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I just found this promo pic from Gambit I've never seen before and the looks on both their faces are so funny đ
Yes! I actually saw that image on Pinterest, I even thought about using it for one of the gifs in my masterlist, but ended up scrapping the idea đ
Lionel holding that elegant umbrella (?) gives off major Kingsman vibes đââïž

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Thank you for the screams, Tony Todd. đ And the scares. đ
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Stranded with the Lion
Summary: A trophy wife and her billionaire husband are left shipwrecked after a storm. What begins in resentment slowly transforms into survival, vulnerability, and unexpected love.
Pairing: Lionel Shahbandar Ă Fem! Reader
Warnings: Hunger, shipwreck.
Author's Notes: Iâve been working on this for days, and today I finally felt satisfied enough to post it. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!
Also read on Ao3
You hugged your legs to your chest, chin resting on your knees, trying to keep your breathing quietâtrying not to sob out loud. The deck creaked beneath you with each gentle sway of the boat, but there was no comfort in the rhythm anymore. It had been a week.
Seven days since the storm hit.
Seven days since Lionelâs grand idea of a âsimple coastal escapeâ turned into a salt-stained nightmare.
You remembered the first few hoursâposing for pictures near the cliffs, wind catching your hair just right, Lionel lounging like some smug Mediterranean king at the helm, champagne in hand. You had been excited. Laughing. God, you were even wearing heels. And then, as if the universe had grown tired of your vanity, the sky turned black and the water rose up to swallow everything.
Now here you were: sunburned, sore, scared, with the sail torn to ribbons, the radio fried, the food nearly goneâand you couldnât even fucking swim.
You wiped your face with the back of your hand and glanced over your shoulder. Lionel stood at the rear of the boat, shirtless now, sleeves of his button-up tied around his waist. He was crouched awkwardly with a makeshift fishing rod in his hands, the line dangling uselessly over the edge. His pale back glistened with sweat, his white hair plastered against his forehead in a way that made him look olderâless like a lion, more like a tired, hungry man trying not to die at sea.
Your quiet sob must have reached him, because he exhaled sharply, the sound carrying over the stillness.
âOh, for Godâs sake,â he muttered, not turning around. âIf I had a fish for every time youâve cried this week, Iâd have a fucking buffet.â
You stiffened, glaring at his back. âGo to hell, Lionel.â
âBit late for that,â he called without missing a beat, voice dry and baritone-deep. âWeâre already here. Seaâs just blue fire instead of red.â
You stood abruptly, the movement rocking the boat just enough to make your stomach twist. âI hate you,â you spat, voice hoarse from days without rest. âI swear to God, if I survive this, Iâm leaving you the minute we hit land.â
He finally turned to face you. Hazel eyes shadowed under furrowed brows, nose hooked with disdain, mouth curled into that maddening smirk you used to find sexy in magazine spreads. âDarling,â he said, resting the rod across his knee, âif we survive this, Iâll personally pay for your divorce lawyer, the moving truck, and a bottle of Veuve to celebrate your freedom.â
Your eyes stung again. You turned and stomped down into the tiny cabin, slamming the trapdoor behind you. The heat inside was suffocatingâno breeze, just stale salt air and the overwhelming scent of sweat and mildew. You collapsed onto the small bench in the corner, arms folded tight around yourself, staring at the wall.
You didnât love Lionel.
You never had.
You married him for the lifestyle, the press, the yacht. You married him for the closet in Milan and the apartment in Dubai. For the way people stared when you walked into a room on his arm. And Lionelâhe hadnât cared. He married you for your legs. For the way your voice dropped when you said his name in bed. For the thrill of buying a trophy wife young enough to be his daughter and flexible enough to sit on his lap through board meetings.
Now? None of that mattered.
You were hungry. You were scared. You were stuck in a 32-foot coffin with a man who thought tuna came from a can and that GPS was a suggestion. And every time you looked at him, you wanted to scream.
But you didnât.
You just sat there, arms wrapped around yourself, tears drying sticky on your face, wondering if this was how youâd die. Stranded with the lion. Hungry. Salty. And still wearing that ridiculous gold bracelet he gave you for your anniversary.
Up on the deck, you heard Lionel curse.
Then the rod snapped.
Then, louder: âFucking brilliant.â
You closed your eyes and tried not to cry again.
Lionel came down a few minutes later, sweat-slick and flushed, carrying the broken remains of the makeshift fishing rod in both hands like the carcass of something he'd accidentally killed. His face was tight with frustration, jaw clenched, the curve of his mouth drawn into a thin, angry line. He didnât say anything at firstâjust set the splintered rod down on the bench with a loud clatter and stared at it like it had betrayed him.
You watched him from your corner, silent.
He ran a hand through his damp white hair and bent over the pieces, as if willing them to become whole again. You didnât move. Didnât speak. Not until you couldnât take the tense silence anymore.
âHowâd you manage to break the only thing keeping us fed?â you asked softly, more weary than cruel.
Lionel didnât look up. âI was trying to make it reach deeper. I thought I saw something moving further out. Pulled too hard. Snapped.â
You arched a brow. âIsnât that your specialty? Overreaching and breaking things?â
That earned a quick glareâsharp, tired. Then he sat down, elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands.
âI was trying to help,â he muttered, voice muffled but still carrying that unmistakable baritone weight. âThereâs barely any food left, and I thought maybe⊠maybe I could catch something. Maybe for once in this gods-forsaken mess I could do something useful.â
You blinked.
It wasnât the words that got youâit was the way he said them. Like someone ashamed. Like someone who knew he had failed.
âI donât want to leave you hungry,â he added, quieter now.
That silenced you. Not because it was romantic. It wasnât. But it was honest.
You studied himâthis man who had once chartered private jets to pick up pastries in Paris, who had once lectured you about fabric textures while you tried not to fall asleep, who used to wear linen suits so crisp they looked like they could cut glassâand now he was hunched, shirtless, sunburned, and clutching a snapped stick like it was the only thing anchoring him to purpose.
Without thinking, you slid across the bench and put your arms around him.
He stiffened.
Then, slowlyâalmost reluctantlyâhis hands rose to rest on your back. One of them splayed wide, the other trembling slightly, like he hadnât touched someone for comfort in years and wasnât sure if he was allowed.
âWeâll figure it out,â you murmured into his shoulder. âOkay? Weâll work together this time.â
This time.
It didnât fix the radio. It didnât bring back the fish. But it changed something.
The days passed slowly, painfully, like the sea itself was testing your resolve.You rationed the remaining food, counting crackers like they were diamonds. Lionel tried to fish without a rodâusing scraps of cloth and half-bent wire, sometimes even his bare hands. You worked on the sail, clumsy with knots but stubborn enough to keep trying. He pulled apart the broken radio, muttering to himself while you searched the boat for anything conductive.
When the nights got cold, you curled together without protest. Youâd once paid extra to avoid economy class because you couldnât stand âbeing touched by strangers,â and now you were curled into Lionelâs chest, his arms like a shield around you, his chest rising steady and warm against your back.
You talked.
Not polite society talk, not curated stories meant to impress. Real talk.
It was nearing dusk again, the sky bleeding soft streaks of pink across the sea like bruises on fading skin. You were lying across Lionelâs chest, his body warm and solid beneath you as the gentle creak of the boat filled the silence. His fingers traced lazy circles on your back, more out of habit than intimacy. Your head rose and fell with the rhythm of his breath, and for once⊠things didnât feel quite as hopeless.
Youâd just finished telling him a story about a miserable internship you once did for a fashion magazineâhow they made you steam linen suits in five-inch heels and screamed if your eyeliner smudged.
ââŠAnd the lunch breaks were just dry lettuce with half an avocado,â you finished with a theatrical shudder. âLike, âoh, this is what the rich eat? Despair salad?ââ
Lionel snorted, voice rumbling deep beneath your ear. âDespair salad sounds like something Iâd buy for a model and never touch.â
You smiled against his skin. Then, for some reason, the words just slipped out: âI hate olives.â
Lionel blinked. âYou hate olives?â
âDespise them,â you groaned, burying your face in the hollow of his shoulder. âThey taste like spoiled wine and regret.â
He barked a laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. âYouâre joking.â
âNope.â
âYou ate one. In your martini. The night we met.â
You groaned louder, hiding your face entirely in his chest now. âI know.â
Lionel laughed even harder, full-bodied now, baritone echoing against the wooden hull. âYou actually ate it. Swallowed it. Didnât even flinch.â
âI practiced,â you confessed, muffled. âIn the mirror. Twice.â
âOh, thatâs rich,â he grinned. âWas that part of the seduction strategy? Impress the old billionaire with your tolerance for bitter fruit?â
You poked his side, heat flooding your cheeks. âI thought it looked sexy.â
âIt did,â Lionel admitted, still chuckling. âI just assumed you had terrible taste. Turns out, you were just⊠determined.â
You groaned again. âUgh. I thought youâd be into it. You know, the sultry, âIâll have what heâs havingâ type of thing. And I wanted to seem⊠adult.â
He shifted slightly beneath you, one hand coming up to toy with a strand of your hair. âYou already were adult. That dress alone couldâve shut down parliament. Iâm fairly sure three waiters dropped their trays.â
You peeked up at him through your lashes. âAnd you?â
âI nearly dropped my jaw,â he said, completely unashamed. âThough it mightâve been the heels. Or the legs. Or the total lack of a bra.â
You laughed softly, letting your head fall back to his chest. Silence stretched, warm and comfortable.
Then it was your turn. âTell me something embarrassing about you.â
Lionel exhaled dramatically. âWhere do I start?â
âAnywhere.â
He hummed. âAlright. I⊠had a nanny until I was seventeen.â
You blinked. âWhat?â
âShe was Swiss. Her name was Marguerite. She made me porridge and slapped my wrist every time I tried to put sugar in it.â
You sat up, incredulous. âSeventeen?!â
âI wasnât in diapers, darling. By then she was more of a⊠house warden. But yes. I was veryââ he sniffed, mock dignified, ââvery precious to my mother.â
You tried not to laugh. Failed. âWhat the hell?â
âShe was overprotective. Insufferably so. I wasnât allowed to go anywhere alone until university.â
âWas that your first time unsupervised?â
He smirked. âI made up for lost time.â
You raised a brow. âIs that when the womanizing began?â
âI call it âintensive charm deployment.ââ His grin was mischievous now. âBut yes. And my cousin Sinclair never let me forget the Marguerite years.â
You tilted your head. âSinclair? Youâve mentioned him before.â
âWe were raised almost like brothers,â Lionel said, stretching his arm behind his head. âHeâs the sweet one. Always the talker. Always ready to hug someone or offer a biscuit. Bit naĂŻve at times. But loyal.â
âDo you thinkâŠâ you hesitated, eyes on the fading horizon, âheâs looking for you now?â
Lionel didnât even blink. âYes. Absolutely.â
You looked at him, surprised by the certainty in his voice.
âI know him,â he added. âHeâs probably got every helicopter between here and Gibraltar on standby. He doesnât give up. Especially not on family.â
You swallowed, heart twisting at the conviction in his tone.
Lionel turned his head slightly to study you. âWhat about you?â he asked quietly. âAnyone out there searching?â
You hesitated. Then, quietly: âNo. Of course not.â
He frowned. âSurelyââ
âMy mom died when I was twenty,â you interrupted. âCancer. Fast. Brutal. My dad left when I was little. Walked out on her. On me.â
Lionel stayed quiet, gaze fixed.
âThe last time I heard from him,â you continued, voice dull, âwas the day after we got married. He called. Not to congratulate me. He wanted money. Said he âalways knew Iâd marry rich.â Said I owed him.â
Lionelâs jaw clenched.
âI hung up on him,â you whispered. âHavenât spoken since.â
Silence fell.
Then, finally, he spoke.
ââŠWas that why you were so awful the day after the wedding?â he asked, his voice careful. Baritone low. Rougher than usual. âI thought you regretted it. Marrying me. Like the money had been worth it, but I hadnât.â
You blinked. Lifted your head slowly to look at him.
His hazel eyes met yours, tired but open. âYou were cold,â he continued, âsnapping at everyone, barely speaking to me. I remember thinking: âShe got what she wanted, and now sheâs done playing nice.ââ He huffed softly, not unkindly. âIt made me⊠a little angry.â
You stared at him, brows drawing in. âIs that why you spent the rest of the week sulking around Monaco, dragging me to meetings, canceling the rest of the honeymoon?â
Lionel didnât answer. He didnât need to.
You saw it in his face. You sat up just enough to really see him. Your chest hurtâtight, full of too many things you didnât have words for yet. All this time youâd thought he was bored with you. Disappointed. Regretting the marriage already. But now, sitting here in the wreckage of everything, it was suddenly so clear.
There had been so many goddamn misunderstandings.
Youâd been grieving your mother, your sense of identityâdesperate to prove that marrying him hadnât made you weak or shallow. And Lionel⊠Lionel had assumed the worst, because heâd always expected to be used. He thought youâd gotten what you wanted and discarded him like a receipt.
You thought he didnât care.
He thought you didnât.
And in the silence that had followed, your marriage had folded in on itself like a paper crownâshiny, fragile, hollow.
You looked at him nowâthe lines at the corners of his eyes, the stubborn set of his jaw, the way he watched you like he wasnât sure if heâd made things better or worse.
You lay back down, placing your cheek against his chest again. Slid one hand over his heart.
âWe were idiots,â you whispered.
Lionel let out a soft breathâmaybe a laugh, maybe not.
âI thought you didnât care,â you continued, voice muffled slightly by his skin. âYou threw money at me like it was your only language. And IâGod, Lionel, I acted like a brat. Bought everything I could. Let you spoil me. Let you fuck me like you owned me, and I thought⊠maybe that was all we were ever going to be.â
His arm tightened around your waist.
You didnât look up. You didnât need to anymore.
âI think we both hid behind it,â you said softly. âYou gave me your credit card, and I gave you my body. Neither of us asked for more.â
Lionel didnât speak for a long time. His thumb just stroked the bare skin at your hip, slow, steady.
Then you said it.
âIâm going to die out here.â
Lionel flinched beneath you, but you kept going.
âI know it. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrowâbut I can feel it. And I need you to know something.â
He stilled completely.
You pressed your face tighter against his chest, your voice barely a whisper. âThe only thing I regret now is not letting myself fall in love with you.â
Silence.
Then, slowly, his arms came around you fully. Tight. Anchoring.
His voice, when it finally came, was rawâscraped down to the bone. âYou always had my fucking heart, you insufferable woman,â Lionel whispered, his lips in your hair. âEven when you were stealing my champagne and hogging the duvet.â
You smiled. And for the first time in a long, long whileâ
You didnât feel alone.
Two days later, just before dawn, Lionelâs voice sliced through your dream like the edge of a wine glass.
âDarling,â he murmured, and you felt a finger trace a warm line down your spine. âGet up.â
You groaned into the folds of his chest, where your face had apparently ended up sometime during the night. âNo,â you muttered. âDead. Iâve died. Tell Sinclair.â
Lionel chuckled, low and rough, still heavy with sleep. âIf youâve died, youâre a very affectionate corpse. Now come on.â
You groaned louder, curling further into the blanket that barely smelled like anything anymore. Just sun and sea and Lionelâs skin. âWhy?â
âBecause,â he said, sitting up with a rustle of old sheets and stiff limbs, âthereâs something I want you to see.â
âLet me guess. Another storm cloud shaped like your profile?â
âNo,â he said patiently. âThough Iâm flattered you think the heavens themselves resemble me. But no. Itâs something better. Come.â
You peeked one eye open and glared at him.
He was shirtless again, of course. Skin slightly peeling at the shoulders from sun exposure, his white hair wild from the pillow, salt-dried and sticking up like a mad professor. His cheeks were leaner nowâsharpened by hungerâbut his hazel eyes still sparkled with something annoyingly smug.
âLionel,â you groaned. âIâm tired. I have enough energy to blink and insult you, and barely in that order.â
âIâll carry you if I must,â he offered.
You blinked slowly. âYou canât even carry the fishing rod without breaking it.â
He grinned. âTouchĂ©.â
Despite yourself, you sat up. Bones creaked. Muscles protested. You were lightheaded and sore and so goddamn tired you could cry. But something in Lionelâs faceâsome stubborn brightnessâpulled at you like a thread you didnât want to break.
You wrapped the thin sheet around your shoulders and followed him up the ladder.
The morning air hit you like a kiss: cool, fresh, kissed with salt. The sky was the color of diluted ink, the first pale gold of dawn beginning to bleed across the water like soft fire. Lionel moved ahead of you, bare feet soundless on the damp deck, his silhouette dark against the horizon.
Thenâ
âLook,â he said softly, pointing.
You squinted, and your breath caught.
Dolphins.
At least five of them, maybe moreâbreaking the surface in smooth arcs, their backs gleaming like wet onyx in the morning light. One leapt, twisting mid-air, landing with a soft splash that sent ripples shimmering toward the boat. Another swam parallel to the hull, close enough that you could see the shape of its eyes, the grace of its body cutting through the sea.
You stood in stunned silence, the sheet slipping down your arms.
Lionel glanced back at you, his grin quiet now, gentler. âThey came about an hour ago. I watched them circle once. Thought they were gone. But thenâŠâ
He shrugged. âThey came back.â
You stepped forward, barefoot, heart thudding. The sight was surreal. Gentle. Almost sacred.
âTheyâre beautiful,â you whispered.
Lionel nodded. âThey are.â
You turned your face toward himâand saw something you hadnât expected.
He wasnât looking at the dolphins anymore.
He was looking at you.
âYou should see your face,â he murmured.
You blinked. âWhat?â
âThat look,â he said, his voice soft, baritone still rough with sleep. âPeace. You look⊠peaceful.â
You opened your mouth, but no words came. The dolphins dove again, sleek backs disappearing beneath the surface, only to rise seconds later on the other side.
You looked back at them, your throat tight. For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just stood there together, shoulder to shoulder, watching something wild and free remind you that the world was still out there. That there was more than just hunger and storms and salt and cracked wood.
Lionel reached for your hand.
You let him take it.
His palm was calloused now, rough from rope and days of makeshift labor, but his grip was steady. Warm. Real.
After a long silence, he leaned in and murmured, âTold you it was better than a cloud shaped like me.â
You laughed, quiet and real.
âYouâre still smug,â you said.
âIâm still me,â he replied.
And then, after a pause:
âBut I think Iâm also yours. If you want me.â
You didnât answer right away. You just squeezed his hand. The dolphins leapt again.
And for the first time in weeks, you didnât feel stranded.
You felt saved.
Of course, the peace didnât last.
Not with the sea. Not with you.
That night, the clouds rolled in without warningâagainâand the calm that had settled like silk across the deck was ripped away by the roar of thunder and the bite of a wind that felt like it wanted to skin you alive.
You both knew the signs now. The sharp shift in the air, the way the gulls vanished, the low, metallic scent that slid into your mouth like the taste of blood. Lionel was at the helm before the first drop of rain hit, baritone already snapping commands over the wind.
âGet below, now!â
You were barefoot, wrapped in that old sheet still damp from your shoulders at dawn, and you didnât move.
Lionelâs eyes darted to you. âI said get in the cabin!â
âIâm not leaving you!â
He snarledâyes, actually snarledâlike a lion cornered in the dark. âYou canât swim! Iâm not going to let you fall overboard just so you can feel useful!â
âIâm not feeling useful!â you snapped, gripping the hatch rope with both hands. âI am useful! And Iâm not hiding in that coffin while you get thrown around up here like a fucking ragdoll!â
Lightning cracked across the sky.
âGod damn it, woman, for once in your life, stop being so bloody stubborn!â
But you didnât. You were already moving, trying to secure the canvas with fraying rope, your palms raw from the salt and wind, your heart thundering with more than just fearâit was defiance. Desperation. Something deeper than survival.
The storm hit full-force.
Waves crashed like fists against the hull. Rain pelted the deck in sheets, and wind howled through the broken sail with a voice like a thousand ghosts. Lionel was soaked, white hair plastered to his forehead, lips drawn into a snarl of concentration as he gripped the wheel with both hands, bracing his whole body against the current.
And then it happened.
The wave didnât riseâit rose.
It came from the side like a goddamn wall. You didnât even see it until it was too late. Lionel turned just in time to see you thrown backward, rope still in your hands, your feet skidding out from under you on the slick deck.
âNoâ!â
You hit the railing, and then you were gone.
Over.
Into the dark.
Lionel screamed.
âNO! NOâFUCKâBABY!â
He abandoned the helm, boat veering hard to port as the wheel spun free. He lunged to the edge, gripping the slick railing, scanning the inky black water as it surged around the hull.
âWhere are youâ?! GODDAMN ITâ! NO!â
Lightning flashedâno sign of you.
He was shaking, trembling, braced against the rain like a madman, baritone voice hoarse as he shouted your name into the wind, over and over.
âCome backâcome the fuck back! I didnât mean itâanything I said, all of it, take itâtake the ring, the bank account, the car, fuck itâfuck it all! You hear me?!â
He slammed a fist against the deck, slipping, frantic.
âIâll sell the house in Provence!â he screamed, wild now. âThat stupid fucking villa! Iâll burn the paintings! Just come backâ!â
The next flash of lightning revealed your fingersâclutching the edge of the railing. Then your soaked head appeared, eyes wide, wild, and furious as your elbow hooked the edge of the boat.
âThereâs no fucking way,â you screamed over the wind, âthat youâre giving up that house!â
Lionel froze, mid-crawl toward the life ring. You hauled yourself over the side with a groan, drenched and shaking, hair in your eyes, salt water dripping from your mouth as you collapsed onto the deck, coughing violently.
Lionel was there in an instant, slipping on the wet wood as he scrambled toward you.
âYouâfuckingâinsaneâwoman,â he gasped, grabbing your arms. âWhat the hell were youâ?!â
âYouâidiot!â you wheezed, jabbing your finger into his chest. âThat house has a wine cellar, you selfish bastard!â
He gaped at you.
You both looked ridiculousâsoaked, trembling, screaming over the rain like you were in a Shakespearean disaster.
And then he laughed.
It wasnât elegant. It was ugly. Choked. Wild.
You stared at him, blinking, still heaving seawater out of your lungs.
âI justââ he coughed, dragging you into his arms, wet and shaking. âI just promised to burn my inheritance for you.â
You laughed, hoarse and exhausted. âAnd I nearly drowned for a fucking wine cellar.â
You both sat there, wrapped around each other, clinging like castawaysâbecause thatâs what you were. Bruised and battered. Idiots.
But alive.
He kissed you then. Salt and desperation and trembling fingers in your hair. And when he pulled back, his baritone rough and ragged, all he said was:
âNext time, youâre going below.â
You raised a brow. âYou sure? I seem to be quite buoyant.â
He groaned, cradling your face like it would shatter. âYouâre going to be the death of me.â
The sun was merciless that morningâbleached white and sharp as bone. The water had gone still again, deceptively calm, as if the sea itself was holding its breath. You sat on the deck, legs stretched out, Lionelâs head resting heavily in your lap, your fingers carding gently through the damp white strands clinging to his scalp. He was burning. His skin was flushed with heat, his breaths shallow and uneven, eyes fluttering open only to squint painfully against the light.
You were scared.
Not that lingering, exhausted fear youâd lived with since the storm. This was worse. Immediate. Closer. Lionel was slipping. The cheeky bastard who used to monologue about the curvature of Roman statues while sipping champagne now barely had the strength to curse. Heâd spent the night mumbling nonsenseâhalf dreams, half memoriesâmostly about contracts, missing cufflinks, and Marguerite telling him not to eat figs before dinner.
âLionel,â you murmured, brushing the sweat from his temple. âStay with me.â
He blinked slowly, mouth dry, tongue sluggish against cracked lips. âMmm. Thought I told you not to wear white to a funeralâŠâ
You almost laughed. Almost.
Instead, you whispered, âThis isnât a funeral.â
He smiled weakly. âThen why⊠does it feel like one?â
You bit your lip, adjusting his head in your lap as gently as you could. His skin was radiating heatâtoo much. Youâd done what you could. Made a little shade with what was left of the canvas, kept a wet cloth pressed to his forehead, whispered stories into his ear even when he didnât answer.
But it wasnât enough.
And thenâyou heard it.
A low hum, distant at first, barely registering. Then louder.
Rotor blades.
You stiffened, eyes snapping to the sky. Thereâfar off, cutting across the sky like a black insect against the pale blueâa helicopter.
Your heart stuttered. âLionel,â you breathed. âLionel, thereâsâthereâs a helicopterââ
He groaned softly, eyes still closed. âTell them to bring Scotch.â
You moved. Quickly. Carefully. You shifted his head from your lap, lowering it onto a bundle of what used to be your jacket. He grunted in protest, weakly reaching for your hand.
âDonâtâŠâ he rasped. âDonât go.â
âIâm not going far,â you whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead. âI promise.â
But he didnât hear you. You scrambled down into the cabin, heart pounding like a war drum. Whereâwhere was the flare gun? Youâd seen it. Days ago. Somewhere near the emergency radio, back when you still had the energy to hope.
You tore open drawers. Ripped through bags. Shoved aside tangled wires, cracked plastic, anything that wasnât red and metal and life-saving.
The sound of the helicopter grew louder.
Outside, Lionel was trying to sit up.
âDarlingâŠâ he muttered, voice hoarse, âthereâs a⊠noise. Sounds like... tax season.â
You found it.
Jammed behind a cracked tackle box and a rusted pair of scissors. The flare gun.
Loaded.
You bolted up the ladder, bare feet slamming against the scorched deck. The helicopter was almost overhead now, circling. You screamedâwaved both armsâheld the gun high and fired.
A sharp hiss.
A streak of red against the blue sky. The flare exploded in a bright, desperate arc.
You waved again, jumping, screaming until your throat burned. âHere! Down here! PleaseâGod, pleaseâhere!â
You didnât stop waving until the helicopter dipped lower, until the downdraft of the blades buffeted your body and sent Lionelâs hair whipping across his cheeks like sea-threaded silk.
He blinked blearily up at the sky, shielding his eyes with a trembling hand. Lionel heard it faintly at firstâjust a sharp cry muffled by the whipping blades of the helicopter. Then louder. Clearer. A voice that didnât belong to the rescue crew. A voice that pierced through the roar of the engine and the groaning of the sea.
âLEO!â
He froze.
No one had called him that in years.
âLEO, YOU STUBBORN, GLORIOUS BASTARD! I CAME TO SAVE YOU!â
His head jerked toward the sound, sunburned brows furrowed in disbelief. Then, slowlyâlike a man emerging from a fever dreamâLionel stood, swaying slightly, one hand gripping the scorched railing of the boat.
He knew that voice.
âOh my God,â he muttered, blinking hard against the sting of wind and salt. âSinclair?â
Your hand was already on his back, steadying him as he leaned forwardâand then you both saw him.
The helicopter was descending, blades cutting the air in violent arcs, and clinging to the open door with a windbreaker half-flapping off his shoulder, a headset crooked over his ear and a ridiculous grin stretched across his face, was a man who looked⊠exactly like Lionel.
Well, almost.
His hair was a faded blond, not white, windswept and unruly like it had once been tamed and forgotten how. He had the same nose, the same cheekbones, the same hazel eyesâthough Sinclairâs eyes seemed almost green in the harsh morning light, wide with excitement and tear-pricked relief.
His mouth moved constantlyâwords spilling out, mostly drowned by the rotor, but his joy was unmistakable. He waved like a man greeting old friends at a school reunion, already trying to unclip his harness midair.
âOh my God,â you breathed, staring at him in stunned awe. âThatâs Sinclair?â
Lionel didnât answer right away. He was leaning forward like his knees might give out, blinking hard, his throat bobbing.
Youâd never seen him look like that.
Not stunned. Not undone.
Not like this.
âHe came,â Lionel murmured. âHe actuallyââ
He didnât finish. Instead, he cupped both hands around his mouth and shouted into the wind, baritone rasping with hoarse glee:
âDID YOU BRING WHISKEY?â
There was a beat of laughter from above.
Then Sinclair reached into his vestâof course he had a vestâand triumphantly produced a small silver flask. He held it aloft like a torch, grinning like heâd just cracked the code to eternal life.
âI NEVER TRAVEL WITHOUT IT!â he bellowed.
And Lionel⊠nearly cried.
He laughed instead, a strangled soundâhalf sob, half bark of joyâand slumped back against you, his sun-scorched head resting on your shoulder, his chest shaking with the weight of a weekâs worth of despair finally cracking.
âGod, I love that idiot,â he muttered, voice thick. âBloody sunshine-wrapped nightmare.â
You wrapped your arms around his waist, steadying him as he sagged with emotion, your own eyes burning.
Sinclair was being helped down onto the deck now, feet hitting the wood with a surprising amount of grace for a man waving a flask and talking at full speed.
He reached Lionel in three long strides and immediately grabbed his face in both hands like he might never see it again.
âJesus, Leoâlook at you,â he said, blinking rapidly. âYou look like one of those salted cods we used to trade for ice cream in Saint-Tropez.â
Lionel choked on a laugh, grabbing Sinclairâs wrists. âYouâve looked better yourself. What is this shirt? Are those birds?â
âTheyâre cranes,â Sinclair sniffed. âSymbol of longevity.â
âOf course they are,â Lionel groaned, pulling him into a one-armed hug. âGod, you ridiculous, brilliant bastard.â
You stepped back slightly to give them spaceâand watched, stunned, as the man who once refused to share a couch cushion with you clung to his cousin like he hadnât touched another human in years.
Sinclair stepped back after a beat, eyes glinting with mischief. âYou know,â he said, flicking imaginary dust from Lionelâs shoulder, âI think Iâve finally done it.â
âDone what?â
âBecome the most handsome in the family.â
Lionel rolled his eyes, still smiling. âIâve nearly died, and youâre already measuring your jawline.â
Sinclair turned to you suddenly, as if remembering you were real. âAnd you must be the woman who somehow convinced this marble statue of a man to marry her.â
You blinked. âYou know about me?â
âOf course I do. He wouldnât shut up about youâsent me messages for weeks. 'She has a laugh like thunder.' 'She wears heels like weapons.' 'She smells like death and jasmine.' It was very poetic, if slightly concerning.â
Lionel groaned. âI did not say that.â
âYou did,â Sinclair grinned, then leaned in, dropping his voice conspiratorially. âHe even practiced your name when he thought no one was listening.â
You smiled despite yourself, heart thudding.
Lionel groaned again. âCan we throw him back in the sea?â
Sinclair clapped him on the shoulder, hard. âNot until you drink this,â he said, unscrewing the flask and shoving it into Lionelâs hand. âRescue protocol. One gulp for health. Two for morale.â
Lionel took it, downed a swallow, and sighed so deep it rattled through his chest.
You stepped forward again, lacing your fingers through his.
And Sinclairâchatty, sun-kissed Sinclairâgave you both one long look. The kind that said he was smarter than he let on. The kind that saw past salt and sweat and broken sails. He smiled, softer now.
âYouâll be alright,â he said.
You didnât know if he meant the ride, or the future, or the two of you together. But as the rescue crew began lowering supplies and preparing the stretcher for Lionel, as Sinclair pulled out a paperback from his pocket and started explaining, unprompted, how dolphins often guided lost ships to shore in Greek myths, as Lionel pressed your hand to his chest and whispered âhome,â like it was a promiseâ
You believed it.
You were saved.
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Some funny and/or cute Screenshots from Till's new music video, "Und die Engel singen".
TW for under the cut: Blood.
Till is smiling and hugging a (switched off) chainsaw while being drenched in blood.

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So I just watched AbigailâŠâŠ..and yall gotta hear me out on Kristof LazaarâŠ..
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Abigail deleted scene GIFs
Around one minute was cut from the final scene with Abigail's daddy Kristof Lazar (Matthew Goode), just after Lazar makes his entrance and before he has a little emotional tĂȘte-Ă -tĂȘte with his daughter.
OMG, Matthew, so over-the-top brilliant and playful and sinister (and hot, yes I have no shame đ€), I love it!!
Another acting masterclass and a little gem that should not have been on the cutting room floor.
See other Lazar GIFs sets
See other post for comparison with Matthew's other vampy role in A Discovery of Witches
đ· Abigail(2024), Universal Pictures - deleted scene from Blueray, my gifs
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It hasnât been long since Iâve drawn Hans but it has been long since Iâve posted a drawing of him.
Click for better quality
Check my pinned post to see links on how you can help the people in Palestine
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A good match, for he is rich and she is handsome.
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SENSE AND SENSIBILITY (1995)
dir. ang lee
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Loving you is a losing game - Part IV
Pairing : Judge Turpin x Reader OC
Summary : You love Richard. And you want him to love you. Entirely. In your flesh.
Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Mention of domestic violence. Slight mention of woman killing her man. Smut !
A/N : Hello dear đ I didn't proofread, but I hope you will enjoy.
Part I - Part II - Part III
Also read on AO3 Also read on Wattpad

The next day, you woke up in Richard's arms with a contented sigh. It was still early, but you knew that Richard, still asleep, would soon wake up. Indeed, you could hear the first sounds of the city buzzing from outside, even though it was still dark.
You pressed yourself against him, enjoying the warmth emanating from his strong body when you felt his length pressing against the small of your back. You opened your eyes wide, knowing full well what it was. You knew the biological process of this... male condition that normally occurred every morning, but you also knew what it meant for a man. Even more so for a man like Richard, who, even if he had never told you about his depravity, you suspected was far from innocent on that matter. Indeed, he owned numerous highly explicit books from around the world, and it was common knowledge that he frequented high-class brothels. A thought that tugged at your heartstrings.
Richard's arm, which had been resting on your hip, wrapped around your stomach, pressed you closer to him, growling. Yet, his steady breathing told you he had done this completely unconsciously, he was still asleep.
His cock pressed harder against your buttocks now, and you found yourself having thoughts that were unsavoury for a young girl from a good family. Yet, you weren't a young girl from a good family, you were from a low-middle-class family, and even if you were still pure, your curiosity on the subject had gotten the better of you years ago.
And then, since Richard and you had grown closer, slowly, surely, and since last night when he held you in his arms as you confided in him your fear of thunderstorms, a new bond had been created between you. And you realized that new feelings, other than love, were also forming. You desired him. Sexually.
You blushed at the thought, but you didn't have time to elaborate further on what you felt, because Richard stirred behind you, grumbling. He wasn't asleep anymore, and you immediately closed your eyes, pretending to be.
Richard sighed contentedly, a slight smile tugging at his lips as he saw you there, in his arms, where you had slept soundly all night. He had dreamed of this moment so much, and now that his patience had been rewarded, he loved you even more.
He observed your beautiful face, your pink lips, and your pale cheeks hidden by strands of hair. He gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and brought his lips close to yours, making you shiver in spite of yourself.
"I know you're not asleep, my dear."
You immediately opened your eyes, a little embarrassed, still aware of his length against your buttocks, but if Richard had noticed, he had the decency to act as if nothing had happened.
"Hello, my dear wife."
"Hello," you whispered, gazing into his hazel eyes.
You could have drowned in his eyes, they made you feel a thousand emotions in just a few seconds. His eyes expressed so much more when you took the time to really observe them than his stoic face and his cold, stoic appearance.
In fact, you had realized over time, and with the help of the staff who seemed to hold Richard in high regard despite his stern, hard, and sometimes even mean nature, that there was much more to the man you married than you had initially thought.
"I'm afraid I have to get up," he said, kissing your temple.
"Do you really have to?" you asked playfully.
"Ah, my dear wife ! Justice doesn't wait."
And with that, he reluctantly let go of you to begin his ablutions. You watched him disappear into the bathroom adjoining your bedroom, a pang of disappointment coursing through your body at the loss of his body against yours, of his warmth, and also by his usual coldness that had returned to haunt him. You had naively hoped that with you, he would be warmer in your everyday life, in the privacy of the manor, especially after these last few days, which had only solidified what had started as a forced marriage and evolved into a strange friendship, finally becoming love. At least for you, because for Richard, it had always been love.
When Richard reappeared, he was wearing black trousers and a gold waistcoat that accentuated his height. His stature. He acted as if nothing was wrong, and in theory, it was, if you hadn't been indiscreet enough to listen at the door to eavesdrop him... pleasure himself with his hands.
"Love," he growled in his baritone voice, "I'll be back for supper," it sounded like a promise, and you knew it was.
He kissed your lips gently, caressing your cheek with his fingertips, his hand lingering longer than necessary, then left without looking back.
Alone, in the darkness of your large bedroom, you sighed, closing your eyes. You knew Richard wasn't going to try anything, or at least you suspected it. His desire to conquer you permanently was stronger than his desire to make you his, and he wouldn't try anything if you weren't the one initiating the act. Yet, just because you'd read strange things when you were younger didn't mean you were versed in the art of love.
Indeed, having grown up without a maternal figure, no woman had ever explained to you what the act itself truly entailed. Of course, you'd heard women speak of it as a duty, something they couldn't refuse their husbands as it was a marital duty, and most of them were more than dissatisfied. Some even said they suffered terribly every time. Yet, you'd read that pleasure wasn't just for men and that a woman could feel it too... provided she was with the right lover.
Was Richard that kind of man ? The one who would make your first time pleasurable enough for you to want to do it again, to experience what was described as pleasure, or was he like all the other noblemen who took what he wanted without a care for his wife ? You couldn't be certain, but a man who went to brothel probably didn't care much about women's pleasure, did he ?
"Is everything all right, my Lady ?" Mrs. Dormer asked, helping you with your hair.
You nodded yes, but you were still consumed by your recent desire to be claimed by your husband and, at the same time, by the fear of being nothing more than a trophy to him, who would revel in what you had given him, while for you, once you had given him everything, it would be too late.
You wanted to discuss all this with the maid, whom you considered more of a friend and confidant than anything else, but the subject was somewhat delicate and embarrassing.
"Are you sure, my Lady ? You are very calm this morning."
You closed your eyes, feeling tears welling up in your eyes. You'd already felt lonely since your marriage, especially when Richard decided things needed to change for you after you'd provoked him one too many times, but this was something else. A feeling of terrible loneliness, knowing you had no real friends to confide in, except for Maya, but since her marriage to an abusive and controlling man, you hadn't really had any contact with her. Your other friends were more acquaintances you acknowledged on the street or at the rare events you'd attended in the past.
You considered William, your editor, as your best friend, but he was a man. A man with particular tastes, something you'd discovered by accident when you unexpectedly walked into his office while he was busy with another man. You still remember with a nostalgic smile how he begged you not to say anything, that he'd do anything to keep you quiet, even if it meant bribing you, while you were just amused to have learned by complete chance that a man as virile and masculine as he preferred... well, had other preferences.
"That's a cliché, [Y/N], man with muscles can... well... it's none of your business." he had told you, blushing slightly.
However, and although surprised by your complete indifference, the fact that you weren't bothered by his disinterest in women, but rather intrigued and fascinated, had strengthened your friendship, making you the best friends you were today. Yet, you felt that talking to him about your own sex life was somewhat inappropriate.
"You were married once, Mrs. Dormer," you said suddenly.
It wasn't a question; you knew the maid had had a husband in the past.
"Indeed, my Lady," Mrs. Dormer replied cautiously.
You felt her stiffen behind you, as her hand gripped a lock of your hair more firmly than you'd intended, pulling it back.
"Was it a love match?" you wanted to know.
"Not really, my Lady, although it wasn't an arranged marriage either. I... I was already 21, and my parents saw me more as a burden than anything else. At the time, I was working as a housekeeper for an elderly lady who owned a much more modest house than this one, but she was ill and it was obvious I won't get another job as she didn't have any heir. I married my husband, whom I'd known since childhood, to relieve my parents."
You felt sad to hear that. Yet, being a woman yourself, you knew it could be a terrible source of worry for parents if they couldn't arrange a marriage before their death, as in most cases a woman couldn't inherit her father's fortune or his house. Unless she had a generous brother willing to take her into his home, a spinster often ended up in an asylum if she couldn't find a job, often a poorly paid one.
"Was it a happy marriage?"
You saw her face turn cold in the mirror and immediately regretted asking.
"Not really, my Lady."
"Did he allow you to work?"
You could see that Mrs. Dormer was growing increasingly uncomfortable, but you couldn't stop asking all these questions.
"No, my Lady, I went back to work after he died."
"How did he die?"
She froze, her face ashen. You realized you'd gone too far and immediately apologized.
"It's nothing, my Lady. It's just... Sometimes the past should stay in the past. But I owe your husband a lot, my Lady. He... I owe him a lot, and I'm very grateful to have worked for him all this time and that he deemed me worthy of being your personal maid."
You understood. Not quite, but you understood that the old woman's past hid something that connected her to Richard, and that she probably owed him much more than a roof over her head and a paying job.
"And I'm glad to have you as a friend," you said sincerely.
She didn't answer because she was well aware that your difference in status didn't allow you to be true friends, even though she was flattered to hear you say so.
"As a friend... I would like to ask you a question... a specific one," you continued hesitantly.
"My Lady ?"
"You know I grew up without a maternal presence, and even if I'm not totally ignorant, I... well... I..." you stammered, "well, I know no one here at the manor is fooled. You all know that Richard and I didn't... And I... and you see..."
"What do you want to know, My Lady ?" she interrupted you, suppressing an amused smile.
"I want him. Completely. And I want him to want me," you said straightforwardly.
"I'm certain he does, My Lady," not at all taken aback by your blunt frankness.
"But I'm scared. I've heard women talk about... that... and I also have my very good friend Maya who sometimes confided in me when she was still allowed to see me and... well... What I heard was nothing like what I've read," you said, feeling your cheeks flush.
Mrs. Dormer sighed as she placed the last crystal star in your hair.
"I'm afraid I don't have a better story to tell you, and apparently, I don't have much to teach you," she added mischievously.
You smiled shyly, looking down.
"My Lady, if you already know what there is to know, then you should speak with my Lord. He is... experienced enough to guide you if that's truly what you want."
"But what if he's like the other s? What if he just enjoys himself without a care for me ? After all, he hangs out with the whores in the upper-class neighbourhoods," you said bluntly.
"That's true, my Lady," the maid admitted, "but not since your marriage, that's for sure. You are the one and only he desires, and he would never have done anything to break your trust. A trust, if you'll allow me to be blunt, my Lady, that he had to earn with a patience no one has ever seen him display here at the manor. That says a lot about the love he feels for you."
With that, she gave you a slight bow and left the room, leaving you alone with yourself. Little did you suspect that Richard had the same kind of thought in mind. He knew you'd felt his cock pressing against your back that morning, but he hadn't wanted to make you uncomfortable. He didn't want to rush you into something you might not be ready for yet, and even though he knew you were far from the innocent little thing you appeared to be, he didn't want to tease you about sex, not when he'd waited so long for a tender gesture from you. Now that you seemed willing to give him your affection willingly, there was no way he was keeping you away from him because of his own carnal desire.
However, he had to admit he was growing frustrated. Just this morning, he relieved himself alone in the bathroom, imagining it was your mouth around his cock and not his hand. He pictured you sucking his cock, your tongue curling around the head of his penis as he gripped it tightly.He gently rubbed your hair, moaning your name.
"Patience, Richard," he said to himself, feeling himself harden in his pants. This wasn't the time; he had a case to preside over in less than five minutes.
In fact, he'd hoped the weekend in the country you knew nothing about would witness your first time. A first time he wanted to be passionate, fiery, and with you screaming his name thanks to the pleasure he fully intended to give you again and again. Richard may have been in his fifties, but he was still vigorous and had no shortage of energy. Especially not for this.
As promised, and thanks to The Beadle taking care of some more private matters for him, he returned home in time to share dinner with you. But your sudden newfound shyness around him left him perplexed. You had parted on good terms in the morning, what was wrong with you ?
"My love, is there anything you want to talk to me about ?"
You braced yourself, mustering up the courage you needed to just breathe an almost imperceptible yes.
"I'm listening," he said, setting down his wine glass.
"Not now," you murmured, "after supper, if you don't mind."
He nodded, even more intrigued than before. You went to the parlour together where you sat in front of the fire, and Richard waited and waited and waited for you to decide to open up to him, in vain. You remained calm, although he noticed your nervousness from the way you fiddled with the pages of your book, a book you were looking at without really reading. He didn't know whether to push you to talk to him or if it would be better to let you come to him. He chose the second option, certain that you wouldn't last until the end of the day with what was on your mind. You were far too nervous for that; you certainly wouldn't sleep... and neither would he.
"Should we go to bed ?" suggested Richard.
He wasn't feeling particularly tired, but he hoped the privacy of your bedroom would help you relax. You nodded and let him lead you to the bedroom, where you each went your separate ways to get ready for bed.
"Love, do you need help ? Do you want me to call Mrs. Dormer ?" you asked Richard when he reappeared in his dressing gown while you were still fully dressed.
"No," you breathed, "I..." you hesitated for a moment, biting your lower lip as you blushed, "I wish it were you who helped me," you finally managed to say, never daring to look at him.
If you had looked up at your husband, you would have seen him stricken with a whole host of conflicting emotions, but the predominant one was the love he felt for you.
He reached you in just two strides and stood behind you. One hand on the back of your neck, he caressed your skin, sending shivers down your spine.
"My dear..."
You didn't let him continue; you turned around quickly and crushed your lips to his, a little too quickly, but not enough to really surprise him.
"My dear wife," he said, pulling away from you to catch his breath, "what got into you ?"
Your eyes darkened, matching his, which were already filled with desire.
"I... Richard..."
You struggled to find the right words, and Richard was determined not to help you. Whatever you wanted, he wanted to hear it. He wouldn't take anything without your consent, he wouldn't start anything without your consent.
"Make love to me, Richard," you finally managed to whisper.
That was all it took for him to melt into you, kissing you passionately, his burning desire sending shockwaves through your body. He gently turned you over, and his fingers deftly undid your dress, which fell to your feet. You took a step back, as Richard turned you back to face him.
You were beautiful. Your hair hung in cascades down your back, and there you were, in nothing but your underwear and your breasts, two perfect globes that you refused to confine in an uncomfortable corset that made it hard to breathe, only increasing Richard's arousal, as your eyes revealed a mixture of pleasure and fear. You were there before him in all your vulnerability, and he reveled in it.
"Are you sure, my love ?"
"Yes, Richard. I want you. Make me yours."
He easily lifted you as if you weighed nothing and placed you on the bed. His hands ran up your thighs, his fingers unhooking the elastic of your underwear, pulling it to the foot of the bed. He helped you remove his dressing gown, and you caressed his firm, despite his age, chest while his tongue licked one of your nipples.
"Richard," you said, placing your hand on his shoulder.
He looked up at you, arching an eyebrow, frustrated at beingHe was interrupted in the delicate task of making your nipples harden.
"I... It's the first time, you know..." you said shyly.
His features softened immediately, and he placed a light kiss on the tip of your nose.
"Fear not, my dear wife, I know. Of course, I know. I shall be gentle. I swear to you, even if I can't completely stop you from hurting, I swear that before the night is over, you'll be screaming my name in pleasure," he said in his thunderous voice, sending electric shocks through your entire being.
He went back to work, licking and sucking your nipples one after the other, cupping your firm breasts in his calloused hands while one of your legs wrapped around his hips. You could feel the tip of his cock brushing against your thigh, but Richard wasn't there yet. He knew that before claiming you, he had to prepare you.
His fingers found your entrance, and you were already wet. His thumb caressed your clitoris while one of his fingers entered you more easily than he expected. He rolled his finger inside your walls, which he felt were tight. Even though you were wet and wanted it as much as he did, he was going to have to be careful.
He continued to caress your clitoris while another finger joined the first in a heated dance that made you arch your back to feel him deeper inside you. Richard chuckled at your reaction, even though his mouth was still busy pleasuring your breasts.
"Richard... Richard... I'm going to..." you slurred, gripping his hair, pressing his head a little harder against your breasts.
You didn't have time to finish your sentence before you were swept away by your climax.
"Richard," you said breathlessly.
He kissed you passionately, promising you this was only the beginning. There was so much he wanted to do with you, things he was sure your curious mind would enjoy. Yet, he couldn't do that now, not when it was your first time. He had to settle for plain vanilla sex. But he could be gentle. For you, he could.
You felt the tip of his cock tease your entrance as he positioned himself between your spread legs, and you suddenly stiffened. As much as you wanted to, the fear of pain was stronger.
"Relax, my love. It's going to hurt, it's inevitable, but if you relax, the pain will quickly fade, I promise you. I shall be gentle, fear not."
Although still nervous and slightly stiff, you nodded to encourage him to continue. He began to enter you gently, slowly, kissing your breasts one after the other. He pushed in a little deeper, kissing your throat and the hollow of your neck. He felt a slight resistance, your intact hymen refusing to be breached. He pushed a little harder, kissing your left cheek, a little harder still, your right cheek, the tip of your nose, and finally, he thrust forward, capturing your mouth with his to stifle your cry of pain.
He froze, his tongue forcing the barrier of your lips to play with yours as your ragged breathing told him you were having more trouble than he'd anticipated fully accepting him inside you. Your walls were so tight around his cock, all he wanted to do was thrust into you deeply, wildly, but he stayed still, waiting for you to calm down.
"Are you okay, love ?" he asked after a moment.
In response, you kissed his hooked nose that gave him such presence, even though at that precise moment, nothing remained of the stern, cold, and stoic man you had married, and so his harsh demeanour intimidated all of London. No, he had transformed into a gentle, tender, and passionate lover. He was your husband, completely adoring you. Only you.
You clung to his shoulders as he began to move cautiously, pulling his cock almost completely out, then pushing it back in with a slowness that seemed almost unbearable to him. He heard you moan, but it wasn't a moan of pleasure. You were in pain, he knew it, but he also knew that the pain would soon fade, replaced by the pleasure he intended to give you tonight and every night.
After several thrusts, you finally felt something more powerful than the initial pain. A sort of itch that was building in your lower abdomen and growing with each of his thrusts.
Richard leaned on one of his forearms, while his free hand teased your folds, searching for your bundle of nerves. He found it easily and stroked it slowly with his thumb to help you surrender more quickly.
"Richard," you murmured, feeling something you'd never felt before invade you.
"Yes, my love ! Give it up, give it all," he whispered, nibbling your earlobe.
You moaned again, and this time it wasn't a moan of pain but of pleasure. With each moan, Richard pushed deeper into you, wanting to hear your little cries again and again.
"Richard... Haaa ! Richard !"
"Tell me what you want, love, tell me and you'll have it."
"More... faster, Richard," you managed to say in a whisper, your breath hitching as your pleasure mounted.
Richard didn't need to be asked twice and increased his pace, pushing harder with each thrust. Both his hands were now cupping your face, and overwhelmed by passion, you closed your eyes, both hands firmly gripping his shoulders to pull him as close as possible to you.
"Open your eyes. "I want to see your eyes when you scream my name," he commanded, and you obeyed.
With two final thrusts, he made you come undone. And as he had promised, you cried out his name at the heart of your shared carnal passion. Your walls contracted violently around his length, and it didn't take much longer for his own orgasm to ripple through you, filling your vagina with his juices, which he hoped would be fertile.
Richard withdrew cautiously, and even though you hissed with discomfort, you also felt a new sense of contentment you'd never known before. He lay down on his side of the bed, his head in the pillows, and opened his arms to invite you to come and take refuge, which you did immediately. He chuckled slightly, kissing the crown of your head.
"You did well, love. Very well,â he praised you.
âDid... did I live up to it ?â you asked timidly as he pulled the covers up over your two naked, entwined bodies.
âOh, my little wife, you were more than up to it.â
You smiled with a mix of pride and happiness, knowing that you were enough for him. Basked in the solace of his arms and the afterglow of your encounter, you slowly fell asleep. Richard watched you affectionately, his heart swelling with love, joy, and an animal pride at finally getting what he wanted. He had made you his through marriage. He had made you fall in love with him, and now he had claimed you in the flesh and made you his, definitively, irrevocably, forever.
His thoughts then wandered to a future he hoped was near. A future where you would have white marks on your rounded belly, carrying his children, another way for you to belong to him forever. And he couldn't wait to get to work and condemn you to be his forever by becoming the mother of his heirs.
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