy or London — you were in Lionel’s arms, and that was all that mattered.

---

Your favourite café was much busier than usual today. Normally you had lunch with Lionel or Sinclair, but today they were both stuck working through their lunches, so when you locked up the shop for your lunch break, you made your way down to David’s Café, a small, tucked away little eatery down the road that did the best sandwiches.

It only had a few tables, and when you placed your order at the till and went to sit down, you found that every table was occupied.

You considered taking your food to go and just eating it in the shop, but you liked having an hour away from the place. It was far too rainy to sit outside and eat it either, so you decided to do the very un-British thing and impose on someone. After all, the place was full, and yet there was a bloke sitting at a four-seater table all on his own.

You hesitated, but the guy didn’t look like a weirdo. He had short dark hair and glasses, a sort of boyish look about him, and he looked to be a little younger than you. He was reading through a small black notebook, his brow furrowed in concentration. You got the impression he wasn’t intending to hog a whole table to himself, but was so absorbed in his little notebook he had no idea the place was even busy.

You approached the table and waved to get his attention.

“Excuse me, hi. Do you mind if I sit here? All the tables are full.”

The man looked up, blinking rapidly as you pulled him from his bubble, and looked around in surprise as he realised the place was full.

“Oh, gosh, how rude of me, taking up a whole table to myself. Yes, of course. I mean, no. I don’t mind. You can sit there.”

“Thanks. I won’t be a bother.”

“Oh, no bother at all!” the man said with a friendly smile as you sat diagonally from him, giving him his space. “I’m surprised I haven’t been kicked out. I hadn’t even realised it was busy.”

David the café owner arrived with your order, and you thanked him as he placed the tray in front of you.

“Anything else for you, mate?” he asked your table companion.

“Oh, another pot of tea would be lovely, thanks.”

“Sure.” David took the man’s empty teapot and left to refill it. The man turned his attention back to his notebook, and you opened your handbag to fish out the book you’d brought with you. It was an exhibition catalogue of Impressionist paintings Cole had bought you for Mother’s Day, a rather chunky book but it had to be large to properly demonstrate the paintings printed inside, along with descriptions and background information about the paintings and their artists.

You laid the book flat on the table behind the tray so that you could flick through it with one hand while you picked at your lunch with the other.

David returned with a fresh teapot, which Notebook Guy accepted gratefully, and as he went to pour himself a cup, he happened to see the page of the book you were on.

“Oh, Monet! Are you a fan of his work?”

You glanced up at him.

“Yeah, I’d say so. I like Impressionism in general, though of course some would say Monet is the Impressionist.”

“Interesting you say that, actually, the Impressionism movement was named after that painting,” Notebook said, indicating the painting on the page in front of you, which was indeed named Impression.

“Yeah, I was just reading that. I knew it was named after one of his paintings, didn’t know it was this one.”

“Did you know it was stolen?”

You frowned. “What, the painting?”

Notebook nodded. “Yes, about six years ago. It was recovered last year, I believe they’re putting it back in the Marmottan in Paris at some point.”

“You seem to know your stuff.”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I’m actually an art curator and something of an enthusiast for Monet. In fact, not to toot my own horn, but some might even say I’m an expert on Monet.”

“Oh, really?” you said with amusement. “Who’s ‘some’? You and your mum?”

Notebook laughed, but he blushed a little, as if you’d caught him out in his exaggeration.

“Do you work at an art gallery or something then?” you asked, diverting the conversation away from Notebook’s little white lie.

“Ah — well, I don’t work anywhere at the moment. I have a job interview this afternoon to curate a private collection.” He held up his notebook and wiggled it a little. “I’m just revising before I head over. I don’t know if he’ll quiz me, but better safe than sorry, eh?”

“Alright, then. How about a pop quiz?”

You picked up your book and placed it on your lap so Notebook couldn’t see it and began flicking through the pages.

“What year was… Women in the Garden?”

“Estimated around 1866 or 7,” Notebook said immediately. “It’s in the Orsay, I believe.”

“Wrong! It’s in the Louvre. Got the year right, though, that’s impressive. I can’t even remember what year it is now half the time. I wrote 1989 on a receipt the other day.”

“Oh, er, actually, your book must be a little out of date, I’m quite certain it’s in the Orsay. It was moved there in 1986.”

You looked at the copyright page. “1985. Alright, I’ll take you at your word. Okay, next one…”

You opened a random page and smiled when you saw a very familiar painting.

“Haystacks Dawn.”

“1891. Private collection. The Duke of Westminster has it.”

“Wrong. Lionel Shabandar has it, he bought it last year.”

“Oh, really? I hadn’t heard about that.” Notebook opened his notebook and flicked to a blank page to make a note. “That might be helpful information, actually. I don’t suppose you know how he got hold of it, or how much for, do you?”

“£12 million at a charity auction for the Terrence Higgins Trust.”

Notebook nodded thoughtfully, his tongue between his teeth as he wrote. “Interesting, thank you. How did you know that?”

“It was in the news,” you said, only half-lying. “It was a big charity donation, Shabandar made sure it was on the front page of every paper he owns. It has a twin, actually.”

You flicked over the page to look at the page for Haystacks Dusk. Notebook looked up at you, confused.

“…Shabandar has a twin?”

You laughed. “No! Though his cousin looks so much like him they could be twins. No, I meant Haystacks. Shabandar has Dawn, and Dusk is missing.”

“Oh, right, yes! Missing since the Nazi raids. Probably in some war veteran’s garage gathering dust. Whoever has it probably doesn’t even realise they’re sitting on a gold mine.”

You continued chatting for a while and testing him on his knowledge while you worked on your sandwich and he on his pot of tea. Eventually, Notebook glanced down at his watch.

“Ah, I’d better go. I don’t want to be late for my interview.”

“Oh, good luck! I’m sure you’ll do great. You’ve certainly impressed me.”

Notebook paused as he was pushing in his chair. He looked like he was about to say something, but apparently thought the better of it.

“Er — thank you. Have a good afternoon.”

He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and left. You thought it was about time you got back to the shop, so you tucked your book back into your handbag, waved goodbye to David, and followed Notebook out into the rain.

It kept raining all afternoon, and since most people don’t bother going out in the rain for non-essentials like picture frames, you didn’t have a single customer. You looked at your sales from the morning, calculated how many unlikely sales you’d need to make it worth staying open, and come 3 o’clock you decided it wasn’t worth staying open for the rest of the day.

You closed up the shop and stepped outside with an umbrella. You could go home, but you’d have to get the bus, and getting the bus in the rain was never a fun experience. Everything was wet and umbrellas poked at you and it always smelt funny. You could go to Lionel’s place and wait for him, but that would also involve getting the bus.

You decided to go and say hello to Lionel, since his office was only a short walk away. You’d bring him something to eat, since he’d worked through lunch, and if he was too busy to see you, at least you could leave him with some food so your journey wouldn’t be completely wasted.

You stopped by David’s again and bought a sandwich to go, and you grabbed two muffins as well, one for Lionel and one for you.

When you entered the reception area of the Shabandar Media tower, after placing your umbrella in the umbrella stand, you waved a friendly greeting to the receptionist, who was in the middle of a call. She smiled at you and pressed a button to let you through the barriers.

You emerged from the lift on the top floor and turned the corner down the hallway that led to Lionel’s office.

“Hey, Rachel. Is he free?” you said to Lionel’s PA, whose desk sat opposite the door to Lionel’s office.

“Should be soon. He’s just in with an interviewee at the minute, but it’s been about half an hour so they’ll probably be done soon. Ooh, that smells good. Think he’ll notice if I sneak a bite?”

“Yes, and he’d have you fired.”

“Ha, probably. Oh, it looks like they’re done.”

You turned your attention to the office door, which opened and out stepped… the notebook guy.

He looked just as surprised to see you as you were to see him.

“Oh! Hello — er, so sorry, I never asked your name.”

“It’s [Y/n]. I never asked you yours either.”

“Harry. Harry Deane. What are the odds of two chance meetings, eh?”

“Who says it’s a chance meeting? Maybe I followed you here,” you joked.

“Oh! Well, um - that is - er, did you go back for seconds?” Harry indicated the bag in your hands.

“Oh, this isn’t for me.”

“I see. Well, I’m glad to see you again. I left without, erm, asking for your number. Do you think you’d like to —” 

Harry was interrupted when the door swung open behind him and Lionel emerged, his face lighting up when he saw you.

“I had a feeling there was something gorgeous out here,” he said with a grin, walking past Harry as if he were invisible. You smiled, and Lionel pointed at the food bag. “Please tell me that’s what I think it is.”

“Garlic cheese steak, no tomatoes, extra red onion, just how you like it.”

Lionel grasped at his heart. “You are a literal angel sent from the Heavens. You always know just what I need. You could learn a thing or two from her, Rachel,” he said to his PA jokingly.

“Hmm, there are things she does for you that I don’t think she’d want me copying,” Rachel said with a polite smile, and Lionel roared with laughter.

“Too right. Give it here, then, [Y/n].”

He took the bag from you and inhaled the smell with a grunt of food-based desire.

“Rachel, if anyone calls for me, tell them to sod off.”

“Yes, sir.”

“[Y/n], my afternoon just got freed up – let’s have a look at your application form now, shall we?”

Lionel turned to head back into his office, and was startled when he came face-to-face with Harry, who was awkwardly standing behind him.

“Oh, Deane. What are you still doing here?”

“Sorry, sir, I was leaving but you’re, uh… you’re blocking the way, sir.”

“And now you’re blocking my way. Go on, move aside, I’ve got to eat this delicious sandwich before it gets cold.”

Harry stepped aside, and you mouthed an apology at him as you followed Lionel into his office.

When the door closed, Harry turned to Rachel with a frown. “Does she work here? [Y/n], I mean.”

Rachel snorted. “If she did, he’d never get any work done.”

She glanced over Harry’s shoulder and nodded. Harry turned, and through the all-glass walls, he could clearly see you in Lionel’s office — and in Lionel’s arms as he embraced you, his lips devouring yours hungrily, the sandwich sitting forgotten on the table.

Harry’s heart sank.

“…Ah.”

“Sorry, mate,” Rachel grimaced. “Good thing his Lordship didn’t hear you ask for her number, or your chances at the job would be out the window. He doesn’t appreciate other men flirting with her.”

Lionel’s hands were on your arse now, and you were laughing as he kissed your neck.

“We had an office get-together the other week and the Head of Marketing tried to flirt with her, not realising she was the boss’s girlfriend. He showed up on Monday to box his stuff up and never came back.”

Harry’s eyes were still on you. You said something that made Lionel let go of you, though not before slapping your arse, and you reached for the food bag you’d brought to pull out a sandwich and two muffins. You kept one muffin for yourself and settled into the sofa while Lionel unwrapped his sandwich. You said something, and Harry could hear Lionel’s hearty laughter through the glass wall.

You caught a glimpse of Harry in the corner of your eye and glanced over at him. He blushed and looked away quickly.

“Er, well, thanks a lot, Rachel,” Harry mumbled. “See you.”

He scurried away towards the lift, and back in the office, you watched him go thoughtfully.

“Weird coincidence, but I met Harry at lunch,” you said.

“Who?”

You rolled your eyes at Lionel, who was now completely focused on stuffing as large a mouthful of sandwich into his mouth as he could.

“Harry Deane. The guy you just interviewed. I went to David’s for lunch and it was really busy so I ended up sitting on the same table as him. We got chatting, he said he was interviewing for an art curator position but I didn’t realise it was with you. He’s really nice, and he knows his stuff. Are you gonna hire him?”

Lionel shrugged. “Eyeunnoyeh,” he said through a mouthful of food.

You picked a raisin out of your muffin and flicked it at him.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. I can see where Cole gets his table manners from.”

Lionel chewed a little more, then finally swallowed.

“I said, I don’t know yet,” he said, much more clearly. “I have another bloke in mind but he’s in Germany, I’d have to convince him to move over here, so his price is much higher.”

“Well, I think you should hire Harry. He knows his Monet, and he’s clearly passionate.”

“Hmm, he’s a little needy though, don’t you think? A bit desperate.”

“I thought you liked needy?”

Lionel raised an eyebrow at you. “I like you needy. I like you horny and desperate and begging for my cock. I don’t look for the same qualities in an art curator. I don’t need him to impress me, I need him to get the job done.”

“If he’s so desperate to impress, he’ll go the extra mile in looking for rare pieces. He might even find Haystacks Dusk.”

Lionel stopped mid-chew and looked at you thoughtfully. He swallowed, then said, “You make a good point there. Dawn’s without its other half. It’s like me before you waltzed back into my life: incredible, powerful, brilliant —”

“Humble.”

“— but lonely. Dawn needs Dusk like this lion needs his lioness. Do you think Deane could find it?”

“I think he’ll try.”

Lionel grinned, his eyes lighting up at the thought of having the complete set of Dawn and Dusk.

“Yes, alright. I’ll hire him. And then we’ll have Dawn and Dusk together at last. In fact, why don’t we pay a visit to Dawn this weekend? We haven’t been down to the country house for a while.”

“You gonna get your kit off to look at it again?”

“Of course. Art is best appreciated in the nude. Are you going to get on your knees and suck my cock while I look at it again?”

“Of course. Your cock is best appreciated down my throat. Or in my pussy. Or between my tits, I do love it when you do that.”

Lionel’s eyes sparkled menacingly. “What about in your arse?”

“Only when you’re good.”

“I’m always good, aren’t I?”

You laughed. “Good? Lionel Shabandar, you are a menace. ”

Lionel grinned and put an arm around you. He leaned in… and took a bite out of your muffin.

“Hey!” you protested, but he just laughed through a mouthful of muffin.

“Admit it, chérie. You love that I’m a menace.”

“Lord help me, I do,” you sighed. You surrendered the rest of your muffin to him and leaned into his embrace as he sat back, victorious, grinning to himself for having claimed your muffin.

Outside, the rain was still pouring, hammering down against the window panes, and London was hardly visible in the thick rainclouds. Lionel quite literally lived and worked with his head in the clouds, and though you did your best to keep him grounded, sometimes he did or said things completely seriously that were completely ridiculous to you — like taking off his clothes to look at a painting, and having you suck him off at the same time.

But you wouldn’t have him any other way.

[evans23]

I loved your fic about king louis! 🩷🩷 can you write another one, maybe with smut?

Title: Gilded Defiance

Summary: In a palace full of powdered masks and bastard sons, one queen dares to speak the truth. And the king, to his eternal damnation, loves her all the more for it.

Pairing: King Louis XIV × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut, funny

Author's Notes: Yes, I’m still avoiding finishing the translation of that 10k Alan fanfic (even though I’m already halfway through) 😅 I translated this one faster because I found it funny while I was writing it!

Also read on Ao3

You turned stiffly on your little gilded stool, the fabric of your silk gown rustling like dry leaves, and glanced up at the servant beside you. “Move back, Henri. You’re blocking the light.”

Henri, ever pale and ever trembling, adjusted the parasol a mere inch. “Forgive me, Your Majesty,” he said gently, eyes cast down, “but the sun is very hot this morning. It would be unwise for Your Majesty to be exposed.”

You exhaled through your nose, annoyed. “I am not a wax doll, Henri. I will not melt.”

“But Your Majesty—”

“Enough.” Your voice cracked sharper than you intended. Henri bowed his head further but remained exactly where he was, the damned parasol still shading your face, muting the natural light you needed. The colors on your palette no longer glowed. They dulled. Lifeless. Like everything else in this palace.

You stared at your painting—the garden laid out before you in real time, but on the canvas, it was only a ghost of what it could’ve been. You squinted, trying to capture the way the sunlight caught on the marble fountain—but it was no use. It was all shadows. All servants. All interruptions.

Being queen was boring. Suffocating.

You had no privacy. Not even to paint. Something you once loved now felt like another performance. Another obligation done in silk and constraint. Other women would have relished this life, you knew. The jewels. The gowns. The sweetmeats and sweet whispers. Being waited on like a goddess.

But you weren’t one of those women.

You never wanted to be queen.

And now—now you were stuck. With the title. With a palace that smelled like old perfume and ambition. With a husband whose bed you were expected to warm, while he fathered bastards in every corner of Versailles.

God, the smell of him. The sweat. The powders that clung to his black wig. The stink of spoiled wine on his breath as he pressed his lips to your cheek, whispering politics or lust—you could never tell which was worse. You often wondered how he even managed to seduce anyone. Did he drug them? Threaten them? Or did they truly fall for that baritone voice and the crown?

You shivered, disgusted.

At least today, you thought, mixing a bit of ochre with the green, at least today you didn’t have to endure him. No royal visits to his chambers. No forced laughter. No duty. Just you and your brush. And the damn parasol.

Then came the rustling of skirts. A soft voice, almost apologetic.

“Your Majesty,” said one of your maids of honor, delicate and pink-cheeked, “His Majesty requests your presence in his bedchamber.”

You didn’t turn. You dipped your brush again. Painted a tree. A happy tree. A tree that did not live in this gilded prison.

You spoke calmly. “Tell that old skunk I will not share his bed until he takes a damn bath.”

There was a collective gasp.

Henri faltered, parasol tilting. The maid of honor stood frozen, mouth parted in horror.

“I… Your Majesty, I could never say that to His Majesty—”

You set down your brush with an audible click, sighing sharply. “Then I shall write it.”

“Majesty—!”

“Henri,” you snapped, turning with fire in your eyes. “Paper. Ink. Now.”

He blinked. Bowed. “At once, Your Majesty.”

As he scurried off, the maid stammered beside you. “Perhaps—perhaps if Your Majesty rephrased—”

“I said what I meant,” you replied, reaching for your wine. “If the king wants my company, he can scrub the filth from his royal arse first.”

You sipped. Paused. Then added, almost sweetly, “And perhaps burn that revolting wig.”

The maid’s eyes widened like saucers.

You didn’t care.

The sun, finally, found your face again—warm, golden, honest.

And you painted.

Because this was your kingdom.

Not the throne. Not the court. Not the man.

But this canvas.

And for now, it would obey.

The maid of honor stood trembling before the Sun King, her eyes downcast, lashes fluttering with terror. The letter—that letter—trembled in her small, ringless fingers. She’d never felt so close to death. One wrong word, one poorly timed breath, and her head might well roll across the marble floor of Versailles before the hour was out.

Louis XIV sat before her in a carved walnut chair, his posture effortlessly regal, draped in rich fabrics of gold and garnet. The morning light through the windows dappled the floor, catching on the gilded cuffs of his jacket and the dark curls of his black wig, powdered to perfection. His hazel eyes flicked to the sealed letter in her hand, and he raised one elegant brow.

“Well?” he said, his baritone calm and deep, like a hymn sung from behind cathedral walls. “Do you plan to read it to me, mademoiselle? Or merely admire the handwriting?”

The maid gave a strangled squeak and dropped to a curtsy so low her knees cracked. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. It is from... the queen.”

That made Louis blink.

He extended a hand—ringed, long-fingered, a monarch’s hand—and she placed the parchment into it with shaking fingers. The silence in the chamber stretched long as he broke the wax seal, his eyes scanning the first line. Then the second.

And then—

He laughed.

A real laugh.

The sound rang through the chamber like a bell—warm, rich, alive. Startled, the maid dared to lift her head, just a little, and saw the impossible: the King of France, the Sun King himself, grinning. Laughing. Like a boy who’d just been caught sneaking tarts from the kitchens.

Louis slapped the parchment gently against his thigh, shaking his head with visible delight. “Mon Dieu,” he chuckled, hazel eyes dancing, “do you know what she’s called me this time, Gérard?”

The butler stepped forward, stiff and silent as always, though one brow twitched—imperceptibly, but there. “No, Your Majesty.”

His hazel eyes scanned it once more, and then—grinning like a schoolboy in a stolen wine cellar—he held it up for all to hear.

He cleared his throat, dramatically.

"To His Royal Highness, the Most August, Most Supreme, Most Unbathed King of France—also known, in less polite circles, as Le Fromage Enthroned—"

Gérard twitched. The maid gasped. Louis beamed.

"—I regret to inform you that I must, with the deepest sorrow and a nasal cloth pressed to my face, decline your invitation to commit the sacred conjugal acts. My nose, as loyal as it is delicate, cannot bear the siege of your royal musk."

Louis slapped a hand to his chest, pretending to stagger. “Royal musk, Gérard! She makes it sound like I’m aged brie.”

He continued, eyes gleaming.

"Until such time as Your Majesty has acquainted himself with soap, water, and perhaps divine intervention, this queen shall remain cloistered in her artistic pursuits, far from the warzone that is your wig and the fumes beneath it."

The chamber was silent. The maid of honor looked ready to faint. A guard outside coughed, suspiciously.

Louis, however, was grinning like a man in love.

He folded the letter neatly and tapped it against his palm. “This woman,” he said to no one in particular, “has insulted my person, my hygiene, my wig, and my divine right to ravish her. And still... I want to carry her to my bed like a prize I barely deserve.”

“Your Majesty,” Gérard said delicately, “perhaps this is an opportunity to... improve relations.”

Louis arched a brow. “Are you suggesting I surrender, Gérard?”

“I am suggesting, Sire, that one cannot wage war on a woman who knows how to wield the truth like a saber.”

Louis snorted. “She calls me Le Fromage Enthroned.”

“Yes, Sire. It is... pungently accurate.”

The king looked off into the distance, lips pursed, thoughtful. His queen was impossible. Disobedient. Blasphemously witty. She painted like a dream and swore like a soldier. She invented a new insult for him every week.

The council was livid. One had even suggested an annulment last month—“Marry someone more tractable,” they said. “Someone less... vivid.”

Louis had considered it.

For exactly twelve seconds.

Then he’d remembered her eyes the morning after their first argument—still blazing, still unrepentant. He’d wanted to throttle her.

He’d kissed her instead.

And now she had dared—dared—to refuse his bed.

Because he smelled. Which was, unfortunately... accurate.

“Gérard,” Louis said, rising to his feet with sudden, regal resolve. “Prepare a bath.”

A collective silence fell over the room. The guards outside stilled. Somewhere in Versailles, a dove dropped dead in shock.

Gérard, who had served the king since his first stammering coronation speech, blinked. “A... bath, Sire?”

“Yes,” Louis said, sweeping his robe behind him with imperial flair. “The Sun King shall bathe.”

The maid fainted.

Gérard cleared his throat. “Shall I also lay out a fresh wig?”

“Burn the black one,” Louis muttered. “It offends the God.”

“And the queen,” Gérard added dryly.

“Especially the queen.”

He turned on his heel, golden heels clicking on the marble. “Send her another letter. Tell her I am preparing myself for her... royal inspection.”

“And what shall I write, Sire?”

Louis grinned, eyes dancing. “Tell her Le Fromage Enthroned is now Le Fromage Frais.”

And with that, Louis XIV, the absolute monarch of France, the divine ruler of a continent, strode off toward his bathing chamber like a man ready to wage the most important campaign of his reign:

The conquest of a rebellious queen... armed with soap.

Louis, freshly bathed, introduced himself to you at dinner, and you stared at him as if he were an imposter. There he sat, resplendent in garnet and gold, black wig perched at a heroic angle, face powdered to royal perfection, and he smelled like lavender. Not musk. Not damp velvet. Not the wine-soaked remnants of last night’s council meeting. Lavender.

For one wild, joyous second, you thought he had died. You actually reached for your wine, raised it slightly in a toast to the God, and whispered, “Finally.”

Then he spoke.

“My flower,” he purred, his baritone like warm syrup poured over polished marble. “You look radiant this evening.”

You froze, goblet halfway to your lips. The color drained from your face faster than Henri when someone mentioned the guillotine.

My flower.

You’d read that phrase before. On another woman’s letter. One that had—accidentally—fallen into your hands during a regrettable afternoon of “spring cleaning” (which, in Versailles, meant orchestrating the removal of seventeen decorative urns and discovering entire volumes of smut behind the drapes). It was a love letter, addressed to a certain Madame B—your rival, your annoyance, the inexplicably adored opera singer whose only known talent was appearing naked in candlelight like a perfectly oiled ham.

You’d memorized that letter. Mostly out of spite.

My dearest flower, it had read, your fragrance haunts my sleep, your voice echoes in my marrow, and your bosom is the hill upon which my honor lays down to die—

Yes. That letter.

And now he was calling you “my flower.” Again.

So either he’d forgotten which flower you were, or this man ran a goddamn botanical garden of mistresses and just rotated the metaphors.

Still stunned, you managed to croak, “You... bathed.”

Louis lifted a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I assumed you’d finally drowned in your own cologne.”

He chuckled, entirely unfazed. “I did it for you, you know. A man must prepare himself when waging war upon a queen’s defenses.”

“Oh, so this is war again?” you muttered into your goblet. “I thought we’d reached détente.”

“Détente is for diplomats. I am a lover.”

“No,” you said. “You are a walking infestation in silk stockings.”

He grinned, grinned, as if that were a compliment. “Ah, there she is. The tongue of a serpent and the eyes of a saint. You wound me, madame.”

“Do not tempt me to make it literal.”

His hazel eyes sparkled with amusement. “I trust you’ve made preparations for our evening together?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ve asked the servants to warm the royal bedchamber.”

You stared at him. “For what? A ceremonial nap?”

Louis leaned in, dropping his voice to that low, honey-slick baritone that once sent entire convents into crisis. “It has been three years, my queen.”

Yes. You knew. Three years, and not a single child. Not even a whisper of one. Which was, frankly, suspicious, given the virility he claimed to possess. You often suspected he preferred to plant his seeds in soil far less fertile—and far more willing.

And yet, he had never set you aside. Never traded you for a younger, more agreeable bride.

“Why not just replace me?” you blurted, before reason caught up. “You have options. Many. I hear Madame B can even sing during—”

“She snores,” Louis interrupted flatly.

You blinked.

“Like a bullfrog caught in a wind tunnel,” he added, picking at a grape with royal melancholy.

You pressed a hand to your mouth to hide a laugh. He caught it anyway and looked dangerously pleased.

“I should trade you,” he said. “You’re willful. Rude. You insult my hygiene. Regularly.”

“You didn’t bathe for a year, Louis.”

“That was political strategy,” he snapped. “You think England bathes?”

“Frequently.”

“Well then,” he huffed, waving the idea away like a bad odor. “The point is, I do not replace you because you are…” He trailed off.

You leaned forward. “Go on. This should be good.”

He frowned slightly. “You are the only person in this court who calls me a skunk to my face.”

“Because you are one.”

“And yet you stayed.”

“Because I legally cannot leave.”

He tilted his head. “Still. You’re mine.”

You looked at him—really looked at him. At the lines around his eyes. The grey beneath the black wig. The faint scar on his cheek from that fencing duel with a duke who’d caught him mid-seduction of his niece.

And you said, “You are the most exhausting man I’ve ever met.”

Louis raised his goblet. “To mutual affliction.”

You clinked your glass against his and drank.

Later that evening, after dinner—after the lavender-scented civility, the too-long glances, the flirtation that felt more like fencing—you pulled out first.

You stood at the edge of his bed—His Majesty’s bed, carved and gilded, soaked in ghosts—and let the silk robe slide from your shoulders. You were already annoyed.

The room was warm. The air smelled faintly of beeswax and wine. And something new.

Soap.

You lay down stiffly on the mattress, sinking slightly into its traitorous softness, your head resting against one of the absurd, embroidered pillows. Louis’s bed. The same one he’d brought half the opera to. The same one the palace maids whispered about behind their hands, pretending to dust the candelabras.

It wasn’t as awful now that he smelled better, you admitted that much. You could tolerate it. You could even stomach his touch.

But not the waiting.

“Get on with it,” you said sharply, crossing your arms beneath your breasts.

Louis, just inside the bedchamber, untied the belt of his robe with agonizing slowness, his hazel eyes half-lidded with amusement. “So eager, my queen?”

“I’m not in the mood to be worshipped like the Virgin Mary. Just do it.”

He smiled, soft and maddening. “You wound me.”

You didn’t care. You turned your face away as he approached, letting the mattress shift under his weight as he climbed on top of you. His skin was warm. Clean. And when he leaned over you, dipping his head to your stomach, you did not flinch.

Not at first.

You watched as he pressed his lips softly to your navel. Then lower. Then higher. Slow as syrup, methodical as a priest giving confession. He kissed the curve of your breast, then nuzzled your collarbone, murmuring some nonsense into your skin—something about worship, about divinity, about blooming petals and stars.

You rolled your eyes. “Do you do this with all of them?”

Louis blinked. “Pardon?”

“This ritual. This—slow torment.” You let your hands rest atop the sheets. “You kiss and murmur and stroke like a widowed composer in mourning. It’s like fucking a sonnet.”

Louis gave a soft laugh, brushing his lips up to your throat. “Would you prefer I be cruel?”

“I’d prefer you be efficient.”

He didn’t listen. Of course not. He never listened when it came to this. Because he knew. Knew how your body betrayed you. Knew how, beneath all your irritation and barbed retorts, your thighs shifted when his tongue dipped too low. Knew how your breath caught when he bit down just a little too hard on the swell of your breast.

The worst part? He enjoyed it.

“I know what you think,” he whispered, lips grazing your sternum. “You think I’m reciting a script. That this is performance.”

You clenched your jaw.

He smiled against your skin. “But this body,” he murmured, warm breath trailing up to your jaw, “is not like the others.”

You turned your face sharply. “Don’t you dare try to kiss me.”

He froze. “Why not?”

“Because your mouth still smells like Burgundy and roasted duck, and I’d rather die than taste it.”

A beat of silence. Then, with a sigh, Louis leaned back slightly, giving you room to breathe. “Then where may I kiss you, Your Majesty?”

You reached up and tugged. Hard.

The wig came off in your hand, the ridiculous curls falling into your lap like something slaughtered. His real hair—short, gray, tousled—sprung free, damp at the temples from sweat and heat.

“There,” you said simply. “That’s better.”

He watched you with something like reverence. Like disbelief. His hazel eyes softened, even in the firelight.

You always preferred him like this. Real. Less powdered peacock, more man.

Still, your voice was dry when you added, “Now kindly get on with it, Your Majesty, before I fall asleep.”

Louis leaned in again, this time pressing a kiss to your neck, slower, deeper, his voice darkening.

“As you wish.”

And finally—finally—he stopped pretending to be a poet.

He grabbed your hips, spread you open, and buried himself in you without further ceremony.

You gasped. Not because of the intrusion—though it was sudden, welcome—but because you could feel the shift in him. No more theater. No more sonnets.

Just Louis. Raw. Real.

The candlelight danced across his shoulders as he moved above you, his hand braced beside your head, his body heavy, steady, sure. And when he groaned—deep and low in that godforsaken baritone—you hated how it rippled through your belly.

“Does my queen still want this over with?” he rasped, thrusting deeper.

You opened your mouth to answer.

But all that came out… was a moan.

He smiled, wicked and slow. “That’s what I thought.”

And you cursed him.

Because he was right. Because he knew.

Because despite all your protests—he always knew how to deflower your beautiful flower.

Louis put your legs over his shoulders. Slowly, deliberately. As if testing both your flexibility and your patience.

He watched your face the entire time—hazel eyes gleaming beneath the shadow of candlelight and the ridiculous crown of his black wig. You were already flushed, already gasping, already trembling from how long he’d been fucking you. The sheets beneath you were a mess, the room scented with sweat and musk and lavender soap.

But Louis was far from finished.

“Hold still,” he murmured, adjusting your ankle in his hand with the same reverence he might give a relic or a rare book. “I want to try something.”

Your brows shot up. “I swear, if you start quoting poetry again—”

He thrust into you before you could finish.

You choked on your protest, your head falling back with a strangled moan as he buried himself to the hilt. The new angle was devastating. Too deep. Too full. He grunted softly above you, adjusting your legs higher, his palms firm behind your knees, spreading you open like you were a puzzle he’d just solved.

“There,” Louis said, more to himself than to you. “She liked this.”

You blinked, dazed. “She who—?”

“Madame de Rochefort,” he said, his baritone smooth but distracted, hips starting to move again in slow, deliberate strokes. “She rather enjoyed this position. I wanted to see if you would.”

Your jaw dropped. “Are you comparing me to—oh—God—!”

Louis smirked, unbothered. “Yes. But you do it better.”

His grip on your thighs tightened, his thrusts growing sharper, more focused, and you swore the bed moved an inch with every snap of his hips. He was panting now, mouth open, sweat trickling down his neck, soaking the collar of his linen nightshirt—and somehow, that made it worse. Because this was the real him. Raw. Human. King and man and beast.

And he was destroying you.

“Louis—fuck—”

“Good?” he rasped.

You nodded furiously, fingers gripping the sheets, your entire body taut with heat and pressure. “Don’t stop. Don’t—”

“I won’t,” he growled. “I want to watch you break.”

He shifted again, pushing your legs higher, pressing them against your chest, folding you open until every inch of him reached a place inside you no one else had. He was watching you—drinking you in like a man dying of thirst—watching your mouth drop open, your nails claw at the pillows, your eyes roll back in stunned disbelief.

“Does my queen enjoy this?” he asked, hips pistoning now, relentless. “Does she enjoy being filled this deep by her filthy, scented king?”

“Yes—oh God, yes—”

“Say it,” he growled, sweat dripping from his brow. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours—yours—fuck, Louis—”

He moaned, the sound primal, broken. Then he lowered himself without pulling out, folding you tighter, his chest flush with yours, lips brushing your temple as he fucked into you so hard the headboard slammed against the wall.

“You’re mine,” he whispered again, like a curse, like a prayer. “My queen. My ruin.”

Your climax tore through you like lightning—your thighs shaking, your voice caught in your throat, your cunt clenching so hard around him he nearly followed. But he held on. Barely.

Because he wasn’t done.

He withdrew slowly, achingly, watching your slick glisten on his cock like treasure. Then he dropped your legs gently, reverently, letting them fall open as you panted beneath him, trembling and dazed.

He turned you over onto your stomach, hands gentle but firm, guiding your hips into place with the steady insistence of a man who knew your body as well as he knew his own crown. You didn’t fight him—you never did in this position. He knew you liked it. Knew it made you feel less like a queen and more like a woman. Unguarded. Owned.

“Spread your legs,” he murmured, his baritone low, almost absentminded. “Wider.”

You obeyed, wordless. The silk sheets cooled your skin, but the warmth of his body behind you, his thighs pressed firm against yours, the weight of him solid and slow, was already building the ache again, that heat in your core you swore you’d drowned an hour ago.

He slid into you slowly, deliberately, groaning low as he sank in to the hilt.

You moaned into the pillow, your back arching. “Louis…”

“I know,” he said softly, one hand smoothing over your spine. “I know.”

He fucked you like that, deep, slow, steady. As if memorizing you. As if trying to impress his shape into the very marrow of your bones. Every thrust felt heavier now, more deliberate. Less like pleasure. More like purpose.

He was trying to get you pregnant. Again.

You both knew it.

His eyes fluttered closed as he gripped your hips tighter. Not hard—never hard, not now—but with that quiet desperation he never voiced. As if the pressure in his fingers could coax fertility from you, like wringing wine from grapes not yet ripe.

He buried his face in your shoulder as he moved, breathing hard, his words half-mumbled into your skin. “All the others gave me children,” he muttered, each word hitting like a prayer. “Every one of them. Do you know that?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to.

“You think I don’t notice?” he continued, his voice darker now. “That you look relieved every month it doesn’t happen?”

You flinched beneath him. Not from pain. From the truth.

Louis thrust a little harder. Not violently. But with bitterness curling in his gut, cruel and sharp.

“They say I’ll have to replace you. The council. The priests. They whisper it in every corridor. You think I don’t hear?”

His rhythm faltered for a moment, like the ache in his chest stole his balance.

“They say I need a queen who can give France a son. A real son. One born of gold and church and duty. Not a bastard.”

His hips slowed again, dragging his cock through you with aching friction, his hand flat on your lower back, holding you there. Caging you.

“And you’d love that,” he said bitterly. “Wouldn’t you? Be free of me. Of this crown. Of this bed. You’d paint again. You’d smile again. You’d be—alive.”

His voice broke on the last word. Not shattered. But strained. Like he hated saying it.

You turned your head toward him, your voice hoarse. “That’s not true.”

He didn’t respond. Just buried himself deeper, groaning softly as your walls fluttered around him.

But he didn’t believe you. Not entirely.

He thought of the way you looked at him sometimes—disdainful, distant, like he was just another ornament in the palace, gaudy and fading. He thought of your painting, of how you escaped into those colors more than into him. Of how rarely you touched him unless it was his request. His order. His need.

The pain crept deeper, twisting behind his ribs.

Would you miss him? If the crown let him go?

If he ceased to be your king… would you even see him?

He thrust harder, needing to feel something more than ache. You cried out, gasping, your fingers knotting in the sheets as the tempo changed. He wasn’t rough, not really, but there was a new edge now. Something sharp buried beneath the silk. A grief he couldn’t name.

Louis leaned over you, chest flush to your back, his lips brushing your temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t want to lose you.”

Your breath hitched.

He moved inside you again, slower now, more reverent. And when he came, deep, grinding into you, filling you with his heat, it felt more like confession than climax.

He stayed there, trembling slightly, forehead pressed to your shoulder. As if willing his seed to take root. As if that might be enough to keep you. To anchor you to him—not with chains or crowns—but with blood. With a child. With something undeniable.

He didn’t move for a long time.

And when he did, he pressed a kiss to the nape of your neck and whispered:

“Please don’t leave me.”

The candlelight flickered. The sheets cooled.

And you didn’t say a word

When Louis awoke the next morning, the bed beside him was empty. Still warm, but empty.

The sheets bore your scent—violet and varnish and sweat—but you were gone. He blinked blearily at the sunlight filtering through the heavy drapes, his body aching in the delicious way it always did after a night with you. He stretched, let out a long sigh, and ran a hand over his chest.

Then groaned.

It wasn’t just soreness. It was the absence of you.

And that never boded well. With another groan, deeper and less dignified, he reached for the bell rope beside the bed and yanked once. A moment later, a servant slipped in with quiet, efficient terror.

“Where is Her Majesty?” Louis asked, still reclined, one arm thrown over his brow like a martyr awaiting canonization.

The servant bowed. “In the rose salon, Sire. Entertaining the wives of several ministers and high-ranking lords. For tea.”

Louis closed his eyes. “Of course she is.”

The servant hesitated. “Shall I summon her?”

Louis exhaled through his nose. “No. Let her scheme.”

When the door closed behind the servant, Louis sank deeper into the mattress, rubbing his temples.

He knew exactly what you were doing. You never hosted teas without purpose. You loathed small talk, abhorred gossip, and once declared that you’d rather share a bath with Madame de Montespan than spend a half-hour in a salon discussing upholstery.

No, when you hosted, it was war.

You were gathering allies.

For what this time? He cast his mind back, the last time you had entertained the wives of court ministers with such charm and grace, it was to promote the creation of orphanages for France’s forgotten children. And before that? The village water crisis.

He groaned again, louder this time.

Because he remembered precisely how that one went. The court had mocked you, snickering behind your back. One powdered imbecile—he couldn’t even recall the name now, some Duc of Irrelevance—had laughed openly at your request to divert funds from the royal hunting grounds to build wells for villagers.

“They should simply drink wine,” the man had said, smirking over his goblet.

And you—sweet, wicked, impossible you—had narrowed your eyes and given a gracious nod.

You’d vanished for exactly three hours.

When you returned to court that evening, you carried a jug in your delicate, gloved hands. It sloshed ominously. No one asked.

You strode to the center of the salon, smiled sweetly at the assembled courtiers, and poured the contents into a crystal goblet.

The water was brown. Sludge-colored. Vile.

You turned to the laughing duke.

“This,” you said clearly, “is what the peasants are drinking. You find it amusing. I find it a challenge.”

The court had gone still.

You held out the glass. “Drink.”

The man paled. “Your Majesty jests.”

“I do not.”

And when he hesitated, your voice went cold. Quiet.

“If he does not drink it,” you said, turning your head, “the man beside him will slit his throat.”

A guard stepped forward. Unspeaking. Sword drawn.

The duke downed the water in three terrified gulps, then vomited magnificently into an urn older than the monarchy itself.

The king had laughed for a full minute.

You had raised an eyebrow and said only, “Funds for six wells were approved by the next morning. Shall we aim for twelve?”

Now, lying in bed, Louis stared at the canopy above him with a mix of dread and admiration. If you were serving tea, it meant war. And if tea was involved, someone was about to be very politely destroyed.

Still, he didn’t rise.

Not yet.

He imagined you now—dressed in pale silk and silver embroidery, your hair a calculated mess of curls and pins, your smile razor-sharp as you poured a third cup for the Marquise de Fontenay while casually suggesting that her husband’s political future might look more radiant if he supported the construction of a hospital for war widows.

Oh yes.

You were up to something.

And God help France.

Because when you set your mind to charity—

Someone always bled for it.

[evans23]

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.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

[evans23]

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.

[evans23]

Hii! I absolutely love your Frank stories!

I was wondering if I could request a Frank x younger/reader? Maybe something like lazy morning sex, a domestic vibe, where Frank has the day off and you both get to sleep in and just enjoy the morning together⛅️☺️

Thank you so much! I love your writing!👏✨💕💕💕

Title: Hold the Line

Summary: Frank tries to ignore his morning wood like any good soldier, until your thighs welcome him like a warm order. And this time, he follows instinct, not protocol.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader

Also read on Ao3

You moaned softly, your breath catching as warm fingers found your breast under the sheets. The squeeze was firm, possessive—familiar. A thick arm lay heavy around your waist, the solid heat of Frank’s body pressing against your back. His chest rose and fell slow against your shoulder blades, and his nose was buried in your hair, breath steady but coarse with sleep.

“Frank,” you murmured, voice still thick with slumber, lids barely parting. “Shouldn’t you be in the army?”

There was a grunt behind you—low, hoarse, unmistakably amused.

“Day off,” he rasped, the baritone in his voice heavier, grainier in the morning. “Can stay in bed later.”

You gave a soft hum, already drifting again. His hand stayed where it was, large and warm over your breast, thumb brushing lazily across your nipple through the worn fabric of his t-shirt. You were wearing nothing underneath. You rarely did when sleeping beside him.

Frank exhaled slowly. You didn’t see the way his hazel eyes blinked open, half-lidded and fogged with sleep, or the twitch of his mouth as he glanced down at where your bodies met—your ass nestled perfectly against his hips, your back pressed to his belly.

He was hard.

That wasn’t new. Morning wood was common enough. Normally, he ignored it. Got up, showered cold, dressed, and got on with his day. The discipline of routine had been beaten into him for decades. He didn’t indulge morning lust.

But today?

He was off duty. No briefings. No video calls. No protocol. And you were warm, soft, half-naked, and breathing slowly against him like you trusted him more than gravity.

Frank groaned softly, trying to shift without waking you—but his cock throbbed at the friction, nudging between the curve of your thighs.

Fuck.

He could get up. Cold water. Coffee. Order restored.

Or…

He could press his hips forward just slightly, his cock sliding between your legs, not in but close—so close. The wet heat of you made him hiss.

Still half-asleep, you stirred, a sleepy noise falling from your lips as your ass rocked back against him instinctively. The movement wasn’t calculated—just instinctual, subconscious—but it made Frank's breath stutter.

“You awake?” he murmured into your hair, voice gravel and smoke.

“Mmm,” you mumbled, not really.

He nuzzled the back of your neck, his hand sliding down your stomach now, fingertips brushing low, until they dipped between your thighs and found you slick—already wet despite the haze of sleep.

Frank closed his eyes. Christ.

“You’re wet,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You want it, don’t even know it yet.”

You made a sound that was equal parts protest and invitation, your hips shifting, thighs parting just a little more. Your eyes still didn’t open.

Frank smirked lazily against your skin. “Fuck it,” he muttered, voice low and hungry.

He lowered his boxers just enough to free his cock, the familiar weight of it slapping gently against your ass. His old friend stood tall and curious—surprisingly eager for a man his age, though Frank knew better than to take that for granted.

“Don’t betray me today,” he muttered under his breath, wrapping a firm hand around himself, stroking slow. “Just hold the line, yeah? One morning. That’s all I’m asking.”

His thumb slid over the slick head, gathering precum as he pressed his hips forward, not enough to enter you, just enough to nestle his cock between your warm thighs. He groaned low at the sensation—the tight press of your legs, the heat of your cunt brushing his shaft with every lazy grind.

You were still barely awake, half-lost in that honey-thick fog of morning warmth and body heat. Your cheek rested against the pillow, mouth parted slightly, lashes fluttering but not opening. And yet your hips tilted instinctively, as though your body remembered his even if your mind hadn’t yet joined the conversation.

Frank grinned against your shoulder, dragging his cock between your slick folds, not pressing in—just teasing, fucking the space between your thighs with unhurried strokes. He didn’t want to rush. Not today.

He dipped his head to your ear, his baritone rich and sinful. “You don’t even know how good you feel, do you?” he murmured. “Could just lie here, slide between these thighs all day... fuck you without waking you... lazy and slow…”

You whimpered softly in your sleep, legs twitching, your thighs squeezing around him.

“Or,” he whispered, lips brushing your skin, “you could wake up. Climb on top. Ride me slow. Let me stay right here, flat on my back, while you do all the work.”

He rutted gently between your legs, notching the head of his cock just barely against your entrance, letting you feel it without committing.

“I’ll keep my hands on your hips,” he promised, his voice gravel-thick with arousal, “guide you nice and easy. You’ll sit down on my cock like a good girl. Let it stretch you out all over again. You want that, sweetheart?”

You stirred at last, a soft groan slipping from your lips as you rolled onto your back, then further—turning to face him, still bleary-eyed but smiling.

Your hair was a wild mess, your cheeks flushed with heat, and Frank thought you looked like trouble incarnate. Then again, he’d never minded a bit of trouble.

“Lazy bastard,” you mumbled, voice hoarse with sleep. “You just want to lie there.”

“I earned it,” he said, eyes twinkling beneath heavy lids. “You wore me out last night.”

You bit your lip, then slowly swung one leg over him, straddling his hips. The worn fabric of his t-shirt slid up your thighs, baring you to him as you settled into place.

Frank hissed softly when you reached down, lined him up, and began to sink down—inch by slow inch—onto his cock. Your breath hitched at the stretch, your walls fluttering around him, still sore from the night before, still not used to the sheer thickness of him even now.

“Still burns,” you whispered, biting your lip.

Frank groaned, gripping your hips as he helped ease you lower, his baritone rough and soothing. “I know. You’re tight. You always are.”

You whimpered, sinking down until he was fully sheathed inside you, your thighs trembling with the effort, your fingers splayed over his chest for balance.

Frank cupped your jaw, guiding your gaze to his. “Take your time,” he murmured, his hazel eyes burning into yours. “I’ve got nowhere to be but here. Just like this.”

You nodded, moving slowly, rolling your hips in lazy circles, each drag of your cunt around his cock sending a ripple of pleasure through both of you.

His head fell back, a groan rising deep from his chest. “Jesus Christ… that’s it. Ride it, baby. Just like that.”

You moved with a sleepy rhythm, your breath catching each time you bottomed out, your body shivering with the sensitivity of overstimulation and the thrill of it all—of being filled by him again and again, like it was your first time all over.

You slowed down even more, your hips rolling in a languid, teasing circle, milking every inch of him with the kind of patience Frank didn't have.

He grunted beneath you, his hands flexing against your thighs, and you could feel it—the warning. That telltale shift in his breath, the slight narrowing of his hazel eyes, the tension coiling through his belly like a man trying very hard not to snap.

“Frank,” you purred, dragging your nails gently over his chest. “We’ve got all morning. You in a rush, old man?”

He exhaled roughly through his nose. “Don’t push me.”

But you did.

You leaned forward, lips brushing his ear, your hair spilling over your shoulder like silk, and whispered, “You’re gonna come faster if I do it like this.” Your hips rolled again—slow, wicked—your cunt clenching around him on every downward stroke. “Your cock’s already twitching.”

Frank growled low in his throat, his hands sliding under your thighs and gripping you firmly. Then, with one brutal thrust upward and a flex of his arms, he started moving you faster—dragging you up and down his cock with none of the laziness you were playing at. The slap of your thighs meeting his echoed through the room.

“Frank—!” you gasped, laughing breathlessly. “You’re gonna blow—”

He grunted. He knew it was true. Goddammit, he could feel it coming on already, his balls tight, that traitorous heat spiraling too fast in his gut. Age. Betrayal. The body that once obeyed military precision now kneeling before your pussy like a whipped dog.

“You want me to come already, don’t you?” he rasped, his baritone fraying with effort, sweat prickling at his temples. “Want to watch me lose it.”

You grinned down at him, flushed and wicked. “Maybe I should pick up some blue pills next time I’m at the pharmacy. What do you think? They sell those over the counter?”

Frank froze.

Then, without a word, he gripped your waist, flipped you onto your back in one swift, practiced motion, and hauled your legs around his hips. The sudden movement knocked the wind from your lungs, but you only laughed again—until his cock slammed back inside you, hard and unforgiving.

“Fuck—!” you cried, your back arching.

“You think that’s funny?” Frank growled, his baritone rough and dangerous, hips snapping forward again, each thrust punishing. “Think I need help to fuck you properly?”

You whimpered, eyes rolling back as he fucked you deep, each drag of his cock pushing your body higher up the bed. The headboard creaked against the wall. The t-shirt you wore was bunched around your waist now, your bare breasts bouncing with every slam of his hips.

He leaned over you, his white hair falling over his forehead, his mouth just beside your ear. “Say it again,” he rasped. “Say I need pills. See what happens.”

You moaned, wrapping your arms around his back, your fingers sliding down until they gripped his ass—full and firm, a little soft, perfect for leverage. You shoved his boxers further down, past his thighs now, groaning as you forced him deeper.

“God, Frank—so deep—”

“That’s right,” he growled, bracing one hand beside your head, the other gripping your hip so tight it would bruise. “You wanted to take your time. Now you take what I give you.”

And he gave it.

Hard. Deep. The bed rocked beneath you, his chest slick with sweat against yours, his breath hot and uneven as he drove into you like he had something to prove. You could feel it now—the stretch of him, the raw, dragging pleasure, the tremble of his muscles as he forced his body to keep pace.

Your legs were shaking, your nails clawing his back, and your voice was high and broken. “Frank—Frank—please—I’m—”

“I know,” he gritted, his baritone near a snarl. “Come for me. Come while I fuck the smug out of you.”

You screamed as your orgasm slammed through you, your pussy clenching around him, soaking him, and still he didn’t stop—not until your body was limp, your sobs muffled against his shoulder, your cunt pulsing weakly around him.

Only then did Frank let go, groaning low in your ear as he spilled inside you, thick and hot, buried to the hilt.

He stayed there a moment—heavy, panting, unmoving—before finally pulling back enough to look at you.

You were a mess. Flushed, sweating, eyes glazed and lips swollen.

“Still think I need pills?” he asked, breathless.

You blinked slowly, chest heaving. “…maybe just for me.”

Frank barked a laugh, shaking his head as he leaned down and kissed you—slow, claiming, satisfied.

“Menace,” he muttered.

But you both knew the truth.

You’d never need those pills. Not with him.

Frank groaned and rolled onto his back, the mattress dipping beneath his weight as he pulled the sheet halfway up his chest. His white hair was ruffled, flattened in places, and his hazel eyes blinked blearily at the ceiling. One arm draped lazily over his face, shielding him from the morning light creeping through the curtain’s edge.

You turned your head toward him, still breathless, body tingling in the aftermath of everything he’d just done to it. Your thighs ached in the best way, your core still slick and sore, and the t-shirt you wore clung damply to your back. But that didn’t stop you from poking his side with a single finger, grinning.

“No, no,” you said, your voice still scratchy with sleep and sex. “Don’t you dare fall asleep again, old man.”

Frank exhaled a long-suffering sigh, his voice muffled under his forearm. “Why not?”

“Because,” you said, poking him again, “it’s your turn to make breakfast.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even flinch.

“Frank,” you warned, drawing out the vowel like a threat.

His arm slid off his face slowly, his hazel eyes half-lidded as he looked over at you with all the enthusiasm of a man being drafted into a war. “Fine,” he muttered. “I’ll do it. Later.”

You raised a brow. “No. Now.”

He blinked once. “We sleep first.”

“I’m hungry.”

“You’re insatiable.”

You grinned. “And you’re in charge of feeding me.”

Frank huffed and turned onto his side, curling an arm around your waist again, pulling you flush against his belly. “You can survive half an hour,” he murmured, his baritone thick with drowsy amusement. “Go back to sleep. You’ll forget you’re hungry.”

“No, I won’t.”

“Yes, you will.”

You wriggled slightly in his grip, just enough to make your point. “Frank.”

His voice was dangerously soft. “Sweetheart.”

You opened your mouth, ready to protest again—then he cut in, voice still low, still half-asleep, but undeniably smug:

“I could give you something with protein,” he murmured into your hair. “High in calcium. Comes straight from the source.”

You blinked.

It took you a full second before the implication clicked—and then you gasped, scandalized, your hand flying to his chest as you smacked him. “Frank Benson!”

He burst out laughing, a low, rumbling sound from deep in his chest, rough and hoarse and utterly delighted.

“Dirty old man,” you scolded, trying not to smile.

His arm tightened around your waist, dragging you even closer. “Military man, honey,” he said, still chuckling. “Every military man knows a dirty joke or two.”

You snorted against his skin. “That’s not a joke. That’s a war crime.”

Frank laughed harder. “Might be, considering how loud you were last night. I should court-martial myself.”

You groaned, burying your face in the crook of his neck. “I can’t believe I let you touch me.”

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, his breath warm. “You begged.”

You glared up at him. “I was sleep-deprived.”

“You were dripping.”

“You’re impossible.”

He grinned and pulled the blanket tighter over you both, his baritone soft and smug in your ear. “And you love it.”

You huffed. “I tolerate it.”

But you didn’t pull away. You settled into his chest instead, your leg slung over his thigh, your hand resting on his belly where the sheet had slid down.

A moment passed. Then another.

Frank was almost asleep again when you whispered, deadpan:

“…Still hungry.”

Frank groaned. “Christ.”

But ten minutes later, you were in the kitchen, seated on the counter, wearing only his t-shirt, while Frank stood in front of the stove, shirtless, hair a mess, muttering under his breath as he flipped bacon with all the precision of a man disarming a bomb.

“Don’t say it,” he warned without looking back.

You smirked. “Say what?”

“You’re about to make a joke about my ‘special milk,’ and I swear to God—”

You burst into laughter, ducking behind a coffee mug. Frank turned, spatula in hand, and narrowed his eyes.

“Menace.”

“Old man.”

And the kitchen filled with the scent of breakfast—and the sound of laughter.

[evans23]

An internship for a broken heart

Pairing : Severus Snape x Reader OC

Summary : An internship ! Him, Severus Snape, war hero, a survivor, a Potion Master had to follow an internship about empathy. Not because of the Minister of Magic. Worst than that : because of Minerva McGonagall. But empathy may not be that bad after all. 

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Mention of suicide. Suicide attempt. A little bit of angst. Mention of the war.

A/N : It's a request I got on Wattpad. Hope you enjoy !

Also read on AO3 Also read on Wattpad

An
internship ! A "teaching with empathy" internship. He, Severus Snape, the Potions Master, the "Saviour of the Wizarding World," a title bestowed by that harpy Rita Skeeter after that idiot Potter had thought of nothing better than revealing his memories to the world to clear his name, he who had received the Order of Merlin... had to return to school.

Humiliation was an understatement. But he couldn't avoid it. It wasn't an order from the Ministry. No, worse: it was an order from Minerva McGonagall, the Headmistress of Hogwarts. She had decided this internship was perfect for him, who had never tolerated children, given that the main topic was "empathy in and out of the classroom."

Severus would have told her that true empathy would have been to leave him alone. After all, wasn't he a survivor himself ? Much more than a war hero. He had survived loss, grief, allegiance, blackmail, a half-rebuilding he'd never truly been able to do since he'd been a spy for Dumbledore and Voldemort throughout his twenties and thirties. The real rebuilding was only beginning now, now that the war had been won.

Severus would be lying if he said he'd never hoped for a future in which he survived, but he was pragmatic. He'd understood early on that in Dumbledore's plan, where everyone was merely a pawn, he had little chance of checkmating the king. Yet, against all odds, he had survived. And after months of hospitalization, after wishing Potter, whom he had kept alive in Lily's memory, dead, a death he wouldn't have wished for if that idiot hadn't made him look weak by making public his difficult past and his love for his best friend, a love he had kept alive for his bespectacled son, after learning to walk, talk, and eat on his own again, the terrible truth had sunk in. He didn't know what to do with himself. At the time, he was 39, almost 40. Now, he was 42, almost 43.

He had known nothing but Hogwarts and having masters. All his life. And now that he was free to be his own master... he had chosen to return to Hogwarts. Because the demon he knew was far less frightening than the one he didn't know. The demon of the unknown. Having to, at 42, start all over again, try, perhaps fail... he wasn't sure he could bear it. So he had chosen comfort and accepted Minerva's offer to return to Hogwarts, not to teach Potions, but Defense Against the Dark Arts, as he had always wanted. He had carte blanche, and the Headmistress's trust had given him some comfort, at least at first.

After a few months, he had reverted to the bitter man who gave detentions like someone swallowing bitter coffee in the morning. A lonely man who could no longer even find refuge at Spinner's End since his house had been burned down by former Death Eaters on the run when they learned he had been nothing but a traitor all along. A man condemned to live at Hogwarts, the place that, twenty years earlier, he had hoped would become his refuge but which had always been his prison.

That morning, Severus was dressing, sighing heavily, thinking back to the letter he had received from Minerva. He had to be in London by 9:00 sharp, otherwise the house where the course was to take place would disappear until 9:00 the next day. And Minerva had insisted: this course was mandatory if he didn't want to return to his dungeons!

So it was with a heavy heart that Severus apparated to a dark alley in Finsbury before walking a few streets further to a dilapidated old building.

"Password ?" the door asked as he knocked three times, a pause, then five times as indicated on the letter.

"Sour gooseberry," Snape muttered, rubbing his temples.

The door then opened onto a wide, bright corridor. A sign indicated that the course would be held upstairs. Severus stepped up the old wooden staircase, which creaked with every step he took. The air smelled of lavender and polished wood, the place was clean, well-kept, and decorated with a very academic minimalism. It must have been a place often used by the Ministry for this kind of training, Severus thought. It wasn't uncommon for old buildings unused by Muggles to become wizards' property for their own small businesses. An arrangement between the Ministry of Magic and the Muggle Ministry had worked very well since the dawn of time. Not that the ministerial shenanigans interested Snape in the least.

Arriving on the first floor, Severus saw an open door with a pastel blue sign reading "Experimental Workshop: Teaching with the Heart - Empathy at the Heart of Our Lives: Reconnecting Magic to Emotion". He felt like throwing up but swallowed it with pride. Inside, there were no chairs or benches. No, instead, there was cushions in circles on a large midnight blue carpet covered with moving constellations. No one else was there. No wonder, it was only 8:20. Severus liked being on time. He liked not having to rush. He wished he were anywhere else but here. He quickly scanned the room, and besides the cushions and the magic carpet, a harp installed in a corner was playing diligently by itself. He hadn't expected much. This kind of training was often organized for anyone who had a foot in the muggle world: professors, ministry agents who had to deal with both worlds. He couldn't help but think with a sneer that Arthur Weasley must have come here more than once for some sort of nonsense like "mindfulness meditation" or "why muggles travel by car instead of broomstick." But now, all of a sudden, he was expecting Trelawney to arrive, her gangly demeanor, her oversized glasses, and a cup of tea in her hand, heralding someone's impending death.

"Hopefully mine," Severus grumbled, eyeing a bouquet of dried flowers from which emanated a strange scent of cinnamon.

At 8:45, three more participants arrived, each of them asking if this was where the "empathy" course was supposed to be held. There was a relaxation teacher for expectant mothers, a psychomage for gnomes, and a shapeshifter with emerald green hair who had been sent there by her employer after destroying the archive room, but according to her, it was either that or she cast an "avada kedavra" on her colleague.

At 8:55, four more people arrived, but still no sign of the teacher. What intrigued, or exasperated, Severus was that everyone seemed happy to be there, even the green-haired woman. Everyone except him, who would have preferred to relive the war and even Nagini's bite than to endure that torture.

At exactly 9:00, a young woman with shoulder-length dark brown hair and dull green eyes entered the classroom, cheerful, her cheeks a little rosy from having walked all the way there.

"Hello, I'm [Y/N], your teacher for the coming week," you said with genuine enthusiasm.

"It wasn't too early," Severus grumbled so the young woman would hear him.

"Class starts at 9:00 and I arrived at 9:00," you replied with a smile. "If I arrive at 8:59, I'm on time; if I arrive at 9:00, I'm on time; if I arrive at 9:01, then I'm late," you added, making the others in the room laugh.

Severus rolled his eyes but didn't say anything else. If she had been in his class, he would have given her detention until the end of the year. But he was the student, and thankfully, she couldn't give him detention. But being there was like being punished by cleaning cauldrons by hand, or worse, having to help Filch clean the castle... without the help of magic. But after a second thought, he wouldn't have said no to the idea of ​​being suspended by his toes from the ceiling of a classroom if it had spared him the trouble of being there.

You sat down in the middle of the circle of cushions, your midnight blue dress flowing fluidly around her as you invited the participants to sit down. They all looked at each other hesitantly before complying. Besides, it wasn't like they had a choice since there were no chairs.

You asked them to introduce themselves one by one, you asked a few questions, not too personal but enough to give the impression that you were interested in them, and the worst part was that you seemed genuinely interested. You listened, smiled a little too much, and gave them room to express themselves.

When it was his turn, Severus simply said his first name, last name, and profession.

"Professor Snape ! I read your treatise on elemental elixirs. It was very... straightforward," you said, still smiling, which made Severus roll his eyes so hard he thought for a moment they were going to get stuck in the back of his head.

"I'm glad you're here, Professor," you said, realising Severus wouldn't say anything else.

"I wasn't given a choice," he replied curtly.

"It doesn't matter, you're still here, and that's all that matters," you replied, barely fazed by the Potions Master's coldness.

And she began to explain what they would be doing this week. Not a question about the war, not a single comment on his supposed courage, his heroism, or Harry Potter. And that, Severus found, was more than refreshing.

With a snap of your fingers, you changed the atmosphere of the room a little more. The ceiling had taken on a midnight blue hue and stars andPlanets floated above their heads while the harp still played softly behind them.

"Well, today we're going to learn how to reconnect with ourselves. Because empathy begins with being gentle with yourself," you explained, sitting in the centre.

"I'm a teacher, no one expects gentleness from me," Severus said with a sneer.

"Don't you think your students would benefit from better teaching if you took the time to understand them ?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

"I'm not a psychomage, I'm not here to heal their inner woes. I'm here to teach, to try to get things through their heads, and that's a very unrewarding struggle," he replied dryly.

"If only someone had reached out to the child you were," you simply replied.

Severus felt his blood run cold. It was a low blow. You knew that, of course. No one was ignorant of his past these days, and that was an unfair attack.

"Life isn't a plan, nor a straight line," you continued, as if you hadn't noticed Severus's confusion, "and empathy, gentleness, and tenderness are far more important feelings than rigour, discipline, and the perfect control that forces you to repress your thoughts."

You snapped your fingers again, and vials appeared in front of each of them. Inside, a reddish liquid was making small bubbles that exploded against the stopper.

"These are mood vials. We will be using organic magic today. Please place your saliva in them, and the liquid inside will react to your mood."

They all looked at each other, half nervous, half amused, all curious. Except Severus, of course. They watched you doing it before them. The liquid turned into a blue-green-polka-dotted : serenity. Very quickly, the others followed suit. One vial turned blue with small waves crashing against the sides of the bottle : nervousness. Another turned orange : hesitation. A third turned brown and made a small swirl : the student was hungry, which he confirmed by saying he hadn't had time to eat breakfast.

When Severus's turn came, he hesitated, complied, and... nothing. The liquid remained red, the small bubbles still bursting on the surface. Everyone's faces turned towards you.

"Interesting," you said. "Your feelings are locked away," you added attentively.

"This kind of magic is fickle, it can't be trusted," Severus replied, closing the vial.

"No, not at all. This magic has proven itself. But... it takes longer for some people. Maybe because they don't know themselves very well."

You walked away without adding anything. You could feel the reluctance seeping through his entire being. You continued with a relaxation workshop, then each of you shared a memory, a moment when they had truly felt like themselves. Everyone had something to say : a victory, a failure, a new beginning. Everyone except Snape. No matter how hard he searched his memory, nothing came to him. Nothing except Lily. With her, he had felt like himself, but that belonged to him. Well, it had belonged to him. The story was known to everyone now, and precisely what little remained of him, he refused to share. But then a cruel realization struck him: Before Lily, he wasn't; after her, he was no more.

He had never really existed. An abomination to his father, invisible to his mother, who endured the beatings and never stood up for him. A freak bullied at Hogwarts. A Death Eater used for his wit and intelligence. Dumbledore's pawn. He had been a colleague, a protector, once a friend, often an enemy. But he had never existed, not even to himself.

He didn't speak, and no one forced him to, and for that, he was grateful to you.

At the end of class, you handed out a small, pastel-coloured scented card with a runic inscription on one side and a handwritten quote on the other. Severus's read: "The most powerful potions are often those we haven't yet dared to brew."

Severus stuffed the card into his pocket and left while the others lingered around the small table where tea and cakes had appeared.

On the second day, the classroom was transformed into a cream-coloured room. There were still cushions on the floor, but no more carpets decorated with constellations, and the ceiling was covered with plants and butterflies fluttering all around. The theme of the day was the art of "slow living." How to slow down, how to enjoy each day a little, how to reconnect with yourself". The day seemed endless to Severus, unbearable even. But he endured it, and in the end, he found himself paying attention to what he ate, to the texture, the taste, the smell.And in the evening, he took longer than usual to enjoy his tea while reading a book. A novel, a real one, not a potions book, not a book for learning. No, a Dickens novel that Minerva had lent him so long ago that he'd come to consider the book his rather than hers.

The third day... the third day was hell.

The classroom had changed again. The walls were ivory, the lavender drapes resembled curtains from ancient Rome. There was a light breeze, glowing crystals levitated above their heads, and there was a smell of incense and wood, a heady, ancient scent.

You were already there, hair down, frowning as you wrote in a notebook. When you saw him, you closed it and stood up, smiling.

"Professor, welcome. Always early."

"Is that your real job ? Teaching empathy ?" he asked without preamble.

You smiled. His frankness didn't disarm you. You appreciated him. You often had two kinds of students in front of you: those who were truly interested in what you offered, and those who were interested in parallel magic, more focused on nature, energy, and moods. Others made fun of you behind your back. But you didn't care. You loved what you did. It had allowed you to find yourself, to ground yourself, and to appreciate your existence.

"I was an auror before," you replied without batting an eyelid.

But Severus opened his eyes a little wider, clearly surprised.

"Were you expelled ?" he asked without mocking.

"Worse, I quit."

"Why ? There isn't a single little idiot I teach who doesn't fantasize about becoming an auror."

"Well, actually, reality is much more disappointing than fantasy. And before the war, before the return of Vo... well, you-know-who, there weren't many honest auror. The whole system was corrupt. Everything ran on bribes, forced smiles, and hypocritical words. And me... well, I didn't know how to play the game. When the dark wizard began to return to power, Alastor Moody took me under his wing. He was always on the right side, always sincere, always honest. And he understood before I did. Or at least he understood what I was desperately hiding from myself : being an auror made me unhappy."

"Well, who would have thought Mad Eye could empathize," Snape mocked.

"He probably saved my life. A mudblood auror would have been killed when the Death Eaters took over the Ministry."

Severus shuddered at the sound of that word. Mudblood. He hated that word. The word that had shattered his friendship with Lily, the only person who'd ever seen him. But you were right, you would have been executed at best, at worst... at worst you would have been their plaything.

"Well, I stopped before the war, to tell the truth. Four years before. I... wandered a bit. Thanks to Alastor, I got another job, but... it still wasn't me, and then there was... well, then I had to reinvent myself."

That hesitation, that moment when you almost revealed something before catching yourself, made Severus realize you were hiding something. You had your own secrets, your own demons. But he didn't have time to analyse you any further; the others were arriving.

When they sat down on the cushions, the crystals began to glow even brighter.

"Today, we will explore the echo of memories, what remains when words fade," you said, grabbing one of the crystals.

The crystal rose slightly above your palm, vibrated, and then the image of a child sitting on a bench in a schoolyard, a tear on her cheek, appeared. A flower was held out to her, then the image disappeared.

"Each person will share a memory. Something that has left a lasting impression on you. About yourself, someone else. It doesn't matter. Then you will have to convey the emotion to your partner. Professor Snape, you will work with me," you said without looking at him, as if it were necessary.

Severus was about to protest, but he changed his mind. After all, it was better to have you than one of those geeks with eyes shining with excitement at the thought of playing with crystals.

Severus came to sit opposite you, and suddenly, the murmurs around you stopped. A magical bubble surrounded you, isolating you from the rest of the class, as it did everyone else.

"I'll start," you whispered, eyes half-closed, "several years ago, I practiced a form of ancient magic with my best friend. He was Swedish, it was old magic, magic used by his ancestors. Not dark magic, but a dangerous form if poorly mastered. And we didn't master it very well. He was hurt, and his family never forgave me. They accused me of having forced him to do it, they accused me of being the one who hurt him, and in the end, even him didn't want to talk to me anymore. Yet, it was he who had asked me to do this with him, I had never heard of this old Scandinavian magic before. But it awakened something ancient, something painful in him. I learned later that this magic allowed us to store the magic of all our ancestors, and his ancestors weren't all good. It took him years to find himself, to find peace."

You fell silent and watched Severus. He was looking you toroughly. He found you at peace despite this revelation.

"Your turn, Professor," you said, smiling.

He froze. You handed him a crystal, and a memory formed in it. Him, as a young man, being slapped in front of his mother, who watched the scene horrified but said nothing. Then it was his mother's turn as the young boy retreated to a corner of the room. Then nothing, the vision dissipated.

"You haven't really made peace with your past either," you whispered, looking at him, tears brimming your eyelashes.

Severus was speechless, then he sat up suddenly, breaking their bubble of solitude. He looked around and saw everyone else still immersed in their exercises, oblivious to the outside world.

"Professor, everything Are you okay ?" you asked.

"I want you to leave my memories alone," he hissed through his teeth. "The world already knows too much. And you're not a psychomage; I don't care about your fanciful ideas, your crazy and stupid magic. Don't probe me again or touch my memories, or I swear to discover all of yours without your permission," he added harshly.

He left the classroom without you trying to stop him. You shuddered. You didn't doubt for a single second that he could use Legilimency against you without qualms. Yet you hadn't forced him to share this memory with you. Crystals didn't steal memories; they were only catalysts that revealed what you were willing to let them reveal. You hadn't shown them; you had chosen to share them orally. He hadn't known how to express himself and had let you see. And now he regretted having done it, having had that moment of weakness.

At the end of the class, all the students were a little shaken, but also calmed. The only one who left angry was Severus, and you could easily guess why. You had thought that by opening up a little about your past, he He would feel more confident, he would see your vulnerability and accept his own. But Severus Snape was a breed apart, a breed perhaps impossible to tame.

You gave all your students a small magic pouch so they could relax and apply what they had learned in class over the weekend. Tomorrow was Friday, but you weren't teaching. Fridays had been your day for several years, the day you enjoyed your hobbies, your cat, the park you loved to walk in late afternoon, and where you sat until the sun went down. It was the day you ate fish and chips in a small, unassuming restaurant on a picturesque Cambridge street that seemed to be completely unknown to students, and where you sipped a glass of rosé while reading a classic of English literature on your balcony, a blanket on your lap, some classical music playing in the background, and sometimes your father rambling on beside you. when he missed his TV series. Yes, you didn't sacrifice him on Fridays anymore, not since you almost sacrificed yourself.

Friday. A day of peace. A day when he wasn't supposed to go to that damned training. How he had hated himself, cursed himself the day before for letting that memory slip away. He, the master of Occlumency, hadn't been able to control himself. You had managed to coax him with your big, expressive eyes, your kindness, your sincerity. And he hated you for it. Or he hated himself, he wasn't sure anymore.

He walked back into his classroom, straight and strict, and even the portraits fell silent as he passed while the students stood up as one. The students could sense that today was a day when they would have to be even calmer and more attentive than usual if they didn't want to finish the year cleaning dungeons with a toothbrush.

"Sit down and open your book, page 578. Today we're going to study vampires. Real vampires, not the nonsense Muggles write in their expensive books."

"Vampires don't glow, then ?" a shy voice asked.

Severus looked murderously at a young girl with blond pigtails. Jessica Anderson. A naive mind. He sighed loudly, wondering how even Muggles could have tolerated such an aberration. Anne Rice, she had been able to portray the true behaviour of vampires... probably because she had one in her bed, or at least it wasThe rumour that had been circulating for decades in the magical world, and which Dumbledore had partially confirmed one evening while they were listening to chamber music and discussing the year that was about to begin and with it the arrival of Harry, who had just learned he was a wizard.

"No, Miss Anderson, vampires don't glow, and if by any chance you ever meet one, never have the audacity to ask them such a silly thing," Severus replied curtly, waving his wand to close the shutters.

But he had surprised himself by not deducting a point from hufflepuff. By not getting angry. By glaring at Alexander McIntyre for mocking the young girl. And later, when another student answered incorrectly, instead of getting angry or sharply correcting him, he saw your face, heard your gentle voice say, "It's by making mistakes that we learn. As long as we're gentle. And gentleness begins with ourselves." Instead, he heard himself ask another question to give the student the opportunity to find the answer for himself. The boy seemed taken aback, cautiously gave a slightly more accurate answer, Severus asked another question, and this time the correct answer came to him immediately.

That afternoon, with another group working on complex spells, he observed a ravenclaw student make a rookie mistake, but instead of exploding, Severus watched him, and to his surprise, with the help of a Slytherin girl, the Ravenclaw student corrected himself. And suddenly it hit him: one student's empathy had helped another understand his mistake and correct it.

So that evening, a glass of fire whiskey in one hand, your crystal in the other, he thought back to the previous day's exercise, the memory he'd let slip, his past. He thought back to his father, a weak, violent muggle who had made him hate muggles. He thought back to his years at Hogwarts, the mockery, the bullying, the harassment, James Potter and his gang humiliating him again and again, to Lily Evans who had mocked him that day when he received the ultimate humiliation and how he'd lost it in a moment of uncontrollable anger. Because of that little smile she'd given when James and his clique had mocked him and that had irritated him more than anything else. He thought back to all his mistakes, and Merlin knew there were many. He thought back to Potter, to the unfair contempt he'd shown for that little brat who looked a little too much like James... but also like him. Except Harry had been luckier than him. He'd arrived at Hogwarts and made friends, he'd found a loving family, support from his teachers. He hadn't been given that, and even though he didn't want to make excuses for it, it had led him into the arms of Lord Voldemort. A dangerous madman who had led him to believe that by his side, he would become something.

But hadn't he paid enough for all his mistakes ? Hadn't he tried to redeem himself again and again? Wasn't it unfair that some people accused him of doing it too late ? That he only did it because of Lily's death and not because he truly wanted to see good triumph ?

Was he the only man to have been tempted by the devil, to have held his hand, before he made him pay a price far too high and he finally opened his eyes ? Did he deserve eternal damnation for having been a little too human, a little too vulnerable, a little too alone ?

He began to wish for that peace you kept talking about. The one you said you'd found. And he also found himself wanting to know more about you, to know what lay behind your calmness, which you claimed was new.

He finished his glass of whiskey in one gulp, shook his head vigorously as if to expel all his thoughts, and grumbled to himself, "It's just an internship, it'll pass."

But deep down, he wasn't sure. Because the dull green eyes of a certain witch with a constant, sincere smile never ceased to haunt him. You weren't Lily. You were you. And for the first time, he thought of another person without making comparisons. For the first time, another person had seen him for who he was.

On Monday, class took place in a clearing. Reconnecting with nature, with oneself, taking a break, listening. The weather was nice and not too hot; it was almost pleasant. At the end of class, as the students apparated home, Severus lingered. He lingered because he'd noticed something. You had touched a rune stone and the stone had lit up slightly. That only happened when you were able to wield old magic. Old magic from Scandinavia.

"I thought it was your best friend who was Swedish."" Severus said in a neutral voice.

You jumped, thinking he'd already left.

"Indeed."

"But the stone reacted when you touched it."

You lowered your head, trapped.

"I was muggle-born," you began, "but... I developed a... powerful magic. Maybe I have wizarding ancestors, for all I know. Anyway, that day, when I... when my best friend and I played with that old magic, something awakened in me. Like an imbalance. Sometimes I can suck out someone else's magic. It's not involuntary. It requires concentration. It's powerful, exhausting. That's why Mad Eye wanted me to leave. Not because I was miserable being an auror, not because my impure blood was dangerous to me. Because if the Dark Lord had known, he could have used it."

"Are you a vortex?" Severus said, fascinated.

He had already heard of this kind of magic, of wizards capable of temporarily absorbing the powers of others. It was dangerous. Sometimes deadly.

"That's why I was banished from my best friend's family, and why he himself never wanted to see me again. This magic is inherited, and it's inherited from bad wizards."

"You said you were muggle-born," he argued.

"Yes, my parents are Muggles. But I don't know my ancestors. There could very well be an old shaman who made a pact with the spirits of his ancestors. Maybe a great-great-great-grandmother who practiced black magic."

You looked into his eyes and, with a silent incantation, made him enter your mind.

A snowy forest, rune stones around you and a young man, a fire, leaves dancing above your heads. And suddenly, an uncontrollable wind, trees catching fire, the young man's body frozen, his eyes bulging.

"She's out of control, we have to stop her," a voice shouts.

An older man arrives, grabs you by the waist, muttering incantations in Old Norse. He's your best friend's brother, the young man whose powers you just stole.

Another scene: your best friend is lying down, he's better, you no longer have his powers; he's regained them. He's not looking at you. His mother, a powerful witch, asks you to to leave, never to return. Your gift is dangerous. Even more so in the presence of his sons who are capable of manipulating runic magic.

Back in the present, Severus is watching you. He sees you. He really sees you. You are livid. You slowly roll up the sleeves of your sweater. Two scars, one on each arm. They are pale, old.

"I wanted to die," you whisper. "I was so afraid of who I was that I wanted to die. I wanted to die because people didn't trust me. Even Alastor Moody was afraid of me."

Severus swallowed hard.

"And then, I found another way, a way to stay grounded, to be myself. To forgive myself and to tolerate myself. To endure existence. I know my lessons make you smile. But if they can help at least one person, then I'm happy."

"I'm not afraid of you," Severus said after a silence.

"No, of course not," you said, smiling softly.

"We all have secrets... well, except me," he added

Your smile widened a little.

"I'm sure you still do. What Harry revealed to the world was only the surface, not the iceberg."

Severus watched you for a long time. Contemplated. And something inside him warmed. You were more. More than the kind, energetic, and positive little witch who gave "reconnecting with oneself" classes. You had a troubled past, you were more than what you showed the world, and above all, you believed in what you were doing because it had helped you. Saved you, perhaps.

"And how are you doing now ? To master this magic ?"

You shrugged casually.

"I learned. With Dumbledore, a little."

Obviously, with Dumbledore. That old pain in the ass was always interfering in everything, and sometimes, often if Severus was honest, for the best.

"And then with an old wizard in Portugal. I stayed there for three years. There, I learned alternative magic, I learned to appreciate myself, to forgive myself. Then I came back, and thanks to a few contacts, I got this job. I know it makes people laugh, some of them are happy making fun of me, I know that few people believe in what I do, but I like it. It's not what vibrated with me when I was younger, but I finally found something to nourish my soul. It allows me to travel a little, to see people, to share."

And to be less alone. You thought very hard without daring to say it out loud.

"And you, didn't you ever want to do anything else ? I mean... after the war, you could have gone to the ends of the earth."

Severus swallowed. You had a way of understanding people, of asking the right questions, and he didn't know if he loved it or hated it.

"I... Well, the terrible truth is that I didnn't even know who I was anymore. So trying to build something... Staying at Hogwarts was easier."

"Is it still?"

"Today, today that I can choose and I chose to stay at Hogwarts... it seems less burdensome. I got the job I wanted. I can teach however I want as long as I don't throw any students through the window. I can... be me. Almost."

"And that's a lot," you murmured, watching a titmouse take flight.

That evening, for the first time, the silence was full, but soothing. Severus hadn't felt this way in so long that he couldn't have named the moment.

Sitting in a plush armchair in his rooms at Hogwarts, he leafed through a book. A book on alternative magic. On vortex magic. He thought of you. Your smiles, your silences. Your simple beauty, which didn't particularly stand out, but which was yours and that was enough. You weren't faking anything. Everything about you was natural. You were real.

For him, for a long time, too long, people had been nothing but shadows, air currents. But you didn't disappear. You weren't temporary. You had, in so few days, clung to his mind like no one before. Finally Yes, like just one other person. And that said a lot about what he thought of you, about the esteem he had for you, about what he saw in you.

You had let him glimpse your wounds without thinking, and it had affected him more than he wanted to admit. You had, without knowing it, shaken him up, and he hadn't even realized it until tonight.

And for a moment, he thought it was maybe time to let someone else into his life. He was almost afraid to think the word, and yet, he wanted a friend. Or more. He wanted someone to confide his sorrows to, his fears to, to talk about the past without fear of being judged, without anyone jumping to conclusions because everyone thought they knew. He didn't want pity, he wanted sharp clarity, he didn't want his ego stroked, he wanted someone to listen to him, He didn't want to be extinguished anymore; he wanted your light.

You weren't asleep. The window was wide open, letting in a welcome breeze. It was muggy, and you were sipping ginger tea and nibbling on chocolate-filled biscuits your neighbour had brought as a thank you for looking after his dog while he was on holiday in Brighton.

Your toes brushed against the plush carpet, bats danced strangely in the trees across the street, and your mind was mesmerized. Not by the beauty of the night, but by him. Severus Snape. The Potions Master. The hero without whom the war would probably never have been won.

You hadn't planned this. You'd grown attached to students before, but never like this. You'd always known how to keep your distance, set boundaries, separate your personal life from your work. Come, teach, help, leave.

But not this time.

He had touched you without You can't say why. Of course, you knew his story, or at least what the newspapers had said, and you'd be lying if you said you hadn't borrowed a colleague's book, that unofficial biography written by Rita Skeeter.

He had that special aura. He wasn't pleasant, he wasn't handsome, but he was charismatic nonetheless. He wasn't afraid to speak his mind, always subtly, often sharply. He was made of silence, but silences that screamed what he didn't dare say. He seemed made of rock, but he was nothing but hurt and fatigue.

You were looking for his remarks, his provocations; you liked it when he challenged you, pushed you to your limits, looked for the flaw to see if you had mastered your subject.

And then there were your secrets. A first shared memory, a second. You would have gladly slapped yourself. Not that you You were ashamed of your past, not because it was a state secret. Just because you weren't supposed to share it with your students. It belonged to you, and apart from your father, no one knew. Your friends wouldn't have understood. Although your father hadn't understood either, but not because he didn't want to or because he was too closed-minded. He was a Muggle, he couldn't understand it.

Severus... Severus hadn't been afraid of you. He hadn't judged you. He had seen, he had welcomed you, perhaps indifferently, but you had liked it.

You wondered what was happening to you. You couldn't feel any feelings. Not for him. Not because he was your student; the day after tomorrow he wouldn't be. Because he wasn't nice, he wasn't easy, he wasn't one to reassure. But it was precisely because he He didn't try to please, because he was a little battered, proud, and too frank that he upset you.

The next morning, Severus woke up early, as usual. A pale light pierced through the curtains. It was the last day of this damned internship. But strangely, he didn't feel relieved.

He got up slowly, drank some black coffee, took a shower, got dressed, looked at himself in the mirror, wondered if it wasn't time to do something about his crooked teeth before shrugging. It had never bothered him, it wasn't going to start now.

He arrived early, as usual, his face drawn, his shoulders tense. Today was the last day, but he wasn't sure he wanted it to be the end.

You arrived right on time. You too felt drawn. You had gotten up earlier than usual, your heart beating a little too fast. You drank jasmine tea, read a chapter of your book, took a skin-peeling hot shower, ate a piece of cake you'd quickly bought from the Muggle bakery down the street, and Apparated to your classroom.

But for the first time in a long time, you weren't anchored to your own reality. You had one foot in someone else's.

Today, the classroom was bright and calm, as always. The day was simple: a personal essay on what empathy meant, how it could be applied in everyday life, in your work, and how you could be empathetic toward yourself.

And that was it. The class ended. Everyone went home. But it wasn't over yet.

Severus had come home that evening in a foul mood. Everyone understood, and all the students did their best to avoid him.

He didn't even try to ignore why he was so angry. It was your fault. But he wasn't good at social interaction, at making friends. And at his age, it wasn't a skill he could acquire. Yet, at his age, he felt more than ever the need to not be alone.

Before, it didn't haunt him, because before, he hadn't thought he'd live to be old. But he was still here, and suddenly, he didn't want to be alone anymore. But he'd missed the boat. Or at least that's what he thought. Fate, without him knowing it, was planning a little trick for him.

A week later, he was still thinking about you, at the internship. He sometimes heard your voice when he wanted to tell off a student. He breathed deeply, remembering all the times he'd been ignored, when his heart had been hurt as a child, then as a teenager, and he forced himself not to be too sharp, too incisive. It always surprised the students, but they were smart enough not to push their luck.

And then, during a faculty meeting, Minerva announced that wellness workshops would be held at the castle. A request from the Ministry, which wanted to take care of the mental health of students, teachers, and the wizarding world in general. It hadn't been often discussed in their world; it often took a back seat; it was a muggle thing according to some wizards. But not anymore; now they understood the importance of taking care of oneself, of one's mind. It must be said that the war had left many souls wounded.

And in a corner of his mind, Severus thought that you could be there. And when the big day arrived, he realised he hadn't been mistaken : you were there.

You offered mood filters, meditation exercises, advice on how to live more honestly with yourself, and calming stones. He watched you from a corner of the Great Hall. You were the same, smiling, kind, calm, gentle.

"I'd like to try a mood filter," a voice you knew all too well said coldly.

You looked up a little too quickly. Severus. You smiled and handed him a bright red vial that was bubbling. He opened it under the gaze of two stunned gryffindors and a ravenclaw, and added a little saliva. The vial turned purple. Your blood froze. So did his.

"A mistake," he murmured, "this magic is unreliable."

"What does that mean?" asked the young Ravenclaw.

"Nothing," you answered a little too quickly.

A glare from Severus made them disappear, and he turned back to you.

"Are you going to stay for tonight's quidditch match?" he asked.

"I don't really like quidditch," you said, almost snatching the bottle from his hands.

"It's gryffindor versus slytherin, it should be interesting," Severus simply replied.

You smiled. It was his way of insisting. Subtly. Not saying he wanted you to stay.

"Do I have to support a particular team ?"

"Slytherin, of course," Severus replied with a smirk.

"Green doesn't suit me."

"I hate red."

"I guess I could make the effort to wear a scarf."

"Fine, I'll bring you one tonight."

And he left without saying anything, as if the deal was sealed. You couldn't help but smile. It was the strangest invitation you'd ever been offered. And you hadn't even accepted. Not really.

By the end of the day, you'd taken your things home, taken a quick shower, chosen a dark blue tunic, tried on the emerald green one, and finally settled on the dark mauve one with the lavender flowers embroidered on the sleeve, and returned to Hogwarts.

Severus was waiting for you outside the apparition area. He handed you a scarf with his house colours and blazon on it without saying anything, and you tied it around your neck with a smile.

"I'm... I'm glad to see you again," he said without looking at you as he led you toward the quidditch pitch.

"Me too."

He stopped suddenly and turned to you. You were at the back of the castle, a quieter route to the pitch, a pitch where you weren't likely to encounter too many ignorant dunderhead.

"I'm not good at it," he said coldly.

"Okay," you replied cautiously.

"I mean... this. The... relationships."

"We have a relationship ?" you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He sighed heavily. You definitely weren't going to make this easy for him. 

"I'd like... I..."

"I'm not good at making friends either," you interrupted, "I seem to be breezing through my social interaction, but it's only an illusion."

He watched you for a moment, and time seemed to stand still. Severus paled a little.

"I don't really know what I want. But I want to try," he said in one breath, a little too quickly.

"Good," you replied, smiling. A soft smile, not triumphant.

"I could make the effort... If you teach me."

"I have a better idea," you said, full of fragile courage, "we could learn together."

He closed his eyes for a second, as if the words were seeping into him with a gentle warmth he hadn't felt in a long time in his too-cold heart.

"I'm not an easy man. I'm not tender, I don't recite cheap poetry, I'm not romantic, and I'll probably forget important dates," he said suddenly, as if he suddenly wanted to discourage you.

"Good. I like poetry, I'm gentle, I like displays of affection, and I have a very good memory; I'll remember all the important dates."

"My father was a muggle. He taught me to hate muggles."

"My father is a muggle. He'll teach you to appreciate them."

"I'm sarcastic, and we'll argue a lot."

"At least we won't be bored."

"I didn't learn to love."

"Me neither. We'll learn together. And you won't hurt me. Because that's how relationships work. You learn to compromise to take care of each other."

"We're not a couple," his voice snapped.

"Not yet," you replied with a mischievous smile.

He was about to retort, but you didn't give him the chance. Instead, you placed your hands on either side of his face and, before he could react, you pressed your lips to his. It was sweet, your mouth tasting of cinnamon and chocolate, his a bitter taste, a perfect blend of sweet and bitter.

When you released his face, he pulled away, stunned.

"Oops," you said, laughing, "I think we're a couple now."

"Definitely not !"

"No, you're right. We have to learn first. Get to know each other better. Slowly. At our own pace."

"What if it doesn't work ?" Severus asked hesitantly.

"Worse still, imagine it does ?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, gripped by a dull pang of anxiety.

"Severus," you breathed.

He fixed his onyx eyes on yours, and you shuddered, but you didn't let it get you down.

"We'll go at our own pace. We don't need to get married tomorrow and imagine our future ten years from now. We move slowly. We test. We see what works, what doesn't. We build, we try, we fail, we start again."

"And if we succeed ?"

"Then we grow old together."

"What if..."

"Severus," you interrupted, "what if you stopped thinking for a moment ? What if you started living?"

He pondered your words for a moment. What if he started living ?

Yes, maybe it was finally time for that to happen. For him to heal the wounded child who had never really existed, forced to grow up too empty, to become an adult prematurely to protect himself from his father, to forget that his mother, his mother who was the witch, who had the power, had never defended him.

He owed it to the tortured, bullied teenager who had made one bad choice, a single bad choice that had shattered his entire life.

He owed it to the adult who had belonged to two different masters, trapped in a situation he had voluntarily submitted. With the first, because he had been promised power, to finally be seen, he whom he had always been ignored and despised. The second, to redeem himself, to prove that he was worth more than what he had always been seen to be.

He owed it to himself, to the survivor he was, who finally deserved a little peace. A little love.

So, a little too abruptly, he leaned down and captured your lips with his.

"Don't count on me to make your coffee in the morning," he said, resting his forehead against yours.

"Good, I hate coffee. Oh, and I have a cat."

"Better and better."

He took your hand, released it, picked it up again, and led you to the stands where he released it again.

"The purple liquid, what does that mean?" he suddenly asked, helping you sit up.

"What do you think ?" you replied mischievously, knowing that he already had a clue.

"Oh, by Merlin, don't say anything."

"Lo..."

"Shut up," he hissed, looking around to make sure no one was listening.

"Flowering love," you said quickly, laughing softly.

He rolled his eyes, holding back a smile.

Life had offered him a second chance. He had greeted it with bitterness, with condescension. But now, the universe was granting him more than a second chance. And for the first time in a long time, he felt something he had long forgotten. Happiness.

[evans23]

Heeeyyy!! New follower here 😁 I absolutely love your work. I wanted to ask possibly for a smut Alan Rickman fic please and thank you 🥰 Not of a character, just him as himself with fem!reader ❤️ thank you in advance!

Title: Layers of Sin

Summary: All she wanted was to feed her husband on set—what she got was Alan in full villainous costume, hard and hungry. Turns out, he was starving for more than just food.

Pairing: Alan Rickman × Fem! Reader

Warning: Smut

Also read on Ao3

You didn’t usually visit your husband on set.

In fact, you could count on one hand the number of times you’d done it in your entire marriage—and you’d probably still have fingers left. You didn’t like to be seen. The whole media circus had never appealed to you, not even when Alan’s face started showing up on posters around the world. You preferred your quiet life. Your books. Your garden. Your kitchen. Your husband, at home, with his feet up and a glass of wine in his hand.

But today… well.

Today he’d called you, his voice low and dramatic down the line like he was already halfway into character.

“I’m starving,” he groaned, like a man facing his final hours. “I’ve had three spoons of some grey, unidentifiable substance they claimed was soup. I’m not even sure it was food. Please… rescue me.”

You laughed, of course. You always did when he got like that—like a Shakespearean ghost who couldn’t find a decent sandwich. But you made him one anyway, along with a slice of lemon cake and that little thermos of tea he liked, the one with the lid that never quite screwed on straight.

Alan had been especially busy that year—2006 had come like a storm. He was splitting himself between two films: Harry Potter, which he barely tolerated, and Sweeney Todd, which he was practically giddy over. You’d never seen him so animated as when he described working with Tim Burton, throwing around phrases like “unapologetic darkness” and “opera of murder” over breakfast.

But Potter? That was different.

He respected the work. Respected the crew. But he didn’t love it. Not the way people assumed. You were almost sure he would’ve given it up by now if his agents hadn’t quietly insisted—and if the paycheck hadn’t politely reminded him how many zeroes came with fame.

So here you were, standing outside the trailer on the Sweeney Todd set with a bag of real food in one hand and a fond exasperation in your chest. A few crew members passed by and offered polite smiles. You returned them, nodding when one assistant told you Alan was in his trailer, “resting—or sulking, I can’t quite tell.”

That sounded about right.

You raised your hand and knocked on the trailer door. There was a pause. Then, the distinct shuffle of footsteps and the sound of a familiar voice behind the door.

“Oh, thank God,” Alan said dramatically as he opened it. “You’ve saved a dying man.”

You froze a little when you saw him in his costume. There was Judge Turpin in his full, grim element—buttoned into that severe black frock coat, high white cravat stiff against his throat, the cold sheen of authority practically clinging to his shoulders. The transformation was unsettling, even to you. His hair was slicked back harshly, drained of its usual softness, and his face… it wasn’t Alan’s face, not quite. It was tighter, crueler, the mouth set in a stern line, the eyes shadowed with something weightier than fatigue.

For a flicker of a second, you understood why he called this role “unapologetic darkness.” And why it lingered on him more than most.

Alan noticed your gaze almost immediately. His hazel eyes flicked down to the costume, then back up, his expression softening as he read your reaction. “Ah,” he murmured, dryly. “Yes. It’s a bit much before lunch, isn’t it?”

Before you could answer, he reached for your arm and tugged you inside the trailer with a touch more urgency than usual. “I’m filming a courtroom scene today,” he explained quickly, his voice dipping into that gravel-edged register he used when slipping out of character. “Turpin on the bench. Condemning the innocent. All in a morning’s work.”

You nodded slowly, still eyeing the cravat like it might lunge at you.

Alan sighed as he collapsed into the small chair by the trailer’s makeshift table, immediately reaching for the bag in your hand. “Is it strange,” he asked, pulling out the sandwich like a man possessed, “that I feel more guilt about lunch than sentencing a man to hang?”

You laughed softly. “Was the food at the buffet really that bad?”

He didn’t even look up as he unwrapped the sandwich with trembling reverence. “I ate something they claimed was mushroom risotto. It tasted like old socks and kitchen regret.”

“That’s oddly specific.”

He took a grateful bite, closed his eyes, and let out a low, indecent moan of pleasure. “This… this is salvation. This is what will keep me from slipping into full villainy.”

You leaned against the edge of the tiny kitchenette, watching him devour the sandwich like a man just returned from war. His fingers still bore faint makeup smudges, and the rings of costume powder around his collar made him look paler than he was. But under all that, it was still Alan—hooked nose and quick wit, the faint crow’s feet by his eyes betraying the smile he didn’t quite wear yet.

“I brought cake too,” you said after a moment. “Lemon. From the tin you like.”

He froze mid-chew, eyes lighting up as he swallowed. “You’re going to spoil me. I’ll expect this every shoot day now.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He paused. “Actually, I would. And have.”

You handed him the thermos next. “The lid’s crooked again,” you warned.

He took it anyway, uncapped it without hesitation, and sniffed dramatically. “Ah. Tea. The one true constant in this chaotic world.”

As he drank, you let yourself study him more closely. There were lines of weariness around his eyes, yes—but there was also that familiar glint. That spark. The one that only flickered when he was truly engaged, deep in the work, no matter how grim the role. You’d seen it during Die Hard, again in Quigley Down Under, and now, even under the weight of a merciless judge’s robes… it was there.

Alan glanced up then, catching you watching him.

“What?”

You shrugged. “Nothing. Just... glad you still look like you.”

A slow, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Even under all this?”

“Especially under all that.”

He reached for your hand then, warm fingers curling around yours with a gentle squeeze. “Stay a while,” he murmured. “Just until they call me back. I promise not to sentence anyone to death while you’re here.”

You smiled, settling into the opposite bench, eyes still on the man beneath the costume.

Alan noticed your gaze. Again.

You were staring. Not discreetly. And not, strictly speaking, at him—but at the costume. At the severe black robe stretched across his broad shoulders, at the stiff white cravat wrapped around his neck, at the high moral indignation stitched into every inch of that grim, judicial silhouette.

Your eyes dropped the moment his brow lifted, the heat rising in your cheeks as you looked away, suddenly fascinated by the crooked lid on the thermos.

“…You look nice,” you mumbled, the words slipping out too fast, too soft.

Alan stilled mid-chew. Then swallowed deliberately. “Nice,” he echoed, voice warm but teasing. “That’s what we’re going with?”

You glanced at him. His mouth was curved now—not into one of his usual, charming smiles, but something slower. Sharper. The corners tugged just enough to make you nervous. His hazel eyes gleamed beneath those dark brows, the edge of Judge Turpin creeping back in, sliding around the room like a shadow that hadn’t quite been banished.

“Is it the robe?” he asked, casually licking a bit of mayonnaise from the corner of his lip. “Is that what’s gotten you flustered?”

You stiffened. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Ah. Denial.” His baritone dropped, lower now, velvet laced with something darker. “That’s always the first sign of guilt.”

You shot him a warning glance, but he only leaned back against the bench, thighs spread, one hand resting on his knee like he was prepared to pass divine judgement on your hormones.

“Come here,” he said, voice low. Commanding.

“Alan—”

“You brought me lunch,” he interrupted, gesturing to the remains of his sandwich. “You’ve saved me from culinary despair. I should thank you properly.”

You hesitated. You always did when he got like this—half in character, half in control. It was dangerous ground. Which, of course, was why he liked it.

“I’ve got ten minutes,” he added, voice softening slightly but still lined with mischief. “Plenty of time to ruin you. Eat cake. And return to set as if nothing happened.”

You flushed deeper, but your feet moved before your brain could object. Alan reached for you when you were close enough, guiding you gently but insistently onto his lap, his palms sliding to the backs of your thighs as he pulled you across him, straddling him on the judge’s robe like some courtroom scandal.

“Is this a bribe, Judge?” you murmured against his mouth as he kissed you, warm and unhurried, his fingers curling at your waist.

He hummed, baritone vibrating low in his chest. “No, darling. This is gratitude.”

Your hands found his cravat, fingers pressing against the stiff fabric at his throat as his lips slid to your jaw, then your neck. His teeth grazed just beneath your ear.

“You should be eating,” you whispered, breath catching as he tugged your hips forward.

“I am,” he murmured darkly, letting his mouth descend again—this time, to the pulse at your throat. “You’re just… dessert.”

You let out a shaky laugh, fingers tightening against his shoulders. “Alan—someone could knock—”

“They won’t. I’m scheduled. I’m a judge, remember?” His smirk curved against your skin. “No one interrupts a man with power and a full stomach.”

You tried to scold him, but then his hands were sliding up your thighs, dragging the hem of your skirt higher, pressing you down against the firm bulge beneath all that black fabric. You gasped softly, hips twitching at the contact, the heat of him burning through the layers between you.

“Ten minutes,” he whispered against your lips. “Give me ten minutes, and then you can go back to pretending I’m just your tired husband eating cake.”

You bit your lip. Then nodded. And Alan Rickman—half man, half menace in a judge’s robe—grinned like a man who had just sentenced someone to ecstasy.

It wasn’t a comfortable chair. You knew this. Alan knew this. Hell, the chair itself knew—it creaked like it was pleading for mercy, wedged in the corner of the cramped trailer like a prop nobody had the heart to throw out. It had a stiff back, no give, and one arm that tilted slightly too low, as though resigned to its fate.

And still, you were in it. Straddling him. Your knees braced awkwardly on either side of the armrests, your skirt hiked up past your hips, his ridiculous judge’s robe bunching between you as he wrestled to push it aside. It wasn’t elegant. It wasn’t smooth. But it was happening.

Because there was no time. Not today. Not in the sliver of stolen minutes between scenes. Not when Alan’s hair was still slicked back, not when he still smelled like stage powder and expensive costume wool, and not when his cock was hard and heavy beneath you, straining against the constraints of time, space, fabric, and basic logic.

“Remind me again,” he muttered under his breath, his baritone thick with frustration as he shoved layers of black robe upward with one hand, the other gripping your hip. “Why the devil does this character need so many layers?”

“You insisted it was authentic,” you whispered back, already sliding your fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear, breath hitching as you found yourself slick—already slick—for him.

Alan groaned, low and wrecked, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Authentic my arse,” he muttered. “We’re reenacting judicial sex crimes in a glorified broom closet.”

You laughed—but it caught in your throat when you found your clit, your fingers rubbing small, tight circles. You didn’t have time for slow. Neither of you did. Your thighs were already trembling, your breath shallow as you rocked just slightly above him, not enough for contact, but enough to let the heat build.

He saw what you were doing. Of course he did.

“Oh, you wicked thing,” he rasped, his voice dipping so low it barely made it past his teeth. “Teasing yourself right above me. That’s cruel. That’s absolutely—ah—Christ.”

You bit your lip, watching his eyes darken, watching the flush creep up his neck as he finally freed himself—his cock springing forward, flushed and thick, curving toward you like it knew where it belonged.

He reached down, fingers curling around the base as he held himself steady. “Come on, then,” he murmured, almost a dare. “You’ve got five minutes left to ride your judge before he has to go sentence someone to death.”

“Romantic,” you muttered breathlessly, angling your hips and lowering yourself slowly, the head of his cock catching on your entrance before pushing in—thick, hot, unrelenting.

You both moaned.

The stretch was intense, immediate, your walls clenching around him as he filled you inch by inch, your knees slipping on the armrests as your thighs trembled from the effort. Alan’s head fell back, his jaw tightening, the cords in his neck standing out as he gripped your hips with bruising force.

“Fuck—bloody hell—” he groaned, hips jerking up just enough to bury himself completely. “You’re always this tight when you’re in trouble?”

“I’m not in trouble,” you panted, nails digging into his shoulders as you started to move, the chair groaning in protest beneath you both.

“You’re in a judge’s lap with your skirt around your waist and my cock inside you,” he said tightly. “You’re definitely in trouble.”

You rolled your hips, and his words cut off in a strangled gasp.

The pace was fast—had to be. Your movements were desperate, uncoordinated, frantic. Every grind, every thrust was a chase, both of you riding the edge like you knew it wouldn’t last. Alan’s hands guided your rhythm, rough and unrepentant, pulling you down hard with every stroke, his breath ragged, his voice a low snarl in your ear.

“You’re going to make me come in this damned robe,” he hissed. “And I’ll have to walk back on set looking like the ghost of sexual misconduct.”

You laughed, breathless. “I’ll be the one leaking down my thighs while you go back to monologuing about sin.”

“Oh, that’s enough,” he growled, gripping your hips and slamming up into you hard, once, twice, again—until your head fell back, a sharp cry spilling from your lips as your body clenched, spasmed, gave in.

He felt it. God, he felt it. And he didn’t last long after that.

With a rough curse and a shudder that rocked the chair into the wall, Alan came—hot, deep, his hips jerking once more as he buried himself fully, breath stuttering in your ear.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, just panting, sweating, clinging. The robe was bunched beneath you like a suffocating quilt. The chair creaked in protest. And Alan, pale, flushed, breathless Alan, let his forehead fall to your shoulder with a groan.

“This was a terrible idea,” he said weakly.

You kissed the side of his throat. “But such a good one.”

He looked at the clock on the trailer wall. Six minutes. Alan exhaled, still flushed, still tangled up in the high of it, but already slipping into that efficient post-ecstasy calculation he always managed—six minutes was plenty. Enough time to devour that wonderful lemon cake you’d brought. Maybe even enough for a second cup of tea if he was quick.

You shifted first, gingerly easing off his lap with a shaky breath and adjusting your skirt back into something resembling decency. You both stilled for a moment, eyes dropping instinctively to the black judicial robe still bunched between you, half-trapped beneath your thighs.

No stains. You both sighed in relief at the same time.

Alan stood with a quiet groan, adjusting himself and tugging the robe back into place. His movements were brisk now—habitual, almost military. He smoothed his cravat with one hand while reaching for yours with the other.

“Come on,” he murmured. “Bathroom.”

You followed, your legs wobbly, your laugh breathless. “Demanding.”

“Efficient,” he corrected, pushing the small door open. “If anyone sees you walk out of here flushed and glowing, I’d like you to at least be clean.”

You both squeezed into the tiny private bathroom, a box barely big enough for one person, let alone two. Alan turned, shutting the door behind you with a quiet click, and the space immediately shrank around you. The air was thick—warm from your bodies, heavy with sweat, sex, and the lingering scent of his cologne under the costume powder.

He turned on the tap, washing his hands briskly as you leaned against the wall, still trying to catch your breath. His fingers worked quickly—efficient, just as he said. But when he reached for the paper towels and turned toward you, something shifted.

He paused.

Just... looked.

At you.

At your flushed cheeks and swollen lips. At your skirt still slightly wrinkled, your legs pressed together for modesty that came far too late. At the smear of lipstick half-faded from your kiss.

Alan handed you the paper towels without a word, but his eyes didn’t leave you.

You wiped your thighs as best you could, careful, deliberate. But the movement made your breath hitch, your body still hypersensitive, and the moment your legs parted just slightly, you heard the soft intake of breath from across the cramped room.

Then he kissed you. He didn’t ask. Didn’t ease into it. He just stepped forward, closed the last inch of space between you, and kissed you again—deeper this time. Rougher.

The kind of kiss that belonged to someone who hadn’t finished with you. His hand found your chin, fingers pressing just firmly enough to make you still, to tilt your face up. His mouth moved over yours like it had purpose, and his body followed—looming, pressing, all heat and height and shadow. You felt your back hit the cool tile, the angle of the sink jabbing your hip, but you didn’t care.

Not when he was kissing you like this. You gripped the front of his robes, fisting the fabric between your hands, feeling the coarse wool bunch beneath your fingers. The white of his cravat brushed your jaw, stiff and intrusive, a reminder of the role he wore even now.

Because this wasn’t just Alan. Not quite.

You felt it the moment his hand moved from your chin to your throat—not squeezing, just holding, just claiming. His thumb brushed your pulse. His lips never stopped.

And his voice, when it finally broke the kiss, wasn’t soft. “Look at you,” he rasped, his baritone a velvet snarl. “Ruined and still wanting.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes, dark and hooded, flicked over your face. Judge Turpin. You knew it. Felt it. Alan was still there, he always was, but the edges were blurred now, shadowed by character.

You’d seen this happen before. During Mesmer. During Rasputin. And now, again.

Alan had warned you. That sometimes a costume wasn’t just fabric. That some characters were masks, and others were mirrors.

“Alan,” you whispered, but even your voice shook—less protest, more plea.

His grip gentled.

He leaned in, brushing his nose along your cheek, his breath hot and steady against your ear.

“I’m right here,” he murmured. “Still me. Just… wearing something cruel.”

You closed your eyes.

And then he kissed your temple—soft, reverent, familiar.

The costume didn't vanish, but Alan did return.

Piece by piece.

[evans23]

Reblog the writers’ fortune cookie for luck!

[evans23]

Hey, how are you? Sorry to bother you, but I have a fanfic idea, if you're interested in writing it.

You know that fanfic you wrote "Exposed: A Dangerous Game"? So in the last part you wrote, Eli demands that only he photograph her for a fee and everything.

In this case, would it be possible for you to make a third part in which the reader, almost at the end of college or a little before, decides to end this arrangement with him? The reason would be that she would like to have a relationship that, now that she was at the end of her course and with the prospect of a job in her field, had some future. A relationship where her partner thought about marriage and children, about building a life with her. And the reader knows that Eli would not be that kind of man. You could also add to this reason that she was in love or on the verge of being in love with him, so she decided to end things before she really got hurt.

You could put this conversation in the middle of a sex scene between them or something. Eli... well, he wouldn't accept it at all for some reason that you might not want to put in (it's okay if you don't): he's reluctantly falling in love with her or he likes her company or something. So you'd make him very possessive.

Also, you could introduce a new classmate that the reader has been catching her eye with, and they talk and do some things together, and the reader thinks he's a potential candidate. Eli would notice this and get really jealous, but he wouldn't say anything about it for a while or whatever. It's up to you.

Just an idea and I apologize in advance for the long text! Kisses!

Title: The Terms of Use

Summary: She wanted out. He offered freedom. But obsession isn’t something Eli surrenders—it’s something he fucks deeper.

Pairing: Eli Michaelson × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Author's Notes: I want to give a special thank you to @graciesbow and @coldkidcookieneck for helping me with this story—for all the encouragement and ideas you shared. I really hope everyone enjoys it, even though part of me still feels like I strayed from the narrative a bit. Oh, and @coldkidcookieneck suggested that "Obsessed" by Mariah Carey fits the story, and I totally agree! And just a warning, there will be a part 4, which will probably be the last one.

First, Second and Third part here.

Also read on Ao3

Eli took the photos. Too many, if anyone asked. The bastard had ideas—scenarios, as he called them—like some twisted director with a dirty lens and a God complex. His office, first. Then his living room. The backseat of his car. Even the goddamn lecture hall after everyone else had gone home, the lights buzzing overhead, the smell of dry-erase markers still hanging in the air.

He had a list. A fucking list.

“Here,” he’d said, handing you a scrap of paper one night, fresh out of bed, his cock still wet, his baritone like velvet over gravel. “Outfit. Pose. Location. We’ll do three this week. Don’t eat lunch before, I want your stomach flat.”

You’d snatched the paper out of his hand, glare sharp, but you didn’t tear it up. You didn’t throw it back in his smug, self-satisfied face. You’d just shoved it in your bag and showed up. Like always.

He even bought a camera. Professional, he claimed. State of the art. Bullshit.

The thing clicked and whirred like a dying printer. Half the shots were crooked. He cut off your elbow. The lighting made you look like a haunted doll. But it didn’t matter. Eli didn’t care about framing or exposure.

He cared about you.

You bent over the armrest of his leather chair, breasts pressed against the cushions, ass in the air, head turned just enough for him to see your flushed cheek, your glassy eyes. His hand on the camera. His cock hard in his trousers.

“Don’t look at the lens,” he’d bark. “Look at me.”

You did.

And he dropped the camera to the floor—again—just so he could fuck you over the chair, grunting curses against your throat like some deranged auteur whose medium was possession.

The photos were awful.

But he loved them.

He printed them. Framed them. Carried them around on a flash drive like they were fucking data sets. And true to his word, he paid you for every shoot—stacks of bills in unmarked envelopes, like hush money from a man too arrogant to admit he was obsessed.

You almost started to believe you could live with it.

Until the third week. Until he found out.

It was a Thursday. Midterms had started. You’d barely slept. And Eli had been oddly nice that morning—nicer, at least—sitting beside you in his office as you reviewed formulas, his fingers ghosting your thigh, his voice low and indulgent as he corrected your work.

Then, the door slammed shut behind you.

You turned.

He was standing there, coat still on, magazine in hand. Not his photos. Playboy.

Hot off the press.

You knew that cover. The editor had emailed you proofs just last week. That issue wasn’t even supposed to be out until Friday.

But here it was.

And so was Eli. His eyes—hazel, bloodshot with rage—never left you as he tossed the magazine onto the desk. It landed face-up. You. Kneeling in nothing but thigh-highs and a pearl necklace, mouth parted in soft, pornographic surprise.

“You’re still doing it.”

His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

You swallowed. “I—”

“You lied to me,” he cut in, walking toward you with a slow, measured pace. “You looked me in the eye, let me fuck you in my office, in my bed, and you lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” you said quickly, “I just didn’t tell you—”

“Don’t you dare try to parse language with me, little girl,” he snapped, baritone rising like thunder in a bottle. “I asked you if you were done. You said yes. You fucking promised—”

“I have a contract!” you shouted, finally, chest rising and falling. “Six more shoots. The fine for breaking it is fifteen grand—I don’t have that kind of money.”

He went still, his hands clenched at his sides.

You pressed on, fast, before he could erupt again. “It’s the only reason I can afford tuition. Rent. Food. I don’t have rich parents or a Nobel Prize. I’m just trying to get through college and get the hell out of here—”

“Oh, you’ll get out,” Eli hissed, stepping closer, his face inches from yours. “But you’ll crawl.”

You stared up at him, trembling. “Eli—”

“No,” he snapped. “Not Eli. Not anymore.”

He reached behind you, grabbed the edge of the desk, and shoved everything off it with a crash. Pens, papers, his computer mouse—everything hit the floor in a cacophony.

“Bend over.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You want to whore yourself out for tuition?” he snarled. “Fine. But you’re going to pay me too.”

You took a step back. “This wasn’t the deal.”

“No,” he agreed, his voice soft and vicious. “Now it’s a punishment.”

He grabbed you by the wrist, dragging you to the desk, bending you over it with a force that stole the breath from your lungs. His hand splayed across your back, holding you down as you writhed beneath him.

“You don’t get to pretend anymore,” he whispered against your ear. “You don’t get to act like you’re just doing this for money.”

His hand slid under your skirt, yanking your panties down. “From now on,” Eli growled, “you pose for me. You fuck for me. You belong to me.”

You shuddered, lips parting in a ragged gasp.

“And if you disobey me again,” he added, his voice low and lethal, “I’ll send those photos to every academic committee you’ve ever applied to. We’ll see how generous Playboy is when your name hits a scandal blog.”

You froze.

Because you believed him. Because you knew he meant every word.

“Now,” he purred, lining his cock up with your dripping cunt, “let’s talk about that six-issue contract of yours…”

And then he thrust inside you like he was claiming what was owed.

Because Eli Michaelson didn’t forgive.

He collected.

When Eli finished, he let out a long, satisfied sigh and collapsed into the chair behind his desk, one hand lazily dragging down his face, the other resting on his spent thigh. His trousers were still open, his cock softening against his belly, and he looked like a man who’d just delivered a lecture that no one dared interrupt.

You didn’t say a word.

Just moved quietly. Deliberately. You gathered your clothes—what was left of them—sweater half-buttoned, panties twisted, your bag clutched tightly to your chest as you bent to retrieve your glasses from where he’d tossed them earlier. The room was silent except for the subtle rustle of fabric, your shallow breathing, the click of a belt buckle.

Eli didn’t pay you much attention.

Not at first. Not until he heard it.

A sniffle.

Soft. Choked. Barely audible—but it sliced through the air like a scalpel.

He looked up, confused. Irritated.

“What the hell are you crying for?” he asked, his baritone dry, incredulous.

You stood near the door now, your hand trembling as you wiped at your face with the back of your sleeve. You looked at him like you couldn’t believe the question had even left his mouth.

“You think I like this?” you spat, your voice tight, trembling. “Selling pictures of my body like I’m some kind of fucking whore?”

Eli blinked, caught off guard not by your tone—but by the tears. Actual tears. Not manipulation. Not performance. Not the teasing, breathy sobs you made while riding his cock, but real, quiet grief.

You pressed your lips together, swallowing the rest, your eyes shining with anger and something else—shame.

“Why the fuck do you think I’m here, Eli?” you asked, breath hitching. “Why do you think I go to class? Study? Work two jobs? Pose for disgusting men with cameras? You think I enjoy this shit?”

He didn’t answer. Just looked at you, his hazel eyes narrowing slightly, expression unreadable.

“I’m trying,” you whispered. “I’m trying to build a life where I don’t have to keep selling myself just to eat. I want a real career. One where I get to be smart and respected and not jerked off to by a man old enough to be my father.”

You wiped your cheek with shaking fingers.

“And I thought I had that,” you continued, voice cracking. “Here, at this school. No one knew me. No one recognized me. I was invisible and I liked it. I finally got to be someone other than the fucking centerfold.”

You turned your back, gripping the doorknob like it might hold you up.

“And then you found out,” you whispered. “And you ruined it.”

Eli sat there, hands frozen at the waistband of his trousers, the click of his belt buckle loud in the quiet room. He looked away. Not out of guilt—not that he’d admit—but because your crying made something sharp twist beneath his ribs, and he didn’t know what to do with it.

“Stop crying,” he muttered. Not cruel. Not cold. Just… uneasy.

You didn’t answer. You kept dressing. Pulling on your coat with jerky movements, shoulders hunched, throat tight with swallowed sobs.

He stood.

“Come here,” Eli said.

You didn’t move.

“I said come here.”

You shook your head. “Go to hell.”

He crossed the room in two steps.

His hand didn’t grab you—just rested on your shoulder, firm and heavy, the way a man who’d never learned to comfort might try to offer something resembling presence. His voice dropped, baritone low and coaxing.

“Come here.”

You turned slowly, reluctantly, eyes brimming with hurt—and Eli, without thinking, pulled you into his lap. The chair creaked beneath your combined weight, his arms steady around your waist. You resisted at first—halfhearted, angry—but eventually you let yourself fold into him, your face pressing into the collar of his shirt, your breath shaky against his skin.

“Please,” you whispered. “Please don’t ruin this for me. Don’t make me start over again. I can’t—” Your voice broke. “I can’t lose this. My scholarship. My advisor. I just… I just want to be something.”

Eli didn’t respond right away. His fingers ghosted up your back, unsure, awkward, but steady. His hooked nose brushed against your hair. He could smell your sweat, your perfume, the faint trace of tears and shame.

And something, God help him, twisted in his chest. He didn't say sorry, he didn't promise anything; he couldn't; that wasn't who he was.

But he didn’t push you away, either. He just held you there in his lap, quiet, still, his hands resting at the small of your back, until your shaking started to ease.

And when your breath finally slowed, your tears soaking into the collar of his expensive shirt, he said, quietly:

“You’re done with those Playboy shoots,” he said flatly, his baritone calm in that dangerous way, like a bomb ticking down. “Today.”

You blinked up at him, still curled awkwardly in his lap, tear-streaked, skin bare under your half-buttoned coat. Your eyes, puffy and raw from crying, were wide with something between confusion and disbelief. “What?”

“I said you’re finished,” he repeated, slower this time, like he was speaking to a particularly stupid lab tech. “No more centerfolds. No more glossy come-hither bullshit. You’re done.”

You sat up slightly, your fingers tightening in the fabric of his shirt. “But I told you—I can’t break the contract. There’s a penalty fee. A huge one.”

“I’ll pay it.”

You froze.

The silence was thick, stunned. Your breath caught in your throat, your eyes flickering to his face like you weren’t sure if you’d heard him right.

“…You’ll what?”

Eli didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He just leaned back slightly in the chair, his arm still firm around your waist, hazel eyes fixed on you like a predator who’d already done the math.

“I’ll pay the fine. Tear up the contract. Walk away from all of it.”

Your mouth opened, closed, opened again. “But—that’s—”

He cut you off with a sharp wave of his hand, his baritone crisp and impatient. “And before you ask me about tuition and books and all the other student bullshit—yes. I’ll cover that too.”

You stared at him.

He tilted his head, the hook of his nose casting a sharp shadow across his cheek as his lips curved into a slow, smug smirk.

“But you’re going to sign my contract.”

Your stomach twisted. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”

“You’ll finish your degree,” he continued, ignoring the way you flinched, “on my dime. I’ll pay your tuition, your fees, your textbooks, all of it. And in return, you’ll work for me for a few years after graduation. I need an assistant. You’re good at chemistry. I can use that.”

You blinked. Hard. “Wait… that’s it?”

Eli’s smirk deepened. “Disappointed?”

You didn’t answer right away. Your body was still tense, half-expecting some filthy twist, some degrading clause.

“You’re not asking me to…” You lowered your voice, glancing toward the door like someone might hear. “To do sex work for you. As part of this job.”

His brows rose, amused. “Do I look like a man who wants to fuck his lab assistant during conference calls?”

“Yes,” you said flatly.

He let out a bark of laughter, shaking his head. “Well, I don’t. I need someone competent who won’t ask idiotic questions while I’m trying to prove a compound isn’t thermodynamically stable just because it looks pretty on a whiteboard.”

You swallowed hard. “So this is… a real offer?”

“It’s a Michaelson offer,” he said. “Which means it’s binding, inconveniently generous, and not open for negotiation.”

You chewed your lip, brows furrowing. “What about my rent?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Well,” he drawled, “that’s not a necessity, is it? You want me to pay your rent, you’ll have to earn it.”

“…You mean with photos.”

“Exactly,” Eli said, pleased. “Still need to supplement your income? Fine. You take pictures for me. Exclusive, of course. I’ve been thinking about a new scene.”

“Oh God.”

“A bathtub,” he continued thoughtfully, like he was planning a thesis. “Old-fashioned clawfoot tub, white porcelain. Maybe some bubbles. Just enough to tease. You could wear pearls again. That necklace looked exquisite wrapped around your throat.”

You huffed. “Your pictures aren’t even good.”

That stopped him cold.

Eli’s expression shifted—just slightly. His smirk faltered, and his hazel eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

You crossed your arms. “They’re not. Half of them are blurry, the lighting’s off, and your angles are atrocious. You cut off the top of my head in three of them.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Eli reached into his pocket.

You blinked. “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer. Just dug into the front of his trousers, fingers slipping into the lining like he was fishing for keys—or a scalpel. And then he pulled them out.

Photos. Glossy. Printed. Your photos.

You gasped. “You’re carrying them around?” you shrieked.

He looked smug. “Of course.”

“In your pocket?”

“Yes.”

You stared at him, horrified. “Why?”

“Because I like them.”

“That’s not—normal!”

He shrugged, unbothered, flipping one over and holding it up to the light. “You look particularly fuckable in this one. It’s the one where you’re lying on my bed, wearing nothing but my glasses and a pencil in your mouth.”

Your face burned. “That was your idea.”

“Excellent idea,” he said. “One of my best, actually.”

You groaned, covering your face with both hands. “You’re sick.”

“Mm,” he said, already sliding the photos back into his pocket, neat and unrepentant. “And you’re under contract.”

Your hands dropped from your face. “You haven’t written a contract yet.”

He smiled, all teeth.

“Oh, sweetheart. I started writing it the moment you said 'Please, Professor'.”

The days passed. And Eli, of course, did exactly as he promised. He paid off your Playboy contract in full—wire transfer, no questions asked. Within forty-eight hours, the editor was emailing you with a sour “Best of luck” and a very legal “Your termination has been processed.” Tuition? Paid. Books? Delivered in a neat stack to your dorm room, with a post-it from Eli that just said: You’re welcome. Don’t spill anything on the thermodynamics text.

You didn’t know how to feel.

You were trapped. You knew that. Bound to a man who carried your nudes in his suit pocket and called them “inspiration.” But somehow—strangely, confusingly—you still felt… free.

Maybe because Eli didn’t make you choose.

He didn’t force you to sleep with him. Not again. Not explicitly. Not after that night.

Instead, he let you study. Pushed you, even. He sat next to you with a red pen and a scowl as you solved reaction equations, occasionally snatching your notebook just to correct something with an infuriating flourish. He insulted your sloppy handwriting and your “teenage girl pen preference,” but he stayed up until two a.m. helping you understand your chromatography lab results.

And he talked to you. That was the strangest part. Not sweet nothings, not compliments—but real conversation. About literature. About chemistry. About the way most Nobel laureates were “smug bastards with bad skin and worse ethics.” He teased you. You teased him back. Once, you even made him laugh so hard he spilled coffee on his own lap, then blamed you for it.

It was… a weird relationship. It didn’t have a name. You weren’t dating. You weren’t exclusive. You weren’t naive enough to think Eli didn’t sleep with other women. He didn’t bother to hide it. You saw the wrappers in his trash. The lipstick on the wine glasses. Once, you found a lacy thong in his laundry room and just threw it in the bin without comment.

But he didn’t use condoms with you.

So you kept a strict routine. Pills on time, every time. And you focused on school. You had to.

There was no time to fall in love—not with Eli, not with anyone.

Especially not with Eli.

That night, for example, you were sitting cross-legged on his couch, eating Chinese food straight from the carton, chopsticks in one hand, your laptop open beside you. Eli sat across from you in his armchair, glasses low on the bridge of his hooked nose, flipping through a stack of freshly printed photos.

“You blinked in half of these,” he muttered.

You rolled your eyes, shoveling lo mein into your mouth. “Because your flash is set to nuclear.”

He didn’t look up. “And your posture is getting worse. Sit up straight next time. Arch your back.”

“I’m eating noodles,” you said through a mouthful. “Not auditioning for Penthouse.”

Eli held up a photo—one where you were sprawled on his rug in a silk robe, one leg hooked over the arm of the couch, hair falling over one shoulder. Your face was turned just enough to be coy, lips parted, eyes hazy.

“This one,” he said, tapping the corner. “Frame-worthy.”

You swallowed, then reached for the egg roll. “You say that every time.”

“And I mean it every time.”

You glanced at him. “You ever going to tell me what you do with them?”

He raised an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“I think if the university ever searched your laptop, your tenure would burst into flames.”

Eli smirked. “Please. I keep them on a private drive. Triple encrypted. Labeled ‘Lab Archives.’”

You snorted. “That’s actually disgusting.”

“And yet you keep letting me take them.”

You paused, egg roll halfway to your mouth. “You pay me.”

He shrugged. “You let me fuck you for free.”

You threw a fortune cookie at him.

He caught it midair, nonchalant, and set it on the coffee table. “Tell me something honest,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “Like what?”

“Anything. What you’re thinking. What you want. What you hate.”

You hesitated. Then, slowly: “I think… I’m starting to understand you.”

That made him pause. Just slightly. His hazel eyes lifted from the photo in his hand.

You pressed on, more cautiously this time. “Not like, agree with you. But understand. You’re an asshole. You manipulate people. You treat everyone like they’re dumber than you because they usually are. But you also… remember things. Help. Teach.”

You twirled your chopsticks, gaze flicking down to the pile of photos on the table. “You make me feel smart,” you murmured. “Even when you’re making me feel used.”

The silence stretched. Then Eli leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and looked at you.

His voice was low. Steady. “You’re not used,” he said. “You’re mine.”

You didn’t know whether that was better or worse. But you knew—somehow—that it was true.

And for tonight, that was enough. You were halfway through your egg roll when Eli’s phone buzzed on the table, the screen lighting up with a familiar soft-blue glow. He didn’t flinch—barely even looked—but you did, peering over your noodles with idle curiosity.

“Who is it?” he asked lazily, still flipping through the stack of photos in his lap.

You leaned forward, squinting.

“It’s… an international number. London,” you said. Then, after a beat: “Thomas Benson?”

Eli didn’t even glance up. Just grunted. “Ignore it.”

You blinked. “You’re not going to answer?”

“No,” he said flatly. “It’s just my little brother.”

You froze mid-chew, your brows lifting slowly. “You have a brother?”

Eli finally glanced up, one brow arched. “Half-brother. Father’s side.”

Your chopsticks paused in the air, forgotten. “And… he’s in London?”

“He’s ten,” Eli said, his voice distant, almost distracted. “Got a phone for Christmas. Calls me almost every day. Mostly to tell me about frogs or Minecraft or whatever he thinks is going to impress someone with a Nobel Prize.”

There was a strange tone to his voice—not annoyance exactly. Not affection either. Just something weary. Dismissive. Like the kid was a wrinkle in a suit Eli didn’t have time to iron.

But you weren’t letting this go.

“Wait, wait,” you said, setting the food carton aside. “His name is Benson? Not Michaelson?”

That made Eli look at you, fully this time, his hazel eyes narrowing over the rim of his glasses. “You’re very nosy.”

You grinned, unrepentant, and chucked another fortune cookie at him. “It’s called being curious. You should try it sometime.”

He caught the cookie—again—and this time didn’t even blink. Just set it on the arm of his chair like you were handing him ammunition for later.

Then, with a soft, resigned sigh, he stood and finally reached for the phone, which was still buzzing insistently. He didn’t answer it—just stared down at the screen a moment, the light painting his hooked nose and sharp jaw in flickers.

“I don’t use my father’s name,” he said at last, voice lower, more tired than usual. “Not since I was seventeen.”

You sat up straighter.

“He and I don’t get along. We never did. But it got worse after my mother died.”

You were quiet now, watching him closely. The lines in his face looked deeper in this light. The usual smugness in his posture had faded just enough to make room for something else—something you weren’t used to seeing on Eli Michaelson.

He exhaled through his nose. “She was the only person in that house who didn’t treat me like an soldier. Or a threat.”

He paused, thumb still hovering over the phone screen. “When she died, I stopped being his son. I became his failure. His competition. His problem.”

You swallowed. “So you took your mother’s name.”

He nodded once. “Michaelson was her maiden name. I used it on my first published paper. I was twenty-one. He didn’t even notice until it showed up in Nature. By then, it was too late.”

He let out a humorless laugh. “He called it petty. I called it autonomy.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Eli rarely talked about anything that wasn’t scientific, sexual, or scathing. And yet here he was, standing in front of you in a living room littered with noodles and nudes, holding a phone he didn’t want to answer from a brother he didn’t ask for, wearing a name that wasn’t the one he was born with.

“I didn’t know,” you said softly.

“Of course you didn’t,” he muttered, glancing away.

“Do you ever… talk to your dad?” you asked, cautiously.

Eli snorted. “He sends Christmas cards. I burn them.”

You gave a small, dry laugh despite yourself.

“And Thomas?”

Eli’s jaw twitched. “He’s a good kid. Too young to know better.”

You tilted your head. “So why not answer?”

He looked at you then. Really looked.

And for a second, you saw something in his eyes—not guilt. Never guilt. But maybe... reluctance.

“Because every time I do,” Eli said, baritone low and steady, “I remember what it’s like to talk to someone who still thinks I’m a hero.”

You blinked.

“And I’d rather not hear that voice change.”

The phone stopped buzzing.

He set it down with care, then turned back toward you, his face already slipping back into its usual guarded precision. “Now. Are you going to eat the rest of that egg roll, or are you just going to stare at me like I’ve grown a conscience?”

You stared at him another moment, heart strange and soft in your chest.

Then you picked up the egg roll.

And threw that at him too.

It was amazing how fast time had passed.

Your last year of college had crept up like a quiet threat, suddenly everywhere—capstone deadlines, job fairs, applications, exit interviews. You were almost done. Almost free.

And Eli knew it.

The contract had always been clear: he paid your tuition, your books, your rent. In exchange, you worked for him—assistant duties, photos, whatever he asked. There was no salary, not until the debt was paid off. But the experience alone? Worth it. His name on your résumé would open doors. Maybe not every door, but enough. You had plans. A real future. A job with benefits. A house outside the city. A garden. A dog. Maybe a husband. Maybe a child.

But none of it included Eli Michaelson.

You knew that. He did too.

That’s why you tried to end it. Tried to say it while he was licking your pussy like he owned it, moaning softly against your clit like it soothed something ancient in him. A mistake. A strategic disaster.

You were breathless, thighs trembling around his head, one hand buried in his silver-streaked hair when you whispered, “Eli—this is the last one.”

His tongue didn’t stop. If anything, he flicked it harder.

You gasped. “I mean it.”

He pulled back just enough to glare at you, hazel eyes dark and narrowed beneath the sharp bridge of his nose. “The fuck does that mean?”

You swallowed. “I don’t want to do this anymore. The photos. The... us.”

He blinked. Slowly. Sat up, his shirt half-unbuttoned, face still slick with you.

“You’re ending this,” he said, flatly, “while I’m eating your cunt.”

“I—”

“Jesus Christ.” He stood, buttoning his shirt with short, furious movements. “Is this about that friend of yours?”

You froze. “What?”

“The one with the hair. The stupid fucking scarf. He’s always hanging around your building like a stray cat in heat.”

“His name is Jordan,” you snapped. “And no. It’s not about him.”

“Bullshit,” Eli barked. “You think I haven’t seen the way you look at him? Like he’s some goddamn fantasy come to life.”

“I’m thinking about my future,” you shouted. “Something you clearly don’t give a shit about unless it’s framed and laminated and hanging in a university hallway.”

“Oh, don’t be so fucking noble,” he snarled. “You liked this. You loved it. You came crawling back every time. You let me touch you. Pose you. Fuck you. Don’t act like you’re suddenly above it because some underfed undergrad told you he likes your handwriting.”

You stepped forward, rage curling tight in your chest. “I’m twenty-five, Eli. I want a family someday. A real one. A house. Stability. You can’t even commit to a coffee order.”

“I gave you everything,” he hissed. “I paid for your future.”

“And now I’m trying to build it!”

The room went still. His fists clenched. His jaw set. That impossible nose catching the light like a blade.

Then, quietly, he said, “You’re mine.”

You stared. “What?”

“You’re mine,” Eli repeated, voice low and hoarse. “You don’t get to leave. Not yet.”

Your heart hammered. “You don’t love me.”

His eyes flickered.

“You like owning me,” you said, each word sharper than the last. “You like fucking me. But you don’t love me. And I can’t build my life on a man who calls me a whore when he’s angry and forgets I exist when he’s bored.”

His face gave nothing.

You turned, grabbing your coat. “I’m finishing the degree,” you said. “I’ll work the contract. I’ll be professional. But after that? We’re done. No more photos. No more sex. No more you.”

You opened the door.

“Close it,” Eli said behind you, voice dark and shaking. “Close it right now.”

You didn’t.

He caught up to you before you’d made it five steps from the garage. You didn’t even hear him coming—just felt the sudden grip of his hand on your wrist, then your back slammed into cold metal. Eli’s car, the dented Mercedes he never washed, gleaming under the harsh light of the streetlamp like a complicit witness.

“Let go of me—”

“You’re not leaving,” he snarled, his face inches from yours, breath sharp with coffee and spite. “Not yet.”

His mouth crashed into yours, angry and desperate, teeth scraping, tongue ruthless. His hand found your waist, the other threading into your hair, yanking your head back just enough to make you gasp.

“I’m not done with you,” Eli growled, baritone cracking against your skin. “Not done eating that perfect fucking cunt.”

Before you could answer—before you could shove him away or scream or laugh or do anything to stop this train wreck—he dropped to his knees.

Right there.

On the pavement.

You froze. “Eli—what the hell are you—”

He hiked your skirt up with both hands, shoving your coat aside. Cold air kissed your thighs as he yanked your panties to the side with an impatient flick of his fingers.

“I said,” he rasped, mouth already hot against your skin, “I’m not done.”

Then he buried his face between your legs. You whimpered—sharp and involuntary—as his tongue dragged through your folds with zero preamble, zero finesse. Just raw, possessive hunger. His hooked nose pressed firm against your mound, lips sealed over your clit like he was starving, like eating you was oxygen and he hadn’t breathed in days.

“F-fuck, Eli—” You squirmed, one hand flying to the roof of the car for balance, the other grabbing a fistful of his silver-streaked hair. “Someone’s gonna see—!”

“Let them,” he muttered into your pussy, tongue relentless. “Let them see whose cunt this is.”

You gasped as he sucked your clit between his lips, tongue tapping fast, fingers digging into your thighs to hold you still. You tried to close your legs. He growled. Bit you. Spread you wider with his shoulders until your knees buckled and your moans echoed into the empty street.

He didn’t slow. Not even when your hips bucked, not even when your thighs trembled, not even when your breath hitched in short, helpless sobs.

“You think that idiot John’s gonna make you this wet?” Eli snarled, pulling back just long enough to glare up at you, mouth slick, his voice gravel over fire.

You blinked, half gone. “His name’s Jordan—”

“I don’t care,” he snapped, diving back in like your correction had only pissed him off more.

He flicked your clit with ruthless precision, tongue punishing, lips sucking, fingers bruising your thighs. You cried out, clutching at his hair, shaking all over.

“Answer me,” he growled. “You think he’ll ever make you come like this?”

“N-no—fuck, Eli, please—”

“Say it,” he hissed. “Say it’s mine.”

“It’s yours—it’s yours—!”

You shattered. Came with a scream, your body arching against the car, your knees giving out entirely as he held you up by the hips and drank you in.

When he stood, his lips glistened. His eyes were fire and ice and jealousy and something far too close to pain.

“You don’t walk away from this,” he said, voice low and rough, pushing you gently but firmly across the hood of his car. “You don’t walk away from me.”

You tried to speak, but he had you bent before you could form a word. One swift motion—your panties down, your hands braced against cold metal—and his cock was out, thick and hard and already slick from how badly he needed you.

“Eli—wait—someone—”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he growled, slamming into you with a brutal thrust that knocked the wind out of you. “You’re going to feel me. You’re going to remember.”

You moaned, loud, shameful, needy.

He grabbed your hips and pounded into you like the night owed him something, like you did. Every thrust was a punishment, a plea, a broken promise.

His voice never stopped.

“You think he’ll take care of you?”

Thrust.

“You think he’ll pay your tuition?”

Thrust.

“You think he’ll memorize the sound you make when you come around his fucking tongue?”

Thrust.

“You think he’d get on his fucking knees for you?”

Thrust.

You sobbed. There was no other word for it. You cried out against the hood, forehead pressed to cool metal, thighs trembling.

He leaned over you, breath hot on your neck. “He’ll never know you,” he whispered. “Not like I do. Not like I will.”

You moaned, broken, as he fucked you deeper.

And Eli—God, Eli—he was unraveling too. Not that he’d say it. Not that he’d admit what this was.

But it was there.

In every savage thrust. In every hiss of your name. In the way his hand covered yours on the car, fingers lacing with yours like he wasn’t just fucking you—he was holding on.

Because the truth was simple.

He didn't know how to love, but he knew he couldn't lose you. And in Eli Michaelson’s world? That was as close as it got.

The cold made your nipples pebble through your bra, visible even in the dim light. Eli noticed. Of course he did. His hand slid up from your waist, fingers splaying wide over your breast, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. He pinched your nipple through the thin lace, twisting just enough to make your back arch and your pussy clench tighter around his cock.

“Sensitive tonight,” he murmured, smug, his voice that familiar blend of velvet and gravel. “You like getting fucked in public, sweetheart?”

You whimpered, your cheek still pressed against the hood of the car, hips canted up just enough for him to keep driving into you. But when he rolled his hips—not hard, not fast, just deep, slow, intentional—he found that spot inside you. The one that made your legs shake. The one that always made your body betray you.

You cried out, biting your lip to muffle it. Too late.

“Fuck,” Eli groaned, feeling your cunt flutter around him. “There it is. That little spot that makes you melt.”

He was losing rhythm now, but not control. Never control. His thrusts were measured, deliberate, every one angled to hit that place—watching you tremble beneath him like a live wire.

Eli Michaelson had never been a man who cared about anyone’s orgasm but his own. He got off, he left. That was the deal. The standard. But with you?

With you, it was different.

He wanted to learn you. Wanted to master you the way he mastered equations and experiments—thorough, precise, obsessive. He wanted to know every reaction, every weakness. Wanted to make your body his.

He loved the way you looked with your thighs spread and your cheeks flushed, your voice gone raw from begging. He loved the way your pussy spasmed around him when you came, and the way his cum leaked out of you after, dripping down your thighs like a signature.

And the idea of someone else seeing that? Feeling that?

It made something violent stir in his chest.

“Fucking hell,” he growled, almost to himself. “I can’t stand the thought of anyone else inside you.”

He released your breast with a rough squeeze, then brought his hand to his mouth, sucking the same fingers that had just pinched your nipple. Slowly. Deliberately.

Then his wet fingers slid down.

Further.

Lower.

You froze—body tight with anticipation—until you felt the slick press of his finger circling that tight ring of muscle behind your pussy, the one he knew drove you crazy when you let him near it.

“Relax,” he muttered, his tone dropping into that dark, coaxing register. “You know I know how to do this.”

You whimpered, arching back against him, your body already giving in before your brain caught up.

His finger moved in slow, teasing circles, barely pressing in. Just enough to make your breath catch. Just enough to remind you that he was the one who got to do this. That he was the one who knew every part of you—even the ones you hadn’t meant to give.

“You think that little scarf-wearing shit could handle you like this?” he muttered, mouth close to your ear now, hips still rolling inside you, his cock deep and thick and pulsing. “Think he’d even know where to touch you?”

You shook your head. Weak. Desperate.

“Say it,” Eli hissed, his finger still circling, his cock buried deep. “Say no one else gets this.”

“N-no one,” you breathed. “Only you.”

“Damn right,” he growled.

And then—still fucking you deep, still rubbing that tight little hole—he slipped his finger inside.

You choked on a moan, body convulsing, every muscle locking as sensation overwhelmed you.

Eli groaned, low and brutal, as he felt you clench around both his cock and his finger.

“Goddamn, sweetheart,” he whispered, baritone thick with hunger. “You were fucking made for me.”

[evans23]

The Officer’s Girl

Summary: Frank Benson doesn't do feelings, but she’s not just another girl in a booth. When she shuts him out, he learns what it means to lose control.

Pairing: Frank Benson × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Jealousy

Author's Notes: I wrote this second chapter for Frank while listening to Beyoncé’s song ‘Haunted.’ So, if you’d like, you can play that song while reading it!

First and Second part here.

Also read on Ao3

Frank Benson had been gone for two nights.

Just two.

Forty-eight hours in which your entire understanding of what happened between you shattered under the unbearable weight of silence. He’d come to the club for weeks. Every night. Sat in the same damn booth, drank the same slow glass of scotch, tipped you like you were a goddess. Then he fucked you like he meant it—like he felt it—and whispered that you were his.

And then he vanished. No calls. No messages. Not even a goddamn explanation. Not that he could’ve sent one—you hadn’t exchanged numbers. But you’d assumed—wrongly, it seemed—that he’d ask for yours. That a man who held you like that afterward, stroked your hair while you drifted off against his chest whispering nonsense about the ceiling fan, wouldn’t just disappear like the rest.

But he had.

And it hurt.

You’d told yourself you weren’t surprised. That it was predictable, expected. That a man like him—older, respectable, decorated—wouldn’t stick around for a dancer with glitter in her bra and rent to pay. Maybe he regretted it. Maybe it had been a moment of weakness, something shameful he’d locked away the minute he left the club. Maybe you were just another story he’d never tell.

The realization stung more than you wanted to admit. So on the third night, when Frank did walk in—his uniform crisp, silver hair combed back, hazel eyes sharp as ever—you didn’t light up.

You didn’t smile. You danced.

Same as always. Smooth. Confident. The red lingerie this time, you knew he liked. You saw him in the corner. You felt his eyes on you like a brand. But this time, you didn’t look his way. Didn’t offer that private smile.

You didn’t owe him that anymore. And when the manager slipped into the dressing room with a folded bill and the usual nod—“Private request, table three”—you didn’t even ask who. You just said, “Tell him I’m not available tonight.”

Frank waited in the private booth—the same one he’d kissed you in, touched you in, fucked you in—his hands resting stiffly on his thighs, his cap folded neatly in one palm. The leather of the booth creaked beneath his weight, and the low lighting cast shadows across his features, deepening the furrow between his brows.

He was nervous.

Goddamn nervous.

And that, more than anything, pissed him off. It wasn’t like him. Not in the field. Not in boardrooms. Not when staring down ministers or generals or even drone feeds with lives on the line. But here? Sitting in a back room of a strip club, waiting for a woman half his age to walk through the door with that soft smile and the scent of violets curling around her skin?

He was fucking anxious.

He hadn’t meant to be gone. The army had swallowed him again—late meetings, sudden briefings, an emergency call from the Defense Ministry that sent him halfway to Brussels for a day and a half of bureaucratic hell. He hadn’t even had time to breathe, let alone come back here, let alone find you. And he didn’t have your number—he hadn’t asked. Stupid. Stupid, like a schoolboy who thought the connection between you had been enough. Like a man who hadn’t been left before.

But he was here now. And all he wanted was to see you. Touch your hair. Kiss that goddamn smirk off your lips and tell you he’d missed you so much it had physically hurt.

The door cracked open.

Frank straightened instinctively.

It wasn’t you. It was the manager. The man looked uncomfortable—shifted his weight from foot to foot, eyes darting over Frank’s uniform with that same deference most people gave him.

“She’s not available tonight,” the man said, his voice low.

Frank blinked. “What?”

“She said she’s not doing privates tonight,” the manager repeated, a little firmer now. “Sorry, sir.”

Frank stared at him for a beat too long, not quite understanding. That was the first time you’d ever turned him down. Ever. Not even on nights you were tired, or busy, or pulled away for other things. You always came. Always looked for him.

His heart kicked in his chest. Not fast. Just... heavy.

He nodded once—tight. “Right.”

The manager lingered a second longer, as if waiting for something else, then quietly closed the door behind him.

Frank sat there a moment longer, silent, his hand still clenched around the cap in his lap.

Then he stood. He stepped out of the booth, straightened his shoulders, and walked back into the main room like nothing was wrong—like the denial hadn’t knocked something loose inside his chest.

The club was louder now, drunker. The scent of beer and perfume mixed with cigarette smoke and sweat, a thick fog that clung to the low-hung lights and trembling bass.

And then he saw you. You weren’t on stage. You weren’t in the wings or behind the curtain.

You were in some idiot’s lap. Bare-breasted.

Laughing.

The young guy—some frat-looking shithead with slicked hair and a button-down already open halfway—had both hands on your waist, his mouth slack with a dumb grin as you leaned into him, breasts pressing against his chest like you didn’t even notice. You were giggling at something he said, your fingers toying with his collar, your head tilted back like this was the highlight of your fucking week.

And then you saw Frank. Your eyes met his—just for a flicker, just a second—but it was enough. You recognized him.

And you looked away. Deliberately. You smiled at the kid like he’d hung the goddamn moon, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and curled into him like he was your home.

Frank stood there frozen, the blood in his chest thick and slow. His jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. His eyes darkened beneath his cap's shadow as the thumping bass rattled through his ribs like a second heartbeat.

He turned and left.

Didn't say a word, didn't look back. He pushed through the front doors, out into the wet pavement and the sour stink of the alley behind the club, the chill night air cutting against his flushed skin.

“Fuck,” he muttered, low and vicious, dragging a hand over his face. “Stupid old bastard.”

He kept walking, footsteps heavy, shoulders tense, his breath fogging in the cold as he rounded the corner toward his car.

“Should’ve known better,” he growled under his breath, yanking the door open. “Christ. Falling in love with a woman who takes her fucking clothes off for a paycheck—what the hell’s wrong with you, Frank?”

The silence in the car was thick. Familiar. The kind he used to crave. Now it just felt like punishment.

He dropped his cap in the passenger seat, gripped the wheel with both hands, and sat there, alone.

Again.

No.

No fuck—no fuck!

Frank slammed both palms against the steering wheel, the sharp crack echoing through the car’s interior. His breath came hard, uneven, hazel eyes burning into the windshield as the image of you straddling that slick-haired little bastard played on a loop in his mind.

He growled, low and ugly. Then he threw the door open so hard it bounced back against him.

“Goddammit,” he spat, kicking it shut behind him.

He wasn’t thinking straight. He knew he wasn’t. His pulse was a war drum, his thoughts a storm. Logic, reason, restraint—they scattered like ash in the wake of the fury tightening in his chest. His feet carried him back toward the strip club without permission, heavy boots thudding over the pavement like gunshots.

Inside, the bass throbbed. Lights flashed. The air was thick with perfume and sweat and betrayal. He didn’t scan the room this time. Didn’t nod to anyone. He didn’t need to. He saw you.

Still in that idiot’s lap. Still smiling.

You spotted him first. Your expression faltered. Confusion. Alarm. Something else—wariness? Hope? You shifted like you meant to stand, but before you could say a word—

“What the hell does Grandpa want?” the younger man muttered behind a smug smirk, eyes sweeping Frank’s military uniform like he was sizing up a Halloween costume. “Wrong war, old man.”

Frank didn’t look at him. Didn’t answer. He walked straight to you. A soldier’s march.

“Frank?” you breathed, startled, hands rising as if to intercept him. “Frank, wait—”

Too late. He grabbed you, hands under your thighs, over the shoulder in one practiced motion.

You screamed in surprise. “Frank—what the fuck—put me down!” You kicked at him, hit him on the back, but he held you like iron.

“Put me down! You can’t just—”

“Watch me,” he growled, his voice thick and gravel-heavy.

The younger man shot to his feet, outraged. “You can’t do that, you freak!”

Frank finally looked at him—hazel eyes narrowed, baritone cold and lethal. “She’s not yours,” he said. “And you so much as step toward her, I’ll put you through the fucking floor.”

The boy hesitated. Frank didn’t blink, and the coward backed down.

Frank didn’t stop moving. He pushed through the crowd like a tank, dragging gasps and protests in his wake.

You hit his shoulder again. “Frank, stop! What are you doing? The security—”

As if on cue, one of the bouncers intercepted him near the exit. A big guy—young, alert, clearly ready to swing.

“Sir, put her down. Now.”

Frank adjusted you on his shoulder, not missing a step. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

You felt the muscles in his back coil like a spring—ready to fight, ready to defend, and suddenly all the fire in you went cold. Not because he scared you. But because they might hurt him.

“Wait—wait! He’s with me!” you called quickly, your voice cutting through the haze. “It’s fine! He’s with me! I know him!”

The bouncer hesitated. You wriggled enough to show your face. “It’s fine. I swear. Please—just let us go.”

Reluctantly, the man stepped aside.

Frank pushed out into the night air, breath steaming in the cold, your bare skin shivering against the sharp bite of wind. He walked until he hit the sidewalk, then stopped. Slowly—reluctantly—he set you down.

You stumbled slightly on your heels, still half-naked in red lace, your heart hammering like a drumline in your chest.

Frank didn’t look at you at first. He just shrugged off his long coat—heavy, still warm from his body—and draped it over your shoulders in one motion.

You stared at him, blinking, disoriented.

His voice came next, quiet. Rough. Baritone like broken stone. “You looked cold.”

His hands hovered at your arms, uncertain now. Still trembling with the fury he hadn’t released, still catching his breath like he’d just come out of battle.

You clutched the coat tighter around yourself. “Frank… what the hell was that?”

He didn’t answer. Not right away. He looked at you finally—really looked. And the heat in his eyes wasn’t lust. Not only lust. It was rage. Possession. And beneath all of it: hurt.

“You think I could just sit there?” he rasped. “Watch someone else put their hands on you? Watch you laugh for him?”

You opened your mouth to speak—closed it again.

“I didn’t even touch you,” he said, softer now. “All that time. Didn’t even try. Didn’t ask for your number. I thought—Jesus, I thought—” He looked away, jaw flexing. “You didn’t come to the booth. You looked at me like I didn’t matter. Like I was no one. After everything.”

“I was hurt,” you whispered. “You disappeared.”

Frank’s nostrils flared. “I had meetings. A security briefing. I didn’t think—” He broke off, ran a hand through his silver hair. “I didn’t think I had to explain. I thought we… understood each other.”

You stood there a long moment, trembling, swamped in his coat, the scent of him all around you. "I waited for you,” you said, voice barely audible.

Frank’s chest rose and fell, slow and heavy. He stepped closer, cupped your cheek with one warm, calloused hand, eyes searching your face. “I’m not good at this,” he admitted quietly. “I don’t know how to do this right. But I swear to God, I’d never walk away from you on purpose.”

Your bottom lip trembled. He leaned down, voice a velvet rasp. “Come home with me.”

You had no chance to respond because he kissed you, slow, deep, and aching; it was a promise. He wasn't going anywhere. Not now, not ever.

You pulled away from the kiss, your fingers fisted in Frank’s shirt, your breath mixing with his in the chilled night air. The coat hung heavy around your shoulders, swallowing your frame, his body still so close you could feel the pulse of his chest beneath your palm.

“I need to know what this means,” you whispered.

Frank blinked, as if coming out of a trance. His expression twisted—frustration, rawness, something close to panic flashing in those sharp hazel eyes. He exhaled through his nose, his hands cupping your face with something too gentle for a man who had just threatened to break someone in half.

“It means I’m getting you out of that fucking place,” he muttered, voice low and hoarse, like gravel dragged over fire. “It means I want you with me. At my house. Living there. Fuck—I'll support you if I have to.”

You stared up at him, stunned. “Frank—”

He didn’t let you interrupt. “I hate it,” he growled, stepping closer, jaw tense. “I hate knowing you’re up there with your tits out while drunk bastards throw money at you. I hate thinking of their hands on you, even for a second. It makes me want to—”

A man stumbled by on the sidewalk, slowing as he passed, his gaze catching on the open coat draped over your bare body, eyes lingering on the soft skin just visible at the neckline.

Frank moved like a storm. He yanked the coat tighter around you, shielding you completely, his broad frame stepping between you and the stranger like a goddamn wall. One hand gripped your waist, the other flattened between your shoulder blades, pressing you to his chest.

“Keep walking,” Frank snarled, his baritone cutting the air like a whip. “Unless you want to lose your fucking eyes.”

The man—wide-eyed and more sober by the second—held up his hands and shuffled away without another word.

You didn’t watch him go.

You reached up, grabbed Frank’s face between your hands, and forced him to look at you. “Frank. Stop. Look at me.”

His chest rose hard beneath your touch, tension radiating from every inch of him. He looked at you like you might vanish, like he wasn’t sure what you’d say next.

“I don’t want to take advantage of you,” you said, voice shaking. “I’m not going to be your project. Or your charity case.”

Frank’s expression shifted—shocked, then furious. “Charity case?” he spat, hazel eyes burning now. “Is that what you think this is?”

“I don’t know what to think,” you said, your fingers curling tighter in the front of his shirt. “You’re this… decorated officer with a house and a pension and a goddamn moral compass. And I’m a—”

“Don’t,” he cut you off sharply, the word like a slap. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

You trembled beneath his touch, his coat wrapped tight around your shoulders like a shield.

Frank leaned in, nose brushing yours, voice a low growl. “Did it feel like charity two nights ago? When I had you in my lap, when I fucked you so deep you couldn’t remember your own name? When you came screaming for me like I was the only man who ever made you feel like that?”

You gasped, the memory slamming into you like heat under your skin.

“Because if that was charity,” he muttered, breath hot against your cheek, “it was yours. Not mine.”

Your hands shot up, grabbing two fistfuls of his shirt, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the solid weight of him.

“No,” you said, breathless, voice breaking. “It wasn’t charity. It wasn’t. Don’t say that again.”

Frank’s breath hitched.

Your eyes searched his. “You think I spread my legs for men who make me feel like that? Like I’m... wanted? Real?” You shook your head. “That night—it was the first time in years I felt like more than a body on display. You think I gave that to you because I felt sorry for you?”

Frank closed his eyes, his forehead pressing to yours, voice tight with something deeper than anger now—something wounded and fierce and vulnerable. “Then come home with me,” he rasped. “Let me make this something more. Not a transaction. Not a mistake. Just us.”

You exhaled shakily, your voice no louder than a whisper. “And what happens when I fall in love with you?”

Frank pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes. And then—finally—he smiled. Small. Real. Tired and wrecked and still so goddamn beautiful.

“Then I’ll fall right back.”

And that was when you knew: he already had.

[evans23]

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

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

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.