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muiitoloko · 1 day ago

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His Thief, His Curse

Summary: After humiliating Turpin in the public bathhouse, the clever thief returns to rob him a second time—only to find the judge high on laudanum and heartbreak.

Pairing: Judge Turpin × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Violence.

First and Second part here.

Also read on Ao3

Later that day, the air inside the Franklin Hotel felt suffocating with the stench of failure. Turpin stood by the hearth, his hands behind his back, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. The fire crackled, casting flickering light over his stern face and polished boots. His hazel eyes burned as Beadle delivered yet another list of men who had turned up nothing.

“Ghost,” Turpin muttered. “A filthy little ghost in this godless city.”

She had vanished. Despite bribes, threats, and endless man-hours, the girl—the thief—had simply disappeared. She had taken his coin and his peace of mind, and now the entire city seemed to conspire to keep her hidden from him. Turpin’s fury simmered in his veins like poison, and he could barely contain the need to lash out. A chair, a mirror, Bamford himself—it would take only one spark. But instead, he turned cold, measured.

“I grow tired of this,” he said at last, his baritone low, controlled. “Perhaps… perhaps it is time to return to my original plan.”

Beadle blinked, startled. “The… the brides, sir?”

Turpin gave a slow nod. “Fertile. Gentle. Loyal. I already have a list of families—merchant daughters, bankers’ nieces. Girls with dowries and good teeth.” He turned back toward the fire, voice softer now. “Someone untouched. Someone proper.” But even as he said the words, his thoughts rebelled.

He saw her again—the smirk she’d worn when she kissed his coin purse, the sun gilding her face in wild gold, her hips swinging beneath that stolen cloak. And today, just hours ago, he had taken himself in hand like a desperate man, spilling into his palm with her name on his lips.

No lady of wealth and breeding would make him feel that. Still, he told himself he could forget her. He could. He should.

Turpin growled for the carriage to be prepared. The cramped hotel tub had proven laughable—barely wide enough for one man, much less someone of his stature. He would visit the public bathhouse instead. They had private cabins there, and he required heat. Steam. Solitude.

He climbed into the carriage without another word, shoulders tense beneath the weight of his black wool cloak. The city rattled past in a blur of soot and bustle, but he paid it no mind. He tried, truly tried, to think of the names on that marriage list—of sweet, obedient girls with soft hands and porcelain necks. But she returned again, like a splinter in his thoughts. That damned smile.

His breeches tightened, his teeth ground together, and he let out a quiet hiss of irritation. “Forget her,” he muttered under his breath. “She’s a nothing. A stray.”

And yet, when the carriage pulled up to the bathhouse and he stepped down, there was a restless tension in his body. As though some part of him already knew.

He entered through the heavy doors, the warm scent of steam and herbs hitting his senses at once. The clerk at the desk—an older man with a lopsided wig and bad teeth—gave him a hesitant nod as he paid for the best private cabin available.

“This way, m’lord,” the attendant murmured, leading him down a tiled corridor.

Turpin’s boots echoed as he followed, his gaze drifting lazily across the hazy bathhouse. And then—he saw her.

She stepped out of a side door with a soft rustle of fabric, her skin flushed pink from the heat, her hair damp and coiled loosely at the nape of her neck. She wore a clean blue dress—not extravagant, but soft, well-fitted, modest. Her fingers trailed absently over the carved wooden banister as she descended the few steps into the main corridor. Turpin’s breath caught.

You.

But you didn’t even flinch. Not a blink of recognition, not a pause in your stride. You moved with calm grace, your eyes lazy and content, your hands folded demurely in front of you as if you’d never been a street urchin with stolen coin in your pocket.

That infuriated him more than anything else. He had been haunted, touched, changed. And you had simply gone on.

Turpin crossed the corridor in four long strides and grabbed you by the wrist. You screamed—loud and high—and spun toward him, eyes wide with fright.

“You!” he hissed, baritone sharp as steel, yanking you closer. “You thought you could vanish? Spend my coin on hot water and soap while I rotted with need?”

“I don’t—!” you gasped, but he didn’t let you finish.

He dragged you backward into the nearest open cabin, the door slamming shut behind you with a violent crack. The room was already thick with steam from the last occupant, the tiled bench still slick with moisture.

The steam in the bathhouse cabin curled around the two of you like breath from the devil’s nostrils. Your arm throbbed where his gloved hand gripped your wrist—hard enough to bruise, not hard enough to break. You struggled, twisting in his hold, your back pressed against the damp tiles as you glared up at him.

“What in God’s name is wrong with you?!” you hissed, voice trembling more from rage than fear. “Let me go, you lunatic!”

Turpin’s hooked nose dipped slightly as he peered at you, hazel eyes sharp with triumph. “You don’t recognize me, girl?” he purred, his voice a deep, velvet baritone, soaked with condescension. “I daresay I’m offended. Only days ago, you kissed my coin purse and leapt from a wall like some circus harlot.”

Your blood went cold.

He leaned closer, his breath hot against your cheek, smug and dangerous. “You looked me in the eye. Smiled. Mocked me.”

You froze; the memory slammed into your gut like a punch. “Oh,” you breathed. “Oh, no…”

“Oh, yes.” Turpin’s smile curled like a noose. “So unless you’ve been struck by lightning and lost your wits, don’t insult me by pretending you don’t remember.”

You blinked once—twice—and then, God help you, you tried. “I think you’ve got the wrong girl,” you said with a sheepish little laugh, shrugging one shoulder as if that could uncoil the panic writhing beneath your ribs. “Maybe you’re confused. Age does strange things to a man’s memory.”

Turpin’s smile vanished, his grip tightened.

Your own grin flickered, faltered, died. “All right,” you muttered, wincing. “Fine. It was me. You’re not entirely mad.”

“Not entirely,” he repeated dryly.

You rolled your eyes. “I’ll give you the coin back, old man. God’s teeth, I’ll double it, if you’ll just release me and forget this ever happened.”

"Oh, no," he murmured, voice so low it vibrated in your chest. "I think not." He looked you over, slowly, hungrily.

You squirmed.

“Interesting,” he mused, taking in the clean dress, the soft flush of your skin, the damp tendrils of hair curled at your temples. “So this is why my men couldn’t find you. You learned to look like a lady.”

You swallowed. “I am a lady.”

“You are a thief,” he corrected, tilting your chin up with his thumb. “But a very clever one. And when washed of soot and filth… God help me, girl. You look like something fit for a lord’s bed.”

Your cheeks flamed, but you didn’t look away. “And you look like something I’d chase off my doorstep with a broom.”

He smirked. “A broom won’t help you now.”

The moment his gloved hand slid along your jaw with that smug little smirk of conquest, you knew two things.

First: This old bastard was absolutely unhinged.

And second: He clearly didn’t think you had knees.

Which was his mistake.

“Fit for a lord’s bed, am I?” you murmured, voice sweet as molasses, your lashes fluttering like you were some timid debutante and not a professional liar with dirt under her nails. “How lucky for you.”

Turpin’s hooked nose dipped lower, his hazel eyes gleaming with perverse triumph as his hand tightened slightly on your arm. “You’re learning,” he purred, baritone low and smug. “Obedience becomes you, pet.”

You smiled, and then you brought your knee up with all the force of a runaway carriage. Right into his balls.

The effect was immediate. Turpin let out a howl—not a groan, not a growl, but a scream, high-pitched and startled, as if you’d just introduced his testicles to the wrath of God. His hands flew to his crotch as he collapsed to his knees on the wet tile, his cloak billowing around him like a fallen villain in a penny novel.

“You wretched little—!” he wheezed, doubled over, face flushed with pain, sweat beading at his temples.

You didn’t waste time. You leaned in—grinning like the devil—and reached into his vest while he whimpered like a kicked hound. Your fingers found the familiar shape of another coin purse (of course he had a spare—rich men always did), and you yanked it free with a triumphant little flourish.

Then, still crouched beside him, you kissed his cheek with exaggerated tenderness.

He whimpered.

“Try harder next time, old man,” you whispered sweetly in his ear, voice as sultry as a French whore in heat. “Maybe I’ll let you finish touching yourself before I rob you blind again.”

His head jerked up in outrage, one trembling hand reaching for you. But you were already backing away, skirts swirling, screaming at the top of your lungs like a scandalized heiress fresh off the boat from London.

“Help! Help, someone!” you wailed, voice piercing as a church bell. “This pervert tried to touch me! He said I was fit for his bed—he grabbed me and whispered filthy things! Someone stop him!”

“Wh-what?!” Turpin gasped from the floor, still holding his bruised pride. “Lies! This is a misunderstanding—!”

Too late.

The door slammed open.

A portly man in a waistcoat burst in first, followed by a mustached gentleman with a monocle and three bathhouse attendants wielding towels like torches.

“What’s going on here?” the mustached man demanded, eyes darting from your heaving bosom to Turpin’s doubled-over form on the floor.

“He touched me!” you cried, clutching your chest. “He said I was made to kneel!”

“I did not!” Turpin roared, attempting to stand and immediately falling back to the floor with a hiss, cupping himself like a man defending a national treasure. “I was accosted! This vile creature robbed me!”

“Look at him!” you sobbed dramatically, pointing with trembling fingers. “He was on the floor with his hand in his trousers! I’ve never been so violated! So defiled! I’m just a modest young woman in search of a hot bath!”

The portly man recoiled. “Disgusting!”

The attendants surged forward, flinging towels like nets over Turpin’s hunched frame. “You filthy dog!” one shouted. “Preying on respectable women?!”

“I’m a judge!” Turpin barked, swatting weakly as they yanked at his cloak. “I’ll have you all arrested!”

A boot caught him in the side.

“You’ll be lucky if you’re not gelded,” someone muttered.

As the chaos erupted—accusations flying, fists raised, Turpin flailing in a tangle of velvet and indignation—you slipped out the door, hands clutching your stolen coin and your modesty.

You paused at the corner just long enough to glance back. Through the open doorway, you caught a final glimpse of him—Judge Richard Turpin, gasping like a strangled toad, face red, hazel eyes blazing with hate and humiliation, his assailants shouting about “perverse urges” and “corrupt English devils.”

You blew him a kiss. His eyes widened; lips formed a wordless snarl as realization dawned. You smiled.

Round two goes to me, old man.

And then you turned and disappeared into the city’s evening fog, pockets jingling and laughter bubbling in your chest. God, you needed a real dress now.

And possibly a pistol.

The doors of the bathhouse flew open with a violence usually reserved for riots or floods, and out came Judge Turpin—no, correction, he was thrown.

Beadle, who had been waiting with all the eagerness of a wet cat outside the bathhouse doors, nearly choked on his own breath at the sight. The great Judge Turpin, Lord of London Courtrooms, now lay sprawled in the dirt like a sack of spoiled flour, his cloak half torn, his cravat limp and muddy, his breeches stained and—was that blood?

"By the Lord’s merciful arse!" Beadle cried, dashing forward in a clumsy flurry of coat and panic. "Your lordship!"

Behind him, bathhouse attendants were still shouting.

“Filthy old pervert!”

“Touchin’ innocent girls—disgustin’!”

“Don’t let him back in, I don’t care if he’s Queen Victoria herself!”

"Sir?!" Beadle skidded to his knees beside the crumpled figure, taking in the full horror: a bruised jaw, one eye already swelling, his baritone voice reduced to something resembling a cracked flute. And—dear heaven above—his master was clutching his crotch like a man hanging on to his last breath.

"Beadle..." Turpin croaked, blinking through the blood staining his lashes. "She was here."

Beadle stared at him. "...She?"

"The thief." Turpin coughed, his stained teeth flashing beneath his swollen lip. "She kneed me... right in the sacrosanct."

Beadle paled. "She—what?!"

Turpin tried to sit up, hissed, and collapsed with a grunt. "And then... then she called me a pervert." He let out a wheezing laugh. "Loud. Loud enough for half the city to hear." He looked almost… impressed.

Beadle gaped. "So they… they beat you for it?"

Turpin gestured weakly to his state of ruin. "What does it look like, Beadle?! They beat me like a Turkish drum on Saint Bartholomew’s Day!"

"And she got away again?"

Turpin closed his eyes, blood dripping from his nose. "With my second coin purse."

Beadle blinked. "...You had a second one?"

"Do not lecture me, Bamford," Turpin growled, voice hoarse, "not unless you enjoy the feel of soap lye in your eyes."

Beadle opened his mouth, then promptly closed it.

“Help me up,” Turpin muttered. “My ribs feel like they’ve been used to tenderize beef.”

Beadle, struggling to lift a man a full head taller and shaped like a vengeful obelisk, finally got him to his feet—sort of. Turpin leaned heavily on him, hissing every time his boot touched the ground.

"Shall I fetch the doctor, sir?"

"You’ll fetch whoever’s got the strongest laudanum and the kindest touch," Turpin snapped. "Because by God, she’s ruined me."

"Yes, sir."

Turpin groaned. “Filthy, wicked little thing. She set me up. On purpose. That kiss on the cheek—she planned that. I can still feel it, Beadle.” He stared into the middle distance like a man remembering war. “Soft. Warm. Slightly sweaty.”

Beadle cleared his throat awkwardly. “Yes. Well.”

"And her thighs," Turpin muttered, voice deepening into something that sounded criminal. "Did I mention her thighs, Bamford? Like sin wrapped in silk. I could write scripture about them."

Beadle looked like he wanted to die. "Please, don’t."

"And her voice," Turpin moaned, almost reverent, "like molasses poured over judgment day. I would’ve taken her right there, Beadle. Bent over the bath tiles, ass red from the belt, her mouth crying ‘My lord’ like the damned sing psalms in hell."

"I—I'm going to pretend I didn’t hear that," Beadle muttered, dragging the judge up into the waiting carriage. "You might be concussed."

“I’m going to marry her,” Turpin whispered as he slumped into the seat, his cloak pooling like funeral shrouds. “She’ll kneel at my table. Bear me children with her wicked little smirk. I’ll buy her lace. I’ll chain her to the bedposts. She’ll learn Latin from my cock.”

Beadle nearly fell off the step.

“You… you’re delirious, sir.”

Turpin looked dazed, but satisfied. "I’ll build her a nursery. Paint the walls blue. Raise a horde of little thieves with her eyes. That’ll show these damned Americans."

Beadle blinked at his master for a long moment, then nodded slowly, like a man resigning himself to madness. "Yes, sir. Shall I call ahead to the asylum, or wait until the wedding?"

Turpin, one eye swollen shut, grinned through the blood. "You’ll be best man, of course."

Beadle sighed. "Naturally."

The moment the door to your little garret creaked shut behind you, you sank to your knees beside the bed like it was a sacred ritual. The coin purse in your hands felt heavier than sin. You opened it with trembling fingers, and out spilled your victory—gold, silver, even a few precious banknotes folded tightly into the creased leather.

As the carriage clattered toward the doctor’s office, the judge leaned back, clutching his ribs with a groan but still smiling faintly, the ghost of her kiss still burning on his cheek. She had humiliated him. She had robbed him. And, God help her, she had made him fall in love.

You whistled low, unable to help yourself. “Well, well,” you murmured, lips curling into a wicked grin. “You really were rich, weren’t you, old man?”

You gathered the coins into small piles, your eyes gleaming like a magpie’s as you counted. Twice. Three times. You didn’t trust your first pass. There had never been this much money in your hands before, not in one day, not in a lifetime of stolen apples and lifted pocket watches. You tossed your head back and let out a breathless laugh, half in disbelief, half in the pure high of triumph.

God, it felt good. The kind of good that made you stupid. Reckless. Hungry for more.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, chin in your palm, staring at the glittering little mountains of wealth as a new idea began to form.

You remembered the carriage. The very first time you robbed him, when you’d collided into his stiff, pompous frame like a storm and vanished with his purse, he’d been stepping out of a carriage with gilded trim—one you’d seen stop outside the Franklin Hotel.

So, that’s where he was staying. Still. Rich enough to get the best room. Arrogant enough to stay in one place.

Your fingers drummed against your lips, your mind already racing. You could go there. Tonight, maybe. Slip into the Franklin like a shadow. You’d done it before—many times. Hotels were easy if you played it smart. Pretend to be someone’s guest, a visiting cousin, a chambermaid.

Or… a whore.

Your grin widened slowly. That could work. Men like him were predictable. You could stroll right up to the desk in a low-cut bodice and cheap perfume, press your tits against the counter and say you’d been sent by “the English gentleman.” No name needed—his accent and his attitude would have done the work for you. The clerk would assume you were expected. Most of them did. They’d fall all over themselves trying to impress a man of his station. All you needed was a name. A room number. And once you had that...

You’d rob him blind in his sleep. But then—damn it—you remembered the way he’d looked at you in the bathhouse.

The heat behind his hazel eyes, sharp and unrelenting. The way his hooked nose had flared when he growled that you’d haunted him. The way his voice had dipped into something filthy and reverent all at once, promising you'd look fit for a lord’s bed. Your thighs clenched involuntarily.

“He wanted to eat me alive,” you muttered, cheeks flushing. You shook your head fiercely, rising to your feet and pacing the room. “No, no. Don’t be stupid. He wants revenge, not… that.”

But the memory lingered—his breath hot against your cheek, his hand on your throat, his lips curling with something dark and possessive as he whispered threats you didn’t quite believe he’d keep. Or maybe you did.

You swallowed hard.

Still… the plan. Focus on the plan.

You could pull it off. Slip into the hotel as if you’d been paid for your services. Your dress was clean now. Your hair, brushed and braided neatly. You could smear rouge on your cheeks and honey on your voice, strut into the lobby and tell the clerk that “the Englishman with the hooked nose and baritone voice” had sent for a companion. Something soft. Something obedient.

You chuckled wickedly, already rehearsing the lines. “Good evening,” you said, voice like warmed honey. “I was sent by… oh, blast it, what was his name?” You tapped your temple theatrically. “Tall. British. Very tall, actually. Very… old.”

The clerk looked up then, giving you a once-over with the suspicious squint of a man who knew exactly what you were. “Old and tall?” he repeated, blinking. “You don’t mean the one who came in earlier bruised to Hell and clutching his ribs, do you? Looked like he'd been trampled by horses and insulted by nuns? Richard Turpin?”

Your lips parted in a perfect little 'o'. You tilted your head coyly, but inside, your heart flipped. Turpin then, huh?

You blinked, as though the name hadn’t just settled like a shiny new key in your mind. “Turpin, yes! That’s the one. Richard Turpin. That’s what he said, didn’t he? Honestly, I don’t understand men either. You’d think cracked ribs would discourage carnal needs, but here I am, corseted and punctual. Look, I just want to get my money and leave. Maybe he wants me to kiss his wounds or something ghastly.”

The clerk made a noise like a choked laugh but sighed, rubbing his temple as if this wasn’t the strangest request he’d gotten tonight. “Second floor, room sixteen,” he grumbled. “But don’t blame me if he mistakes you for Death herself.”

“Noted,” you said sweetly, adjusting your corset just enough to hoist your breasts an inch higher. You offered a smile that could melt brass. “Thank you kindly.”

You climbed the stairs with light steps, careful not to let the old wood creak too loudly under your boots. Room sixteen. The hallway was quiet, lit only by the flicker of gas lamps and the occasional groan of the old building settling into night.

The door creaked open on rusted hinges, just wide enough for you to slip through. You held your breath, pressing it closed again with a soft click. Moonlight spilled in thin slivers between the heavy curtains of room sixteen, casting pale silver lines across the worn carpet and velvet-draped furnishings. There he was.

Richard Turpin currently sprawled across the great bed like a war-wounded bear, one arm thrown above his head, the other resting against his ribs. His coat had been stripped away, waistcoat loosened, boots abandoned near the hearth. His cravat was stained with blood. One eye was swollen shut, the other a shadowed gleam beneath his heavy brow. He looked like he’d fought the entire navy and only just made it home. Which, to be fair, he nearly had. Because of you.

You stepped closer, silent as breath, your bare feet brushing against the edge of the ornate rug. You scanned the room swiftly—drawers, satchel, coat pockets, the carved desk in the corner. There had to be more money. Men like him always hid coin, stashed it in books or beneath floorboards, afraid of banks and yet greedy for control. You crouched low by the desk, fingers gliding over the brass handles—only to freeze.

A groan from the bed. You went still.

Turpin stirred, the sheets rustling as he shifted his bulk and muttered under his breath. His good eye blinked open, unfocused and glassy, hazel, turned almost gold in the gloom. He stared at you, silent.

Then he growled, voice hoarse and thick with laudanum, “Isn’t it enough that you torment my dreams? Now I hallucinate you as well?”

You blinked once, then twice, and like any good thief with quick instincts and a bad conscience, you grinned.

“Yes,” you said softly, rising from your crouch and gliding toward the bed with theatrical poise. “Yes, my lord. I am a hallucination. The very one you deserve.”

Turpin blinked slowly, his gaze flickering between alarm and curiosity. His lips quirked ever so slightly. “A vision... here to rob me again, I presume?”

“Indeed,” you said, crouching beside him with mock solemnity. “But not your coin this time. I’ve come for information.” You lowered your voice. “Where do you keep the rest of it?”

He tilted his head slightly, eyes glazed but sharp with curiosity. “You’ve gotten bolder in my dreams,” he murmured. “I should hallucinate you naked next. That’d be kinder.”

You flushed, caught between indignation and shock. “You’re a pervert,” you hissed, but your cheeks betrayed you, warming under the moonlight.

Turpin let out a low, almost affectionate chuckle and let his head drop back against the pillow. “Mm. I am. And high as a bishop’s tit on laudanum. That’s what pain does, girl. Makes even saints think of sin.”

You hesitated, eyes flicking over him. His chest was rising and falling unevenly, one hand still clutched near his side. His face was pale, bruised, but there was something about him—something… human beneath the arrogance.

Then his voice dropped, almost gentle. “I will find you,” he murmured, not even looking at you now. “And when I do… I’ll marry you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I’ll marry you,” he said again, more insistently, as if repeating it would make it real. “You’ll wear blue satin. I’ll take you to every damned ball in London. I’ll teach you to dance if I must.” He turned slightly, wincing. “You’ll look divine in candlelight. I’ll show you off like a prize.”

You gazed at him, your fingers tightening slightly on the fabric of your skirt. For just a moment, your heart fluttered in a strange, unfamiliar way.

You imagined it. The dresses. The lace. The ribbons in your hair. Waltzing through marble halls, champagne in hand. No hunger. No grime. Just… light and music and being looked at like you were someone’s everything

You found yourself sinking slowly into the velvet chair beside his bed. “I’ve never been to a ball,” you said, surprising yourself. “I used to watch from the street. Through windows. All the couples spinning… laughing. I’d press my face to the glass and wish I’d been born someone else.”

Turpin’s eyes fluttered closed. His voice rasped from somewhere deep in his chest. “You’ll go to every damned ball I can find. Even the boring ones. You’ll wear pearls. I’ll buy them myself.” Silence settled in the room, warm and strange.

After a while, he spoke again, voice slow, as if confessing secrets to the dark. “My thief,” he murmured, voice rough and low, as though the words were pulled from a grave. “That’s what you are, isn’t it…? Mine.”

Your breath caught.

Turpin shifted slightly, one hand sliding across the sheets like a man reaching for something he couldn’t name. His swollen eye remained shut, but the other—hazel and bloodshot—fluttered open, unfocused.

“Do you know,” he said, lips dry, “my father named me after his brother? My uncle. Richard Turpin.”

You blinked. The name settled like dust in your chest.

“A thief,” he continued, bitterly. “A bloody highwayman. The shame of the family. Hanged in York before I was born. Stole from noblemen, seduced milkmaids, pissed on titles and tradition. My grandfather forbade his name from being spoken in the house, but my father…”

He gave a broken, raspy laugh.

“My father loved him. Couldn’t let go. And so he passed that curse on to me.” His head turned toward you slightly, jaw tightening. “Imagine that. A judge… with a thief’s name.”

You held your breath. Judge?

It hit you like a slap.

He wasn’t just some rich, perverse Englishman with too much coin and too many lusts. He was Judge Richard Turpin. And you’d kneed Judge Richard Turpin in the balls. Robbed him—twice. Humiliated him in a public bathhouse. Sweet Mother of God.

As if reading your silence, Turpin smiled faintly, lips cracked. “Ah… now you know.” He turned his face back to the ceiling, eyes half-lidded. “That’s why I hate them, you know… thieves. Every bloody pickpocket and gutter brat… I see my uncle in them. The disgrace. The filth.” His hand clenched the sheet weakly. “I’ve sentenced dozens to hang. Dozens. Men, women, boys with too-long fingers. I’ve watched them cry. I’ve watched them soil themselves at the gallows. All of them… reminders.”

You said nothing. You couldn’t. Your heart was thudding too loudly.

“But not you.” His voice softened. “Not you.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, as if surprised by the weight of the words.

“You are mine,” he whispered. “Mine. My thief.”

The words rang louder than they should have in that quiet, steam-dulled room. You didn’t dare move. He looked so broken there—half undressed, bruised, high out of his mind, speaking to ghosts. You couldn’t tell if he knew you were real.

And then he turned his head, and his one good eye found yours. “Are you…” he rasped. “Are you truly here?”

You stared at him, mouth suddenly dry. Something in his gaze—raw and pained and frighteningly vulnerable—made your stomach twist. You could lie. You should lie. But you didn’t.

You nodded once. “Yes.”

Turpin’s breath caught. His hand reached for you with surprising speed, though his strength failed him halfway. His fingers closed weakly around your wrist, barely a touch.

Still, he tugged, trying to draw you nearer. You didn’t even move. But he didn’t seem to care. Instead, he raised your hand slowly, with trembling effort, and brought your fingers to his lips.

He kissed them softly, reverently. Like a priest at communion. Then, with a groan, he collapsed back against the pillows, his eyes fluttering shut, the last of his strength spent.

You sat there, heart pounding, your fingers damp with his breath.

Judge Richard Turpin, the monster of London courts, had kissed your hand and passed out like a boy dreaming of fairy tales.

And you… didn’t quite know what to do.

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

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