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evans23 · 3 days ago

Note

Hello! May I request Severus Snape x female reader? He might be scolding her for something and even calling her stupid. But she doesn't pay attention and tells him that she thinks everything about him is beautiful...

Thank you 💖

(Sorry for my english)

You're handsome when you're angry

Pairing : Severus Snape x Reader OC

Summary : You are the assistant of Severus Snape. The man who lived. The sarcastic, cold angry Potions Master. And you think he his handsome. Even when he is angry.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : None.

A/N : Thank you for your request ! I'm not used to writing about Snape because, well we have plenty of stories about him and each time I have an idea for our favourite Potions Master, I have that feeling that it has already been done, therefore, I hope you'd like it !

Also read on Ao3

When Judge Turpin awoke the next morning, the light from the window was far too bright, and the pain that greeted him as he shifted on the mattress was enough to make him grit his teeth until his jaw ached. The laudanum had worn off, leaving behind only the bitter ache of bruised ribs, an aching spine, and a pounding headache born of humiliation and obsession.

It took him a moment to gather his wits, to blink against the morning haze and let the stiffness fade just enough for coherent thought. Then it hit him.

Three things, in rapid, horrifying succession.

One: he’d had a very vivid dream. A dream so painfully real that he could still feel the warmth of your skin on his fingertips. In it, you had been in his room—his room!—dressed like some libertine’s pet, wrapped in a scandalously tight camisole that bared more than it covered, your breasts nearly spilling over the neckline like some harlot waiting for coin. You had sat beside his bed like a vision conjured from fever and madness, mocking him with your grin and those damned eyes.

Two: the room—his suite, the finest in the Franklin Hotel—was in utter disarray. The desk drawers had been pulled open and left ajar, the wardrobe partially ransacked, his cloak flung carelessly over a chair as if tossed there by someone else. The carpet bore faint indentations of small boots. Female boots. Not a maid. Not staff.

He sat up, wincing, hand pressed to his ribs, his breath catching in a strangled growl.

Three: if that dream had been real… if you had actually come into his room… He reached for the drawer beside his bed. Empty.

The ring drawer—his drawer. Gone.

All six of them. His signet ring. His ruby crest. The polished garnet he wore to trials. The black enamel mourning band. The thick gold band gifted by the Chancellor. And worst of all—

“The Turpin ring,” he whispered, cold dread hollowing his chest. “No…”

It was the most precious. A thick silver band bearing the family’s coat of arms, passed from father to son since the reign of Queen Anne. He wore it to every sentencing. Every hanging. It was his birthright.

And now it was gone.

“BEADLE!” Turpin’s bellow roared through the walls like a thunderclap. “BEADLE BAMFORD!”

There was a muffled crash in the hallway—porcelain breaking, no doubt, as Beadle dropped whatever was in his hands—and seconds later the door burst open. Bamford stumbled in, his coat still half-buttoned, a bit of jam clinging to the corner of his mouth.

“My lord! I—”

“Where were you last night?” Turpin snarled, hauling himself upright with a pained grunt. “Where were you while she—that vixen—slipped into my chambers and robbed me blind?!”

Beadle paled. “Robbed—what? No one said anything, I didn’t know you had a visitor—”

“Visitor?” Turpin barked, hazel eyes blazing with fury. “You think I invited her in? That I sent for her like some weak-willed libertine craving a bit of skirt? She came on her own! Slipped past your useless eyes and stole from me again!”

Beadle stared in horror as Turpin jabbed a finger toward the empty drawer.

“She took my rings, Bamford,” he hissed. “All six. Including the family signet. That ring is worth more than your entire miserable bloodline!”

“I—I heard nothing, sir!” Beadle stammered. “If she was here, she must’ve come after I left for supper—if I’d heard a sound, I swear to God I would’ve come running—”

“You would’ve tripped over your own boots and pissed yourself, no doubt!” Turpin snapped, his voice cracking with rage. “You left me here drugged, exposed, half-naked—and now she’s gone again! Gone! And with my legacy on her thieving little fingers!”

Beadle made a desperate noise, glancing at the ransacked room. “I-I’ll make inquiries, sir—at once—I’ll alert the pawnbrokers, speak to the jewelers, question every market stall from here to the docks—”

“You’ll do more than inquire!” Turpin roared, struggling to his feet. “You’ll find her, Bamford! I want her caught. I want her chained to this bed where I can see her every filthy breath! She belongs here! With me!” He staggered, his injured leg giving out slightly, but he caught himself on the desk and growled.

Beadle stepped back instinctively. “Yes, my lord! Of course!”

“Find her,” Turpin repeated, lower now, more dangerous. “Find the pawn shops. Find the fences. She has my rings. That signet bears the Turpin crest—if it’s spotted, I want word within the hour.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“And when you find her…” His voice dropped to a rasp, cruel and cold. “You bring her back to me.”

Beadle swallowed thickly. “Yes, sir.” He bolted from the room, coat flapping, already shouting for the carriage to be readied.

Turpin stood amidst the chaos of his suite, one hand braced on the desk, the other twitching with rage.

“She’s mine,” he muttered to the empty room. “She’s mine. And when I get her back—when she’s tied to this bed—I’ll see to it that she never steals anything again… except perhaps her own breath.”

And then, as if her laughter still echoed in the air, Judge Richard Turpin let out a snarl so savage it silenced even the morning birds.

The little pawnshop on Bleecker Street was dim and cluttered, its walls lined with clocks that didn’t tick and shelves that sagged under the weight of forgotten silverware, chipped porcelain, and the sorrow of the desperate. You had chosen it carefully—not the most reputable, not the cleanest, but quiet. A place that wouldn’t ask too many questions if you played the part well.

And oh, you were playing it to perfection.

You stood before the counter, draped in a plain black dress borrowed from an actress friend, a faded mourning veil tucked primly over your head. Your eyes were red—not from weeping, but from the smarting smoke of a candle you’d held too close before stepping inside. In your gloved hands rested a velvet pouch, and your voice trembled like a breeze in winter.

“I just…” you choked softly, glancing down at the rings now splayed upon the counter like tiny corpses. “He passed not a fortnight ago, and there’s naught left but these. My darling husband. Taken from me so cruelly…” You pressed a hand to your chest as if to still a heaving heart. “Why, why couldn’t he have left me something more than trinkets and heartbreak?”

The pawnbroker—an elderly man with spectacles perched low on his nose and tobacco-stained fingers—cleared his throat with a soft harrumph. “I’m sorry for your loss, ma’am,” he said awkwardly, eyeing the rings with a mixture of interest and suspicion. “A tragedy indeed… yes…”

You took the handkerchief you’d brought—folded neatly, edges singed ever so slightly from your earlier candle trick—and pressed it delicately to your face. A sharp sniff. A muffled sob. Just enough to make your shoulders tremble.

“Oh,” you whimpered. “He was such a good man…”

The pawnbroker cleared his throat, clearly unsure what to do with your display of grief.

“Yes, well… these are, ah… quite fine pieces,” he muttered, adjusting his spectacles and leaning forward to examine the rings. His fingers moved with practiced ease, brushing across gold, silver, enamel.

You peeked from behind your veil, watching as he turned one of them over with particular interest—a simple black band, the sheen dulled from years of wear.

“This one,” he said, voice softer now, “is a mourning ring. Black enamel, silver band, early Georgian make. The inscription… let’s see…”

You stiffened but said nothing. Couldn’t say anything. You couldn’t read, not a letter—but you weren’t about to confess that now. You just tilted your head, eyes watery, feigning polite interest as the man held the ring closer to the light.

“Anne Turpin,” he read aloud, squinting. “Beloved mother. This would’ve been commissioned after her passing. Must’ve meant quite a lot to the man who wore it.”

Your breath caught.

Anne Turpin. Beloved mother.

Your heart lurched painfully in your chest. That ring—it wasn’t for show. He’d worn it in mourning. For his mother. And you had stolen it. Torn it from the drawer like it was nothing. You thought of Turpin’s bruised face, his rasping voice confessing sins through laudanum haze. The way he’d spoken of shame. Of family. Of grief.

Oh God, you hadn't stolen from a judge that night.

You’d stolen from a son.

Before the guilt could settle too deeply, the bell above the door jingled. You flinched. A man entered, unbothered, the sort who didn’t belong in a place of pawning and secrets. He had ruddy cheeks, a rounded frame, and a coat a little too fine for the filth of the city. His eyes swept over the room—and then landed on you.

“Ah! Good morning, madam,” he said with a nod and doffed his hat politely. “My condolences.”

You blinked, disoriented. He thought you were truly in mourning. You nodded once, grateful for the cover.

The pawnbroker straightened behind the counter. “What can I do for you, sir?”

The man gave an apologetic smile. “Beadle Bamford. I come on behalf of his lordship, Judge Richard Turpin. There was a theft last evening—rings, six in total, of significant value. His lordship has reason to believe the thief may attempt to pawn them today.”

Your throat seized. You coughed sharply into the handkerchief—too sharply.

Neither man turned.

The pawnbroker furrowed his brow. “What sort of rings?”

Beadle, with no sense of urgency, reached into his coat for a small, crumpled sheet of notes. “Let’s see… black mourning ring, silver ring, yes, but most importantly the Turpin family signet. Heavy, gold, engraved with the family’s coat of arms. That one’s the most recognizable.”

Your eyes flicked to the ring on the counter.

No. No, no, no.

“Turpin crest?” the pawnbroker murmured, already glancing down toward the rings on the counter.

You didn’t wait. “Thank you for your time,” you blurted, sweeping the remaining rings into your pouch. Your voice cracked with feigned emotion. “But I… I can’t bear to part with them after all. Forgive me. I must go.”

Beadle looked up at the movement and froze. His eyes landed squarely on your hand.

That ring.

Recognition struck him like a slap.

“Wait—!” he shouted, voice rising. “Wait just a moment—!”

You turned, seized by instinct, and slapped him across the face so hard. The sound rang through the shop like a gunshot.

Beadle stumbled backward with a strangled squawk, clutching his cheek. You were already at the door.

“Stop her!” he bellowed. “She’s got the Turpin crest! She’s the thief—GET HER!”

But you were out the door, boots pounding the cobblestones, veil flying free behind you like a banner of war. The satchel bounced against your hip, heavy with rings, your heart thundering as footsteps thundered behind.

Beadle Bamford, bless his useless legs, tried his best. But you were fast. You had always been, and this time, you knew what you were running from. Because this wasn't just about stolen rings anymore. It was about stolen names and stolen pasts.

And the promise in Turpin’s eyes when he’d whispered: “You are mine.”

The sound of hurried footsteps clattered up the wooden stairs of the Franklin Hotel, followed by the unmistakable creak of polished boots on the landing. Beadle Bamford—red in the face, sweat dampening his collar—rushed down the corridor, not even pausing to straighten his coat. He reached the door to Room Sixteen and rapped once, twice, urgently—

Then barged in without waiting for a reply.

“My lord—!”

He stopped short, his hand still on the doorframe, breath catching at the sight before him.

Judge Turpin, bruised and swaddled in blankets like a wounded lion, sat upright in bed—but not alone. A young woman, plainly dressed in a servant’s apron and simple linen gown, was perched delicately on his lap. She was laughing—laughing!—at something he had just murmured into her ear. Her hand held a small porcelain spoon, hovering near Turpin’s mouth, while his hand rested on her hip with an ease Beadle had never seen in the man.

Turpin’s one good eye flicked toward the door, darkening with irritation. “Bamford,” he snapped, his baritone dry as old paper, “do you make it a habit to intrude upon private moments like a stable boy who’s never seen a pair of stockings?”

Beadle flushed violently. “Forgive me, my lord, but—”

“Speak outside,” Turpin growled, lifting a hand as though dismissing a gnat. “I am recovering, as you can clearly see. Return once I’m done.”

“I saw her,” Beadle blurted, breathless. “The thief. Just now. At the Bleecker Street pawnshop.”

The effect was instantaneous.

Turpin’s hand dropped from the girl’s hip as if her skin had scalded him. The weight in his chest shifted, something tight and ravenous crackling to life behind his hazel eyes. Without a word, he shoved the girl off his lap with a swift jerk of his good arm, sending her stumbling backward with a squeak and a clatter of the spoon on the floor.

“Out,” he barked.

“My lord?” she gasped, flustered, but his face was already turned from her.

“Out, I said!”

She fled, skirts rustling as she scurried from the room like a frightened rabbit. The door snapped shut behind her.

Turpin turned to Beadle, eyes gleaming. “Speak,” he growled. “Now.”

Beadle straightened, still panting from the run. “She was there, my lord. Dressed in mourning like some pathetic widow—veil and all. She tried to sell the rings. The signet one, too—your mother’s ring. I saw it with my own eyes!”

Turpin was already rising, stiff with pain, groaning as his ribs protested. “Did you catch her?”

“No, my lord—she recognized me, or perhaps she recognized the name. She fled before I could grab her.” Beadle swallowed. “But—I saw her face. Clear as day.”

Turpin froze mid-step, his body heavy with fury and exhaustion. He turned slowly, his lip curled in contempt. “And what use is a face if she’s not in irons at my feet, Beadle?”

Beadle winced. “I—I tried, sir. She ran like the very devil was at her heels. She slapped me! Loud enough to rattle the glass—”

“You let her touch you?”

Beadle flushed again. “I—yes, my lord. But—now that I know what she looks like, it will be easier to find her again. I’ve seen her—properly this time. I can describe her to every constable, every informant, every bootblack in the city if you wish. We’ll have her, sir. It’s only a matter of time.”

Turpin said nothing for a long moment. His breath came hard through his nose, his chest rising and falling beneath his half-buttoned shirt. His hair was damp with sweat. But the silence was not still; it seethed.

And then he spoke. “She touched you?”

Beadle flinched. “My lord, it was nothing—just a slap. A startled reaction, I’m sure. She was trying to flee—”

“She touched you,” Turpin growled again, his hazel eyes sharp and bright with a fevered gleam. “She put her hands on you.”

Beadle took a half-step back. “Sir, I—”

“You can’t be touched by her.” Turpin’s voice rose, cutting through the quiet like a blade. “No one can. Not you, not any man. Do you understand me?” He advanced, slow and deliberate. “She is not for touching. She is not yours to be touched by. Her hands are mine.”

“My lord—”

“Mine!” Turpin snapped, the word exploding from his chest. His hands were shaking now, curled into fists at his sides. “Only I can feel her. Only I can bruise her wrists when she fights me, only I can twist that wicked mouth until she begs.”

Beadle swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. “It was a slap, sir. Nothing more.”

Turpin turned away from him as if he hadn’t spoken, stalking to the window like a storm barely held at bay. His long fingers gripped the sill, and for a moment, he said nothing—just stared at the gray blur of the city beyond the glass.

“A widow,” he said quietly, almost to himself. “That’s how she was dressed?”

Beadle nodded slowly, wary. “Yes, sir. Black veil. Gloves. Tears and all. She nearly convinced me she was a grieving wife.”

Turpin closed his eyes.

Of course she would. She was clever. Disguises came easily to women like her—those who lived off the edges of society, slipping between the cracks like mist. She knew now that he was pursuing her. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

“She’ll be more careful,” Turpin murmured, eyes still shut. “She’ll vanish again. Change her face. Her voice. She knows I’m behind her now.”

He opened his eyes, slow and deliberate. “We’ll not find her again by coin alone.”

Beadle shifted uncomfortably. “Then what shall we do?”

Turpin turned his head, his expression composed now—cold, regal, deadly. “Leave me,” he said. “Have the maid return.”

Beadle bowed, quickly, awkwardly, and slipped from the room with the haste of a man escaping floodwaters.

Moments later, the door opened once more. The maid stepped in, tentative and pale, her apron freshly pressed, her hair tucked neatly behind her ears.

“My lord,” she said softly, avoiding his eyes. “You sent for me?”

Turpin, already seated once more in the high-backed chair near the fire, gave a small, imperious gesture toward the table. “Bring the tray. Feed me.”

She obeyed without question, moving to the dresser where the half-eaten dish still sat, cooled slightly but untouched since the interruption.

He watched her movements carefully. Not because he saw her—but because, in his mind’s eye, she had become you.

As she returned with the plate and the spoon, he leaned back in the chair, letting his head rest against the carved wood.

“Slower,” he said, voice low. “Smaller bites.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The spoon reached his lips. He opened his mouth, accepting the food like a man expecting to be worshipped. She was trembling slightly—nerves, perhaps. He didn’t care. He pretended it was you. You, with that infuriating smirk replaced by quiet obedience. You, veiled in black, kneeling at his feet, feeding him with a reverent hand as if to say, I’m yours.

He closed his eyes.

He imagined you in that mourning dress again, except this time with your lips pressed to the back of his hand in silence. Your smirk gone. Your shoulders bare. Your knees on the rug beside his chair, gaze lifted only when permitted.

You would touch no other man. That right was his.

And one day, he swore by the blood in his veins and the bruises on his pride—you would be feeding him for real.

You would be his.

The mourning dress hung like a shadow on your arm as you made your way up the narrow stair to Ivy’s attic flat, the scent of old rouge and candle wax clinging to the folds. You rapped on the door with your knuckles—three short, two long—and waited.

Ivy opened it moments later, her copper curls unbound and wild, a smudge of charcoal still clinging to her jaw. “Well, look what the cat coughed up,” she said with a grin. “Come to return my widow’s weeds, or just hiding from your latest mess?”

“A bit of both,” you muttered, slipping inside and dropping the bundle onto her chaise. “I’m done playing ghost.”

She raised a brow. “You managed it then? Old man fall for it?”

You hesitated. “Not exactly.”

That earned you a look. Ivy crossed her arms and leaned back against the vanity. “Do tell.”

So you did. You told her everything—well, almost. Not the part where you snuck into his hotel room. Not the part where he kissed your hand. And certainly not the part where you nearly believed him when he said he’d marry you. But the rest—the pawnshop, the clerk, the ring—you laid it out piece by piece like a confession.

Ivy’s expression shifted the moment you mentioned the mourning ring.

“You what?”

You winced. “I didn’t know what it was at first—looked like any other black band. Thought it was just fashionable.”

“That was a mourning ring?” Her voice had dropped an octave. “For his mother?”

You nodded sheepishly. “It had her name engraved. Anne Turpin.”

Ivy recoiled as if you’d slapped her. “God’s teeth, girl. You stole from a grave.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic—”

“I’m not,” she snapped. “Mourning rings aren’t trinkets. They’re sacred. They’re worn in grief, in blood. You took the one thing he used to mourn the dead and you tried to sell it?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Your heart gave a nervous little thud.

Ivy stepped closer, lowering her voice. “There are stories, you know. Old stories. About thieves who stole mourning jewelry and went mad. One girl woke screaming every night until her hair turned white. Another swore she saw the dead woman’s face in every mirror she passed.”

You rolled your eyes, though your stomach tightened. “Oh please—”

“She drowned,” Ivy said flatly. “Found her in the river with her mouth open and black enamel under her nails.”

That gave you pause.

Ivy’s voice softened. “You don’t mess with mourning rings, love. Not unless you’re ready to live with the dead.”

You glanced toward the pouch of stolen goods on the chair. That ring sat somewhere at the bottom—small, unassuming. Heavy now, like guilt pressed into gold.

“You really think I’ll be haunted?”

“I think,” Ivy said carefully, “if that ring meant anything to him—if it really belonged to his mother—then her spirit might not be all that fond of you.”

You swallowed. “She’s dead, Ivy.”

“So’s every ghost,” Ivy said.

Silence stretched.

You crossed the room and picked up the pouch, feeling its weight anew.

“What should I do?” you asked quietly.

Ivy met your eyes. “Return it.”

You looked at her, alarmed. “Return it? To him?”

“Leave it. In his room, at the church, on his doorstep—I don’t care. But put it back where it belongs. Or you’ll never sleep sound again.”

You clutched the pouch tighter. Return it.

You weren't afraid of men like Richard Turpin, but ghosts? You weren't so sure.

The streets of New York were quiet at that hour, the gaslights flickering faintly against the damp cobblestones as fog slithered between alleyways like a living thing. You moved swiftly beneath the shroud of your new disguise—a madam this time, with rouge-painted cheeks, a low-cut bodice, and a heavy velvet cloak that swept the pavement like spilled ink. You had rented a room at the Franklin under a false name, flashed a pouch of silver coins with a lazy smile, and left the clerk flustered and half in love.

But you hadn’t come for comfort.

You’d come to return a ring. Your boots made no sound as you crept down the corridor to the second floor, past the familiar door: Room Sixteen. A brass number, a polished knob, the faint creak of old wood beneath your step. You pressed your ear to the door, breath held.

Silence. A rustle. A deep breath. Then—nothing.

Asleep, you thought. Good.

You eased the door open slowly, every movement careful. The hinges groaned the faintest protest, but you slipped inside like smoke, closing it behind you.

Turpin lay in the bed, sprawled as always like some wounded bear in a robe—shirt loose, chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. His hair, damp from sleep, curled slightly at the temples. The fire had gone out. Only moonlight lit the room.

You crossed to the dresser, hand trembling as you fished into your bag. The mourning ring lay warm in your palm. You stared at it. Anne Turpin. Beloved mother.

You reached forward.

“I knew it,” came a low voice from the bed.

You froze.

Turpin turned his head toward you, one eye still bruised but sharp with awareness. His lips curled faintly. “You’ve got the manners of a ghost, but the smell of lavender oil gave you away.”

He sat up slowly, like a storm gathering strength, the sheet sliding down his chest. “Come to steal more, or just to torture me?”

You leapt back, heart pounding, and pulled the pistol from beneath your cloak, cocking it with a sharp, deliberate click.

“Stay where you are,” you said coldly. “I’m not here to kill you.”

Turpin blinked at the weapon, then arched a brow. “A pistol?” His baritone dipped into something smug. “Really?”

“I came,” you said through your teeth, “to return this.” You threw the mourning ring toward the bed, and it landed with a soft clink on the coverlet.

“I don’t want to be haunted by your mother’s ghost.”

Turpin blinked at the ring, stunned for just a moment—long enough.

You began backing toward the balcony.

But he surged forward, growling, “BEADLE!”

Panic flared in your chest.

“BEADLE BAMFORD!”

Turpin staggered to his feet, roaring for his lackey like a man possessed. The thundering of footsteps echoed in the hallway—

And then the door burst open. Beadle stumbled in, panting, wild-eyed.

You raised the pistol. “One more step and I shoot!”

Beadle froze, staring between you and the judge, his hand halfway to his belt.

Turpin scoffed, voice low and amused. “You won’t fire that. You’re a thief, not a killer.”

You smiled coldly. Then you pulled the trigger.

The shot cracked like thunder. Beadle screamed as the bullet tore through his leg. He collapsed, clutching his thigh, blood already seeping through his fingers as he writhed on the floor.

Turpin flinched violently, eyes wide with genuine shock. “You mad little bitch—!”

But you were already at the balcony. Without hesitation, you leapt over the rail.

Turpin was already in motion—barefoot, half-dressed, the linen of his nightshirt flapping behind him like the train of a maddened ghost. He shoved Beadle’s groaning, bleeding form aside with no more ceremony than one might give to a fallen lamp and stormed toward the railing, the cold night air biting at his flushed skin.

“Blasted girl—!” he barked, eyes scanning the alley below.

And there you were. Flat on your back in the filth, your skirt tangled around your legs, one boot half-off. You looked up at him, utterly unbothered—your cheeks flushed, your hair a wild mess of curls, and a grin on your lips so brazen it made his already bruised pride ache anew.

“You mad little beast,” he growled, leaning over the railing. “You could have broken your neck.”

You propped herself up on her elbows and winked. “But I didn’t.”

“You might have died.”

“Would’ve died free,” you said with a shrug. “Better than rotting in your silk-wrapped cage, Judge.”

“You reckless, thieving hellion,” Turpin snapped, his baritone echoing in the stone alleyway. “I will have you. One way or another.”

You only laughed and pushed herself upright, brushing dirt from your skirts. “We’ll see about that, you old lunatic.”

His nostrils flared. “Give it back!”

“What?”

“My ring!” he bellowed. “The Turpin signet—my family crest—you brazen little hound, you still have it!”

You paused, then raised your brows, lips curling into a wicked smirk. “Oh, this old thing?”

Your fingers dipped into the pouch tied at your waist. You fished out the ring and held it aloft between two fingers, letting the moonlight catch the silver. Then, without ceremony, you reared back—and threw it.

It struck him dead between the eyes.

Turpin recoiled with a snarl, one hand flying to his forehead. “GOD’S BLOODY TEETH!”

"You're welcome!" you called sweetly, and then turned on your heel and bolted down the alley, your laughter trailing behind like the hem of a taunting gown.

Turpin gripped the railing, hazel eyes narrowing. “THIEF!”

Your voice echoed from the rooftops. “Catch me if you can, darling!”

“You’ll be mine!” he howled, voice cracking with rage and something dangerously close to adoration. “Do you hear me? Mine! You’ll wear my ring, you thieving little witch!”

Your laughter echoed until it faded into the night.

And for a moment, all was still—save the wind, and the soft gurgling of Beadle groaning below.

Then Turpin... laughed. Low at first. Then louder. Rich, unhinged, a sound that scraped from deep in his chest and rang down the alley like a church bell gone mad.

He clutched the railing, blood running down his temple where the ring had struck him, and laughed until tears burned in his eyes.

Behind him, Beadle wheezed. “My lord… please… I’m losing a fair amount of blood…”

Turpin didn’t even turn. “She hit me with it, Bamford. The signet! Right in the bloody head!” He cackled again, pressing a hand to his forehead with manic glee. “She’s perfect!”

Beadle whimpered faintly from the floor. “She shot me.”

Turpin chuckled darkly, hazel eyes still fixed on the alley beyond. “And one day,” he murmured, voice dropping into something soft and terrifying, “she’ll kneel. In my courtroom… or in my bed. But she’ll kneel.”

And with that, Judge Richard Turpin straightened, blood streaking down his brow, his grin sharp and wolfish in the moonlight.

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #judge turpin x reader #judge turpin

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cetussart · 2 days ago

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— In the night

When I'm lost

The sunrise

It is sunshine that falls down on us…

#harry potter #severus snape #alan rickman #my art #hermione granger #emma watson #snager #snamione #hermione/snape #SoundCloud

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wardengrill · 7 months ago

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Kate Winslet & Alan Rickman in Sense and Sensibility (1995)

#sense and sensibility #perioddramaedit #periodedit #filmedit #kate winslet #alan rickman #my loves #**#movies #1k

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alan-rickman46 · 4 days ago

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#alan rickman #alan rickman 46 #alan w kids #alan w fans

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smilingformoney · 2 days ago

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Champagne Problems ~ Lionel/Reader

Chapter 3. Paris

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!

Read on Ao3 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.

#alan rickman #lionel shabandar #sinclair bryant #lionel x reader #gambit 2012 #close my eyes 1991 #champagne problems

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