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snowblossomreads · 15 days ago

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Champagne Problems

Chapter 7. Daylight

Lionel/Reader

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

Word Count: 8.4k

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

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

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

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

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

Except… there was something missing.

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

You.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmm?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lionel pulled an over-exaggerated thinking face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know…”

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

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

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

He kissed your lips softly and smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

You stared at him.

“You… put me in your will?”

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

“1974?”

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

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

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

You unstuck your lips from his, gasping for breath.

“1974,” you repeated.

“Yes, 1974. Does that matter?”

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

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

You were kissing his neck now, and he chuckled.

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

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

You kissed him on the lips again.

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

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

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

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

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

Lionel grunted as he felt your grip tighten a little.

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

You laughed.

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

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

“[Y/n], I’m not wearing a condom.”

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

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

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

“Oh my god, Lionel…”

“Fuck, [Y/n]…”

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

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

“You’ve never done it raw?”

Lionel shook his head.

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

He cocked an eyebrow at you.

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

“Is that a promise or a threat?”

Lionel nipped your bottom lip between his teeth.

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

“Admiring the view?”

“You look relaxed.”

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

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

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

“Thank you,” he murmured in your ear.

“For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

You turned your head to look at him.

“Only if you want to, Li…”

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

You approached the table and waved to get his attention.

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

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

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

“Thanks. I won’t be a bother.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glanced up at him.

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

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

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

“Did you know it was stolen?”

You frowned. “What, the painting?”

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

“You seem to know your stuff.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

��What year was… Women in the Garden?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Haystacks Dawn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…Shabandar has a twin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, and he’d have you fired.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, this isn’t for me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harry’s heart sank.

“…Ah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

Lionel chewed a little more, then finally swallowed.

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

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

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

“I thought you liked needy?”

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

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

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

“Humble.”

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

“I think he’ll try.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Only when you’re good.”

“I’m always good, aren’t I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you wouldn’t have him any other way.

#lionel x reader #DAWWWWWW harry deane sorry #you're a kind man #but unfort #our puswah and heart belongs to that bastard shabandar #bhaha

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snowblossomreads · 16 days ago

Text

Title: To Love Is To Burn

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

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

Pairing: Sinclair Bryant x Fem Reader

Cross-posted on AO3

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your foot catches on something solid.

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

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

A banana. Your banana.

And then you see him.

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

You’re furious. Flustered. And now bruised.

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

Sinclair hadn’t meant to sit there that long.

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

That… disaster.

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

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

He wasn’t thinking clearly.

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

He tugged the laces tighter. Useless habit.

And then, chaos.

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

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

He blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You turn to leave.

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

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

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

But he doesn’t stop watching you go.

Later that night, in your room

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

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

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

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

And he sat in the middle of the bloody aisle.

You smirk to yourself.

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

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

Still. You have to admit…

He was kind of cute.

Elsewhere, Sinclair's Manor

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

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

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

He let out a faint exhale, rubbing his jaw.

What was her name?

He didn’t ask. He never asked.

But still, somehow, she stayed in his thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until tonight.

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

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

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

And then—

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

Someone.

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

There’s a dull thud. An involuntary oomph.

And then... silence.

You blink.

Of course it’s him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, his smirk deepens — just a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You want to die. Immediately.

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

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

Behind you, your family is whispering. Laughing.

And Sinclair?

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

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

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

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

Restroom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You lift it to your nose.

It’s his scent.

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

You exhale, half-laughing to yourself.

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

Keep calm.

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

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

Just… maybe not face-first.

Restaurant Car Park

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

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

But there’s something… different about you.

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

It’s you.

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

He smirks again, under the streetlight.

She never asked for my name.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?”

“You were staring at the pianist like he owes you money.”

“I’m just dizzy.”

“Girl, you’re tipsy.”

“I’m elevated.”

Emily snorted. “Just don’t fall again. No tall men in tailored suits around to catch you this time.”

You grinned. “Tragically.”

She gave you a look. “Right. Sure.”

Before you could retaliate, someone called your name across the room — you turned toward it, the cheap white wine in your system making the floor sway just enough to be treacherous — and then:

Your heel twisted.

You stumbled.

And you crashed directly into a man in a black suit.

Again.

“Shit—” Your hands braced against a chest. A familiar one. Solid. Warm.

He caught you like he always seemed to — with both arms around you and a low, surprised grunt in your ear.

“…We must stop meeting like this,” he muttered into your hair.

You groaned into his shirt. “I swear to God, this one wasn’t your fault.”

You looked up. It was him. The guy who tripped in the aisle and at the restaurant entrance. Moreover, the guy who replaces Colonel Brandon in your dreams.

“I’m beginning to suspect fate has a rather wicked sense of humour,” he said, dry as ever.

You tried to step back. Your heel wobbled again. He kept a hand steady at your waist — the contact making your stomach flip.

“Do you follow me or… do I just naturally fall on you wherever I go?” you asked, trying for humor but breathless.

“Well, if it’s not intentional, it’s certainly impressive. Three times now?”

You laughed, still pink. “Are you keeping score?”

“Just curious how many falls it takes before someone lets me buy them a drink.”

You blinked at him. God, he looked good. His suit was tailored. Dark. Under the string lights, there was a softness to his features that hadn’t been there before. A flicker of something behind his eyes.

“…You can buy me water,” you said. “I think I need one.”

His smile deepened.

He guided you gently toward a quieter table off to the side, away from the main party. His hand brushed your arm as you sat. You noticed the way his eyes lingered on you — more lingering than before.

“You clean up…” he said slowly, voice low. “Devastatingly well.”

You gave him a look. “Was that a compliment or a warning?”

He chuckled. “A little of both.”

You both sat, eyes lingering now. Curious. Charged.

He tilted his head, gaze soft.

“I just realized,” he said, “I still don’t know your name.”

You smirked. “You’ve caught me mid-fall three times and now you ask?”

“I like to take my time,” he said, voice dropping.

You stepped a little closer, playful. “Hmm… you first, then.”

He hesitated, then offered a hand.

“Sinclair Bryant.”

You blinked. “Sinclair?”

He nodded, amused.

You squinted dramatically. “That sounds like the name of a man who owns a vineyard and casually sails on Thursdays.”

“And what do I actually look like I do?”

“Secret vigilante. Or tech billionaire.”

Sinclair smiled, eyes narrowing. “Your turn.”

“Y/N Carrington.”

His lips twitched. “That doesn’t match the woman who just tackled me in front of academia’s finest.”

“Would it help if I said Carrington is the name I give when I flirt with strangers at galas?”

His eyes darkened. “Are you flirting, Carrington?”

You winked. “I’m wearing heels and drinking wine. What do you think?”

You both laughed — easy now, a little wine-sweet and curiosity-drunk.

“So… Mr. Sinclair,” you mused. “Are you always this conveniently placed when I lose my balance? Or are you secretly hired as my personal crash pad?”

“Only on weekends,” he replied. “But I do offer loyalty discounts.”

You grinned. “I’m studying to be a data analyst at University of London, by the way. Which sounds cooler than it is, I promise.”

Sinclair blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“…No?”

“I am one. Or was. Now I just manage a bunch of brilliant ones.”

You squinted. “So you’re the boss everyone secretly rolls their eyes at.”

He gasped, mock-offended. “I am delightfully tolerable, thank you.”

You giggled, tipsy and warm. Then, without thinking—

“So… does Mr. Sinclair happen to be dating anyone?”

He paused. Just for a second. His gaze shifted — from your lips to your eyes.

“Not at the moment,” he said softly.

“‘Not at the moment’ sounds suspiciously like heartbreak,” you teased, voice gentler now.

“…Maybe,” he murmured. “It’s hard to let someone in when you’ve been a placeholder before. You start wondering if people are ever meant to stay.”

There was a pause — quiet, heavy.

“…There was someone,” he added after a beat. “Natalie. We were… something. She said I was too serious. Too quiet. Too much of a placeholder until the ‘real thing’ came along.”

Your heart squeezed.

Not because he was broken. But because of how carefully he held the pieces.

Without thinking, you reached out and touched his hand. Just briefly. Just enough.

“You’re not a placeholder,” you said softly. “You’re the main plot twist.”

He looked at you like you’d surprised him. Like maybe no one had said something like that before.

Then your name rang out again — Emily, waving from the entrance.

“Driver’s here! Come on, babe!”

You stood, smoothing your gown. He rose with you, instinctively offering his hand again.

There was a pause.

You thought of kissing him on the cheek. Be brave, girl. Just this once. Kiss him. Before you talk yourself out of it.

Then, without thinking more, you leaned forward and kissed him. Just lightly. Just on the cheek.

“Try not to catch anyone else tonight, Mr. Sinclair.”

You walked off into the crowd, heels clicking, heart racing, dress shimmering. And as you settled into the car, you thought,

That man’s going to be the death of me. Why didn’t I give him my number? Who knows, maybe I might trip over him again?

And just like that, the gala faded behind you. But something else?

Was just beginning.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Well, technically he was — the invite had come straight from one of the charity wings his company sponsored, and the university's gala was just another smiling obligation in his corporate calendar.

But he didn’t feel like smiling.

Too many professors use trading jargon. Too many teenagers pretending to be wine judges. Too many tight handshakes and tighter smiles.

Sinclair nursed a glass of red and drifted near the edges of the ballroom, where the chandeliers didn’t glare quite so hard. His suit was tailored, tie loose, hair behaving for once. He looked the part. As always.

But his mind was far from here.

Her.

That damn girl who barreled into him at the supermarket.

And then again at the restaurant.

A walking hazard. A beautiful, infuriating, sharp-tongued hazard. The girl, he quoted Colonel Brandon, too.

He caught himself scanning the crowd, like he had any right to expect her here.

Come on, Bryant. You're at a university fundraiser, not in some sappy romance drama.

He turned his head, about to retreat to the outer hall for some air—

Crash.

Something, someone, collided with his chest. Hard.

His arms went around her automatically, steadying instinct kicking in before his brain caught up.

A familiar scent. Familiar hair. Familiar chaos.

His eyes widened.

No. Bloody. Way.

“…We must stop meeting like this,” he muttered into her hair, trying not to smile.

She groaned into his shirt. “I swear to God, this one wasn’t your fault.”

God, it’s really her.

He glanced down. Midnight blue. Corset gown. Glossy lips. Glittering eyes.

His breath stuttered.

He hadn’t even known he’d memorised her. And yet here she was — falling into his arms like the universe was playing matchmaker with a sense of humour.

“I’m beginning to suspect fate has a rather wicked sense of humour,” he said, keeping his tone light even as his heart jackhammered.

She tried to step back — and stumbled again. He caught her waist.

Her eyes met his, wide. Breathless. Slightly wine-blurred.

Dangerous. Absolutely dangerous.

“Do you follow me or… do I just naturally fall on you wherever I go?” she teased.

He raised a brow. “If it’s not intentional, it’s certainly impressive. Three times now?”

She laughed, cheeks flushed. “Are you keeping score?”

He was. Against his better judgment.

“Just curious how many falls it takes before someone lets me buy them a drink.”

He said it like a joke.

He didn’t mean it like one.

They ended up at a smaller table tucked to the side, and Sinclair hadn’t realized how loud the room had been until her voice was the only one he wanted to hear.

Her dress shimmered when she sat. He followed, slower — trying to recalibrate.

Trying not to stare.

Failing.

“You clean up…” he said slowly, letting his eyes trail from her shoes to her cheekbones, “devastatingly well.”

She gave him a look. Witty. Suspicious. Beautiful.

“Was that a compliment or a warning?”

Yes.

He chuckled. “A little of both.”

Her name came later. Y/N, Carrington. Soft on the tongue. Slightly posh. But her delivery? Full sass.

She winked. Teased. Flirted.

Sinclair hadn’t flirted like this in years. Hadn’t wanted to.

There was something in her. Spark and softness. Fire under gloss. When she touched his hand, barely, it felt like someone had struck a match along his skin.

Then she asked a question that made him skip a breath.

“So… does Mr. Sinclair happen to be dating anyone?”

He paused.

Just for a second. His gaze drifted — from her lips to her eyes.

“Not at the moment,” he said quietly.

“‘Not at the moment’ sounds suspiciously like heartbreak,” she teased, voice gentle now.

He gave a short breath of a laugh — but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“…There was someone,” he admitted. “Natalie. We were… something. She said I was too serious. Too quiet. Too much of a placeholder until the ‘real thing’ came along.”

He hadn’t meant to say that much. But the words tumbled out anyway, carried on the hush between them.

He hadn’t said her name in months. Not out loud.

Natalie had always craved noise — parties, people, constant motion. She loved socializing, especially with her brother.

But with her, he’d never felt seen.

Only… kept.

And in the end, discarded — like a well-worn book on a crowded shelf.

Then her voice cut through the quiet, calm and certain.

“You’re not a placeholder.”

His eyes lifted.

“You’re the main plot twist.”

That line hit harder than it should’ve. Knocked the air right out of him.

Then, as he was in a daze, Sinclair heard her friend calling. She stood, smoothing her gown, and he rose with her, instinctively offering his hand again.

But there was a pause, and leaning forward, she kissed him. Just lightly. Just on the cheek.

“Try not to catch anyone else tonight, Mr. Sinclair.”

She walked off into the crowd, heels clicking, heart racing, dress shimmering.

Sinclair didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stood there, stunned, hand drifting to the place her lips had touched.

Her words still echoed in his ears.

Her warmth still lingered on his skin.

That dress.Her laugh. The way she looked at me. God. How did I not ask for her number?

But maybe who knows, she might trip over me and I might be there to catch her again, Sinclair thought, smiling to himself.

He walked back into the gala again.

It had been nearly two months since the gala.

In the time between, life had dissolved into a blur of textbooks, final exams, and nights where you fell asleep with highlighters tangled in your hair. The cold halls of the university library never felt lonelier than during finals week — and somewhere between caffeine-fueled essays and restless dreams, you stopped allowing herself to think about him.

Sinclair.

Even his name felt like a risk now. Like breathing smoke.

You hadn’t given him your number. At first, you told yourself it was an accident. Later, you realized you were afraid. Because what if it had only been a moment? One of those rare, crystalline nights that wasn’t meant to follow you home?

And then came the envelope.

It appeared on your dorm desk the day you returned to pack up your things. Neatly placed. Ivory cream, thick parchment, sealed with an old-fashioned wax stamp the color of deep plum. Across the front, in elegant cursive, was written:

Miss Carrington Dorm Room 7 – West Wing University of London

Your fingertips tingled as you traced the letters.

Inside was a single folded sheet. The ink was dark, pressed in with purpose. No smudges, no mistakes. The lines were clean — but you could almost feel the hesitation behind the words, the way the writer had sat with them, rewritten them silently a dozen times before finally committing them to the page.

Miss Carrington, If this letter reaches you — and I hope to God it does — I would very much like to see you again. Hyde Park. Friday. 4 PM. Please. To love is to burn, to be on fire.

No name. But you knew.

The letter trembled in your hands.

That night, you lay on your childhood bed, staring at the ceiling while the letter sat on your nightstand like a question mark that had taken form. You kept reading the last line over and over.

To love is to burn, to be on fire.

Had he meant it metaphorically? Had he written it in haste or truthfully? Did he feel what you felt that night — the sense that everything had shifted the moment they met?

The next morning, your mother caught you in front of the mirror, brushing your hair with a kind of nervous focus you hadn’t seen in a while.

“Going somewhere?”

You hesitated. “Meeting someone.”

Her mum raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “A boy?”

“…Sort of.”

Your mother grinned. “Then wear the pink one. The floral sundress. You always look beautiful in that one.”

“I don’t know…”

“He’ll like it,” her mum said with conviction, already walking to the closet. “You look like a dream when you dress up.”

You didn’t say it aloud, but part of you remembered how Sinclair had looked at you that night, in that blue satin gown. How he’d murmured something about you looking “well cleaned up.” The phrase had echoed in your mind like a compliment.

So you wore the sundress. Pale pink, delicate flowers blooming across the hem like secrets. It danced around your knees when you walked. Your mother gave you a ride, fussed over your hair one last time before you stepped out near the park’s entrance.

“Call me if you float away from happiness,” your mum teased.

You smiled nervously. “I’ll try.”

Meanwhile, Sinclair had been sitting on the same bench for the last twenty minutes.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Maybe nothing. Maybe he just wanted to feel like he’d tried.

Sending that letter had been a gamble. The University of London had hundreds of students. But he remembered Carrington. He remembered the way she held herself. The faint northern accent in her voice. The way she’d laughed despite herself at his terrible, dry jokes.

He’d tracked down to the west wing, by bribing the porter with an espresso and two quid just to find and double-check room numbers. Dorm Room 7. Miss Carrington. That was as close to fate as he could get.

Now he sat there, black coat buttoned, pretending to read the same page of his book for the fifth time.

Maybe she wouldn't come.

Maybe she’d laugh at the note. Maybe it never reached her at all.

He closed his book and let the spring sun warm his skin. If she didn’t come, he would leave in fifteen minutes. Maybe ten. He hated waiting.

But then, a flicker of pink.

A shape moving just beyond the hedge-lined path. A flash of hair he hadn’t realized he’d memorized. And the dress — soft, sunlit, unmistakable.

His heart stopped.

She was walking toward him.

You saw him the moment you rounded the corner.

He was there. Black coat. Paperback in hand. Sitting on the park bench like something out of a forgotten poem.

The sight of him knocked the wind from your lungs.

He looked up. Both of your eyes met. And something in his expression shifted — a quiet storm settling into still water.

You walked faster. Then slower. Then tried to act like you weren’t staring.

And just as you passed, the universe, yet again, conspired.

Your foot snagged on a root curled through the path. You pitched forward, gasping.

But before you could fall, strong arms caught you.

“…Got you,” he murmured.

Your palms pressed into his chest. One hand gripped his shoulder. His hands were at your waist, warm and sure.

Your froze. The world tilted — not from the stumble, but from him.

Their faces were inches apart.

You could see the gold light reflecting in his eyes, and you could feel his breath against your cheek. He wasn’t smiling now. No teasing. Just… watching you. Like he had so many things he wanted to say, and didn’t know which to begin with.

“Why is it always you?” you whispered.

His voice was quiet. “Maybe it’s always supposed to be me.”

Something broke open in your chest.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I think I’ve been falling for you this whole time.”

For a moment, nothing moved. And then, the tiniest shift.

His lips quirked. Not in amusement. In something else. Admiration, maybe.

He leaned in.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

The kiss was soft.

Certain.

A quiet promise stitched together from every unsaid word, every unspoken longing. It was warmth and ache and relief all at once — the kind of kiss that made the world hush and time fold in on itself.

When both of you finally pulled apart, breathless, you didn’t fall.

You floated.

And this time, he was there to catch you anyway.

Two years later

The sun poured like honey through the wide windows of their home — their home — nestled just past the city, where the trees bloomed thick and the air always smelled like fresh beginnings.

Their daughter, barely steady on her legs, toddled across the garden with all the determination of a storm. She was small and soft and completely fearless — and like you, her mother, had a curious knack for tripping over invisible things at just the right moment.

And as always, Sinclair was there.

He caught her mid-fall, scooping her up with practiced ease. She squealed with delight.

“Well now,” he said, lifting her with mock-seriousness, “another girl in this family who falls at my feet.”

You snorted from the patio.

“She didn’t fall for you, she just fell near you.”

He grinned. “Close enough.”

You walked over and gently swatted his arm. “Arrogant.”

He kissed your temple. “Married you, didn’t I?”

The baby giggled between you, clapping her hands as if she'd understood the joke. Her curls caught the sunlight — like yours — and her little nose crinkled just like his when she laughed.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, arms wrapped around the both of them.

He held you tighter.

And in that moment, warm garden air, baby laughter, a little chaos, a lot of love, you knew.

You’d fall for him all over again.

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#WAHHHH PUPPER FIC #SO CUTE 😭😭#when will i lose my banana tripping over a handsome man #sinclair bryant x reader

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snowblossomreads · 21 days ago

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I must share this snippet on chapter of fic I've been working on (it's almost done hooray! ) that made me giggle gaggle

🧀 🧀 🧀

#sinclair has become lactose intolerant in his close to middle age #thank god for dairy pills #he would be devastated

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snowblossomreads · 24 days ago

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IS IT ROAST NATALIE HOUR BC SHE SURE DESERVES IT THAT THOT. Anways santa clair adorable

Champagne Problems

Chapter 6. Bad Woman, Better Man

Lionel/Reader

Summary: You can't keep hiding the truth from Cole and Lionel, and Sinclair can't keep hiding the truth from himself.

Word Count: 15.3k

CW: Natalie and all the bullshit that comes with her

All chapters here!

Read on Ao3 or WattPad or below the cut:

1990

Lionel hadn’t been lying about being too busy to date someone new, but this time it was different: this time it was you, and he was determined not to fuck things up.

It didn’t make it any easier, though. You were both working in the week, and Lionel often had to stay late, or he had some event to go to, and you didn’t want to leave Cole alone too often.

You had lunch dates as often as you could, and when you couldn’t, you sometimes had lunch with Sinclair instead. You attended private parties with Lionel - and often Sinclair too - but you never accompanied him to any kind of public event. As far as the public were concerned, Lionel was still a playboy bachelor.

The downside to that was, the magazines that Lionel didn’t own still speculated. You didn’t know what strings he’d pulled to keep your face out of print, but evidently the deal hadn’t included that they couldn’t make up rumours about him and other women. Any interaction he had with any woman was liable to be shoved in your face in the next issue of News of the World, and even though Lionel assured you there was nothing to the rumours, you still found it difficult to stomach — so much so that you changed your subscriptions to only those owned by Lionel, because the only time he appeared in his own magazine or newspaper was because some poor sod that worked for him had been told to write an article about how great he was.

Lionel gave you a key to his building, and another to his private lift, to allow you to come and go as you pleased. Occasionally, you would make plans only for Lionel to end up stuck at work; on those evenings, you would let yourself into his place and entertain yourself as you waited for him.

In the autumn, when you’d been dating for a couple of months — and, to Sinclair’s delight, you had admitted that you were indeed dating — Lionel came home from a long day at work to find you sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the couch, with what looked like magazines splayed across the table, your brow furrowed in thought as you read through one of them.

“Not starting a rival magazine company, are you?” Lionel said with amusement as he unbuttoned his coat.

You looked up at him, and your heart warmed to see him again.

“No, these are uni prospectuses,” you replied. “Cole gave them to me this morning. I figured I’d have a look while I’m waiting for you.”

Lionel joined you in the living area as he shrugged off his jacket. His nudist habits were becoming much less frequent now that the weather was getting colder, so to your disappointment he kept his shirt and trousers on as he sat on the floor next to you and put an arm around your shoulder. You leaned into his touch and gave him an affectionate kiss.

“Long day?” you asked.

“Ugh, you don’t know the half of it,” Lionel groaned. “I didn’t even get to eat lunch, I was running around putting out one fire after another. I swear some of my employees get thicker by the day… but I don’t want to think about work right now. Which universities is he looking at?”

“These are the six he wants to apply to,” you said, indicating the six prospectuses that were spread out in front of you. “He wants to know which two he should choose, if he gets offers from them all — which he will, I’m sure of it.”

“Manchester?” Lionel said with some disgust, picking up one of the prospectuses. “Is he aware that’s in the north?”

“If you think that’s bad, he likes Glasgow too. Is it bad I want to put Glasgow at the bottom just because it’s so far away? I don’t see why he can’t just choose places in London.”

“Has he not considered Oxford?” Lionel asked, looking over the prospectus covers. “I know the entry requirements are high, but there’s no harm in applying if he has other options.”

“Oxford and Cambridge aren’t the only good universities, you know,” you said teasingly. “Anyway, I don’t think he likes the culture there, all the traditional ‘old boys’ stuff.”

“Good thing he didn’t go to Winchester, then, he’d have hated it.”

You laughed. “Yeah, he’s rarely in the house, and you lot were rarely let out. And when you did, you walked around in little packs, like you were afraid to lose each other. Me and my mates used to play a game if we were in town on a Sunday, spot the college boys. Even out of your uniforms, you were so obvious.”

“Glasgow looks quite respectable, actually,” Lionel said, choosing to ignore your teasing as he flicked through the prospectus. “Which course is he looking at?”

“Fine Art.”

Lionel put the Glasgow prospectus down and picked up Manchester again.

“I suppose somewhere like Manchester isn’t terrible. Could be worse. Could be Birmingham. What school is he at now, by the way?”

“Oh, so you want to know now?”

Lionel frowned at you. “Yes, I do. I know what I said at the wedding, but I was angry, I’d only just found out he existed. I would like to know what school my son goes to. What if something happened to you and I had to find him at school?”

“Nothing’s gonna happen to me. What do you think of Goldsmiths? He’s marked the page for Fine Art & History of Art. Do you think it’s better to have a wider range of study or do you think he’d suffer from having less focus?”

Lionel put his hand on the prospectus and forced you to lower it.

“Why are you avoiding telling me what school he goes to?”

“Same reason I’m avoiding telling him your name,” you said evasively. You tried to pull the prospectus back up, but Lionel was stronger than you.

“Which is?”

“I’m not ready to.”

Lionel sighed and pulled his hand away. You looked at him, and you realised he was disappointed.

“Sorry, Li. I’ll tell you everything one day.”

“Sure you will.” Lionel threw the prospectus he was holding back on the coffee table and stood up. “Well, if I’m not to know what school he’s at now, it’s pointless knowing what university he’ll be at next year. I’m going to call Louis for some dinner.”

You called after him, but he ignored you. You sighed and slumped back against the sofa, wondering how long you could keep hiding who Lionel and Cole really were from each other.

As Christmas approached, you felt more and more at ease with Lionel — and less and less at ease with everything else.

You were proud of your shop, but you were starting to get bored of it. You couldn’t blame Lionel for being confused as to why you were selling picture frames — it wasn’t exactly a thrilling industry. It was steady, and that was what you needed as a single mother, but with the prospect of Cole moving out next year becoming more and more likely, you wondered if you should start something new, too.

You were also getting seriously worried about Sinclair. Whenever you saw him, it seemed to be luck of the draw which version of him you got — sometimes he was his usual bouncy, sunny self, but sometimes he seemed to have a little cloud of sadness following him around.

When the Christmas holidays came around and Sinclair told you that of course you were invited to Christmas at his house along with Lionel, you realised you had a choice: spend Christmas Day with just Cole, or spend it with everyone.

You also could have spent it with your dad, but you didn’t like his new wife or her kids, so you avoided that minefield every year.

First, you checked with Sinclair that your invitation to spend Christmas Day at his house was extended to Cole too. He practically exploded with excitement at that, and you had to calm him down to remind him that it was just a thought and you hadn’t broached the subject with Lionel yet.

That was the easy part. The hardest part was the one thing you’d been avoiding for seventeen years: telling Lionel and Cole the truth about each other.

“You’ve been very quiet all evening,” Lionel said, his chin on his hands as he looked at you over his empty dinner plate. You’d invited him over for dinner while Cole was staying at a mate’s house on the theory that if Lionel wanted to turn and run, he could leave. “Is something the matter?”

“Sorry, just… lost in thought.”

Lionel reached over the table and took your hand in his. “Penny for them?”

“Only a penny?”

“Alright, a pound. Come on, out with it, chérie. I hope you know by now that you can tell me anything.”

“Sinclair invited me to Christmas.”

“Of course he did.”

“And… he invited Cole too.”

You looked at him trepidatiously, trying to gauge his reaction, but his expression stayed annoyingly blank.

“I mean, how would you… how would you feel about that?” you asked nervously.

Lionel was silent for a few moments, then he smiled.

“Don’t speak a word of this to anyone, but I would probably feel nervous and insecure for the first time in my life. But… I wouldn’t be opposed to the idea.”

Your eyes widened. “You wouldn’t?”

“No. I’ve known from the start that you come as a pair, [Y/n]. If I want to be with you… I have to accept he’s part of that. Really, the question is whether you’re ready. Correct me if I’m wrong, but… I get the sense there’s something about him you’re afraid to tell me.”

You froze, and Lionel’s hand held yours more securely, his large hand enveloping yours comfortingly.

“And I’d wager it’s something to do with why you won’t tell me what school he goes to.”

You exhaled and leaned back in your chair. You knew this would be difficult, but that didn’t make it any easier. Lionel had never given you any sign that he would reject Cole for what he was, but he had also proven time and time again that he was full of surprises, and not all of them were good.

You sighed and rubbed your temple.

“Lionel, honestly, I’m really fucking scared to tell you. I’m scared you’ll reject him, that you’ll think… there’s something wrong with him. And there’s nothing wrong with him, he’s perfect, he’s so incredible, Li.”

“I’m sure he is.”

“If you reject him, I’m choosing him over you. I need you to know that.”

Lionel nodded.

“I’m aware.”

“I don’t want to have to walk away again. I… I don’t know if I can handle losing you again.”

Lionel seemed to decide something, stood up, walked around the dining table, and placed his large hands on your waist to pick you up and throw you over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” you laughed, but Lionel hushed you. He carried you over to the sofa and plopped you down in the middle, then sat next to you so he could take your face in his hands and force you to look at him.

“[Y/n] [L/n], I am madly in love with you, and I have been since we were eighteen years old. I think you’re perfect. I also have a massive ego and think I’m perfect. Therefore, a child who is half you and half me must also be perfect. So whatever you have to tell me, you can tell me. If other men have been put off by something about Cole, it can only be because they felt threatened by how much better than them he is.”

You laughed and reached up to gently coax Lionel’s hands away.

“Okay. Okay, I’ll… I’ll tell you. In fact… it might be better to show you.”

Lionel frowned curiously. You stood and went over to the TV cabinet to rifle through the drawers where you kept your video tapes.

“Here we go!” you said triumphantly, holding up a VHS that was buried in the back of the drawer. “Mum gave this to me just before she died. She bought a camcorder to film him growing up, but she was rubbish at remembering to get it out, so there’s not much footage, but… it’s something.”

You booted up the TV and put the tape into the VCR, then grabbed the remote and sat back on the sofa next to Lionel, who put an arm around your shoulder reassuringly.

“Just… watch the whole thing,” you said quietly.

Lionel squeezed your shoulder and kissed your cheek reassuringly.

“Of course, chérie.”

You relaxed into him the best you could in your nervous state and hit play.

The datestamp in the corner of the screen announced that it was 23rd March 1972. You were in a hospital bed, looking exhausted.

“God, look at me, I was so young,” you sighed. “We really were just kids.”

Lionel hummed in agreement, watching the screen curiously, waiting to see what it was about his son that was apparently so off-putting to lesser men.

“There she is!” your mum’s voice said from behind the camera, and you weakly tried to bat her away. “How’s my baby girl doing?”

“Tired,” you mumbled. You weakly pointed at something behind your mum. “Film the baby, not me.”

The camera turned around and showed a baby in a hospital crib, tiny and fast asleep, with even tinier fists curled up next to its head.

Lionel leaned forward slightly. It was grainy footage, and your mum’s camerawork was shoddy, but he could hardly believe that he was really looking at an image of his own child.

What had he been doing at that time? It was his second year of university, so at least he knew he wasn’t off his tits somewhere.

Your mum spent a few more minutes cooing and filming the baby sleeping, then the camera was shut off. The date stamp jumped ahead to 25th December 1972.

You were sitting on the sofa at your mum’s house, the baby on your lap, holding a present.

“Okay, I’m filming! I think,” your mum said. “Go on, open it!”

You unwrapped the present, with a little difficulty as you were holding both baby and present, but you managed to tear the paper away to reveal some sort of bright pink cube with all sorts of buttons and things on the sides.

“Activity cube,” you explained to Lionel before he could ask the question he was thinking.

“Ooh, what’s this?” you cooed, holding up the cube and demonstrating playing with the various buttons and dials and spinny things. “Isn’t it pretty! Do you want to play with it?”

“Oh my god, the baby voice!” Lionel laughed, and you buried your face in your hands as you cringed.

When you looked up again, your mum had once again forgotten about the camcorder for several months.

Time stamp: 13th July 1973. A lovely view of the carpet, and a not so lovely sound of a child screaming.

“Mum, now is not the time to remember your bloody camcorder!”

“I’m just trying to get it working again…”

“I need some help here!”

“Alright, alright!”

The camera was placed on a surface, but it was still filming; you were kneeling down by the sofa, and the camera just about picked up the occasional flailing limb of a child, face-down on the sofa, throwing an almighty tantrum and repeating one word over and over.

“No! NO!!”

Lionel winced at the high-pitched wailing.

“Stubborn as me, clearly,” he commented.

You pressed fast-forward on the remote and explained, “This goes on a while. Mum forgot the camera was there so it filmed until the battery died.”

Once you’d managed to get your screaming child to calm down and leave the room on high speed, the camera filmed an empty living room for a while.

You hit play when you saw the scene change and braced yourself.

“This is the last bit. Mum thought the camera was broken for years until I told her she just needed a new battery. She used it again just this once.”

Date stamp: 4th April 1978

A group of kids were on a stage, dancing as badly as one would expect a bunch of six-year-olds to be dancing. The camera zoomed in on one of the girls, following her around the stage as she clumsily tried to move in her tutu.

“Oh my god, that’s some of the worst dancing I’ve ever seen,” you whispered in shock. “I forgot how terrible they all were.”

“Why is your mum zooming in on some other kid?” Lionel asked incredulously. “Where’s Cole?”

You stayed silent, hoping he’d figure it out for himself.

The camera zoomed out again as the dance came to an end. The kids all curtsied, and Lionel realised they were all girls.

“He’s not even there. Why is your mum filming a bunch of other kids?”

“Just wait.”

The teacher came onto the stage to thank everyone for coming, then turned to the girls on the stage to say well done to each of them individually.

The girl your mum had been filming was third. The camera zoomed in again to show the girl beaming with pride, as if she’d just danced Swan Lake perfectly. She stepped forward to give a curtsey as the teacher said, “And well done, Claire!”

The video stopped suddenly — your mum had run out of tape in the camcorder, and she could never figure out how to replace it.

“…I’m really confused,” Lionel admitted. “Who was that girl?”

You looked up at him, desperate for him to understand.

“That was Cole,” you said.

“But that was a girl.”

“Yeah.”

“A girl called…” Lionel frowned, and something seemed to fall into place in his mind. “Oh… oh!”

There it was.

Lionel turned to you, looking affronted. Panic rose in your chest. This was it, he was going to reject your son, just like all the other men you’d tried to date…

“Cole was born a girl.”

“Yes.”

“And you named her Claire.”

“Yes.”

“You named my child after Sinclair?!”

“…Yes?”

He scoffed and threw a hand up in disbelief. “He’s never going to let me live that down! You could have gone with Leona or Lionela or Leah. But no, you went with Claire. I suppose I should be glad he chose Cole and not Sinclair. Was that his choice, or yours?”

“His, I never told him he was — wait, that’s what you’re upset about?”

Lionel looked at you incredulously. “What, you think I care that he was born a girl? I don’t bloody care what he’s got going on down there.”

You laughed then. You laughed at yourself, at the fact that you’d been so scared that Lionel would judge Cole — and he was more concerned that you’d named his child after his cousin. You leaned your elbows on your knees, put your head in your hands, and just laughed.

“Chérie, is this what you’ve been so worried about?” Lionel said with amusement, his hand on your back comfortingly. “Bloody hell, I thought you were going to tell me he went to a special needs school or something.”

You sat back on the sofa, relaxing into the cushion, breathing a heavy sigh of relief.

“No, he goes to an all girls school. No one knows except me and some of his mates. Everyone else still calls him Claire, they think he’s just a tomboy. It was so…”

You felt tears welling up in your eyes, and you blinked hard, trying to hold them back.

“Sinclair’s wedding was the first time I ever called him my son. And it was — God, it was to you! I never thought I’d tell you that he existed, let alone that he was your son.”

Lionel wrapped his arms around you and held you close to his chest. You leaned into him gladly, seeking comfort in his embrace, his scent, the sound of his heart beating in his chest.

“I’m gonna get your shirt wet,” you sobbed.

“I don’t care.”

“But it was probably like £10,000…”

Lionel chuckled and kissed your head softly.

“I may be filthy rich, but even I wouldn’t spend that much on a shirt. It was one thousand.”

“Still a stupid amount,” you muttered. You sniffed and pulled back, wiping your tears on your sleeves. “Sorry. Tears of relief.”

“Don’t apologise,” Lionel said softly. He wiped a stray tear from your cheek with his thumb and smiled. “You’re an incredible mother.”

You shrugged. “I dunno. I just love my kid, whoever he is. And if he tells me he’s a boy, then that’s who he is.”

“When did he become — well, maybe that’s not the right word. When did he tell you?”

“When he was 13. It wasn’t that much of a surprise. I mean, I was surprised because I didn’t know it was a thing people did, you know? But there were signs. That tantrum he threw on the video — it was because he didn’t want to wear a dress. And when he got his first period, he told me then he wished he was a boy, but I just took that to mean he didn’t want periods. When he told me he wanted to be a boy and that he wanted me to call him Cole, it took some adjusting, but… it felt right. You might have noticed on the phone I call him C sometimes, I kinda picked up the habit of doing that so I don’t have to call him Claire in front of other people.”

“You never told him you named him after a man?”

You shook your head. “Didn’t see the point. He’d already picked out a name. Do you… do you think Sinclair will mind?”

“[Y/n], are we talking about the same Sinclair?” Lionel said incredulously. “Of course he won’t mind. He will, however, pester him with questions, so prepare him for that.”

You laughed. “You’re right. And he’ll be so tactless, but so endearing. Probably try to convince him that it’s not too late to choose the name Sinclair instead.”

“It’s not too late to choose Lionel Jr either.”

You laughed and shoved him playfully. “Stop!”

Lionel laughed and put his arm around your shoulder, kissing your head affectionately.

“I love you, Lionel,” you said softly. You turned to kiss him gently on the lips. He, of course, chased your lips as you tried to pull away, and you let out a squeal of laughter when he grabbed your legs and pulled them across his lap, holding you firmly so you couldn’t escape his kisses — not that you wanted to.

You almost jumped out of your skin when you heard the front door slam shut.

You jumped to your feet, about to run across the room to keep Cole out, but there was no need — you heard the familiar sound of his feet running up the stairs.

“I thought you said he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow,” Lionel said.

“That’s what he said. Can you just… wait here a sec? I need to see if he’s okay. Those sounded like upset footsteps.”

“Of course.”

You slipped out of the living room, closing the door behind you and leaving Lionel alone.

He stood up and began looking around while he waited. It was his first time at your house, and he hadn’t had an opportunity yet to really look at how you decorated your house — he’d been far more interested in you.

The living room and dining room were one large room — perhaps once two rooms, at some point a wall removed to create a larger space. On the wall behind the dining table were dozens of framed drawings. Lionel examined them curiously. His keen eye told him they were originals, not prints, but they weren’t signed. They were all line drawings, but the detail in them was impeccable.

He wondered if they were Cole’s. You’d mentioned framing his art — was this what you were referring to? If so, you were right when you said he was brilliant; Lionel could easily believe that these were done by a professional.

One drawing in particular intrigued him - a drawing of a London skyline. It intrigued him because he knew it well; it was Canary Wharf. Cole had even drawn the Shabandar Media tower.

Lionel was particularly impressed at the variety of the drawings. Even great artists like Monet had a tendency to repeat themselves; Haystacks Dawn certainly wasn’t the only painting of haystacks he’d ever done. But this wasn’t just a collection of skylines; there were drawings of buildings, animals, people. If there was a theme, it seemed to be that Cole drew what he saw around him.

Another drawing caught Lionel’s eye — it appeared to be you, asleep on the sofa. Your back was turned, a blanket draped over your body. Even without drawing your face, Cole had managed to capture enough of you that Lionel recognised the subject to be you. He’d captured your body shape, the way your hair fell; Lionel even recognised your habit of bending your left knee in your sleep. He wondered when Cole had drawn this, and why you’d been sleeping on the sofa that night.

He heard the door open. Lionel turned to see you sliding back into the room, being careful not to open the door too wide.

You approached him and looked at him apprehensively.

“He’d like to meet you,” you said quietly.

“As your boyfriend or as his father?”

“Boyfriend. If you want to introduce yourself as his father… that’s up to you.”

Lionel nodded. “Alright. Are these his, by the way?”

He pointed back at the drawings. You smiled, and you seemed to glow slightly with pride.

“Yes, they’re all his. He’s good, isn’t he?”

“[Y/n], he’s fantastic. He captures the world around him almost like a photograph. I particularly like this one of you.” Lionel pointed to the drawing of you on the sofa. “Why are you sleeping on the sofa?”

“Oh, um… that was after an argument with an ex. We couldn’t agree, he wouldn’t leave, so I slept on the sofa.”

Lionel frowned. “You slept on the sofa? In your own house?”

“Yeah, well, he’s an ex for a reason. Cole couldn’t sleep so he went downstairs, found me on the sofa and drew it. He gave it to me the next day and told me it was a reminder not to let some arsehole control me. I dumped the guy that evening and hung the drawing up to remind myself every day.”

“What sort of fool thinks he can control you?”

You smiled and kissed him on the cheek.

“Not you, clearly.”

“That was the real issue with your exes, you see. They weren’t me.”

Lionel smiled smugly, and you rolled your eyes.

“Are you ready to meet him?”

Lionel took a deep breath and straightened his posture. In one movement, he became that proud lion he was always claiming to be.

“Yes, I am.”

Hoping you were doing the right thing, you crossed the room and opened the living room door, then gestured for Cole to come in.

The first thing that Lionel noticed about the boy that walked in was that he looked just like the girl he’d fallen in love with nineteen years ago. It was almost as if your eighteen year old self had walked through a portal in time, cut your hair short, and started wearing baggy t-shirts and jeans.

Cole looked nervous, and Lionel felt it too, but he didn’t let it show. He was a proud lion, after all; he had to show courage.

“So this is my son, Cole,” you said. “Cole, this is the mystery boyfriend you’ve been bugging me about.”

“Hi,” Cole said with a nervous wave. “Um, nice to meet you.”

Lionel smiled and crossed the room to offer his hand. “Hello, Cole. Lionel Shabandar.”

Cole shook his hand, and Lionel gave him a proper businessman’s handshake.

“Er, yeah, I know who you are,” Cole laughed nervously. “I see now why mum wouldn’t tell me your name.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“Yeah, I, um — I’m doing Media Studies for A-Level. We actually did a whole class on your career the other week.”

“Really?” Lionel said, glancing at you with an amused smirk. “I didn’t realise I was worthy of study.”

“Oh, shut up, you totally think you’re worthy of study,” you teased.

“I assure you, [Y/n], I knew nothing of this. But if Cole’s teachers think me worthy of study, who am I to deny it?”

Cole laughed, and Lionel smirked with pride.

“[Y/n] tells me you’re responsible for these,” Lionel said, turning slightly to indicate the drawings on the wall. “I must say, they’re impressive.”

Cole’s eyes lit up slightly, and you saw his shoulders relax.

“You think so?”

“Oh, absolutely, and I’m quite the art connoisseur, so I know good art when I see it. I particularly like the one of [Y/n] on the sofa, you captured her well. And I’m in one of these as well.”

Lionel pointed to the outline of the Shabandar Media tower in Canary Wharf.

“You see? I’m in there somewhere.”

You laughed and shook your head. Trust Lionel to make it about himself somehow.

“I don’t know, I don’t see it,” you said, peering at the picture as if looking for a small detail. “I can’t see some arsehole looking out the window as if he owns the city.”

“It’s an outline, which means the detail is left to the imagination,” Cole said. He was sounding a lot less nervous now, his confidence boosted by the praise of his artwork. “So he could definitely be there.”

Lionel looking at you with amusement.

“You see? The artist himself agrees.”

“I’ve changed my mind, I don’t want you to meet each other. Can we just forget this ever happened?”

Lionel laughed. “Too late, chérie.”

“Don’t agree with him too much, Cole,” you said warningly. “It inflates his ego, and his head’s massive enough as it is. I’m going to do the washing up, I’ll leave you two to bond. Cole, don’t be afraid to tell him to shut up if he starts telling you how great he is. Lionel — don’t be afraid to shut up.”

You gathered the plates, and you smiled as you heard Lionel asking Cole more questions about his drawings.

“Do you draw by reference or from your imagination?”

“By reference, usually to something in real life — like that skyline, I sat at the Docklands and did that — but sometimes to photos, like the animals, most of those are based on pictures in books.”

Lionel looked at the animal drawings curiously. “Have you ever drawn a lion?”

“Er, no. That’d be a good one to try, actually, getting the mane right would be a fun challenge.”

“You like a challenge, do you?”

“I s’pose.”

“Good. That’s an important quality in a man. Challenges just make the win more rewarding.”

Cole looked thoughtful for a moment, then nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, you’re right. I’m always proudest of the stuff that was harder to draw. Even though it takes longer, and I go through loads of drafts, once it’s done I feel like I’ve achieved something really special.”

Lionel looked at him for a long moment. It was clear that this boy was his son. The pride in his work, the enthusiasm for art, the love of a challenge — he had a lion’s heart through and through.

“Cole, I have something to tell you. Something [Y/n] and I agreed I should tell you myself.”

Cole put his hands in his pockets and began fidgeting nervously.

“Is it… about me?”

“Yes. Perhaps we should sit down.”

“Um… alright.”

Cole sat down on the armchair next to the sofa in a spot that was clearly his. Lionel sat on the sofa, at the end next to the armchair.

“Is it that she told you about… about me?” Cole asked nervously.

“No. Well, yes, she did tell me. But it’s not about that. Though, I suppose, in a way the two are connected.”

Cole frowned, confused.

“I don’t believe she ever told you where your birth name came from, did she?”

“I figured it was just a name she liked,” Cole said with a shrug.

“No, it was more than that. You see, she actually named you after a man called Sinclair Bryant.”

“Wait, I know that name. He’s an old friend of mum’s. He calls sometimes.”

“Yes, he is. He’s also my cousin.”

“Your —? Wait, do you mean you knew mum before? Like, you didn’t just meet her this year?”

“I did. We met when we were eighteen. [Y/n], Sinclair and I were thick as thieves back in the day. [Y/n] and I in particular. Sinclair was something of… I believe ‘third wheel’ is the phrase.”

Cole gaped at him.

“Wait, you and Mum dated? When you were eighteen? Oh my god…”

His eyes darted around as he put two and two together.

“Mum got pregnant with me when she was nineteen.”

“She did.”

“Were you…?”

“Together then? Yes, though she broke up with me before she discovered she was pregnant. She was furious with me at the time - and had every right to be - so she never told me. But we met again last year at Sinclair’s wedding. Imagine my surprise when she told me we had a son.”

Lionel spoke as if he were telling an amusing anecdote, but inside he was wracked with nerves. Cole, meanwhile, was gaping at him as if he’d just grown another head.

“You’re — you’re my dad?”

Lionel nodded. “Yes, I am.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god… erm, excuse me a minute.”

Cole stood up and practically ran out of the room. Lionel watched him with amusement. All this time, you’d been worried he would run away when confronted with Cole — and now it was Cole doing the running.

You almost dropped the plate you were holding when Cole slammed the kitchen door shut.

“Jesus, Cole, what if I’d been holding a knife?”

“Lionel Shabandar just told me he’s my dad!” Cole said accusingly.

You put the plate down and turned to him, trying to appear calm.

“Did he now?”

“Yes, he did now! How could you keep this from me?!”

“What, do you think because of who he is I should have told you?”

“Yes!”

“What difference does it make? I told you the truth, that your dad was my first boyfriend, he was an arsehole and we were both stupid kids and I didn’t want to talk about him. You said you were okay with that.”

“You also said you’d never see him again!”

“I didn’t think I would! I didn’t think I’d see him again. I mean, he’s…” You gestured vaguely in the direction of the living room. “He’s him. He lives in this entirely different world. I didn’t think I’d see him again.”

“And now you’re dating him.”

“Yes, we met again. And he’s still an arsehole. And I’m still stupid, because I’m still in love with him.”

“But, Mum, he’s the richest man in the whole country! And you haven’t even been claiming child support!”

You frowned and pointed at him firmly. “Do not make this about money, Cole. We don’t need his money. We’re fine, aren’t we?”

The door opened. Cole turned, and Lionel looked between the two of you calmly.

“If I owe child support, I’ll happily write a cheque.”

You scoffed. “Lionel, I have told you, I do not want your money.”

“All those times you said we couldn’t afford stuff…” Cole muttered.

“Like what? Holidays? Stupid branded clothing? Cole, I have never denied you anything you needed. You have a roof over your head, food on the table, and more pocket money than I ever got. I’m sorry I haven’t given you your every whim, but we don’t get everything we want. That’s life. Even Lionel doesn’t get everything he wants, right, Lionel?”

“That’s true. I can buy almost everything I want, but the one thing I wanted above all else eluded me for eighteen years… until this year.”

You smiled.

“Haystacks Dawn by Monet.”

You threw a tea towel at him.

“I still can’t believe you spent 11 million on that.”

“Like you said, chérie, it’s our painting. And five and a half of that went to the Terrence Higgins Trust, which I would have donated anyway, so really it was a mere five and a half million.”

“I read about that,” Cole said curiously. “You gave THT like 20 million in one night.”

“Precisely 20 million, in fact.”

“Did — did you know then? About me?”

Lionel looked at him curiously. “No, I didn’t. Forgive me, I’m an ignorant arsehole — is the Trust’s work in some way connected to your… well, to you?”

Cole rocked on his feet and glanced at you nervously.

“Cole has a lot of gay friends,” you explained. “Birds of a feather. We’ve known some lovely boys, and some grown men, who either have HIV or know someone who has it.”

“Right, of course,” Lionel said with a solemn nod. “No, Cole, I didn’t know until today. [Y/n] only ever told me you were her - our - son, never that you were… that you’d ever been anything else. Sorry, I don’t know if I’m using the right words here.”

“It’s okay, I know what you mean,” Cole said in a quiet voice.

“Do you want to know what Lionel said when he realised you were born a girl named Claire?”

Cole looked up at you and nodded, curious.

“He said, ‘I can’t believe you named my child after my cousin.’”

Lionel laughed.

”And I stand by that. Sinclair is never going to let me live that down when he finds out — if he finds out,” he added. “Of course, it’s up to you if you ever want him to know, Cole.”

“Mum, you should have told me I was named after this Sinclair guy, I would have taken that name instead.”

“I thought about mentioning it when you told me, but you’d already chosen your name. I didn’t want you to think I was asking you to change it.”

“Believe me, you’re better off this way,” Lionel said. “If I had a son called Sinclair, I’d never hear the end of it.”

You laughed. “Cole, you’re gonna love Sinclair. Sometimes I think you’re more like him than you are Lionel.”

“If I didn’t know you and Sinclair better, that would be a very suspicious statement,” Lionel said. “But you’re right. Christmas is going to be absolute chaos.”

“Christmas?” Cole asked with a frown.

“Sinclair’s invited us all over for Christmas Day,” you explained. “He has this big fancy house out in Windsor —”

“I have a bigger, fancier house, but Sinclair insists we go to his,” Lionel interrupted.

“Yes, well, Sinclair bought his big, fancy house. Yours got handed to you by your mother. Anyway — Sinclair’s invited all three of us over, so it’d be the four of us, Lionel’s mum, Sinclair’s mum and step-dad, maybe his dad too. His wife will also be there, but we both hate her, so we’ll do our best to ignore her.”

“Oh, Mum hates her too,” Lionel told you. “I don’t think Helen thinks much of her either, but you know she’ll never let anyone think she disapproves of Sinclair’s choices.”

“Anyway, it’s a lot of people, it’ll be nothing like our usual Christmases. But everyone’s really lovely. Except Sinclair’s wife. But Sinclair and Lionel’s mums are absolutely wonderful, they never cared that I wasn’t rich, they just cared that I made Lionel happy.”

“I know money doesn’t matter but… rich people Christmas must be really cool.”

Lionel laughed. “You don’t know the half of it, Cole. You’ve got a lot to look forward to.”

You arrived at Sinclair’s house on Christmas Eve in Lionel’s Range Rover, bags and presents in the boot, and for once Lionel was driving, as you refused to allow him to ask Jerry to work over Christmas.

You started to regret that when Lionel almost swerved over an icy patch for the third time.

“Lionel! I would like to arrive there in one piece, please!” you snapped.

“You can see now why I don’t drive,” he grumbled in response.

Cole audibly gasped as you pulled up on Sinclair’s driveway. The house looked beautiful covered in a thin layer of snow, as if you’d driven straight into a picturesque Christmas card. Treadmarks on the driveway showed that cars had already come and gone, and sure enough, there were already three cars on the driveway.

Lionel parked up, and you sighed with relief that you’d managed to get there without him killing the three of you.

“You don’t need to act like you just got off a rollercoaster,” Lionel said.

“Rollercoasters are fun. That was not. I’m driving us home.”

“You are not,” Lionel protested as you each climbed out of the car. He slammed his door shut and said, “You’re not on my insurance, so if you damage it, I have to pay out of pocket for repairs.”

“Oh, like that would really put a dent in your wallet.”

Lionel followed you to the boot of the car, still arguing indignantly.

“It’s the principle, [Y/n]! I don’t stay rich by paying extortionate fees for car repairs.”

“Isn’t it illegal to drive without insurance?” Cole said as you handed him a bag full of presents to carry.

Lionel pointed at him triumphantly.

“Oh, don’t start siding with him, Cole,” you groaned. “I need some backup here.”

“And backup has arrived!” announced a cheery voice just as you pushed the boot closed. “Whatever you’re talking about, I agree with [Y/n].”

“Thank you, Sinclair,” you said. “And hello.”

“Hi!”

He pulled you into a hug, and although he was only wearing a jumper against the cold, he was still warm. You gladly hugged him back, and when he turned to hug his cousin, Lionel rolled his eyes and let him do it.

“Now the whole gang’s here!” Sinclair said as he let Lionel go. He turned his attention to Cole and stuck his hand out with a grin. “Hello. You must be Cole. I’m Sinclair, I’m your uncle!”

“First cousin once removed,” Lionel corrected him.

“Uncle’s much easier to say!” Sinclair insisted.

“Hi, nice to meet you,” Cole said, shaking Sinclair’s hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“And I’ve heard a lot about you, but not nearly as much as I’d like to, so get ready to be bombarded with questions, I’m very nosy.”

Cole laughed. “That’s okay, Mum says I’m nosy too.”

“You two are gonna get on like a house on fire,” you said, “and speaking of houses and warmth, let’s get inside before my toes fall off.”

“Yes! Here, let me get your bags, [Y/n]!”

Sinclair picked up your suitcase and carried it as if it weighed nothing as he led you all inside, wherein you were immediately assaulted by Christmas.

There were decorations everywhere. A stereo somewhere was playing Christmas music, and you could even smell hot mince pies.

“Mei-Li, would you take the suitcases upstairs, please?” Sinclair said to the housekeeper. “Cole, do you want to put the presents under the tree?”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Where is it?”

“Just through here!”

Sinclair led you all into the main living room, where a huge tree covered in decorations took up a corner all to itself. The fireplace was crackling, and the source of the Christmas music turned out to be the TV, which was showing a programme of a choir singing Christmas carols.

“Let Lionel introduce him to everyone first,” you whispered to Sinclair, “then he can put the presents away.”

Sinclair nodded. “Everybody, Lionel and [Y/n] are here! And they have someone to introduce to you all!”

He jumped into the armchair he must have been in when you arrived and looked at Lionel expectantly. Cole cringed at the attention, but he waved nervously. You elbowed Lionel, who cleared his throat and put his hand on Cole’s shoulder.

“Yes. Everyone… this is our son, Cole. Cole, this is everyone. You’ve already met the bouncing ball of chaos that’s my cousin, Sinclair.”

Sinclair waved from his armchair. “Hello!”

“This is my mother, Georgina” - Lionel gestured to Georgina, who was sitting near the fire in her wheelchair, a blanket draped over her legs - “and her sister Helen, Sinclair’s mother. Helen’s husband, Mark - Sinclair’s father, Frank - and Sinclair’s wife, Natasha.”

“Natalie.”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

“You said — oh, never mind,” Natalie sighed.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing, because you knew Lionel had absolutely got her name wrong on purpose.

“Can we put the presents away now?” Sinclair asked, bouncing in his chair.

“Yes, go on,” you said, and Sinclair practically leapt out of his chair to show Cole his very important system of which presents go where.

“Drinks?” Helen suggested, realising that with Sinclair distracted by presents and Natalie unlikely to offer Lionel a drink, it fell to her to make the offer.

“Please, and strong,” Lionel said. “[Y/n]?”

“Yes, also strong, please. I need something to take the edge off after Lionel’s driving.”

Georgina gasped. “Lionel, you drove? You shouldn’t be putting your son in danger like that, at least not before I’ve had a chance to meet him.”

“Oh, shut up, Mum, or I’ll move you into a public care home,” Lionel responded as the two of you sat down on the sofa Helen had just been occupying.

“Can Cole drink?” Helen asked just as she reached the doorway.

“Since it’s Christmas, yes, but don’t make it too strong,” you replied.

“[Y/n], he’s seventeen,” Lionel said disapprovingly.

“Oh, like that ever stopped you and Sinclair,” Georgina said dismissively. “Did you think we didn’t notice you stealing from our liquor cabinet when you thought we weren’t looking? Let the boy have a drink!”

Cole wasn’t even paying attention. He was taking present arrangement just as seriously as Sinclair.

“Did Sinclair not invite your parents, [Y/n]?” Georgina asked. “I remember they were a right laugh.”

“Oh, my mum died a few years ago, and my dad remarried about ten years ago, his wife has kids of her own so he’s with them.”

Sinclair gasped and looked up at you, his eyes wide.

“[Y/n], you have siblings now?!”

“They are not my siblings,” you scoffed. “She’s a cow, and they’re not much better. They’re just my dad’s wife’s kids. Believe me, Sinclair, you’re Cole’s uncle before any of them are.”

“Ha! See, Lionel, [Y/n] says I’m his uncle!” Sinclair grinned proudly.

“I vote for Sinclair being my uncle,” Cole added. “I like him much better than that lot.”

If Sinclair could have exploded in excitement at that moment, he probably would have.

“See! Outvoted, Li!”

Lionel sighed. “Fine. You’re his uncle.”

“Yes!” Sinclair fist-pumped the air victoriously. “Right, Cole, let’s get these presents sorted, uncle-nephew style!”

They high-fived each other and turned to the last bag of presents. Lionel put his head in his hand and groaned.

“Oh my god, there’s two of them. [Y/n], you made another Sinclair. We do not need another Sinclair.”

You threw your hands up in mock surrender.

“Hey, you made him too.”

“And you raised him.”

“Let’s not get into a nature versus nurture debate.”

“I’m going to need someone to catch me up,” Frank piped up. “I know I don’t come here every year, but I definitely don’t remember Lionel having a son before.”

“Tactless as ever, Frank,” Helen sighed as she arrived with a tray of drinks. As she was handing them out, Sinclair decreed the presents perfect, and he sat himself down next to you.

“Lionel and I broke up when I was in the very early stages of pregnancy,” you explained to Sinclair’s dad. “I never told him until Sinclair’s wedding last year.”

“Ah, so that’s what you were arguing about. I saw you through the window. I asked Georgina and she told me to keep my hairy nose out of it.”

Georgina barked a laugh.

“I did, didn’t I? I’m hilarious.”

“What I never understood was why you turned down that proposal in the first place,” Frank said. “I remember it well, it was very romantic — until you said no and left.”

Cole, who’d taken Sinclair’s previous seat in the armchair, gaped at you.

“Proposal?!”

“Oh my god,” you groaned, leaning forward to place your head in your hands.

“Oops, sorry, was that a secret?” Frank said with alarm. “Sorry. Sinclair gets his tactlessness from me, you see.”

“No, not a secret, just… I have a lot to catch them both up on. Um, but the reason I turned him down, that is a secret. Suffice to say I was angry at him.”

“And had every right to be,” Lionel added, rubbing your back affectionately. “But let’s not talk about my personal life anymore, please.”

“Yes, somebody ask him about his business life,” you said. “He’s very rich and important, you know.”

“Oh, I have a funny story about a client from last week!” Sinclair exclaimed. “So my PA scheduled me a meeting with a new client and at first I thought it was a practical joke because his name was S. Claus. Then he shows up with, I kid you not, a great big bushy white beard! And that’s not all…”

As Sinclair continued his story about his new client who may or may not be Father Christmas, you sat back into the sofa cushion, Lionel’s arm around your shoulder, a drink in one hand and the other on his knee. You glanced up at him and he smiled softly down at you.

Lionel kissed your temple gently, then murmured in your ear, “This was a practical joke actually, but it was me. Don’t tell him.”

You suppressed a snigger, and instead sat back to watch Sinclair tell his story, wondering if this was what you’d been missing out on all along.

One by one throughout the evening, the small crowd in the living room got thinner. First Frank went to bed, then Helen and Mark, then Cole. Lionel excused himself to help Georgina up the stairs, leaving you alone with Sinclair and Natalie.

“Okay, now that Cole’s gone to bed, we can bring out the Father Christmas presents!” Sinclair said in a secretive voice.

“Clair, he’s seventeen,” you laughed. “We haven’t done Father Christmas presents in years.”

Sinclair frowned, affronted. “Well, Father Christmas has definitely brought him some presents this year, because they’re all wrapped up in the garage.”

“Sinclair, you didn’t!”

“No, I told you, Father Christmas brought them,” Sinclair insisted. “He dropped them off last week. I’ll go get them!”

He jumped out of his seat and scurried off towards the garage. You sighed and shook your head with amusement. Natalie stood to begin clearing up the empty glasses and plates lying about, and you decided to play nice and help her.

“Sorry about him, Sinclair can be a total child sometimes,” Natalie said.

“Natalie, never apologise for Sinclair being Sinclair, otherwise you’ll spend the rest of your married life doing it. Besides, there’s nothing to apologise for. He is who he is and that’s what we all love about him. I mean, that’s why you married him, isn’t it?”

Natalie hummed noncommittally.

“I didn’t know you two were so close,” she said casually. “I knew Lionel had one serious relationship when he was young, but Sinclair didn’t mention that he was close to you too.”

“Oh, yeah, we were thick as thieves!” you said cheerfully, trying to hide your confusion as to what she was getting at, while you followed her into the kitchen to put the empty glasses on the side. “Those two are so close, you know, you kind of have to be close to one to be with the other. They come as a pair, don’t they?”

“Hmm, I don’t know, I wouldn’t say Lionel and I are very close. I don’t think he likes me that much, actually.”

“I wonder why that could be,” you muttered.

Natalie frowned and folded her arms. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, just… Lionel’s not as forgiving as Sinclair. And after what happened in the summer, you’re lucky all Lionel does is give you the cold shoulder.”

Natalie’s eyes widened. “You know about that?!” she whispered in alarm.

“Oh, honey, this is Sinclair we’re talking about. You must know he tells everyone everything. I once had to call timeout when he started describing the shape of his poo after being constipated for a week. So, yeah, he told me what happened during the summer.”

Natalie’s eyes darted around, and she ran a hand through her hair anxiously.

“Ohmygod… I didn’t think anyone knew… do you mean everyone knows?”

“No, not everyone. You’re still alive, so Helen and Georgina must not know. And I can assure you Cole doesn’t know. But Lionel and I do.”

“What do you and Lionel know?” Sinclair asked cheerily as he entered from the living room as if — well, as if he were Father Christmas and he’d just delivered a bunch of presents. He gasped. “Is it that Father Christmas isn’t real?”

Natalie whipped her head around to stare angrily at her husband.

“No, [Y/n] just told me that she knows about last summer!”

Sinclair’s eyes widened and his mouth formed a small “O” shape.

“Ohh, yeah… yeah, I told her and Lionel. But no one else, Nats, I promise. I needed to talk to someone.”

“Right, sure!” Natalie exclaimed. “So you decided to tell a man you know hates me, who also happens to own God knows how many magazines he can publish it all in!”

Sinclair frowned. “Lionel would never do that. He’d never air my dirty laundry to the world!”

“And you told her, this…” Natalie gestured at you vaguely. “This random person you knew twenty years ago!”

Sinclair crossed the kitchen to stand by your side and put his hand on your shoulder protectively.

“[Y/n] is not random, she’s one of my best friends!”

“Best —? Sinclair, you never talked about her until she just showed up one day!”

“Hang on, when I ‘showed up,’ you’d only been together for, what, nine months?” you said indignantly. “I’ve known Sinclair longer than you have, Natalie, and clearly I know him better.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you can’t know him better than me, I’m his wife.”

“Oh, well, that explains it. You must know him so well that you know he’d forgive you no matter how much you hurt him, because he is that good and that kind. So you knew that sure, you can cheat on him, because sweet, kind Sinclair will forgive anything.”

“[Y/n] —” Sinclair began, but you cut him off.

“No, Sinclair, I’m tired of dancing around it. She does not deserve your forgiveness. She doesn’t deserve you. You are good, and you are kind, and you are wonderful. It would make me physically sick to do anything I knew would hurt you — someone would have to be truly cruel to hurt you like she did.”

Natalie stared at you.

“Are you… in love with my husband?”

You burst out laughing then. You laughed so hard that you had to catch yourself on the kitchen counter. The door opened and Lionel entered, frowning, looking between the three of you.

“What the fuck is going on in here? People are trying to sleep.”

“Oh my god, Lionel, Natalie just said the funniest thing!” you said as you tried to catch your breath. “She said — oh, man. So I just told Sinclair that Natalie’s a piece of shit for cheating on him, right?”

Lionel nodded. “Right, of course, we all know that.”

“And she said — oh God, my ribs actually hurt — she asked me if I’m in love with him!”

Lionel roared with laughter, joining you in holding onto the counter as he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re right, that’s hilarious! You, in love with Sinclair?”

Natalie groaned in frustration and pursed her lips.

“It’s not funny!”

She looked at Sinclair for backup, but he was leaning against the wall, quiet for once in his life as he tried to hold back a laugh of his own.

“Sinclair!” Natalie said imploringly.

“I mean… it is kind of funny,” Sinclair admitted.

“I’d say Sinclair and I being a thing is impossible because he’s like a brother to me, but we all know that doesn’t stop you,” you said, and Lionel laughed harder.

“[Y/n], stop, I think I’m going to break a rib,” he said between tears of laughter.

“Okay, that’s not funny,” Sinclair said.

“It’s pretty funny,” you replied, wiping tears from your eyes. “Oh, but Clair, don’t you see? I just called her out for cheating on you, and what does she do? She turns it into an accusation against me. A wild, unfounded accusation so bizarre that Lionel Shabandar is literally crying with laughter.”

“Oh, [Y/n], you should have told me it was Sinclair you were in love with,” Lionel said with amusement. “That would have saved me a lot of trouble.”

“Sorry, I should have been clearer. Yeah, I was only dating you to get close to Sinclair, actually. Nothing wins a man’s heart like dating his cousin, right?”

“Alright, fine, so you’re not in love with Sinclair!” Natalie grumbled. “Excuse me for trying to understand why the hell you’re so protective of him.”

“Jesus, Natalie, you really don’t get it, do you? Sinclair is like a brother to me. Normal people don’t want to fuck their brothers, in fact they’re quite repulsed by the idea! In case you didn’t realise, fucking your brother is all kinds of weird — even if it’s someone you just think of as your brother, let alone is your brother!”

“Well, excuse me, but I don’t think you’re one to talk about ‘all kinds of weird’!” Natalie shouted. “Not when you’re parading that kid of yours in here calling her your son, when everyone can see she’s a girl!”

The echoes of laughter that had been slowly subsiding from you and Lionel suddenly stopped, and the kitchen was deathly silent.

“…What did you just say?” you said in a low voice.

Natalie scoffed and smirked at you proudly, as if she’d figured out some kind of dirty secret.

“That’s right, everyone can tell. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with that kid’s head, but that’s quite plainly a girl with short hair.”

Your reaction was fast, but Sinclair was faster. He grabbed your arms and held you back before you could pounce on her, and the only reason he didn’t grab Lionel was because he knew his cousin wasn’t one to resort to violence — he had a much more measured, terrifying anger.

You, however, had had no etiquette training. You weren’t a proud lion — you were a fierce fucking lioness, and you weren’t afraid to get in a fight when someone insulted your child.

“Let go of me, Sinclair!” you insisted.

“Are you gonna hit her?”

“No, I’m just gonna scratch her fucking eyes out!”

“Then no, I will not let go of you.”

“Don’t you fucking defend her!”

“I am not defending her, [Y/n], I’m stopping you from committing common bloody assault in my kitchen!”

“Then I’ll do it outside!”

“Lionel!” Sinclair begged.

“I’ve got her.”

Lionel’s arms wrapped around you and he held you tight, his grip far too strong for you to wriggle out of, no matter how much you squirmed.

All you saw was red, and the bitch you wanted to kill just smiled smugly.

Sinclair took a steadying breath and turned to his wife.

“Natalie, I think you need to leave.”

Natalie blinked in surprise.

“…What?”

“You heard me. You need to leave.”

“I need to leave? She’s the one trying to attack me! In my own kitchen!”

Sinclair shook his head stubbornly. “No, Natalie, this is my kitchen. This is my house. I need you to leave.”

“But sweetheart, it’s Christmas Eve! It’s 1 o’clock in the morning!”

“Call Jerry and tell him I’ll pay him triple — no, quadruple,” Lionel said. You’d stopped squirming now, but Lionel still had his arms around you in what had turned from a restraint to a soothing embrace.

Sinclair nodded and moved over to the phone. He started flipping through the phone book as calmly as if nothing had happened.

You may have stopped squirming, but you were still breathing heavily, and you were staring at Natalie as if you hoped you could burn a hole right into her ignorant little head.

“Come on, [Y/n], let’s step away for a moment,” Lionel said to you softly.

You nodded, and you let him escort you into the hallway. As soon as the door closed behind you, you collapsed into his arms, tears streaming down your face.

“Lionel, I’m so sorry —”

“Shh, darling, don’t apologise,” Lionel said soothingly, one arm around your torso while the other stroked your hair as you sobbed into his shirt. “I’d quite like to kill her too, but I’m more of a fan of the subtle approach. Poison in her coffee, that sort of thing. You know, a classy murder.”

“God, I hope Cole’s asleep,” you sniffled. “He’ll be so embarrassed if he heard that.”

“What, heard his fierce lioness of a mother protecting her cub? He should be proud. I, for one, found it quite arousing. If we weren’t in a house full of my relatives, I’d be fucking you against this wall right now.”

“Lionel, stop,” you laughed through your tears. “You really don’t know when it’s appropriate to flirt, do you?”

He chuckled and kissed the top of your head.

“If you don’t want me to flirt, you shouldn’t be so bloody attractive all the time. Come on, let’s get up to bed. You need to wash your face and calm down, and I think we should probably give Sinclair and Natalie some space, don’t you? If anything comes of what just happened, hopefully that was the last straw Sinclair needed to see the light.”

You stepped back from him and wiped your face on your sleeve.

“Do you think that’s what he meant by leave?” you asked in a whisper as you ascended the stairs, hand in Lionel’s hand as if to let go of him at this point would be the end of everything.

“I hope so. Sinclair will forgive someone who hurts him a million times over, but someone who hurts you, me and Cole in one fell swoop? That’s an entirely different matter.”

He led you into what you assumed was his usual guest room, as the bedsheets had a bold animal print that only Lionel would find classy. Your suitcases were waiting for you at the foot of the bed, and you unzipped yours to pull out your toiletries bag.

You went into the bathroom to get ready for bed. Your face was still red and soaked with tears, so you washed your face first. Your heart was still pounding, and it was taking every ounce of effort you had not to go back downstairs and punch Natalie in the face.

The nerve on her, to act as if your son’s identity was anything on par with what she’d done last summer! Leaving aside the fact that it was her brother — she’d chosen to betray Sinclair, repeatedly, and faced no consequences for it. She didn’t even seem to feel guilty, just embarrassed.

There were a lot of things you didn’t understand about Cole. He’d told you he was a boy when he was 13, so you’d had a few years by now to read some magazines and books, and he did his best to explain to you something he was still coming to understand himself. But one thing you did understand was that he wasn’t choosing to be a boy, he just was — the only choice to be made was whether to act on it or not.

You could understand that Natalie couldn’t help being attracted to someone else. But what you couldn’t understand was choosing to act on it, knowing the damage it would do to Sinclair. How could she claim to love him, then do something she knew would hurt him, just for a few minutes of pleasure?

Once you’d finished brushing your teeth, you put your toothbrush in the pot, then almost jumped out of your skin when you looked up and saw Lionel standing at the door, leaning against the doorframe, watching you with a smile on his face. He was also butt naked.

He chuckled at your reaction, but you looked away, because your thoughts about Natalie had brought you right back to him.

He’d claimed to love you, but he’d done exactly the same thing as Natalie, for longer, and with multiple girls. It was so long ago, and you knew he wasn’t the same man, but… how could you judge Sinclair for staying with Natalie when you were here giving Lionel another chance?

Lionel frowned when you looked away, as if it was him you were angry at. He approached you and put a hand on your shoulder, but you flinched.

“…Are you upset with me, love?” he asked softly.

“How many girls did you cheat on me with?”

Lionel pulled his hand back as if burnt.

“Does it matter?”

“Were you sober, or was it only when you were coked up?”

“[Y/n]…”

You turned to him, scowling.

“Sinclair reckons you did it while he was at cricket, like it was scheduled. What, did you have a little black book of girls to summon as soon as he closed the door?”

Lionel scoffed and threw a hand up in frustration.

“Now, really? You want to do this now?”

“Oh, now you’re getting annoyed. Not when Natalie was insulting our son, no, now you’re annoyed —”

Lionel placed his hands on your shoulders firmly. “[Y/n], I have not come as far as I have in life by letting my emotions get the best of me. You don’t think I’m furious? You think I don’t want to rip the hair right out of her empty little head? Of course I’m angry. But letting her see that would just make her think she’s won. Believe me, love, I’m going to fucking destroy her. If I have to hold Sinclair’s hand to force him to sign the divorce paperwork, I will.”

“So Sinclair should divorce her but I should forgive you? How does that work, exactly?”

Lionel sighed and pinched his nose.

“[Y/n], I made it quite clear that I don’t expect you to forgive me — although I’d hope I’ve at least earnt some semblance of trust by now. If you really want to know the sordid details, of course I’ll tell you everything, but it is almost 2 o’clock in the morning, it’s Christmas Day, and I am fucking exhausted. So are you. You’re pissed at Natalie, rightly so, but turning your anger on me isn’t going to do anything. So please, can we just go to sleep and discuss this another time? It’s our first Christmas with our son, chérie. Do you want it to be tinged with anger for sins older than him?”

“…Alright, fine,” you sighed, knowing he was right, but the anger that you’d thought had dissipated over the last few months was still there, gnawing away at you. “But put your pants back on, I don’t fancy having your wandering frank and beans flapping about while I’m trying to sleep.”

You pushed past him back into the bedroom, and as you put your pyjamas on with probably more force than was necessary, you heard the sound of water running as Lionel took his turn in the bathroom. You climbed into the bed, facing away from Lionel’s side.

Stupid Lionel and his stupid dick-controlled brain. If he’d been able to keep it in his pants, you would have accepted his proposal all those years ago. You’d be together, married, and Cole would have grown up with everything he wanted. Maybe you could have set an example for Sinclair of what real love looks like, and he wouldn’t have married Natalie just because she seemed good enough.

Great, now you were angry at yourself too, because you’d thought you were past this. You’d spent so many nights already laying awake, wondering what could have been if Lionel wasn’t so stupid. Those nights had fizzled away when you started seeing him again, but now here you were, angry at him all over again. At least this time, the balls you’d fantasised about kicking were within your reach.

You heard Lionel come back into the room, but you kept your eyes closed and your back turned. You heard some fabric shuffling as he put his boxers on just as you’d told him to, and when he turned the lamp off and climbed into bed, he turned to face you, but he kept to his side of the bed, as if there were an invisible wall dividing you.

Your back was cold. You hated sleeping alone now. Sleeping next to him without his touch was, it transpired, even worse.

With as much grumpiness as you could convey, you reached behind you to grab Lionel’s hand and put it on your waist. You dropped it like it was nothing but a warm blanket, no affection at all, but Lionel still chuckled as he shuffled closer to you.

“Are you cold, love?”

“Hmph,” you replied, which Lionel took to mean I desperately crave your touch and affection, but I’m annoyed so I have to pretend not to.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll keep you warm.”

He pulled you closer to him so that your back was pressed against his chest, and you could feel the fabric of his boxers against your bum.

“I love you, chérie,” Lionel said teasingly.

“Whatever. Love you too. Dickhead.”

Lionel smiled as he closed his eyes to sleep, secure in the knowledge that, though you may be upset, you couldn’t deny that you were very much in love with him.

In the morning, Sinclair whispered to you and Lionel that Natalie had gone to her brother’s house, then told the family at large that she had had to leave in the middle of the night for a family emergency.

You were so relieved that Natalie had left, and so happy to see Cole enjoying himself, that you temporarily forgot you were angry at Lionel again — especially when, after breakfast, Sinclair disappeared upstairs and reappeared for presents dressed as Father Christmas.

You burst into laughter and Lionel buried his face in his hands when Sinclair burst in, fake beard and all, with a practised “ho ho ho!”

“I can’t believe I’m related to him,” Lionel groaned as Sinclair Claus declared that he was going to hand out presents to everyone personally.

Cole looked at Lionel and gasped.

“What?! You never told me you were related to Father Christmas!”

“No!” Lionel said firmly, pointing at Cole. “No, you will not play along with this!”

“Ho ho ho!” Sinclair Claus laughed, hands on his belly. “Why, young man, didn’t you know? I’m your Uncle Claus! And I have some presents for you, my boy!”

“Some” was putting it likely. Sinclair Claus had brought ten presents for Cole, in addition to the presents everyone had got him personally, and you made a mental note to both slap and thank Sinclair later.

Most of the presents exchanged between the adults were alcohol of some sort, but there were some more personal gifts too, and you almost burst into tears when you opened your gift from Sinclair.

A few weeks earlier, after having lunch together, Sinclair had walked you back to your shop and bought a frame while he was there. He’d been very keen to buy a frame that you liked, and you’d thought nothing of it.

Now you were holding the very frame you’d sold him. Inside was a photograph of three young, idealistic, hopeful kids.

You were in the middle, laughing at some long-forgotten joke, your arms slung around the shoulders of the boys either side of you. To your right was Sinclair, grinning and throwing up a peace sign. And to your left, Lionel — unlike all the photos you’d seen of him in his magazines, where he posed with anything ranging from a sneer to a proud smirk, he was grinning too. But while you and Sinclair were looking at the camera, Lionel’s head was turned to the side, his eyes fixed on you. And somehow, in that one singular snapshot of time from so long ago, you could see the truth clearly: Lionel had loved you since the very beginning.

“Clair…”

You didn’t notice the way Cole flinched. Your hand flew to your mouth as you tried to hold back a sob.

“Oh my god, Clair, this is amazing! I don’t even remember this picture being taken…”

Sinclair grinned. He’d long taken off the beard by now, claiming it was too itchy.

“I found it in a photo album when I moved house. There are loads of pictures in there from around that time, but this was the best one. It reminded me of how much fun we had that summer. Don’t you think?”

You nodded and wiped your eyes. You handed the photo to Lionel, who was peering over your shoulder curiously, then stood up and threw your arms around Sinclair.

“Oh, Clair, this is the best present ever! Thank you!”

He laughed and gladly hugged you back, though he had to protest when you hugged him a little too tightly and began to cut off his airflow. With an apologetic laugh, you let him go and sat back down next to Lionel, who was still looking at the photo with a nostalgic smile.

“I remember this being taken,” he said as he handed the photo back to you. “It was at our going away party before university. Sinclair was taking photos of everything and everyone, as if he expected to forget what everyone looked like. He asked one of his mates to take one of the three of us.”

“Can you remember what I’m laughing at?”

“No idea. But I do remember that it was a really sunny day, and you looked beautiful in the sunlight.”

You smiled bashfully, conscious that everyone was watching. Sinclair seemed to sense that you wanted the attention off you — or maybe he just wanted it back on him again — because he announced it was time for another present and fished out another present, this time for himself from Helen and Mark.

You kept the photo in your hand, and it was only when there was only one present left that you looked up.

“Hey, wait, we haven’t had any presents for [Y/n] from Lionel!” Sinclair frowned. “Li, you didn’t forget, did you?”

“I’ll give her hers later,” Lionel said. “It’s personal. Who gets the final present?”

Sinclair beamed at Cole with a twinkle in his eye as he handed him the last present.

“I wanted to save this one until last! From me to you. To make up for sixteen missed Christmases.”

It was only a small box, small enough to fit in Cole’s hand. He opened it curiously, all of you wondering what could be so small and yet satisfy Sinclair to be worth seventeen Christmases.

The wrapping fell away to reveal a sleek black box. Cole lifted the lid and his jaw dropped. He picked up the item inside to examine… a car key.

“Oh, how kind of you to buy my son a car key!” you said very loudly. “Just a car key. Only a car key. Right?”

Sinclair just looked at you, his lips pressed shut tightly, and you sighed.

“Don’t tell me you bought him a car.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

Lionel rubbed his temple. “Sinclair…”

Cole looked up at Sinclair, his eyes wide. “Did you seriously buy me a car?”

Sinclair grinned and jumped to his feet.

“Yes, it’s in the garage! Wanna come and see?”

Cole also sprung to his feet and the two of them practically ran out of the room.

“Fucking hell,” Lionel groaned. “I am going to kill him! He bought my son a car! And what did I get him? Some bloody pens and paper.”

“Some very expensive pens and paper he’s been asking me for for years,” you reassured Lionel, placing a hand on his knee. “I would never have been able to get them for him, but thanks to you he has something he’s wanted for a long time.”

“A bloody car, though, [Y/n]…”

“I know, babe, I’m going to kill him too for buying my son a car without asking me first. But Cole won’t appreciate your present any less. Besides, we live in the middle of London and he doesn’t even know how to drive, he has no use for a car, but he’ll definitely use those pens. Jesus — where are we even gonna put it?! We don’t even have a driveway, I have to battle the neighbours for a parking spot on the street!”

“I have some spare spaces, he can keep it in the garage. I suppose we’d better go and see what it is.”

“Oh, Jesus, if he’s bought him one of his ridiculous-looking vintage cars…”

You let Lionel help you to your feet and followed him through to the garage, where Sinclair was rattling off every fact he had about the BMW model that Cole was currently admiring.

“Mum, look at this, isn’t it cool!”

You saw the grin on your son’s face, and you knew there was no way in hell you’d ever be able to give the car back to Sinclair.

“Yeah, very cool. Where you gonna put it, hm?”

Cole’s eyes widened as he remembered he didn’t have a driveway.

“Oh… right. I couldn’t keep it on the street like you do?”

“You’re gonna park a shiny new BMW on the streets of a council estate? People are gonna think we’re drug dealers!”

“Oh, but Mum, please can I keep it? It’s so cool!”

“You’re paying for it. Tax, MOT, insurance. Driving lessons. And you’re not keeping it at home, I mean it, people will think we’re drug dealers. Lionel has some space in his garage, you can keep it there.”

Cole was practically vibrating now.

“But I can keep it?”

“If you must,” you sighed.

“Thanks, Mum!”

Cole ran over to you and gave you a great big hug. You patted his head and shot Sinclair a dark look that you hoped he understood meant you were to have words later.

Later came in the afternoon, when Sinclair took orders for a round of drinks from the kitchen. Since it was kind of your fault he was now sole host, you offered to help, which also gave you an opportunity to get him alone in the kitchen.

“Thanks for helping, [Y/n], I hope you remembered what everyone asked for because I’ve forgotten half of them already.”

“Helen and Cole wanted white wine, Georgina, Mark and Frank wanted whisky, Lionel wanted red wine. I’ll have red too. I take it you know what you want. Oh, give Cole a spritzer, though, I don’t want him getting drunk.”

Sinclair saluted you. “Yes, ma’am!”

He opened a cupboard and began pulling out the requisite wine glasses.

“Sinclair… I’m really sorry about last night,” you said.

Sinclair hesitated, his back still turned to you. He pulled down three red wine glasses and turned to place them on the kitchen island between you. He looked at them thoughtfully, then looked up at you.

“It’s okay. I’m sorry too. I think we were due a catalyst — I just wish it hadn’t had to involve you.”

“What do you mean?”

Sinclair put his elbows on the counter edge and leaned forward slightly.

“We’ve not been doing well. I’ve been really trying since the summer to move forward with her, but she’s not even trying. I even found us a couples therapist, but she just doesn’t engage. It’s like she wants us to just forget it ever happened, but we can’t just forget about it, we need to talk! I think I’ve known for a while now that it’s not going to last. I wanted to at least try and get through the holidays, but I guess we’d already stretched what was left of us thin enough. Last night was just the final straw.”

Sinclair shook his head, agitated.

“I can’t believe she accused you of being in love with me. After you left the room, she actually asked me if I was sleeping with you, can you believe that?”

You laughed. “Sinclair, I wish I was in love with you. You’d be so much easier to love than Lionel. But alas, I like them grumpy and egotistical, apparently.” You put your hand over his across the counter. “Clair, you’re gonna find someone amazing one day, I know it. But you need to be patient and stop just grabbing the first woman that comes along after a break up. What if you stayed married to Natalie, knowing she’s not the one, and the one came along? I know you, you’d never cheat, and you’d never leave your wife for someone else. You might not like it, but you need to be single for a bit.”

“I… I don’t know how,” Sinclair admitted. “I don’t know how to be alone.”

“None of us do. But fortunately for you, you’re not alone. You have me, you have Lionel, you have every single person in that room. You have four parents in there, and a nephew who’s basically a mini-you. And you have loads of friends.”

“They’re mostly just fair weather friends, they don’t count,” Sinclair shrugged, but he smiled and squeezed your hand. “But you’re right. I really love you guys, do you know that?”

“I do. And we love you too. I know Lionel might not say it, but he does. Cole’s known you for about 24 hours and he already adores you. Especially now that you’ve bought him a car.”

Sinclair bit his lip. “Should I not have done that?”

“I would have appreciated it if you’d asked me first, that’s all. I mean, what if I’d bought him a car too?”

“Well, I remembered you said that he couldn’t drive yet and you couldn’t afford to get him a car, so…”

“The car itself isn’t the problem. I could have got him a cheap starter car for a few hundred. But it’s everything else - the tax, the insurance - not to mention he still needs to learn to drive in the first place. I can’t afford to run two cars. If he wants to keep this one, he’s gonna have to get a part-time job – and no, before you say anything, you’re not paying the upkeep for him. Nor is Lionel. He needs to learn to do things himself, not rely on his dad’s rich family.”

Sinclair’s hands began fidgeting on the table.

“You’re right, I should have asked you. I was just so excited, I didn’t think about it. I do that a lot, jumping into decisions quickly.”

“You mean like when you proposed to a woman you’d known for six months?”

Sinclair grimaced. “Yeah. Like that. Do you want me to take the car back?”

“I might have said yes yesterday, but it’s too bloody late now, isn’t it? We’ll figure it out. We can keep it at Lionel’s while he saves some money up and takes lessons.”

You took a deep breath and recalled the whispered conversation you’d had with Cole a little earlier after coming back from the garage.

“Sinclair, I need to tell you something.”

He looked up at you, wide eyed and curious. He even tilted his head slightly, as if he needed to act anything more like a puppy.

“Do you, um… do you understand why I got so angry at Natalie? What it was that she said?”

Sinclair frowned, thinking. “I know you were arguing because of what she did. She said something about Cole, didn’t she? Something about thinking he was a girl. I think she was just saying stuff to get a rise out of you.”

“No — well, yes, I think she was trying to get a rise out of me. But what she said was, um… it had some truth to it.”

Sinclair just blinked at you.

“Okay. Um… have you noticed anything? About Cole, I mean.”

“Other than that he’s really fun?”

You laughed. “Other than that. Like… his voice. What he looks like.”

Sinclair thought for a moment. “Er, well, I suppose he does sound like a girl. But you do get boys that sound like girls sometimes, and vice versa. As for what he looks like… I suppose he looks like you, if you were a teenage boy.”

“That’s it? You’ve not noticed anything else? Like his baggy clothes, maybe?”

Sinclair shook his head.

“No. Should I?”

You smiled. Either Sinclair was very oblivious, or Cole passed better than you thought he did. Or maybe both.

“See, the thing is, Clair… Cole’s name wasn’t always Cole. He chose it when he was 13. Maybe before that, but that’s when he asked me to start calling him Cole. He — Christ, why is this so hard to explain?”

You stood up straight and ran your fingers through your hair, then gripped the edge of the kitchen island as you gathered your thoughts. Sinclair was quiet for once, waiting for you to speak, knowing that you were trying to tell him something important.

“When Cole was born… he was a she,” you said. “He had, you know, girl parts and I gave him a girl’s name and I thought he was a girl. When he was 11, he got his period, his boobs started to grow, I put him in an all girls school. Then a few years later, he sat me down and he explained to me that he didn’t think that was right, that he… he felt like he was a boy, and he wanted me to buy him boys’ clothes and call him Cole. Does — does that make sense?”

The cogs seemed to be turning in Sinclair’s brain as he listened, and his eyes widened with realisation.

“Oh! Oh, no, I get it now! I’ve heard about people like this, it’s very interesting actually, you get people who are born female and look female and for all intents and purposes are female, but inside - like in their head or their heart or whatever - they feel like they should be male — or the other way round. Like they’re in the wrong body. And they get surgeries and stuff, don’t they? Do you mean Cole’s like that?”

“Yes, that’s exactly it — but he’s not had any surgeries or anything. That’s why he sounds like a girl, ‘cus technically he still is. Teachers, classmates, doctors — they all still think he’s a girl and they call him his birth name. He has some friends outside of school who know, but otherwise it’s just me — well, Lionel knows too, I told him when they met. And now you know. And if Natalie figured it out, I guess everyone else in there did too.”

“Oh, I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about!” Sinclair said quickly. “I’m actually good at keeping secrets, though people seem to think I’m not for some reason. Wait, have I done the paperwork for the car yet?”

Sinclair frowned, thinking.

“No, I don’t think I have. I guess I’ll have to put his legal name in, then?”

“Yeah, and that’s — that’s why I’m telling you. I was going to let him tell you himself when he was ready, but if you’re gonna give him a car then you’re gonna need to know. I checked with him earlier, he’s okay with it. Like I said, he really likes you. He wants you to know, but he wanted me to tell you.”

The door opened then, and Helen stuck her head through.

“Everything okay? We’ve got some very thirsty people in here.”

“Yes, sorry!” Sinclair said, standing up straight. “We got distracted talking, you know what I’m like. Give us a minute!”

He grabbed the whisky and started pouring out three generous glasses. You grabbed the white wine and filled a glass and a half, leaving space for lemonade in Cole’s.

“So what’s his legal name?” Sinclair asked as he put the whisky aside and reached for the red wine.

“Claire.”

Sinclair looked up at you.

“…Yes?”

You laughed.

“No, um… his legal name is Claire.”

Sinclair stared at you. Thankfully he was a few millimetres from putting the wine bottle down, so when it dropped from his grip, it just landed neatly on the counter.

“But… that’s my nickname.”

“Yeah. I… I named him after you.”

“You named your child after me?”

“Yeah, I — oof!”

You were very suddenly winded when Sinclair threw himself at you and wrapped his arms around you in the tightest hug known to man — and he was a tight hugger normally. He rocked you side to side as he squeezed, and as much as you appreciated the hug, you also appreciated breathing.

“Clair — can’t breathe —”

“Sorry!”

He let you go and stood back, tears in his eyes and a great big grin on his face.

“I can’t believe you named your kid after me! [Y/n], that’s — that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me. But why though?”

“Because you’re one of the best people I’ve ever met, Clair. I wanted to remind myself of how kind you were to me, that if I raised a kid half as good as you, I’d be doing the world a favour. And… I thought it’d piss Lionel off if he ever found out — which it did,” you added with a grin. “When I told him the truth, he didn’t care that he was born a girl, he was bothered that he was born Claire.”

“Ha! Oh, I bet he was so annoyed! I’m never gonna let him live this down now, that his kid was named after me. Hahaha! Oh, man — oh, shit, the drinks! We’d better get them out before everyone dies of thirst.”

Sinclair grabbed a tray from a cupboard and loaded it up with the reds and the whiskies, and you took the whites, making a mental note that Cole’s spritzer was in your left hand.

“Don’t mention it in front of your parents,” you said quickly as you readied yourself to push the door open. “I’d rather they just know him as Cole.”

Sinclair nodded, and as you pushed the door open with your hip, a cheer went up inside the living room as you finally arrived with the drinks.

“Oh, come on, you all knew Sinclair would get distracted,” you laughed. You handed Helen the glass from your right hand, and handed the other to Cole.

“I told Sinclair,” you whispered. “He’s very happy I named you after him. He will probably ask you a thousand questions, though.”

Cole smiled, glowing just a little bit more with the knowledge that his new favourite uncle had accepted him.

“Thanks, Mum. For everything.”

You winked at him. “Love you, kiddo.”

He squirmed and rolled his eyes. “Love you too.”

“Love you three!” Sinclair added, bounding up to you to hand you your wine.

“Thanks, Clair. Love you four.”

Sinclair glanced at Cole and they exchanged secretive smiles, as if to say I’m Clair too.

You took your seat next to Lionel, who put his arm around you and kissed you on the cheek.

“Everything alright, love?”

You smiled at him.

“Everything’s great.”

#lionel x reader

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snowblossomreads · 24 days ago

Text

Champagne Problems

Chapter 5. Hello, Nice To Meet You

Lionel/Reader

Summary: After Sinclair discovers his wife has been cheating on him, he turns to the one person he knows that might understand what he's going through, leading to unexpected consequences for you and Lionel.

Word Count: 17.2k

CW: references to past cheating and past drug abuse

All chapters here!

Read on Ao3 or WattPad or below the cut:

1990

Sinclair respected your decision and didn’t call you again — at least, not until the following summer, towards the end of August. You were in the garden, pulling up some weeds, when Cole poked his head out of the back door.

“Hey, Mum, phone for you. Someone called Sinclair Brian?”

You sat up, frowning. “Sinclair Bryant?”

“Yeah, that was probably it.”

Wondering what on earth Sinclair could possibly be phoning you for, you pulled off your gardening gloves and wiped your feet on the mat before stepping back into the house to pick up the phone.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hi! Is that [Y/n]?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Hi [Y/n]! It’s Sinclair. Sinclair Bryant?”

“Yes, I know who you are,” you laughed.

“Okay, great. I hoped you hadn’t forgotten me. Hey, was that Cole that picked up?”

“Um, yeah. Sorry, Sinclair, it’s great to hear from you, but… why are you calling?”

“Right, sorry! Well, I need to talk to you. Something’s happened and you’re the only one I can talk to about it. And you know I always need to talk about everything! Can we meet up?”

“Yeah, of course. Do you want to come over for dinner?”

“Sure, I’d love to! Oh, but – I want to talk to you alone, if that’s okay. Not that I wouldn’t like to meet Cole! Just… this is kinda personal. Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, of course it is. He’s out with his mates most of the time anyway, I’ll make sure he buggars off somewhere. Is Friday at 7 okay?”

“Yeah, Friday’s perfect! What’s your address? I’ll bring some wine.”

You gave Sinclair your address, and when you hung up, you turned to find Cole not so subtly spying on you from the corridor.

“Bloody hell, C. You’re just like your gran sometimes.”

“Soz. Am I being kicked out on Friday?”

“Yeah, and if you could go ahead and never come back, that’d be great.”

“Wasn’t planning on it. Who’s Sinclair Bryant?”

You hesitated.

“He’s… an old friend.”

Cole looked at you suspiciously. “Friend, eh?”

“Oh, shush. It’s really not like that. He was like a brother to me, a very long time ago. Anyway, he’s coming over at 7 on Friday, and it sounds like he wants to talk about something personal, so can you go sniff glue or whatever it is you do with your mates?”

“I have permission to sniff glue! No backsies!” Cole laughed, and he ran back up the stairs before you could respond, cackling all the way, leaving you alone to wonder what on earth was going on with Sinclair.

- - -

Sinclair didn’t tell you what was up right away, and you didn’t press him. He evaded your questions about his life, rambling on about everything but, and it wasn’t until after dinner, when you were both sitting in the garden with the wine he’d brought over, that Sinclair finally revealed the reason he was there.

He told you the whole story – the whole story, including the identity of Natalie’s lover.

“That’s – holy shit. Her brother? Eiw.”

“I knew they had a really intense relationship. And I knew she was cheating on me. But… I couldn’t put two and two together. I even confided in him about it! I asked him if he knew who it was, because I thought if she’d tell anyone, it’d be him. I didn’t think it would be him.”

Sinclair’s fingers were fidgeting with the stem of his now empty wine glass, spinning it in his hands.

“I hope you don’t mind me telling you all this. I didn’t know who else to talk to. I figured if anyone understood how I feel… it’d be you.”

“Oh, Sinclair, of course I don’t mind you telling me,” you said soothingly, placing your hand on his arm in a gesture of comfort. “I’m glad you did. I didn’t think you’d want to see me again after what happened at the wedding.”

Sinclair bit his lip. “About that… what did you mean when you said I could do better?”

“Clair, if I’m honest, everyone I spoke to at that wedding thought the same. But who were any of us to tell you not to do it? But if you must know – you are vibrant, you’re interesting and interested in everything. You are so sweet. And she was… dull. That was it, really. She was so boring, Sinclair, I really don’t know what you saw in her.”

Sinclair looked at you curiously. “Lionel said the same thing. He said she was dull.”

You pulled your hand away from him as if burnt.

“Yeah, well… like I said, everyone thought so.”

Sinclair leant forwards and buried his face in his hands.

“I don’t know what to do, [Y/n],” he whined. “How do I trust her again?”

“Hang on. You mean you’re not divorcing her?”

He looked up at you. “No, of course not. I love her.”

You winced. “Really?”

Sinclair looked at you incredulously, then sat back with a sigh.

“Yes, really! God, you sound like Lionel. Is it so hard to believe that I love my wife? I don’t want to run at the first sign of trouble. I want to work on this, to fix it!”

“Sinclair. You said you came here because I know how you feel. And you know that I’m still hurt by what Lionel did.”

“Well, maybe if you’d tried, you could have forgiven him!”

You stared at him. “I’m sorry, did you come here for comfort, or to tell me I was wrong to dump the guy who cheated on me? Right under your nose, might I remind you.”

Sinclair folded his arms, sulking.

“Maybe if you’d tried, you could have been happy.”

“Yeah, and maybe if he’d tried to think with a different head, there wouldn’t be anything to forgive.” You sighed and rubbed your temple. “Why couldn’t we have fallen in love, Sinclair? Everything would have been so much easier. We’d never cheat on each other.”

Sinclair shifted in his seat. “Has it really been hurting for eighteen years?” he asked quietly.

You thought for a moment.

“Yes and no. I haven’t spent the last eighteen years constantly angry at him. I’ve even had boyfriends. But… it’s really fucking hard to get over it when I see his face all the bloody time.”

“Does Cole look like him, then?”

“What? Oh, no, Cole looks like me. There’s some Lionel in there, sure, but not enough that it’s obvious. You know, not like you and him. No, I mean the fact that he buys up every media outlet he can get his stubby little fingers on, and when he does, he announces it to the world by plastering his face all over it. ‘Now part of Shabandar Media!’ And there’s that ridiculous picture of himself he always uses, you know the one? Where he’s staring at the camera like the cameraman just farted.”

Sinclair let out a boisterous laugh, the one you knew and loved so well.

“That is exactly what he looks like!”

“I bet he thinks he looks so cool and powerful. Anyway, it makes it difficult to get over him when I’m queuing in the shop to buy tampons and I see him staring at me like that from a magazine.”

Sinclair wiped a tear from his eye, and thankfully, it was a tear of laughter.

“Oh my god, [Y/n], you’re so right. See, this is why you were so good for him. You always saw right through his bullshit. Mine, too.”

You shrugged. “Yeah, well, I couldn’t see through him that well. I couldn’t figure out that he was cheating on me all year. I was stupid enough to think that he was calling less because he was busy with coursework. Nope, it was because he felt guilty calling me when he’d just emptied his balls down some other girl’s throat. And do you wanna know what really pissed me off about the whole thing?”

Sinclair nodded, curious.

“It wasn’t like I wasn’t putting out, you know? Every time he came home to visit, we were going at it. Like, a lot.”

“Yeah, you weren’t exactly subtle about that.”

You suppressed a snigger. “Oh, god, sorry. I didn’t mean to traumatise you. Anyway, maybe that’s why I didn’t think he could be cheating, because he’d be shagging me as if he hadn’t even wanked in months, let alone had sex. So I don’t know what else I could have done. That was what kept me up at night after I found out. I kept thinking, what did I do wrong? Why did he cheat on me? But I just kept coming up blank. I like to think I can admit when there’s blame to be left at my door, but apart from following him to Cambridge, I don’t know what else I could have done.”

Sinclair stared at you, eyes wide, as if he was having some sort of epiphany.

“[Y/n]... you’re right. That’s exactly it. I knew there was something bugging me. I don’t know what I did wrong! She never said she was unhappy. And we – you know, we were having sex. I don’t claim to be a perfect husband, but she never gave me any sign things were so bad that she’d be tempted to stray.”

“Maybe they weren’t. Maybe you didn’t do anything wrong. Maybe… maybe some people are just cheaters.”

“No, I don’t believe that,” Sinclair said stubbornly, shaking his head. “Nobody does things for no reason. Especially not awful things like that. There’s a reason Natalie cheated, something I did wrong… or didn’t do.”

“I wish I knew why Lionel cheated,” you sighed, slumping dejectedly in your seat. “Other than because he’s a piece of shit. But… okay, so I try to only buy newspapers he doesn’t own. It makes no difference, I know, but it makes me feel like I’m rebelling against him in some way. Anyway, he appears in the gossip sections sometimes. Always dating rumours, he’s dating this starlet, he’s dating that model… just a stream of girlfriends. Kind of reinforces my point that he’s just a manwhore.”

“Well… I don’t know if it helps at all, but… those rumours aren’t usually true. He has dated some women, but never seriously. I mean, he – you know, he’s very flirtatious with women. And they usually flirt back. I assume he sleeps with them, obviously I don’t ask. But there’s never been another you. You’re the only woman he ever loved.”

“Did he, though?” you asked uncertainly. “Did he love me?”

“Yes!” Sinclair insisted earnestly. “Yes, [Y/n], he loved you, I know he did. I mean, he wanted to marry you! He was so excited when he told me he was going to propose. He doesn’t get serious with me much, he never has. You know, he doesn’t talk about his feelings. But I asked him, ‘Lionel, are you sure? Marriage is a big commitment.’ And… god, he was so earnest about it. He really loved you, [Y/n], and he wanted to commit to you. And to be honest with you, I think – no, I know. I know he still loves you. He wouldn’t have argued with you like that last year if he didn’t.”

You sniffled and shook your head.

“But then why did he cheat on me?”

“That, I don’t know. If you really want the answer to that question, you’re going to have to ask him.”

You reached over and took Sinclair’s hand in yours. He squeezed it reassuringly.

“Let’s make a pact, Sinclair. I’ll ask Lionel why he cheated on me… if you ask Natalie the same question.”

Sinclair bit his lip, thinking.

“I don’t know, [Y/n]. I don’t think Natalie’s gonna know why Lionel cheated on you.”

You laughed, and he laughed, and for a few moments, you both remembered just how much fun you’d had all those years ago, when it was nothing but sun, laughter, and love.

“Okay, okay, I’ll ask her,” Sinclair agreed as his laughter died down. “Shall we set a deadline? A date we have to meet up again and we’ll have our answers.”

You wiped a tear from your eye.

“Yes, let’s. Cole’s back at school on the 3rd. How about we have lunch then and exchange tales of woe?”

Sinclair grinned and held his hand out to you. You took it and shook his hand firmly.

“It’s a date!”

- - -

The Shabandar Media office tower was as ridiculous as you expected.

You doubted that the BBC headquarters had a huge picture of the Director-General staring down at visitors in the reception area. Hell, you didn’t even know who the Director-General of the BBC was. Why couldn’t Lionel be as unknown to you?

Then again, if he wasn’t so extra, he wouldn’t be Lionel. He’d always had big ambitions, and he’d always been loud about them. Success had just made his ego worse.

“Hello. I’m here to see Lionel Shabandar,” you said when you approached the front desk with a polite smile.

The receptionist looked you up and down as if she were deciding whether or not you were worthy to see the mighty Lionel Shabandar.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but he’ll want to see me. My name’s [Y/n] [L/n].”

“You need an appointment to see Lord Shabandar.”

You tried not to groan in frustration. You already didn’t want to be doing this, and now his gatekeeper of a receptionist was making the whole thing a lot more difficult.

“Look, can you just give him my name and tell him I’m here? I can assure you, he won’t be happy if he finds out you wouldn’t let me in.”

The receptionist looked at you patronisingly. “Mmm-hmm. You’re not the first pretty girl to stand here and insist his Lordship will drop everything for her. Appointment. Only.”

Oh, she did not just imply you were one of Lionel’s arm candies.

Well, if she wouldn’t let you in, you had a feeling you knew who could get you in.

On the very top floor of the office tower, Lionel was trying to concentrate on a report from his CFO, but his phone kept ringing. After the third consecutive missed call from Sinclair, he picked it up with irritation.

“Someone had better be dead,” Lionel snapped.

“[Y/n] wants to talk to you!”

“…What?”

“[Y/n]! You know, your ex-girlfriend? The love of your life? The woman you’ve been pining for for the last eighteen years?”

“Shut up, I know who she is. And I’m not pining! What do you mean, she wants to talk to me?”

“I mean she’s in the reception of your office building right now trying to see you, but your receptionist won’t let her in.”

Lionel growled in frustration. “I am going to fire that bloody receptionist. Right, fine, I’ll call down. Thank you, Sinclair.”

He hung up before Sinclair could start rambling on about something, then dialled the number for the main reception.

“Good —”

“What’s this I hear about you not letting [Y/n] [L/n] in to see me?” Lionel demanded, cutting off the stupid woman before she had a chance to speak.

“Oh, yes, we had a lady by that name. She’s still in reception. She wanted to see you, but she didn’t have an appointment.”

“She doesn’t need an appointment, and if I hear of her being refused entry again, it’ll be your job. Send her up, now.”

“Y — yes, your Lordship. Apologies, your Lordship.”

Lionel slammed the phone down. Downstairs, you put down the magazine you’d been reading and approached the desk smugly.

“News from the big man?”

“I’m so sorry, ma’am, I had no idea. Here — a visitor’s pass. Through the gates, take the lift up to the top floor, his office is on the right.”

You took the pass, and you had to suppress a laugh at the way the snooty receptionist had suddenly become completely subservient as soon as she got an earful from Lionel.

A few others got on and off the lift at various floors, but you were apparently the only one destined for the very top floor. You stepped out of the lift and headed right to find yourself in yet another waiting area with a desk and a receptionist, and another stupid picture of Lionel’s stupid face.

“[Y/n] [L/n]?” the new receptionist said with a smile. “You can go straight in.”

Now, that was the type of welcome you liked.

You silently reminded yourself of your plan as you entered Lionel’s office. You were going to talk, really talk, and if he said the right things, maybe you’d consider thinking about letting him be in your life again.

If he just tried to stick his dick in you, you’d know he hadn’t changed.

Lionel’s office was far bigger than necessary. It must have had more floor space than the entire ground floor of your house. One of the walls wasn’t a wall but a huge window, nothing but glass from corner to corner, with a view over London that Lionel no doubt loved to take in while he told himself he was king of it all.

The man himself was sat at his desk, brow furrowed as he read something in a binder. He glanced up at you dismissively.

“Oh, [Y/n]. I’d heard you were here.”

You folded your arms and raised an eyebrow at him as you finally crossed the swathe of his office and reached his desk.

“Busy, are you? I can come back another time. I know I don’t have an appointment.”

“I’m going to fire that bloody receptionist,” Lionel cursed, dropping his façade of not caring that you were there. He slammed the binder shut and sat back in his chair. “What’s the point of giving these people a list if they don’t look at it?”

“What list?”

“People who don’t need an appointment. You, Sinclair, Mum and Helen. Come on, let’s go in here, it’s more private.”

Lionel stood and ushered you towards a door to the side.

“I’m on the special list, am I?” you said. “I’m honoured. Not even Kylie Minogue?”

Lionel looked at you with a frown. “Why would — oh, for fuck’s sake, you don’t read Murdoch’s shit, do you? He’ll take any interaction I have with a beautiful woman and turn it into gossip fodder.”

“Well, you know, I have to get my news from somewhere. I don’t really want to get it from you.”

Lionel led you through the door and into a smaller, more intimate office, which had just one, reasonably-sized, window. Books, files and folders lined the shelves against the walls, and two leather sofas sat opposite one another across a coffee table. You could easily picture Lionel here with a drink in one hand and a fag in the other, discussing some rich man bullshit with other rich men.

He was still obsessed with lions it seemed, from the painting of a pouncing lion that stood over the fireplace. And when Lionel gestured for you to sit, you noticed there were lions embroidered into the throw cushions.

He was still fully clothed — he was doing well so far.

“Wine?”

“At work? Scandalous.”

Lionel smirked as he poured two glasses of a probably very expensive red. “I won’t tell your boss if you don’t tell mine.”

“Did Sinclair tell you why I’m here?” you asked.

“He said you wanted to talk,” Lionel said as he handed you a glass of wine and sat on the opposite end of the three-seater sofa, his legs crossed and an arm thrown across the back cushion. “So let’s talk. I have an appointment in twenty minutes, but nothing that can’t be pushed back.”

“He reached out to me last week, to tell me about Natalie. He wanted to talk to someone who understood what he was going through. And I decided I needed to…” you trailed off, trying to find the words to describe exactly what it was you were looking for.

“You needed to see me, did you?” Lionel said with a smirk.

You scoffed. “If I just wanted to see you, I wouldn’t have had to fight my way past the reception, I could have just looked at that massive picture of your face that’s on the wall down there.”

“Or you could look in your favourite gossip rag.”

“Or on the cover of whichever magazine you just bought. See, this is why it’s hard to get over you, Lionel. You’re bloody everywhere.”

You took a generous gulp of your wine.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Lionel said proudly. “I told you I’d be a huge success. Is that why you’re here? Want a piece of it, do you? I’ll write you a cheque if you need.”

“No! No, god, no. Do you really think I’m here for money?”

“You made it pretty bloody clear you didn’t want anything to do with me, so…”

You shook your head. You took another large gulp of wine for courage and set the glass down on the nearby coffee table.

“No, Lionel, I don’t want your money, I never did. I just want… answers.”

He looked at you expectantly, waiting for the question he was supposed to answer.

“I need to know why,” you said quietly, avoiding his gaze.

Lionel was quiet for a long moment. Then, he too took a long gulp of wine and put his glass on the table.

“I was an idiot. That’s why.”

He sighed and rested his forehead against his palm.

“You hit the nail on the head at the wedding. I thought I could have it all. I thought I could fuck a new girl every week, then toss them out like used tissues, and still have my girlfriend waiting for me at home. I spent most of that first year drunk or high or both — it’s no excuse, I know, but I went fucking insane. It wasn’t until Sinclair slapped some sense into me that I realised just how insane I was acting.”

“You said you thought Sinclair didn’t know.”

“About the girls, no, I didn’t think he knew. But the drinking and the drugs, he knew about that. Poor bastard had to clean up after me enough times. After I missed an exam because I was too hungover - I don’t even know what from - he tore me a new one. Christ, you don’t want to see him when he’s really angry. That was when I realised what an idiot I was being. I knew I had to clean up my act… and that included committing to you fully.”

Lionel shifted in his seat, as if he were about to move closer to you, but he thought better of it.

“[Y/n]… I am truly sorry. I should have apologised then, or in any of the time since. I should have apologised at the wedding. I don’t ask you to forgive me, but you must know how sorry I am.”

You looked up at him. It pained you to see how earnest he was being. For so many years you’d seen only his public face, the stern, powerful, egotistical front that he showed the world. You’d forgotten that underneath that façade, there was a man who, like everyone else, just wanted to be loved. The boy you’d fallen in love with was still there, and in that moment of vulnerability, he wanted you to love him again.

“I’ve thought a lot since the wedding,” you said quietly. Without realising you were doing it, you began fiddling with the corner of the throw cushion. “You’re right, I should have given you the choice to be a father or not. I was so scared you’d reject him, and so certain you would… I didn’t want to see you turn him away, so I didn’t give you the chance to. I thought about it. God, I’ve thought about it so many times. We’ve never really struggled with money, but I could never give him everything he wanted. There are things I had to say no to. So I was tempted… but I was never with you for your money, you know that, and I didn’t want to go crawling back to you for it. And… I missed you. Sometimes I thought about reaching out just because I missed you. Silly, I know…”

“Not at all,” Lionel said softly. “I’ve missed you, too.”

“What, even when you’re with Kylie Minogue?” you said with a wry smile.

“Even then. I’ve taken many beautiful women to bed, I won’t deny it, but you’re the only one I loved. They were just filling the void you left, chérie.”

It was just one word, but that little nickname still managed to make your heart flutter. You felt like you were a teenager again, with all the potential of the future ahead of you. It reminded you of Paris, where you’d confessed your love in front of Monet and shared your first time together. It reminded you of that summer, when you would spend hours just talking, planning how you were going to take over the world together. There was so much ahead of you, so much you could have been — and within a year it was gone, and all that remained was a little clump of cells growing in your belly.

Lionel was just considering closing the gap between you when, without warning, you stood up and walked over to the window.

He blinked in surprise at your sudden movement and turned to you. You had your back to him, your arms hugging yourself across your chest, and you were looking down towards the city.

You just stood there, silent. Lionel stood and approached you carefully, like you were a wild animal he didn’t want to frighten.

“Did I… say something wrong?” he asked cautiously.

You shook your head.

“No, I’m sorry, I… I promised I wouldn’t do this.”

“Do what?”

You looked up at him. He was next to you now, a hand hesitantly hovering near your shoulder, as if unsure whether to touch you or not.

“Want you again. I promised myself I wouldn’t just fall back into your arms, Lionel, I can’t — I can’t repeat the past.”

“I don’t expect you to fall back into my arms, [Y/n]. I don’t even expect you to ever trust me again. But I would like to know you again. If trust comes of that one day, I’d be honoured. But just having you in my life would be enough for me, in whatever form that may take. If you want to be friends, lovers, business acquaintances — I’ll take whatever you’ll give me just to have the opportunity to know you.”

“I’m not going to forgive you easily, Lionel,” you said, quiet but firm. “If at all. I didn’t come here to forgive you. But I’m willing to accept that the Lionel standing here now isn’t the same Lionel I knew. Whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, I don’t know, but… I’d like to. I’d like to know you.”

Lionel looked at you curiously for a moment, then stuck his right hand out towards you, as if to shake your hand. Frowning, you gave him your hand, and he did indeed shake it as if you were some new business acquaintance.

“Pleased to meet you. Lionel Shabandar.”

You laughed.

“[Y/n] [L/n]. I’m sure we’ve met before, but I can’t really place it.”

“In Paris, I think it was.”

You smiled as he let go of your hand.

“Yes, Paris. Can we go back to Paris and pretend nothing since then ever happened?”

“I sincerely wish we could,” Lionel said wistfully. “I’ve never been able to recapture the magic of that weekend. No matter how much art I buy, however many women I seduce… I’ve never come close to that feeling again. But it wasn’t the art or the sex that made Paris special, was it? It was you.”

“The art and the sex were pretty great, though.”

Lionel chuckled.

“Yes, they were, but only because of you. In fact — I’m attending a charity fundraiser this Saturday at the V&A. Perhaps you could come with me. As a friend, as a date, whatever you want it to be. But your company may be exactly what I need.”

“Okay.”

Lionel raised his eyebrows in surprise, as if he’d expected you to say no.

“Okay?”

You smiled and took his hand in yours.

“Okay.”

- - -

When you were eighteen, you couldn’t get ready to go and see Lionel without your mum pestering you with questions. Now, it seemed, she was doing it again, because you were sure her ghost was possessing your son.

“Can’t you at least tell me where you’re actually going?” Cole pleaded as you tied up the laces of the boots you were wearing.

“I told you! I’m going to the Victoria and Albert Museum.”

“No, you can’t be, ‘cus they’ve got a fundraiser on tonight. You have to be really rich to go, it costs like a grand just to get in.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“My mate Ben told me, he volunteers at the THT, he said that —”

He was interrupted by the ringing of the doorbell.

“I’ll get it!” Cole exclaimed, almost tripping over his feet as he ran down the stairs to get to the door.

You considered running after him, but you decided against it. You knew Lionel wouldn’t be picking you up personally. Instead, you slung your purse over your shoulder, and made your way downstairs much more calmly than he had.

The door was closed again, and Cole was waiting for you in the hallway, staring up the stairs at you accusingly.

“Mum, your boyfriend sent a driver! In a Rolls Royce! Is he rich?!”

“He is not my boyfriend,” you said firmly as you reached the bottom of the stairs. “Seriously, Cole, don’t push this. Money’s on the counter for a pizza. Do not invite your mates over. I might be back late, I don’t know. I might never come back at all, if so then remember that I never loved you and you’re nothing but a burden.”

You opened the door, and sure enough, a Rolls Royce was waiting at the kerb with a driver in a black suit standing waiting for you, looking more like a bodyguard than a driver.

“Is your boyfriend in the car?” Cole gasped, standing in the doorway trying to get a look into the car, but fortunately the windows were tinted.

“Get inside,” you snapped, waving him back into the house. “I’ll see you later.”

“Or tomorrow,” Cole winked.

“Or never.”

You ushered him inside and made sure the door was shut before you crossed the pavement and let the driver open the door for you.

Lionel was waiting for you inside, a glass of champagne already in his hand, and you sat yourself down next to him with a sigh.

“I swear, that boy is possessed by the spirit of his grandmother,” you huffed. “Always with the questions.”

Lionel chuckled. “Well, when you’re dressing up like that on a Saturday night, I’d be asking questions too.”

You glanced down at your outfit with a frown. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Absolutely nothing. You look incredible. Here, this is for you.”

Lionel handed you the glass he’d been holding, then began pouring himself his own glass from a bottle he procured from a compartment behind the front passenger seat.

“You have a secret compartment for champagne,” you snorted.

“Of course. Cheers.”

He held up his glass to you.

“To new beginnings.”

You smiled and clinked your glasses before taking a sip. You’d forgotten how good rich people’s drinks were.

“So this is a charity thing, right?” you said as the driver pulled off. “Rich people showing off their massive cheques. Like a dick-measuring contest but with money.”

Lionel chuckled.

“I see you’ve not lost your ability to see right through the bullshit. Yes, that’s precisely what it is. Most of the people attending tonight won’t even know what charity they’re raising funds for. I can guarantee you, they’re all on their way there now, their assistants briefing them on what cause they’re supposed to pretend to care about.”

“And you’ve already been briefed, have you?”

“No, I know what the cause is. There’s a reason why I’m richer than all of them, and that’s because I don’t spend for the sake of it. If I’m going to donate to charity, I’m going to donate to a charity I believe in, not whichever has the best optics.”

“Hmm, so it’s a charity you believe in…” you said thoughtfully. “Is it the Inflate Lionel’s Ego Foundation?”

“No.”

“Then I’m drawing a blank.”

Lionel looked at you with a smirk. “Well, then, I guess this is your first challenge in getting to know me.”

“Well, then, I guess I’ll have to find out. Actually, I do have some things I’d like to know, while we can’t be overheard.”

Lionel looked at you curiously.

“Kylie Minogue.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lionel sighed. “Are you on Murdoch’s payroll? Are you actually here to get gossip from me?”

“Lionel, I swear, I’m just curious!” you laughed.

“She — Christ, I didn’t realise you’d grill me about flings.”

“So you did sleep with her!”

“Once! She was between boyfriends. Perhaps I should be grilling you on this subject. Sinclair told me you mentioned past boyfriends. They couldn’t live up to your first love, was that it?”

You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm playfully.

“You wish. No, men find it hard to date a single mother who runs her own business. They say they don’t mind that I have a child, or that they admire the independence of my work. But when they realise I’m not prioritising them over my work or my son, they lose interest.”

“Christ, I have the same problem,” Lionel sighed. “Anyone I have tried to date gets frustrated quickly with how busy I am. They always think being rich means I can do what I want, when I want. They don’t seem to realise I do actually have to work for my money.”

“Yeah, that must be so annoying when they show up unannounced at your office. Even when your receptionist tells them to piss off, they just call your cousin and get him to let them in.”

Lionel laughed, and without thinking about it, he placed his hand on your thigh.

“I’ve had women try many things to get in to see me, yes. But using Sinclair is a low only you would stoop to.”

“Hey!” you laughed. “I’m on the list, remember?”

“Yes, and that stupid receptionist is on thin fucking ice.”

Lionel suddenly noticed where his hand was, and he tried to be subtle as he pulled it away.

“Anyway - if you must know - I have tried to date and not just fuck around, as you seem to think I do. But as I said, they always want more attention than I can give. If you think running a shop makes it hard to date, try running a media empire.”

“Pfft, try raising a child. Men and their fragile egos can’t handle knowing they’ll always be the second most important man in my life.”

“Third, surely?”

You frowned, then groaned when you saw his stupid smirk.

“No, you are not number one! You’re not even number two! The only number two you are is a piece of shit, Lionel Shabandar.”

He just cackled, and you realised with a pang that his cheeky cackle sounded just like Cole’s.

“Honestly, the nerve on you,” you sighed with amusement. “If I had to rank the men in my life, you spent the last eighteen years at the bottom of the ladder, and if you keep that attitude up, you won’t get much higher. But even if you do climb back up again, don’t set your expectations too high, the best you can do is fourth.”

“Fourth?”

“Yes, fourth. Cole, Dad, Sinclair. Then, if you earn it, you might get fourth place one day.”

Lionel was quiet for a long moment. You looked at him curiously, wondering why he was looking suddenly thoughtful.

“What?” you asked.

“His name’s Cole?”

“Oh, shit, you didn’t want to know. Sorry, it just slipped out. Um, yeah, it’s Cole.”

“No, that’s alright. I had intended to ask. If we’re to… well, I don’t have any doubts that you come as a pair.” Lionel cleared his throat. “Anyway, I dispute your claim that Sinclair has such a solid position. I’m sure I can at least knock him down to fourth.”

“I dunno, after warning me about you, he solidified himself pretty well. Have you spoken to him, by the way?”

“Mmm, I’ve had lunch with him a few times this week. He’s still convinced he can make things work. I told him if he ever changes his mind, I can call in some favours and have her life ruined.”

You snorted.

“You wouldn’t need to do that. Losing Sinclair would be life-ruining enough.” You took a sip from your champagne and looked out the window. “This traffic is so bloody slow. It would have been quicker to get the tube.”

“How dare you speak that word in my car.”

You laughed. “Oh, sorry, are you too rich now to share the tube with the common folk?”

“Yes. Your buddy Murdoch would have a field day if someone got a picture of me on the Underground. I’m the richest man in England, [Y/n], I don’t use public transport.”

“Oh, sorry, your Majesty. Hey, are you richer than the Queen?”

“I am,” Lionel said smugly. “In fact, she granted me a lordship just last year for my contributions to the arts.”

“Yeah, I read about that. Monetary contributions, I suppose. If I had married you, would that have made me a Lady?”

“It would. You’d be Lady [Y/n] Shabandar.”

You burst into laughter then.

“Oh my god, that sounds so dumb!”

Lionel frowned, looking somewhat affronted. “There’s nothing dumb about peerage. It’s a great honour bestowed on very few —”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, ‘my Lord.’ Nah, sorry, I’m not calling you that. You’re Lionel to me. Or Dickhead.”

Lionel rolled his eyes, but you could see his amused smirk.

“Well, we’re nearly there, so let me remind you that there will be a lot of sycophants sucking up to me tonight. I don’t like it, but it comes with the territory. You can laugh about it later, but can you at least hold it in in public?”

You wiped a tear of laughter from your eye.

“Of course I will. You know I like to tease you, but I also know your optics are important. I’ll behave. I always behaved at parties, didn’t I? No matter how ridiculous and out of touch the people were. In fact, you were the one always misbehaving! I’d be trying to seem cool and mature so your fancy friends would like me, and you’d be there trying to fondle my arse.”

“Lies and slander, I have never tried anything in my life. If I want to do something, I do it, and that includes fondling your arse.”

There was something promissory in the way he said that, and you quickly looked away, knowing that if you saw that hungry look in his eye, you might do something you’d regret.

“Ah, we’re here,” Lionel said as the driver pulled up, and you looked out of the window to recognise the entrance to the museum.

The driver opened the door and Lionel stepped out, then turned around to give you a hand out of the car. You put your arm in the crook of his elbow automatically, as if this was something you did every day, and Lionel smiled to himself when he felt your hand on his arm.

He escorted you to the entrance of the museum, which bore a sign indicating it was closed for an invite-only event. He opened the door as confidently as if he were walking into his own home, and approached the ticket desk with you still holding his arm.

“Good evening. Lionel Shabandar, plus one. You’ll find me on the guest list.”

The man smiled politely. “Of course, Lord Shabandar.” He scanned the list on his clipboard and ticked off Lionel’s name. “I don’t believe you prepaid for a plus one, your Lordship.”

“No, I’ll pay for her now,” Lionel replied, already reaching into his jacket for his wallet.

Despite your curiosity, you decided to look away politely as Lionel paid for your entry. You didn’t want to know if Cole’s estimate of “like a grand” was accurate, and you didn’t want to know if Lionel banked with one of those rich people banks that gave out stupid gold bank cards. But knowing him, he probably did.

Lionel tucked his wallet back into his jacket and placed his hand lightly on the small of your back to guide you into the museum.

“Your Lordship,” you said mockingly under your breath.

“Shut up,” Lionel said, but he was smirking. “You’re behaving tonight, remember?”

“Or else what? Gonna punish me, your Lordship?”

He looked at you with a cocked eyebrow, somewhat surprised at your sudden flirting, but his smirk of amusement morphed into something else, and you felt his hand press slightly more firmly onto your back.

“That remains to be seen,” Lionel purred in a low voice. “Now, I need you to smile politely and look pretty while I bat off the sycophants. Can you do that?”

You looked up at him and smiled sweetly. “Looking pretty’s my best skill, I could do it in my sleep.”

“I can assure you, you do.” Lionel turned towards the man that was approaching him and plastered on his best charming businessman smile. “Sir John! How good to see you. How’s Wormsley coming along?”

You lost track of all the names eventually. Sir this, Lord that, all far more interested in talking to Lionel than to you — unless they felt like flirting, in which case their attention turned to you. When that happened, Lionel’s hand would move to your hip, and he would subtly but firmly pull you in closer.

“Christ, I can’t take any more of this,” Lionel muttered as he managed to shoo away some Duke or Earl or something or other. “I need a drink.”

He flagged down the nearest staff member and relieved her of two glasses of champagne.

“Why do you come to these if you hate it so much?” you asked, gratefully taking the glass Lionel was handing to you.

“I have to show face. If I, the only person richer than the Queen, am seen donating to a cause, others will follow my lead.”

“Oh, are you very rich? You hadn’t mentioned.”

Lionel laughed and shook his head.

“Come on, let’s go and actually look at some art, shall we?”

“You remembered we’re in an art museum!”

Lionel rolled his eyes and took your hand to guide you out of the event hall where the rich people were mingling, and down a corridor you found yourself in a much quieter room that was full of nothing but paintings.

“Ahh, this is better,” Lionel sighed with relief, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. “Some privacy, some beautiful art, and a beautiful woman. What more could I need?”

“To take your clothes off?”

Lionel looked at you and raised an eyebrow. “That’s the second time you’ve flirted with me tonight. Are we on a date after all?”

“I am not flirting! I was talking about the fact you hate wearing clothes.”

“Mmm, I’m sure you were,” Lionel said teasingly, in a tone that told you he absolutely did not believe you. “Don’t test me, [Y/n], because I will take my clothes off, and maybe I’ll get you to take yours off too…”

Before Lionel could follow through on his promise (threat?), the door opened behind you and you both turned to see Generic Rich White Man #17 of the evening slip through the door and quickly close it behind him.

“Duke Grosvenor! How good to see you,” Lionel said.

The Duke apparently spotted the two of you, and he grinned. “Lord Shabandar. I must say, I’m relieved to see you. Am I interrupting?”

Lionel slipped an arm around your waist and smiled.

“Not at all. [Y/n] and I simply slipped away for a few moments away from the sycophantic suck-ups.”

“Oh, Christ, me too,” the Duke groaned, pinching his nose in frustration. “They keep telling me how much they’re going to donate tonight, as if it’s supposed to impress me.”

He looked at you, stood up straight and gave you a polite nod.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Right, of course. [Y/n], this is the Duke of Westminster, Major Gerald Grosvenor. I did get all your titles in, Gerry?”

The Duke offered you his hand with a grin. “Oh, I lost count of them years ago. [Y/n], is it?”

“[Y/n] [L/n],” you said, shaking his hand while sporting the polite smile you were tired of flashing. “No titles, I’m afraid.”

“Ah, titles mean nothing. I bet you have more O-levels than I do.”

“Gerry’s one of the few people here I’d actually believe cares about the cause. He’s president of more charities than I could name. You’re donating tonight, I assume?”

“Yep, but not cash. I’ve donated some originals from my collection for auction, half the proceeds to be donated. You won’t want to miss it, Lionel, there are some pieces you’ll definitely be interested in. Starts in about half an hour in the main hall. There’s some brochures floating about somewhere listing the pieces.”

“Oh, really? We’ll have to take a look. Come on, [Y/n], let’s see if we can find one of these floating brochures.”

Lionel put his hand on your back, a gesture you’d learnt by now meant that it was time to leave.

“Lovely to meet you,” you said to the Duke as you allowed Lionel to escort you out of the room.

“Good man, Gerry,” Lionel said as the door closed behind you. “Third richest, you know, after myself and the Queen.”

“After this, we’re going to a bar, and I’m going to make you take a shot for each time you’ve mentioned the fact that you’re rich.”

“Are you trying to give me alcohol poisoning?”

“That depends entirely on how many more times you mention tonight that you’re rich.”

Lionel mimed zipping his mouth closed. He led you through to the main hall, where chairs and a small stage were set up for the auction. He picked up a brochure from one of the chairs and flicked through it.

“These are some generous donations,” he muttered. You peered over his shoulder to get a look, and you recognised some very famous artists’ names, as well as pieces that you’d seen only ever in print.

On the last page, you recognised a piece you had seen in person.

“Lionel, look, it’s our painting!”

He looked at you curiously. “Our painting, is it? Well, then, I’ll have to have it.”

He closed the brochure decisively and glanced around the room, scoping out the competition.

“Oh, bloody hell. Takagawa.”

You followed his line of sight and saw that Lionel was staring daggers at a Japanese man who was currently laughing boisterously with some other Asian businessmen.

“You know him?”

“Yes, and I bloody hate him. He’s best buddies with Murdoch, for one, and he shares my taste in art — which means he’s always setting some fierce competition in auctions. Well, if he tries to bid on Haystacks, I’m not backing down. That painting is ours.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, Lionel,” you said warningly. “Set yourself a limit and don’t go higher.”

“One billion.”

“No!”

“…Half a billion.”

“Lionel.”

“Fine, fine. I’ll think of something reasonable. But don’t worry, chérie,” Lionel said, looking at you with a determined smirk. “We’ll get our painting.”

The bidding was intense. Haystacks was the last piece, so although he bid on and won a few other pieces, Lionel held back. Perhaps if he lulled Takagawa into a false sense of security, made him think there wasn’t going to be much competition for Haystacks, he could take the painting right from under the little shit’s nose.

It was probably the most bizarre display of wealth you’d seen yet, and with Lionel, you’d seen some pretty bizarre displays of wealth. People were bidding six or even seven figures on paintings, including Lionel, who won three paintings he didn’t even seem that interested in with bids of 2, 3 and 3.5 million.

“Lionel, this is ridiculous,” you whispered to him when he smugly won his third painting.

“All for a good cause,” he whispered in reply.

When Haystacks was finally brought out for display, you instinctively took Lionel’s hand in yours.

There it was. The painting Lionel had spoken about so enthusiastically the very first day you’d met. The painting the Duke of Whatever had loaned to the Orsay just in time for you to confess your feelings to Lionel.

And here you were. Older, changed, a little bit broken. Lionel, so successful but so lonely, as if all the riches he’d amassed were nothing but an attempt to fill the gap that had been left by you.

But that painting, it hadn’t changed. The haystacks still stood on their field at dawn, frozen in a day that was always beginning. The future was ahead, always open, never certain. And somewhere in that painting, woven into the brushstrokes, was every day that had come and gone since Monet had sat down in a field to capture that hopeful moment.

But you didn’t see the other days in the painting — you only saw that one day, your day in Paris, the future and the open possibilities that had been ahead of you.

You hardly even heard the bidding. If you had, you might have whispered to Lionel to stop, but would he have listened?

“Sold for £11 million to Lord Shabandar.”

The gavel came down and shook you from your thoughts.

“Eleven…?”

The auction came to an end, and the crowd began to mutter among themselves. You turned to Lionel to tell him he was a money wasting idiot, but he was already on his feet, looking more proud of himself than ever.

He offered you his hand, and you let him pull you to your feet.

“It’s ours, chérie,” Lionel said in a low voice. “Now a piece of Paris will be with us forever.”

“It wasn’t Haystacks that made Paris magical, Lionel.”

He just smiled.

“I know. The magic came from us, two dumb kids in love… but Haystacks is imbued with it, don’t you think? Our love is in that painting, and I’ll be damned if I let anyone else have it.”

He wrapped an arm around your waist and began to lead you out of the room. Some stupid confidence overcame him as he passed Takagawa, and he stuck his middle finger up as he strode past.

You just shook your head and sighed.

After mingling a little while longer, you noticed a crowd of press beginning to form, and Lionel was pulled away by someone. You found yourself at the edge of a small crowd that had gathered along with the press, and some guy you’d not seen before looked like he was getting ready to speak to them.

Lionel stood nearby, and you looked at him questioningly. He gave you a small “wait” gesture, and so you waited.

Behind the mystery man, someone was trying to set up a display stand. Mystery Man helped them lock it into place, then a sign was placed on the stand, purposely placed to be visible as Mystery Man took his place to speak to the crowd.

You stared, transfixed, at the sign. You’d noticed, throughout the night, that nobody had actually mentioned what charity they were all there to fundraise for. There were talks of “the cause” and “those poor people” but no specifics, and you didn’t want to embarrass Lionel by outright asking what charity you were actually there for. You’d assumed it was children or cancer or children with cancer, something safe like that.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” Mystery Man said to the gathered crowd. A hush fell as everyone stopped talking amongst themselves and listened, making the clicking of the cameras more obvious.

“My colleagues and I are overwhelmed by the support and generosity shown here tonight. I wanted to take a moment, in particular, to thank those who bid in our auction tonight. We expected to raise at most a few million in the auction, but we’ve far surpassed that — thanks, in no small part, to the generous bids made by Lord Shabandar.”

The man gestured for Lionel to join him, and the crowd clapped politely as Lionel took his place in front of the crowd, smiling and waving in a way you knew he’d practised for years. He shook hands with the man, who announced to further applause that Lionel’s bids had come to a whopping total of £19.5 million.

“Thank you, Rupert,” Lionel said with humility you knew was fake. “And might I say what an honour it is to have the opportunity to raise funds tonight for such a worthy cause. But of course, not every penny of those funds go to you, do they? Only half the proceeds are donated to the cause. Well, I believe you should receive the full value. That’s why I’m going to be donating an additional 10 and a quarter million cash —”

A collective gasp from the crowd.

“— bringing my total donation tonight to £20 million to the Terrence Higgins Trust.”

The crowd applauded, cameras clicked, and Lionel shook hands with the man named Rupert. He smiled benevolently for the cameras, making sure each one got a good picture of him and Rupert shaking hands.

“Thank you, Lord Shabandar, for your incredible generosity,” Rupert said. “Now, the night’s not over yet, so everyone dig deep and have a wonderful evening. Thank you.”

With another polite round of applause, the crowd began to disperse. Rupert turned to Lionel to exchange some less public words, and you didn’t notice the cameras continuing to photograph them.

Lionel looked among the crowd searchingly, and smiled when his eyes landed on you. You approached him, not even noticing the way you almost bumped into someone.

“Are you really going to do it?” you asked.

“Of course,” Lionel replied, as if the answer were obvious. “I told you, it’s an important cause. Anything I can do to —”

You even surprised yourself when you cut him off with a kiss.

Lionel didn’t hesitate to react. He wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you in close, deepening the kiss. The world around you stopped existing; there was no crowd with most eyes on you, no cameras clicking away. It was just you and Lionel, back in your bubble, and nothing else mattered.

Lionel had to break the kiss. If he let it go on any longer, he’d find himself sporting a hard-on in the middle of a charity fundraiser for people with HIV/AIDS, and that was not something he wanted plastered in any magazine, his or Murdoch’s.

Someone wolf-whistled, and Lionel turned his head sharply towards the noise.

Your attention was drawn to the direction Lionel was looking, and your stomach dropped when you realised you’d just kissed him in front of a crowd of onlookers, his peers and friends, and several cameras, which were still clicking away.

“I can’t believe I just did that,” you whispered in shock.

Lionel looked back at you and his expression softened.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispered back, and he released his hold on you only to take your hand and lead you out towards the entrance. He used the reception phone to call his driver, then escorted you outside to wait for him.

You heard the clicking of a camera again, and turned to see you were being followed by two men, one with a camera and one with a handheld tape recorder.

“Lord Shabandar!” the one with the tape recorder called. “Lord Shabandar, who’s your mystery woman? Is this a serious relationship, or another fling? Do you think it’s appropriate to bring a fling to a charity fundraiser?”

Lionel turned to the reporter, his brow furrowed and his nostrils flared, and he looked the man up and down.

“One of Murdoch’s lot, are you? Well, you can tell your boss from me: this brilliant woman is off-limits. He can spread as many rumours as he wants about my involvement with any other woman, but she is not to be touched.”

He pointed a finger at the cameraman threateningly.

“If I see a single photo printed of her, I will have your life and career over in less than a day.”

The reporter opened his mouth to say something, but one withering look from Lionel shut him up again.

Lionel’s car pulled up not a moment too soon, and Lionel didn’t even bother waiting for the driver to open the door; he opened it himself, gave you a hand in, then followed you and closed the door firmly behind him.

You sunk into the car seat, your face in your hands, and groaned.

“I didn’t think the kiss was that bad,” Lionel said casually as the car moved off.

You looked at him between your fingers.

“I just kissed you in front of all those people.”

Lionel appeared to think for a moment, then nodded.

“Yes, I suppose you did.” He grinned. “It was great. What made you finally give in? Was it the charming smile I gave for the cameras?”

“No, you dolt!” you exclaimed, your hands falling away from your face to land in your lap. “I didn’t know what charity it was! Nobody said… I didn’t think… I assumed it was Cancer Research or something like that.”

Lionel frowned. “What does it matter that it was Terrence Higgins?”

“Because…”

You hesitated, not wanting to give too much away.

“It’s for people with HIV/AIDS.”

“Yes.”

“That’s not… exactly uncontroversial. A lot of people will think less of you for even associating with them, let alone giving them 20 million fucking pounds.”

“If a few bigots stop buying my magazines, that’s worth the lives my donation might save.”

You looked at him for a long moment. Yes, you knew he wasn’t the same Lionel you’d known all those years ago. Yes, you knew that, to pass judgment on this Lionel, you had to get to know him.

But you hadn’t expected this. You hadn’t expected him to…

“You’re staring at me like you have no idea who I am.”

“…I think I’m beginning to realise that I don’t.”

Lionel frowned. “You didn’t think I’d hold those sorts of prejudices, did you?”

“No! No, of course not.” You reached over and grabbed his hand. “But there’s a difference between not being a bigot… and being seen to help. To stand up in front of all those people and tell them where you stand, and to put your money where your mouth is. That’s… that’s brave, Lionel.”

“Being rich and spending money isn’t brave, [Y/n].”

“Risking everything to stand with people who have nothing? I think that’s really fucking brave.”

You smiled and laughed to yourself.

“I might even say that’s the bravery of a lion.”

Lionel’s hand gripped yours, his eyes darkened dangerously, and you heard something of a growl in his throat.

“Jerry, get us home, now,” he called out to his driver. “I am about to fuck this woman, and I am not doing it on the backseat!”

Before you could protest, Lionel grabbed you by the back of the neck and kissed you fiercely. His tongue pressed against your lips, and you parted them to let him in, because you were fucked. You were completely and utterly fucked.

And you were about to get fucked.

- - -

“Say it again,” Lionel demanded for the fifth time through gritted teeth. “Say it.”

You raised your lips to his ear.

“You’re my brave lion,” you said breathily.

A shudder ran through Lionel’s entire body, and his cock began pounding into you faster.

“Yes — yes, I fucking am! Oh, Christ. Fucking — take it. Take your lion’s cock. My fierce lioness, so good for me, taking my cock so well. Such a perfect cunt for me. All mine!”

Lionel’s teeth sunk into the skin of your neck, and you gasped. He licked the spot he’d just bitten into, as if he were a vampire healing puncture wounds. Somewhere in the back of your mind you knew you’d be sporting a bruise in the morning, but you didn’t care.

“You don’t take another man’s cock again, you hear me?” Lionel growled into your ear. “Should have been mine all along. Christ, I fucked up. But no more, never again. There’s no other cunt for me. You understand, love? Tell me you understand.”

“Y — yes,” you mumbled, your lips hardly able to form words at this point.

“I’ll never take another cunt again. You’re all I need, [Y/n]. You’re all I ever needed — fuck! Promise me, chérie. Promise you’ll never take another cock.”

“I promise, Li. I — ah! I only want you. Only ever wanted you. Lionel, please, I’m so close…”

With a wicked chuckle, Lionel sat up, and the fresh angle had his cock rubbing up against your sweet spot with an intensity that had you practically screaming with pleasure. Lionel’s thumb found its way to your clit, and you knew it was over for you.

“Lionel! Oh, fu-uuck…”

“Say it again! Say it as you cum!”

“My — my lion,” you cried out. “My big, strong — brave — lion!”

“Yes! Yes, I’m your fucking lion!”

He roared as he came, his thumb still rubbing your clit as he felt you cumming with him, and you saw stars for a few moments as pleasure crashed over you, more intense than you’d ever known.

Even as Lionel came down from his high and his thrusts slowed, his assault on your clit continued, and he watched with hungry eyes as you kept writhing beneath him, your spent body trying to come down from its high, but Lionel kept pushing back with every perfect flick of his thumb.

“I can stop if you want,” he growled. “Do you want me to stop, love?”

You whined and shook your head.

“Good. Because I’m going to keep touching you like this, and when I’m ready, I’m going to fuck you again, and I’m going to keep fucking you over and over again, all night. I’ll have to collapse with exhaustion before I stop fucking you.”

Lionel could feel his cock softening and the condom loosening. He knew he’d have to change it, so he took your hand and guided it to your clit.

“Keep touching yourself, chérie.”

“Want you to do it,” you whined, pulling your hand away insolently.

Lionel chuckled.

“And I will, love, but I need to throw this condom away. I’ll only be a minute, but I want you to keep touching yourself in the meantime, alright?”

You nodded and moved your hand back between your legs. Lionel gently pulled out of you, and when he was satisfied you were touching yourself properly, he climbed off of the bed and made his way into the bathroom to clean himself up as quickly as possible.

“Are you still touching yourself, chérie?” he called out to you as he pulled the condom off. “I don’t hear moans. If I were touching you, you wouldn’t be able to stop yourself from moaning. Let me hear you.”

You concentrated your efforts, touching that one little area of your clit you knew was that little bit more sensitive, and you let out the moan Lionel wanted.

He grinned proudly. With noises like that, he’d be hard again in no time.

He finished cleaning himself up, and when he went back into the bedroom, he had to catch himself on the doorframe when he saw what was possibly the most arousing sight he’d ever seen: you, naked on his bed, touching yourself.

Maybe there was some truth to Lionel’s assertions that he was a lion, you thought as he practically pounced on you, trapping you beneath his hands and knees. He kissed you, then your neck, then your breasts each in turn, each kiss sloppier than the last. He slid off the end of the bed to sink to his knees, then grabbed your ankles and pulled you down the bed until your arse was almost hanging off the edge.

He finally let you stop touching yourself and replaced your fingers with his tongue. You’d known men to motorboat your breasts before - Lionel had done it himself many times when you were together - but nobody had ever done it to your cunt.

That was the only way you could describe what he was doing now, making out with your cunt so passionately you could hardly keep track of everything he was doing. At some point he produced a dildo from under the bed, and before you could get the words out to ask why a straight man owned a dildo, he gave you an answer by slipping it inside you to fuck you with it while he continued eating you out.

Your thighs clamped around his head when you came, and that was the last thing he needed for his cock to get hard again.

It was around 4am by the time you both collapsed, exhausted, onto the bed. You’d lost count of the amount of times you’d each cum, and you knew one thing hadn’t changed about Lionel – he still had impressive stamina. Even when his cock went soft, that didn’t stop him using his hands, tongue and an impressive array of toys on you until he was ready to go again.

You just about managed to muster up the energy to drag yourself into the bathroom. When you emerged, Lionel was already snoring, although when you climbed under the duvet with him, his arm instinctively wrapped around you, and as you drifted off to sleep, you wondered what on earth had happened to that promise you’d made to yourself not to fall back into his arms.

- - -

You woke up when the morning sun moved in the sky and shone directly on your face. With a groan, you pulled the duvet over your head, trying to shield yourself from the sun’s cruel insistence on waking you up, but it was too late.

Especially when you felt a hand that definitely wasn’t yours gently caressing your hip, and you suddenly remembered where you were.

You rolled onto your back, and sure enough, there he was. He was sitting up against the headboard, an open magazine on his lap, one hand holding a cup of tea and the other lazily draped over you.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you groaned.

Lionel looked down at you with a raised eyebrow. “Well, that’s a strange way to say good morning.”

You pulled the duvet back over your head.

You heard the sound of Lionel putting his mug down and tossing the magazine away. You tried to turn away as he joined you under the duvet, but he caught you around the waist and pulled you back in with a wicked chuckle.

“Going somewhere?” he murmured, his breath hot on your skin as he peppered you with kisses.

“Can’t, can I? You’re inescapable,” you grumbled.

Lionel just grinned with pride. “I prefer the term inevitable.”

“I thought we hated each other.”

“That was always one-sided, chérie. You hated me, and rightly so. But I never hated you. I was angry, heartbroken… but only because I loved you.”

He shifted on top of you, and you found yourself trapped underneath him.

“I hope you realise that now I have you back, I’m not letting you go,” Lionel purred as he left wet, open-mouthed kisses along your neck and your collarbone. “I’ll tie you up in this bed if I must.”

“I’m not — I’m not something to be possessed, Lionel,” you said breathily, though you made no effort to push him away as he continued his wet exploration of your body, your clavicle his next frontier.

“Oh, I know that. You’re your own woman, of course you are. I’ll take however much of you you’re willing to give. If you just want to fuck, we can just fuck… if you want to get married tomorrow, we can do that… or if you want just to meet up once a week to discuss the weather, I’ll keep my filthy thoughts to myself. I’ll do my very best to resist doing… this.”

He took your nipple between his lips and sucked, and you whined. Christ, why did he still have so much power over you after all these years?

“Lionel, I — I need to get up…”

He released your breast from his mouth and looked up at you, something hungry and animalistic in his eyes.

“No, I don’t think you do,” he said in a low voice. “I think you need to stay right here, where I can remind you who you belong to. Where I can worship you like I should have been doing all this time. Where could you possibly have to be that’s preferable to here, hm? I know your shop is closed on Sundays.”

Your stomach responded for you by growling with hunger, and Lionel chuckled.

“You must be ravenous after all that exercise last night. How about some breakfast?”

You nodded enthusiastically. Lionel kissed you gently, then pulled the duvet down to climb out of bed. You followed and looked around on the floor for your scattered clothes.

“Your clothes are in the wash,” Lionel said, and he passed you a robe from his wardrobe. “If you must cover up that gorgeous body, you can wear this.”

The robe was, of course, patterned with an animal print. It was oversized for you, but it smelt like Lionel, and it was luxuriously soft.

Lionel didn’t bother with a robe. He’d never liked clothes, and now that he lived alone, he could walk around in his birthday suit all day long. So when he led you downstairs into the open-plan living area, you got a nice view of his arse jiggling slightly with every step.

“Would you like a drink?”

“Coffee would be amazing.”

“Coffee it is. I’ll call the chef to make us some breakfast.”

Lionel picked up the phone from the wall and dialled a number. You looked around curiously, wondering where the chef was supposed to pop up from.

“Do you have a secret portal the staff come out of?” you asked when Lionel put the phone down.

Lionel chuckled as he set about making your coffee in the French press.

“They live in the apartment below and come up when needed.”

You looked at the lift and frowned. “If the lift opens straight into the apartment, what’s to stop anyone else from just walking in?”

“Oh, that’s a private lift,” Lionel said dismissively, as if it were a normal thing to have. “It only opens here, the staff quarters, the ground floor and the car park. My tenants have a separate lift which opens into entryways.”

“Your —? Wait, you own the building?”

“Of course. Did you think I was paying rent?” Lionel scoffed at the very idea. “My work may be in media, but the money is in property. When I decided I wanted this apartment, I bought the entire building. I installed the private lift so I wouldn’t have to wait or share the main lift. There are 35 apartments in this building, it’d be tedious to wait for it only to have to share it. Didn’t you notice last night that there were only four buttons on the keypad?”

“I can’t say I was particularly interested in the keypad last night. I seem to recall spending the entire journey up here with your hand up my skirt.”

Lionel looked up at you and grinned. “I do have a habit of distracting you, don’t I? Here you are — do you still take two sugars?”

He handed you the mug of coffee, and the first sip of the rich, hot drink was exactly what you needed.

“God, that’s good. You know, I don’t usually bother with fancy branded stuff, but coffee is one of the few exceptions. You have to invest in good coffee.”

Lionel hummed in agreement as he took a sip from his own mug. The lift doors opened, and the chef stepped out, dressed ready for action in the kitchen.

“Ah, Louis. Un petit-déjeuner pour deux, s'il vous plaît,” Lionel said, then he asked you, “What’ll you have, chérie?”

You laughed to yourself as a memory came back to you.

“Omelette du fromage.”

Lionel smiled, and you could tell he was thinking about the same thing.

“Very well. Deux omelettes du fromage, s’il vous plaît, Louis.”

“Oui, monsieur,” Louis said with a small bow of his head, and you and Lionel moved out of the kitchen to give him space to cook.

“I suppose he’s used to walking in and finding you naked,” you said with amusement.

“He’s certainly seen more of me than he probably cares to.”

“Can I use your phone while we wait?”

“Of course you can.”

Lionel kissed your temple affectionately, and you picked up the phone to dial your home number. He leant against the wall and watched you with a smile. You looked so beautiful like this, wearing nothing but his robe, your hair still a mess. Underneath that thin robe, he knew you had bruises forming on your arse.

He reached out and lightly took the fabric of the robe between his fingers. While you listened to the phone ringing, Lionel gently pulled back the robe to reveal the left side of your body to him, and his cock stirred when he saw that there was indeed a juicy bruise forming on your arsecheek.

You shot him a disapproving look, grabbed the robe and pulled it back around, but it was too late. Lionel had already seen what he was looking for.

“Oh, hey, it’s me,” you said when the phone was picked up. “Just wanted to let you know I’m alive, sorry I didn’t come home last night. You okay? … I told you, he is not my boyfriend! But it was good, thank you. Very enlightening.”

Lionel’s hands were on you again. They were on your hips now, creeping around to the front of the robe to try and pull it aside again. His large hands spread out across your stomach, as if he had to touch every inch of your skin that he could, and he not so subtly pulled your body against his, pressing your back against his bare chest.

“No. … C, I mean it, don’t push it. If there’s anything to tell you, I’ll tell you when you need to know, okay?”

Lionel gently pushed your hair aside, and he began peppering light kisses on the bare skin of your neck, smiling smugly to himself when he saw another bruise on your neck.

“That’s it, I’m hanging up the phone now. I’ll be back at some point today. I don’t know when. But definitely tonight. … Hopefully the latter. See you later. I love you.”

You hung up the phone and groaned in frustration.

“Lionel, you are impossible!”

“What?” he murmured innocently against your ear, and you shuddered when you felt the tip of his nose brush against your cheek. “Did you expect me to just stand here and look at you when you look so fucking good in my robe?”

“I expect you not to start groping me when I’m on the phone to my son!”

Lionel chuckled, and you could feel it reverberating deep in his chest.

“So I’m not your boyfriend, am I?”

“No, you are not. You’re my ex -boyfriend, if you remember.”

“Hmm, I don’t think exes do what we did last night. Nor do they do… this.”

Lionel slipped his hand between the gap in the robe you were wearing and cupped your heat with his large palm.

“I don’t think now’s the best time to have this conversation, Lionel…”

You let out a small whine as you felt a finger gently caressing your folds, teasing them, as if he were trying to coax your cunt to open up for him.

“Some food for thought, that’s all,” Lionel murmured. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be, of course… but if I’m to remain merely your ex-boyfriend… then there’ll be no more of this.”

He withdrew his hands from you suddenly and stepped back, and you annoyingly missed his touch as soon as it was gone. You turned to stare daggers at him, but he just chuckled at how irritated you were, and the way he sucked his fingers clean so damn smugly just made you more annoyed.

Lionel glanced over your shoulder.

“Ah, breakfast is ready.”

You felt your cheeks burning red when you remembered that Louis the chef was in the kitchen and had probably seen and heard everything.

Apparently unperturbed by the witness, Lionel grabbed a robe from the coat stand and wrapped it around himself. He gestured for you to take a seat at the dining table, and he sat across from you.

Louis brought over fresh mugs of coffee, followed by some very delicious-looking omelettes. You thanked him, he gave a small bow of his head, and Lionel waved him off.

“Dig in, love. Now, I heard you give yourself until tonight to go home. Do you have plans, or is this you hoping I’ll clear my very busy schedule for you?”

You shrugged nonchalantly as you cut up your eggs. “Well, if there’s something else you’d rather be doing…”

“Trust me, love, there is nothing I’d rather be doing than you,” Lionel said in a low voice. “I have a few calls to make, but it shouldn’t take long, then I’m all yours.”

“That’s okay. Can I take a shower while you make your calls?”

“Chérie, you can do whatever you like. You can use my phone, my shower, my TV. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, you have free reign of this place. The only thing off-limits is my computer — it has a lot of sensitive business information, you understand.”

“I wouldn’t know how to work it anyway,” you shrugged. “Cole keeps telling me I should get one for work, but I like doing everything by hand.”

“Oh, I agree, there’s nothing quite like the personal touch. But when you have as much going in and out every day as I do, doing it by hand just becomes tedious.”

You continued chatting amicably as you ate, and you appreciated that he didn’t flirt once. Instead, he asked you questions: about your life, your business, your interests, your opinions on current affairs.

After breakfast, Lionel went into his home office to make the calls he needed to, and you went upstairs to brush your teeth and take a shower in his ensuite. When you came back downstairs, your hair wet and your body clean, wrapped in Lionel’s robe again, you heard him on the phone as you approached his office. His voice was muffled by the closed door so you couldn’t make out what he was saying, but you could hear him using a tone of voice that commanded respect, giving firm orders to whoever he was speaking to, and you felt a tingle of arousal to hear him speak with such calm power.

You turned the TV on and flopped down on the sofa while you waited for Lionel. You really had no idea what you wanted to do today, if you wanted to go out somewhere or stay in, if you wanted to fuck all day or just canoodle on the sofa — all you knew was that you wanted Lionel’s company. For a long time, just seeing Lionel’s face plastered on another billboard or magazine had irritated you, but now, you were feeling butterflies again.

Lionel slid open the doors to his office and sauntered out with a prideful walk that told you his phone call had gone the way he wanted. He was also naked again.

“All good?” you asked.

“All good,” Lionel confirmed with a smile. “No photographs of us from last night will be printed. I convinced the necessary people that doing so would detract from the importance of the Trust’s work.”

He sat down on the sofa next to you and put an arm around your shoulder.

“Lionel Shabandar’s mystery woman will remain a mystery,” he said before kissing you on the shoulder affectionately. “You get your privacy, the Trust keeps its spotlight, and I get to keep you to myself. Everybody wins.”

You smiled and rested your head on his shoulder. Lionel’s arm around you tightened, and he kissed the top of your head. He turned his attention to the TV, which was currently playing an educational programme about architecture.

“Is this your usual Sunday morning entertainment?” Lionel asked with wry amusement. “A little dry, isn’t it?”

“I watch it sometimes, but it was just on when I switched the telly on.”

“Oh, yes, BBC Two, I was watching the cricket yesterday.”

Maybe it should have worried you how comfortable you were with him already. Eighteen years of bitterness and anger was already beginning to feel like a distant memory. You’d walked into Lionel’s office less than forty-eight hours ago only looking for answers, and now here you were, cuddling up to him on the sofa in front of the TV, you in his robe and he in nothing at all, chatting meaninglessly about what was on the TV.

You lost track of time, but you thought it must have been a few hours that had passed when Lionel’s phone rang. He groaned, detangled himself from you, and reluctantly got up to pick up the phone.

“Nice arse,” you called out as he walked away from you.

Lionel gave his booty a little shake, and you laughed.

“Lionel Shabandar speaking,” he said when he picked up the phone. “Hello, Sinclair.”

Lionel glanced over at you as Sinclair no doubt rambled about something on the phone.

“I can’t, I’m busy today. … Yes, I know, but I’ll have lunch at home. … No! No, do not come over, Sinclair.”

You practically jumped up from the couch and ran across the room to grab the phone from Lionel’s hand.

“Hi, Sinclair, it’s [Y/n]. Lionel would love to have lunch with you today, so long as I can join.”

Lionel folded his arms and stared daggers at you, but you just grinned cheekily as you heard Sinclair gasp loudly.

“[Y/n]?! You’re at Lionel’s place? In the morning? That’s it, we have to do lunch now, I need to know everything! I was just telling Lionel that I’m in town for a work meeting — I know, I know, on a Sunday, Natalie’s already reminded me of that several times — but I got my times mixed up, I thought it was at 11 but it’s actually not until 3! There’s no point going home just to come back, so I thought it was the perfect time to have lunch with my cousin — and lunch with my cousin and my favourite art lover is even more perfect! Do you want to meet at the Black Dog, the one on Fleet Street?”

“Yeah, sure, we can meet there. We’ll get dressed and head over now.”

“Okay, great! See you soon, [Y/n]!”

You hung up the phone and Lionel groaned in frustration.

“Ugh, you’re worse than my PA, always scheduling meetings at the worst times.” Lionel grabbed you by the hips and pulled you close. “What if I don’t want to have lunch with Sinclair, hm? What if I want to stay home and fuck you?”

“Well, I’m going to have lunch with Sinclair,” you said decisively. “If you want to stay here where you can wank in the nude, go ahead. But I’m going to get some clothes on and go and see Sinclair.”

“Really? You’re going to a pub for lunch in the same dress you wore last night?”

“So you’re saying you don’t have spare women’s clothes hanging up in one of the spare bedrooms in case one of your flings needs something to wear?”

Lionel hesitated. “…No, I’m not saying that.”

“Ha, knew it,” you said triumphantly. You kissed him on the cheek, then skipped away towards the stairs, and Lionel followed you, taking the opportunity of being behind you on the stairs to give your bum a squeeze.

“You’ve got a nice juicy bruise on your arse, by the way,” he growled, and you felt his large hand gently caressing the sore area.

“Yeah, I saw that in the shower. I’m not surprised with how hard you were biting it last night.”

Lionel chuckled victoriously and kissed your temple as you reached the landing.

“Well, you know, we lions are known for our powerful bite. There, that bedroom has some clean women’s clothes. Keep whatever you wear.”

You managed to find some clothes you liked in your size, and when you met Lionel down by the lift, you were both fully decent, and he looked very handsome in a red polo shirt.

“It takes about a minute and a half to get to the bottom floor from here,” Lionel said as he opened the lift doors and gestured for you to go ahead. “Do you think you can cum around my fingers in that time?”

“Don’t even try it, mister!” you laughed.

Lionel pressed a button on the keypad, and this time you did notice that there were only four buttons. He hooked his index finger around the waist of the skirt you were wearing and pulled you closer to him. You fell into his arms far too easily.

“Don’t worry, I won’t. I told you — if I’m not your boyfriend, it’s wholly inappropriate for me to start fingering you in the lift.”

“You didn’t seem to think that when you were fingering me in the lift yesterday.”

“Lions may be proud, chérie, but I’m not so proud as to think I can never change my mind.” He made a show of pulling his hands away from you, holding them up as if you needed to see them to know he wasn’t groping you. “I’ll keep my hands to myself. I am, after all, merely your ex -boyfriend.”

You knew what he was getting at, but you weren’t willing to budge yet. Instead, you busied yourself with checking you still had everything in your purse, and when the lift came to a stop and the doors slid open, Lionel led you back into the car park you’d come in from.

One of the benefits of having a private lift: Lionel’s parking space was right next to it. Jerry the driver was standing by the car, waiting, as if he’d been standing there waiting ever since dropping you off last night.

He opened the rear door, and Lionel gave you a hand in.

“Where did Sinclair want to meet?”

“The Black Dog on Fleet Street.”

“Alright. You heard the woman, Jerry,” Lionel said to his driver. “Take us to the Black Dog.”

The journey, once again, would take longer by car than it would have by tube or bus — hell, you could even walk there. But Lionel would probably rather eat a piece of his art collection before he stepped foot on public transport, so you resigned yourself to being driven.

“Sinclair’s gonna ask a lot of questions,” you said to Lionel as the car made its way through the busy city streets. “What are we telling him?”

“That’s up to you, chérie. I told you, I’m whatever you want me to be.”

“Let’s just tell him the truth, then. I talked to you like I promised him I would, you invited me to the fundraiser, I came, then afterwards we went back to yours. Now it’s the next day. He doesn’t need to know anything more than that.”

“He’s going to think we’re together, you know.”

“Yeah, well, he also thinks it’s a good idea to stay with Natalie, so he’s not exactly the world’s leading expert on relationships.”

Lionel scoffed. “Isn’t that the truth. He’s the world’s leading expert on pretty much everything but relationships, despite the fact he’s a serial monogamist.”

“That’s probably why he’s not dumped her.”

“What, because he doesn’t have his next girlfriend lined up?”

“No. Because he doesn’t know how to be alone.”

Lionel looked at you curiously.

“I think you might be on to something there,” he said thoughtfully. “Growing up, we did most things together. By the time our careers demanded we live more separate lives, he was already living with Emily.”

“Oh, speaking of Emily!” you exclaimed, so suddenly it made him jump. “What is this I hear about you sleeping with her?!”

“What? They were broken up!” Lionel protested indignantly.

“For like two weeks! Your brother is experiencing his very first heartbreak, and what do you do? Do you comfort him? Nooo, you comfort her the only way you know how, by sticking your dick in her. How would you have liked it if Sinclair slept with me after our break up?”

“First of all, Sinclair is not my brother —”

“Yes, he is. Yes, he is! Sure, technically he’s your cousin, but genetically he’s your half-brother, and emotionally, at least to him, he’s your brother. Hell, you might as well be twins, you look so alike. That betrayal must have been worse for him than the break up.”

“Don’t assume you know Sinclair better than I do. And if we’re talking about betrayal, what about the fact he knew the reason you broke up with me and didn’t tell me for seventeen years?”

“Oh, you knew, Lionel!” you scoffed. “You were a dumb kid who’d never heard of the word ‘consequence’ but you weren’t stupid.”

“Why are we arguing all of a sudden?” Lionel asked incredulously. “I thought we were having a good day!”

“Yeah, we were, then you reminded me of another thing I’m pissed at you about,” you said grumpily, your arms folded.

“Look, why don’t you sit down and make a list of all the things you’re pissed at me about, then I can go through each point and apologise. Get it all done in one go, rather than springing something new on me in the middle of the day.”

“I think that was it,” you huffed. “I’ll let you know if I think of anything else.”

Lionel scoffed and rolled his eyes.

“…What was the second point?” you asked after a few moments.

“What?”

“You said first of all. What was second of all?”

Lionel sighed. “I was going to say that I did comfort him. I’ve sat there and let him cry on my shoulder after every single bloody break up. He never learns his lesson. He falls in love far too quickly, and I always tell him this, and he always says he can’t help it. He puts too much of his self-esteem onto whether or not other people love him. Never mind the fact that if he let himself be single, he’d still have me, and our mums, and all the friends he’s constantly collecting. He has a massive bloody support network. It’s not like he’d be lonely.”

“Hmm, I get the impression they’re fair weather friends,” you said thoughtfully. “They’ll go to his parties to drink his wine and eat his food, but how many of them would let him cry on their shoulder? His big, vibrant energy pulls them in, but how many of them will stick around when that energy dims?”

“…I forgot how annoyingly right you can be,” Lionel muttered. “But my point still stands! He doesn’t need a romantic relationship to not be lonely. Fear of loneliness is a terrible reason to be in a relationship, and it’s probably why they’ve all failed, because his happiness relies on them too much. In my opinion, if you can’t handle being alone, you’re not ready to be together.”

“That’s… surprisingly insightful.”

Lionel cocked an eyebrow at you. “Like you said — I’m not stupid. And I’m not a dumb kid anymore.”

“No… no, you’re not. And hopefully you haven’t slept with any of Sinclair’s other exes.”

“Christ, no. I’m not doing that again. Oh, look, speak of the Devil…”

Lionel pointed out the window, where Sinclair was standing outside the pub, waiting for you. His eyes were cast downwards, his brow furrowed slightly, as if he were deep in thought. He spotted Lionel’s car pulling up, and his face quickly lit up.

You got out of the car first, and Sinclair nearly knocked you over when he barrelled into you for a hug.

“Oh my god, [Y/n], I am so happy to see you!”

You laughed as you hugged him back.

“It’s only been a week!”

“I know, but clearly a lot has happened since then!”

“Excuse me, can I get out of the car, please?” Lionel grumbled from behind you. Sinclair had barrelled into you so fast you hadn’t had time to move away from the door, so Lionel was currently stuck waiting for you to move.

Sinclair released his grip on you to let you move aside, and Lionel climbed out of the car, grateful that Sinclair hadn’t barrelled into him too.

“Come on, I’ve got drinks waiting for both of you!” Sinclair said, putting his arm around your shoulder to guide you into the pub. “[Y/n], this is one of our favourite places, we come here often for a pint and some food. In fact, we were in here when Lionel first told me he’d tracked you down last year!”

The pub was fairly busy, as it was a Sunday lunchtime and everyone wanted a roast, but as Sinclair chattered away, he led you to a booth tucked away in a corner, giving you a little more privacy. Three pints of beer were waiting on the table, one already half-drunk; you and Lionel sat on one side of the booth with the full pints, and Sinclair sat opposite you.

He put his chin in his hand and looked between the two of you with a grin.

“Sooo… tell me everything.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” Lionel said curtly as he raised his pint to his lips.

Sinclair turned his attention to you expectantly.

“Come on, [Y/n], you’ll tell me, won’t you? How come you were in Lionel’s place this morning?”

“Well, I woke up there, so…”

“I knew it!” Sinclair exclaimed, slamming his hand down on the table excitedly, causing Lionel to jump slightly and your pint to spill a little. “Lionel told me you were going to the fundraiser with him last night, and I asked him if it was a date. He said no but I knew he was lying!”

“It wasn’t a date,” Lionel insisted. “We agreed to get to know each other again, and since we have a shared interest in art, I thought it an appropriate event to invite her to.”

“Yeah, which is exactly what a date is!” Sinclair said, as if it were obvious. “You go places together and get to know each other, and if it goes really well, sometimes you end up waking up next to each other in the morning. So it must have gone really well!”

“Sinclair, seriously, don’t bloody push this,” Lionel said sternly. “Even if it was a date —”

“Which it was.”

“— it was one date. We are not back together. Right, [Y/n]?”

“I gotta agree with Lionel on this one, sorry, Clair,” you said. “We already had an argument in the car on the way over here, so it’s not exactly sunshine and rainbows.”

“Okay, but that’s good, that means you’re talking, right? You can have all the arguments you’ve been building up for the last eighteen years, then when the air is all cleared, you can get back together!”

Lionel sighed in frustration, then shuffled out of his seat.

“I’m going to the bar to order food. Sinclair, I assume you’ve already ordered.”

“Yes, mine’s coming!”

“Fine. [Y/n], what do you want? They do pork, beef, turkey or mixed roast.”

“Oh, um, pork, please.”

Lionel nodded, then left for the bar, leaving you alone with Sinclair.

“So I guess we don’t need to do our lunch date tomorrow,” Sinclair said to you. “But I’d like to anyway!”

“Yeah, of course we can. Did you speak to Natalie, then?”

Sinclair nodded. “Yeah. She didn’t say much… just that she felt things were stale and Richard offered her some excitement.”

“Stale? Sinclair, you’ve not even been married a year. Had she expressed that feeling before?”

Sinclair shook his head, then took a sip of his beer.

“This is the first I’m hearing of it,” he said.

“That’s ridiculous. She didn’t even try to communicate with you that she was unhappy, just jumped into bed with her brother? I don’t know, Clair. It sounds like an excuse to me, not a reason.”

Sinclair shrugged. He glanced over to the bar, where Lionel was still trying to get served.

“What did Lionel say? Did he give you an explanation?”

“Yeah, he said it was because he was stupid.”

Sinclair tried to suppress a laugh, but you laughed too.

“I believe him, though, that it really was that simple. He was stupid. He said he thought he could have it all, a steady girlfriend at home and a different girl to fuck every week. He told me how he spent most of the year drunk or high, and that you had to slap some sense into him.”

Sinclair’s expression darkened.

“Yeah, he really pissed me off. I was sick of cleaning up after him when he took too much of something. He’s lucky he never ended up in the hospital! He missed one of his uni exams because he was hungover, that was the last straw for me. I told him he had to get his act together, that he’d never get the first class degree he was so confident of if he didn’t go to his bloody exams. It was pretty bad, actually, we’ve never argued like that. We would squabble as kids but never really argue. He didn’t back down until I told him that he was letting you down, and that if he continued acting like that and somehow didn’t get himself killed, he’d lose you. And he did, he got clean… and decided to propose.”

“That’s a lovely story, Sinclair,” Lionel said as he sat down next to you. “But you missed out the part that came after the break up.”

You frowned. “What happened after?”

Lionel and Sinclair exchanged a glance, as if they were using a twin bond to agree what to tell you.

“I relapsed,” Lionel admitted in a quiet voice. “Badly. I spent the rest of the summer in a rehab clinic trying to get clean before term started again.”

You stared at him, eyes wide. You’d pictured him spending the rest of the summer moping around his giant mansion, not in rehab.

“Lionel, I had no idea…”

“Of course you didn’t, you wouldn’t answer the bloody phone,” Lionel snapped. “I suppose it’s a good thing you didn’t tell me you were pregnant. My father was a piece of shit, cruel and violent, but at least he wasn’t so weak as to be a drug addict.”

You put your hand over his on the table.

“Lionel, I have hurled a lot of insults your way over the years, but weak is not one of them. Drug addiction is the result of chemical reactions, not a personality defect. You had the wisdom to realise what was going on and you did something about it. That shows strength.”

Lionel’s hand squeezed yours. He avoided your gaze, staring at a spot on the floor, his expression unreadable.

Realising he wasn’t going to tell you anything more, you turned to Sinclair, who was watching his cousin warily.

“Did anything else happen after that?”

Sinclair shook his head. “He’s been clean ever since — as far as I’m aware. I think I’d notice if he relapsed again. Put his head down, got that first class degree he wanted. Now he owns a media conglomerate. Not bad, eh?”

You looked back at Lionel with a small smile and nudged his shoulder.

“Hey, Lionel… remember our first date? I told you I expected you to be the biggest name in business by 36. I was right, wasn’t I?”

He blinked and seemed to come back to reality. He turned his attention back to you, and you could see a smile pulling at the corner of his lips, although there was a sadness there too.

“I just wish you’d been by my side while I built it all,” he said quietly.

When your lips met Lionel’s, Sinclair suddenly felt like he was intruding on something very private. He whispered an excuse that he needed the bathroom and extracted himself from the booth, leaving you and Lionel alone.

There was something desperate about the way Lionel kissed you back, as if he were pleading with you, begging you to understand; as if his lips were trying to convey in a kiss what they couldn’t with words.

And you did. Finally, after so many years, you understood. He’d hit rock bottom, and Sinclair had helped him up; on his path to recovery, he’d wanted to commit to you, to put all the ways he’d fucked up behind him. And when you rejected him, he fell again, and it was only through his own strength of character and the support of his family that he’d climbed up again, his ambition strong as it was, so determined to become the man he’d always wanted to be.

He’d fucked up. He should have told you he was struggling, should have told you he was in rehab, should have apologised a thousand times over for betraying you.

But you weren’t innocent either. You’d known something was up, but you’d done nothing about it. If he was calling less, you could have gone to Cambridge. Perhaps you would have been able to pull him back before he hit rock bottom at all.

And you should have given him more than just “no.” You should have answered his calls. You sure as fuck should have told him you were pregnant.

When your lips parted, you realised you were crying. Lionel raised a hand to your cheek and gently wiped away a tear.

“I’m here now,” you whispered. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

Lionel smiled.

“Good. Because I’m never letting you go again.”

#lionel shabandar x reader

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snowblossomreads · 29 days ago

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😭😭 Clair losing his friend again bc of his loser cousin!!!!! BOOOOOOOOOO 🤣🤣am once again here to spread yn and sinclair friendship propaganda bc lionel is a thot

also

MY BABY GORL BABY AMIEE 😭😭😭 SHE REALLY FLED THE COUNTRY 😭😭😭SHE SORRY

Champagne Problems

Chapter 4. How Did It End?

Lionel/Reader

Summary: In 1989, an argument breaks out at Sinclair's wedding; in 1971, Lionel and Sinclair move to Cambridge to start university.

Word Count: 14.2k

cw: drug misuse (specifically cocaine), cheating

All chapters here!

Read on Ao3 or WattPad or the below the cut:

1989

You weren’t surprised to discover that Sinclair��s wedding was taking place at a vineyard. It seemed exactly the kind of unnecessarily extravagant place a rich person would hire out for a wedding.

You couldn’t help but wonder how much Natalie was contributing towards it. Between Helen’s millions and Sinclair’s millions, the Bryants had more than enough to fund the whole thing; you didn’t expect Natalie’s job as a secretary paid nearly as well.

The whole thing had Sinclair all over it. It was in a vineyard in France, because of course it was, and most of the guests, you discovered as you mingled, were people Sinclair knew. Relatives, co-workers, friends, friends of friends, partners of all the above. They all knew Sinclair somehow, and had either never met Natalie, or like you had met her only briefly in the shadow of Sinclair’s energy.

Not for the first time, you wondered what Sinclair saw in her. She seemed nice enough, and she was certainly pretty, but she wasn’t very interesting.

As you met more and more of Sinclair’s friends, you began to feel out of place, not because you weren’t rich - he had plenty of normal friends - but because you weren’t married. Sinclair’s last minute invitation had included a plus one, but you’d come alone, and you were feeling it.

You wondered if maybe this was, at least in part, the reason Sinclair had proposed to Natalie after only six months: all his friends were married. You heard countless stories about Sinclair being a groomsman; at 36, he was probably feeling like he was missing out by not being married. And Natalie, pretty and nice Natalie – she was good enough.

You hoped she really was good enough for him. Sinclair was one of the sweetest, funniest, kindest people you’d ever known, and you didn’t want him wasting his heart on someone he was settling for.

You certainly weren’t the only person who thought they were something of a mismatch. Numerous guests made comments about their strange pairing, and how quickly Sinclair had proposed.

“Has he had many girlfriends before her?” you asked one of Sinclair’s old university friends who’d introduced himself as Nigel. “I’m a bit out of touch, last one I knew about was Emily.”

“Emily!” Nigel exclaimed. “Now that’s a throwback. No, he’s had plenty since her. Poor thing, he was devastated by that one. Devastated by all of them, really, he throws his whole heart into every girlfriend he has.”

“I’m not surprised; he throws his whole heart into everything.”

Nigel nodded in agreement. “Aye, that he does. Right, let me think — so you knew Emily. That ended in third year — he was balls deep in his dissertation when she wanted him to be balls deep in her.”

He guffawed at his own joke.

“Oh, here’s the kicker though — two weeks they’d been broken up, he was still miserable of course, and she went and slept with his cousin.”

You choked on your drink.

“What, you mean Lionel?”

“Yep, nothing gets you over an ex like shagging his nearly identical cousin, I suppose. Well, after that was Amiee, lovely girl she was — he was gonna propose, actually, but she moved abroad. Then there was Laura, now Natalie. No, wait, there was Alex just before Amiee. Anyway, I suppose this time he decided to lock Natalie down before anything went wrong.”

You grimaced. “That’s not really the reason to get married.”

Nigel shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Not everyone gets married for true love. Sometimes it’s enough love.”

The door to the ceremony room was opened then, and an usher announced that it was time to take your seats.

You’d been to a lot of weddings by now: like Sinclair, your friends around you were all getting married. And at every one, the ceremony room had had a groom’s side and a bride’s side. There was no such arrangement here: apart from the front rows reserved for family, anyone could sit anywhere.

You wondered if it was because there were very few, if any, guests for the bride’s side.

You decided to take a seat near the back. You didn’t know anyone, and you were a last-minute invite; you’d feel a bit of an imposter ingratiating yourself into the swarms of family and friends.

A figure appeared next to you, and although you were staring off into space, you just knew who it was.

Maybe you had a connection. Maybe you recognised his scent. Or maybe you just recognised the energy of a self-absorbed arsehole.

“Sinclair wants you to sit up front with the family,” Lionel said.

You reluctantly looked up at him.

Dammit. Why did he have to look so handsome in his three-piece suit?

You glanced up to the front of the room. Sinclair was hovering around the altar with his other groomsmen, but he caught your eye and waved you over with a grin.

“Alright, but he’s responsible if Georgina kills me.”

The corner of Lionel’s mouth twitched, as if he were trying not to smile.

“It’s been seventeen years, [Y/n]. She’s over it. Come on.”

You took a steadying breath, then followed Lionel up the aisle. Sinclair greeted you with a grin and a bear hug, as if seeing you at his wedding was the best thing that had happened all day.

“[Y/n], I’m so glad you made it! Here, you sit with Mum. Mum, you remember [Y/n], right?”

You turned to where Helen and Georgina were sitting, Georgina at the end of the row on account of her wheelchair, and a seat next to Helen left empty for you. They were both in their sixties now, but neither of them let that stop them looking absolutely amazing: they were both completely grey, and while Helen had cut her hair short, Georgina had styled hers into an elegant ‘do that had definitely taken hours.

If either of them held any resentment for you, they didn’t show it. Helen stood to greet you, and you found yourself pulled into another bear hug.

“Of course I remember you! I’m so glad you’re here, [Y/n]. I couldn’t tell you how excited Sinclair was when he told us you were coming. Come, sit, sit.”

She practically pulled you into your seat. The seat on the other side was empty, and you really hoped Sinclair wasn’t doing something stupid like putting you next to Lionel.

As Helen chatted away to you, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Lionel was standing with Sinclair, talking to him in hushed tones.

The three groomsmen were all dressed identically to Lionel, except that his pocket square was a different colour, denoting that he was the best man.

You smiled. Of course he was the best man. Who else would Sinclair have asked? He had more friends than you could count, but Lionel had always been his best friend.

To your relief, Lionel didn’t sit next to you; when the ceremony began, he took his seat across the aisle from Georgina. You ended up sat next to one of the other groomsmen instead.

Sinclair certainly seemed happy. But whether he was happy to be getting married to Natalie or just to be getting married at all, you weren’t too sure.

The wedding breakfast was, of course, extremely generous. Sinclair went all out on the food, and when he gave his speech, he used cue cards to stop himself going off on tangents, though you did see Lionel nudge him a few times to bring him back on track.

When finally the speeches were done and the food cleared away, it was time for the first dance.

Sinclair was very good at a lot of things, but dancing wasn’t one of them. They’d clearly rehearsed it, and you could see Sinclair’s brow furrowed in concentration as he focused on remembering the dance moves and not tripping over Natalie’s feet.

The song ended, and finally you were free of the formalities. You grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waiter and practically ran outside, where several tables and chairs offered a reprieve and some ashtrays.

“Not sticking around to dance?” said a familiar voice as you took a much needed drag from your cigarette.

You turned and, sure enough, there he was.

“I’m not drunk enough yet,” you said shortly. “But I’m working on it.”

Lionel took an unoffered seat next to you. He rested his chin on his steepled fingers and looked at you.

“You know, if you’re going to be friends with Sinclair again, you’re going to have to talk to me at some point.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

Lionel scoffed.

“Really? Nothing at all?”

“Is there something you expect me to say?”

“No, of course not,” Lionel said bitterly. “You had nothing to say that night either. No explanation, just… gone.”

You laughed. “I thought you were intelligent, Lionel. Did I need to explain myself?”

“After what you did to me? Yes! I gave you everything, [Y/n]! And I wanted to give you so much more! But you just… left. One word, that’s all you gave me. All our relationship came to was one bloody word. So, yes, a little explanation would have been welcome.”

You took a long drag from your cigarette and looked at him.

“Wow. All this time, I thought you knew. I thought it would be so easy for you to connect the dots. But you’re so fucking narcissistic, you probably don’t even realise you did wrong, do you?” You shrugged. “I’m surprised Sinclair didn’t spell it out for you.”

Lionel sighed and rubbed his temple, as if the conversation were giving him a migraine. “[Y/n]... I am not a man who asks for things. I take them. But I am asking you now to give me an explanation. Please.”

“Wow, the P-word. Did that hurt to say?”

Lionel slammed a fist on the table.

“Dammit, [Y/n]! I loved you! I fucking loved you and you didn’t even –”

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t have cheated on me!”

There was a long pause as you stared one another down, both daring the other to break, but Lionel’s silence told you everything you needed to know.

You scoffed and sat back in your seat. “You’re not even trying to deny it,” you muttered as you put out your cigarette in the ashtray.

Lionel groaned and held his head in his hands.

“How the fuck did you know?”

“Sinclair’s not stupid. He knew something was up. You really thought you could have it all, didn’t you? You thought you could fuck around when he wasn’t there and he wouldn’t notice. You didn’t even try to be discreet, because why would there be consequences for your actions? And you’re such an egotistical arsehole that even now, after seventeen years, you still can’t figure out that you fucking around and my leaving you were connected!”

“Of course I thought about it, but I didn’t think you knew! I didn’t think Sinclair knew, much less that he’d tell you.”

“Of course he told me! He may be your cousin, but that doesn’t mean he’s anything like you. He has morals. He knew what you’d done and what you were planning, and he knew he had to tell me.”

“Fucking bastard,” Lionel cursed. “I’ll have him for this.”

“No, you bloody well won’t,” you said sharply, standing up as if to block his way. “None of this is his fault. You cheated on me. You broke my heart. And, yeah, maybe I should have spelled it out for you. I’m not squeaky clean in this. But Sinclair is, and this is his wedding, and you are not going to ruin it by blaming him for something that was entirely your fault.”

“We could have worked things out!” Lionel shouted. He was on his feet now too, towering over you, though you showed no sign of being intimidated by his height. “I knew it was wrong, so I stopped! I wanted this” - he gestured around him - “and everything that comes with it. I wanted to give you everything, to be loyal, to live with you and share my life with you. I realised that I couldn’t have it all, and so I chose you. I wanted to give you the world, I could have given you the world!”

“We don’t need anything from you, Lionel! Not your broken promises, not your money, nothing!”

He stared at you, brow furrowed. You shook your head, grabbed your drink, and stepped away from him as you took a long gulp of champagne.

Eventually, Lionel spoke.

“What do you mean, we?”

You turned back to him, frowning. “What?”

“You said, ‘We don’t need anything from you.’ Who’s we?”

“Me, I meant me – I. I don’t need anything from you.”

He approached you slowly, methodically, like – well, like a lion hunting its prey. You knew from the stern expression that you were fucked, and when you backed into the wall, you had nowhere to run.

“[Y/n]. I’m going to ask one last time. Who - is - ‘we’?”

“Me…”

“...And?”

You glanced away instinctively, but you steeled yourself and looked him in the eye.

“Our son.”

- - -

1971

After your Paris trip, you were hit with some serious post-holiday blues. Not only did you have to return to boring old England, but you missed being in a bubble with Lionel. You’d spent the entirety of Sunday in your hotel room, having sex and ordering room service, drinking and smoking, having sex again, and resting as much as you could before Lionel was ready to go again.

He hadn’t been exaggerating — he really was like a wild beast that had been unleashed. He’d been able to hold back before, when sex was just a fantasy, but now that he knew what it was really like, he couldn’t get enough.

And he was adventurous. He wanted to have sex on every surface possible. On the sofa, in the jacuzzi - which was a godsend when your muscles ached - and even, occasionally, in the bed.

You were, of course, very eager too. But he really seemed to be aiming for the fifty times a day that lions apparently shagged when they were in heat. And Lionel was definitely in heat.

“I’m going to buy my own private jet one day,” Lionel murmured to you on the plane home — first class, of course. “Then we can fuck in midair while I fly you around the world for romantic getaways. Where do you want to go next? I hear Italy’s very romantic.”

You went straight home after landing, as you knew your mum would worry if you didn’t, and on Tuesday you went back up to Windsor to see Lionel again.

“You should just move in, [Y/n],” Sinclair said as he greeted you with a bear hug, as if you’d been away for months, not days. “Lionel’s so grumpy when you’re not around. He mopes around like a lovesick puppy.”

“No, I don’t,” Lionel insisted. “Come on, [Y/n], let’s go upstairs —”

“Aww, c’mon, you guys just spent a whole weekend together, and you wanna run off for some privacy already? I’ve been so bored here on my own!”

Sinclair flopped down on a nearby armchair dramatically.

“And you want to leave me alone again!”

You laughed at his endearing antics.

“Alright, fine, let’s have some lunch first,” Lionel agreed reluctantly.

Sinclair cheered, whether for food or company or both, but he was too distracted by stuffing his face and telling you every thought he’d had since last week to notice that Lionel was getting very handsy with you on the sofa.

After pulling his hand away from roaming under your t-shirt for the third time, you made an excuse about needing the bathroom, and snuck away upstairs.

Lionel got the hint, and he followed you soon after.

“Christ, I thought he’d never let us go,” he growled as he tugged your t-shirt over your head. “I could have stuck my hand in your knickers and he wouldn’t get the hint.”

You giggled. Lionel pushed you backwards onto the bed and climbed on top of you, condom already in hand as he pulled your shorts down your legs.

“Those little booty shorts aren’t helping. All that thigh on display, just waiting for me to do this…”

He placed his hands on either thigh and pushed them apart, then growled with desire when he saw his prize.

You tried to be quiet, conscious that Lionel’s bedroom was right above the sitting room you’d left Sinclair in, but he had other ideas.

“What do you know? My bed squeaks,” Lionel laughed as he pounded into you hard enough for the bed to start protesting.

Your response was a garbled moan, and Lionel grinned. He loved it when he rendered you speechless. It was usually then that he asked you questions - how does it feel? Can you feel my cock stretching you out? Do you want me to slow down? - just to hear you trying to formulate a response.

You burnt through condoms like wildfire. Lionel had to buy a new box at least every week, and you just knew that he was so confident and smug when he returned to the pharmacy yet again for more condoms.

The summer ended far too fast. Lionel never ran out of fancy places to take you (when you managed to convince him to put some clothes on and get out of bed), Sinclair never ran out of interesting things to tell you about, and it was only when you physically saw Lionel packing up that it really hit home that he was leaving.

“You’ll come visit me, right?” you asked him for the umpteenth time as he tried to squeeze all of his identical white shirts into one box.

“Of course I will, chérie. I can’t promise how often, I’m sure I’ll have a lot of studying to do, but I’ll come back as much as I can.”

“Mmm, I don’t think your cock’ll let you stay away for very long,” you teased, coming up behind him to trace your hands over his shoulders as he continued folding shirts. “You’ll be going from fucking every day back to wanking every day, it’ll be torture.”

Lionel smirked.

“We’ll just have to make up for it when I come back.”

You tried not to cry when he left. You knew he liked to be stoic and strong, and he told you lions don’t cry. You were his lioness, as he loved to remind you, so you did your best to keep the tears at bay.

With many final kisses, hugs, I love yous and promises to call, you finally let him get in the car. You hugged Sinclair goodbye too, and he had no qualms about crying as he said goodbye to you.

It was three long, excruciating days before you had a phone call.

You almost fell down the stairs running when your mum told you Sinclair was on the phone.

“Sinclair, hi! How was the move? How are you? How’s Lionel? Is Cambridge boring? It’s totally fine if you wanna come back.”

Sinclair laughed on the other end of the phone. “Hello to you too, [Y/n]! I’m great, and Lionel’s great too! Sorry we haven’t called, it took ages to get the phone line installed in our flat. The guy literally just left, I called Mum first, then I called you. Lionel’s out, otherwise he’d be the one calling you, obviously, but I didn’t want you to worry. Cambridge is so fun! This first week is just social stuff, that’s what Lionel’s doing, he’s at the get to know you event for his course. Mine’s tomorrow. He misses you loads. So do I! I wish you could have moved with us, it would be so cool if the three of us were living together! Though we’d never get any coursework done I suppose, we’d be having too much fun. Lionel definitely wouldn’t. Do you want me to ask him to call you when he gets in?”

“Oh, yes, please!” you said, glad to finally get a word in. ”Mum said she’s gonna get a second phone that I can keep in my room since I’m gonna be using it so much. When do you guys start your classes?”

“On Monday! We got our timetables yesterday, we actually have one module together! Most of my classes are 9 o’clock starts, but I don’t mind, I like getting up early. It also means I have more time later in the day so I can do more societies! There are so many, I wanna join them all, but I don’t think I’ll have the time. I know Lionel wants to join the Future Leaders Society. That’s for people who want to be innovators, and we both know what his ambition’s like, and I bet he’ll make loads of connections. He said I should join too but it clashes with the Rambling Society, and I really wanna join that one. That’s rambling as in walking, not as in talking a lot, I don’t need a society for that, I know I do enough of it myself! Oh, wait, I think he’s just — hey, Li! Li, the phone’s working! [Y/n]’s on the line now, do you wanna talk to her?”

After a moment or two, you heard Lionel’s familiar voice, and just a simple “Hi, [Y/n]. Has Sinclair let you get a word in yet?” was enough to make you feel warm and comforted.

“One or two. How was your event? Sinclair said you were meeting people from your course.”

“Mmm, some very interesting people there… and some very uninteresting people. It’s a curious mix. Some are clearly only doing Business because that’s what their parents told them to do. I expect half of them will drop out by the end of the year.”

“Leaving only the best still in it, I suppose?”

“Exactly. I’d wager there’ll be no more than ten left next year, mark my words, and I’ll be top of the class, of course.”

“It’s not a competition, Li.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, everything’s a competition. I compete to be the greatest, Sinclair competes to be the loudest, and you compete to be the sexiest. We’re all winning, of course.”

You smiled and glanced around to make sure your mum wasn’t eavesdropping from the corridor again.

“I miss you,” you said quietly. “I keep thinking about you. Sleeping alone in my bed sucks.”

“I miss you too, chérie,” Lionel said in a low voice, similarly making sure Sinclair wasn’t eavesdropping. “Wanking into my hand’s just not the same anymore.”

You giggled, blushing. “Lionel! What if Sinclair hears you?”

“Oh, please, like he doesn’t do it too. I have to go, love, I really need a shit —”

“Charming.”

“— and I think Sinclair will burst if I don’t tell him how this event went soon. I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?”

“Okay. I love you, Li.”

“I love you too, chérie.”

“Tell her I love her three!” Sinclair called out in the background.

You laughed.

“Tell him I love him four.”

Lionel sighed. “Sinclair, she says she loves you four.”

”Yay!”

“I can’t believe I’m sharing a flat with him,” Lionel said, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “Bye, love.”

“Bye.”

Lionel called you again at the weekend, and you could tell by his voice he was hungover. He must have really drunk a lot to be hungover since, apparently, lions don’t get hungover.

Your mum got the second phone installed a few days later, and you were able to call Lionel with some privacy. He and Sinclair both already had lines in their bedrooms, and when Sinclair was out at his morning class and your mum was at work, Lionel called you with a very naughty idea.

“You want me to what?”

“You heard me. I want you to put your hand in your knickers and tell me how wet you are.”

“Not very, I just woke up… and you’re not here to wake me up with your wandering hands.”

“Mmm… we’ll soon change that, chérie. You’ll just have to be my wandering hands for me, won’t you? Let’s see… I usually start with touching your tits. I love feeling your nipples growing hard in my hands. Do you think you can make them hard for me?”

Lionel wasn’t the only one calling you regularly; Sinclair called often to catch up. Sometimes you felt like you were getting a university education by proxy when he rambled on about what he was learning on his course, although you didn’t really understand most of what he said. What you were more interested in hearing about, and what Sinclair was very happy to change the subject to, was a girl called Emily he’d met at one of his societies.

With no Lionel around to distract you, you became bored very quickly, so you asked your dad for more hours. He was trusting you more and more, and when he began scheduling you to open the cafe at 5 o’clock in the morning, you found it easier to stay at his the night before, rather than commuting in from Winchester — and so you found yourself spending half your nights at your mum’s house and half of them at your dad’s.

They weren’t the only parents vying for your time. Helen and Georgina had apparently decided, as Lionel’s girlfriend, you were the stand-in for their sons at the parties and events they were always going to. You couldn’t say yes to everything, as much as you wanted to — there was no way you could go to a fundraiser or whatever it was (you were never really sure) in London the night before you had to open the cafe at 5am – but you were always happy to attend when you could.

You were busier than you’d ever been. You had a full-time job now, working more hours in a week than you would have spent at school a year ago, and you had managed to find yourself caught between four parents in three different places — your mum in Winchester, your dad in Basingstoke, and Helen and Georgina in Windsor.

So when Lionel’s calls became less frequent, you didn’t notice at first. You were busy, and so was he. Even Sinclair was calling you less, busy as he was with the five university societies he’d finally settled on, and of course the girlfriend he was so in love with.

Christmas break finally came, though your dad reminded you every time you mentioned it that there was no such thing as Christmas break, and in fact the cafe would be busier than ever at Christmas with all the shoppers about. He wasn’t cruel, though; he let you take the weekend off when Lionel and Sinclair came home.

It was snowing harshly the day they were due back, and you spent the whole day worrying about their drive home. Georgina and Helen had the heating on and the fireplace crackling, and you were drinking them out of their hot chocolate, but you didn’t feel truly warm until you saw Sinclair’s car coming up the driveway.

You rushed out to meet them, the snow crunching beneath your feet as you ran as fast as you could without slipping over. Sinclair had hardly turned the engine off when Lionel was climbing out of the passenger seat, looking adorably grumpy in his big winter coat, and within moments snowflakes began landing in his soft blonde hair.

His grumpy expression quickly melted away when he saw you. He grinned, and you practically jumped into his arms.

“There’s my girl!” Lionel said with relief as he embraced you. “Oh, chérie, I missed you so much. Come on, upstairs, let’s fuck.”

You laughed and hit his shoulder playfully as he set you back down in the snow.

“Keep it in your pants, mister. At least let me say hello to Sinclair first.”

Sinclair was wading through the snow around the front of the car, his eyes barely visible between the hat pulled low and the scarf wrapped around his face. He waved at you, then promptly slipped and fell.

“Oh, no! Sinclair, are you okay?” you gasped, trudging over as quickly as you could to help him up.

“I’m okay!” came Sinclair’s muffled voice somewhere beneath his scarf. He finally stood up straight and pulled down his scarf to give himself some air to breathe. “Hi, [Y/n]! You wouldn’t believe how crazy the motorway was. I thought I was going to crash, like, ten times! But we made it!”

With a grin, he wrapped his arms around you as best he could considering his many layers.

“I’m so cold, though! Have Mum and Georgie got the fire going?”

“Yes, get yourselves inside, it’s freezing out here!”

The three of you carefully made your way into the house, treading carefully so as not to slip (again, in Sinclair’s case). A couple of the housekeeping staff were taking Lionel and Sinclair’s suitcases inside, and the boys both groaned with relief when they passed the threshold and were met with warm, central heated air.

Helen and Georgina came over to greet their sons, and Helen fussed over Sinclair’s inability to go more than a few feet in the snow without falling flat on his face.

“Hot toddies all around, I think,” Georgina decreed. “Come on, let’s get you two by the fire.”

Within minutes, you were all gathered around the fireplace with soothing hot drinks in your hands, Lionel and Sinclair sitting closest to the fire as they defrosted from their long car journey, and through chattering teeth Sinclair gave a blow-by-blow account of each near-crash they’d experienced, and the two actual crashes they’d seen.

Your hand was in Lionel’s, your chair pulled up close to his so you could rest your head on his shoulder. As Sinclair rambled on, every now and then, Lionel squeezed your hand or kissed the top of your head, and even occasionally managed to get a word in to contribute to the story.

When finally Sinclair finished his story and moved on to talking about his new girlfriend, Lionel decided it was time to unpack his suitcase. You stayed downstairs a little longer to watch the entertaining show of Helen quizzing Sinclair about when she was going to meet his girlfriend, then decided to make your way upstairs to check on Lionel.

You found him in his room, suitcase nearly unpacked, though the thought of finishing it was immediately forgotten when you walked in.

“God, finally, I thought you’d never come up here,” Lionel growled with relief. He dropped the socks in his hands and crossed the room to pick you up by your hips and twirl you around to deposit you on the bed, causing you to squeal with laughter.

“Clothes off, now,” he demanded, his hands already on his belt. “I have waited way too long to fuck you again.”

“Hey, you’re the one who never came home to visit,” you pouted, though of course you obediently pulled your jumper over your head. “You promised you’d come home for weekends, and you never did.”

“I know, chérie, I’m sorry. I could never find the time. But I’m here now, and I am going to remind you who you belong to.”

You shivered a little in the cold when your clothes were off, but Lionel quickly warmed you up when he pushed you onto your hands and knees on the bed and swiftly entered you from behind.

“Fuck, I missed this,” Lionel growled as his cock slid up your walls. “Perfect… fucking perfect…”

He gripped your hips firmly and wasted no time fucking into you hard and fast, as if he had to make up for the last three months.

Your hands clenched into fists as you held on uselessly to the bedsheets. There was no use trying to get any sort of purchase; the only thing keeping you in place was Lionel’s firm grip on your hips, pulling your body back towards him with every passionate thrust.

He was grunting with every thrust, and occasionally between grunts you heard a moan of your name. He must have known when your orgasm began to build, and being the arsehole that he was, he pulled out, leaving you hanging — but not for long. He flipped you onto your back and climbed on top of you, the promptly began fucking you again.

“I want you to look at me when you cum,” Lionel growled between gritted teeth. “I want to watch as you come undone. I want you to know that you’re mine.”

“I am yours, Lionel,” you promised. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he promptly dipped his head to your neck to pull at the skin with his teeth. You whined at the sensation, and he looked up at you, grinning proudly.

“Yes, you are. My fucking lioness. No one could ever — ever compare to you. Fuck. You take me so fucking well. [Y/n]…”

He was like a man crazed. His hips were pounding into you, his fingers gripping your shoulders like you were his lifeline, and his lips and teeth were grabbing at every inch of your skin they could reach.

“I love you, Lionel,” you moaned as you ran your fingers through his hair and he moaned right into your ear.

“I love you too, [Y/n]. I love you. I fucking - nngh! - love you so much.”

Your orgasm was building up again, and this time, he was going to let you have it. He heard your moans increasing in pitch, felt your walls squeezing him, and he just continued mumbling words of affection into your ear as his cock kept pummelling in and out of your desperate, hungry cunt.

“That’s it, good girl - good girl, cum for me. Cum around my cock, chérie. Mhm, that’s it — Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful. So perfect…”

You cried out his name as you came, and when he followed shortly after, your name sounded more like a roar.

He collapsed on top of you, panting, and the cold air stung against your sweaty skin. After a few moments, he shifted and pulled out of you to discard his condom in a nearby bin. He wrapped you up in his arms and took you under the duvet to cuddle, his lips ghosting your skin as you both laid there, content, warm in each other’s arms and in the afterglow of sex.

“Lionel… how would you feel about not using condoms?”

He didn’t respond at first. He just laid there, his arms still around you, though you felt a stillness in him.

“I don’t want kids,” he said firmly.

You shifted to prop yourself up on your elbow and look at him. He was looking at you with a frown, trepidation written all over his face.

“I was thinking I could go on the pill. I really… I really want to feel you properly, Lionel. I want to feel your skin against mine… and I want to feel you fill me up when you cum. Don’t you wanna know what it feels like raw?”

Lionel looked you up and down hungrily. “Yes, I do. Fuck, I do. I want nothing more. But…” He sighed and shook his head. “It’s too risky. I think it’s safer if we keep using condoms.”

“Okay,” you said, a little dejected. You’d really thought Lionel would jump at the idea.

“I’m sorry, chérie,” Lionel said softly. He pulled you back in close to him and kissed your forehead gently. “But I really don’t want you to get pregnant, and I’d be too busy worrying about it to enjoy it. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, babe,” you said. You kissed his shoulder and looked up at him with a smile. “I just thought you’d like it, but if you’re not comfortable, that’s okay. I just want to make you happy, Li.”

“Oh, you do,” he said earnestly. He stroked a sweaty strand of hair away from your face and smiled. “You have no idea how happy you make me, chérie. I love you.”

You kissed him, and though you intended it to be a gentle peck, he apparently had other ideas and kept his lips firmly pressed against yours.

You lazily threw a leg over his hips, intending to make out for a bit, but you felt something very familiar resting against his stomach.

You broke the kiss and giggled. “Again? Already?”

Lionel grinned with pride. “I’m always ready for you, love.”

“Mmm, clearly. Alright… but it’s my turn.”

Lionel opened his mouth to question what you meant, but all he let out was a groan when you adjusted your hips and sank down onto his cock, ready to ride him until the bed gave out.

- - -

The Christmas holidays went by far too quickly.

Your dad was right: there was no Christmas break at a cafe. But he was your dad first and your boss second, and he’d survived the Christmas period without you, he could do it again. Despite your insistence that it was okay, he point-blank refused to schedule you in for more than a few shifts a week.

You spent almost every day with Lionel, and it was like he’d never left. You spent a lot more time indoors than you had in the summer, not nearly going out as much, but neither of you had any cause to complain — it was just an excuse to spend longer in bed. When you did go out for some fresh air, somehow you gave Lionel cause to throw a snowball at you, and a snowball fight erupted, though a truce was quickly called when Lionel managed to pin you down in the snow and pepper you with kisses instead.

Christmas Day was unlike any Christmas you’d had before. In the past, you alternated Christmases between your parents, and it was always a small affair with just the two of you. This year, you were told in no uncertain terms that you would be spending Christmas with Lionel and his family — and so were your parents.

Your parents, who hadn’t actually seen each other for years, not since you became old enough to travel between them yourself. Your parents, who hadn’t met Lionel yet, and now they were going to meet the whole gang in one fell swoop.

They were civil with each other, but not friendly. They didn’t really talk to each other directly, you noticed, and sat as far from one another as they could. Lionel charmed them, and Sinclair entertained them with his endless stream of interesting facts.

Yours weren’t the only divorced parents in the house that day: Sinclair’s dad was there too.

“This is really weird,” you said to Lionel quietly once you had a moment alone amongst all the conversations, drinks, cigarettes, games and more drinks. “My parents, Sinclair’s parents…”

“We just need my father and we’ll have the whole set,” Lionel said casually as he lit up a cigarette. “Good thing he’s not here, though. I’d probably punch him in the face.”

“Have you heard from him?”

Lionel shook his head and tucked his lighter into his pocket.

“Not a peep. Let it stay that way.”

Christmas Day was one thing; New Year’s Eve was another.

You thought you’d been to some insane rich people parties already, but New Year’s Eve was on a whole other level. Helen and Georgina hosted, as they did every year, and the party was apparently so insane that they’d never let Sinclair and Lionel attend before as they were underage; they’d always gone to a party at a friend’s house.

Even with all the time you’d spent at the mansion, you’d still never managed to explore every single room, and tonight, every single room was in use. Every guest room was made up, every random room that had no apparent purpose filled with rich people drinking, dancing and doing drugs. Marquees in the garden hosted even more revellers, and you were sure at one point you saw Harold Wilson snorting a line of coke.

You loved a party just as much as any other eighteen-year-old, but this was a lot. You hardly saw Helen and Georgina, as they were playing the roles of hostesses, and when you lost Lionel in the crowd, that was when you started to panic.

You looked for him everywhere, but he was nowhere to be seen. Just as you were considering calling a taxi to take you back to Basingstoke, you heard something between a sob, a moan and a retching sound coming from behind a bush.

You followed the sound to investigate and found Sinclair kneeling in the dirt, his head buried between two ferns as he fertilised the soil with the remnants of his dinner.

“Sinclair, hey,” you said softly, kneeling down next to him to rub his back gently. “You okay there, mate?”

“No,” he groaned, his head still between the ferns.

With apparent great effort, Sinclair came out from within the greenery and sat back on his bum.

He looked awful. His face was pale, his eyes half-closed, and his wet face indicated he might have been crying too.

“Did you drink too much?” you asked, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly.

Sinclair shook his head.

“Did you… take something else?”

He nodded.

“As well as drinking?”

Another nod.

“Sinclair, please don’t tell me you took coke.”

“‘Kay, I won’t,” he said miserably.

Who on God’s green earth would possibly think it a good idea to offer Sinclair Bryant cocaine? He was already vibrating with energy most of the time, adding cocaine would probably give him a heart attack. Add alcohol as well, and you were just glad you’d found him conscious in the bushes and not dead.

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” you said. You put Sinclair’s arm over your shoulder, put your arm around his waist and tried to lift him. “Crikey, you’re heavy. Come on, you gotta help me out here.”

Sinclair’s response was a garbled moan, but he at least managed to push himself to his feet with your assistance. You readjusted your grip on him and did your best to drag him back towards the house, his feet stumbling along the way as he did his best to walk.

He tried to talk to you, but at some point between his brain and his mouth the words turned into mumbled nonsense. You, meanwhile, tried to get him up the stairs, but he decided that the middle of the staircase was the best place for a nap and tried to curl up to sleep.

You tried to drag him to his feet, but he was a useless lump.

“Sinclair, you can sleep in your bed! Come on, it’s like, thirty seconds from the top of the stairs to your bedroom.”

You tried to pull him along the floor, but he was still too heavy. You weren’t quite drunk, but you’d had enough to drink that your strength was not at its peak.

“Sinclair, c’mon, please,” you begged. “You need to get to bed.”

“‘Sokay, I can sleep here,” Sinclair mumbled.

“Emily’s waiting for you in your bedroom, don’t you wanna see her?”

His eyes shot open then and he looked up at you.

“Emily?”

“Yes, Emily. Come on, let’s go see her, okay?”

Sinclair nodded and, with the help of the bannister on one side and you on the other, pushed himself to his feet.

“Thought she was in Cardiff,” he mumbled, his ability to formulate words apparently now rejuvenated after his short stair nap.

“No, she’s here,” you lied. “She’s in your bedroom, so let’s get you there, okay?”

Sinclair smiled happily and nodded, letting you guide him down the hallway to his bedroom door. He tried to open the door, and when he couldn’t get in, he moaned sadly, like a wounded puppy.

“She locked me out!”

“No, Clair, we locked our bedrooms to keep guests out, remember? Where’s your key?”

He reached into his pocket and grinned victoriously when he pulled the key out. He tried to put it in the lock, but it wasn’t until you placed your hand over his and held it steady that he managed to get the door unlocked.

He swung the door open with more force than necessary, and within a few steps, Sinclair was face-down on the bed.

You took the key out of the keyhole, closed the door behind you, and locked it again.

Finally, a moment of peace.

“You said Emily was here!” Sinclair grumbled.

It was a short moment.

“Yeah, well, I lied. I had to get you off the stairs. What if you threw up all over that carpet? You wanna explain that to your mum?”

Sinclair, who was now sitting up on the edge of the bed, folded his arms like a petulant child.

“I wanna see Emily.”

“Emily’s in Cardiff, Clair. You’ll see her really soon, I promise. Now, let’s get you into bed. Do you think you’re gonna be sick again?”

Sinclair shrugged, still sulking.

You sighed.

“Alright, fine. Let’s just get you into bed. Where do you keep your pyjamas?”

Sinclair pointed at a chair in the corner, which had a pile of worn clothes on it, including a set of pyjamas, which you retrieved for him while he tried his best to take his shoes off.

“Here, let me do that,” you said. You put the pyjamas down on the bed next to him and knelt down to untie his shoes. “You get your shirt off.”

Sinclair was quiet while you untied his shoes and slipped them off, and when you looked back up at him, he was still fully clothed, his arms folded protectively over his chest.

“Sinclair. Shirt. Off,” you said firmly.

He shook his head. “Can’t let other girls see me naked.”

You scoffed and shook your head incredulously. “Sinclair, first of all, this is the least sexy situation I’ve ever been in. There’s a high chance you’ll throw up any second, and if you do, I’m sitting right in the firing line. Second, I’m not other girls. I’m [Y/n]. Lionel’s girlfriend. Remember?”

Sinclair looked at you properly, and seemed to recognise you suddenly.

“[Y/n]! Yeah, you’re [Y/n]. Lionel’s [Y/n]. He loves you loads, you know.”

You smiled. “Yes, he does, and I love him loads too. And if he were here, he’d also be telling you to get into your pyjamas, so how about we give that a go?”

Sinclair nodded and started trying to unbutton his shirt, but his drunk and high fingers had lost all dexterity. He whined in frustration, so you took over, and to your relief he let you kneel in front of him and unbutton his shirt without complaint.

“[Y/n], do you think it’s too early to tell Emily I love her?” Sinclair asked as you continued working on his buttons.

“Do you love her?”

Sinclair nodded enthusiastically. “I do, I really do! I think I wanna marry her one day.”

“Well, it’s never too early to tell someone you love them, if that’s what you really feel. But marriage — it might be a bit early for that.”

“Lionel wants to marry you.”

You froze and looked up at him.

“…What?”

Sinclair nodded, grinning with excitement. “He does! He’s not gonna propose yet but says he wants to marry you one day. Ohmygod, maybe we could have a double wedding! You and Lionel, me and Emily. Wouldn’t that be so fun?”

“That’s… not something to think about yet,” you said firmly. “It’s too early for me and Lionel, and it’s certainly too early for you and Emily. Right, shirt off, pyjama top on. Reckon you can do your trousers yourself?”

“Yeah, I think so…”

“Good. You do that, I’ll find a bucket or something in case you’re sick again.”

You went into the bathroom and spotted the bin. You tied up the liner and took it out, leaving the bin empty and ready to catch any last bits of dinner Sinclair might have left to bring up.

Back in the bedroom, Sinclair had managed to get his pyjama top on and was lying on his back, his eyes closed, apparently having given up halfway through unbuckling his belt.

“Jesus, Sinclair,” you sighed. “You’re like a giant baby.”

You put the bin down by the bed and reached down to unbuckle his belt for him.

“Please don’t let Lionel walk in right now,” you muttered as you loosened his fly, trying carefully to avoid even lightly brushing against his boxers.

Sinclair’s eyes snapped open when you reached for his waistband.

“I can do it!” he insisted.

“Okay,” you said, raising your hands in innocence. “You’re a big boy, I’m sure you can take your own trousers off.”

You stood up straight and looked away as Sinclair tugged his trousers down. They went flying past you in the vague direction of his clothes chair, and you heard some more fumbling as he finished putting his pyjamas on.

“Done it!” he announced proudly.

You turned back to him, and sure enough, Sinclair had managed to get into his pyjamas almost entirely by himself.

“Well done, Clair. Now to get into bed. Can you do that?”

“Oh, I’m an expert at getting into bed!”

He stood, pulled back the duvet, and practically dove under the covers. You laughed as he pulled the duvet up to his neck, leaving only his head resting on the pillows with a contented smile.

“Very good, Sinclair, well done,” you laughed. “Now, the bin’s here in case you need to be sick again. How are you feeling now?”

“Sleepy,” Sinclair replied, his eyes already closed.

“Okay, I’ll leave you to crash. And please don’t ever take cocaine again, okay? You are the last person in the world who needs a stimulant.”

“Sleeping,” Sinclair said insistently.

“Okay, sleeping. Good night, Clair.”

“Night, [Y/n].”

You took his key and locked the door behind you as you left. You managed to find some water in the kitchen and brought it back up for him, leaving it on the bedside table for when he woke up. Not wanting anyone to disturb him, you locked the door again and pocketed the key, making a mental note to let him out in the morning if he didn’t have another key in there.

You were just thinking about going to try to find Lionel again when you were suddenly grabbed by the wrist by a figure moving at twice the speed of a normal human being and dragged down the hallway to Lionel’s room, where your kidnapper practically barrelled into the door to open it before throwing you face first onto the bed.

The door slammed shut, you heard a key turn in the lock, and you barely had time to turn around when Lionel was pouncing on you. His kiss was hardly a kiss, and more a very enthusiastic attempt to get his saliva all over your face.

“Lionel, what —”

“Need to fuck you,” he growled desperately, his hands already fumbling with his belt.

“Where have you been? I was looking for you for ages.”

“Downstairs. Legs, open, now.”

Before you had a chance to obey, Lionel grabbed your knees and pushed your legs apart, forcing your skirt to bunch up around your waist. He growled and pushed your knickers aside with one hand while the other lined his cock up with your entrance. He was about to thrust into you when —

“Lionel, condom!”

He swore in frustration and practically threw himself across the mattress to wrench open the bedside drawer and pull out a condom.

Lionel had been wild and passionate since that day in Paris, but as he tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth, you realised this was something else. He was like a man possessed — or a man on copious amounts of cocaine.

You sat up and took Lionel’s face in both your hands, forcing him to look up at you from where he was trying to roll the condom down his shaft.

You looked in his eyes. The usually amber iris was hardly visible between his dark, wide pupils and the red of the bloodshot whites.

“Lionel, how much cocaine have you taken?”

“None.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“Okay, fine, two lines. But I’m fine, chérie, I swear —”

“Don’t you chérie me. I’m not fucking you if you’re high.”

Lionel groaned in frustration. “I’m fine, really. Come on, let’s just do it, it won’t take long —”

He wrapped his arms around you and rolled you back onto the bed, kissing you sloppily again as he tried to align his cock with you again, the condom still only half rolled down.

“Lionel, seriously, stop it. I don’t want to fuck you like this.”

He groaned again, but he pulled away.

“I’m so fucking horny, [Y/n], I’m about to burst!”

“Then have a wank, but we are not having sex right now. I’m not aroused, it’ll hurt, and you’re not thinking straight.”

“Gah, fine.”

Lionel yanked the condom off his shaft and tossed it aside. He took his cock in his hand, and you’d hardly had chance to sit up properly before he came, his seed launching into the air by a few centimetres before landing on the bed.

“Would have been better in your cunt,” Lionel grumbled as he wiped his hand on the sheet.

“Yeah, well, too bad. Was it you that gave Sinclair coke?”

Lionel’s head snapped up to look at you with a frown.

“I’d never give Sinclair coke, he’d have a heart attack. Why, has he taken some?”

“Yeah, I found him outside mid-crash, vomiting in the bushes.”

Lionel swore loudly and tried to get up, but his trousers were still halfway down his thighs, so he ended up falling on the floor with a thump.

“He’s fine, he’s asleep,” you said as Lionel tried to stand up again. “I got him into bed, despite his best efforts to sleep on the stairs.”

Lionel paused trying to do up his fly.

“…He’s alright?”

“As he can be. He’s got water and a sick bucket. I even managed to keep him awake long enough to get him into his pyjamas, though I did feel like I was dressing a giant baby.”

Lionel sighed with relief. He finished doing his trousers up and began pacing around the room frantically, running his fingers through his hair.

“If I find out who gave Sinclair cocaine, I am going to fucking throttle them,” he swore. “Some fucking idiot probably thought it’d be funny. Fuck! I shouldn’t have left him alone.”

“You left me alone too.”

Lionel stopped his pacing and looked at you.

“Did I? All I remember is I lost you in the crowd, the next thing I knew I was in the sitting room with a rolled-up tenner. I don’t even remember… my mind’s blurry…”

He pinched his nose and furrowed his brow as he tried to put the pieces together, but it didn’t help that the drugs were still coursing through his system and his brain was moving too fast to stop and think.

“Li, can we stay in here for a bit? The party was getting a bit much for me anyway, and you’re probably gonna crash soon. I don’t want to have to drag you up the stairs like I did with Sinclair.”

Lionel laughed at the thought of you dragging a half-asleep Sinclair up the stairs. He looked up at the clock on the wall, and through his blurry, drunken vision he could just make out that it was 11.40.

“I hope I don’t pass out like Sinclair before 12. I want that New Year’s kiss.”

You smiled.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll go and get you some water and something to eat. You stay here and… I don’t know, run around in circles until the drugs wear off. We’ll have our New Year’s kiss, and by the time you crash, you’ll already be in bed. Unlike Sinclair, who crashed in a bush.”

Lionel nodded, and you could see by the way he was twitching and shifting his weight from foot to foot that he was still feeling the effects of the cocaine he’d taken, although the insane horniness seemed to have washed away when he came on the bed.

As you stood up from the bed and pulled your skirt down, you glanced at the stain he’d left.

“And if you’re feeling up to it, maybe change the sheets while I’m gone. I don’t fancy sleeping under a jizz-stained duvet.”

1972

A few days into the New Year, it was time for Lionel and Sinclair to go back to Cambridge. You didn’t bother holding in your sobs this time, and Lionel gently wiped a tear from your cheek with his gloved hand as you hugged him goodbye.

“There, there, love. We’ll be back before you know it. I promise I’ll call you as much as I can.”

You nodded, sniffling.

“I love you, my brave lion.”

He grinned. “And I love you, my fierce lioness.”

Lionel pressed a firm kiss to your cold lips and turned away to climb into Sinclair’s car. You turned to Sinclair and gave him a big hug.

“I’ll call you too, [Y/n]!�� Sinclair promised. “And I also love you. Platonically. I don’t have a cute pet name for you, though.”

You laughed and pulled back from the hug. Despite the cold, and despite the sorrow at saying goodbye, he still shone with energy.

“Well, then, I’m going to call you a golden retriever,” you decided, “because if a golden retriever were to stand on its hind legs and turn into a human, I’m pretty sure it would just turn into you.”

Sinclair’s eyes lit up and he grinned. “I love that! Okay, we need to go, I want to get there before the sun goes down. Bye, [Y/n]! This has been the best Christmas break ever with you around. Thanks again for looking after me at New Year’s, if it weren’t for you I might have still been in that bush the next morning! Oh, and make sure you tell your parents I said bye, it was so great to meet them at Christmas —”

Sinclair was interrupted by the sudden honking of his own car’s horn. You both looked over and saw that Lionel had leaned over to the driver’s seat to slam his hand down on the horn.

“Sinclair, stop hogging my girlfriend and get your arse in the car!” he shouted, his voice slightly muffled by the car window.

“Go on, Clair, get going. Have fun talking Lionel’s ear off for the next two hours.”

Sinclair laughed and gave you one last hug. Lionel honked the horn again and kept his hand pressed firmly down until Sinclair had opened the car door and sat himself down.

You took a few steps back to give them some space to drive off, and with one last wave, they were gone.

Spring went by excruciatingly slowly, but at least you were busy. In late January, your dad opened a second branch of his cafe in Reading, so he was spending more and more time there, which meant leaving you to open and close the Basingstoke cafe on your own — so much so that he officially promoted you to assistant manager.

Sinclair and Lionel did come home for Easter, but it was over far too fast. You couldn’t get away from work as much now that you were assistant manager, and the boys had to prepare for their exams soon, so you only managed to see Lionel fleetingly. Easter came early that year, so they were due back at university before their birthdays, which meant you didn’t even get to celebrate with them.

Eventually, summer came around, and they came home. You managed to take some leave from work so you could spend time with Lionel, who was even more excited to see you than ever before. Helen and Georgina’s birthday party marked a year since you’d officially called yourselves boyfriend and girlfriend, and Lionel was actually humming to himself as he got dressed for the party.

“What’s got into you?” you asked with a laugh as you emerged from the bathroom, having finished your make-up, and heard his humming as he stood in front of the mirror.

“Nothing. I’m excited for the party, that’s all.”

“You explicitly told me last year you hate your mum’s party, that’s why you invited me, to make it bearable.”

Lionel shrugged, but he was still smiling as he adjusted his bowtie.

“I have a good feeling about tonight, that’s all.”

“Hmm, I don’t know… I think you know something I don’t.”

Lionel turned to you with a cheeky smile and pulled you into his arms.

“All I know is that I love you, chérie, and if you don’t know that, I’m not sure what else I can do to prove it.”

You giggled and batted his chest playfully. “You charmer, you. Well, whatever you’re avoiding telling me, I’m sure I’ll find out in due time. Now, I promised Sinclair I’d help him choose the wine from the cellar. Why he wants my opinion, I have no idea, but I’ve learnt not to question him.”

“Because asking him one question inevitably leads to a long-winded answer?”

“Precisely. I’ll see you in a little while, okay?”

“Alright. I love you, [Y/n].”

“I love you too,” you said with a smile. You leaned up to kiss him, then left to go and meet Sinclair in the wine cellar.

You’d been in the wine cellar only a few times. It was a strange place, completely cut off from the rest of the house, and when you closed the door behind you, it was easy to forget there was an entire house above you.

Sinclair hadn’t got a headstart, apparently. The wine was all still untouched, and he was pacing back and forth, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Hey, Clair. I’m here as promised. Not sure why you want my help with the wine, though, I know nothing.”

He froze when he saw you, his eyes wide in alarm, as if he hadn’t been expecting you.

“[Y/n], hi. Um, I lied. I don’t need your help with the wine. I need to talk to you… privately.”

You frowned and looked at him curiously. Whatever it was, it was clearly causing him great distress. You approached him and took his hands in yours, stopping his nervous fiddling with his shirt.

“What’s wrong, Sinclair? Is it something to do with Emily?”

He shook his head.

“No. No, not Emily. It’s about… Lionel.”

“Lionel? What about him?”

“Maybe… maybe we should sit down.”

Sinclair led you to a corner of the cellar and you both sat down on the small sofa you hadn’t even noticed before. It faced a low table, which you suspected was for tasting the wines to choose the perfect vintage.

Sinclair’s shirt sleeves were the next victim of his nervous fidgeting. He was leaning forwards slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the floor, as if what he had to say was written down there somewhere.

“It’s two things, actually. One he doesn’t know that I know, and the other… he told me, but he made me promise not to tell.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t —”

“No, I have to,” Sinclair insisted. “I have to. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. He’d probably say I’m betraying him by telling you, but… I’d be betraying myself more if I didn’t tell you.”

“Sinclair, you’re scaring me,” you said in a quiet voice.

He sat back, took a deep breath, and looked at you. The devastation and fear in his eyes had every worst scenario running through your head.

“Lionel’s been cheating on you.”

Your stomach dropped. You felt like someone had wrapped a fist around your heart and squeezed it tight. You didn’t even know what to say, what to think… your first instinct was to refuse to believe it, to insist Lionel would never do that to you. But another voice in your head told you that it explained a lot of questions you had been asking.

You’d told yourself he was becoming distant and calling less because he was busy with coursework, but if that were the case, why was Sinclair able to find the time to call you more regularly than your own boyfriend, when Sinclair’s timetable was much more hectic?

And you’d never understood Lionel’s reasoning for refusing to stop using condoms. You could go on the pill, you’d offered to several times, but he’d always said that he wanted to use condoms regardless. Because he didn’t want you to get pregnant, he said, but the pill was just as effective.

“How do you know?” you asked after a long moment of silence.

“I was suspicious for a while. He’s been acting weird all year, but I always put it down to adjusting to university, to missing you, to going out too much. The first thing that made me think something was up was when I was taking the bins out and I went into his ensuite to empty his bathroom bin, and I saw used condoms in there. I asked him about it, and he said he — he wanks into condoms to save on mess. I believed him.

But after a while, I started noticing a pattern. I always empty the bins on a Thursday, because the bin men come on Friday morning, and I would see the condoms on the top, like he’d just put them in there. Then there was a bank holiday, so the bin day changed, so I emptied it on a Wednesday instead, before I went to play cricket. And there were none in there. I thought that was weird, like he was wanking weekly, on a Wednesday. Who schedules that?

And then I had an awful thought. What if he was using them every week at the same time… because he was seeing someone every week at the same time? Specifically, while I was at cricket. I thought there was no way that was true. He loves you, he wouldn’t do that to you. But then he said something. We were at the pub with some mates, you know, boys’ banter. And he made a joke, he said, ‘I wank every day and that’s still not enough.’ But I thought that couldn’t be right, because I always found the condoms on the Thursday, and there were only ever one or two. Not that I counted, but the only other things I ever saw in there were empty loo rolls and beard hair. You know, they stood out. I’d have noticed if there were seven.

And so I… I decided to investigate. To see what he was doing on Wednesdays while I was at cricket. One of the guys on my course does photography as a hobby, he likes to sit in trees and photograph birds. So I asked him if he could try and see into our flat.”

Sinclair reached into his jacket pocket with a trembling hand, and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“He gave me a few pictures. Some of them were - um - more explicit. Far more of him than I ever wanted to see. But this one showed enough to prove what was happening without, you know, showing too much. You don’t have to look at it, I just thought if you wanted proof…”

You snatched the photo from Sinclair’s hand before you changed your mind.

The sound you made then would haunt Sinclair for years to come. It was the sound of his friend’s heart breaking, of all your hopes and dreams for a future with Lionel smashing to the ground.

Sinclair’s friend had a good camera. It was Lionel, alright. Your boyfriend. He was sitting naked on the sofa, an expression on his face you’d seen many times — one you thought only you had seen. A naked woman was kneeling in front of him, her head in his lap, and his hand was on the back of her head.

“I’m really sorry, [Y/n],” Sinclair said quietly.

You shook your head, eyes still glued to the photo, as if looking at it longer would make it stop existing.

“Not your fault,” you said, your voice cracking slightly.

“I should have said something… shouldn’t have believed him about the condoms.”

You scoffed. Fucking condoms. No wonder he was so insistent on using them. Well, at least he was keeping you safe from STDs while he fucked other girls.

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know. I asked my mate to go back the next week and see if he could get a picture of her face. And he did, but… it was a different girl.”

Your fist clenched, and the photo became crumpled in your hand.

“...A different girl?”

Sinclair nodded, his eyes wide with trepidation, as if worried what you might do next.

“A different — what, does he fuck a different girl every week?!” you shouted, throwing the screwed-up photo on the floor.

It was one thing if it was another girlfriend. If he’d fallen in love with someone else but didn’t have the guts to break up with you, that was one thing. But if it was different girls, that meant he was just shagging them, and that made it worse, because it meant that putting his dick in something wet was more important to him than you were.

“I don’t know, [Y/n], I’m sorry, we broke up for summer that week so I wasn’t able to ask my mate to go back.”

“Did you confront him about it?”

“No, I’ve not told him that I know. I wanted to speak to you first. I thought you should decide what to do.”

“But you came home weeks ago! Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I’ve been trying, but it’s so hard, [Y/n]. I kept changing my mind whether to even tell you or not, and whenever I did decide to tell you, I couldn’t get you alone. You’re always together. And you’re so happy together, I didn’t want to upset that. But when he told me about tonight, I knew I had to tell you.”

“Tonight?” you said with a frown. “What about tonight?”

You knew it. There was something Lionel wasn’t telling you. Something that was making him excited for a usually dreaded occasion…

“He’s going to propose.”

The fist that had gripped your heart earlier seemed to squeeze even harder.

Lionel was going to propose. He was going to get down on one knee, in front of everyone, and ask you to swear your fidelity to him, when he’d spent the better part of the last year sticking his cock in a different woman every week.

You stood up and prepared to storm out, but you heard Sinclair calling after you.

“[Y/n], wait —”

You paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked back at him, tears in your eyes.

“Thank you for telling me, Sinclair. You did the right thing.”

You left before he could convince you not to.

- - -

Sinclair usually dreaded his mum and Aunt Georgie’s birthday party, for all the reasons Lionel had told you last year. But this year, he was dreading it more than ever before.

He couldn’t get you alone again. He wanted to ask you what you were going to do, but you were nowhere to be seen, and he knew you hadn’t said anything to Lionel, because he was still buzzing with excitement for his grand proposal.

Everyone was in on it and, not knowing anything about what Sinclair had told you, Helen and Georgina were excited too. They both adored you, and they were sure you’d say yes.

Sinclair adored you too, of course. He wanted you to be his sister so badly. Okay, technically if you married Lionel you’d be his cousin-in-law, but Lionel would always be his big brother in Sinclair’s mind, so as far as he was concerned, if you married Lionel, you’d become his sister-in-law. And in some ways, he already saw you as his sister. You were definitely so much more than just his cousin’s girlfriend.

That was what had made the whole thing so difficult for him. He��d promised Lionel not to tell you about the proposal, but he knew he’d never forgive himself if he let you be proposed to in front of all those people without knowing the truth.

He hoped you could work it out. He certainly hadn’t told you in order to break you up. But you had to have all the facts before you made such a life-changing decision.

When his mum and aunt started herding guests into the main entrance hall, Sinclair knew it was time. He tried to find you, but among the crowd it was impossible. He didn’t catch a glimpse of you until you, he and Lionel were being herded up to the landing that overlooked the room.

Lionel had planned it all meticulously. Sinclair stood with the two of you on one side, his mum and aunt on the other. They quieted the crowd and Aunt Georgie spoke as if she were about to give a speech. On cue, Sinclair moved over to stand by his mum, leaving you and Lionel alone.

Georgina announced that Lionel had something to say, and suddenly all eyes were on the two of you. This was it. Your boyfriend, the person you loved and trusted most in the world, the person who’d betrayed you so utterly that looking at him now just made you want to cry — he was about to propose to you.

In front of everyone. Sinclair, Helen and Georgina, who’d taken you in as their own. Extended family, friends and friends of friends, they were all gathered together, all listening attentively as Lionel addressed them.

“A little over a year ago, just before the end of term, I had my future planned out. I was going to go to university, get a first class degree in Business Studies, and become a great businessman. I’m still doing all those things, of course; watch this space.”

A polite titter came from the crowd, and Lionel flashed a grin.

“But I hadn’t accounted for one thing. I hadn’t considered that one day, I’d sneak out of college for a smoke and find a strange girl I’d never seen before trying to peek into the windows.”

He looked at you with an amused smirk.

“I know what you’re all thinking — no, it wasn’t the boys’ changing room.”

Another polite laugh from the crowd.

“It was the Art classroom. You see, we had some original Monet paintings on display, and she wanted to see them. So I, never one to deny a beautiful woman in need, helped her sneak in to see them.”

Yeah, and you won’t deny any woman in need of dicking down, you thought bitterly.

“She left before I managed to get her number, but with the help of Sinclair here” — he gestured to his cousin, as if anyone was in doubt who he was — “I managed to track her down. She, it transpired, had been looking for me too, and was only too happy to let me take her out for a drink. The rest, as they say, is history.”

Lionel turned his attention fully to you. You were trying to keep your face blank, but you had no idea how you were coming across, only that Lionel was undeterred.

“[Y/n], despite my assertions that it was impossible, you really have tamed this lion. I have every intention of becoming the great man I’m destined to be, but I can only do it with you by my side.”

The crowd gasped as Lionel dropped to one knee. Somewhere, you heard a camera clicking. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring box. He opened it to present you with a sapphire-encrusted ring, and in another version of events, you might have marvelled at how beautiful it was.

“[Y/n] [L/n]… will you marry me?”

His speech was still ringing in your head. I had my future all planned out… I’m never one to deny a beautiful woman in need… I managed to track her down… I’m destined to be a great man.

It was all “I” and “me.” It was all him. His life, not yours; his plans, not yours. Most of the people in the crowd didn’t know you, and nothing Lionel had said had told them anything more.

It wasn’t about you — and maybe it never had been.

You took a steadying breath.

You loved him. You hated him. You didn’t want to break his heart. He’d already broken yours.

You only had one thing to say before you turned and left.

“No.”

- - -

1989

“Our… son,” Lionel repeated slowly. “You were… you were pregnant.”

“I didn’t know then. I only realised a few weeks later.”

“Oh, well, that’s alright then!” Lionel exclaimed sarcastically, waving his arms in a wild shrug. “It’s not like you had my phone number or my address. It’s not like I was trying to call you for weeks afterwards. It’s not like you could have fucking told me!”

“Would it have made any difference? I didn’t want you in my life, and you made it perfectly clear you didn’t want kids.”

“Just because I didn’t want to be a father, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have! You had no right to make that decision for me, [Y/n]! I mean… Christ. How old is he now? Sixteen? Does he even know?”

“No. He knows who you are only because you’re famous. He has no idea I ever even knew you, let alone that you’re his father.”

“Does Sinclair know?”

“Sinclair? No, why would he know?”

“Well, he knew about everything else apparently.”

“No, Sinclair doesn’t know. I cut off contact with him too. It fucking sucked, because he’s one of the best people I’ve ever met, but I couldn’t bear to look at him, not when he looks so much like you.”

Lionel collapsed into a chair and buried his head in his hands.

“Christ. I can’t believe this.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you’re not on the birth certificate, so you don’t have any responsibility for him. If something happened to me, he wouldn’t show up on your doorstep.”

“But we used condoms!” Lionel said with a frown, pulling his hands away from his face to look at you, bemused. “We always used condoms.”

“Condoms break,” you said with a shrug. “Even your fancy ones.”

Lionel swore. He stood up again and began pacing around, running his fingers through his hair. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to either of you, you were being watched from a window, although your argument was muted to your observer.

“They’re really going at it,” Georgina said with concern. “Maybe we should intervene. I know Sinclair wanted to get them talking, but I don’t think this is what he hoped for.”

“He’s your son, George, you might be better equipped,” Helen replied, leaning over her sister’s head to peek outside.

“You know I want to, but I’ll feel ridiculous trying to calm him down when I’m all the way down here now. I know it’s his day, but maybe we should send Sinclair.”

Helen glanced over at her son, who was currently trying to balance chatting away at some friends with stuffing his face full of food from the buffet.

“I think you’re right. We just need to make sure nobody follows him outside. Tell you what, I’ll get the microphone and keep everyone distracted. You get him outside and guard the door.”

“Deal.”

Within minutes, Sinclair had abandoned his conversation and his plate of food, his aunt was parked in her wheelchair in front of the door, and his ears were being subjected to one of the worst arguments he’d ever heard.

“YOU JUST SAID I MADE THE RIGHT CHOICE, SO WHAT DOES IT MATTER?”

“IT WASN’T YOUR CHOICE TO MAKE, [Y/N]!”

“What the fuck is going on out here?!” Sinclair demanded. “This is my wedding! It’s supposed to be the happiest day of my life! Why are you having a bloody screaming match?!”

“Tell him, [Y/n]!” Lionel said to you with a sneer. “Tell Sinclair the truth. You won’t tell anyone, will you, Sinclair? Considering you didn’t tell me for seventeen fucking years why the only woman I’ve ever loved rejected my proposal in front of our entire family!”

Sinclair held his hands up innocently. “It wasn’t for me to tell! Wait – tell me what? Is there something else?”

Lionel stared daggers at you. You sighed and crossed your arms.

“I have a son,” you admitted. “We – we have a son.”

Sinclair’s jaw dropped. He looked between you and Lionel like you were playing tennis.

“Wait – you mean you and Lionel have a son? Li, you never told me –”

“That’s because I didn’t fucking know, you nitwit!” Lionel snapped. “You wanted to know why we’re having a bloody screaming match – that’s why. Because [Y/n] just told me that we have a bloody son.”

Sinclair stared at you as if you’d just grown an extra head. “Well… what’s his name?”

You laughed and shook your head.

“Lionel hasn’t even asked that yet, and it’s the first question out of your mouth.”

“You didn’t ask his name?” Sinclair said to Lionel with a frown.

“I don’t want to know! I don’t want to know anything. This isn’t changing anything. Clearly, [Y/n] thinks they’re getting on just fine without me, so they can continue that way. I don’t want to know his name, his school, his birthday, nothing. What I would like to know, however, is why my wheelchair-bound mother is sitting in front of the door like a fucking bouncer.”

Lionel pointed towards the door; through the window, the back of Georgina’s chair was visible.

“She’s making sure nobody follows me out here. So we could have a private conversation.”

You sniffed and stood up straight.

“I’m sorry, Sinclair. You’re right, this is your day. I ruined your mums’ birthday party in ‘72, now I’m ruining your wedding day. I should leave.”

You went to walk past him, but Sinclair placed a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry, [Y/n]. I thought if you and Lionel talked, you could work things out. At least put the past behind you.”

You shook your head.

“Sinclair, you’re sweet. But this is too messy to just talk it out. Um, but before I go…”

You took both his hands in yours and looked at him seriously.

“I know my opinion doesn’t matter, and you can make your own choices, and I might be totally wrong about this. But for what it’s worth… you can do so much better than Natalie.”

You gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Bye, Clair. I really hope you prove me wrong.”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond, and you didn’t give Lionel a second glance. You opened the door back into the reception, and Georgina moved her chair out of the way. You locked eyes for a second, and you hesitated.

“Georgina… I’m really sorry I ruined your birthday. Would you tell Helen for me? I’m – I’m gonna go, before I ruin this wedding too.”

Georgina didn’t say anything, so you left.

You were at the reception desk, waiting for a staff member to call you a taxi, when Sinclair came jogging up to you.

“[Y/n], wait!”

“Sinclair…”

“Just… one thing. Would you tell me your son’s name? I know Lionel doesn’t want to know, but I’d really like to, if that’s okay with with you. And maybe one day, if he does want to know… I could tell him. So he won’t have to bother you.”

You smiled. How was he always so sweet? It was his wedding day, you’d just blown up at his cousin and told him you didn’t like his new wife, and he was still concerned about you.

“His name is Cole.”

“Cole. Cool! Cool Cole, ha ha. Um, I don’t suppose we can still be friends, can we?”

You shook your head, tears welling in your eyes. “No, Sinclair, I’m sorry. I want to be… and maybe one day we can. But you’re too close to Lionel.”

Sinclair nodded his head sadly. “I understand. Well… it was nice seeing you again, [Y/n]. Despite the argument, I am really glad you came. If you ever need anything - and if Cole ever needs anything - just come find me, ‘kay?”

You nodded. Sinclair kissed you on the cheek, and with a sad smile, he turned back to the party.

#lionel x reader #sinclair and reader #thats the real tag bcs lionel is a diccc #also amiee 😭#thats my girl!

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snowblossomreads · 29 days ago

Text

Lionel Pp acquired.

Also sorry but not sorry makes this about Sinclair and how cute he is 😭 hes like MY FRIEND FRIEND FRIEND FRIEND.

Champagne Problems

Chapter 3. Paris

Lionel/Reader

Summary: In 1989, Sinclair reunites with an old friend; in 1971, Lionel has a romantic surprise for you.

Word count: 10.9k

AN: shout out to @evans23 for helping me with the French!

All chapters here!

Read on Ao3 or WattPad or below the cut:

1989

“Hello? Earth to Lionel?”

Sinclair waved his hand in front of his cousin’s face.

“Hm?”

“What’s got into you? You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said all evening.”

“No, of course I have,” Lionel lied.

“Then what was I just talking about?”

“Erm… wedding plans?”

“…Lucky guess,” Sinclair muttered before taking a sip of his beer. “Look, I know you don’t like Natalie very much, but can you at least pretend to be happy for me? I’m finally getting married!”

“Of course I’m happy for you, Sinclair. I’m just preoccupied, that’s all. You’ll never guess who I found selling picture frames on Cornelia Street.”

Sinclair shrugged. “Dunno. James Callaghan?”

“[Y/n] [L/n].”

“…Wait, like your ex [Y/n] [L/n]?” Sinclair gasped. “Oh my god! I had no idea she was in London. What do you mean, she was selling picture frames?”

“Exactly that. She owns a shop that sells picture frames. I hired a PI to find her, it took him over a month, and she was down the road the whole bloody time.”

Sinclair stammered, overwhelmed by questions to ask. “Why did you hire a PI to find her? Did you speak to her? What did she say? Is she —”

Lionel held up a hand to cut Sinclair off before he asked any more questions.

“I wanted to find her because… well, it doesn’t matter now. It was completely foolish. She wasn’t happy to see me.”

“Well… are you surprised? Things didn’t exactly end well, Li.”

“And whose fault is that?” Lionel snapped.

Sinclair frowned and titled his head slightly. “Do you really not know?”

Lionel crossed his arms and sat back in his seat, sulking.

“It doesn’t matter anyway. She kicked me out. I thought that’d be the end of it, but… god, I forgot how invasive she is. Like a weed. Takes root in your mind and stays there. It was the same when we met, do you remember? I knew nothing about her and yet I couldn’t stop thinking about her for weeks.”

Sinclair smiled, a cheeky, knowing smile, and Lionel knew exactly what that look meant.

“No,” he said firmly.

“You’re still in love with her! Oh, Lionel, that is adorable!”

“Fucking pathetic is what it is. I’m a mighty lion, and what is she? A weed. A stubborn bloody weed that won’t leave my head.” He tapped the side of his head to demonstrate the point, as if he could push you out. “Maybe I just need to get laid, put her out of my mind.”

“Absolutely not!” Sinclair said firmly. “You listen to me, Lionel Shabandar. I have never, in all my life, seen you as happy as you were with her, or as miserable as you were when it ended. You were both kids, and you fucked up. But that was almost twenty years ago! You’re different people now! You should try to reconnect with her. At least… at least hash things out. You clearly still have feelings for her, and she must do too if she was so upset at seeing you again. If you got back together, that would be amazing, but at the very least you can talk and get some closure.”

Lionel hesitated, thinking, then shook his head.

“No. No, it’s no use. It’s over.”

- - -

“We’re closed,” you said, not looking up from your stock report as you heard the bell ring. “Sorry, I forgot to lock the door. Come back tomorrow.”

“You know, you’d get more business if you stayed open an hour longer, then you’d get customers coming by after work.”

You looked up, frowning, wondering where the hell the unsolicited business advice was coming from.

Your frown deepened for a moment, then was completely erased and replaced with a joyous grin.

“Oh my god, Sinclair! Hi!”

You tossed your report aside and jumped up from behind the counter, practically running around it to meet him on the shop floor and give him a massive hug.

He laughed and hugged you back, rocking you from side to side slightly in excitement.

“Well, that’s a greeting! I wish everyone was always so happy to see me!”

You pulled back and looked at him. He was older, of course, but he still had a sort of youthful exuberance to him. His smile lit up his face, and he was quite possibly the very antithesis of his cousin.

“Oh, look at you! I missed that smile. How are you?”

“I’m great! I’m working as a business analyst now, which basically means I get to tell people what I think’s going to happen, and they pay me loads for it. And — the best news — I’m getting married soon!”

“Oh wow, that’s amazing! I’m surprised you’re not married already, you’re such a catch. Did things not work out with Emily? You were so enamoured with her!”

“Emily, wow, I haven’t thought about her in ages. No, we broke up during third year. She didn’t like how much time I was spending preparing for my exams instead of with her. Anyway, I didn’t come here to talk about Emily.”

You looked at him suspiciously.

“If Lionel sent you…”

“No, no! I mean, he told me you were here, but he didn’t send me. I sent myself. When he told me he’d found you, I simply had to come and see you! I really missed hanging out with you, you know. I understand why you didn’t want to see me after what happened with Lionel but… it really sucked that I lost a friend.”

You smiled. You’d forgotten just how genuinely endearing Sinclair was.

“Sinclair, you are such a cutie. We should absolutely hang out again.”

“Yes!” Sinclair agreed, bouncing on his feet with excitement. “I’m glad you said that, because I wanted to invite you to a picnic this weekend! I have my own place out in Windsor. It’s got these really big open gardens, and I love hosting picnics. You should come! We can catch up, and you can meet Natalie! Are you with anyone? You can bring a plus one, if you like.”

“No, I’ll come on my own,” you said quickly. “Um — will Lionel be there?”

“Oh — oh, no, Lionel won’t be there. Sorry, I should have mentioned that. No, he’s busy this weekend, so he can’t make it. So you’ll come then?”

“Yes! Yes, of course. Just give me the time and place, and I’ll be there.”

Sinclair grinned. “Great! This is gonna be so fun!”

- - -

Sinclair’s house was absolutely beautiful. It wasn’t quite as massive as his childhood home, but it was still huge, and you could see what he meant about the gardens. He clearly felt safe there, because when you approached the door it was wide open — something that nobody of sound mind would ever do in London.

You followed the sound of voices through the house and found yourself stepping through a very leafy conservatory and emerging in the open garden, which led down to a riverbank.

Sinclair was easy to find. His voice was the loudest, the most animated, and his boisterous laugh was like a homing signal, letting everyone in a two-mile radius know where he was and that he found something very funny.

He was standing with two women and a man, and he jumped slightly when you tapped him on the shoulder, but he grinned when he realised it was you.

“[Y/n], at last!”

He put an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into the little circle.

“Everyone, this is [Y/n]! She and I go way back. [Y/n], this is David and Laura. David works with me, in the finance department. And this lovely lady is my fiancee, Natalie!”

The first thing you noticed about Natalie was that she was very pretty. The second thing you noticed was that she was very clearly nothing like Sinclair. She held herself almost timidly, like she was afraid to take up space; unlike Sinclair, whose energy naturally filled any room he was in.

“Hello,” Natalie said with a polite smile, although you saw her eyes flicker to the arm that Sinclair had flung over your shoulder.

Bless him, he hadn’t changed much. He was still loud, still full of energy, and still totally oblivious. He didn’t think anything of putting his arm around another woman, because the other woman was you, and the possibility of there being anything between you was hardly even an idea in his mind. Even though you were long broken up, you’d always be Lionel’s girlfriend to him, and as far as he was concerned, you were like a sister.

“I was just telling the story of how Natalie and I met! I’ll start again for your sake, [Y/n]. So it was last winter, we were interviewing for new secretaries…”

Eventually, David and Laura managed to extract themselves from the conversation, and Sinclair turned his attention to you.

“Right, [Y/n], now I have you trapped at my home. Ha ha! All part of my evil plot to know every single thing that’s happened in your life in the last seventeen years. Come on, sit down!”

He led you over to the riverbank, and along the way he grabbed a picnic basket to share with you. You weren’t sure he’d even noticed Natalie had wandered off several minutes ago.

“You sit,” he instructed, indicating the edge of the river. “I’ll pour.”

You sat cross-legged by the river, and Sinclair sat with his feet dangling over the edge, the picnic basket between you. He pulled out a bottle of wine and two glasses, and you held the glasses up for him as he poured the wine and rambled on about the vintage.

“Here we are! Cheers!”

“Cheers.”

You clinked glasses and took a sip; Sinclair took a generous gulp.

“Help yourself to some snacks! You can have anything that’s in there. So, come on, tell me! What’s your life been like? How did you end up selling picture frames?”

You looked at him with curiosity. “You know, Lionel asked me the same thing.”

“Well, it’s an interesting question!”

“He made it sound like an insult.”

Sinclair grimaced. “Yeah, I suppose he would… well, I’m just curious, I promise. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with selling picture frames at all. Without people like you, what would he put his art collection in?”

“I suppose that’s true,” you said with a laugh. “Art’s actually how I got into it. My — someone I know is an artist, and we discovered frames are usually just one section of a bigger shop, so the options on display were limited. You could look in a catalogue for more, but you really need to see it in person to get the sense if it’s right or not. Dad’s cafe’s doing really well — he has four branches now — so he was able to give me a business loan to open my own place. I saw frames as a gap in the market, so… here I am.”

“That’s amazing! You always did have a good business sense. And, hey, if you ever need anyone to have a look at the picture frame market and make some predictions, I’m your man!” Sinclair decreed, pointing to himself for emphasis.

“Thanks, Sinclair, I’ll bear that in mind. And, hey, if I’m feeling generous, I might give you some free frames for your wedding photos.”

“Oh, that’d be amazing! But you should offer a discount to friends, not freebies, because then you still get to at least get the base costs back, and they still feel like you’ve done them a favour. So anything else? Like… a boyfriend? Husband? Kids? This is me asking, by the way, not Lionel. He doesn’t even know you’re here.”

You laughed. “No, I’m not married. Turns out I have trust issues, who’d have thought?” You shrugged. “I’m in no rush. I believe in the right thing happening at the right time.”

“Like when Lionel went for a smoke outside the art block at the right time! Or when Mum and I decided to try that cafe in Basingstoke at the right time. ‘Cus then I met you!”

“Oh, how is your mum, by the way?”

“She’s great! She lives in London now. She remarried! Her husband’s great, he’s filthy rich too so we know he’s not using her for her money. They’re always going on cruises. Lionel has the country house, the one you came to, he uses it for his art collection and to host galas and stuff.”

“And Georgina?”

“She’s… okay,” Sinclair said with much less certainty. “She’s in a care home now. Mentally she’s fine, sharp as ever, but she got MS a few years ago so she doesn’t walk anymore. But Lionel and I put her in the best place, she’s basically living in a luxury spa resort. Says she likes it better ‘cus she gets waited on hand and foot, and she doesn’t have to deal with us anymore.”

You reached over and took your hand in his. “I’m sorry, Clair. Even if she’s in a good place, it’s hard to watch someone you love get sick like that.”

Sinclair nodded and gave your hand a grateful squeeze. “Thanks, [Y/n]. You know, I… I really have missed you. I didn’t even realise I did. Does that make sense? It’s like, I got used to you not being there, and you just became an old memory, but as soon as I saw you again it was like no time had passed at all, and I remembered why you were so important to me. That time we spent together, the three of us — it was amazing. I think it really helped shape who I am.”

He sighed and shook his head sadly. “I’m sorry it all got so messy in the end.”

“Nothing that happened was your fault, Sinclair,” you said softly. “It was mine and Lionel’s mess. You just… got caught up in it.”

“But I should’ve —”

“Oh, would’ve, could’ve, should’ve, Clair,” you said dismissively, pulling your hand away from his to open up the picnic basket and root around for a snack. “What’s done is done. Have you got any cheese in here?”

- - -

1971

You’d spent the first few weeks of summer wondering if you’d ever see Lionel again — and now, you were spending every day with him.

You went into London together often, or you’d go to his place, where you were able to spend more time with Sinclair too. Their mums were busy working so you didn’t see them as much, but whenever either of them would come home and find you were there again, they were always glad to see you.

As it turned out, rich people have a lot of parties, and they didn’t mind extra guests coming along. You found yourself at parties every week, sometimes multiple times, hosted by people Lionel hardly even knew, let alone you.

In the middle of August, Lionel called you while you were at home for once on a Thursday and told you to pack a bag for the weekend, and to bring your passport.

“…Why do I need my passport?”

You could practically hear the smug smile he was sporting on the other end of the phone.

“Well, they won’t let you into France without it.”

You couldn’t believe it. He’d actually arranged for you to go to Paris. When you phoned your dad to tell him you couldn’t visit that weekend, he was disappointed, but he was happy for you.

On Friday morning, Lionel met you at your house. You’d agreed to be ready to go at 8 o’clock — but you had no idea he was picking you up himself. He usually sent cars to pick you up, but this time, he knocked on the door at 8 o’clock sharp.

Realising he was actually here himself, you ran down the stairs with your suitcase to try to get to the door yourself, but your mum had already beaten you to it.

“Good morning. I’m here to pick up [Y/n].” Lionel spotted you at the foot of the stairs and his eyes lit up. “Hi, [Y/n].”

“Hi. Mum, you’re in the way.”

“So this is the boyfriend?” your mum said curiously, completely ignoring your attempts to get around her with your bag as she looked Lionel up and down. “You’ve done quite well for yourself there, [Y/n].”

“Mum! That’s so weird! Just — let me through, please.”

She finally backed off, and you practically jumped at the chance to get past her and join Lionel on the doorstep.

“Back on Monday, bye,” you said quickly.

“Be safe!” your mum called after you as you followed Lionel back to the car.

You gave your bag to the waiting driver to put in the boot, then climbed into the back with Lionel.

“Sorry, she is so embarrassing,” you cringed, but Lionel just laughed as he took your hand in his.

“Are you ready for Paris?”

“Oh, I am so ready. Are we still going to the Orsay?”

“Of course. That’s tomorrow’s agenda. I’ve booked us a hotel, so we’ll check in after we land, then we’ll go out for some food and drinks. Tomorrow the Orsay, that’ll take most of the day, I imagine — then we’ll have all of Sunday to ourselves.”

“Have you been to Paris before?”

“Yes, quite a few times, though I’m yet to go to the Orsay. I’ve been wanting to go for a while. I was planning to go by myself this summer, but… I’m happy I get to go with you by my side.”

You smiled and kissed his shoulder. “I’ll be by your side for everything, Li.”

- - -

Your hotel room wasn’t so much a hotel room as an entire apartment. There was a bedroom, a separate living area, a kitchenette, and the bathroom even had a jacuzzi in it.

“Lionel, this is too much!” you gasped as you looked around the apartment. “We don’t need all this for just us.”

“Nonsense. Nothing’s too much for you, and it has a stunning view. Take a look.”

Lionel took your hand and led you to the balcony, which overlooked Paris, and he placed a hand on your waist as he pointed out various landmarks by the Seine.

“It’s a beautiful view,” you agreed.

“It’s even more beautiful from my perspective, because my view has you in it,” Lionel said flirtatiously. He gently pushed your hair away from your neck so he could kiss the bare skin.

“You are such a smooth talker,” you laughed. “You don’t have to seduce me, you know. I’m already — I already like you.”

“I’m just stating facts.”

He kissed further down your shoulder, and you relaxed into his touch.

“When are we having dinner?” you asked.

“Whenever you like. Are you hungry now?”

“Not quite. I’d actually like to try that jacuzzi.”

Lionel grinned. “You read my mind, love. I’ll warn you, though, I haven’t brought any trunks… and I may have omitted to ask you to bring a bikini.”

You laughed and rolled your eyes. “Cheeky. Well, then, I guess we’ll have to go without them, won’t we?”

Lionel growled in excitement, and eagerly led you back into the apartment, already unbuttoning his shirt. He went into the bathroom to fill the jacuzzi up, then came back into the room as he pulled his shirt off.

As he carefully folded it up, you leant against the wall and watched him. He was so gorgeous. He had no hair on his chest, and though the first time you’d seen him shirtless he’d expressed some self-consciousness about it, you assured him that you’d never liked hairy chests, anyway.

“You’re not going into the jacuzzi fully clothed, I hope,” Lionel said with a smirk when he glanced up at you and saw you watching him.

“No, of course not. I just wanted to enjoy the view first.”

“Well, I’d like a view to enjoy in return, please.”

You smiled coyly. You pulled your t-shirt over your head and discarded it; knowing Lionel was always eager to see you get your boobs out, you decided to tease him a little, and left your bra on while you unbuttoned your trousers instead.

“I’ll meet you in there,” you said with a wink, then disappeared into the bathroom before taking your underwear off. The tub was still filling, but you climbed in anyway, letting the hot water climb up your legs as it got higher and higher.

Lionel followed you soon after, lowering himself into the tub with you. He draped an arm over your shoulder and leant down to nuzzle your neck.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” he murmured. “I know I say it all the time, but it’s true.”

His other hand slid down your thigh, his fingers teasing your skin as the water lapped higher. You giggled and squirmed a little at the tickling sensation.

“Li, that tickles!”

“Good. I like it when you squirm.”

You felt your heartbeat quicken. His hand was dangerously close now… you placed your hand over his and guided it back towards your knee.

“You know, you didn’t have to do all this, Lionel. I would have been happy with a simple room.”

“You might be, but I’m not. I can afford the best, so why shouldn’t I have it? Besides…” He brought your hand to his lips and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles. “I’m not bringing you to Paris to sit in some box of a room with no view. You’ll have the best view, the most comfortable bed, and the most luxurious jacuzzi jets. Speaking of which… I think it’s time we turn them on, don’t you?”

Lionel leaned over to turn the tap off and the jets on. You squealed a little in surprise as the jets of water shot out of the side of the tub, massaging your calves and your back with the water.

“Mhm, that’s better,” Lionel groaned with relief as he sat back on the seat, either arm draped over the edge of the tub. You came closer and cuddled up to him, your head resting on his chest. He smiled and stroked your hair.

“This is nice,” you murmured quietly, your eyes closed as you relaxed. The water was warm, the jets were soothing, and your boyfriend was holding you — you wondered if this was what Heaven felt like.

You sat there in a comfortable silence for a while. Lionel traced lazy shapes on your shoulder, his fingertips absentmindedly exploring your wet skin.

“You’re quiet,” he said softly after a while.

“Just relaxing,” you murmured in reply. “I’m so comfortable with you.”

Lionel smiled and kissed the top of your head.

“Good. I’m comfortable with you, too. Believe me, being with you is exciting in so many ways, but at the same time… you’re the one source of calmness in my life.”

You smiled and looked up at him.

“Have I tamed you?” you teased.

“Oh, nothing will tame this lion, I can assure you,” Lionel said confidently. “I’m a wild beast at heart.”

“Mmm, I bet you are. And I can tell this wild beast is excited about something…”

Lionel opened his mouth to question what you meant, but all he let out was a moan when you dipped your hand into the water and wrapped it around the evidence of his excitement.

Even though Lionel was a virgin, he was still a teenage boy, and he had one thing very prominently on his mind at all times. You knew he wanted to have sex with you. You wanted it too, but your mum’s warning rang in your mind, and you didn’t want to rush into anything and do something stupid.

Lionel respected your boundaries, but you could tell he was struggling. Whenever you made out, when you shared a bed, when he saw you getting dressed — his dick made it very clear what it wanted.

You weren’t being completely prudish. You touched each other sometimes. You were both still learning about your own bodies as well as each other’s, so you could both be clumsy, and sometimes your awkwardness and embarrassment got the best of you. But you were so comfortable together that any embarrassment didn’t last long, and you laughed together at the awkward moments and learnt from one another’s mistakes.

Maybe a romantic trip to Paris was part of Lionel’s plan to get you to put out — and if it was, you weren’t entirely against it working. But most importantly, you were just happy to be alone with him, in an exciting new place, experiencing new things together.

“Does it feel good in the water?” you asked.

Lionel’s reply was just a groan, his head lolling back, his eyes closed as he tried not to cum straight away.

Your wrist couldn’t move as fast as you’d have liked it to in the water, but perhaps that was a good thing. You could see by the strain on his face that Lionel was holding back.

The fact that he was holding back just made you more daring. You moved in the water so that instead of sitting next to him, you were in front of him, floating in the water between his legs as you tugged on him, remembering what he’d told you about focusing on the tip.

“I think — I think you want me to cum in the water,” Lionel panted, finally managing to get some words out.

You pushed yourself up and out of the water slightly so you were level with him. You took his head in your free hand and pulled him closer to allow you to kiss him.

You could feel the water moving around where you were tugging his cock. Your hand movements were still frustratingly slow.

“God, fuck… I can’t…”

Lionel’s cock slipped out of your hand as he pushed himself up and out of the water, and sat himself on the corner of the jacuzzi, his feet resting on the underwater seats, leaving his cock free of the restrictions of the water.

His cock was still standing to attention, and it was directly at eye-level.

You had an idea. It was something Lionel had never asked for, but you knew it was something people did, and you wanted to try it.

You settled yourself between his legs and held the base of his shaft in your hand. Lionel’s grip on the edge of the jacuzzi tightened as he prepared himself for you to start jerking him off faster — what he didn’t expect was for you to open your mouth and to slowly, cautiously, wrap your lips around the tip of his cock.

“Fucking hell, [Y/n],” he hissed.

You knew his cock was big. You knew it was wide. You didn’t think you’d ever get his full length in your mouth — but you didn’t expect to struggle with the width.

You tried to breathe through your nose. Slowly, carefully, bit by bit, you took him further in your mouth. You weren’t making a whole lot of progress, and you knew it would take some practice before you could really take him in your mouth. But you managed to gain enough ground to allow you to bob your head back and forth a little, and the noises Lionel was making made it all worth it.

Lionel placed his hand over yours, the one that was holding him at the base, and gently encouraged you to move it back and forth, allowing you to stimulate his entire length without having to worry about choking yourself.

“Fuck, I… I didn’t think you could get more beautiful, but you’re fucking stunning like this,” Lionel growled through gritted teeth.

You looked up at him, and it took all of his strength not to cum right then. He loved your lips, they were so pretty, so perfectly soft and fun to kiss. They looked even better wrapped around his cock.

Not just that, but he could see your breasts too, nipples just about poking over the water. They were moving slightly with each bob of your head, the water sloshing over them, leaving trails of water that he desperately wanted to lick up.

“Touch yourself,” Lionel ordered between pants. “In the water, touch yourself… I want to see you enjoying this…”

You obeyed, your fingers rubbing at your clit under the water. You knew you wouldn’t cum this way, but just that bit of stimulation gave you at least some relief.

This was what life was about, Lionel thought. People sought joys in all sorts of things — drugs, art, you name it — but sitting here in a jacuzzi in France, jets massaging his legs, and you, the love of his life, touching yourself while you sucked him off… Lionel couldn’t think of anything better — except maybe fucking you. That was a joy he was yet to experience, but he knew it was going to be incredible.

His gaze drifted back to your lips. He wanted to paint them, to cover you with his cum. He grabbed you by the hair and pulled your head back. You came unstuck with a pop, and you gasped for air.

“Touch your tits for me,” Lionel growled as he took his cock in his hand and began pumping it. “But keep your eyes on me.”

You obeyed. You were good like that. You had your boundaries, and he knew you’d say no if something made you uncomfortable. But if you were willing, you always did as he asked.

You massaged your breast with one hand while the other kept rubbing your clit in the water. Your nipples were erect with arousal, and sensitive too. You could feel every squeeze, every pinch, every drop of water. You looked up at Lionel, watching as he jerked himself off in front of you, and when your eyes met, you knew he was moments away.

“I want to cum on you,” Lionel said, his voice high pitched and desperate, nothing like the growling lion he liked to present himself as. “On your face or — or on your tits.”

“On my face,” you replied quickly, not even thinking about it.

“Fuck, yes. Yes, you’ll take my cum on your face. Mmm, good girl… shit… fuck — [Y/n]!”

He let out a loud moan that echoed in the bathroom, and when you saw the sticky, white cum erupting out of his cockhead, you instinctively opened your mouth and stuck out your tongue to catch it.

“Fuck! Fuck, take it… ohh… mhm, [Y/n]…”

He leant his head against the wall, panting for breath, his cock softening in his stilled hand.

You, meanwhile, were still desperately horny.

Lionel didn’t seem to be moving any time soon — but something else was.

You moved over to one of the jets, which were still shooting out water. You positioned yourself in front of it, resting your feet on the seat as you found just the right position… and the hot, hard jet started massaging against your clit.

When Lionel had recovered somewhat and he opened his eyes, he didn’t expect to see you getting yourself off with one of the water jets.

“Enjoying the jacuzzi?”

“I’m so close,” you moaned.

Lionel sunk himself back into the water and wrapped his arms around you. One hand grabbed at your breast while the other found its way between your legs and started rubbing at your clit.

“I believe this is my job,” he purred in your ear. “But I’ll allow some assistance if my girl enjoys it.”

“Oh my god… it feels so good…” you moaned. The combined sensation of Lionel’s fingers and the water jet rubbing at your clit were bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. You needed something more, just a little bit, just to push you over the edge…

As if he could sense your needs, Lionel took your nipple between his fingers and pinched. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger, and your legs began to shake as your orgasm began to climb.

“Lionel, I’m — I’m gonna…”

“Cum for me, love,” he growled. “Be a good girl and cum for me.”

“Lionel… oh, god, Lionel… Lionel!”

There was absolutely no dignity in it. Your legs shook, your grip on the edge of the tub slipped, and it was only Lionel’s arms around you that stopped you from slipping into the water as your orgasm shook right through you.

It was the most mindblowing orgasm you’d ever had in your life. As the aftershocks wore off, you gave up on attempting to lean on the tub, and you let yourself relax into Lionel’s arms.

He held you close, his torso pressed against your back, one hand still on your breast as he kissed you all over your neck and jawline, as if he needed to consume you.

“[Y/n]… I am going to fuck you.”

You were too blissed-out to say anything, but his words sent a heat blooming in your core.

“I’ll wait until you’re ready, but it’s going to happen. You can’t make noises like that and not expect me to fuck you. I want to make you cum like that around my cock. I want to feel you trembling beneath me as I bring you that pleasure. I want… fuck, [Y/n]. I want you. All of you.”

You smiled and turned around in the water to face him. You kissed him, and it was wet, and you wondered if he could taste his own seed on your tongue. If he did, it didn’t stop him from kissing you back, slowly but passionately, your limbs entwined under the water.

“I want it,” you whispered as you pulled away. “I want to experience everything with you, Lionel. I want to give you everything. All of me… everything I have to give… I’m yours.”

There were three things Lionel wanted to do on this trip, two of which were certain. The first, the museum, that was certain — tomorrow. The second, that was not so certain — to make love to his girlfriend — but it was looking more and more likely. And the third… the third was certain, but he wanted to do it somewhere romantic. And of all the places in Paris, the jacuzzi wasn’t so romantic, so he held off for now, but he was tempted. He was sorely tempted.

Instead, he placed a soft kiss on the end of your nose.

“I think it’s time for dinner, don’t you?”

- - -

You were very rudely awakened by Lionel pulling the curtains open, causing the early morning Parisian sun to hit you in the face.

“Time to get up, love. The gallery opens at nine.”

“Whassa time?”

“Seven.”

You moaned and pulled the duvet over your head.

“We don’t need to wake up two hours before, it’s right there!” you moaned. “C’mon, come back to bed, babe.”

“We need time for a romantic Parisian breakfast, don’t we?” Lionel said as he pulled the duvet back down. Even sleepy, dishevelled and hungover, he thought you looked beautiful in the morning light.

“How are you so awake? I swear you drank as much as me.”

“Lions don’t get hungover. Come on, if you’re so hungover, you need coffee. A good, strong shot of espresso will have you on your feet in no time. Come on, I’ll get your clothes out your bag, you go to the bathroom and freshen up.”

Reluctantly, and with a yawn, you sat up in the bed.

“You know, sometimes I think you and Sinclair are complete opposites,” you grumbled as you pushed yourself out of the bed while Lionel opened up your suitcase. “And sometimes I think you might as well be twins.”

“I don’t know if I should be offended by that. Why have you packed so many clothes? We’re only here for a few days.”

“I like to have options. It’s hot, I should have a summer dress in there somewhere.”

You trudged into the bathroom to sort yourself out. A quick shower had you feeling a little fresher, but your head was still pounding.

You emerged from the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Lionel was nowhere to be seen, but he’d left an outfit on the bed, a floral dress with short sleeves and a flowing skirt. You put it on, along with some clean underwear, and you had just finished drying your hair when Lionel returned with two takeaway coffee cups in his hands.

“Here you are. The hotel restaurant does some incredible coffee.”

“Ooh, that is exactly what I need right now, thank you,” you said with a groan of relief. You took the cup gratefully, and smiled when Lionel kissed the top of your head.

“Anything for my girl.”

You smiled coyly. “You like saying that, don’t you? Calling me yours.”

“Well, you are.” Lionel put his coffee cup down and placed his hands on your shoulders as he kissed the top of your head. “Mine, mine, mine,” he growled, punctuating each claim with a kiss. “Tell me now if I’m wrong.”

“Oh, you’re not wrong. I am yours, Li.” You placed your hand over his and leaned into his touch with a smile. “And I am also… very hungover.” You rubbed your temple. “I can’t believe you convinced me to do shots in that bar last night.”

“You’re cute when you’re drunk. Especially when you’re dancing all over me in a nightclub. Come on, are you ready yet? I want to take you to a lovely cafe nearby for breakfast. Food will definitely help your hangover.”

He wasn’t wrong, so you finished getting ready, and just before you took one last drink of your coffee, Lionel handed you some pills.

“For your headache,” he said.

“You think of everything,” you replied. You took the pills, washed them down with the coffee, then held your hand out to Lionel.

“Come on, then. Show me Parisian breakfast.”

Lionel insisted that you get to the Orsay at exactly opening time, but to his annoyance, there was already a queue of people outside.

“Ugh, I hate tourists,” he grumbled as you took your place at the back of the line.

“Hey, we’re tourists.”

“One day, I’ll be so rich, I’ll be able to hire out whole museums so we can visit them in peace. Just you and me, and as much time alone with Monet as we like. We could walk around naked if we wanted.”

You laughed, though you weren’t entirely sure he was joking.

“You’re not rich enough to do that now? Man, you should have said, I wouldn’t have bothered dating you.”

“Watch it, you,” Lionel teased, and you giggled as he tickled your sides. “I only have what Mum gives me.”

“Ohh, poor baby, does Mummy not give you enough money to hire out an entire museum? What a tragedy.”

“I don’t have unlimited access to her bank account, you know. I had to ask her for the money to pay for this trip.”

“Ah, so it’s really Georgina that’s taken me on this romantic trip to Paris. Noted.”

Lionel tried to tickle you again, but you dodged out of the way.

“I told you, I’m going to learn all I can about business at uni, then I’m going to make my own success. I’ll be rich enough to hire this place out, you’ll see.”

“I’m sure I will. Have you any idea what is going to make you so much money? You know, you have to actually do something. You can’t just walk around in a suit and tie pointing at pie charts all day.”

“Dammit, that’s all I thought I had to do. That, and shout at juniors for not getting reports to me in time.”

You laughed. The line began moving steadily as the doors opened and visitors began filing in.

“I’m sure you’ll figure out your path at uni, Li,” you said as you slipped your hand into his. “Maybe you and Sinclair could start your own company together.”

“Mmm, maybe,” Lionel replied noncommittally. “I love him and I’d do anything for him… but I’m not sure I’d trust him with anything financial. Money has a way of slipping through his fingers. I’m not even sure what he spends it on.”

“He probably eats it.”

Lionel guffawed. “You know what, [Y/n], you’re probably right. I’d wager it does all go on food.”

“Where do you guys do your food shopping?”

“How should I know? The staff do the food shopping.”

You had to laugh then.

“Oh my god, Lionel. Do you hear yourself sometimes?” You put on your best imitation of an overly-posh accent. “What do you mean, ‘buy’ food? Does it not simply appear on the table? Mummy told me that if I’m a very good boy this year then Father Christmas might bring me some new Gucci shoes. My driver got sick last week and I had to drive myself around everywhere, it was simply terrible!”

“[Y/n], stop it!” Lionel protested, but he was laughing. “I do not sound like that.”

“You do a little bit.”

“Look, my mother does her best for me, as all mothers do. It’s not my fault she’s filthy rich and spoils me rotten.”

“Ah, so you admit you’re spoiled,” you teased. You were almost at the entrance now, and Lionel reached into his jacket pocket to pull out his wallet to pay your admission.

“Even your wallet’s posh. Is that real leather?”

“[Y/n], shush,” Lionel laughed. “Don’t go blurting it out to the whole world that I’m rich, what if someone tries to mug me?”

“Oh, Li, you don’t need me to do that. Your clothes do that for you.”

Lionel glanced down at his outfit with a frown. “What’s wrong with my clothes?”

“Trust me, Li. Just like you can probably tell that I wear cheap clothes, yours scream expensive.”

“I just have good taste,” Lionel said stubbornly.

He approached the counter with a confident, polite smile.

“Bonjour. Deux billets, s'il vous plaît.”

“Ce sera deux euros. Souhaitez-vous faire un don pour soutenir notre travail?”

Lionel opened his mouth to say something, but then he glanced at you, and apparently changed his mind.

“Oui, bien sûr. Voici dix euros en plus.”

“Merci pour votre générosité, monsieur. Voici un guide du musée.”

The man handed Lionel a leaflet. Lionel glanced at it, then said, “Vous l'auriez en anglais?”

The man glanced at you, apparently unimpressed.

“Oui, voici une version anglaise,” he said, and he handed Lionel another leaflet. “Bonne visite, profitez-en bien.”

“Nous le ferons, merci. Bonne journée.”

Lionel placed a hand on the small of your back and ushered you on into the museum as the man behind the counter beckoned over the next visitor.

“Lionel…”

“Mmm?” he responded absentmindedly as he opened one of the leaflets.

“You’re so hot when you speak French.”

He glanced up at you and smirked. “Oh, really? I’ll have to remember that. It’ll be a lot easier to seduce you if I don’t have to actually say anything sexy. I’ll just recite the recipe for a cake in French.”

“Oh, Lionel, don’t be silly. You don’t know the recipe for a cake. Have you ever even stepped foot in a kitchen?”

Lionel smacked you with the leaflet playfully.

“As a matter of fact, I have. I’ll have you know that a few years ago, Sinclair became obsessed with the idea of baking. After his third burnt cake, I had to step in and supervise. It was an awful experience, I hated every second, I have no idea why some people pursue it as a career. Now, do you want to see the Monets first, or save the best until last?”

“Hmm… let’s do them first. Then we won’t be rushing through everything else to get to them.”

“Excellent. Here’s your guide — no, that’s mine. Here’s yours.”

He handed you one of the leaflets, the second one he’d been handed.

“What’s the difference?”

“This one’s French. Come on, it’s this way.”

“Are you completely fluent in French?” you asked as Lionel took your hand and led you in the direction the guide had pointed him.

“I’m fluent in French, Spanish and Italian,” Lionel said as if it was no big deal. “I can speak Dutch and Norwegian too, though not as well. Sinclair, of course, is fluent in all of them. He’s like a human Rosetta Stone. What languages do you speak?”

“English.”

“And?”

“English.”

“Seriously? They don’t even teach French in state schools?”

“We did a bit but it was all, like, basic stuff. You know — Bonjour. Comment vas-tu? Comment t'appelles-tu? Je m'appelle [Y/n]. Je suis fille unique. J'habite à Winchester. Mon cours préféré est l'art. Où est la bibliothèque? That’s about the extent of my French. Oh, and the lyrics to Frère Jacques.”

Lionel chuckled. “They taught you the important things, then. Did they teach you how to say ‘My boyfriend is very handsome’?”

“No, why would I need to say that? Everyone can see how handsome you are.”

“But can they see that I’m your boyfriend?”

You glanced down at your joined hands.

“Point taken,” Lionel conceded. “Ah — there it is!”

He pointed to a door, which had Exposition Monet written at the top.

Although there’d been a queue to get in, the visitors had all headed in different directions depending on what they wanted to see, and the place was so huge that it was still fairly empty. When you stepped into the Monet Exhibition, you only saw two other people in there, and it was easy to ignore their presence.

There was something peaceful about viewing art with Lionel. He took his time with each piece, admiring it in detail. You’d gone to galleries together before, London had plenty, and every time, it was as if some other side of him came out.

It was easy to think of Lionel as a serious person. He was good at acting the part of the serious, well-educated posh boy you’d expected of him when you knew nothing about him but the college he went to. And next to Sinclair, full of energy and jokes, Lionel might seem, to an outsider, the most serious, unamused person in the world.

But you knew better. You saw him when you were alone, when his facade faded away and he felt comfortable enough to be himself around you. He was funny, he didn’t take himself too seriously, and sometimes he even let you see that he wasn’t always as pretentiously self-confident as he seemed.

But this Lionel, the Lionel even you rarely saw — it was like a third, hidden layer of his personality. He was quiet, but you could sense that internally, he was admiring every brushstroke, every choice of colour, every drop of paint that captured an artist’s vision.

It wouldn’t be until after you left a gallery and you were brought back into the real world that Lionel would say anything about the pieces you’d looked at. You would spend hours talking, discussing your favourite pieces, which ones had moved you, which had moved him, and swapping ideas and interpretations. Sometimes you disagreed, but you found that even more enthralling, because neither of you ever said the other was wrong, and you both loved to hear the other’s interpretation.

You turned into a separate room, and you saw a very familiar painting ahead of you.

“Look, it’s our old friend,” Lionel said, speaking for the first time since you’d entered the exhibition.

He led you by the hand up to Haystacks at Dawn, the very same painting he’d shown you the day you met. The plaque, written in both French and English, told you it was on loan from a private collection.

There was a kind of stillness in him when he was looking at art. But you could feel his thumb moving, gently stroking your hand, as if that one part of him that was connected to you stayed grounded while the rest of him was lost somewhere within the painting.

“Lionel?”

“Hmm?”

He turned his head towards you slightly, but his eyes remained fixed on the canvas.

“I love you.”

It took him a moment to tear his eyes away from the painting, but when he looked at you, it was as if you were the only work of art there.

He didn’t say anything at first. It wasn’t hesitation — more of a basking in the moment, letting the reality of what you’d said set in.

His smile lit up his face in a way you’d never seen before. It was a mixture of relief, of peace and comfort; as if your words had washed all his worries away.

He leant down and kissed you, his lips soft on yours. He usually kissed you so passionately, his tongue pressing into your lips; but now, his lips were softly ghosting yours, as if he were kissing the words that had just left them.

His amber eyes gazed into yours with ardent adoration.

“I love you, too,” Lionel said softly.

You felt a weight lift from your chest, one you hadn’t even known was there, and a feeling of serenity took its place, enclosing your heart in a soft, warm, protective embrace. Nothing could hurt you now.

You wrapped your arms around his torso and held him in an embrace. Lionel hugged you back, his lips ghosting kisses across your forehead. In front of you both, Haystacks at Dawn was still there, a silent observer; its paint had sat on its canvas for eighty years, waiting to connect this, the greatest moment of Lionel’s life, to that morning in Monet’s life all that time ago.

And Lionel knew that he would never look at that painting the same way again.

- - -

“Oh fuck, that feels so fucking good.”

Lionel smirked to himself as he heard your voice from the bathroom. He had every intention of making you repeat that phrase soon for a very different reason; but for now, you were saying it because your feet were on fire from walking around the museum all day, and you’d just lowered them into the scalding hot water of the jacuzzi.

His feet were fine, of course. He’d spent many hours exploring Paris in the past, and he’d invested in some very comfortable shoes for it. You, meanwhile, had worn sandals with your summer dress, and they were definitely not designed for walking around in all day.

After the museum - which had taken you most of the day - Lionel had taken you for an early dinner at a fancy restaurant. Usually, you insisted on ordering for yourself, but since you had no idea what the menu said or how to order it, Lionel had ordered for you. You didn’t complain; it meant you could listen to him speak more French.

Lionel wanted to go out for drinks afterwards, but you wanted to rest your feet, so you agreed to go back to the hotel room for a while first.

While bathing your feet, you came to a decision. You knew what you wanted; and you wanted it now.

You’d already told him you loved him. Now you wanted to show him.

When you emerged from the bathroom, Lionel was sat on the edge of the bed, casually reading the back of a champagne bottle as he sipped on a glass of its contents.

“This stuff’s excellent. Do you want to try some?” Lionel asked, holding up the glass to you.

Your response was to take the bottle from his hand, and the glass, and place them on a nearby cabinet. You turned back to Lionel, who was frowning at his drink being taken away, but his mood quickly changed when you straddled his lap and held his head in your hands to kiss him.

Any thoughts of champagne were suddenly forgotten. All Lionel wanted to taste was you. His arms snaked around your torso, holding you close against him as he kissed you back. Emboldened by the drinks he’d already had at dinner, Lionel let a hand wander down your back, and when it landed on your rear, you didn’t protest. He let his other hand follow the same path, and even when he squeezed both your cheeks, you didn’t stop him. In fact, your reaction was to thrust your hips forward, and Lionel could feel his trousers tightening.

“[Y/n]… I’ve warned you about wriggling on my lap,” Lionel said through gritted teeth as your kisses wandered down his jawline. “Are you trying to get me excited?”

You just kept kissing him until you reached his ear, then said softly, “Are there condoms in your bag?”

Lionel’s breath hitched.

“Why… why would I pack condoms?”

“Hmm, I don’t know… a romantic trip to Paris with your girlfriend… why wouldn’t you pack condoms?”

“I… yes, I brought some. Just — just in case.”

“Good.” You pressed a kiss to the end of his nose. “Better get them out, then.”

Lionel’s eyes went wide for a moment, then narrowed again as he remembered his confidence. You stood to let him up, and he tried to act cool as he went over to his suitcase to dig out the box of condoms he’d packed, hidden from view beneath his underwear.

“I’ve… had these for a few weeks,” he admitted as he turned back to you with the box in hand. You’d sat yourself on the bed and scooted up to sit against the headboard.

“It’s open,” you said curiously as Lionel placed the box on the bedside table and shrugged off his jacket.

“I practised putting it on,” he admitted. “I didn’t want to do it wrong when — when the time came.”

He sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand over yours.

“Are you sure you want to do this? I don’t want you to feel like you have to because I’ve brought you to Paris.”

You smiled sweetly. “Yes, I’m sure, Li. Anyway, I don’t have much choice after hearing you speak so much French today. Every time your accent changed, I had to resist the urge to drop my knickers right there and then.”

Lionel chuckled and pushed himself onto the bed to straddle your legs. “I didn’t know French had such an effect on you. I’d have started speaking French to you weeks ago if I’d known.”

“I didn’t know either until I heard it from you. You could say anything in French and it’d sound sexy.”

Lionel smirked mischievously. He leaned forward and brought his lips close to your ear, then whispered, “Omelette du fromage.”

You burst out laughing.

“Come on, I know that means cheese omelette!”

Lionel laughed as he pulled away and sat back. He placed his hands on your knees and gently moved them away from each other, smiling as he admired the view of your skirt riding up your thighs.

“I think I’ll start with taking your knickers off,” he said with a growl.

He placed his hands on your hips and pulled you down the bed until you were flat on your back. His thumbs slipped under the waistband of your knickers, and he gently pulled them down your legs and past your ankles, before discarding them on the floor somewhere.

You felt exposed like this, Lionel’s grip on your thighs keeping them firmly in place, so you couldn’t have closed your legs if you wanted to. He was looking between your legs hungrily, his pupils wide and dilated, as he considered his next move.

“Maybe you’re right about calling yourself a lion. You look like you’re about to pounce.”

Lionel’s eyes flickered up to yours, and he smirked.

“I am a lion, darling.” His eyes drifted down again. “I suppose that makes you my gazelle.”

He certainly moved with the swiftness of a pouncing lion going in for the kill, but instead of teeth sinking into the flesh of prey, he dipped his head between your legs and you felt his tongue delve beneath your folds.

You gasped, and that only spurred him on, his tongue exploring your folds as enthusiastically as it had explored your mouth on many occasions. He licked every inch of you he could find, and you were sure he was leaving your clit for last — you knew damn well he knew where it was, his fingers had proven that several times now.

When he finally deigned to show you some attention where it really mattered, he gave you the smallest, slightest lick under the hood, right on it, and you let out a whine.

You could feel him smirking. You could feel his fucking pride against your skin as he licked you again, and you let out another whine.

He was doing it on purpose, you realised as he did it a third time. He was giving you a small but perfect lick, just enough to make you whine, then pausing before doing it again.

“Stop teasing and do it properly, you arsehole,” you said through gritted teeth.

Lionel pulled his head back slightly to look up at you and laughed.

“Anything for you, mon chérie.”

He stopped teasing. He did it properly.

He was a quick learner. It was his first time eating you out, yet somehow he was able to stimulate you in ways you could never do with your own fingers, even though you’d been touching yourself since you were eleven years old.

Then again, a tongue was very different from a finger. It was wetter, softer, and able to change shape. Lionel could also, you discovered with a moan, close his lips around your clit and suck.

That was apparently the last straw. Lionel kept sucking and licking as you came, legs shaking and mouth crying out something that vaguely resembled his name. It was only when you asked him to stop that he stilled his movements and pulled his head back, and the sight of his lips and chin covered in your glistening cum was bested only when you saw him wipe his chin with his thumb, then lick the thumb clean.

“You’d better get those fucking clothes off,” you said as you reached over for the box of condoms.

“Since when does the gazelle give the lion orders?”

Even so, Lionel obeyed, fingers making quick work of his shirt. You pulled your dress over your head, then unclasped your bra and tossed it all aside.

Lionel groaned with relief when he was able to pull his trousers down and free his cock. He kicked away the remainder of his clothing, then took the condom from you. You watched as he rolled it down his shaft, then you wrapped your hand around him and gave it a few experimental tugs to see what it felt like.

“When you practised… did you cum in it?”

“Mmm. It feels different. Less sensitive, perhaps, but that may be a good thing — I might finish too soon otherwise.”

“Did you think about me?” you asked teasingly.

Lionel raised an eyebrow at you. “[Y/n], I have thought about you with every wank since the day we met. I’d hope you’ve been thinking about me too.”

“Oh, I have,” you promised. “Especially since I first touched your cock and realised how big you are… I’ve been wondering what it’ll feel like to have you inside me. If you’ll even fit.”

“Then wonder no more. Lie down, darling.”

You did, and as you adjusted the pillow to support your neck comfortably, Lionel kissed his way up your body, starting from your belly button, all the way up your chest until he was kissing your lips again.

His body was pressed against yours. You could feel the heat radiating from him, and you could definitely feel his cock pressing against you, just one swift movement away from pushing inside.

“You’re shivering,” Lionel said with a small frown when he pulled away from the kiss and noticed you were shaking slightly. “Are you cold?”

“I’m — I’m nervous,” you admitted shyly.

Lionel kissed your lips softly. “So am I,” he admitted.

“I thought lions didn’t get nervous?”

“Perhaps I’m more human than I thought.” He gently stroked a stray strand of hair away from your face. “Are you ready, love?”

You nodded. You’d never been more ready for anything in your life. You didn’t just want him; you needed him.

Lionel pushed his hips forward slightly… and missed, his cock sliding up against your skin instead.

You reached down and took his cock in your hand. You guided him towards your entrance, and when he slipped inside, he let out a low groan.

“Holy shit,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

You pulled your hand away, instead wrapping your arms around his shoulders to pull him close to you as his hips moved further forward.

“Oh my god, [Y/n]. You feel… fucking phenomenal. I had - Christ! - I had no idea it would feel like this. So — so wet and warm. Fuck. How does it feel?”

“I can — I can feel you stretching me out,” you gasped in response. “It’s good — a good stretch. Like my body’s… expanding to fit you.”

“Mmm, yes, you’ll take all of me. And you wondered how I’d fit… the answer is perfectly. You were meant to take me, don’t you think? The gazelle meant to be devoured by the lion.”

He let out a groan as he bottomed out, his hips pushing into your thighs. Lionel took the skin of your neck between his teeth and sucked, as if he really were trying to devour you.

“I’m not… I’m not a gazelle,” you breathed.

Lionel released your neck from his lips so he could look up at you with amusement.

“Oh? Then what are you?”

You kissed him, hard and firm, as if marking your territory, then raised your lips to his ear.

“I’m the fucking lioness.”

Lionel physically shuddered as a wave of arousal swept over him.

“Yes… yes, you fucking are. Of course you are. My lioness. Then I hope you’re ready, love. Because I’m going to fuck you like the mighty fucking lioness you are.”

“Then do it.”

Lionel grinned, and you really hoped the hotel walls were soundproof, because the noise you made when he began slamming his hips into you was ungodly. And he kept going, which only made your sinful moans longer.

“I’m not gonna fucking last long if you - hah - if you moan like that,” Lionel grunted. “Bloody hell, love, I can’t tell you how fucking good you feel. I’m afraid I won’t last a day without fucking you now, not now I know this is how it feels. Even better than I imagined, fuck… fucking hell, [Y/n]. I love you. I really fucking - Christ! - I really love you. Shit, I’m about to cum already…”

“Do it, I want you to,” you gasped. “I want you to cum with your cock inside me, Li…”

“Oh, I will, I promise you that. Fuck, I — [Y/n] — [Y/n]!”

His hips stilled as he came, and that beautiful look on his face of utter ecstasy as he lost control looked even more beautiful from this angle.

Your name melted into a groan, and then a grunt of exhaustion as Lionel’s entire body relaxed and he practically flopped onto you.

“Fucking hell, [Y/n],” he mumbled as he nuzzled your neck and planted soft kisses on your skin. “You’re amazing.”

You smiled and kissed his shoulder.

“I know.”

Lionel laughed breathily, then pulled out of you and managed to sit himself up to pull the condom off.

“Back in a sec.”

He pushed himself off the bed and took himself into the bathroom, where you heard him turn on the tap, no doubt to clean himself up.

You took the opportunity to sit up slightly and look between your legs. To your surprise, there was no blood, just the usual glistening of your own secretions.

When Lionel came out of the bathroom, you took your turn. You returned to him sitting up against the headboard, still stark naked, lighting a cigarette.

“Do you want one?” he asked, pointing to the packet of cigarettes that now sat next to the condoms on the bedside table.

You shook your head as you climbed back onto the bed with him, an arm snaking over his torso as you cuddled up to him. Lionel wrapped his arm around you and cuddled you back.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded and smiled happily.

“I thought there’d be blood. My friends all told me you bleed the first time.”

“Only if your boyfriend doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Lionel said smugly. He took a long drag of his cigarette, then said, “I know that was quick. I knew it’d be good, but I didn’t think it’d be that good. I’ll be ready to go again soon, we can do it again if you want. Tomorrow too. In fact, forget seeing Paris, let’s just stay in here and shag all day.”

You laughed and looked up at him. “Think you’ve got the stamina for that? Lions aren’t known for their endurance.”

Lionel grinned.

“When they’re in heat, they shag about fifty times a day. Think we can match that?”

“I have a feeling you’re gonna try.”

Lionel reached over to stub his cigarette out in the ashtray, then wrapped his arms around your shoulders and pulled you down onto the bed, kissing every inch of you he could find. He growled with arousal as your bodies pressed together, and you could feel him getting erect again.

“You’ve awoken the beast now, love. And I am going to fucking devour you.”

Paris could wait. Your boyfriend had only one thing on his mind, and so did you; you knew you weren’t leaving this hotel room for a long time.

#lionel x reader #no not thot face

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snowblossomreads · 29 days ago

Text

🤣🤣 not Lionel out here going feral for some titties 🤣🤣 but also hold me back bc i too want to beat Anderson up DONT TOUCH PUPPEE U BINCH

Also lionels mom 🤣 "i am rich and powerful and will ruin ur life" dont hurt her cub (little does she know her sun is the problem)

Champagne Problems

Chapter 2. Everything Good Happens After Midnight

Lionel/Reader

Summary: It's time for Lionel and Sinclair's mums' birthday party, and you're invited.

Word count: 10.8k

warnings: violence, fist fighting

All chapters here!

Read on Ao3 or WattPad or below the cut:

1989

It had been another quiet day. Your business was keeping afloat and you made a tidy profit, but there were still days when you didn’t get a lot of customers coming in.

The hours ticked by, and come fifteen minutes to closing time, you decided you might as well close up now. You turned the sign on the door around to show you were closed, though you left the door unlocked. You pulled out your sales ledger and had just opened the drawer to take out your calculator when you heard the bell announcing the door had been opened.

Fifteen minutes. Well, if they knew what they wanted, you could get them out in that time.

You looked up to greet the customer, and you had to control yourself to stop your jaw from dropping.

Multi-millionaire media mogul Lionel Shabandar was in your shop.

Your ex-boyfriend Lionel Shabandar was in your shop.

“Do you know how long it took me to find you?” he said with wry amusement. “All this time, you were less than a mile from my office. I should have my PI fired.”

How long had you spent wondering what you would say if you ever saw him again?

“I’m closing in fifteen minutes.”

That certainly wasn’t one of the lines you’d rehearsed in your head.

“Oh, I’m not here for a picture frame.”

Lionel stepped further into the shop, his hands clasped behind his back, looking over the frames with mild curiosity.

“Why picture frames?” he asked. “Of all the business ventures we used to talk about… I’m certain you never suggested picture frames.”

“I thought you weren’t here for a picture frame.”

“I’m not.”

He approached the counter, and looked at you for a long moment. He smiled.

“You’re still beautiful.”

You folded your arms.

“I don’t think you came here to check me out either. Unless you’re intending to put me in the ‘Hot or Not?’ section of Heart Magazine, in which case the answer is no.”

Lionel’s smile didn’t falter. “You’ve kept up with my work,” he said proudly.

“It’s hard not to, you seem to own everything these days.”

“Not quite everything. Your number, for example — I don’t seem to have that.”

You scoffed. “Does that line work on all the girls, or just the ones with fluff for brains?”

Lionel laughed and shook his head. “I’m not trying to pick you up, [Y/n].”

“Then you’d better explain yourself, and quick. Don’t think because you’re a bigshot now I’m not kicking you out at closing time. You’ve got twelve minutes left, by the way.”

“I have a promise to keep, and I’m a man of my word.”

You laughed then. “You’ve got some fucking nerve, Lionel. You’ve never kept a single promise you made to me.”

Lionel leaned across the counter, smirking, his voice lowered as if what he said next was top secret.

“Then let me keep this one. The first promise I ever made to you.”

“You’ll have to remind me,” you said bitterly. “I stopped keeping track of your broken promises a long time ago.”

“I promised you a kiss at 36.”

He really, sincerely, truly and honestly seemed to think he was being suave.

You slapped him.

“Fuck off, Shabandar,” you spat.

Lionel stood up straight and raised a hand to his cheek in shock.

“A simple no would have sufficed,” he muttered as he rubbed his sore cheek.

“No. Will you leave now?”

You grabbed your ledger and calculator to take them into the back room, but Lionel didn’t seem to get the message.

“How on earth did you end up selling picture frames?” he asked, apparently changing the subject.

“Well, I have more picture frames than I need, and there are people who have less picture frames than they need, so they give me money in exchange for my picture frames. It’s the basics of business, Lionel, I thought you were supposed to be a bigshot in that now?”

“You know what I mean,” Lionel persisted. Now he was following you into the back room! “You had so many brilliant ideas, and the brains to make them happen. You could be doing so much more than picture frames.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t have the fucking resources, do I?” you said bitterly. Why wouldn’t he go away?

“You did. I would have given you the resources. I would have given you everything.”

“And I did give you everything!” you shouted, whirling on him. “I gave you my heart, my body, fucking everything. I gave you my whole life. And you — you treated it like it was nothing. Like I was nothing. And now you come in here eighteen years later and expect me to drop everything to give you a snog? Like — like some sort of IOU you’re cashing in on? No. Fucking no. Get out of my shop, Lionel. I don’t want you here, and I don’t want you in my life. Get out.”

“[Y/n] —”

“No! There’s nothing I want to hear from you. If you’re not out in ten seconds, I’m calling the police.”

Lionel threw his hands up in surrender.

“Alright. I get the message. I’m leaving.”

He turned to leave, and you followed him to the front door to make sure he left. Hand on the door handle, he turned back to you.

“You seem to have forgotten how we left things, [Y/n]. You broke my heart that night.”

“And you broke mine long before that. Now, leave.”

With a sigh of frustration, Lionel swung the door open and stormed out. You watched through the shop window as a man standing next to a black Range Rover stood up straight and opened the car door for him.

Just as Lionel climbed inside the car, the shop door opened again.

“Who’s the fancy man?” said the new arrival.

You turned to him and plastered on a smile.

“Nobody important. How was your day?”

- - -

1971

Sinclair drummed his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. He could see his destination up ahead, the pub he’d agreed to pick Lionel up from after his date, but the traffic was at a standstill.

For once, Sinclair wasn’t going to be late for something — or he wouldn’t have been, if it weren’t for the traffic. Now, he was fifteen minutes late.

In the distance, a figure came out of the pub, looking around. Sinclair recognised the outline of his cousin, and the navy blue shirt they’d picked out together earlier that day.

Impatient to hear the full report of his cousin’s date, Sinclair leaned over to the passenger side and rolled down his window.

“Lionel!” he called.

Lionel looked over at the sound of his name, spotted Sinclair’s car, and hurried down the road to get in on the passenger side.

“Sorry, I swear I was actually going to be on time, but this traffic hasn’t moved! How was it? When’s the wedding, and can I be your best man?”

Lionel responded by leaning forward and resting his head on the glovebox.

“…That bad?”

“She’s amazing,” Lionel groaned.

“Oh… but that’s great! Isn’t it? I’m confused.”

Lionel sat back in his seat with a sigh.

“I fucked up. I absolutely fucked up.”

“No, I’m sure you didn’t — oh, hey, a green light!”

Sinclair prepared to drive forward, and managed to get about halfway up the road before the light turned red again. He groaned impatiently and parked the car again.

“What makes you think you fucked up?”

“Sinclair, you are — and do not let this go to your head — but you are my best friend.”

Sinclair’s eyes lit up, and he grinned. “Aww! Thanks, Li! You’re my best friend too!”

“Well, yes, obviously. But how often do I talk to you? I mean, really talk to you. About, you know, feelings and things like that.”

“Umm, not often,” Sinclair said. “But that’s okay, I do enough talking for both of us.”

“I told her everything,” Lionel groaned, placing his head in his hands. “Fucking hell. I told her about my father.”

“…Oh.”

“It was so easy, like… I’d been holding it all inside to tell her. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. And she — Christ, Clair, she listened. She actually… listened. I thought she’d find an excuse to leave, but she didn’t. She stayed, we finished our drinks, and we went for a walk around Hyde Park.”

“Wait, so you didn’t fuck up! If you had, she’d have found an excuse to leave! That is so cute that you went for a walk. Did you hold hands?”

“Yes.”

Sinclair gasped excitedly. “Well, then, I repeat my earlier question! When’s the wedding, and can I be your best man?”

“Shut up,” Lionel grumbled, but Sinclair of course continued to vibrate with excitement.

“Okay, okay, no wedding bells yet. But did you kiss?”

“Sinclair, the light’s green.”

“Don’t avoid the question!” Sinclair insisted, although he quickly jumped into action to move the car forward, and they both cheered when they finally made it past the traffic lights and Sinclair was able to drive at a consistent pace again.

“So? Did you?”

“No, we were having so much fun just talking, then suddenly it was time to come and meet you. I kissed her on the cheek when we said goodbye, but that was it. Bloody hell, I’ve really fucked up, haven’t I? I dumped all my child of divorce trauma on her and didn’t even kiss her. I’ll be lucky if I ever get to see her again.”

“You will, I know you will! Did you ask her on a second date?”

“No, I just said I’d call her. I didn’t want to pressure her into agreeing to anything.”

“Ask her to the party this weekend!”

“Absolutely not. I’ve probably frightened her off, the last thing I should be doing is asking her to meet my mother.”

“It’s not formally meeting her. Just, you know, bringing her to a party that your mum just happens to be at.”

“She doesn’t just happen to be there, Sinclair, it’s her bloody birthday party. If I show up with a girl in tow, everybody’s going to think she’s my girlfriend and start treating us as if we’re much more serious than we are. If by some miracle I haven’t scared her off today, that definitely would. No, absolutely not. I will call her after the party.”

“Oh, fine. You are such a bore sometimes, Li,” Sinclair said with a huff.

Lionel grunted. “That’s me. Now, tell me about your car show.”

“Ohmygoditwasamazing! So first there were some really old Peugeots…”

- - -

The wait for Lionel’s call was the most arduous wait of your life.

Every time the phone rang, if you were home alone, you ran to answer it. If your mum was at home, you had to pretend not to be listening when she answered it. And every time, you were met with disappointment.

When the phone rang on Saturday night, you didn’t answer it, as you were busy washing up after dinner, and your mum had gone upstairs to run a bath. When it rang out, you heard the voicemail click, and a voice came out of it, recording a message.

“Hello, this is a message for [Y/n]. This is Sinclair Bryant. I know it’s last minute but are you free tonight? We’re having a party and Lionel’s completely lovesick — ow! What? It’s true! — sorry, anyway, if you get this message, call me back on —”

But Sinclair didn’t need to leave a number, because you’d dropped the plates in the sink as soon as you heard his name, and dried your hands as quickly as you could before dashing over to pick up the phone.

“Sinclair, hi! Sorry, I was doing the dishes.”

“Oh, [Y/n], hi! That’s okay! So do you want to come? It’s our mums’ birthday party. It’s in Windsor, but we can send a car to pick you up.”

“Isn’t that a bit far? It’s like an hour to pick me up and another hour to get me there…”

“Sorry, I should have been more specific. I’ll call a taxi in Winchester to take you here. You can stay with us for the night afterwards, or our driver can take you back.”

“Does Lionel know you’re inviting me?”

“Yes, he asked me to call you! He’s too nervous to call you himself because he’s so in love —”

“Sinclair!” you heard Lionel protesting in the background, and you laughed.

“Alright, I’ll come. Wait — what should I wear? Is this a really fancy thing?”

“What’s the fanciest dress you have?”

“Um, probably my prom dress?”

“I bet it’s perfect! Okay, get your prom dress on, I’ll get a taxi to you in twenty minutes! Oh, wait, hang on — what’s your address?”

You made a deal with your mum: you’d answer all the questions she had about Lionel until the taxi arrived, if she helped you get ready in time.

“Well, alright, he sounds like a nice boy. Just don’t do anything stupid,” she said, putting your shoes on your feet for you while you applied make-up to your face. Reusing your prom dress was a good idea, because you already knew what make-up and accessories went with it.

“What, like get pregnant at eighteen? Don’t worry, Mum, I won’t make your mistakes.”

“No! Well, yes, don’t get pregnant. But you weren’t the mistake. Rushing into things, that was the mistake. Remember, you have all the time in the world. Get to know him before you make any decisions, that’s all.”

“Okay, Mum.”

You tucked your make-up into a clutch bag, and on your way out, you also grabbed your toothbrush from the bathroom, in case you took Sinclair up on the offer to stay over.

When you arrived an hour later, you couldn’t help gawking. The party was at some large manor house that had gardens that went on for miles. The taxi driver drove up the long driveway and dropped you off at the front. You asked about paying, but he said it would be charged to the Bryant family’s account, so you stepped out and let him drive off while you stared up at the imposing house.

The party seemed to be going on mainly in the grounds, since it was so warm. There were gazebos and tents set up, and you tried not to look too nervous and out of place as you headed for the largest tent, hoping you’d find Sinclair and/or Lionel somewhere.

You found Sinclair at the buffet table, loading up a plate of food. He looked up when you called his name, and he grinned.

“[Y/n]! You made it! Oh, wow, you look amazing!”

You glanced down at your dress, then shot a look around the tent at the other guests’ outfits. To your relief, you didn’t seem to have made any fashion faux pas.

“Oh, thanks. I’m just glad I get another use out of this, to be honest.”

“It’s lovely! Here, do you want some food? It’s all free, Mum and Aunt Georgie go all out on their birthday.”

“Thanks, maybe later, I’d just had dinner when you called so I’m still full. Erm, so where’s —”

“Lionel? Oh, he’s — right behind you! Li, look, [Y/n] made it!”

You turned and saw Lionel walking over with a drink in each hand. His face lit up when he saw you, and you blushed.

“[Y/n], hi. Give me a moment, I’ll get you a drink too,” Lionel said as he handed one of the drinks to Sinclair.

“What are you talking about, Lionel, this is [Y/n]’s drink,” Sinclair said, passing the drink onto you as if you were playing pass the parcel. “I’ll go and get mine. Bye!”

He scurried away, and you laughed.

“How thoughtful of you to get me a drink not knowing I was here,” you said to Lionel. “What am I drinking?”

“It’s a gin and tonic. We can swap if you’d prefer.”

“Hmm, let me test it.”

You took a sip of the drink.

“I’ll stick with this, thanks. So was the party that dull without me?”

“Yes,” Lionel said immediately, and you laughed. “I’m serious, [Y/n]. Every year it’s the same. Our mums and their friends get drunk, and as the sons of the hosts we always had to entertain the other kids. Somehow, all of our mums’ friends have managed to have extremely boring children.”

“Well, you’re eighteen now, you can join the drunk adults,” you said as Lionel led you out of the tent and towards the house.

“You’d think so, but we’re still expected to host them, just with alcohol. Which makes it a little more bearable, I suppose. Instead of playing card games, we’re playing drinking games. I am sorry to drag you into this, but it was the only way I could get through the night without killing myself.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want that. Besides, I’d rather be here than at home.”

“You won’t say that once you meet this lot,” Lionel said, his voice low as he held the door open for you.

“I dunno, you’re here, so it can’t be all that bad.”

Lionel smiled as you slipped your hand into his.

“Come on. Let’s get through this together, then.”

He led you down the hallway, and you couldn’t help looking around in every direction at the architecture of the building, the luxurious furnishings, and the artworks on the wall.

“Oh, you have Starry Night!” you commented as you passed the Van Gogh work.

“Mmm, a reproduction. Here we are.”

Lionel led you into a room that you supposed would be called a sitting room, as it appeared to have no function other than the chairs and sofas dotted about, which had been pushed into a haphazard circle for the dozen or so occupants sitting around chatting with drinks and cigarettes in their hands.

“Oh, finally!” said one boy as the two of you walked in.

“Sorry, Sinclair got distracted by the buffet table again,” Lionel said.

“Did it turn him into a girl as well?” said another boy.

“Very funny, Thomson. Sinclair’s on his way. This is [Y/n], she’s a friend of mine. Come on, [Y/n], you can sit here with me.”

He showed you to a three-seater sofa, where he sat confidently in what was presumably his usual seat at one end. You hesitated, then decided to sit next to him, rather than at the other end. Lionel smiled and put an arm around your shoulder.

“Are we still waiting for Bryant?” said a girl who was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of a boy who was sitting on another sofa. She was fiddling with an empty champagne bottle, and you realised there was a lone book sitting in the middle of the group.

“Spin the bottle crosses all class barriers, it seems,” you said, and Lionel chuckled.

“It doesn’t matter who your parents are or how much money you have — we’re all pawns at the whims of the bottle,” he said wryly. Louder, he said, “If we wait for Sinclair, we’ll be here ‘til morning. Just spin the bloody thing, Molly.”

Molly placed the bottle on top of the book and spun it with a flick of her wrist. It landed on another girl, who squealed excitedly at being the bottle’s first victim.

“Dare!” she proclaimed.

Molly looked at her thoughtfully.

“I dare you to… finish your drink, while doing a handstand. Sanders can hold it to your mouth.”

“Okay!” Squealing Girl agreed. She jumped up and gestured for some boys to move away from the wall. You watched as she executed a perfect handstand, her feet resting against the wall.

“Olivia’s a gymnast, as you can tell,” Lionel said to you.

“Why are the boys Thomson and Sanders while the girls are Molly and Olivia?” you asked curiously.

Lionel shrugged. “That’s just how it is. At boys’ schools we call each other by our last names. Girls’ schools are more informal.”

“Why?”

“[Y/n], you’re going to have to just accept the weird things rich people do. We don’t really know why either, we just do it.”

“Doing what everyone else does because it’s the done thing and you don’t have the courage to question it?”

“I told you this lot were boring.”

You looked at him curiously, ignoring Olivia trying to drink her drink upside down.

“But not you?”

Lionel looked at you and smirked.

“No, not me. Growing up with Sinclair, you get used to the question ‘Why?’ — I just have a better sense of when to ask it and when to play along.”

A cheer came up from the others as Olivia managed to finish her upside down drink, and she came out of her handstand much less elegantly than she’d gone into it.

The boy to the left of Molly leaned forward to spin the bottle next, just as Sinclair squeezed through the gathered teens to join you on the sofa. He had a fresh gin and tonic in one hand, and a plate of snacks in the other.

“We’re drinking the same drink, what a coincidence,” you said.

Sinclair winked at you. You felt Lionel’s hand on your shoulder move further down your arm, and you smiled as his thumb absent-mindedly stroked your skin. You took a sip of your drink, hoping you weren’t blushing too hard.

As the game went on, you became more and more comfortable sitting with Lionel. When you leaned forward to take your turn spinning the bottle, he took the opportunity to move his hand down to your waist as you sat back.

“Oh, finally!” Molly said with relief as the bottle chose her as its next victim. “I thought it’d never land on me. Dare! And I warn you, new girl, there’s nothing I won’t do.”

You steepled your hands thoughtfully, looking at her with narrowed eyes as you tried to think of a dare. Molly was clearly a boastful showoff, and you wanted to test her limits.

“That boy behind you, is that your boyfriend?” you asked.

“Steve’s my fiance!” Molly announced excitedly, holding her hand up to show off her ring.

“Okay, then. I dare you to… kiss the one boy in this room you’d date if you didn’t know Steve.”

A chorus of oooohhs went around the room. Molly’s mouth dropped in shock. You thought for a moment you’d messed up, but then she burst into laughter.

“Oh, new girl, I like you! I hope my next spin lands on you.” She turned around to look at Steve. “It’s either this or chug, babe,” she said, holding up the bottle of vodka she was apparently drinking straight. “And you know how I get when I drink too much too fast.”

“Go on, Anderson, let her at it,” one of the boys called out. “Easy way to pick your next third, eh?”

You had no idea what that meant, but many of the others did, judging by their laughter.

Anderson, who was himself quite drunk, just shrugged. “Whatever.”

Molly squealed and clapped her hands together. She turned back towards the room and looked around at the other boys, clearly thinking very seriously about it.

“She can’t pick just one, she wants all of them,” giggled one of the girls.

“Shush!” Molly snapped. “Okay, I’ve made my choice. It was very easy, actually.”

She pushed herself up to her knees, wobbling a little, and shuffled across the carpet… to Sinclair.

“Do you mind?” she asked him.

You tried to stifle a giggle as you, and everyone else in the room, looked at Sinclair, whose face was bright red.

“Oh! Erm… no, I don’t mind, I guess.”

Maybe a little too eagerly, Molly leant forward and kissed him. Sinclair, who was expecting little more than a brief peck, was taken by surprise when she grabbed him by the back of the neck and did her best to French kiss him.

While the others hooted and hollered, Lionel leaned across you to grab Molly by the shoulder and pull her back.

“That’s enough of that,” he said. “[Y/n] said to kiss him, not rape his mouth with your tongue.”

Molly just giggled and scooted back to her seat in front of Steve, who, despite his “whatever,” was now staring daggers at Sinclair.

“You okay?” you asked Sinclair quietly.

Sinclair nodded, his eyes wide and his face flushed red. You reached into your purse to grab a make-up wipe.

“Hold still,” you said, and you wiped away the lipstick that Molly had spread over his face.

“Thanks,” Sinclair said quietly when you declared his face free of make-up.

“Alright, my turn,” Lionel sighed. He leant forward and half-heartedly spun the bottle around until it landed on one of the boys. He sat back into the sofa and put his arm back around you.

“Truth,” the boy decided.

Lionel looked at him appraisingly.

“Ever wanked over someone in this room?” he asked, and you almost choked on your drink you’d very unfortunately just brought up to your lips.

A few turns later, the bottle landed on you.

“Truth,” you said.

The girl who’d spun looked between you and Lionel, and giggled.

“Has Shabandar got a big dick?”

“No!” one of the boys said immediately, earning him a round of laughter, and giving you a moment to collect yourself as you hoped your cheeks didn’t flush red like Sinclair’s had.

“I don’t know, we’ve never… we’ve never done anything like that,” you said shyly.

“The answer’s yes, by the way,” Lionel added. “And it’s definitely bigger than yours, Coleman,” he said to the boy who’d just spoken.

The turns finally came full circle, and Molly had the bottle in her hand again. She held it on the book, but instead of spinning it, she simply turned it and pointed it right at you.

“Hey, that’s no fair, you can’t choose!” you protested.

Molly ignored your protests and looked at you gleefully.

“Alright, new girl. You chose truth last time so you have to do a dare this time. And I dare you to…” Her eyes drifted over to Lionel. “Suck Shabandar’s cock.”

As the gathered teens laughed and cheered for Molly’s dare, you felt Lionel’s hand tighten on your waist, and Sinclair piped up, “Molly, you can’t ask her to do that! Come on, you have to give her another dare.”

Molly shrugged. “Those are the rules. A dare, once spoken, cannot be revoked. Either suck Shabandar’s cock… or chug. And you’re out of drink.”

You glanced down at your glass, which was indeed empty as you’d been sipping on it as the game went on.

“Are there any more drinks?” you asked, glancing around. Some of the people in the room had to still be underage, which meant they couldn’t go to the bar, so there had to be some bottles that had been snuck in.

Olivia the squealing gymnast reached down the side of the sofa she was sat on and produced a bottle of Sambuca.

“How about this!”

“[Y/n] can’t chug that!” Lionel insisted. “Has anyone got any wine?”

“Oh, boring!” Molly groaned.

“[Y/n] hates wine. You’ll get your fun and she won’t get alcohol poisoning.”

“Yeah, and we won’t have to see Shabandar’s tiny dick!” Coleman added, laughing as if calling Lionel’s dick small was the funniest thing in the world.

“I’ll do wine,” you agreed. You were going to embarrass yourself, and Lionel and Sinclair by extension, when you inevitably spluttered and choked trying to get the bitter taste of wine down your throat, but it was better than spluttering and choking trying to get Lionel’s dick down your throat.

Someone produced a bottle of wine and poured it very generously into your glass.

With one hand on Lionel’s knee to brace yourself, you brought the glass to your lips and began drinking to the sound of “CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!” being chanted by everyone except Lionel and Sinclair, who were both watching you with concern and waiting to support you if you choked.

The crowd cheered when you brought the empty glass down from your lips. You brought your hand to your mouth to cover a burp.

You stared at the glass for a moment, then said, “I think my mum just gave me shit wine.”

Lionel grinned and took the glass from you to place it on the table. The alcohol going straight to your head, you leant into him and rested your head on his chest. He rubbed your back soothingly.

“You’re warm,” you mumbled.

Lionel chuckled. “And you’re adorable.”

The rest of the night was blurry. The truths and dares became dirtier as people got drunker, and when someone got revenge on your behalf by daring Molly to suck Anderson’s dick, Lionel and Sinclair seemed to simultaneously agree it was time for them to get some more drinks from the bar, and you decided to come along with them when it became quite clear that Molly fully intended to fulfil the dare.

“Your mates are weird,” you said as you made your way back down the hallway, your arm looped through Lionel’s.

“They are not our mates,” Lionel said firmly. “Even Sinclair can’t stand them, and Sinclair likes everybody.”

“Some of them I like,” Sinclair said between hiccups as he stumbled along with you. “But, yeah, not all of the people in there are in my good books. Sorry, [Y/n]. I suppose you wish we hadn’t invited you, huh?”

“No, I’m having fun,” you insisted. “I like you two, so that’s enough for me.”

“Aww, we like you too!” Sinclair beamed. “Although I think - hic! - sorry. I think Lionel likes you more. Not that I don’t like you! I like you loads. But Lionel reeeeally likes you.”

“I get the message, Sinclair, thank you,” you laughed. “You like me but you don’t like-like me, but you reckon Lionel like-likes me.”

“Yeah, exactly! And I don’t reckon, I know.”

“For the record, I like you too, Sinclair, but I also don’t like-like you. I do like-like Lionel, though.”

“Oh, awesome! You should tell him, ‘cause he’s been agonising about it for ages.”

“I am still here, you know,” Lionel said.

“Oh, Lionel, hi!” Sinclair said cheerily, as if he’d genuinely forgotten you were holding onto his cousin’s arm. “[Y/n] has something to tell you. And I have to go! Bye!”

Sinclair ran off, leaving you and Lionel behind in the hallway. You laughed.

“He’s funny,” you said. “He clearly loves you a lot.”

Lionel didn’t answer. Instead, he steered you through a doorway instead of towards the front door, and you found yourself in… some other apparently pointless room with no function but sitting. He slipped his arm out of yours and turned to face you, his expression serious.

“[Y/n], I have to tell you something. And I have to tell you now, before I sober up too much and lose my nerve.”

“…Okay,” you said, wondering where on earth this was going.

“Sinclair’s right, I do like you. A lot. Our date the other day was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. I feel so comfortable with you. And I’m… sorry if I opened up too much too quickly. Telling you about my father, that was probably too much. Definitely too much. Can we pretend I didn’t do that?”

You chuckled and took Lionel’s hand in yours.

“No, Lionel, we cannot pretend you didn’t do that, because you did. You don’t need to apologise. I’m glad you feel comfortable enough with me to open up. I get the feeling you don’t do that very often.”

Lionel shook his head.

“There is one huge, glaring error you made the other day, though…”

Lionel’s eyes widened in alarm. “There is?”

You stepped closer to him, the alcohol in your system giving you a boost of confidence.

“You didn’t kiss me.”

His expression softened, then that confident smirk that looked so cute on him came back.

“You’re right, I didn’t. Let me make that up to you.”

It wouldn’t be the best kiss you’d ever have, since you were both drunk — it was sloppy, uncoordinated, and you both had the smell of alcohol on your breath. But it was a kiss, and it was sure as hell a better kiss than whatever the hell Molly had done to Sinclair earlier.

You began to laugh, which forced you to break the kiss, and Lionel frowned.

“Something funny?”

“Sorry, it’s just — what the hell was that with Molly and Sinclair earlier?”

Lionel snorted. “That girl is the biggest slut known to man. She got halfway through fucking every boy in that room before she suddenly decided she’s marrying Anderson. She says she’s in love, but knowing her father, he probably found something out, if not the whole truth, and forced her to commit.”

“And Sinclair was her next target, was he?”

“Oh, she already targeted him. Many times. But you could hold up a sign in front of Sinclair’s face saying ‘Sinclair, I want to fuck you,’ and he’d still miss it.”

“And… which half are you part of? The fucked half or the ones she didn’t get around to?”

“I… have never been with a girl.”

“Oh!” you said in genuine surprise. “I wouldn’t have guessed. You’re so hot, and you have such confidence, I guess I just assumed you had loads of experience with girls.”

“I’ve been on dates, and I’ve kissed girls. Quite a few, if you must know. And, ah… one very unenthusiastic handjob from a girl who came out as lesbian a few months later. But nothing more than that. And I certainly… haven’t liked anyone as much as I like you. This is all very new to me.”

You grinned. “Would you even say you like-like me?”

Lionel rolled his eyes, but he wrapped his arms around your waist and pulled you closer.

“Yes, [Y/n], I like-like you. Very much so. And I very much liked kissing you just now, until you started thinking about Sinclair.”

You laughed and clasped your hand over your mouth.

“I’m sorry! Can we try again? And I swear, I’ll only think about you this time, and the very important question raised earlier about how big you are down there.”

“If anyone’s going to find out the answer to that question, it’s you,” Lionel growled. His eyes bore into yours, something deep and intense stirring inside you. “But not tonight, not while we’re both pissed. If we’re to do anything like that, I want it to be a perfect, romantic experience for you, not a quickie over the back of a sofa. But we can most certainly kiss again.”

The second kiss was better than the first — you both still stank of alcohol, but it was gentler, as if you’d got your hunger out of the way and now you were just enjoying the taste of each other. His lips were a lot softer than you’d thought they would be, and when he tightened his grip on you, you felt a jolt of something run through you.

You heard the door opening behind you. You went to pull away, but Lionel kept his lips firmly on yours.

“I’ll just leave your drinks here,” you heard Sinclair’s voice whisper behind you. There was a soft thud as the drinks were placed on a surface, and the door closed again.

Only once Sinclair was gone did Lionel release you from his grip, both of you gasping for air.

You glanced over at the drinks waiting for you, another beer and another gin and tonic.

“Sinclair’s a great wingman,” you chuckled.

“Mmm. How about we take these drinks upstairs to my room? Nothing nefarious, just… some peace and quiet.”

You smiled. “I’d like that.”

You each picked up your drinks and you followed Lionel up the stairs and down the long hallway until you reached his bedroom. It was very neatly organised and everything was put away. There were no clothes strewn on the floor like in your bedroom. On the walls were some art pieces, but you were most intrigued by the framed photos. You picked one up from the desk to examine it; it was in black and white, and it showed two identical women standing back to back in a garden, both of them sporting large baby bellies.

“That’s my mum,” Lionel said as he came up behind you, and he pointed to the woman on the right. “And that’s Sinclair’s mum on the left.”

“Aww, and there’s baby Lionel,” you laughed, pointing at Lionel’s mum’s belly.

“The first photo of Sinclair and I together. This was about a week before I was born. Sinclair followed three days later.”

“You’re only three days apart?”

“Mmm,” Lionel replied absent-mindedly. He had his hands on your waist now, and he leant down to plant kisses on your neck. You put the photo back down on the table and put your hands over Lionel’s. He was holding you close against him, and you could feel something hard pressing into you from behind.

“Lionel…”

“Mmm…”

“I thought you said nothing nefarious?”

“Is it nefarious to kiss you?” Lionel muttered, his lips against your ear now.

“No, but… I can feel your, um, excitement.”

Lionel chuckled. “You can say the word, [Y/n].”

“Your… erection. I can feel it.”

“Can you blame me when I have such a beautiful girl in my bedroom? Don’t worry, he won’t come out to play tonight. Not least because I’ve had far too much to drink. But I can still kiss you, can’t I?”

“Yes,” you breathed. You tilted your head back and to the side so your lips could connect, and Lionel tightened his grip on your waist. Just as you parted your lips, he pulled away. He took you by the hand and led you over to the bed to sit on the edge. He expected you to sit next to him, but you surprised him by instead hitching your skirt up slightly to allow you to straddle his lap.

You kissed him again, and he wrapped his arms around your torso to hold you close. Your fingers threaded through his hair as your lips parted to allow his tongue entrance, and he explored every inch of your mouth with his tongue. All the while, Lionel was fighting the urge to do something about the erection that was straining to come free of his trousers, and you certainly weren’t helping with the way you were wriggling on his lap as you kissed him.

He retracted his tongue and pulled away with the intention of kissing your neck again, but you got there first and he let out a very unrefined whine when you pulled his head back so your lips could connect with the bare skin of his neck.

“[Y/n]…” Lionel hissed through gritted teeth, “[Y/n], I need you to stop moving your hips like that if you don’t want me making a mess.”

You giggled, and you raised your head to look at him with a cheeky grin. “Is it that easy to set you off?” you teased.

“When I have a beautiful girl on top of me? Yes.”

Lionel grabbed you by the hips and flipped you over, causing you to squeal as you landed on the bed.

“That’s better,” he growled, climbing on top of you to trap you underneath him, his hands resting either side of your head. “I’d much rather have you underneath me.”

He kissed you again, hard and passionate, and you found it surprisingly comforting to be trapped beneath him, his kisses hot on your face, as if the world outside of the two of you ceased to exist.

He kissed you down your jawline and came back to your neck, before moving his kisses down your collarbone and to the neckline of your dress. He kept his hands next to your head, both to keep you trapped and to resist the temptation to run his hands all over your body.

“I know I said nothing nefarious,” Lionel said in a low voice when his kisses came back up your neck and his lips reached your ear. “But I really want to touch you.”

“Where?” you breathed, though you weren’t quite sure there was anything you’d say no to at this point.

“Your chest…”

“Now who’s avoiding saying a naughty word?” you said with a giggle.

Lionel chuckled. “Alright, then. I’d really like to touch your boobs.”

“…Okay.”

His hand couldn’t move fast enough, as if he were worried you’d change your mind in a few seconds. His large hand enveloped your breast, and although he was only touching you over your dress, you felt a tingle shoot through your body as he squeezed, causing you to gasp slightly.

Lionel hummed thoughtfully.

“Did you like that?”

“Yes. You can — you can go underneath the dress, if you like.”

He sat up slightly to shift his weight back, then placed a hand on either strap of your dress and pulled the fabric down from your shoulders, pushing the dress down until your breasts were uncovered, and Lionel let out a low groan as he stared at them.

“Fucking hell…”

He placed a hand on each breast, letting out little gasps of pleasure as he fondled them, completely mesmerised by your chest. He squeezed one of them again, causing you to squeak, and he grinned.

“I like the noises you make,” he purred. “So fucking gorgeous, love. I wonder what noise you’ll make if I do this?”

He lowered his mouth to take one of your breasts in his mouth, and when his teeth grazed your nipple, you let out another squeak.

He took his time with you, carefully exploring every inch of your breasts, sucking and kissing and grazing his teeth, eliciting every noise he could from you. When he was satisfied he’d explored them fully, Lionel pushed your breasts together, and buried his face between them. His fondling became suddenly erratic, and you noticed that his hips were twitching against the bedsheets.

Lionel let out a long moan, muffled by your breasts, and the twitching from his hips stopped. He let go of your breasts quite suddenly as his moaning stopped, and he raised his head, panting, face flushed.

“I, um… excuse me,” he muttered, and he quickly slid off the bed and hurried into his en suite, but not before stopping at his drawers to grab a pair of boxers.

You pushed yourself up into a sitting position, stunned. You realised suddenly that you were practically naked, your skirt pushed up around your waist and your top pulled down. You pulled your top back up, and you giggled to yourself when you saw red marks on your boobs from Lionel’s excitement.

You knew exactly what had just happened. You’d heard about it from friends, giggling about their boyfriends cumming in their boxers while making out. You stood, pulled your skirt back down, and approached the bathroom door.

You knocked tentatively. “You okay in there, Lionel?” you called.

“I’m fine,” Lionel replied, his voice sounding slightly strained. “Just… give me a minute.”

“Okay.”

Lionel heard your footsteps walking away, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He’d cleaned himself up, but he was currently stood slumped against the wall, trying to shake off the utter embarrassment that had overcome him.

He couldn’t believe what he’d just done. All his talk of not wanting to rush you into sex, and instead he’d just cum in his boxers from the excitement of touching your boobs.

His wallowing self-pity was cut short when he heard your voice suddenly, urgently calling his name.

“Lionel!”

He stumbled as he pulled his trousers up, then opened the door and saw that you were at the window, watching something outside.

“What is it?”

You turned back to him, panic in your eyes.

“Sinclair. Look.”

Lionel hurried to join you at the window and looked down into the gardens. His bedroom faced away from where the party was happening, so the area was empty — except for Sinclair and another figure, a male with his back to them so Lionel couldn’t identify him, but he could certainly recognise Sinclair’s body language, the defensive stance, the gesturing arms as he tried desperately to explain something.

His explanation apparently wasn’t good enough, because the other guy pulled back his fist and punched Sinclair in the face.

You had no idea anyone could move as fast as Lionel did then. He was already halfway out the door when you turned your head, and you ran after him, hoping he wasn’t about to do something stupid like punch the other guy back.

Lionel burst through a side door, quickly followed by you, and you clasped a hand to your mouth in shock at the sight you saw. Sinclair was on the ground, unable to fight back as his assailant had him pinned down, knees holding his arms down as the other guy punched him repeatedly.

Lionel was like a rabid dog. He launched himself at the assailant, surprise more than strength giving him the upper hand as he knocked the guy over. As the two boys tussled, you ran over to Sinclair and held your hand out to him.

“Sinclair, come on, let’s get you out of here.”

Sinclair just mumbled in response, so you grabbed him by the waist and did your best to sit him up.

“Sinclair, please, you’re too heavy for me!”

“Lionel…”

“Sinclair, move!” you shouted. You wrapped your arms around him and did your best to pull him aside, dragging him across the grass like a useless lump until you at least managed to get him behind a bush.

You looked around desperately. The crowd of teens were huddled together watching the fight, but nobody was doing anything.

“Why are you all just standing there?!” you yelled. “Somebody call the fucking police!”

They ignored you, too mesmerised by the fight, and a tear ran down your cheek as you heard Lionel’s grunts. You had no idea if he was winning or not.

“Get — get Mr Parker, he’s a police officer,” Sinclair mumbled.

“I have no idea who that is! I’ll find your mum. Will you be okay on your own for a bit?”

Sinclair nodded.

“Alright, I — shit, I don’t want to leave you on your own. God, why are they all just staring? Okay, just — just hang on, okay? I’ll be really fast.”

You stood up and ran back around the house to the front, where the drunk adults had no idea what was going on. Most of them seemed to be in the tent the music was coming from, so you ran in there, and saw that most of them were dancing, drinking or both.

You grabbed the nearest person and said, “Where are the birthday girls?”

“Over there,” the woman replied, pointing to the corner of the room, where you saw two identical women chatting with someone, both laughing, with no idea what was happening to their sons.

You ran up to them, pushing past several people, ignoring their protests as you did so. You grabbed the arm of one of them, and she looked at you with a frown.

“Excuse me, what are you —”

“Lionel’s in a fight,” you panted. “Someone was beating Sinclair up. Left side of the house.”

“Oh my god, Sinclair!” the other twin exclaimed - presumably Sinclair’s mum - and she ran off immediately.

“I’ll find Parker,” said the man they’d been speaking to.

“Show me,” said Lionel’s mum, apparently much calmer than Sinclair’s mum, but you could see the panic in her eyes.

You led her out of the tent, and she waved off the concerned guests you passed who turned to ask questions.

“What happened?” she asked urgently.

“I don’t know. I just looked out the window and I saw Sinclair arguing with someone, I couldn’t see who it was. Then the other guy threw a punch and Lionel went running. I followed him out and Lionel jumped on the guy. I managed to get Sinclair out of the way but they were still fighting.”

“Jesus Christ.”

You were overtaken by a man in a suit running past you, fast and disciplined — probably Parker the police officer.

When you turned the corner, Parker was on top of the assailant, who you now recognised as Anderson, handcuffing him. Lionel had sat himself down next to Sinclair, and both boys were now being fussed over by Sinclair’s mum. You ran over to Lionel’s side.

“Lionel, you idiot, what have you done?” you said, raising a hand to stroke his face softly where it was red and raised.

“You should see the other guy,” he replied with that stupid confident smirk that you realised now was a defence mechanism as much as anything else.

Behind you, Lionel’s mum whirled on the gathered group of teens.

“What are you all doing?! Enjoying the show? Get the fuck off my property! All of you go, now, or Jim’ll arrest all of you for trespassing!”

You’d never seen a woman in her forties inspire such fear. The teens all quickly scattered, hopefully running to find their parents and tell them it was time to go.

“I need their statements, Gina,” Parker said gruffly. He had Anderson on his feet now, a hand firmly on the boy’s collar, though you suspected he wouldn’t get far if he tried to run.

“I know their names, you can find them later,” Lionel’s mum snapped. “Just get this piece of shit off my property. Hel, I’m going to call an ambulance.”

Parker began leading Anderson away, and you turned your attention back to Lionel and Sinclair.

“Sinclair, what happened?”

“He followed me outside… guess he thought — ‘cus of Molly — ah!” he hissed in pain as he tried to sit up straight. “I — I think I might have broke something, Mum…”

“Shh, it’s okay, we’ll get you to the hospital,” his mum said, patting his hair soothingly. “Georgie’s gone to call an ambulance.”

You tried to suppress a sob, and Lionel took your hand to give it a reassuring squeeze.

“I’m sorry, this is all my fault,” you sobbed. “That stupid dare…”

Sinclair shook his head weakly. “Not your fault, [Y/n]. You couldn’t have known.”

“Anderson’s an arsehole,” Lionel agreed.

“What dare?” Sinclair’s mum asked.

“I — I dared Molly to kiss the boy she’d want to date other than Anderson. She picked Sinclair, and I guess — I guess Anderson took that as a threat. I’m sorry, Sinclair, it was so stupid!”

“It’s not the first time Anderson’s thrown punches over her,” Lionel said. “I should have known he’d react like this. I shouldn’t have left you alone, mate.”

“Will you two stop apologising?” Sinclair said. “He’s responsible for his own actions.”

“Ambulance is on its way,” Lionel’s mum said as she came back over to you. “Fucking hell. You okay, cub?”

Lionel nodded. You glanced at him and tried to suppress a giggle.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You decided now wasn’t the best time to tease him for his mum’s pet name.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but who are you?” Lionel’s mum asked you.

Lionel laughed, but he cut himself off with a hiss of pain.

“Ow! This isn’t how I expected to introduce you, but Mum, this is [Y/n]. She’s my g —”

He looked at you, hesitating. You smiled coyly and gave him a small nod.

Lionel looked back up at his mum.

“She’s my girlfriend.”

His mum looked you up and down appraisingly, and in that moment you saw the resemblance very clearly.

“Girlfriend, huh? Well, we’ll deal with that later. Although I still don’t remember inviting you to my birthday party.”

“That was me,” Sinclair admitted. “I called her tonight and asked her to come.”

Sinclair’s mum sighed. “Clair, I’ve told you about inviting random people to parties.”

“She’s not random, she’s Lionel’s girlfriend, he just said so! And she’s my friend too. We are friends, right, [Y/n]?”

You laughed. “Yes, of course we are, Sinclair.”

“And you’ve met her too, Mum! She was the girl in the café, remember? I went back to get her number for Lionel.”

“Well, it seems everyone knows you but me,” Lionel’s mum said in amusement. “Lovely to meet you, [Y/n]. I wish it were under better circumstances, though with these two it’s never likely to be anything usual.”

“Thanks. It’s nice to meet you too. Um — sorry, what should I call you?”

“I’m Georgina, I’m Lionel’s mum. This is my sister Helen, she’s Sinclair’s mum. You can call us by our first names, we don’t mind.”

“Just don’t call us Mrs Shabandar or Mrs Bryant,” Helen added. “We don’t like being reminded of our ex-husbands — Christ, Sinclair, look at your wrist!”

Sinclair had pulled back his sleeve slightly to examine a wound on his wrist, which was sporting a very large, angry bruise.

“I think it’s broken,” he said, as if it were a curiosity and not a severe, probably painful injury. “He pinned my arms down with his knees, and he’s heavier than he looks.”

Helen swore under her breath and shook her head.

“George, can you go and wait for the ambulance?”

“Course I will. I’ll make sure everyone leaves as well. The place could burn down and this lot would keep eating our food and drinking our drinks until they were forced out.”

You shuffled over to sit down next to Lionel, your hand still in his.

“Is this shoulder okay?”

“Yes, it’s fine. Why?”

“I want to make sure I won’t hurt you if I put my head on it.”

Lionel chuckled. “Go ahead, love.”

Even though he’d said it was fine, you were careful with the amount of weight you put on Lionel’s shoulder as you leaned on it, and in turn he leaned his head on yours.

“Aren’t they cute?” Sinclair whispered.

“We can still hear you,” Lionel said, and you snickered.

“Oh, sorry. You’re very cute together! Aren’t they cute, Mum?”

“Just adorable,” Helen said with a smile, and Lionel stuck his tongue out at her. “When are you going to get a girlfriend, Sinclair? Your father’s always calling me to suggest some girl or another. Now, I don’t mind when you get a girlfriend, but it’d be nice if you had one just to shut him up.”

“Mum, I’ve just been beaten up, now is not the time to ask about my love life!”

“Now’s your chance, Clair,” Lionel said wryly. “Girls find bruises very attractive. Case in point.”

He held up your connected hands, and you laughed.

“I liked you before you got beaten up, actually," you said.

“Yeah, she wouldn’t have been eating your face earlier if she didn’t,” said Sinclair.

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Helen, and you all laughed, just as Georgina came back around the house, pointing some paramedics your way.

“Alright, off we go to hospital,” Helen said as she pushed herself to her feet. “Can you boys stand?”

Lionel nodded, and you helped him to his feet, though he insisted he was fine. Sinclair, meanwhile, hissed in pain as soon as he tried to move, so the paramedics laid out a stretcher for him.

“He’s probably fine, he just wants a go on a stretcher,” Lionel said wryly.

“Lionel!” you admonished him, but you laughed. “Come on, let’s get you to the ambulance if you can walk so well.”

Even so, you put your hand on his elbow to support him as he made his way over to the ambulance, which had parked right in front of the house, and you let the paramedics take over as they sat him on the back of the ambulance to examine him.

Nearby, the guests had all left, and the staff were taking down the tents. You stepped out of the way as the paramedics carrying Sinclair approached, and you found yourself standing next to Georgina.

“I promise you, our parties are usually a lot less violent than this,” she said to you. “I hope this hasn’t put you off coming to the next one — and I certainly hope it hasn’t put you off Lionel.”

You thought back over the evening and smiled.

“No. No, it hasn’t.”

- - -

It was almost 4 o’clock in the morning by the time you emerged from the hospital. Sinclair was sporting a cast on his arm, which he was wearing proudly, because, he said, it was a conversation starter, and he could tell everyone how his big brother protected him.

Lionel hadn’t been lying; he really had come out of the fight much better off. He had some bruises and a few cuts, but that was it. He was more concerned about Sinclair, and about you, which you found very endearing considering you were absolutely fine, just exhausted and cold, as you were still in your dress. All of you were still in your party outfits, so when you went out into the street to meet their driver, you, Georgina and Helen, all being in less layers than the boys, started shivering.

Both boys, as if trained, took their jackets off and dropped them over their mums’ shoulders. Lionel stood behind you and put his hands on your bare arms, rubbing them to generate heat.

“I’ll be your jacket,” he murmured in your ear, and you giggled.

“Thanks, Lionel. You’re a very warm jacket.”

Once he was satisfied he’d warmed up your arms, Lionel wrapped his arms around you, holding you close to share body warmth.

You could see, out of the corner of your eye, that Georgina and Helen were pointedly looking away from you both on the pretence of watching for the car. Sinclair, meanwhile, didn’t know the meaning of the word “subtlety,” and you could feel him watching you. You glanced over at him, and you saw a knowing smile on his face.

Helen spotted the car and flagged it down. You and Lionel helped Sinclair in, and the three of you sat in the back row of the seven-seater, with Georgina and Helen in front of you in the middle row.

You sat between Sinclair and Lionel, and within moments of the car moving off, you were falling asleep on Lionel’s shoulder.

The car ride was quiet. It was forty minutes back to the house from the hospital, during which time Georgina and Helen both fell asleep, leaving Sinclair and Lionel sitting in silence.

“Hey, Li…” Sinclair murmured after a little while.

“Mmm,” Lionel grunted in response. He might not be asleep, but he wasn’t entirely awake either.

“Thanks. For what you did.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“No, I have to. It was really scary, Lionel. I couldn’t even fight back. Everyone was just watching… I thought I was going to die. Every time he hit me, I thought he was going to crack through my skull. He might have done if you hadn’t stopped him.”

Lionel looked up at his cousin, a serious look in his eyes.

“If he had, Clair, I swear, I would have cracked his head open right back. Nobody hurts my baby brother.”

Sinclair’s eyes lit up. “Did you just —”

“Don’t make a fuss of it,” Lionel said firmly.

Sinclair bit his lip to keep himself quiet, but he wriggled in his seat in excitement.

“It was worth it just to hear that,” he grinned.

Lionel rolled his eyes and shook his head. You mumbled in your sleep, and he carefully manoeuvred his arm to place it around you, his hand resting on your waist. Sinclair smiled.

“You really do like her, huh?”

“Shit, I fucking do,” Lionel admitted. “Is this what it feels like?”

“I wouldn’t know. But…” Sinclair lifted his hands and made a square with his fingers and thumbs to look at you and Lionel through it. “I wish I could take a picture to remind myself. This is what it looks like.”

“I always thought you’d be the first.”

“I thought I would too. But I’m really glad it’s you. You deserve it, Li.”

Lionel smiled, and planted a kiss to the top of your head.

“I don’t know. But I swear… I’ll do everything in my power to deserve her.”

When the driver pulled up at the house, Lionel gently shook you awake, and you zombie-walked more than anything into the house and up the stairs, letting Lionel lead the way. You said a sleepy goodnight to Sinclair as he veered off into his bedroom and continued down the hallway, Georgina and Helen ahead of you heading towards wherever their bedrooms were.

“We have fresh pyjamas in every spare bedroom,” Georgina said, stopping at a bedroom door as Helen went on ahead to her room. “Toothbrushes, underwear, all unused —”

“Mum,” Lionel said firmly.

Georgina looked back at you and realised you were still standing with Lionel, hand in his, outside his bedroom door. She seemed to consider protesting, but apparently thought better of it and sighed.

“Whatever, you’re both adults. Come in, though, [Y/n], let me show you where the guest things are. Where you sleep after that is none of my business.”

You let go of Lionel’s hand and followed Georgina into the spare bedroom. She opened a drawer and pulled out a set of pyjamas, clean and neatly pressed.

“Here you are.”

She handed you the pyjama set, and you opened your mouth to thank her, but the way she looked at you told you she had more to say first.

“[Y/n], I am about thirty seconds away from passing out on the floor if I don’t get into bed soon, so I’ll make this quick. You seem like a lovely girl. I’m still not sure who you are or where you came from, but the boys seem to like you, and that’s enough for me. Just… don’t hurt my son.”

“Of course I won’t. I haven’t known Lionel that long, but I really, really like him. I swear, I’d never hurt him.”

Georgina smiled. “Good. Now, as a single parent, I often have to play both mother and father. That was the mother’s plea. As for the father’s warning… I’m very rich and powerful, and I will ruin your life if you hurt my son.”

You froze, unsure if she was joking or not. Georgina just turned back to the drawer and pulled out an unopened packet of fresh underwear.

“Right, underwear. Toothbrush…”

“Oh, I have mine in my bag.”

“Oh, good. Well, then, get to bed, I think you and I are both about to pass out.”

“Right. Um, thanks.”

You turned and left as quickly as you could. You crossed the hallway into Lionel’s room, closing the door behind you. The room was empty, but you could hear the tap running in the bathroom.

You put the pyjamas down on the bed and reached for the zip on the side of your dress. You pulled it down, but it got caught, and in your sleepy haze you struggled to fix it until a hand appeared and managed to fix it in a few moments.

“Thanks,” you mumbled sleepily.

Lionel responded by kissing your shoulder as he pulled the straps of your dress down, and his hands wrapped around your torso to fondle your boobs as you pushed the dress down past your hips.

“Lionel!” you giggled.

“Sorry, couldn’t resist. They’re fucking phenomenal.”

“Careful, you might make a mess of your nice clean boxers.”

Lionel froze.

“Oh my god, I thought you hadn’t noticed.”

“Oh, I noticed. I thought it was very cute that you were so embarrassed. I didn’t realise my boobs were that powerful.”

“Are you kidding?” Lionel growled. His temporary embarrassment apparently already over, he resumed groping you, leaving open-mouthed kisses along the side of your neck as he did so. “You know, I pride myself on my self-control, but one look at your tits and that’s out the window.”

You laughed. “Lionel, come on, let’s get some sleep. I’m exhausted, and you must be too. The sun’ll be up soon.”

Lionel groaned reluctantly, but he let go of your breasts, and you were finally free to get into the borrowed pyjamas, which were extremely soft and comfortable — just like, you discovered, Lionel’s bedsheets.

“Oh my god, this bed is amazing. I might just never wake up.”

Lionel chuckled as he turned the light off and climbed into bed with you. Neither of you having slept with anyone else before, it took you a little bit of shuffling to find a comfortable position, but eventually you figured out you liked to be the little spoon while he held you.

“No pyjamas for you?” you muttered, noticing as his legs tangled with yours that they were bare.

“I usually sleep naked. I put boxers on, though.”

“Good idea. Don’t want to accidentally make a mess of my bum.”

You snickered, but Lionel just held you closer, and rolled his hips against your arse.

“Trust me, there’d be nothing accidental about that.”

“Lionel! Stop it, I’m trying to sleep!”

Lionel grinned and placed a kiss to your shoulder.

“Goodnight, [Y/n].”

“Goodnight, Lionel.”

#lionel shabandar x reader #😌 lionel protecc his bro

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snowblossomreads · 29 days ago

Text

Look i know this is a Lionel fic but Clair being adorable all the time makes my heart happy. Also throws hands at Lionels dad

Champagne Problems

Chapter 1. IOU

Lionel/Reader

Summary: It's the summer of 1971 and Lionel Shabandar is 18. With school behind him and university ahead, he has the world at his fingertips. A chance meeting brings you into his orbit, and life will never be the same again.

Word count: 7.5k

AN: I tried, guys. I really tried to make this short. But it's not. It's a growing behemoth. I regret nothing.

warnings: references to divorce and past domestic violence

All chapters here!

Read on Ao3 or WattPad or below the cut:

1971

You were standing on your tip-toes, trying to peek through the annoyingly high window of the boys’ college, when you were startled by a voice.

“The boys’ changing room is in the east wing.”

You jumped and lost your balance, grabbing onto the wall for purchase. You looked up, embarrassed, at the person who’d startled you.

It was one of the boys from the college. He had blonde hair, swept to the side like all the boys had, narrow eyes, an aquiline nose and thin lips that sported a smirk around the cigarette he was smoking. He was quite cute, you thought, even if he held that pretentious “I’m better than you” air that all the boys in the college did.

“I’m not looking for the changing room, I’m not a perv,” you insisted. “Do you know they’ve got Monets in there? Like, real, actual Monets, not copies.”

The boy looked at you curiously.

“Yes, I know. I saw them in my Art class this morning. Well, if you’re casing the joint to steal them, you’re not doing a very good job.”

“No, I just wanna see them.”

“You… want to see the paintings?”

“I know, I know, it’s dorky…”

“Not at all. Well, okay, a little bit. Do you want to see them? I’m sure I can convince the Art teacher to let us in after school.”

“What, you gonna threaten to have your father fire his father?” you snarked.

The boy shrugged and stomped out his cigarette.

“Well, if you don’t want my help…”

“No, wait!” you said quickly as the boy went to leave. “Yes, please. Would you help me?”

The boy smirked at you. “Alright. But you’ll owe me.”

“I have money —”

“Yeah, so do I. I’ll figure out what you owe me. Meet me at the front gate at 4 o’clock.”

He turned and left, and you realised far too late that you hadn’t asked the boy his name.

- - -

“It’s Lionel,” he told you later when you met him outside the front gate to the college and asked. “Lionel Shabandar. You?”

“[Y/n].”

“Just [Y/n]?”

“Just [Y/n].”

“Alright, just [Y/n]. Come with me.”

He beckoned you to follow him into the college, which looked just as fancy inside as it did outside, its interior looking like something out of a period drama.

“Wow, you literally go to school in a castle,” you gasped.

“It’s not a castle, it’s just medieval. Stop.”

“Huh?”

Lionel pushed you back before you could follow him around a corner. He peered around the corner, waited a few moments, then beckoned you to follow him.

“Prefect,” he explained in hushed tones. “I’ll get a lashing if I’m seen sneaking a girl in. I’m really putting myself on the line for you here, you know.”

“You still haven’t told me what I owe you,” you whispered.

“I’m still thinking about it. Quickly — through here.”

He ushered you through a door into one of the blocks.

“Then why are you risking a lashing for me?” you asked as he escorted you down the corridor, past a row of classrooms. “I didn’t even ask for your help.”

Lionel shrugged. “Can’t a gentleman help a girl in need?”

“I am not some damsel in distress,” you said firmly. “Don’t go thinking you’re getting a kiss out of this.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. I’m just really, really nice. What school do you go to, by the way?”

“St. Swithun’s,” you lied.

“Day or boarding?”

“Er, day.”

“Ah, so you’re not sneaking out then. Here we are.”

Lionel opened the door to the last classroom in the corridor and held it for you.

You entered the classroom, and your eyes widened when you saw the walls, lined with actual, real Monet paintings.

“Ah, this must be our secret guest,” said the teacher, who was sitting at his desk, apparently waiting for you. He looked at you and sighed. “Shabandar, you didn’t mention your friend from another school was a girl!”

Lionel shrugged. “Is it important?”

“Yes! You know the rules about girls. Right, fine, she’s here now. What’s your name, miss?”

“[Y/n].”

“[Y/n], I’m Mr Barton. Shabandar tells me you’re interested in Monet.”

“Yes, I just wanted to look at them — but if me being here’s a problem, I can go…”

“It’s only a problem for Shabandar, especially if you’re caught near the boarding house,” the teacher said with a stern look at Lionel. “Did he tell you what we agreed?”

“…No?”

“This is instead of my exam,” Lionel explained. “I have to explain each painting to you.”

“And answer any questions you have, so don’t hold back, [Y/n],” Mr Barton added. “Alright, when you’re ready, Shabandar.”

He sat back with a pen and notepad, ready to assess Lionel’s painting-explaining abilities. Lionel showed you to the first painting and, as he explained it to you, you found your eyes drifting away from the canvas you’d tried so hard to see and back to the strange boy who’d agreed to help you see it.

You had met boys from the college before. Each one you’d met had been aloof, stuck-up, pretentious, all the adjectives one would expect to describe posh rich boys from a posh rich boy college. And Lionel definitely gave off the pretentious air you’d come to expect from a boy in his uniform. But… he was also here, helping you to see the Monet paintings. And you were sure he was going to pass his exam, because he told you about each one in detail, and he seemed genuinely excited about them. He told you so much detail, in fact, that you struggled to think of questions to ask.

“The best until last… this one is my favourite,” Lionel said admiringly as you reached the final painting, a landscape of a field with a stack of hay in it. “Haystacks at Dawn. There’s a twin painting, Haystacks at Dusk, but it’s lost.”

He spoke animatedly about the painting, and you took the opportunity to ask him questions about the twin painting, but apparently there wasn’t much to say about it other than it was lost.

“Very good, Shabandar,” said Mr Barton as Lionel wrapped up his spiel about the last painting. “I’ll think about your mark over the weekend. Now, let me escort your friend out, I don’t want you getting into trouble. Get back to your dormitory.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

Before you had chance to say anything, Mr Barton was shooing you out of the classroom, closing the door behind him before escorting you down the corridor.

“So - um - did Lionel do well?” you asked. “Obviously I can’t say if everything he said was correct, but it was really interesting. He sounded like knew what he was talking about.”

Mr Barton laughed. “Mmm, Shabandar’s good at that. Sounding like he knows what he’s talking about. Well, I hope you enjoyed your little peek into the boys’ world. Don’t go telling your friends about it, or they’ll all want to have a look, eh?”

“Yeah, no, of course. Um, thank you.”

“Anything for an art enthusiast. So many of the boys here are clearly bored in my class, they have no appreciation for the strings I had to pull to get these paintings in for them. I’m glad someone appreciates it.”

“Oh, yes, it was amazing! Reproductions can never do the originals justice.”

“Well said,” Mr Barton agreed as he opened the front gate for you. “Well, have a good evening, [Y/n]. Do watch how you go.”

You left, feeling suddenly rather hurried, and the gate closed behind you, sealing you off from the strange world of the boys college.

And, you realised with a little disappointment, sealing you off from Lionel.

- - -

Lionel Shabandar had a problem, and that problem was you.

“I can’t believe I didn’t get her number,” he groaned for the third time that day. It was Sunday, the one day a week they were allowed out of school, and he was in the pub with Sinclair, his cousin, who was very eager to hear the story of the cute girl Lionel had found trying to peek into the art block earlier in the week.

“We should try to find her!” Sinclair suggested.

“No, I already tried. I asked around; there is no [Y/n] that goes to St Swithun’s. Either she lied about her name or her school. It’s hopeless.” Lionel sank down in his seat miserably. “Just leave me here to die.”

“It is not hopeless,” Sinclair said firmly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his trusty notebook and pen. “Let’s write down everything we know about her. Her name’s [Y/n], she says she goes to St Swithun’s… let’s put a question mark by that one. She likes art. What does she look like?”

“Pretty. Really pretty. Honestly, Sinclair, you should have seen her.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down. Hair? Eyes?”

“Gorgeous and gorgeous.”

Sinclair shook his head and laughed. “Li, believe me, I am so happy to see you lovestruck. But you need to get it together. This could be the love of your life here!”

Lionel sighed reluctantly. “Fine. Let’s see, her hair…”

As Lionel described your appearance, Sinclair diligently wrote down every detail, his tongue between his teeth and his brow furrowed in concentration as he scribbled.

“Okay, we’ve got some idea. We know she likes art — maybe we could start with that? There’s got to be an exhibition or something on somewhere that she might show up at. What about the Guildhall?”

“She might not even live around here. Maybe she came to Winchester just to peek at the Monets.”

“Then she’s likely to come back for something even bigger that she could have access to! And maybe she’s looking for you, too. I bet she is, she’s probably just as frustrated as you are.”

“Alright, fine,” Lionel sighed, rubbing his face with his hand. “Let’s see if there’s anything on at the Hall.”

There was an art exhibition due at the Guildhall, but it wasn’t for another week, Lionel and Sinclair discovered when they stopped by to enquire.

“I didn’t know there was so much going on in the city!” Sinclair said as they left, a handful of leaflets in his hands. He’d found each and every leaflet on display in the Guildhall very interesting, and had insisted on taking one of each.

“None of those are going to help us find [Y/n],” Lionel said.

“They might! What if she’s in one of the photos!” Sinclair gasped, and he immediately began looking through the leaflets. “You never know, maybe she’s really into… local rambling groups. Or… over-65s health clubs. Okay, maybe not that one…”

“What I don’t understand is why she lied,” Lionel said, not listening to Sinclair’s ramblings as he sorted the leaflets by most to least likely to feature a teenage girl they knew very little about. “What do you think’s more likely, that she lied about her name or her school?”

“School,” Sinclair said immediately, not looking up from the leaflet he was scanning over. “Hey, is this her?”

He held up a leaflet for a volunteer group. Lionel shook his head. The girl on the front matched your description, but it wasn’t you.

“You sound rather certain,” Lionel said.

“Why would she lie about her name?”

“Why would she lie about her school?”

“‘Cus she wanted to seem like an equal, and she thought if she said she went to St Swithun’s, you’d be impressed.”

Lionel sighed and leaned back against the wall.

“Maybe this exhibition next week is our best bet. Will it be open on Sunday?”

“Yes, it’s open 8-4 weekdays, and 10-3 weekends.”

Lionel didn’t even question why Sinclair had memorised the opening times already. His cousin had a memory like a steel trap for useless information, but anything useful went in one ear and out the other.

“Right. Next Sunday it is.”

- - -

While Sinclair and Lionel were meandering around the city trying to think of ways to find you, you were having a crisis of your own.

You couldn’t stop thinking about that boy you’d met from the college. Lionel Shabandar. Even his name sounded pretentious… but still, he’d helped you. Why had he helped you?

Every other weekend was your contact weekend with your dad, so while Sinclair and Lionel were hoping to catch a glimpse of you in Winchester, you were in Basingstoke, helping your dad out in the café he owned there. It wasn’t until Sunday evening, when the two boys returned to school, that you went back to Winchester where you lived with your mum.

If you could, you’d have staked out the college, and the few times that you did walk past it, you scanned the groups of boys outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of Lionel, but you had no luck.

You knew about the exhibition, and you did go — on the Saturday. Lionel wasn’t allowed out of school grounds until Sunday, so while he, assisted by Sinclair, lurked around the exhibition hoping to see you, you were at a friend’s house, being relentlessly teased for having a crush on one of the college boys.

An entire month passed, and both of you were too preoccupied with your A-level exams to continue your hunt for each other. Still, every time you passed the college, you looked for him.

You found each other again by pure chance.

It was the first weekend after your exams had finished, and you were with your dad, which meant working in the café.

You’d never seen him here before. You were sure you’d never seen him here before. You’d have recognised him when you met him outside the art block. A cute face like that wasn’t one you were bound to forget.

He was acting weird. He didn’t seem to recognise you, but more than that, he was being really friendly. Okay, so you didn’t really know him that well, or at all. But this was like a split personality or something.

Maybe it was because he was with his mum. At least, you assumed the woman he was with was his mum. She looked a lot like him. That was probably it, he was probably acting really nice to the coffee girl to impress his mum.

“Go on, go out and get some sun,” your dad said to you not long after Lionel and his mum left. “It’s quiet, I can cope on my own.”

“Ooh, no, Dad! You said the Q word!”

Your dad gasped and clutched his heart. “Oh, mercy, so I did! I’ve brought the curse down! Well, it’s my curse to bear. Go on, go be a kid.”

“I’m eighteen, Dad.”

“Then go be a pensioner, I don’t care, just get out of my sight.”

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” you laughed as you untied your apron. “I’ll come back in an hour to check you’re not busy.”

“No, you will not. You’re banned from work for the rest of the day.”

“You said it, not me!” you said with a grin before dashing out of the café, daring to hope that Lionel hadn’t gone far.

You turned left up the road, and were almost knocked over when someone walked right into you.

“Oof! Oh, sorry!” you said quickly. “Are you okay?”

It was, you realised, Lionel. Again.

You glanced over his shoulder and saw that his mum was up the road, waiting for him.

“No, that’s okay! I was coming back to find you, actually,” he said.

“Oh! Well, you found me.”

“Yes! Um, I wanted to introduce myself. I’m Sinclair.”

Your brain short circuited for a moment.

“Sinclair?” you repeated stupidly. Why was he giving you a different name?

“Er… yes? I know it’s usually a surname, but it’s my first name. Anyway - what’s your name?”

He seemed to be buzzing with energy, as if he were excited about something but trying - and failing - to contain it. His voice was similar, but different, than the other day. He was like an entirely different person.

You’d told Lionel your name the day you’d met.

“Um, it’s [Y/n]. Listen, do you… have a brother?”

Sinclair’s eyes lit up. “Ha, I’ll tell him you said that! You mean Lionel, right? He’s my cousin. This might seem like a mad question but… did you meet him a few weeks ago outside the art block at Winchester College?”

“Yes!” you said eagerly — too eagerly? “Yes, I did!”

“Oh my god! I found you!”

“Oh my god! You were looking for me?”

“Yes! Well, not me, Lionel. Well, I was helping. We’d almost given up… I didn’t even realise until I was halfway up the road with Mum - that’s my mum up there, by the way - that your name tag said [Y/n]. And you look just like he described. Wow, Lionel’s not gonna believe that I just found you hiding in a cafe in Basingstoke! If it’s not too forward, can I have your number? For Lionel, obviously. Don’t tell him I said this, but he was really bummed that he didn’t get your number.”

Sinclair was already reaching into his pocket and pulling out his notebook.

“Here, you can write it down in here!”

He handed you the notebook and a pen. You took it and, just as you were about to write your number down, your eyes scanned the writing on the page the notebook was open on.

Mystery girl

[Y/n]

St Swithuns ?

Likes art, Monet

“Really pretty” - LS

A list of your physical attributes followed, but you were mostly intrigued by the note that, apparently, quoted Lionel as calling you really pretty.

Conscious suddenly that Sinclair was watching you, you quickly scribbled your number, along with a note:

Lionel - IOU one favour - Just [Y/n]

“Are you usually here on a Sunday?” Sinclair asked as you handed his notebook back to him.

“Every other week, yeah.”

“Okay, great! I’ll let Lionel know, just in case. He’ll be so glad I found you!”

With a beaming grin, Sinclair set off back up the road to catch up with his mum, leaving you stunned in his wake.

- - -

Lionel called you a few days later, on Wednesday night. The phone rang while you were having dinner, so nobody answered it. You thought nothing of it until you went to your room to read a book, and your mum came in.

“Mum, what have I told you about knocking!” you said with frustration. It was a battle you’d been fighting for years, but she’d never listen.

“Oh, well, if you don’t want to hear about the boy that called for you…”

“No, wait! Um - who? Probably just someone from school…”

Your mum handed you a piece of paper with a phone number written on it.

“Someone called Lionel. He said something about someone called Sinclair owing him a favour now and asked you to call him. I don’t remember you ever mentioning a Lionel or a Sinclair from school.”

”Stop looking at me like that!” you groaned. “Just someone I met in dad’s cafe, that’s all.”

“Does your father still have you working at weekends?” Mum said sternly.

“Only a few hours, and he pays me, I told you. You’re blocking the doorway, can I leave, please?”

Your mum threw her hands up innocently and stepped aside.

“Tell your father contact weekends are for spending time with you, not putting you to work!” she called after you as you ran down the stairs.

“Working is spending time together!” you called back.

You picked up the phone in the living room and dialled the number your mum had written down.

“Good evening, Shabandar residence,” came a very formal, very posh voice after a few rings.

“Er - good evening,” you replied, trying your best to sound formal. “May I speak to Lionel Shabandar, please?”

“Whom might I say is calling, please?”

“Just [Y/n]. Tell him exactly those words, please. ‘Just [Y/n].’”

“Hold, please.”

You stood there for a minute or two, anxiously rocking on the balls of your feet, until the phone clicked and you heard a voice at the other end.

“Lionel Shabandar speaking.”

“Lionel, hi, it’s [Y/n]. I, um, I heard you were looking for me.”

“I wasn’t looking for you,” Lionel insisted. “I simply had my eye out in case you happened to show up. Don’t let Sinclair tell you anything different.”

You laughed. “Yes, of course. How did the rest of your exams go?”

“Swimmingly, I’m optimistic for them all. Have you finished for the year?”

“Yeah, just last week. I’m free as a bird now.”

“Excellent. Then… you’d be free for a trip into London tomorrow?”

“Yeah, that’d be great. Where do you want to meet?”

Lionel gave you the place and time, and when you turned to hang up the phone, you almost jumped out of your skin to see your mum was not so subtly spying on you from the hallway.

“Christ! Do I have no privacy?”

“If you want privacy, don’t go calling boys in the middle of the living room,” your mum said innocently.

“The phone’s plugged into the wall, I can’t exactly move it.”

“So who’s this boy, then?”

“Never you mind!” you protested, dodging past her to reach the stairs. “I’m going to London tomorrow, if I don’t come back, it was nice knowing you.”

“How old is he? Is he still in school? [Y/n]!”

But your bedroom door was already closed, and you pushed a chair against the handle just to be safe. You couldn't worry about getting your mum off your back now — you had, somehow, a date with Lionel Shabandar to prepare yourself for.

- - -

Lionel Shabandar was a boy that lived up to his name. He was a lion in every sense. He was proud, he was regal, he was fierce. He had fabulous hair. And he most certainly did not get nervous around girls.

Yet, here he was, nervously and painstakingly sorting through his wardrobe, trying to find the perfect outfit for his date with you.

Sinclair wasn’t helping. He kept buzzing around like an overgrown fly with opinions on fashion, advice on how to treat a girl on a date, and questions about the minute details of Lionel’s plan for the date.

“Christ, Sinclair, would you just stop!” Lionel snapped. “I have been on a date before, you know.”

“Yeah, but never someone you liked this much!”

“I don’t like her that much. I hardly even know her. That’s the point of a date, isn’t it? To get to know her and decide if I like her.”

“Ugh, you sound like my dad,” Sinclair groaned. He threw himself down onto Lionel’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. “He’s always trying to set me up with his mates’ daughters. And don’t get me wrong, I love meeting new people! But it feels so forced, like I have to fancy her. It makes me feel so guilty when I don’t. I hope I meet someone nice at university, someone I like.”

“Sinclair, you’ll be spoilt for choice. Speaking of choices… I’ve narrowed it down to two. Navy blue, or black. What do you think?”

Sinclair sat up again and looked at the two shirts Lionel was holding up.

“Blue,” he decided. “A black shirt makes it seem like you’re going to a funeral. Are you going to wear a tie? Or is that too formal?”

“Hmm… too formal, I think. It’s a date, not a job interview.”

“Right. You don’t want her to think you’re going to work afterwards. Do you want me to drive you there? I’d like to go into London anyway, there’s a vintage car exhibition going on in Greenwich.”

“Yes, but only because I don’t want Mum finding out about [Y/n], she won’t let me hear the end of it. If she asks, we’re going to this car thing together, alright?”

Sinclair mimed zipping his mouth closed.

“My lips are sealed!” he announced.

“That’s a change,” Lionel muttered.

- - -

You were worried that the pub Lionel had invited you to was going to be way too fancy and posh for you. You’d spent even longer than he had agonising over what to wear. While he worried about a tie being too formal, you worried about your clothes not being formal enough. Eventually, you settled on a navy blue summer dress, and brought a cardigan in case it got chilly later.

You waited anxiously outside the pub. He’d definitely told you to meet him outside, and when it came to ten minutes past your agreed meeting time, you began to worry he’d stood you up.

You were just thinking about finding a payphone to call and see if he was still at home when you saw him climb out of a car on the other side of the road. He crossed the road as if he owned it and jogged up to you.

“[Y/n], I am so sorry I’m late. You can blame my driver, he took me in completely the wrong direction.”

“Better fire him,” you joked.

“Oh, believe me, if I’d had our chauffeur bring me here, I’d have been perfectly punctual. No, Sinclair gave me a lift. Anyway…” He looked you up and down and smiled. “You look lovely.”

“Yes, I dressed to match you, apparently,” you laughed, indicating his shirt.

Lionel looked down and laughed. “Well, we both have good taste. Shall we?”

He offered you his arm and guided you into the pub. It was large, and not too busy; you found a table for two on the upper floor, near a window. It was quieter upstairs, Lionel had explained, but there was a second bar there so you could still get drinks.

“A London Pride and a small white wine,” Lionel said to the bartender as you passed the bar on the way to the table.

“Oh, um —”

“You’ll love the wine here, they have an excellent selection. Here —”

Lionel pulled a chair out for you and you sat down, leaving your cardigan draped over your knees. As Lionel took his seat opposite you, the bartender brought your drinks over. Lionel handed him a £10 note and told him to keep the change.

“Cheers,” he said, holding up his beer. “To chance meetings, I suppose.”

“Er - yes,” you agreed, holding up your wine glass to clink it with his.

Lionel took a generous gulp from his pint glass. You did your best to take a sip from the wine glass, but your facial expression said it all.

“No good? I’ll get you another one, a better vintage —”

“No!” you said quickly, before Lionel managed to stand up. “No, I - I should have said something. I don’t like wine. I’ll go and get myself something else.”

“Nonsense, I’ll get it —”

“Lionel, please,” you said firmly as you stood up. “I’m a big girl, I can order my own drink.”

When you returned to the table a few minutes later, you had a pint of lager in your hand, and two packets of crisps in the other.

“Ready salted or salt and vinegar?” you asked.

“No cheese and onion?”

“I really hope you’re joking about eating onion-flavoured crisps on a first date.”

Lionel laughed. “Of course I am,” he said, trying to ignore the way his stomach flipped at the fact that you’d called it a date. “I’ll have either, so it’s ladies choice.”

You passed him the ready salted, and he was a little disappointed — truthfully, he preferred salt and vinegar.

“So you’re a Peroni girl,” he said with amusement. “I’ll take note of that.”

“Gonna add it to your list in Sinclair’s notebook?”

Lionel’s eyes widened in alarm, and you laughed.

“Relax, I thought it was cute. I especially liked the ‘very pretty’ comment.”

“Well, it was all I really knew about you.”

You laughed. “Yeah… sorry. In my defence, I had no idea you’d go looking for me.”

“Without having cashed in my favour? I don’t let debts go unpaid, [Y/n].”

“Is this - is this the favour? Or do I still owe you?”

“You don’t owe me anything, [Y/n],” Lionel insisted. “To be honest, I’m simply glad to have met someone interested in Monet. The only other boy at school who seemed to remotely care about the significance of having so many originals on display was Sinclair.”

“You two seem very close for cousins. I barely know any of mine.”

“We were born three days apart, and our mothers are very close. My mother and I moved in with Sinclair and his parents when my parents got divorced. Sinclair and I were about seven at the time. Then, a few years later, Sinclair’s parents got divorced. His father moved out, leaving just us and our mothers. It’s been the four of us ever since.”

“Oh, wow, so you’re more like brothers, huh?”

“Mmm. Our mothers are actually identical twins, so as Sinclair will love to explain to you, genetically that makes us half-brothers.” Lionel chuckled with amusement as a memory popped into his head. “You should have seen him when he figured it out. We were learning about genetics in Biology, and he asked the teacher if our mothers being genetically the same person made us brothers. ‘You’re half-brothers,’ the teacher said, and his eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning. He told everyone he came across for the next month or so that we were brothers. He’s stopped doing it unbidden now, but if you ask him, he’ll tell you all about it.”

You smiled. Lionel was a natural storyteller, and definitely charming, but most of all, you could tell that, despite his attempts to seem cool and aloof, he really did love his cousin.

“When I ran into him - well, actually, he ran into me - I thought he was you at first.”

“Mmm, we look like our mothers.”

“I was so confused. I thought you were giving me a fake name. But he’s a lot more energetic than you, and when I realised he wasn’t you, he just looked like you, I asked if he had a brother. I thought it was weird how much that amused him.”

“[Y/n], why are we talking about my cousin on our first date?”

You laughed. “Because we don’t know much about each other, and he’s one of the few things I do know about you. And you brought him up!”

“Only to emphasise how unique it was that you were interested in the Monets. How did you find out about them, by the way?”

“The Art teacher at my school mentioned it. I suppose the art teachers in Winchester all talk and she found out that way.”

Lionel looked at you curiously over his pint glass.

“Hmm… so you do go to school in Winchester, then. But not St Swithun’s. Interesting…”

“How do you know I don’t go to St Swithun’s?”

“I asked around. There was only one [Y/n] anyone was able to identify, but she was in lower fifth. I didn’t think you were that young.”

“I’m eighteen. I just finished sixth form.”

Lionel smiled. “Me too! Where have you applied to? Not to brag, but I have offers from both Oxford and Cambridge. Conditional, though, so I have to wait for my results to be certain.”

“Which one’s your first choice? Oxford, I assume?”

“You assume wrong. I chose Cambridge.”

“Oh! What’s Cambridge got that Oxford doesn’t?”

Lionel shrugged. “I just liked it better.”

“Hmm… no, I don’t think so.” You leaned forward and rested your head in your hand thoughtfully. “The college is a feeder for Oxford, I don’t think you’d turn it down because of some vague feeling about Cambridge. There’s something there that Oxford doesn’t have. Or someone…? I’d suggest a girl, but I really hope not.”

Lionel’s eyes darted away, and he sighed.

“Alright, fine. I chose Cambridge because Sinclair did. When he said he was choosing Cambridge, I decided I’d rather go somewhere I’d at least know one person. And I can keep an eye on him.”

“Aww, that’s sweet that you want to keep an eye on your baby brother!”

“He’s not my baby brother! Wait, how do you know he’s the younger one?”

You shrugged. “You just have that protective older brother air about you. And you talk about him like a younger brother. Like he’s a little bit annoying, but you love him really. How come he chose Cambridge? Or did he not get into Oxford?”

“Oh, he had offers from both. But his offer from Cambridge was unconditional, and he decided that meant he’s supposed to go there. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. Where are you hoping to go?”

“I am… not. I’m not. I’m not going to university.”

Lionel raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Oh! Well, that’s alright, I suppose. Not everybody does. Polytechnics are all the rage now.”

“Or, just, y’know… work.”

“Work, of course. I hear a lot of progress is being made for women’s rights in the workplace. You’ll even be getting equal pay soon. What work do you want to do?”

“I like helping my dad with his business. He runs a café, nothing fancy, and he mostly gets me serving customers while he sits out back and does the business stuff, but at the end of the day he’ll let me help him with stock and things like that. He says I have a good mind for it.”

“Then you should go to university! I’m going to study Business, you should too if you want to get into it.”

“I… I’m not…”

Lionel sensed your discomfort, and he placed his hand over yours on the table.

“I’m making you uncomfortable. I’ll stop prying. Let’s talk about something else. What was your favourite Monet piece that we looked at?”

“I liked the one you said was your favourite, actually. The haybale one.”

“Haystacks at Dawn! Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it? I hope the owner sells it one day, I’ll be the first in line. He’s done quite a few studies of haystacks, you know, but Dawn has to be my favourite.”

“Yes! I find it so impressive the way he can make two paintings of almost identical subjects come across so differently just through the use of light and colour. And when he painted certain times of the day, like dawn and dusk, he only had a few minutes to capture it each day. Imagine the patience that takes? And he was such a perfectionist too. That’s why I wanted to see them in person, to really see the detail that he put into each painting.”

“[Y/n], you are a woman after my own heart. Yes. That’s exactly it. A reproduction just can’t capture that amount of dedication. In fact - this might be a little bold to suggest on a first date, but I’m not one to beat around the bush - why don’t you come with me to Paris this summer? I’m planning on going to the Orsay Museum, they have a large Monet collection, and a Van Gogh collection.”

“Paris? Wow, um…”

“Just think about it. I’m not asking to be romantic - though I’m sure it’ll be lovely to be in Paris with you - I’m asking from one art lover to another.”

“Alright, I’ll - I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Lionel said with a smile, and he took his hand back from yours to pick up your now empty glasses and the untouched wine glass. “Do you want another?”

“Oh, yes, please. And some more crisps.”

“Of course.”

When Lionel returned a few minutes later with two more pints and two more packets of crisps, you plucked up the courage to make an admission to him.

“Lionel, can I be honest with you?” you asked as you took your pint and packet of crisps from him gratefully.

“I wouldn’t want you to be anything but,” he replied, sitting down.

“This is actually… my first date.”

He frowned. “No, I don’t believe that. You’re far too pretty not to have had a date before.”

“I mean, guys have asked. And I did kind of have a date with a boy from school when I was fourteen. We went to the cinema, we saw… oh, what was it now? Oh, it was the Jungle Book!”

Lionel sniggered. “How romantic.”

“I know, right? Anyway, we didn’t even hold hands or anything. Plus my mum thought I was too young to go to the cinema without an adult so she was there, albeit a few rows away. So it was really awkward. I think we realised afterwards that we didn’t actually fancy each other, we just really liked each other, and society had told us a boy and a girl who like each other have to like each other. Since then, I decided I’d only go on a date with a boy I knew I like-liked.”

“And that’s me?”

You blushed. “Yeah, apparently. I’m sure you get it all the time, but I think you’re really cute, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you after we met so… yeah. I figured I must like-like you.”

Lionel smirked proudly. “Well, I’m flattered. Not surprised, of course, I am indeed very cute.”

“And humble.”

“Precisely. So if you’ve never had a date before… does that mean you’ve never been kissed?”

Your cheeks were burning red by now.

“I - well - I did once, actually… at a friend’s house last year, we were playing spin the bottle truth or dare. I refused to answer the truth, so I had to do a dare, and I was dared to kiss this boy there - I didn’t know him, a friend of a friend. It was typical awkward first kiss, you know, dry, closed lips. Hardly even counts. But it was lips touching lips so, yeah, that was my first kiss.”

“A shame. I’d have loved to be your first kiss,” Lionel said with a cheeky grin. “Although I could settle for being your first good kiss.”

“And what makes you so sure it’ll be good?”

Lionel laughed. “Well, if it’s not, we can practice, can’t we? We have all summer before I go to Cambridge.”

“God, I can’t believe this, I’m getting flustered,” you cringed. “Look at me, I’m probably bright red, aren’t I?”

“Not bright red. A subtle flush, really.”

You rubbed the back of your neck nervously.

“Sorry, I - I guess I’m not used to this.”

“What, flirting?”

“…Yeah. Christ. My mum was pregnant by my age, and I’m getting embarrassed just at the mention of kissing.”

“Well, you know, that was usual back in the fifties. People got married and started popping babies out as soon as they left school. My mum had me at 28, and that was considered old.”

You snorted. “Yeah, my parents did that the wrong way round.”

Lionel looked at you with mock scandal. “[Y/n], are you a bastard?”

“Shut up!” you laughed. “No I am not, because my grandad made sure they got married before I was born. They lasted about three years before they got divorced. Turns out, rushing into marriage because you knocked your girlfriend up isn’t the best basis for a lifetime commitment.”

Lionel grimaced. “Yikes. Well, if it’s any comfort, like I said, my parents are divorced too, as are Sinclair’s.”

“Oh, wanna swap child of divorce stories? Here’s mine. So, as I said, parents both eighteen, dating at school, classic. Mum gets knocked up. My grandad, outraged. Just about ready to kill my dad. If my grandad owned a shotgun, it may well have been a literal shotgun wedding. They got married right out of school. Round about now, actually, just after they finished sixth form. Dad manages to bear it for three years. Imagine it: you’re 21, and you’ve already got a wife and a toddler. All your mates are out shagging. Best years of your life, and you’re stuck at home with the baby. I don’t know exactly what happened, or who she was, but… yeah. You can imagine what he did. My grandad, once again, is ready to kill him. The divorce went through pretty quickly. Mum didn’t ask for alimony, just child support. Dad couldn’t even do that, apparently. He went off the radar for a few years. I’ve never asked what he was doing. I only found out last year that he’d cheated. But he showed up again when I was… nine? Ten? Just before secondary school. Got his shit together. He was managing a café. Couple of years later, the café owner gives him a franchise. Then last year, he’d saved up enough money to buy it out. Now he owns the place. Runs it pretty much by himself, he’s got one employee and me. We have a really good relationship now. It’s weird to think that he was like that at all, but I suppose nobody’s the same at 36 as they were at 18. I sure hope I won’t be. When I’m 36, I really hope I’m not getting flustered when a cute boy says he’d like to kiss me.”

“I’ll kiss you when you’re 36 and I’ll let you know,” Lionel said.

You laughed out loud then.

“Deal. Go on, then, I told you my story of how love is a lie and marriage is a sham. What’s yours?”

“Well… my parents are both old money. It wasn’t an arranged marriage, so to say, but their fathers set them up. My father was nice enough, so Mum married him, and then… he changed. He wasn’t ever angry, not at first, but he was… cold. Distant. Mean. My mum was - and still is, when she wants to be - such a kind, fun-loving person. You’d think she was Sinclair’s mother. But my father seemed to make it his mission to squash her spirit. In the last couple of years, it was just… fighting. Non-stop. Screaming matches. I started spending days, weeks, with Sinclair and his parents. I didn’t understand why at the time, but I realise now it’s because Mum wanted me away from him.”

There was a long pause. Lionel stared out the window, brow furrowed in anger. You waited, patiently. Tentatively, you placed your hand over his. He looked back at you, as if he’d forgotten you were there.

“I don’t remember it, but Sinclair does. One day, Mum showed up at his house with me in tow. Sinclair told me he remembers his mum opening the door. He was really excited to see us. He came running up to us. Our mums were crying, he didn’t understand why… until he saw my mum had a massive bruise on her face.”

You gasped.

“I mean, huge. A few years later, when it was all a past memory, my mum bought this book. Phantom of the Opera. Do you know it? The guy on the front, with his eyes and cheekbones covered by a black mask?”

You nodded.

“I remember her showing the cover to Aunt Helen and saying, ‘He looks like me when we moved in.’”

“Oh my god,” you whispered.

“Mum swears that was the only time my father ever hit her. And Christ, she was so brave, she knew it would be the last. The divorce was messy. You know, lots of money involved, more of it going on lawyers than anything else. She didn’t want him anywhere near me, he wanted full custody. It went on for years. It was only when I was old enough to express what I wanted that anything got resolved. I said I didn’t want anything to do with him, and that was that. No contact arrangements unless and until I asked for them. Never did. On my birthday this year, he wrote to me. Said I’m a man now, I can see him if I want. He seemed to have it in his head that it was Mum and the courts that had decided no contact, that they were keeping us apart somehow. But it was me, I didn’t want to see that bastard. And I never will. I don’t care if he disinherits me. Mum’s - I don’t want to show off, but…”

“No, go on,” you said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Mum’s a millionaire in her own right. So’s Aunt Helen. Sinclair and I are set for life. I’m going to work, and so is he, we both want to make our own futures. Neither of us want to be those rich kids who just fritter away our parents’ money. I’m going to be - Christ, just you wait, [Y/n]. I’m going to be a huge name in the business world, you’ll see. And I won’t need a penny from him to do it.”

You believed it. You saw it in his eyes, that fierce determination. Like he’d take down anything and anyone that stood in his way. He knew what he wanted, and he was going to get it, no matter what.

“When I get that kiss at 36,” you said seriously, “I expect you to be the biggest fucking name in business.”

Lionel’s fierce frown melted into a smirk.

“Oh, I will be. I promise you that.”

#finally makes time to read #and is of course not disappointed #ohhh these hoes just dont kno yet #lionel shabandar x reader

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