firefenifox

[firefenifox]

@muiitoloko com vermelho da grifinória pq sim

[firefenifox]

ÓBVIO QUE SMASHARIA

caetano veloso? unsure if he's been smash or pass'd already

[firefenifox]

renato aragão

[firefenifox]

Oioi, quero compartilhar uma ideia que eu tive: Lionel começa a pensar que ele precisa de um herdeiro pq ele já não é mais tão novo e a Shabandar Media precisará de um outro CEO no futuro, ele passa em frente a uma loja de roupas de bebê e vê roupas com tema de safari na vitrine e a de leão chama muito a atenção dele, ele tem o baby fever ativado e o breeding kink aguçado pela ideia de "manter a empresa na família" - baby fever + breeding kink = 🔥

A ideia foi essa, pode mudar, editar, fazer o que quiser com ela pq eu devoro todas as fics que vc escreve de tão boas que elas são, obrigada por ser uma das únicas pessoas que escreve fics do Colin e do Alan ♥️

Title: The Heir to the Shahbandar Empire

Summary: A chance glance at a baby store sparks an unexpected obsession in Lionel: an heir. His wife is in for a wild ride—starting that very night.

Pairing: Lionel Shahbandar × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Author's Notes: Obrigado pelo seu pedido! Espero que goste disso 🫶

Also read on Ao3

Lionel tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, exhaling sharply as he sat at yet another red light. He had dismissed his driver for the day, deciding to take the car himself—a rare indulgence. He hardly ever drove, always being chauffeured from one event to another, from one extravagant business deal to the next. But today, he wanted the feel of the car under his hands, the control, the freedom. It was an unfamiliar yet exhilarating experience, despite the absolute disaster that was London traffic.

His sharp, dark eyes flicked to his phone, resting in the mount on the dashboard. Nothing particularly interesting. No urgent calls, no pressing messages. A rare quiet moment in the whirlwind of his life.

He sighed and looked out the window instead.

That was when he saw it.

A small boutique nestled between two towering buildings, its window display carefully arranged by a young shopgirl. She was adjusting the tiny outfits on display—delicate, soft fabrics in pastel hues. But it wasn’t the quaint charm of the boutique that caught Lionel’s eye. No, it was the baby clothes. More specifically, the safari-themed ones.

And, of course, the lion outfit.

Lionel’s fingers tightened slightly on the wheel as he took in the sight of the miniature costume—a tiny, golden onesie with a fluffy mane around the hood, little ears poking out at the top. It was ridiculous. Adorable. Nostalgic.

He had one just like it when he was a child—though his had been an actual costume, not an outfit. He had worn it constantly, roaring around the grand halls of his childhood home, declaring himself “King of the Pride Lands.” His poor nanny had spent more time coaxing him out of that costume than teaching him any proper etiquette.

But Lionel didn’t think about that time, about his own childhood.

He thought about an heir.

His heir.

Something stirred deep in his chest—an unfamiliar, unsettling sensation. He wasn’t getting any younger. He was already older than most men who started thinking about such things. His empire, his fortune, his legacy—it had to go somewhere. He could leave it to one of his distant cousins, or even to you, his brilliant, beautiful wife. But a child… a son, a daughter—his blood— was suddenly an idea that lodged itself in his brain like a splinter he couldn’t ignore.

And the most ironic part of it all? He had never wanted children.

He despised them. Couldn’t stand their incessant whining, their sticky hands, their unpredictable tantrums. He had spent years relishing his freedom, his untethered, indulgent lifestyle. A child was the last thing he had ever considered.

And yet, here he was.

Sitting at a red light. Staring at a baby store.

Thinking about breeding you.

A sharp honk from behind jolted him out of his thoughts.

Lionel’s hooked nose flared as he snapped his gaze to the traffic light. Green. Bloody hell. He had been sitting there too long. With a low growl of frustration, he slammed his foot on the accelerator, his luxury car surging forward.

But his mind was elsewhere.

His fingers gripped the wheel tighter, his jaw set with newfound purpose.

The idea of a child—the very thought of you, his wife, his lioness, swollen with his heir—had ignited something deep within him. It wasn’t just possessiveness. It was more than that. It was primal. A need that had been lurking beneath the surface, unnoticed until now. He had built an empire, ruled his kingdom. Now, he needed an heir to inherit it. To carry his name.

And if he was going to do this… he was going to do it tonight.

He pressed down on the accelerator, weaving through traffic with reckless precision. He had to get home. Had to get to you.

Because tonight?

Tonight, he was keeping the business in the family.

You heard the familiar hum of Lionel’s car as it pulled into the driveway, the sound as recognizable as the man himself—powerful, controlled, yet always on the verge of breaking the rules. You smiled to yourself as you hurried to greet him, as you always did, your steps light with anticipation.

But the moment Lionel stepped inside, you knew something was different.

His sharp, dark eyes locked onto you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He barely let the door shut behind him before he was on you, sweeping you up in his arms in one fluid motion. A gasp escaped your lips as he carried you with effortless strength, spinning around and setting you down on the nearest surface—the ornate dresser in the hallway. The wood creaked slightly under the sudden weight, but neither of you cared.

“Lionel!” you laughed breathlessly, your hands bracing against his chest, your pulse already quickening. “What the hell has gotten into—”

Your words were swallowed by his lips crashing into yours.

The kiss was desperate, bruising, his hooked nose brushing against your cheek as he tilted his head, deepening the contact. He wasn’t just kissing you—he was consuming you. His hands gripped your hips possessively, fingers digging in like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t hold you tight enough.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was tugging at his own clothes, not bothering with his usual meticulousness. His jacket was the first casualty, ripped from his shoulders and tossed to the floor with no regard for its expensive tailoring. His tie followed, yanked loose with a growl, the silk slithering to the ground like a discarded snake.

“Lionel, what—” you started, half laughing, half gasping, as he moved between your legs, his hands already sliding under your dress.

He didn’t answer immediately. He just kissed you harder, his baritone voice muffled against your lips as he muttered, “Time to make a baby.”

You froze for half a second, your mind scrambling to process what you had just heard. Your fingers instinctively pressed against his chest, pushing him back just enough to look into his dark, feverish eyes.

“A baby?” you echoed, blinking. “Lionel, you—”

He didn’t let you finish. His hands moved to your thighs, gripping them firmly as he pulled you closer to the edge of the dresser, spreading your legs around him. His fingers hooked into your panties, tugging them down with purpose.

You caught his wrists, stopping him, though amusement curled in your lips. “Wait, wait, wait—” you laughed, still breathless. “A baby? You? The same Lionel Shahbandar who once declared that children are sticky, loud, and should be kept at least fifty feet away from him at all times?”

Lionel huffed, rolling his eyes, but his hands remained firm on your thighs, his grip unyielding. “I might have said that,” he admitted, his smirk betraying no shame. “But I’ve changed my mind.”

You scoffed, arching an eyebrow. “Oh? And what brought on this sudden… paternal epiphany?”

He exhaled sharply, his hands roaming up your thighs, fingers pressing into your soft skin. “I need an heir,” he said, his voice a mix of arrogance and something dangerously raw. “Someone to inherit everything I’ve built. My empire, my fortune—hell, even my bloody art collection.”

You stared at him for a beat before bursting into laughter. “So, what? Mufasa has decided it’s time to produce a Simba?”

Lionel tilted his head, amusement flickering in his dark eyes as he leaned in, his hooked nose brushing against yours. “And if I have?” he murmured, his voice a slow, deliberate rumble that sent heat pooling between your legs.

You grinned wickedly, lowering your voice to a deep, exaggerated tone, imitating Mufasa from The Lion King. “Everything the light touches will be yours, my son.”

Lionel let out a low chuckle, his hands sliding under your dress again. “Christ, you’re ridiculous,” he muttered, though the amusement in his voice was unmistakable. His smirk turned wicked as he pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin of your neck. “But you’re also fucking perfect. And you’re going to look even more perfect carrying my child.”

You shivered at the possessiveness in his tone, your teasing expression faltering just slightly. “You really want this?” you asked softly, searching his gaze.

Lionel pulled back just enough to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. For once, the mischief in his expression was overshadowed by something deeper—something almost reverent.

“I do,” he murmured, his baritone voice softer now, but no less intense. “I want to see you swollen with my child. I want to know that I’ve left something behind in this world that’s mine. And not just anything—ours.”

Your breath caught at the sheer sincerity in his words, your heart pounding against your ribs. He wasn’t just saying it to rile you up—he meant it.

And God help you, but you wanted it too.

You swallowed hard, your hands sliding up to grip his shoulders. “Then don’t just talk about it, Lionel,” you whispered, a teasing smirk playing at your lips despite the heat coiling in your belly. “Prove it.”

His eyes darkened.

“Oh, love,” he murmured, his hands gripping your thighs tighter as he tugged you flush against him. “You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed.”

With that, he hooked his fingers into your panties and tore them clean off.

You gasped, but before you could say anything, Lionel was already undoing his belt, the sharp clink of metal sending a thrill down your spine. His trousers followed, pooling at his feet, and then he was pressing against you, his thick cock already hard, already leaking, already desperate.

“Gonna fuck my baby into you,” he growled, his voice rough as he lined himself up. “Gonna fill you up so full of me, there won’t be any doubt.”

You whimpered, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he rubbed the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, teasing, taunting.

“Say it,” he ordered, his breath hot against your lips. “Tell me you want it.”

You moaned softly, your legs tightening around his waist. “I want it,” you gasped, your body aching for him. “I want you to fill me up, Lionel.”

He groaned at your words, his control snapping.

Without another second of hesitation, he thrust inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one deep, possessive stroke. You cried out, your nails raking down his back as he stretched you, filled you, owned you.

“Fuck, love,” Lionel groaned, his hooked nose flaring as he watched you take him. “So tight, so perfect. Like you were made to carry my child.”

He pulled back, only to slam into you again, setting a brutal, claiming pace. His hands gripped your hips, his fingers bruising as he fucked into you like a man possessed.

“Gonna breed you,” he rasped, his voice a dangerous growl. “Gonna keep you full of my cock, my cum, until it takes.”

You moaned helplessly, your body arching into his, every hard thrust pushing you closer to the edge.

“You like that?” he taunted, his baritone voice dripping with arrogance. “Like the idea of me knocking you up, love? Of everyone seeing you round and knowing you belong to me?”

“Y-yes,” you gasped, your legs trembling as pleasure coiled tighter in your core.

Lionel grinned wickedly, one hand slipping between you to rub at your clit. “Then come for me,” he commanded. “Come on my cock, love—let me feel you.”

You shattered around him, your release crashing over you in waves, your body convulsing as his name tore from your lips.

Lionel cursed, his grip tightening as he fucked you through it, his thrusts growing erratic. “Gonna fill you up, love,” he growled, his voice barely more than a breathless snarl. “Gonna put my baby in you.”

With a final, deep thrust, he groaned, his entire body tensing as he came, spilling deep inside you, his heat flooding your womb.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the only sound in the room your ragged breathing.

Then, Lionel smirked, pressing a lazy, satisfied kiss to your shoulder.

“That’s one,” he murmured. “Best be ready, darling. I don’t intend to stop until I’m sure it takes.”

The living room buzzed with quiet conversation, the warm glow of candlelight flickering off the crystal glasses and fine china Lionel had insisted on using, despite your protests that it was just a private family gathering. You sat with Sinclair, Lionel's cousin, and your father, along with a few other close relatives; the air was thick with anticipation.

“Where the hell is he?” your father grumbled, checking his watch for the third time in as many minutes. “It's just my grandson's birthday party, not the coronation of a damn king.”

You sighed, leaning back against the plush couch. “Oh, you know Lionel,” you said, waving a dismissive hand. “He always likes a bit of drama.”

Sinclair, lounging beside you with a drink in hand, smirked. “A bit of drama?” he echoed. “Darling, the man treats every moment like he’s starring in his own personal Shakespearean epic. I wouldn’t be surprised if he made an entrance on a golden chariot.”

Just as the words left Sinclair’s mouth, the first notes of The Circle of Life blared from hidden speakers.

Your heart sank.

Sinclair’s eyes widened in pure delight.

“Oh, God,” you muttered, already burying your face in your hands.

The doors to the living room burst open with dramatic flair, and there stood Lionel, dressed in what could only be described as a monstrosity of theatrical excess—a golden robe, billowing as if conjured by unseen wind, cinched at the waist with an absurdly ornate belt.

In his arms, your one-year-old son, Liam, was decked out in a plush lion onesie, complete with little ears and a tail. His tiny fists waved excitedly in the air as Lionel lifted him high, mimicking the famous scene from The Lion King.

“NAAAAANTS INGONYAMAAAAAAA BAGITHI BABAAAAA!” Lionel bellowed, voice rich and baritone, completely committing to the performance.

The room fell into stunned silence.

Your father blinked. Once. Twice. Then slowly turned to look at you.

“This,” he said flatly, “is the man you married.”

You groaned, massaging your temples. “Unfortunately.”

Meanwhile, Sinclair, the absolute menace that he was, immediately got into the spirit of things. With a grand, sweeping motion, he slid off the couch and bowed deeply before Liam, arms outstretched in a display of reverence.

“The heir to the Shahbandar dynasty has arrived!” Sinclair declared, his voice filled with mock solemnity.

Your mother covered her mouth, stifling a laugh.

Lionel, grinning like a mischievous fox, slowly turned to face the assembled guests, his expression positively regal. “Behold!” he proclaimed. “My son, my heir, the future ruler of the Shahbandar empire!”

Liam giggled, wiggling in his father’s grip, completely oblivious to the spectacle.

Your father exhaled sharply. “I need a drink.”

You nodded. “Same.”

“Would you like to hold your grandson?” Lionel offered grandly, lowering Liam to your father’s level.

Your father reached out, but just as he was about to take Liam, Lionel dramatically snatched him back at the last second, holding him high again. “NOT YET!” he declared. “THE CEREMONY IS NOT COMPLETE.”

“Oh, for—” Your father clenched his fists, looking dangerously close to throttling Lionel.

Sinclair, meanwhile, had abandoned all dignity and was now kneeling on one knee, arms raised as though awaiting divine blessings. “We pledge our loyalty to the young lion!” he cried.

Your father shot Sinclair an incredulous look. “Are you seriously encouraging this?”

Sinclair, without missing a beat, simply shrugged. “Might as well lean into it.”

Your hand smacked against your forehead as Lionel continued. “With this child, the Shahbandar name shall live on for generations! No longer shall we be merely a legacy of wealth and power!” He thrust Liam slightly higher. “WE SHALL BE A DYNASTY! ”

Liam giggled again, kicking his chubby legs in delight.

Your father let out a long, pained sigh and turned to you. “Divorce is always an option.”

You patted his arm sympathetically. “I’ve thought about it.”

Lionel, apparently satisfied with the ceremony, finally lowered Liam and kissed his chubby cheek. “Ah, my little lion,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “You have no idea the empire that awaits you.”

Sinclair wiped a fake tear from his eye. “That was beautiful, Lionel. Truly. Shakespeare himself is weeping from beyond the grave.”

Lionel turned to you, grinning. “Admit it, love. This was far more entertaining than some dull little cake-cutting.”

You let out a long, suffering sigh but couldn’t quite suppress the fond smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

Lionel smirked, pressing a kiss to your temple. “And yet, you married me.”

Your father groaned into his drink.

Sinclair raised his glass. “To the heir of the Shahbandar dynasty!”

The rest of the family laughed and clapped, the initial shock giving way to amusement. Even your father eventually softened, shaking his head with a chuckle as he finally took Liam into his arms.

As the music faded and Lionel draped an arm around your shoulders, he leaned in close, his baritone voice low and teasing. “I was thinking we should start working on another heir and a spare. What do you say, love?”

You arched a brow. “Lionel.”

“Yes, darling?”

“Shut up and cut the damn cake.”

Sinclair clinked his glass against Lionel’s. “You heard the lady.”

Lionel sighed dramatically. “Very well. But next year, we’re doing a full reenactment of The Lion King. I shall require elephants.”

You groaned.

Your father choked on his drink.

Sinclair, already scheming, grinned. “I’ll make some calls.”

[firefenifox]

Hello!! could you please post something for Harry Hart! Thank youuuu

Title: Kingsman College

Summary: In the lecture hall, Professor Harry Hart is untouchable. Behind closed doors, he's a man who doesn't like to share what's his.

Pairing: Harry Hart × fem! Reader

Warnings: Teacher-Student Relationship, possessive, Alternative Universe.

Author's Notes: I never liked this story enough to post, but since I am out of ideas for Harry, I decided to publish it.

Also read on Ao3

The air in the lecture hall was thick with the scent of old books and freshly ground chalk, the late afternoon sun casting long golden streaks across the wooden desks. Kingsman College was the pinnacle of academic excellence, a place where futures were forged and reputations either soared or crumbled under the weight of expectation.

And Professor Harry Hart? He was its crown jewel.

Respected. Admired. Completely untouchable.

At least, that’s what everyone believed.

For the rest of the world, he was a man of impeccable composure, a professor whose sharp intelligence and razor-sharp discipline left no room for distraction or indulgence. He commanded the lecture hall with quiet authority, his crisp suits and precise diction exuding the kind of effortless class that made even the most rebellious of students sit up and listen.

But for you?

For you, he was something else entirely.

Something dangerous.

Something intoxicating.

A secret.

A secret made of stolen touches and breathless whispers. Of long, agonizing nights spent bent over his desk while he traced filth into your skin with his tongue. He never promised you anything—he made that painfully clear. But the way his fingers bruised your thighs, the way his voice turned low and lethal when you teased him? That told a different story.

And yet, in the light of day, in front of the entire world, you were nothing. Just another student.

The sharp ring of the bell pulled you from your thoughts, signaling the end of class. The room stirred to life, the shuffling of papers and murmured goodbyes filling the air as students packed up their things. You swallowed, your fingers tightening around your pen as you stole a glance toward Harry.

He didn’t even look at you.

Not a flicker of acknowledgment, not the barest hint of recognition. His back was turned, his focus entirely on cleaning the blackboard, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. The same forearms that had pinned you down last night, his voice a dark rasp in your ear as he ruined you over and over again.

You exhaled sharply, shoving your notebook into your backpack, irritated at the way his indifference still had the power to sting.

That was when Eggsy appeared beside you, his ever-present smirk lighting up his face. “Oi, you busy after class?” he asked, leaning casually against your desk. “Me an’ Roxy were thinking of grabbing some pizza. You in?”

You hesitated, biting the inside of your cheek, sending a quick glance toward Harry. You knew he was listening—of course, he was—but he gave no sign that he’d heard anything. No shift in posture, no flicker of irritation, not even the briefest glance in your direction. Just calm, disinterested silence as he wiped the last remnants of chalk from the board.

Fine. If he wasn’t going to react, then neither would you.

“Yeah, I’m in,” you told Eggsy, offering a small smile. “Text me where to meet you.”

Eggsy grinned, clearly pleased. “Brilliant. You won’t regret it, promise.” He slung his bag over his shoulder, pausing to send you one last look before making his way out of the lecture hall, whistling a tune under his breath.

You finished packing your things, shoving your notebook into your bag with perhaps a little more force than necessary. By the time you zipped it up, you realized something unsettling.

The lecture hall was empty.

Except for Harry.

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag as you stood, aiming for the exit without a second thought. But you barely made it two steps before his voice rang out, smooth and commanding.

“Lock the door.”

You froze. A shiver ran down your spine, curling low in your belly at the authoritative edge in his voice.

Slowly, deliberately, you turned to look at him.

Harry had set the chalk down, his sleeves still rolled up, exposing the strong forearms you knew too well. He leaned against the desk with deceptive ease, his expression unreadable. But his eyes—his deep, knowing eyes—were locked onto you with an intensity that made your breath hitch.

“Now,” he added, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register that sent heat pooling between your thighs.

Your fingers trembled slightly as you reached for the door, turning the lock with an audible click. The finality of the sound sent a thrill through you.

Slowly, you faced him again, your heart pounding.

Harry exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he pushed off the desk, his movements controlled and deliberate. He took his time walking toward you, his polished shoes tapping against the floor, each step a slow, measured warning.

“You’re a very clever girl,” he murmured, stopping just inches away, his presence overwhelming. “But not clever enough, it seems.”

You swallowed hard, tilting your chin up slightly, refusing to shrink beneath his gaze. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Harry hummed, amused by your defiance. His fingers reached out, trailing lightly along your wrist before gripping it, guiding your hand toward his chest. “Oh, but you do,” he murmured, pressing your palm against the solid warmth of him. His heart beat steady beneath your fingertips, but there was a tension in him, coiled tight and barely restrained.

“You thought I wouldn’t care,” he mused, voice velvet-smooth, edged with something darker. “You thought you could agree to a date in front of me and walk out of this room unscathed.”

Your pulse kicked, but you held your ground. “It’s not a date.”

Harry scoffed, the sound low and sharp as he tilted his head, regarding you with that piercing, all-knowing gaze. “It’s not a date,” he repeated, voice dripping with dry amusement. “And yet, Eggsy seems to believe it is.” He let the words settle, watching for your reaction like a predator waiting for its prey to make a mistake.

Your fingers clenched around the strap of your bag. “He doesn’t—”

Harry cut you off with a quiet chuckle, his eyes glinting with something dark, something dangerous. “Tell me, miss,” he murmured, stepping closer, forcing you to tilt your head to keep eye contact. “Do you enjoy leading men on?”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

That hesitation was all he needed.

His smirk widened, slow and knowing. “Ah,” he mused, reaching up to straighten the cuffs of his sleeves. “So that’s it, then. A harmless little game to stroke your ego. You tell yourself you’re just being friendly, but really, you like the attention, don’t you?”

A flicker of irritation sparked in your chest, and before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, “Are you jealous?”

Harry’s expression didn’t change, but you felt the shift in the air between you—an almost imperceptible ripple of tension, a tightening of his jaw. Then, to your frustration, he let out a low, amused chuckle, shaking his head as if you were a foolish child.

“Is that why you accepted Unwin’s invitation?” he asked smoothly, his voice laced with condescension. “To make me jealous?”

“No,” you snapped, heat rising to your face.

“Mm,” he hummed, unconvinced.

You took a step back, trying to put distance between you, but he moved just as quickly, pinning you against the door in one fluid motion. One hand braced beside your head, the other slipping around your waist, trapping you effortlessly.

“Harry,” you warned, your voice breathless, more affected by his closeness than you’d like to admit.

“That’s not fair,” you muttered, twisting slightly, attempting to slip free.

Harry’s grip didn’t budge. “And yet, you’re the one playing dirty,” he countered, his breath warm against your cheek, the scent of whiskey and something undeniably him filling your senses.

You let out a frustrated huff, your fingers twitching at your sides, aching to push him away—to pull him closer. “You don’t get to lecture me about playing games when you’re going out with the math teacher.”

That gave him pause.

His lips parted slightly, his brows raising in amusement. “Ah,” he murmured, tilting his head as if seeing you in a new light. “So, you’ve been keeping tabs on me.”

“I don’t have to,” you shot back, glaring up at him. “Everyone knows.”

Harry smirked, slow and wicked, the kind that made your stomach twist with something dark and needy. “Is that so?” he murmured, his fingers tightening ever so slightly around your waist. “And does that bother you, darling?”

You clenched your jaw, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Harry’s gaze dipped, trailing over your parted lips, the sharp rise and fall of your chest, the tension in your posture. “It must,” he continued, his voice a velvety rasp. “Or you wouldn’t be bringing it up now, would you?”

You swallowed hard, your resolve cracking under the weight of his presence.

He leaned in, his lips a hair’s breadth from your ear. “Tell me,” he whispered, his voice dangerously soft, “does it make you angry, thinking of me with her? Does it make you wonder if she spreads her legs for me the way you do?”

A sharp gasp escaped you, your entire body going rigid as heat shot straight through you.

Harry chuckled, dark and knowing. “Oh, darling,” he murmured, trailing his nose along your jaw, his lips brushing just barely against your skin. “I do so love how easily you unravel for me.”

Your breath hitched, and you twisted your wrists, attempting to shove him away, but he caught your hands effortlessly, pressing them against the door above your head.

“You like this,” he mused, rolling his hips against you just enough for you to feel how hard he was through his trousers. “You pretend to be annoyed, pretend to hate my arrogance—but I can feel how wet you are through your dress, darling. I wonder… if I reached down, would I find you soaking for me already?”

A strangled sound left your throat, your cheeks flaming.

He hummed, pleased, dragging his nose down the column of your throat. “You can go out with Eggsy all you like,” he murmured, his grip on your wrists tightening just enough to make you squirm. “Flirt with him. Let him buy you dinner. Let him think he has a chance.”

His teeth scraped lightly against your skin, sending a shiver straight to your core.

“But at the end of the day,” he continued, his voice a low purr, “it’s me who gets to ruin you.”

Your head fell back against the door with a soft thud, your legs trembling.

Harry chuckled again, brushing a slow, lazy kiss against your throat before pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. His gaze burned into you, sharp and possessive. “So, tell me again,” he murmured, his tone deceptively gentle, “is it really not a date?”

Your lips parted, but no words came.

Harry smirked, his grip finally loosening as he took a step back, leaving you breathless, shaking.

“Thought so.”

And just like that, he turned, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves as if nothing had happened, his demeanor once again perfectly composed.

“Enjoy your not date, darling,” he said smoothly, not bothering to look back as he strode toward his desk, leaving you pressed against the door, your pulse thundering in your ears, your body aching for something only he could give.

[firefenifox]

I found out Eli and Turpin’s fic with reader period and I needed that so much !!! Could you do one Reader’s period fic with each of his characters you’re writing for ? Not once in a week but, I don’t no, one month Harry from Love Actually, another Sinclair, another Elliot, another David and so on ? I think all the girls need their favorite Alan’s character taking care of her when they’re during THIS time of the month. And we must normalise girl’s period and man not getting beside themselves because of that 😅

Title: A Lion in the Aisle

Summary: When Lionel attempts to buy your pads without guidance, he finds himself trapped in a warzone of menstruation products and unsolicited advice.

Pairing: Lionel Shahbandar × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None

Author's Notes: I apologize for the delayed response 😅 I have written something, although it may not perfectly match your request. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. 🫶

Also read on Ao3

Lionel never thought he would find himself in a situation like this—standing in the middle of the feminine hygiene aisle, utterly surrounded by an overwhelming number of pads, staring at them as if they were ancient runes waiting to be deciphered.

Why the bloody hell were there so many?

Thick, thin, ultra-thin, night, day, with wings, without wings, scented, unscented, cotton, mesh, extra absorbent… it was a never-ending labyrinth of menstruation-related choices, and Lionel was losing his patience. He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, his hooked nose twitching as his baritone voice muttered curses under his breath. He had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to buy them for you since yours had run out, but now he was regretting his noble attempt at being a good boyfriend.

He could have simply called you and asked which ones you needed. A normal man would have done that. But Lionel Shahbandar was not a normal man—he was a lion, a self-proclaimed king of the jungle, and a man of dignity. He refused to let a simple shopping task defeat him. If he called you now, he would be admitting weakness, revealing himself as a man incapable of tending to his own woman’s needs.

And he absolutely would not give you the satisfaction of laughing at him over the phone.

Lionel stood his ground, arms crossed, gaze locked on the battlefield before him. He had faced corporate sharks, art forgers, and scandalous socialites, but nothing—nothing—could have prepared him for this. His pride refused to let him flee.

But dear God, why were there so many options?

He glanced around the aisle, his sharp eyes landing on a woman carefully selecting a package of pads. She looked knowledgeable. A woman in her natural habitat. She could help him. But he had to be discreet. He was a lion, after all—a man of strategy.

Lionel slowly prowled up to her, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "Madam," he muttered, "a moment of your time. It is a matter of utmost urgency."

The woman froze, clutching the package of pads to her chest, her eyes widening as if he had just asked for state secrets.

Lionel cleared his throat, adjusting his coat. "I require… assistance. You see, I am on a highly classified mission to procure the correct feminine protection for my woman, but—" He gestured at the shelf in dismay. "This is a logistical nightmare."

The woman blinked. Then, her lips twitched in amusement. "Uh… well, I use these," she said, holding up her package.

Before Lionel could respond, another woman further down the aisle perked up. "Oh no, those are fine, but if you want something more secure, these have wings." She lifted a different package proudly.

Lionel blinked. "Wings?" His mind immediately conjured an image of you taking flight like some sort of celestial being. "Will they make her fly?"

The second woman snorted, while a third woman materialized beside him, shaking her head. "No, no, these are the best. No wings, but super absorbent."

Then, as if summoned by some sort of ancient feminine magic, another woman chimed in, waving a box of tampons. "I swear by these. Pads are bulky—tampons are the way to go."

And then another.

And another.

Within minutes, Lionel Shahbandar—tycoon, master manipulator, self-proclaimed lion—was hopelessly surrounded by a council of women passionately debating his purchase.

One swore by cotton. Another argued for ultra-thin. Someone was holding up an economy pack like it was the Holy Grail. And Lionel? Lionel was sweating. He had lost control of the pride.

His baritone voice cracked slightly as he muttered, "Ladies… I… I simply wish to survive this mission with my dignity intact."

The women only laughed harder.

Defeated, Lionel did the only thing he could do—he took their advice and bought everything. Pads, tampons, liners—light flow, heavy flow, wings, no wings—if it existed, it was going in the cart. By the time he reached the register, he looked like he was stocking an entire hospital.

When he arrived home, you stared in sheer, unfiltered shock at the dozens of feminine hygiene products spilling across the table.

"What. The hell, Lionel?"

Lionel groaned, flopping onto the couch like a man who had fought a war and lived to tell the tale. "Don’t ask."

You picked up a box of tampons. "You do realize I don’t even use these, right?"

Lionel’s eye twitched. "I was under duress."

You turned to him, hands on your hips. "And you didn’t think to just call me?"

Lionel huffed, rolling onto his side dramatically. "A lion does not retreat in battle, my love."

You opened your mouth, ready to scold him into next week, but then—he reached into his coat and, with a flourish, produced a bar of chocolate.

Your expression instantly cleared as your eyes locked onto the chocolate. It was like all traces of irritation evaporated, replaced by a singular focus. Without hesitation, you snatched the bar from Lionel’s outstretched hand, unwrapping it with an intensity usually reserved for treasure hunters discovering a lost artifact.

Lionel, sprawled on the couch like a man who had just barely survived a battlefield, watched you with a mix of exhaustion and triumph. At least the women had been right about the chocolate.

As you took a blissful bite, your eyes practically rolled back in satisfaction, and Lionel smirked, watching you with the smug satisfaction of a man who had just tamed a wild beast. "See? Your lion is wise," he declared, stretching out lazily. "I may have suffered greatly in battle, but I emerge victorious."

You ignored him, too busy devouring the chocolate like it was your lifeline.

After a moment, Lionel, emboldened by your apparent good mood, leaned forward, peering at your rapidly disappearing treat. "Darling," he drawled, his baritone voice dripping with cheeky charm. "Perhaps your brave, suffering lion could have a bite?"

You didn’t even look at him. Instead, you let out a low, guttural growl, your fingers tightening protectively around the chocolate as you shifted slightly away from him.

Lionel blinked. "Did you just—did you just growl at me?"

You didn’t answer, but the way your eyes narrowed sent a clear message. Lionel, ever the strategist, slowly leaned back, hands raised in surrender. "Right. Of course. The chocolate is yours. I wouldn’t dare challenge you for it."

Satisfied with his compliance, you returned to your blissful consumption, letting the smooth, rich flavor distract you from the horrors of your period.

Lionel sighed, rubbing his temples. "I hate this," he muttered, more to himself than to you. "Menstruation is the devil’s work."

A sniffle.

His smug expression faltered, his sharp hazel eyes snapping to you. You were still eating the chocolate—devouring it, really—but your face… your face had changed.

Your lower lip trembled.

Lionel’s smirk faded entirely.

Oh no.

A single tear rolled down your cheek.

Oh no no no.

“What—” Lionel straightened up, looking around in alarm, as if some unseen assailant had infiltrated the room. “What’s happening? What’s—darling, why are you—what’s—?”

Another sniffle.

Then another.

Then, like a dam breaking, a full-blown wail.

Lionel shot up like he’d been electrocuted, his baritone voice pitching slightly higher than usual. “God almighty, what did I do?!”

You kept eating the chocolate, sobbing into the next bite, your face contorted with pure devastation. Lionel was panicking now, his hands hovering uselessly as he tried to process what was happening.

You sobbed again, hiccuping between chews. “You—sniff—said you—sniff—hate me!”

Lionel blinked. Then blinked again. “What?” His voice cracked in sheer disbelief.

“You hate me,” you wailed, stuffing another piece of chocolate into your mouth. “You—sniff—just said it.”

Lionel paled, horror washing over him. “I did not—”

“You did!” you insisted, dramatically throwing an arm over your face, as if the weight of his betrayal was simply too much to bear.

Lionel was flabbergasted. “I absolutely did not say that,” he argued, his baritone voice rising with sheer bewilderment. “I said I hate menstruation! Menstruation! Not you!” He gestured wildly at the air, as if trying to physically separate the two concepts.

But you weren’t listening.

You just kept crying.

And eating chocolate.

And crying.

Lionel ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “Oh, for God’s sake—darling! If I hated you, would I have suffered the humiliation of The Feminine Hygiene Incident? Would I have braved an army of women in that godforsaken aisle for you?!”

You sniffled dramatically. “I don’t know,” you whimpered, stuffing another piece of chocolate into your mouth.

Lionel let out a noise that could only be described as a strangled lion’s growl. “Unbelievable. I am the victim here, and yet somehow I am the villain!”

Another sob. More chocolate.

Lionel groaned, before throwing up his hands in surrender. “Fine! Fine! You win! I hate menstruation, not you! In fact, I adore you! I worship the very ground you walk on, my beloved chocolate-consuming, hormone-driven hurricane of a woman! Is that what you want to hear?”

You sniffled again, but the crying slowed—just a little.

Encouraged, Lionel cautiously approached, hesitantly reaching out. When you didn’t immediately push him away, he pulled you into his arms, pressing you against his chest. His hooked nose buried into your hair as he rubbed soothing circles on your back.

“There, there,” he muttered, rocking you slightly. “Your lion is here. No need for more tears.”

You sniffled again, still chewing, your cheek squished against his coat.

Lionel sighed. “You do realize you’ve been crying this entire time while still shoveling chocolate into your mouth, don’t you?”

You sniffled louder. “It’s emotional support chocolate.”

Lionel’s lips twitched despite himself. “Ah, of course. How foolish of me.”

He pressed a kiss to your temple, continuing to rub your back. After a moment of silence, he sighed dramatically. “You have turned me into a man I no longer recognize,” he lamented. “Once, I was a feared and respected tycoon. Now, I am a glorified tampon courier and personal emotional support lion.”

You sniffled again, but this time… you giggled.

Lionel immediately perked up. “Was that a laugh? Did I hear a laugh?”

You tried to suppress it, but another giggle escaped.

Lionel grinned triumphantly. “Aha! Victory! The lion reigns once more!”

You groaned, but let him hold you, finally resting against him, the last of your tears drying up.

Lionel smirked, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Now, about that chocolate—”

You immediately growled.

Lionel reeled back. “Oh, for—you did it again!”

But this time, you were laughing.

And Lionel, despite himself, laughed too.

[firefenifox]

A Scoundrel’s Devotion

Summary: George has always taken what he wanted, but when his wife gives him her love freely, he finds himself at a loss—because for the first time, he wants to be worthy of it.

Pairing: Sheriff of Nottingham × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Dirty language.

Author's Notes: I think I made the sheriff very comical, and I don't know if that's good or bad.

First, Second and Third part here.

Also read on Ao3

You stepped through the door, closing it behind you with a soft click. The journey back from the market had been uneventful, save for the strange whispers that reached your ears the moment you passed through the castle gates. Servants murmured in hushed tones, their faces alight with barely concealed amusement and concern. The words "Sheriff... attacked Sir Guy... with a spoon?" floated through the corridors, leaving you to wonder just what kind of chaos your husband had caused in your absence.

And now, as you stood in your shared chambers, you found the source of the commotion sprawled across the bed, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

George lay on his back, his long black hair spilling over the pillow, his tunic half undone as though he had barely made the effort to dress properly. His heavy black cloak lay discarded on the floor, a clear sign of his utter disregard for tidiness. One arm was thrown over his forehead in mock exhaustion, the other resting lazily on his stomach.

You exhaled sharply, bending down to retrieve the cloak, folding it with deliberate care. "So," you began, your voice laced with exasperation. "Care to explain why the entire castle is talking about you attempting to murder Sir Guy?"

George barely cracked an eye open, his lips twitching into a smug smirk. "Because he deserved it," he muttered, his voice thick with self-satisfaction. "Filthy bastard is lucky I didn’t gut him where he stood."

You placed the folded cloak on the chair by the hearth, your patience thinning. "George," you pressed, arms crossing over your chest, "what did he do this time?"

At that, George rolled onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. His hazel eyes darkened with fury, his black beard framing a scowl that promised impending doom. "He dared to insult you," he hissed, as though the very words burned his tongue. "He called you ugly. Ugly. As if I would allow such blasphemy to go unpunished."

Your lips parted slightly in surprise, but before you could respond, he sat up abruptly, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. His fists clenched against the mattress as he glared at the floor, nostrils flaring. "I will kill him," he growled. "I will make him bleed. He will beg for death before I’m through with him!"

You sighed, tilting your head in exhausted disbelief. "Oh, will you?"

George snapped his gaze up to meet yours, his anger momentarily pausing at the unimpressed expression on your face.

"George, are you planning to kill yourself, too?" you asked, voice deceptively light.

He blinked, thrown off. "What?"

You raised an eyebrow. "You heard me. If you’re going to kill Sir Guy for calling me ugly, will you also punish yourself for every cruel word you’ve ever thrown my way?" You took a step closer, eyes narrowing. "Shall I bring a blade, so you can start flaying yourself?"

George’s mouth opened, then closed. His brow furrowed. He genuinely seemed bewildered by your logic.

"But—that’s—" He shook his head, his long black hair falling into his face. "I thought you had forgiven me!"

"I have," you said simply, shrugging. "Just as I forgave Sir Guy."

George’s hands clenched into fists, his entire body vibrating with frustration. "It’s not the same!" he barked. "I— I am sorry! I have changed! I do everything for you now! You are the only woman I take to my bed, the only woman I desire!" He surged to his feet, closing the distance between you in three swift strides, his voice dropping into a deep, desperate growl.

"You are the most beautiful woman in the entire kingdom, my wife, my woman." His large hands gripped your waist, his touch burning through the layers of fabric. "I have given you freedoms that no other woman has, let you walk amongst the people like a queen—"

"But Sir Guy is not sorry," you countered, your hands pressing against his chest in defiance. "And that’s the real issue here, isn’t it? It’s not about my honor. It’s about yours."

George’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening.

"You can’t stand the fact that another man dared to insult what belongs to you," you whispered, challenging him.

His nostrils flared as his grip on you tightened possessively. "Damn right, I can’t." His voice dropped into that dangerous, wicked baritone, the one that always sent shivers racing down your spine. "I can’t stand the thought of anyone looking at you with anything less than worship."

"Then perhaps you should have started with yourself," you shot back, refusing to yield.

George’s breath hitched, his entire frame tensing. For the first time in a long time, you saw it—the flicker of guilt in his hazel eyes.

George stood there, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his hazel eyes burning with a mixture of frustration, regret, and something deeper—something he couldn’t name. His breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling as if he’d just been in battle.

"I have changed for you," he said again, but his voice was weak this time, almost pleading. "But you… you don’t see it."

He turned on his heel, his long black hair whipping over his shoulder as he stormed toward the door.

"George," you called, a slight waver in your voice.

But he didn’t stop.

You took a step forward, as if to follow, but then hesitated. Perhaps it was the weight of the argument, the exhaustion of years of tension, or maybe you just knew that this time, he needed to be alone.

So you let him go.

George stormed down the twisting stone staircases of Nottingham Castle, his boots slamming against the cold floor with each step. His anger, his humiliation, his wretched love for you burned inside him like a fever. He kicked a passing rat, sending the creature squeaking down the hall. A particularly fat frog hopped across his path—he kicked that too, grumbling as it plopped into a puddle.

"Bloody rodents. Bloody frogs. Bloody wife."

At last, he reached the dungeon’s lower depths, where the air was thick with the stench of damp stone, rotting straw, and whatever hellish concoction Mortianna was brewing in her ever-bubbling cauldron.

The old witch stood over the cauldron, her long white hair hanging in tangled strands around her wrinkled face. One eye—milky and blind—stared into nothingness, while the other, sharp and brown, flicked toward George as he entered.

She did not greet him. She rarely did. Instead, she continued stirring whatever foul potion she was brewing, muttering in some forgotten tongue.

George sighed dramatically and threw himself into a dark corner of the room, his back against the damp stone wall. He pulled at the fabric of his tunic absentmindedly, a habit he had never quite outgrown, something he had done as a boy when sulking.

Mortianna, without turning around, finally spoke.

"Something troubles you, my lord?"

George scoffed, resting his head against the cold stone. "Only everything."

She nodded sagely, adding a pinch of something suspiciously wriggling into the bubbling cauldron. "A woman, then."

George groaned. "How do you always know?"

Mortianna let out a raspy chuckle, tapping the side of her nose knowingly. "Because, dear boy, lately you only come here when it’s about her."

George growled under his breath. "I love her, Mortianna. I love her like a madman. And yet… she sees me as the villain! As if I have not changed!"

Mortianna finally turned to face him fully, the dim candlelight casting grotesque shadows across her wrinkled features. She studied him for a moment before clicking her tongue.

"You are too soft," she muttered, shaking her head. "You let a woman—a woman with a scar, no less—hold such power over you? Ridiculous. Get rid of her. Take another wife. A younger one. A prettier one."

George shot to his feet, his fury immediate. "No!"

Mortianna barely flinched, only raising one thin eyebrow.

"I don’t want another," George snapped, pacing in a circle, his hands gesturing wildly. "I want her! It is her I love!"

Mortianna let out a long, heavy sigh, as if dealing with a particularly dense child.

George stopped pacing, raking his fingers through his long black hair. His chest ached. His hands trembled. And then—humiliatingly—his eyes burned.

"Oh, for the love of—"

He barely had time to compose himself before tears began rolling down his face.

Mortianna took a step back, crossing her arms. "Oh, not this again."

But George was already full of self-pity, collapsing onto the floor in a graceless heap, dragging the fabric of his tunic over his face.

"I’ve tried everything," he wailed, his voice muffled. "I changed for her. I stopped sleeping with prostitutes. I eat meals with utensils now. I even bathe regularly, Mortianna! BATHE! Do you know how much work that is?!"

Mortianna, completely unimpressed, rolled her one working eye.

"And yet," George continued, sniffing loudly, "nothing is ever enough!"

He let out a shuddering breath, pulling his knees up to his chest like a great sulking beast. "She loathes me," he muttered. "She says she forgives me, but she still looks at me as if I am the man I was before. She still thinks I—Oh Gods, Mortianna, what do I do?"

Mortianna sighed again, rubbing her temples. "First, you stop this pathetic display."

But George didn’t hear her. His sobs only grew louder. His nose was running now, his breathing uneven and sniffly.

Mortianna watched him for a long moment, clearly disgusted. Finally, she shuffled forward, reaching out to awkwardly pat his shoulder, as one might do when attempting to console a particularly oversized toddler.

"There, there," she said dryly. "Become a man."

George ignored her, still sniffling. Then, in a motion so quick she barely had time to react—he reached for the edge of her tattered dress.

Mortianna’s milky eye twitched.

"George," she warned.

But it was too late.

George, the terrifying, ruthless Sheriff of Nottingham, the scourge of England, the man who once threatened to carve out a man’s heart with a spoon, promptly buried his face in her skirts and blew his nose.

"OH, FOR THE LOVE OF—!"

Mortianna yanked her dress away from him with a look of sheer horror, staring down at the wet and now slightly green patch of fabric.

George, meanwhile, sat back on his heels, looking considerably less miserable as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his tunic.

"There we go," he muttered, sniffling. "That’s a bit better."

Mortianna gaped at him. "You… you absolute filthy—!"

George ignored her, already standing up, stretching his arms above his head. "I suppose I should go," he mused, sighing dramatically. "I have an apology to make. Again."

Mortianna, still seething, glared at him. "You are a grown man."

George grinned, grabbing a rag from the table and wiping his nose one last time before tossing it directly into the cauldron.

The liquid inside immediately turned an alarming shade of green.

Mortianna let out an inhuman shriek.

George, cackling like a devil, sprinted for the door, dodging a wooden spoon Mortianna hurled at his head.

"GEORGE, YOU FOUL, DISGUSTING, UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BASTARD—!"

He was already halfway up the stairs, laughing breathlessly.

Yes, he had an apology to make.

But first—he had to find a clean tunic.

He had snot on this one.

Dinner was always a private affair now.

You sat at the grand dining table, waiting patiently as the castle’s many torches flickered, casting shadows against the towering stone walls. The air smelled of roasted lamb, freshly baked bread, and the faintest trace of something spicy—cloves, perhaps. The table was set meticulously, goblets of deep red wine reflecting the candlelight, platters brimming with decadent foods.

And yet, your appetite was tempered by anticipation.

Because George was late.

Not that this was unusual. Your husband, for all his newfound devotion, had a flair for the dramatic, a need to make an entrance even in his own home.

And when he finally appeared, you had to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

George strode in like a monarch surveying his court, his long black hair still damp from his bath, curling slightly at the ends. He had donned yet another of his absurdly extravagant robes—this one an even deeper shade of black, lined with velvet and adorned with golden embroidery so intricate it looked as though it had been stolen from the king’s own wardrobe. The attached cape, more theatrical than ever, billowed behind him as he walked, catching the air like a storm rolling through the hall.

You sighed.

“Another robe, George?”

He smirked, flourishing the cape dramatically as he approached. “You wound me, my love. A man of my stature cannot simply wear the same thing twice. What would the people think?”

“They’d think their taxes could be better spent,” you muttered dryly, motioning for the servants to bring dinner as soon as George sat down.

He did so with a flourish, settling into his seat with all the grace of a lounging predator. The moment the food was laid before you, George dismissed the servants with a flick of his wrist, as he always did now. Private dinners had become your routine—a tradition he had instilled with unwavering insistence.

The moment the last servant disappeared, you reached up, removing your veil and setting it aside. The cool air brushed against your skin, but before you could begin eating, George reached out, catching your hand.

His fingers, rough yet warm, curled around yours.

You paused, looking up at him. His hazel eyes—so often filled with mischief, cruelty, or amusement—were now softer.

“I owe you an apology,” he said, his voice low, almost hesitant. “For today. For yesterday. For… before.” He swallowed. “I know I can’t undo the past, but I need you to know—I’m trying to be better.”

You tilted your head, watching him carefully. “You’ve changed with me, George. But you’re still mean to others.”

His lips twitched, as if resisting the urge to smirk. “It’s in my nature, love.”

“Then change.”

He exhaled sharply, leaning back in his chair. “And how would you like me to do that, exactly?”

You considered your words carefully, then took a breath. “I saw a starving mother today. She held a baby in her arms, wrapped in rags. They had nothing, George. No food. No shelter.”

His jaw tightened. He released your hand with a sigh, reclining further into his chair as if bracing for an argument.

You ignored the gesture, pushing forward. “We need to build a shelter for these people. A place where they can have a roof over their heads, warm food in their stomachs—”

George abruptly reached for his knife, cutting into the roasted lamb before him.

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t ignore me.”

“I’m not ignoring you, sweetheart,” he said, voice infuriatingly smooth as he took a bite. “I’m simply feeding myself before I’m forced into another one of your little projects.”

You folded your arms. “What would you do if you were in her place?”

He chewed slowly, his eyes flicking to yours. “If I were a starving mother?”

“If you had no home. No food. No help.”

George snorted, setting his knife down. “That’s a ridiculous question.”

“Is it?” You leaned forward, locking eyes with him. “You claim to have changed, George. But if it were me—if I were that woman—what would you do?”

He scoffed, but there was an edge to it. “First of all, none of my children would ever be on the streets.”

“Oh? And why is that?”

“Because they would have me,” he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “No child of mine would ever go hungry. No wife of mine would ever live in rags.”

You raised a brow. “But not everyone has a Sheriff of Nottingham to protect them, George.”

He exhaled heavily, rubbing his temples. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you’re predictable,” you countered, tilting your head. “You know I’m right.”

George groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “What exactly do you want from me, woman?”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on your hand. “I want you to prove you’ve changed. Build the shelter. Feed the hungry. Show your people that you can do more than steal from them.”

George looked at you, his hazel eyes searching yours for a long moment. And then—

He smirked.

A slow, wicked thing.

“You just love making me suffer, don’t you?” His voice dropped into that familiar, velvety growl. “Tell me, my sweet wife—does it arouse you? The thought of bending me to your will?”

Your breath hitched, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of blushing. “Does it matter?”

His grin widened. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Does that mean you’ll do it?”

George sighed, shaking his head dramatically. “I suppose I must. You leave me with no choice.”

You smirked. “You could resist me, you know.”

He laughed darkly, eyes gleaming. “Darling, resisting you is a battle I never wish to win.”

His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist, pulling you forward just enough that his lips brushed the shell of your ear.

“But you will owe me for this,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. “And I intend to collect.”

You swallowed. “Is that so?”

His teeth grazed your earlobe. “Oh, yes.”

You exhaled sharply, your body betraying you, pressing closer. But before you could say anything, George leaned back, resuming his meal with an infuriating smirk.

You glared at him. “You’re impossible.”

He winked. “And yet, you adore me.”

You huffed, shaking your head. But you couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that played at your lips.

Because you had won.

And George, for all his theatrics, for all his cruelty and dramatics, couldn’t resist you.

Two months had passed since that dinner, and George had followed through on his word—grudgingly, dramatically, and with frequent complaints about how much he was suffering for your sake.

The shelter was well underway.

True to his promise, he had bought a plot of land on the outskirts of Nottinghamshire, one that had once been an abandoned, rat-infested ruin, now slowly transforming into something worthy of its purpose. He had hired the best architect in the region—who had promptly quit after George threw a spoon at him for "suggesting that a window should be slightly to the left"—and replaced him with another who had been sufficiently terrified into compliance.

George, of course, had taken full credit for the progress, puffing out his chest whenever the townspeople murmured in admiration.

"And who, might I ask," he had declared just the other week, standing atop a wooden platform in the middle of the construction site, "is the man responsible for this act of sheer generosity?"

The townspeople, who had learned by now that answering incorrectly led to immediate taxation, had chorused: "YOU, SHERIFF!"

He had smirked, preening like a cat in the sun. "That's right."

You, standing off to the side with your arms crossed, had merely raised an eyebrow. "Really, George?"

He had turned to you, grinning. "Oh, my love, I adore how suspicious you are of my virtue. It's almost endearing."

You had rolled your eyes but said nothing. Because, despite the dramatics, despite the insufferable preening and self-congratulatory nonsense—George had done this. He had spent hours overseeing every detail, ensuring that no corrupt official could siphon funds, that the workers were fed and paid fairly, that the stone used was sturdy enough to last for generations.

And now, as you sat beside him in the carriage on your way to inspect the site again, you found yourself watching him with something dangerously close to admiration.

He was leaning back lazily, his long black hair unbound and wild from the wind, his cloak draped over his broad shoulders. His black beard was neatly trimmed, though his hooked nose and sharp cheekbones still gave him the air of a villain, the kind of man who would sell someone’s soul for a particularly well-aged bottle of wine.

He caught you staring.

"What?" he smirked, his hazel eyes glinting with amusement. "Falling for me all over again, sweetheart?"

You scoffed. "Hardly."

"Liar," he purred, shifting closer, his knee pressing against yours. "You've been watching me like a lovesick maid since we left the castle."

You huffed, turning your gaze out the window. "You're delusional."

George chuckled, the sound low and indulgent. "And yet," he murmured, reaching over to trace a slow, teasing finger along the bare skin of your wrist, "you're trembling, my love."

You stiffened.

He smirked, his fingers continuing their lazy exploration, skimming along the inside of your palm, down to the delicate pulse at the base of your wrist. "Shall I remind you, wife, of just how thoroughly you belong to me?"

Your breath hitched.

George leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he whispered, "Say the word, and I'll have this carriage turned around. We won't leave that bed until you're screaming my name."

Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

Damn him.

With great effort, you composed yourself, pulling your hand away as you fixed him with a withering glare. "I think the people of Nottingham would be very disappointed if their oh-so-generous Sheriff abandoned his precious project for such… selfish desires."

George exhaled sharply, tilting his head as he studied you. Then, slowly—deliberately—he dragged his gaze down your body, taking in the way your breathing had quickened, the way your fingers trembled slightly where they rested in your lap.

"You can lie to yourself, sweetheart," he murmured, voice dark with promise. "But you can't lie to me."

You swallowed hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

The people of Nottinghamshire greeted you both with warmth as your carriage rolled through the bustling streets. You waved at the crowd with a soft smile, your veil fluttering gently in the breeze. George watched you out of the corner of his eye, admiring the way you carried yourself—graceful, composed, regal in your own quiet way.

He thought you looked particularly beautiful today.

A part of him wished you would drop the veil, let him see you fully, without that cursed fabric acting as a barrier. But he said nothing. He had learned by now that some wounds took longer to heal, that patience was a virtue he was still mastering.

So instead, he simply enjoyed the comfortable silence between you, watching as your gaze remained fixed on the people outside, oblivious to his staring.

Then, you turned to him with a sudden thought. “After we inspect the site, can we stop by the market? I’d like to buy Emily a toy.”

George blinked, briefly thrown off by the shift in topic. Then, his lips twitched into a smirk. “Already spoiling the child, are we?”

You rolled your eyes, though there was a small smile playing at your lips. “She reminds me of… well, me. When I was little.”

George tilted his head, studying you. He knew how much you doted on the maid’s daughter, how you slipped her sweets when no one was looking, how you always remembered to bring her something whenever you went to the market.

He also knew—deep down—that you longed for a child of your own.

The thought lingered in his mind, a realization settling within him like a slow-burning fire. Before, the idea of children had always been tied to duty. That was why, in the beginning—when he despised you, when he saw you as nothing more than a political pawn—he had still taken you to bed. It had been about securing an heir, about ensuring his legacy.

But now?

Now, the thought of having a child was no longer about duty.

Now, when he imagined it, he saw you—sitting by the fire, knitting tiny garments with that same focused determination you had when crafting Emily’s doll. He imagined a little girl with your eyes, or a boy with your quiet strength, sitting on his knee as he read them stories (dramatically, of course). He imagined you—soft and glowing, a child resting against you, loved and wanted.

The idea no longer felt like an obligation.

It felt like something he wanted.

George cleared his throat, forcing the thought aside before it could unsettle him further. “Fine,” he relented, feigning exasperation. “We’ll buy the brat a toy.”

You beamed at him, and God help him, he felt something in his chest tighten.

Before he could dwell on it, the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the construction site.

George stepped out first, sweeping his cloak over one shoulder as he extended a hand to help you down. You took it without hesitation, your fingers curling around his. He smirked slightly at the sight—he liked the way your smaller hand fit into his, liked that you reached for him without hesitation now.

The architect was already waiting for you both, an older man with thinning hair and a permanently nervous disposition (likely due to the incident with the first architect and the spoon).

“My lord, my lady,” the architect greeted with a low bow. “We’ve made considerable progress since your last visit.”

George nodded, clasping his hands behind his back in an appropriately sheriff-like manner. “Well, I should hope so. If I’m going to be a saint of the people, I expect results.”

You shot him a look.

The architect coughed nervously before gesturing toward the half-constructed building. “As you can see, the foundation is complete. This will be the main hall where meals will be served. We have planned separate quarters for families on this side, and individual rooms for those in need of temporary shelter over here.”

George watched as you inspected the design, nodding thoughtfully as you took everything in. He could see the way you envisioned it already—how your mind was putting everything together, piece by piece.

“I’d like to have a small garden here,” you said after a moment, pointing to an open patch of land beside the structure. “Somewhere people can grow herbs, vegetables. A way for them to sustain themselves, even in small ways.”

George arched a brow, glancing at the architect. “Make it happen.”

The man nodded quickly, scribbling notes on his parchment.

As the architect continued his explanation, George found himself less interested in the details of where the chimney should go and more fascinated by you—by the way you bit your lip in thought, the way you gestured as you spoke, the way you had so seamlessly stepped into this role of leadership.

He still remembered the first time he saw you—veiled, silent, hesitant. The woman before him now? She was someone entirely different.

And he liked it.

“Once the shelter is completed,” George mused aloud, breaking the conversation, “I’ll need you to start drawing up new plans.”

The architect blinked in confusion. “For what, my lord?”

George waved a hand toward the future shelter. “This is just the beginning. We’ll need a school next.”

Silence fell over the group.

You turned to him sharply, eyes widening. “A school?”

George smirked, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bombshell.

“Think about it, love,” he said, tilting his head. “What good is a full stomach if one’s mind remains empty? We can’t have a bunch of uneducated brats running about Nottinghamshire. Might as well give them some schooling so they don’t all grow up to be idiots.”

The architect looked utterly gobsmacked.

You, however, were watching him with something else entirely in your gaze.

“George,��� you said, your voice softer this time. “You would really do that?”

George shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Well, if I’m going to be a reformed man—” he interrupted himself.

The moment your veil fell away, caught in the breeze as it drifted to the ground, George's world seemed to slow.

You had never done this before. Never removed it so openly, so deliberately, in front of others. It had always been a shield, a fortress between you and the world. Between you and him.

And now, you had cast it aside.

Before he could fully process the significance of it, you grabbed him by the collar of his absurdly expensive, dramatically embroidered robe and pulled him down into a kiss.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss. It wasn’t soft or demure.

It was searing.

The kind of kiss that made him feel as if the entire world had been swept out from under his feet.

George, despite his usual flair for theatrics, was caught completely off guard.

There was no hiding behind fabric, no carefully orchestrated distance. There was only you, your lips pressing against his, your hands clutching at the front of his tunic as if he was the only thing anchoring you to the earth.

And then—finally—his instincts caught up.

He kissed you back, with every ounce of passion he had been bottling up for months. His hands grasped at your waist, fingers tightening as he pulled you flush against him, deepening the kiss with a desperation he hadn’t even realized he possessed.

The architect, caught in the unfortunate position of being a witness to this spectacle, quickly turned away, rubbing at his temples as if contemplating the meaning of his existence.

George couldn’t care less.

You were kissing him, here, in front of everyone, without shame, without hesitation. And then—just as he thought he had finally regained control of the situation—you pulled away, just enough to whisper something against his lips that shattered the very foundation of his world.

“I love you.”

George froze.

His mind went utterly blank.

His hands, still gripping your waist, trembled.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to look at you—really look at you. As if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just heard.

You had never said those words before.

Not once.

Not in the entire miserable history of your marriage.

But you were saying them now, your eyes burning with something raw and genuine, your lips parted as if waiting for him to respond.

And George—who had always been a master of words, a man of dramatic declarations and cutting wit—found himself utterly, incomprehensibly speechless.

“I—” He choked on the word, swallowed, tried again. “You—”

For the first time in his life, George, Sheriff of Nottingham, feared that he might actually faint.

Because, surely, this was a hallucination. A fever dream brought on by too much wine and not enough sleep. You could not have just said that. You could not have just—

“George,” you whispered, smiling softly. “Did you hear me?”

His heart was pounding so violently he was half-convinced it might burst from his chest.

“I… I heard you,” he finally managed, his voice hoarse, breathless.

You arched an eyebrow, your fingers still curled in the fabric of his tunic. “And?”

George, completely beside himself, did the only thing he could think to do.

He grabbed your face—scar and all—and kissed you so fiercely that your knees nearly buckled beneath you.

The architect made a noise of protest, but George paid him no mind.

He kissed you until he was certain that you could taste every ounce of his devotion, his desperation, his absolute, undying love for you.

And then, pulling away just enough to press his forehead against yours, he exhaled shakily, his voice raw with emotion.

“You ridiculous, impossible woman,” he murmured, his hands tightening around you as if terrified you might disappear. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done to me?”

You laughed softly, brushing your fingers over his jaw. “I imagine I’ve given you an aneurysm.”

“Correct,” he growled, pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I have spent months—months—waiting for you to say something, anything about your feelings for me, and then you just throw it at me like—like—” He gestured wildly, voice rising in dramatic outrage. “Like a casual remark?!”

You smiled, amused by his theatrics. “Would you have preferred I declared it from the castle walls?”

“YES!” he barked, then paused, blinking. “Wait. No. Actually, yes. That would have been preferable.” He grinned suddenly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “In fact, I demand it. Right now. You will climb to the highest tower and—”

You rolled your eyes, cutting him off with another kiss.

It worked immediately.

George, ever the insufferable romantic, melted like butter, his earlier indignation vanishing as he deepened the kiss with renewed fervor.

The architect, long-suffering and utterly exasperated, cleared his throat loudly.

“Perhaps, my lord, you might save your affections for a more private setting?” he suggested, pinching the bridge of his nose.

George, looking thoroughly unrepentant, smirked. “Ah, but you see, my dear architect—” He pulled you against him once more, nipping teasingly at your lower lip before flashing a smug grin. “—this is what happens when you fall madly, hopelessly in love with your wife.”

You flushed at his words, but George only beamed, practically preening in satisfaction.

The architect sighed deeply, clearly questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment.

“Shall we continue discussing the shelter, or would you prefer I leave you two to, ah, celebrate your newfound affections?”

George, ever the dramatic menace, actually seemed to consider it.

You, however, nudged him hard in the ribs. “Behave.”

He pouted but relented, turning back to the architect with a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, fine. Let’s get this over with.”

And so the discussion resumed.

But George, for all his newfound philanthropy, was hopelessly distracted.

Because you had said it.

You had finally said it.

And now, there was absolutely nothing stopping him from making it his life’s mission to ensure that you never regretted it.

The scent of fresh bread, roasting meat, and fragrant herbs mingled with the crisp autumn air as you and George strolled leisurely through Nottingham’s bustling market. The cobblestone streets were alive with activity—merchants haggled, children weaved between stalls, and the chatter of townsfolk filled the air.

For once, George was in an exceptional mood. Not only had he basked in your public declaration of love earlier, but he had also discovered something truly unexpected—being nice was astonishingly profitable.

"Another gift?" George smirked as the baker’s wife pressed a bundle of warm gingerbread into your hands. “Darling, at this rate, we won’t have to buy supplies for weeks.”

You cast him a knowing look. “You do realize this is because the people actually like us now?”

George scoffed. “No, they like you. I am simply basking in the benefits of your saintly presence.”

You shook your head in amusement, placing the bundle of gingerbread on top of the already considerable pile of gifts George had been forced to carry. Fresh apples, a fine wool scarf, a bundle of herbs—items freely given with kind smiles and murmurs of gratitude.

George, for all his complaints, wasn’t truly displeased. In fact, he was rather enjoying this new role of “beloved” Sheriff. The perks were undeniable—free food, admiration, and the absolute best part: you.

His attention briefly drifted as you continued browsing, oblivious to the young man making his way towards you, a bouquet of wildflowers clutched in his hands. George immediately narrowed his hazel eyes, his grip tightening on the gifts he held.

The man’s intent was obvious—to present you with the flowers. The nerve of him.

As the man drew closer, George bared his teeth in a slow, menacing snarl.

The poor fool hesitated.

George’s scowl deepened.

The man’s resolve wavered.

Then, wisely, the young man turned on his heel and fled, the bouquet still in his grip.

George smirked in satisfaction before turning back to you, still blissfully unaware as you examined the finely crafted dolls on display at a nearby stall.

A woman approached, handing you a small bundle of lavender. “For you, my lady,” she said with a smile.

George watched as you thanked her, slipping the lavender into the crook of your arm. His smirk widened. Yes, this was the life. If he had known that being benevolent would be so profitable, he might have started sooner.

Just as he was reveling in his newfound “philanthropy,” George felt an insistent tug at his cloak.

He glanced over his shoulder, then down.

A small girl, no older than six, stood at his feet, her tiny fingers gripping the fabric of his cloak as she gazed up at him with large, solemn eyes.

George blinked, his expression immediately turning into one of mild horror. What in the blazes did she want?

He tried to shake his cloak free, but the child remained steadfast, unperturbed by his obvious distaste.

“What,” he muttered, peering down at her as if she were an inconvenience. “Do you want?”

Without a word, the little girl lifted her small hand, revealing a single daisy.

George frowned.

A flower? For him?

He narrowed his eyes. “This isn’t poisoned, is it?”

The girl just blinked up at him, uncomprehending.

George sighed, rubbing his temple. “Listen, child, I don’t know what you expect me to—” Before he could finish, you turned and noticed the interaction.

Your lips curled into a warm smile as you knelt beside the little girl. “What a lovely flower,” you murmured, reaching out to accept it. “Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?”

The child shook her head and pointed at George.

George, utterly baffled, stared between the two of you. “What? Why me?”

You giggled, brushing your fingers over the petals before tucking the flower into George’s lapel. “Because she wanted to give it to you.”

George exhaled sharply, muttering something under his breath. His fingers briefly touched the daisy, as if assessing its worth, before quickly withdrawing as though burned.

As he attempted to regain his composure, you took the gingerbread bundle from the pile of gifts he was carrying and handed it to the girl. “Here,” you said softly. “For you.”

The little girl’s eyes widened with delight as she took the gingerbread, clutching it to her chest before turning and dashing off.

George watched, his gaze lingering on the gingerbread as it disappeared into the crowd. He sighed dramatically. “I was going to eat that.”

You patted his arm sympathetically. “Yes, but she needed it more.”

George grumbled under his breath, adjusting his now slightly lighter load of gifts. “If people keep giving you things and you keep giving them away, we’ll be right back where we started.”

You only laughed, slipping your arm through his. “Then you’ll just have to carry more.” George sighed heavily but made no move to untangle himself from you.

As the two of you resumed your stroll through the market, George caught sight of the flower still tucked into his lapel. He huffed, plucking it free.

Then, after a brief moment of hesitation, he tucked it behind your ear.

Your eyes widened slightly, but before you could say anything, George smirked and pressed a swift kiss to your cheek. “Let’s go, love,” he murmured. “Before more peasants decide they adore us.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, but as you walked on, you reached up to gently touch the flower, a small smile lingering on your lips.

And George—grumpy, dramatic, ruthless George—allowed himself to be led, carrying your gifts, basking in your warmth, and wondering, perhaps being a better man wasn’t so terrible after all.

[firefenifox]

Wish I could fondle those huge tits Danny has and suck his nipples

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He does have tats leading down to it so... Maybe?

[firefenifox]

Has Bill Nighy (British Actor) been submitted yet? I've always thought there's something about him 😉

[firefenifox]

Sim, mil vezes se possível

Fernanda Torres (Brazilian actress and Fernanda Montenegro's daughter)

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This man got me into smooth jazz and I fell in love with the genre - it also made me a better musician so suuuuper smash

Kenny G

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As a fellow drummer, I absolutely love StewDaddy!!

Stewart Copeland

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Tom Jones (bc sexbomb)

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a view from the spire? in this economy?

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Faria vários da MPB e da Bossa Nova inclusive

Ivan Lins (Brazilian musician, singer)

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Coisa que eu certamente faria - falar pro Alan que a bunda dele é linda na frente de todo mundo 😏

Could you please write an imagine bring Alan’s gf and he has a meet and greet with a photo op and you surprise him. At first he doesn’t really notice who’s next in line, perhaps he’s preoccupied with something? Maybe checking his phone between fans because you haven’t been answering him and he looks up to see you’re waiting for him

Title: The Queue for You

Summary: Alan Rickman is thrown off-guard when his girlfriend secretly joins his fan line, proving that even celebrities aren’t immune to playful surprises.

Pairing: Alan Rickman × Fem! Reader

Warnings: None

Author's Notes: Thank you very much for your request!

Also read on Ao3

The bright lights of the venue reflected off Alan Rickman’s distinguished features as he adjusted his scarf and prepared for the next fan to approach. The meet-and-greet had been planned weeks in advance, and despite his love for his fans, today his heart simply wasn’t in it. His mind was somewhere else—on you.

The line of fans extended far out the door, each one holding books, DVDs, and memorabilia from his long and celebrated career. Alan did his best to keep his charm intact, smiling warmly as the next fan, a young woman clutching a copy of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, stepped forward.

“Oh, Mr. Rickman! It’s such an honor to meet you,” she gushed, her voice trembling with excitement. “Your portrayal of Professor Snape was... it was just so perfect. No one else could have done it like you.”

Alan forced a polite smile, his baritone voice steady. “That’s very kind of you to say. Though I must admit, Snape’s wardrobe wasn’t exactly designed for comfort. I often wondered if he secretly wanted to join Gryffindor, just for a lighter wardrobe.”

The fan laughed, clearly enchanted, and Alan dutifully posed for the photograph as the professional photographer clicked away. He tilted his head slightly, ensuring the fan was framed in the best light.

“Thank you so much!” the fan said as she stepped away, clutching her autographed book like a priceless treasure.

“You’re most welcome,” Alan replied, his tone gentle, though his heart wasn’t entirely present.

As the next fan approached, Alan glanced at his phone on the table beside him. Still nothing. You hadn’t replied to his good morning message, and now, by the afternoon, he was nearly unraveling with worry. He told himself he was being irrational. After all, you’d only been dating for a short while—just a few weeks. But Alan, ever the private romantic, had fallen for you faster and deeper than he cared to admit. And your silence gnawed at him.

The next fan was a middle-aged man holding a well-loved DVD of Die Hard. Alan immediately slipped into his professional charm.

“Yippee-ki-yay, I assume?” Alan quipped, his wry humor drawing a laugh from the man.

“Yes! You were the best villain in film history,” the man declared.

Alan chuckled softly, though it was slightly forced. “Hans Gruber was certainly... resourceful. Though, between you and me, I think he overcomplicated things. A good cup of tea would have solved many of his problems.”

The man beamed as the camera clicked, and Alan shook his hand firmly before gesturing for the next fan to step forward. His gaze flickered back to his phone for a brief moment. Still no message. His stomach tightened.

Another fan, this one dressed as Snape, approached with an elaborate costume and a wand in hand. The fan dramatically flicked the wand, reciting a spell with a mock serious expression. Alan smiled faintly, playing along. “I see Severus is here to make sure I haven’t forgotten my lines. Very kind of you.”

The fan laughed, and Alan posed for the photo, his mind wandering back to you even as he maintained his composed exterior. What if he’d said something wrong? What if his feelings for you were already too much? Too fast? He chastised himself silently.

As the fan moved on, Alan reached for his water glass, taking a small sip to calm his nerves. The meet-and-greet continued, a parade of enthusiastic faces, heartfelt compliments, and eager requests for selfies. Alan appreciated every one of his fans, but today, their energy couldn’t pierce the fog of his anxiety.

Finally, during a brief break, he discreetly checked his phone again. Still nothing. His fingers hovered over the screen, tempted to call you, but he resisted. He didn’t want to appear overbearing. He placed the phone face down on the table with a sigh, forcing his focus back to the line of waiting fans.

The next in line was a teenage girl clutching a framed photograph of Alan as Colonel Brandon. “This is my mum’s favorite movie,” she said shyly. “She couldn’t come today, so I’m here to get this signed for her.”

Alan’s expression softened, his natural warmth breaking through his worry. “A thoughtful daughter and good taste in films. Your mother raised you well.”

The girl blushed, smiling as Alan signed the photograph and posed for the picture. He noticed how her hands shook slightly, and his baritone voice softened further. “Do tell your mum I said hello. And thank her for her love of Jane Austen.”

“I will!” the girl said, her smile radiant as she stepped away.

His attention wasn’t on the fan waiting nearby or even on the polite thank-yous that rolled off his tongue. His focus was on the cell phone in his hand. He glanced at it for what felt like the hundredth time, still no reply from you. His thumb hovered over your contact name.

Would he seem pathetic if he called you now? It wasn’t even midday.

The murmur of the line shifted slightly, a fan stepping forward to stand before him. Alan only registered her presence when she spoke, her tone enthusiastic but warm. “You looked amazing in Gambit, Mr. Rickman. That movie is one of my favorites.”

Alan thanked her absentmindedly, his voice kind but distant as he tapped out a quick message to you: “Just checking in. Hope your day’s going well.” His attention was so split that her next comment hit him like a rogue gust of wind.

“And I must say,” she continued with a playful smirk, “your ass looked great on the big screen.”

Alan froze mid-message, his thumb hovering over the send button as her audacious words registered. Slowly, deliberately, he put the phone down and turned his full attention to the fan in front of him.

His hazel eyes widened slightly in surprise as they landed on you. There you stood, smiling mischievously, an amused glint in your eyes as if daring him to respond. Alan’s mind scrambled to reconcile the casual, flirty line with the image of his girlfriend standing in a fan queue.

“[Your Name],” he said, his baritone voice tinged with disbelief. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Your smile grew wider, the glint in your eye softening. “I thought I’d surprise you. Spent hours in that line, too. You wouldn’t believe how many fans tried to cut in front of me.”

Alan leaned back in his chair, folding his arms as his initial shock gave way to a chuckle. “I don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned that my own girlfriend stood in line with my fans to see me.”

“You should be both,” you teased, stepping closer to the table. “I’m serious about that Gambit comment, though. Never thought I’d see my boyfriend’s backside with a whole audience.”

Alan laughed, a deep, genuine sound that turned a few heads in the queue. He shook his head in disbelief, his signature wry humor kicking in. “If I’d known, I might have reconsidered the scene entirely. Though I suppose the film had its moments.”

You leaned on the edge of his table, ignoring the curious glances from nearby fans. “Its moments? Alan, it was art. The whole scene was practically Shakespearean.”

Alan’s lips twitched into a sly smile. “I think Shakespeare would roll in his grave if he heard that comparison. Though, I admit, this is the best review I’ve had all day.”

The fans behind you began whispering amongst themselves, some even recognizing you from your own work. Alan noticed but didn’t seem to care. His attention was locked on you, his hand brushing over yours as he leaned closer.

“I don’t believe you waited in that line,” he said softly, his voice dropping to a more private register. “You could have just called me.”

You shrugged, grinning. “And miss the chance to surprise you? Where’s the fun in that?”

Alan tilted his head, his hazel eyes warm and full of affection. “You do have a flair for the dramatic. Perhaps we should find you a role in one of my next projects.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” you replied, leaning closer. “Now, are you going to sign my photo or not?”

Alan laughed again, shaking his head as he reached for a blank headshot. “If I don’t, I imagine I’ll never hear the end of it.”

As he signed, he glanced up at you, his eyes filled with quiet gratitude. “Thank you for this,” he said softly. “For waiting, for showing up. I needed this more than I realized.”

You squeezed his hand gently. “Anytime, Alan. Always.”

The fan queue began murmuring more audibly, some snapping pictures of the sweet exchange. Alan ignored them, his focus entirely on you. For the rest of the day, his mood remained noticeably lighter, and he couldn’t help but glance toward the spot where you now lingered nearby, a supportive presence amidst the whirlwind of fans.

Later, as the event wrapped up, Alan made a point to slip away and find you. Together, you walked through the quieting venue, his arm draped over your shoulders as he murmured, “Next time, don’t stand in line for hours. Just come straight to me.”

You smirked, leaning into him. “And miss the chance to tell you in front of all your fans that your ass is great? Never.”

Alan chuckled, shaking his head as his grip on you tightened. “You’re insufferable,” he said affectionately.

“And you love it,” you quipped, earning another laugh from the man who hadn’t stopped smiling since you arrived.