Can anyone recommend any verified quotes from Alan Rickman himself or from any of the characters he portrayed? I'm currently curating my portfolio as a writer and visual designer, and I'd love to include a quote from him.
I've come across quite a few online, but I'm hesitant to use them since many seem to be misattributed or unverified. If you know of any quotes with a reliable source, I'd really appreciate it. Thank you so much!
Gosh 😭 my current hyperfixation is Miranda Priestly. What is it with me and intimidating hot fictional characters that are wayyy older than me?
Would you believe I only watched the first movie this month? Literally just a few hours before I watched the second one, and I was instantly hooked. Like… I wasn’t irritated by Miranda at all. She was just superb. Doesn’t shout, speaks low, almost gentle, but somehow still terrifying 😭 Omygosh her glareeee. Is it weird I kinda see Snape in her?
And now my new earworm is “Why is no one reaaaddyyy?” I’m obsessed. I’ve been absolutely devouring Miranda/Andy fics these past few weeks.
i read We Had Seasons In The Sun and i had to draw at least one of the wonderful outfits the author put together,, here's andy in her olive blouse while miranda tries not to Explode
Hello! I just want some perspective on my situation.
I have a boyfriend (I’m 22, he’s 25), and we’ve been together for about 11 months. He’s my first boyfriend, and honestly, he’s great—kind, sweet, a gentleman, and close with my family.
For context, we don’t get to see each other that often because he works Monday to Saturday, and I also have school. Because of that, we usually celebrate our monthsaries on a different date. So celebrating on the actual day is pretty rare for us.
The only thing that’s been bothering me is that he still hasn’t introduced me to his family or his friends. I do understand that he rarely sees his friends too (like only a couple of days a year), but it still crosses my mind. He can also be a bit of a “mama’s boy” (even though he sometimes complains about it).
Here’s what happened recently:
Friday:
He invited me to join him while he worked from home and ran errands. I was excited since I just wanted to spend time with him. We went out, stopped at Krispy Kreme so he could work, and while there, he asked me out for Sunday (our monthsary). I was really happy about that, especially since it’s rare for us to celebrate on the exact day.
Later, he had more work, so I said it was okay to skip going to a café I wanted since we’d see each other again on Sunday.
When we got to my place, his mom texted him saying he couldn’t go out on Sunday because they needed to prepare for his brother’s birthday. He showed me the message. I said I understood, but it still hurt because this was one of the few chances we had to celebrate on the actual day while we were both free.
Saturday:
My friends came over and even wanted to invite him (they’re pretty excited about my first boyfriend 😅). I asked if he could drop by—our houses are only about 10 minutes apart and he has a car. He said he was tired and maybe another time.
I didn’t say anything, but I felt a bit hurt since our Sunday plans were already canceled.
Sunday:
He called saying someone was at our gate. I got excited thinking it was him, but it was a delivery—he sent me flowers. I do appreciate it, but then he suggested we just watch something online together later.
That’s what confused me… if he has time to watch with me online, why not just come over when we’re so close?
I know this might sound small compared to bigger relationship problems, but it’s been bothering me.
Am I overthinking or being too demanding? Like am I ungrateful? Or is my standards too high? My mom and friends have been a bit annoyed about my bf lately too.
Author's Notes: This wasn’t supposed to be a draft — it was a story I was actually meant to publish. But since I’m retired, it ended up becoming just a draft. And I know it’s probably a little obvious, but I based it on the song The One That Got Away by Katy Perry.
Warning: Angst
Part 2
Frank Benson hated grocery shopping. He hated the lighting—too bright, too clinical—hated the slow, aimless wandering of people who seemed to have nowhere better to be, hated the way the carts always veered slightly to the left like they had a personal vendetta against him. Most of all, he hated the fact that he was here at all.
This was his wife’s domain. Margaret with her lists and her coupons and her inexplicable loyalty to specific brands of things that all looked identical to him. His role in this ritual was usually very simple: stay home, sit in his armchair, and watch the news at a volume that made the windows hum faintly in their frames. That was a system that worked.
Today, apparently, the system had failed.
“Frank, I need help,” Margaret had said, already halfway out the door, car keys in hand and patience running thin. And now here he was, standing in the middle of an aisle lined with more types of pasta than any sane person could possibly need, holding a crumpled piece of paper like it was a classified document he hadn’t been briefed on properly.
He squinted at it, lips pressed into a thin line. “Tagliatelle,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and gravelly. “Organic. Of course it is.” His hazel eyes flicked up to the shelves, scanning rows of identical boxes that all insisted on being just slightly different enough to be irritating. “Bloody ridiculous…”
He shifted his weight, one hand braced on his hip, the other still holding the list, when something—someone—caught his attention in his peripheral vision.
And just like that, everything stopped.
It wasn’t dramatic. There was no sound dropping out, no cinematic swell of music. Just a quiet, abrupt halt. His breath stalled in his chest. His fingers tightened slightly around the paper.
You.
Standing a few feet away, comparing two brands of something, completely unaware.
Thirty years.
Thirty years since he had last seen you, and still—still—he knew you instantly. It wasn’t just your face, though that hadn’t changed as much as time should have demanded. It was the way you stood, the slight tilt of your head as you read labels, the quiet focus in your expression. Familiar in a way that hit him somewhere deep and old.
Frank didn’t think. That was the strange part. A man who had built a life on measured decisions, on restraint and control, simply… didn’t.
He moved.
Two steps, maybe three, and his hand was on your arm before he could stop himself, fingers firm, instinctive. He turned you toward him in one smooth motion, his grip not rough, but undeniably insistent.
You startled, the sudden contact snapping you out of your thoughts. “Hey—what—?” you began, pulling slightly, instinctively defensive as you looked up at the stranger who had just grabbed you.
But Frank wasn’t seeing a stranger.
He was staring.
Hazel eyes wide in a way that didn’t suit him, searching your face with an intensity that bordered on unsettling. His chest rose and fell once, sharply, as if he’d forgotten how breathing worked for a second.
“…It’s you,” he said, voice low, almost disbelieving, like he didn’t quite trust his own eyes. His grip on your arm loosened slightly, but he didn’t let go. “Jesus Christ… it’s really you.”
You blinked at him, confusion knitting your brows together. “I’m sorry—do I know you?” you asked, trying to pull your arm back again, a bit more firmly this time. “Sir, you need to let go.”
He didn’t. Not immediately.
Instead, he leaned in just a fraction, eyes scanning your features like he was looking for confirmation, for proof that this wasn’t some cruel trick of memory. His jaw tightened, something raw flickering across his face—pain, recognition, something older than both.
“You don’t recognize me,” he murmured, more to himself than to you, the realization settling in with a quiet, heavy weight.
Your unease sharpened. You glanced around briefly, as if gauging whether anyone nearby had noticed. “No, I don’t,” you said, more firmly now. “And I’d really like you to—”
The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, indifferent, casting everything in that same sterile glow that suddenly felt too sharp, too exposed. Who the hell was this man?
“Let go of me,” you said, firmer now, tugging your arm back with real force this time. “Or I’m calling security.”
The words were meant to cut through whatever strange fog he seemed trapped in, but he barely reacted. His fingers loosened just enough to no longer restrain you, yet he still lingered close—too close—his gaze fixed on your face like he was memorizing it all over again. There was something unsettling in it. Not aggression. Not quite. Something heavier. Something that made your chest tighten without understanding why.
“I thought—” he started, voice rough, like it had been dragged over gravel. He stopped himself mid-sentence, swallowing hard, as if the rest of the words refused to come.
Then, slowly, hesitantly, his hand lifted—like he meant to touch your face.
You stiffened instantly, taking a step back. “Don’t—”
“Frank!”
The call cut clean through the moment.
A woman’s voice—familiar in tone, intimate in the way it carried his name. It snapped him out of whatever trance he’d been in. His hand dropped immediately, his head turning toward the sound as if pulled by instinct.
“Frank, did you find the—” she began, pushing her cart into the aisle, but stopped short when she saw the two of you standing there, tension hanging thick between you.
The name echoed in your mind.
Frank.
Your breath caught.
No.
No, that couldn’t—
Frank turned slightly, glancing between the woman and you, something tight and unresolved still lingering in his expression. But you weren’t looking at her. You weren’t seeing the cart or the groceries or anything else.
Frank.
Franklin.
Your stomach dropped.
“…Franklin Benson?” you said, the name leaving your lips before you could stop it, quiet, disbelieving.
It hit him instantly.
You saw it—clear as day—the way his entire body went still again, but this time not from shock. Recognition. Confirmation. Something like pain flickered across his face, sharp and immediate, as his hazel eyes snapped back to you.
There it was.
Not a stranger anymore.
Not confusion.
Him.
Thirty years collapsed in the space between one breath and the next.
“…You do remember,” he said, voice lower now, softer—but heavier. Not relief. Not quite. Something complicated, something that had been buried for far too long.
The woman—Margaret—looked between you both, brows knitting together. “Wait—do you two know each other?” she asked, cautious now, picking up on the shift in the air.
But you didn’t answer her.
You couldn’t.
Your eyes were locked on him, searching, disoriented, trying to reconcile the man in front of you with the one you had known. The boy with sharper edges, darker hair, restless eyes that used to soften when he looked at you. This man—older, broader, silver threaded through his hair, lines carved into his face—should have been a stranger.
But he wasn’t.
Not even close.
“…Franklin,” you repeated, quieter this time, like saying it again might make it more real.
His jaw tightened.
You took a step toward him without thinking, your hand lifting slightly, mirroring what he had done moments before. Not quite touching. Not yet.
“I thought—you—” you started, but the words tangled in your throat, too many questions colliding at once. Too many years. Too much silence.
“I wrote to you,” he said suddenly.
The words landed heavy.
Not loud. Not angry. But edged with something that had never quite faded.
“For two years,” he continued, his voice controlled, but tight. “Every chance I got. Every bloody week if I could manage it.” His gaze didn’t leave yours, searching, demanding something—an answer, maybe. “You didn’t write back.”
Your breath hitched.
“I—what?” you whispered, confusion flashing across your face, immediate and genuine. “Frank, I never— I didn’t get anything.”
Something flickered in his expression. Doubt. A crack in the certainty he’d clearly carried for decades.
But before either of you could say anything else—
“Grandma!”
The voice came barreling into the moment like a stone through glass.
You turned instinctively as a small boy came running down the aisle, clutching a box of cookies triumphantly in both hands, his sneakers squeaking against the floor.
“Grandma, I got the chocolate ones! The ones with the filling you said—” He skidded to a stop beside you, slightly out of breath, looking up with bright, eager eyes.
And just like that—
Everything shifted.
The world rushed back in.
The grocery store. The lights. The people.
Reality.
Frank’s gaze dropped—just for a second—to the boy at your side. You saw it happen. The calculation. The quiet realization settling into place, piece by piece.
Grandma.
You.
His chest rose slowly, once, controlled—but something in his posture changed. Subtly. Almost imperceptibly.
Grandma.
The word echoed in his head with a dull, final kind of certainty. His eyes flicked—quick, instinctive—to your left hand, searching, scanning for the glint of a ring that would make it all make sense in a clean, ordinary way.
There was nothing there.
Bare.
But it didn’t matter.
Of course it didn’t matter.
A grandson meant children. Children meant a life. A life meant someone else had been standing where he once thought he would. Husband. Partner. Years he wasn’t part of. Years that had moved on without him, cleanly, completely.
Of course you had.
Of course you did.
His jaw tightened, something sharp and quiet settling behind his ribs, and he straightened slightly, the shift subtle but immediate—the soldier reasserting itself, pulling control back where it belonged.
He didn’t look at you again. Not properly.
Instead, he turned—abrupt, efficient—toward Margaret, who was still standing there with her hand on the cart, confusion written plainly across her face.
“We’re leaving,” he said.
Just that.
No explanation. No softness. Just a low, gravel-edged grunt of a sentence, final as an order.
“Frank—?” Margaret blinked, startled. “What about the—”
But he was already moving.
Already halfway down the aisle before she could finish the sentence, his long strides eating up the distance, shoulders set, head forward, like if he didn’t keep moving he might stop—and if he stopped, he might look back.
And he couldn’t do that.
Not now.
Not after—
He didn’t hear Margaret call after him. Didn’t hear the squeak of the cart as she hurried to catch up. The grocery store blurred into nothing—aisles, people, lights—none of it registering.
His chest felt tight.
Too tight.
And the past—God, the past came back all at once.
Not gently. Not in fragments.
It hit him like impact.
The last time he’d seen you—standing on that platform, your hands cold in his, your eyes too bright, trying not to cry while he told you it would be quick, that he’d be back before you knew it, that you’d barely have time to miss him. He could still hear his own voice, younger, surer than it had any right to be.
“I’ll write,” he had said. “Every chance I get.”
And he had.
Jesus, he had.
Every week. Sometimes more, if the mail ran through faster than expected. Pages and pages in that cramped handwriting, ink smudged from rough handling, from weather, from hands that had seen too much and still took the time to hold a pen.
He told you everything. Not the worst of it—not the things that would haunt your sleep—but enough. Enough that you’d know he was still there. Still yours.
He waited.
For weeks.
Then months.
Nothing.
At first, he’d made excuses for you. Postal delays. Lost letters. Wrong addresses. It was a war zone, for Christ’s sake. Things went missing.
But the others—
The others noticed.
“You still writing to her?” one of them had asked once, a smirk tugging at his mouth as he lit a cigarette with shaking fingers. “Bit loyal for a girl back home, aren’t you?”
Frank hadn’t even looked up. “She writes back,” he said, flat, certain.
Except you didn’t.
Weeks turned into months. Months into a year.
The letters kept going out.
Nothing came back.
“You’re wasting your time, mate,” another had said, less mocking, more pitying. “Girls don’t sit around waiting forever.”
Frank hadn’t even looked up at first, hunched slightly over the makeshift table, pen still in his hand, the paper half-filled with your name written at the top like a ritual he refused to break.
“She does,” he said, voice flat, certain in a way that left no room for argument. “She’s waiting for me.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then laughter.
Not kind. Not even particularly loud. Just that low, knowing kind that spread from one man to the next like something contagious.
“Oh yeah?” one of them snorted, dragging on his cigarette. “Funny that. Everyone here gets letters from their girls. Every week, like clockwork.” He gestured lazily around the tent, where folded papers and envelopes sat tucked into pockets, into boots, into the small sacred spaces men carved out for themselves in chaos. “Everyone… except you.”
Another voice chimed in, sharper, crueler. “Maybe she’s busy.”
The first man shrugged, exhaling smoke slowly. “Oh, I don’t know. Living her life. Moving on.” His eyes flicked toward Frank, deliberate now. “Bouncing on someone else’s dick, maybe.”
That did it.
Frank moved before the thought had fully formed.
The chair scraped back hard against the ground, the pen clattering to the floor as he crossed the space in two strides, his fist connecting with the man’s jaw with a sharp, unforgiving crack. The sound cut through the tent like a gunshot.
Everything exploded at once.
Voices, movement, bodies.
The man staggered back, swearing, and Frank was already on him again, grabbing the front of his shirt, slamming him into the nearest support beam hard enough to rattle it. “You don’t talk about her,” he growled, voice low and lethal, every word edged with something far deeper than anger. “You don’t fucking talk about her like that.”
Someone grabbed his arm—he shook them off.
Another tried to pull him back—he drove his elbow into their ribs without even looking.
It took three men to drag him away, boots scraping against the ground as he fought them, not wildly, not blindly, but with a controlled, brutal efficiency that made it worse.
“Benson, stand down!” someone barked.
But he didn’t.
Not until his knuckles were split and bleeding. Not until the other man was on the ground, dazed and swearing. Not until the words stopped echoing quite so loudly in his head.
Then—only then—he stilled.
Chest heaving.
Jaw tight.
Eyes still burning with something that refused to die down.
They let him go slowly, cautiously, like he might snap again at any second.
“Bloody hell, Benson…” someone muttered under their breath.
Frank didn’t answer.
He bent down, picked up the crumpled letter from the floor, smoothed it out with rough, careful hands like it mattered more than anything else in the room.
Because it did.
He finished it that night.
Wrote until the ink bled through the page, until his hand cramped, until there was nothing left in his chest but exhaustion and the stubborn, unshakable certainty that you were still there.
Still his.
Still waiting.
He sealed it.
Sent it.
Waited.
Nothing came back.
And still—
He didn’t stop.
The fights came easier after that.
It didn’t take much. A comment. A look. A joke that went a fraction too far.
“You still writing to your ghost girl, Benson?”
“She’s not real, mate.”
“Or she found someone who is.”
Each time, the same result.
A swing. A shove. Blood on his knuckles, sometimes his lip, once his brow split open enough to need stitches. He didn’t care. It wasn’t about pride—not really. It was about something deeper. Something stubborn and immovable that refused to let anyone else rewrite what you had been to him.
What you still were.
But the doubt—
The doubt crept in anyway.
Quiet. Persistent.
Late at night, when the noise died down and the camp settled into that uneasy stillness, it would find him. Slip under his skin. Sit heavy in his chest.
What if it’s true?
What if she stopped waiting?
What if you’d written back—and the letters never reached him?
Or worse—
What if you hadn’t?
He’d lie there, staring up at nothing, jaw clenched so tight it ached, replaying every moment he had of you like evidence in a case he refused to lose.
The way you used to look at him.
The way your fingers fit between his.
The way you’d laughed when he told you, half-serious, half-dreaming, “When I get back, we’re not wasting time. We’re getting married. Properly. None of this waiting around.”
You had smiled—soft, certain. “With a big house,” you added, nudging his shoulder. “And a garden.”
“With a dog,” he said.
“A big one,” you insisted.
“Bloody hell, of course it’s big.”
“And a swing,” you added, almost shyly. “In the backyard. I’ve always wanted one.”
He remembered the way you looked when you said it.
Like it wasn’t just a detail.
Like it was a future.
And he had taken your face in his hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks, his voice dropping into that low, steady promise he didn’t make lightly.
“Then you’ll have it,” he said. “All of it. House, dog, swing—whatever you want. I’ll give it to you.”
You’d laughed softly. “You can’t promise that.”
“I can,” he said, firm. “I will.”
And later—
Much later—
When you were tangled up together, breath warm and uneven, your legs hooked around his waist as he moved slow and deep inside you, he had pressed his forehead to yours and muttered, rough and certain, “You’re it for me. You hear me? I’m not coming back for anything else.”
You had kissed him then, soft but sure. “Then you better come back.”
“I will,” he said.
He had believed it.
God, he had believed it.
So even when the letters stopped—never started—he held onto that version of you. The one who had looked at him like he was already home.
But his mother’s letters came.
Regular. Neat. Practical.
Updates about the house. About neighbors. About things that didn’t matter.
He wrote back, asking about you.
Every time.
Did she stop by? Did she say anything? Is she alright?
The answers were always the same.
Brief.
Dismissive.
She’s fine.
Or—
I don’t keep track of that girl.
Once, when he pushed harder, wrote your name three times in the same letter like it might force the answer out—
The reply came colder.
You should focus on your duties. Not distractions.
That was it.
No mention of you.
Not even your name.
He knew she never liked you. Knew she thought you were too headstrong, too opinionated, not the kind of woman she’d imagined for her son.
But he hadn’t stopped.
Not even then.
The next letter had been different.
Not measured. Not composed. Not the steady, disciplined tone he’d forced himself into for months.
It had been messy.
Ink pressed too hard into the page, words crowded together like they were fighting for space, for urgency, for breath.
Did you hear from her?
Mother, I need you to answer me properly this time.
Have you seen her? Has she asked about me?
Please—just tell her I’m trying to reach her. Tell her I’m writing. Tell her I—
He had stopped there, pen hovering.
Then finished it anyway.
Tell her I want to talk to her. That I haven’t stopped.
It wasn’t like him.
Begging.
But he had sealed it anyway, jaw tight, something restless under his skin that refused to settle.
He sent it.
And for the first time—
He didn’t feel certain.
Days passed.
Too many.
By the time the reply came, the envelope already looked wrong in his hands. Thinner. Lighter. Like it carried less than it should have.
He opened it anyway.
Read it once.
Then again. Slower.
As if reading it carefully might change the words.
It didn’t.
She is engaged.
The sentence sat there, plain. Unadorned. Clinical.
To an Italian man. His family is well established. She will be moving with him in two months to attend university abroad.
No explanation. No softness.
Nothing about your name.
Nothing about you.
Just facts.
Information.
Final.
Frank didn’t move for a long time.
Didn’t react.
Didn’t breathe properly.
He just stood there, the paper held loosely in his hand, eyes fixed on the words like they might rearrange themselves if he stared hard enough.
Engaged.
The word didn’t fit.
Didn’t belong to you.
Didn’t belong to anything he had built in his head, in his chest, in those long nights where you were the only thing that made sense.
He read it again.
Italian. University. Two months. Moving. Gone.
His grip tightened.
The paper crumpled slightly at the edges.
“No,” he said quietly.
Not loud. Not angry.
Just—
Flat.
Like the word had been pulled out of him without permission.
No.
Because that wasn’t how it went.
That wasn’t what you said.
That wasn’t the plan.
That wasn’t—
His jaw clenched.
Hard enough to ache.
The letter shook once in his hand before he stilled it, forcing his fingers to stop, forcing his breathing to slow, to even out, to return to something controlled.
Measured.
Like it had to be.
Because if he didn’t—
If he didn’t—
His eyes dropped to the page again.
And this time, something colder settled in.
Not panic. Not confusion.
Something sharper. Something that cut cleaner.
Of course.
Of course you did.
Time passed.
You moved on.
Found someone else.
Someone who wasn’t half a world away.
Someone who could actually be there.
His thumb dragged once across the crease in the paper, flattening it unnecessarily.
She’s fine.
That’s what his mother had said before.
And now—
Engaged.
Ready to leave.
Ready to build a life that had nothing to do with him.
Frank exhaled slowly through his nose.
And just like that—
Something shut.
Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
Just a quiet, internal click.
A door closing somewhere deep and permanent.
He folded the letter carefully.
Too carefully.
Smoothed it out.
Put it away.
And after that—
He stopped writing.
The present hit him like a collision.
Sharp. Immediate.
His elbow knocked against something—metal, plastic, he didn’t register—and he turned instinctively, breath already too tight in his chest.
Margaret.
Standing there, eyes narrowed, her grip firm on the cart handle, confusion already hardening into irritation.
“Frank, what the hell was that?” she demanded, her voice low but edged. “Who was that woman?”
He didn’t answer.
Didn’t even look at her properly.
His gaze slid past her, unfocused, distant, like he was still somewhere else entirely.
“Frank.”
Sharper now.
He blinked once, like surfacing, his jaw tightening as he dragged himself back into the present by sheer force.
“It’s nothing,” he said, voice rough, clipped.
Margaret stared at him. “That didn’t look like nothing.”
“It is,” he repeated, already pulling away, already disengaging. “Just—someone I knew. A long time ago.”
“That’s it?” she pressed, incredulous. “You grab her in the middle of a store like that and it’s nothing?”
His shoulders stiffened.
“I said it’s nothing,” he snapped, not raising his voice, but hard enough that it landed.
A beat.
Margaret’s expression shifted—not backing down, but recalculating.
“What’s going on?” she asked again, quieter now, but more insistent.
Frank didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because the words were there—
She said she never got them.
—and they wouldn’t sit still.
Wouldn’t line up with what he knew.
With what he had believed for thirty years.
He ran a hand over his face, slow, rough, like he was trying to physically reset himself.
“Pay for the groceries,” he said suddenly.
Margaret blinked. “What?”
“Pay for them,” he repeated, already stepping back, already disengaging. “I’ll be in the car.”
“Frank—”
But he was already turning away.
Already walking.
Didn’t wait for her to agree. Didn’t wait for her to argue.
Just left.
________
The parking lot hit him with a rush of heat and noise and open space that didn’t help.
Didn’t fix anything.
He reached the car, yanked the door open harder than necessary, and slid into the driver’s seat, slamming it shut behind him with a sharp, final crack.
Silence.
Except it wasn’t silent.
His breathing was too loud.
Too uneven.
Frank leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, one hand dragging down his face again as he forced air into his lungs.
“In. Out,” he muttered under his breath, like a command. “Get a grip.”
But it didn’t settle.
Because your voice—
I didn’t get anything.
It replayed.
Again.
And again.
Clear.
Immediate.
Not defensive. Not evasive.
Confused.
Real.
His jaw tightened.
“No,” he said quietly, shaking his head once.
You must be lying.
You had to be.
Because the alternative—
The alternative didn’t make sense.
Didn’t hold.
Didn’t fit with everything he had lived with for decades.
“You didn’t write back,” he murmured, more to himself now, staring at nothing. “You didn’t—”
But you had looked at him.
Not guilty. Not caught.
Lost.
Like the question had blindsided you.
His fingers curled slowly against his thigh.
What if you hadn’t?
The thought landed differently.
Heavier. More dangerous.
What if the letters never reached you?
His breath caught.
Just for a second.
And then—
His stomach dropped.
Because that meant—
That meant—
“Christ,” he whispered, the word slipping out before he could stop it.
His hand moved, almost instinctively, reaching for something that wasn’t there—an old habit, an old reflex.
His hand hovered near the ignition, fingers curled slightly, the instinct to move—act—go—so deeply ingrained it almost overrode everything else. His mother. The thought came sharp and immediate now, cutting through the noise in his head with something that felt dangerously close to urgency. If there was anyone who knew—anyone who might have interfered, redirected, decided things for him without his consent—it was her.
She is engaged.
The sentence echoed again, colder now. Cleaner. Suspicious in a way it hadn’t been before.
Frank’s jaw tightened.
He needed to hear it from her.
Needed to look her in the eye—whatever version of her remained—and ask the question plainly. Did you tell me the truth? Did you keep something from me?
His fingers twitched, finally brushing the key.
Then he stopped.
The motion cut short so abruptly it felt like hitting a wall.
Margaret.
Still inside.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, leaning back against the seat, his head tipping just slightly as he stared up at nothing, eyes unfocused but sharp underneath. “Christ,” he muttered, the word rough, dragged out of him more in frustration than anything else.
He couldn’t just leave.
Not like this.
Not after that.
Not without—
What?
An explanation?
His mouth pressed into a thin line.
What the hell would he even say?
That woman is my first love. Haven’t seen her in thirty years. Thought she abandoned me during the war, and now she’s telling me she never got my letters.
The thought alone made something twist in his chest—tight, uncomfortable, impossible to articulate without sounding like he’d lost his mind.
“No,” he said under his breath, sharper now, dismissive. “Absolutely not.”
Margaret wasn’t a fool. She’d seen the way he’d looked at you. The way he’d grabbed you. The way the air had shifted the moment your name—his name—had landed between you.
She’d ask questions.
Relentless ones.
And he—he didn’t have answers. Not yet.
Frank dragged a hand down his face again, slower this time, his palm lingering over his mouth as he exhaled through it, steadying himself by force. Think. Just—think.
He needed something simple.
Contained.
Controlled.
“She’s just someone I knew,” he murmured, testing it under his breath, his voice low, measured. It sounded flat. Unconvincing. Even to him.
His jaw shifted.
“Someone from before,” he tried again, quieter. “Didn’t expect to see her.”
Better.
Not a lie.
Not the truth either.
But enough.
His eyes flicked toward the store entrance, watching people come and go in that slow, meaningless rhythm that suddenly felt unbearable. He could already picture Margaret walking out, her expression set, her questions lined up and ready.
“What was that about, Frank?”
“You’ve never mentioned her.”
“You grabbed her like you knew her.”
He exhaled sharply through his nose.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see her again,” he muttered, rehearsing, his tone rough but steadier now. “Caught me off guard.”
That would hold.
It had to.
Because the truth—
The truth would unravel everything.
Not just the past.
Now.
And Frank Benson did not unravel. He didn’t indulge in things he couldn’t control, didn’t open doors he couldn’t close again.
Except—
His gaze dropped briefly to his hands, resting heavy against his thighs, the knuckles faintly scarred, older marks layered over older memories.
Except that door was already open.
You never got them.
His fingers curled slightly.
If that was true—
If even a fraction of that was true—
Then thirty years of certainty had just shifted under his feet.
And that he couldn’t ignore.
He leaned back fully now, shoulders settling against the seat, his breathing finally evening out into something quieter, more controlled. The soldier reasserting itself. Containment. Compartmentalization. One problem at a time.
Margaret first.
Then—
His mother.
A flicker of something sharper crossed his face.
Ninety-two years old.
Half her memory gone on most days, slipping in and out of clarity like it came and went at its own convenience. Some days she knew him immediately. Others, she looked at him like he was just another visitor passing through.
“Perfect timing,” he muttered dryly, a humorless edge in his voice.
But even so—
Even like that—
He needed to try.
Because if she remembered anything—anything at all—it would be there. In the details she never thought mattered. In the tone. In the omission.
In what she chose not to say.
Frank’s eyes lifted again, fixing on the store entrance just as the automatic doors slid open and Margaret appeared, pushing the cart with brisk, purposeful steps, her expression already set in a way he knew too well.
There it was.
He straightened slightly, rolling his shoulders back, the last remnants of tension folding inward, buried where they belonged. By the time she reached the car, his face was composed again—controlled, neutral, unreadable except for the faint tightness around his eyes that never quite left.
Margaret stopped beside the passenger door but didn’t open it immediately. She just looked at him through the glass, brows drawn together, waiting.
Frank met her gaze without flinching.
A beat.
Then she opened the door and slid into the seat, shutting it a little harder than necessary. The silence that followed was thick, stretched tight between them.
“Well?” she said finally, turning toward him.
Straight to it.
Of course.
Frank rested one hand on the steering wheel, the other on his thigh, his posture steady, grounded. “She’s someone I knew,” he said, voice even, exactly as he’d practiced. “A long time ago.”
Margaret’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That much was obvious.”
He ignored the edge.
“Didn’t expect to see her,” he added, gaze fixed forward now. “Caught me off guard.”
Another beat.
Margaret studied him, searching for something beneath the surface, something he refused to give her.
“You grabbed her, Frank,” she said, quieter now, but no less sharp. “In the middle of a store. That’s not ‘caught off guard.’ That’s—something else.”
His jaw tightened, just slightly.
He didn’t look at her.
“It won’t happen again,” he said, final, like that closed the matter.
Margaret let out a short breath through her nose, leaning back in her seat, arms crossing loosely over her chest. Not satisfied. Not convinced. But choosing not to push further.
“Fine,” she said after a moment, though it didn’t sound like agreement.
Silence settled again.
Frank turned the key.
The engine came to life with a low hum.
And as he pulled out of the parking space, his gaze flicked—just once—toward the store entrance.
Then he looked forward again.
Mind already somewhere else entirely.
_____________
The silence in the car didn’t break all at once. It thinned, gradually, like tension easing out of a room by degrees rather than disappearing entirely. The engine’s low hum filled the space between them, steady and mechanical, something predictable to anchor to.
Frank kept his eyes on the road.
Hands firm on the wheel.
Measured.
Controlled.
But the tightness in his jaw lingered, the kind that didn’t come from anger anymore—just… something unresolved, pressing quietly at the edges.
A few minutes passed before he moved.
Subtle.
Almost absentminded.
His right hand slipped from the steering wheel, crossing the narrow space between them, and came to rest on Margaret’s thigh. Not abrupt. Not demanding. Just there—warm, heavy, familiar.
Margaret glanced down at it, then at him.
He didn’t look at her.
“I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that,” he said after a moment, voice low, even, but stripped of its earlier edge. Not defensive. Not dismissive. Just… stated.
Margaret’s fingers tightened slightly around the paper grocery bag she held against her chest, the top crinkling softly under the pressure. She studied his profile for a second—the set of his mouth, the faint tension still lingering around his eyes.
“No,” she said quietly. “You shouldn’t have.”
A beat.
Then, softer—less pointed, more reflective—“You don’t.”
He huffed a quiet breath through his nose, something close to acknowledgment. “I know.”
His thumb began to move—slow, absent strokes against her thigh, back and forth in a steady rhythm that wasn’t quite affectionate and wasn’t quite unconscious either. Just… something he did. Something grounding.
Margaret didn’t pull away.
Didn’t lean in, either.
She simply allowed it, her shoulders settling back against the seat as she adjusted the grocery bag slightly in her arms.
“You’ve never snapped at me like that,” she added after a moment, her tone not accusing now—just… noting it. Filing it away.
Frank’s grip on the wheel shifted slightly.
“I said I’m sorry,” he replied, quieter this time.
And that was enough.
It always was.
Margaret exhaled softly, tension leaving her shoulders in a way that spoke more of habit than resolution. “Alright,” she said, just as quietly.
The light ahead turned red.
Frank slowed the car smoothly, bringing it to a stop with practiced ease. The world outside paused with them—other cars idling, engines humming, the faint flicker of the pedestrian signal counting down seconds no one paid attention to.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Frank shifted.
His hand slid from her thigh, only to come back up, resting briefly against her arm as he leaned slightly toward her. It wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t hesitant either. Just deliberate in that quiet, controlled way that defined everything he did.
He pressed a brief kiss to her shoulder.
No words.
Just contact.
Warm. Solid. Apologetic in a way he didn’t verbalize further.
Margaret stilled for a second under the touch, then relaxed into it, her head tilting just slightly in acceptance. She didn’t turn to him. Didn’t make a show of it.
She never did.
“That’s alright,” she murmured, almost reflexively, her voice soft, smoothing the edges of the moment without needing to examine them too closely.
Frank pulled back, settling into his seat again as the light flicked green. His hand returned to the wheel. His posture reset.
Like it had been handled.
Closed.
Margaret adjusted the grocery bag again in her lap, fingers smoothing over the paper where it had creased. Her gaze drifted forward, unfocused, her expression calm in that familiar, practiced way.
She had always been like that.
Soft where he was hard.
Yielding where he was rigid.
It worked.
It always had.
His mother had said so.
Perfect, she’d called her.
Perfect for you.
Frank’s jaw shifted slightly as the memory surfaced—not sharply, not painfully, just… there, threaded through the present like something that had always belonged.
London.
The move had been abrupt. Necessary. Clean.
A fresh start, his mother had called it.
New city. New routines. New people.
She’d taken to it immediately—of course she had. She always did. Within weeks she had acquaintances, then friends, then something closer to a network, all of them orbiting her with that effortless social ease Frank had never quite understood.
And then—
Margaret.
“She’s a lovely girl,” his mother had said one afternoon, her tone light but purposeful as she poured tea like she was arranging something far more important. “Very well-mannered. Quiet. Knows how to listen.”
Frank hadn’t looked up from the paper at first. “Sounds riveting.”
His mother had ignored the remark entirely.
“She was helping Mrs. Langley with her shopping last week. Didn’t have to, mind you. Just offered. That tells you something about a person.”
Frank had turned a page. “It tells me she has too much free time.”
His mother’s lips had pressed together, but there had been no irritation in it. Just patience.
“You should meet her properly,” she’d said.
“I’m sure I’ll survive without the experience.”
“You will meet her,” she corrected gently, setting the cup down in front of him with quiet finality. “She’s coming for dinner on Sunday.”
Frank had looked up then, finally, one brow lifting slightly. “You’ve already invited her.”
“Of course I have.”
A beat.
“And you’ll be polite,” she added, just as calmly.
He had exhaled slowly through his nose, folding the paper with deliberate care before setting it aside. “I’m always polite.”
His mother had given him a look.
The kind that said she knew better.
Sunday had come.
And Margaret—
Margaret had been exactly as described.
Soft-spoken. Composed. Attentive in a way that didn’t demand anything in return. She listened more than she spoke, smiled at the right moments, carried herself with a quiet ease that didn’t clash with his.
Didn’t challenge.
Didn’t push.
It had been…
Easy.
No friction.
No sharp edges.
No—
Complications.
His mother had noticed, of course.
“You see?” she’d said afterward, satisfaction threading through her voice as she cleared the table. “A good girl.”
Frank hadn’t argued.
There had been nothing to argue with.
Margaret fit.
Into his life. Into the spaces that needed filling.
And over time—
That had been enough.
The car moved steadily through the streets now, the rhythm of traffic smoothing everything into something manageable, something routine. Margaret sat beside him, quiet, composed, her presence familiar and unintrusive.
Margaret shifted beside him, adjusting the bag again, the paper crinkling softly in the quiet. “We’ll need to stop by the pharmacy later,” she said, almost absently. “I’m running low on—”
“I’m going to see my mother,” Frank said, cutting in, his tone even, almost casual.
Margaret paused mid-sentence, turning her head slightly toward him. “Now?”
He nodded once, eyes still on the road. “Nursing home called while you were inside,” he added, the lie slipping out smooth, unforced, like it had already been rehearsed. “Said she wanted to see me.”
Margaret’s brows drew together immediately. “Is she alright?”
Frank gave a small shrug, one shoulder lifting, controlled. “They didn’t sound concerned,” he said. “You know how she is.” A faint, dry edge touched his voice. “Probably just wants to gossip. Complain about something. It’s been a while since I went.”
That much, at least, was true.
Margaret studied him for a second, her gaze lingering, searching—not suspicious, exactly, but attentive in that quiet way she had. “You should’ve told me,” she said. “I would’ve come out sooner.”
“It’s not urgent,” he replied, steady. “Would’ve told you either way.”
A beat.
Then she nodded slightly, accepting that at face value, though the crease between her brows didn’t fully smooth. “Alright,” she said. “We can go after we drop the groceries off.”
Frank’s grip on the wheel shifted again—subtle, but there.
“That won’t be necessary.”
Margaret blinked. “What?”
“I’ll drop you at home,” he said, tone still calm, still measured. “Then I’ll go.”
She turned more fully toward him now, confusion sharpening just slightly. “Frank, I can come with you.”
“No,” he said.
It wasn’t loud.
Wasn’t harsh.
But it was immediate.
Firm.
Final in a way that made her pause.
A small silence settled between them.
Margaret’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, not in anger, but in recalculation. “Why not?” she asked, quieter now.
Frank exhaled slowly through his nose, his jaw shifting once before he answered. “I want a moment with her,” he said. “On my own.”
Margaret held his gaze this time, studying him properly. “You can have that even if I’m there.”
“I know,” he replied. “But I don’t want to.”
Simple.
Unadorned.
Not unkind—but not negotiable either.
Another beat stretched out.
Margaret’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the grocery bag, the paper bending under the pressure. “She’s my mother-in-law too, Frank,” she said, her tone still controlled, but carrying a quiet insistence.
He nodded once. “And you can see her later.”
Margaret’s gaze flickered over his face again, searching for something—an explanation, a crack, anything that would give her more than what he was offering.
There wasn’t one.
Frank Benson did not leave openings when he didn’t intend to.
“You’re being strange,” she said finally.
A faint, humorless breath slipped out of him. “I’ve had a strange day.”
That, at least, wasn’t a lie.
She watched him for another second, then leaned back slowly into her seat, her arms crossing loosely again—not defensive, just… contained.
“Fine,” she said, though it carried that same note as before—not agreement, but temporary surrender. “But I’ll go tomorrow.”
Frank inclined his head slightly. “Of course.”
Silence followed.
Not tense.
Not entirely.
Just… heavier than before.
The car turned into their street, the familiar rhythm of the neighborhood settling around them—houses lined neatly, gardens kept in varying degrees of care, the quiet, predictable order of a life built carefully over time.
Frank pulled into the driveway, the engine idling for a second before he turned it off. The sudden absence of sound made the space inside the car feel smaller.
Margaret reached for the door handle, then paused, glancing at him again.
“You’ll tell me if something’s wrong,” she said, not quite a question.
Frank met her gaze briefly.
Steady.
Controlled.
“There’s nothing wrong,” he said.
The lie was softer this time.
Quieter.
Margaret held his eyes for a second longer, then gave a small nod, like she was choosing—actively choosing—not to push any further.
“Alright,” she murmured.
She stepped out of the car, the door closing with a muted thud, and for a moment, Frank just sat there, hands resting loosely on the wheel, staring ahead at nothing.
Then he moved.
Out of the car. Around to the trunk. He pulled the grocery bags out with efficient, practiced motions, carrying them up to the door where Margaret had already stepped inside.
He followed just far enough to set them down in the kitchen.
Not further.
Margaret turned slightly toward him as he did, watching, waiting—but he didn’t linger.
“I won’t be long,” he said, already stepping back.
She opened her mouth—maybe to say something, maybe to stop him—but then closed it again, just giving a small nod instead.
Author's Notes: I remember I abandoned this draft at the time because I thought it was kind of ridiculous—honestly, I still do.
Warnings: Angst
It had been almost two years since the accident.
Two years since everything had narrowed—shrunk—from a life that had once been loud and warm and unpredictable into something quieter, smaller, defined by routine and dependence and the slow passage of hours you could no longer fill on your own.
Two years since your body had stopped listening to you.
You lay in bed now, eyes fixed on the ceiling, tracing the faint cracks in the paint like constellations you had long since memorized. The afternoon light filtered weakly through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room—familiar, unmoving.
Downstairs, you could hear voices.
Frank’s voice, unmistakable—low, steady, that gravelly baritone that used to anchor you, ground you, pull you out of your own head.
And another voice.
Lighter.
Feminine.
The new maid.
You hadn’t met her properly yet. You’d seen her once, briefly, from the hallway mirror as Frank had introduced her in that clipped, efficient way of his—like he was briefing a subordinate rather than welcoming someone into his home.
But now…
Now he was talking.
And laughing.
You swallowed.
“…No, no, that’s not how you do it,” Frank was saying, his tone softened in a way that made something twist uncomfortably in your chest. “You’ve got to hold the pan steady—here, like this—”
A pause.
Then her voice, bright, amused: “Like this?”
“Mm. Better,” he replied. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
Another pause.
Then—
“You’re very patient, sir.”
A quiet huff of a laugh from him. “I wasn’t always.”
“Oh, I don’t believe that,” she teased lightly. “You seem like the type who’s always in control.”
Frank hummed—low, thoughtful. “Careful. That sounds like flattery.”
“Is it working?”
There was a beat.
And then—
“…I’ll let you know.”
Your stomach dropped.
It wasn’t even what he said.
It was how he said it.
That slight shift in his tone. That faint, almost playful edge you hadn’t heard in so long—not directed at you, not in months, maybe longer.
You turned your head slightly on the pillow, staring toward the open bedroom door as if you could somehow see through the walls, down the stairs, into the kitchen where he stood.
Where he was standing with her.
Teaching her. Laughing with her.
Flirting.
Blatantly.
You closed your eyes.
It shouldn’t have surprised you.
It shouldn’t have hurt like this.
Frank was still… Frank.
Alive. Strong. Capable.
A man who filled a room just by standing in it—broad shoulders, that slight softness around his middle, the quiet authority in the way he moved, the way he spoke. White hair catching the light, hazel eyes always watching, always assessing.
A man who had needs.
A man who had spent the last two years—
Taking care of you.
Feeding you. Bathing you. Dressing you. Turning you in bed when your body began to ache from being still too long. Sitting beside you in the evenings, reading the news out loud like nothing had changed.
Like you hadn’t.
Like you weren’t…
This.
You inhaled slowly, but it caught halfway.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
You were supposed to grow old together.
Walks. Arguments over nothing. Quiet mornings with coffee. His hand at the small of your back, steady and warm.
Not—
This bed.
This room.
This stillness.
Downstairs, the laughter came again.
Softer this time.
Closer.
Your throat tightened.
“How long…?” you whispered to no one, your voice barely audible even to yourself.
How long until he got tired?
How long until patience turned into obligation… and obligation into resentment?
How long until he realized that loving you like this wasn’t living—it was… enduring?
You squeezed your eyes shut, the words forming before you could stop them.
“—How long until he finds someone easier?”
The thought landed heavy in your chest, sinking deep, settling somewhere you couldn’t reach to pull it out again.
Downstairs, you heard footsteps.
Then his voice again, clearer now, closer to the base of the stairs.
“That’s fine, you can leave the rest for tomorrow,” Frank was saying. “No need to stay late.”
“Oh—are you sure?”
“I’m sure.”
A small pause.
Then, softer, her voice again: “Your wife… does she need anything before I go?”
Silence.
It stretched just a second too long.
Your breath hitched.
Then Frank spoke.
“…I’ll take care of her.”
The words were simple.
Measured.
Controlled.
And somehow—
They hurt more than anything else.
Not “she’s fine.”
Not your name.
Not anything that sounded like you.
Just—
I’ll take care of her.
Like a duty.
Like a responsibility.
Like something he had accepted… and could not put down.
You turned your head away from the door, blinking hard at the blur creeping into your vision.
“Of course you will,” you murmured bitterly, your voice trembling despite your effort to steady it. “That’s what you do, isn’t it, Frank?”
A door opened.
Closed.
Silence.
Then—
Footsteps on the stairs.
Slow.
Heavy.
Familiar.
Each one echoing louder in your chest than it should have.
You stared at the wall, willing your face to settle, your breathing to even out, the tightness in your throat to disappear before he reached the top step.
The door was open.
It always was now.
Frank never closed it anymore—not fully. Not since the accident. He said it was so he could hear you if you needed him, if you called, if something happened in the long stretches of silence that filled your days.
You hated it.
You hated what it meant.
The quiet, constant reminder that you could not even close a door for yourself. That privacy, once effortless, had become something he managed for you. That even your solitude was… supervised.
And worse—
You hated that it was kindness.
That it was care.
That it was him.
Because before—before all of this—there had been distance. Coldness. Rooms closed on purpose, words left unsaid, a marriage that had been slowly eroding under the weight of pride and silence and two people who had forgotten how to reach for each other.
You had thought about leaving.
God, you had planned it.
Quietly. Carefully. Waiting for the right moment, the right conversation, the right version of yourself that would finally say it out loud.
And then—
The accident.
The hospital.
The sterile smell, the white lights, the way everything had dissolved into pain and then—
Nothing.
And then the word.
Quadriplegia.
A word that had swallowed everything whole.
Including whatever version of your marriage had existed before.
Including your plans. Including your life.
Because Frank had stayed.
He hadn’t hesitated.
Hadn’t flinched.
Hadn’t walked away like—like anyone would have understood if he had.
Instead, he had stepped closer.
And he had never stepped back again.
The sound of his footsteps reached the top of the stairs.
Your breathing steadied—forced, controlled—as you stared at the wall, willing your face into something neutral. Something unreadable.
The footsteps paused just outside the door.
Then—
He stepped in.
There was always a shift when he entered a room.
Not loud. Not dramatic.
But present.
Solid.
You felt it before you even looked at him.
Felt him.
And then his voice—
Low, warm, that familiar baritone softened at the edges in a way it never used to be.
“You’re awake.”
You didn’t answer.
A small pause.
Then, closer—
“Why didn’t you call me?”
There was no accusation in it. No irritation.
Just… quiet concern.
You swallowed, keeping your eyes fixed ahead.
“I didn’t feel like it.”
Another pause.
He didn’t push.
Of course he didn’t.
The mattress dipped beside you as he sat down, his weight familiar, grounding in a way that made your chest tighten all over again.
“Mm,” he hummed softly, as if accepting that answer without question.
You felt his hand before you saw it.
Warm.
Careful.
His fingers brushing lightly against the shell of your ear—slow, deliberate, knowing exactly where to touch.
One of the only places you still felt.
The sensation bloomed gently, unwanted and overwhelming all at once, and you stiffened, your breath catching.
He noticed.
He always noticed.
“What would you like to eat?” he asked quietly, his thumb grazing just behind your ear now, soothing, patient. “Elise made sandwiches before she left. I can warm them, if you prefer.”
Elise.
The name landed sharp.
You made a small, irritated sound—barely more than a breath—and turned your face away from his hand as much as you could manage.
It wasn’t much.
But it was enough.
And instead of pulling away—
Enough for him to feel the rejection. Enough for him to understand.
Frank smiled.
You didn’t need to see it to know. You heard it in the faint exhale of breath, in the subtle shift of his voice when he leaned a little closer.
“Is that what I think it is?” he murmured, softer now, closer to your ear.
You said nothing.
His fingers returned, slower this time, more deliberate, brushing along that same sensitive edge, coaxing rather than insisting.
“Mm,” he hummed again, thoughtful. “I leave you alone for half an hour and you start sulking.”
“I’m not—” Your voice caught, thinner than you wanted. “I’m not sulking.”
“No?” he murmured, amused now—gently, not cruelly. Never cruelly. “Then what is this?”
His thumb traced just behind your ear again, slower, lingering, and you hated the way your body reacted—how that small spark of sensation grounded you, betrayed you.
You turned your face further away, jaw tightening.
“Nothing.”
A quiet beat.
Then—
“My jealous kitten,” he said softly.
The words were low, almost a whisper, wrapped in something warm and knowing and entirely too intimate.
Your stomach twisted.
“I’m not jealous,” you snapped, or tried to. It came out weaker than it should have, thinner, frayed at the edges.
Frank didn’t argue.
He rarely did anymore.
Instead, he leaned closer still, his breath warm near your temple, his voice dropping just enough to feel like it was meant only for you.
“No?” he murmured. “Not even a little?”
Silence.
You hated him.
You hated how easily he read you now.
How there was nowhere left to hide.
His hand stilled briefly against your ear, then softened again, slower now, almost indulgent.
“I was showing her how not to burn the kitchen down,” he added, casual, but deliberate. “You’d be very cross with me if I let her ruin your stove.”
You let out a quiet, shaky breath.
“That’s not—”
“Not what upset you?” he finished gently.
Another silence.
Longer this time.
He didn’t rush to fill it.
Didn’t pull away.
Just stayed there, close, steady, his presence wrapping around you in a way that made your chest ache.
“I heard you laughing,” you said finally, the words slipping out before you could stop them.
There it was.
Raw.
Small.
Embarrassingly honest.
Frank went very still beside you.
Not pulling away.
Not tensing.
Just… still.
Then, softer—
“Did you?”
You swallowed hard, staring at the wall.
“You don’t… laugh like that with me.”
The moment the words left your mouth, you wanted them back.
Wanted to swallow them down, bury them, pretend you hadn’t said anything at all.
But it was too late.
The silence that followed was different.
Heavier.
Not distant—
Focused.
Frank shifted slightly on the bed, and then his hand moved—not away, never away—but forward, cupping the side of your head as gently as if you might break.
He turned your face toward him.
Carefully.
Slowly.
Until you were forced to meet his eyes.
Hazel.
Steady.
Soft in a way they had never been before all of this.
“I laugh with you,” he said quietly.
You shook your head, a small, helpless motion.
“Not like that.”
His gaze didn’t waver.
“No,” he admitted after a moment. “Not like that.”
Your chest tightened.
Of course.
Of course he didn’t.
But then—
His thumb brushed lightly along your cheek.
“And do you know why?”
You didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
His voice dropped, lower now, rougher at the edges.
“Because with you, I’m not trying to be charming.”
Your breath caught.
“I’m not performing,” he continued, softer now. “I’m not… making an effort to be something.”
His thumb stilled against your skin.
“With you, I’m just—” He exhaled quietly. “—home.”
The word settled between you.
Heavy.
Fragile.
Dangerous.
Your vision blurred, and you blinked hard, your throat tightening painfully.
“That’s not fair,” you whispered.
Frank’s brow furrowed slightly. “What isn’t?”
“You get to be… everything,” you said, your voice trembling now despite your effort to steady it. “And I’m just—something you take care of.”
The words hung there.
Then—
Ugly. Sharp. True.
For a moment, Frank said nothing.
He hesitated.
It was subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone who didn’t know him as intimately as you did. But you saw it—the flicker in his hazel eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his breath stalled halfway in his chest.
He was going to say something.
You felt it.
The words hovered there, just behind his teeth, heavy and uncertain, like something fragile he didn’t quite know how to hold.
Your gaze sharpened on him.
“What?” you asked quietly.
Frank didn’t answer.
His eyes lingered on yours for a second too long—searching, conflicted—and then, just as quickly, he looked away.
Like he always did.
Like he had done more and more often since the accident.
Like there were things inside him now that he kept locked away—not out of distance, not out of indifference, but out of something far worse.
Fear.
Your chest tightened.
“No,” you said, sharper this time. “Don’t do that.”
His expression shifted, guarded now.
“Do what?”
“That,” you insisted, your voice trembling. “That thing where you look like you’re about to say something and then just—stop.”
He exhaled slowly, running a hand over the back of his neck.
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” you snapped, frustration bleeding through. “You’ve been doing it for months, Frank.”
Silence.
He didn’t deny it.
Your throat tightened.
“What is it?” you pressed, your voice softer now, more fragile. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Frank’s gaze flickered back to you.
For a moment—just a moment—you thought he might actually say it this time.
Whatever it was.
Whatever had been sitting between you, unspoken, growing heavier with each passing day.
His lips parted.
Then closed again.
And just like that—
The moment was gone.
He stood up.
Abrupt.
Decisive.
Like a man retreating from a battlefield he had no intention of fighting.
“Frank—”
Before you could finish, he leaned down and slipped one arm beneath your shoulders, the other under your knees, lifting you with a quiet grunt of effort.
Your breath caught—not from surprise, but from the sudden shift, the way he moved so efficiently, so deliberately, as if this were easier than speaking.
“Frank,” you tried again, more urgently now. “Don’t just—avoid it.”
He didn’t respond.
Didn’t even look at you.
Just carried you across the short distance to your wheelchair, his grip firm but careful, lowering you into it with practiced precision.
The familiar weightlessness followed by the dull awareness of your body settling into place.
Unmoving.
Unresponsive.
You hated it.
You hated how routine it had become.
He adjusted you automatically—hands steady, efficient—straightening your back, repositioning your shoulders.
“I’ll bring you something to eat,” he said, his voice back to that measured, even tone. Controlled. Professional. “You need to take your medication on a full stomach.”
“Frank.”
No answer.
He crouched slightly, adjusting your feet on the footrests, his large hands warm against your skin as he shifted them into a more comfortable position.
You stared down at him, your frustration building, sharp and helpless.
“Don’t do this,” you said, your voice cracking. “Don’t just walk away like—like it doesn’t matter.”
He stilled for half a second.
Just half.
Then continued adjusting the blanket draped over your legs, smoothing it down with quiet care.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about,” he said.
That was worse.
“So there is something,” you shot back.
Frank didn’t take the bait.
Of course he didn’t.
He never did.
Instead, he reached for the light sheet at the end of the bed, lifting it and carefully spreading it over your legs, covering them completely—shielding, protecting, hiding.
You hated that too.
Hated how he covered what you had lost.
Like if he couldn’t see it, maybe it wouldn’t hurt him as much.
As if it didn’t hurt you every second.
He finished adjusting the sheet, tucking it lightly at the sides.
Then—
Without warning—
He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to one of your knees.
Then the other.
Your breath hitched.
It wasn’t new.
He had started doing that months ago—quiet, unspoken, like a ritual he never explained.
But it still caught you off guard every time.
Still felt like something too intimate.
Too heavy.
Too loaded with meaning neither of you dared to unpack.
“Frank…” your voice softened, pleading now.
He didn’t look up.
Just lingered there for a moment longer, his hands resting lightly against your legs through the sheet.
Then he straightened.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.
And just like that—
He turned.
And walked away.
“Frank, wait—”
Too late.
He was already at the door.
You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening.
“Frank!”
He didn’t stop.
Didn’t even hesitate.
The sound of his footsteps moved into the hallway, then toward the stairs—heavy, steady, inevitable.
“Frank, please—just tell me!” Your voice broke now, frustration spilling over. “What are you not saying?!”
Nothing.
Just the sound of him descending the stairs.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Each one pulling him further away.
Your hands twitched uselessly in your lap, fingers curling against fabric you couldn’t even properly feel.
“God—damn it,” you breathed, the words shaking, uneven.
Frank entered the kitchen without looking back.
Your voice still echoed faintly from upstairs—sharp, breaking, calling his name in a way that used to pull him toward you without hesitation. Now it followed him like something else entirely. Not a call.
An accusation.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight, shoulders squared as if bracing against something physical.
“Don’t,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you. “Just—don’t.”
But you didn’t stop.
Of course you didn’t.
It was the only thing you could do now—raise your voice, push, demand, reach for answers with whatever little control the world had left you.
And God—
God, he deserved every second of it.
Frank moved with practiced efficiency, grabbing the plate Elise had left on the counter. Sandwiches. Neatly cut. Careful. Thoughtful.
He stared at them for a moment too long.
Then—
Without a word—
He picked up the plate and tipped it into the bin.
The soft thud of bread hitting plastic sounded louder than it should have.
He didn’t pause.
Didn’t think.
Just turned to the counter, already reaching for fresh ingredients—bread, knife, butter—his movements precise, controlled, automatic.
Anything to keep his hands busy.
Anything to keep his mind from—
“Frank!”
Your voice again.
Louder this time.
Cracking.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Stop,” he whispered, barely audible. “Please just—stop.”
But you didn’t.
Because you couldn’t.
And because you shouldn’t have to.
His grip tightened slightly on the knife as he spread butter across the bread, a little rougher than necessary, the motion repetitive, grounding.
Keep moving.
Keep doing.
Don’t think.
Don’t—
When are you going to tell her, Frank?
The thought came uninvited.
Cold.
Clear.
Cutting through everything.
His hand stilled.
Just for a second.
Then he forced it to move again, jaw tightening.
“Not now,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. “Not—”
That this is your fault?
The knife dragged too hard against the bread, tearing it slightly.
Frank inhaled sharply through his nose.
“…It wasn’t supposed to—”
That you left her like this?
He stopped.
The kitchen went very still around him.
Even your voice upstairs—distant now, muffled—seemed to fade behind the weight of it.
Frank’s hand lowered slowly, the knife resting against the counter.
His reflection stared back at him faintly from the darkened window—white hair, disheveled at the edges, hazel eyes too sharp, too tired, the lines around them deeper than they had any right to be.
He looked older.
Not in years.
In guilt.
In something heavier.
“When are you going to tell her?” he whispered, voice rough, the words barely forming properly. “When are you going to—”
His jaw clenched.
His hand came up, dragging roughly over his face.
“…God.”
The memory hit him the way it always did.
Not all at once.
Never all at once.
Just fragments.
You standing by the door, coat half-on, voice tight but controlled in that way you had when you were trying not to shake.
We need to talk, Frank.
The way your eyes wouldn’t quite meet his.
The way he already knew.
Divorce.
The word had settled between you before you even said it out loud.
And something in him—
Something quiet. Something cold.
Something that had spent years watching you drift further and further away—
Had snapped.
He hadn’t shouted. Hadn’t begged. Hadn’t even argued.
Frank Benson didn’t beg.
He calculated.
Always had. Always would.
The plan had come to him with terrifying clarity.
Quick.
Efficient.
Controlled.
Just enough. Just enough to stop you.
To make you stay.
To force time—more time—more time to fix things, to pull you back, to remind you of what you had, of what he could still be to you.
A broken rib.
A fractured leg.
Something temporary. Something survivable.
Something that would make leaving… impossible.
Just for a while.
Just long enough.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” he said aloud now, voice cracking slightly as his hands gripped the edge of the counter.
His reflection didn’t look convinced.
“You weren’t supposed to—”
Quadriplegia.
The word slammed into him, just as it had the first time.
Still just as brutal.
Still just as final.
Frank’s breath hitched.
“…Christ.”
His hands tightened, knuckles whitening against the wood.
“You weren’t supposed to be like this,” he repeated, quieter now, like saying it softer might somehow change it. “That wasn’t—”
That wasn’t the plan.
That wasn’t the outcome.
That wasn’t—
What he had meant to do to you.
A sharp, humorless breath left him.
“Just a few broken ribs,” he muttered bitterly. “Maybe a leg. Something manageable.”
Something fixable.
Something forgivable.
Not this.
Never this.
His head dropped slightly, shoulders heavy now, the weight of it pressing down in a way no battlefield, no decision, no order had ever managed to do.
“I didn’t mean—” His voice faltered. “I didn’t—”
He stopped.
Because what was the point?
Intent didn’t matter.
Outcome did.
And the outcome was upstairs.
Calling his name.
Begging for answers.
Trapped in a body that no longer listened.
Because of him.
Frank squeezed his eyes shut.
“I was going to lose you,” he said quietly, the words dragged out of him like something rotten. “You were already halfway out the door.”
The memory of it twisted in his chest.
The distance.
The silence.
The cold, careful politeness that had replaced whatever warmth had once lived between you.
You had already left him.
Just not physically.
Not yet.
“I couldn’t let that happen.”
The words came steadier now.
More certain.
More dangerous.
His eyes opened again, locking onto his reflection.
“I couldn’t.”
His voice dropped, low, firm, that same commanding baritone that had made impossible decisions sound inevitable.
“I had to keep you.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Because even now—
Even after everything—
Some part of him still believed that.
Still clung to it.
Still justified it.
Wasn’t everything fair in love and war?
Wasn’t it?
Frank let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair, the motion restless now, frayed at the edges.
“…I didn’t know,” he said, quieter, more uncertain. “I didn’t know it would go this far.”
But that didn’t absolve him.
Didn’t change anything.
Didn’t give you your body back.
Didn’t give you your life back.
Upstairs—
You called his name again.
Weaker this time.
Breaking.
His chest tightened painfully.
For a moment—
Just a moment—
He looked toward the doorway.
Like he might go back.
Like he might walk upstairs, sit in front of you, take your face in his hands and finally—
Finally say it.
Tell you everything.
Give you the truth you were begging for.
Let you hate him properly.
Let you leave him—
Even like this.
His jaw clenched.
The moment passed.
Frank turned back to the counter, picking up the knife again, his movements slower now, heavier.
“…Not yet,” he murmured.
Not yet.
He wasn’t ready.
He couldn’t—
Lose you.
Not completely.
Not like that.
“I’ll fix it,” he added under his breath, though there was no conviction left in it. “I’ll—make this right.”
The words sounded hollow even to him.
Because there was no fixing this.
No undoing it.
No version of reality where this became something clean.
Something acceptable.
Something—
Forgivable.
Upstairs, your voice faded into something softer.
Not shouting anymore. Not demanding.
Just—
Calling.
And that—
That was worse.
Frank swallowed hard, staring down at the sandwich in his hands like it might anchor him to something real, something simple, something that still made sense.
“…I’ll take care of you,” he said quietly, echoing the words from before.
I really like the idea of Snape being close to the Malfoys cause he’s friends with Narcissa instead of Lucius. I feel he’s a gal’s guy. I really don’t imagine him having male friends.
Rickmas 2025 Day 15 | A Promise | Karl Hoffmeister/Reader
Word Count: 2.6k
Content: smut
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
It was winter when you left, and winter when you returned.
You could almost convince yourself no time had passed at all. The town looked much the same, traders bartering and shoppers shopping. And, just outside of the town, the gates to the house you’d longed for stood tall and imposing as ever.
Nothing much had changed, and yet, everything had changed. You had gone through so much, sometimes only your dream of returning home keeping you alive, your sheer force of will and determination to see your husband again.
And now, you were here. Home. The garden still meticulously trimmed, the snow on the pathway shovelled aside to allow you to approach the house unimpeded.
You knocked on the door and waited. Your stomach was in knots. You had heard no news of Karl — only asked a passer-by in town whether he still lived there. Yes, you were told, and he was likely to be home — his health was declining, and he seldom ventured out anymore.
Did he grieve you? Did he remarry? Did he think you dead, or hold out hope for your return one day?
The questions you had asked yourself for too many years now were about to be answered, and you were terrified — of what, you were unsure. What would be worse: that Karl would have a new wife, or that he spent all this time mourning you?
The door was opened by a young man, handsome and well-dressed.
“May I help you?”
“Good afternoon. Is Herr Hoffmeister at home?”
“He is. He has no appointments, and he’s in poor health. Is he expecting you?”
“Nein, but he will want to see me. Please —” You shivered involuntarily against the cold air. “— I’ve come such a long way to see him.”
You gave the young man your name, and he showed no sign of recognising it, but he allowed you inside all the same, and led you into the drawing room to warm yourself by the fire while he went to speak to Karl.
The fire was welcome, but your attention was on the room itself. How strange, to be back here after so long. The details of your home had started to become faded memories, but now that you were here, it was all so familiar — and yet, it wasn’t. It was as if you had stepped into an image of your house, and not the home itself.
Your heart leapt when, all of a sudden, you heard your husband’s voice shouting down the hallway, getting louder as it came closer.
“This is outrageous! A humourless joke! What sort of bastard uses my dead wife’s name to —”
The door burst open, and Karl stormed in — and stopped in his tracks when he saw you.
He stared at you as if he had just seen a ghost — perhaps because, to his mind, he had.
“No, it… it can’t be,” Karl breathed.
He looked older, of course. He had put on weight, his hair greyed and thinned — but much of him was still the same. He still had the same moustache he’d stubbornly sported since the day you met, although it too had faded from the caramel brown it once was.
And he still had that imposing aura about him, his commanding presence filling the room.
“Hallo, Karl,” you said softly, trying not to startle him — your presence was a shock, you knew, and if he was unwell, you didn’t want to make things worse.
“You’re gone. I lost you. I mourned you. Every year, I lay a lily on your grave — how can you be here now?”
“An empty grave, Süßer. I was lost — trapped — but I found my way home.”
Karl shook his head, as if it would help his mind to process this new truth. His hand grasped at his chest, and you instinctively placed a hand on his arm to help him sit in the armchair by the fire. You knelt in front of him and took his hands in yours.
“The man told me you were in ill health. What’s wrong, Süßer?”
“I am old, that is what. My heart struggles, my lungs gasp — and now, I see ghosts.”
“I’m not a ghost, Karl.”
He looked at you, frowning like a man in need of his glasses, as if squinting would make reality clearer.
“I mourned you,” he said again.
“I know, Süßer. I mourned you too, when I began to believe I would never return. Have you… have you been alone? Who was the man?”
“Friedrich. My assistant. A good man. Invaluable to me. But, ah… Schatz, I must tell you…”
“Shh, Karl, it’s alright,” you said soothingly, rubbing his knee with one hand while the other stayed resolutely in his. “I see the photographs. I could not expect you to be alone for so long. She is very pretty. Is she kind to you?”
Karl nodded and exhaled deeply as he sat back in the armchair, his eyes closed, his heart still pounding.
“Yes… yes, she is very kind. Very good to me. Forgive me, Liebling — could you call for Freidrich? He has the medicine to calm my heart.”
“Of course.”
You stood and found Friedrich waiting in the hall, and he promised to bring Karl’s medicine.
“If he is struggling, you should encourage him to rest in bed,” Freidrich said quietly. “It does him better to lie down than to sit.”
“Are you a doctor too?”
Friedrich chuckled. “No, but an assistant must have many tricks. I shall fetch the medicine.”
You returned to Karl, who was still sat in the armchair, his hand rubbing at his chest. He looked up at you with relief, as if he had worried you had been an apparition.
“Friedrich says you should be in bed.”
“Friedrich is not my doctor,” Karl grumbled.
“I agree with him.”
“You are not my doctor either.”
“Am I not your wife?”
Karl hesitated — were you?
Yes.
He knew the answer immediately. Of course you were his wife. What trouble that might cause with Lotte was another matter — something to be thought of later. For now, Karl could think of little more than the pain in his chest, the shock of his dead wife appearing in his drawing room. His wife who was helping him to his feet, who he leaned on for support as you helped him up the stairs towards the bedroom.
“The same room? Or have you moved?”
“The same,” Karl grunted. “I like that room. Facing north — less sun.”
He sank onto the bed, and you moved so naturally to fluff his pillows and ensure he was comfortable, it was easy to think you had done this every day for years.
“Where is your wife?” you asked, trying to sound as casual as you could.
“Lotte is in town with Otto,” Karl grunted as he adjusted his position on the bed.
“Otto?”
“Our son.”
You hesitated then. A son. They had a son. You and Karl had tried for years for a child, to no avail… and now he had a pretty wife who had given him a son.
Friedrich entered then with the medicine, and you helped Karl to prop his head up on the pillows as he took it. You sat beside him on the bed, and when Karl was done with the medicine, he rested his head again, not on the pillow, but on your lap.
You stroked his hair gently as he closed his eyes. Both of you knew there was an elephant in the room — what would happen now? Who, by law, was his wife? Who did he want to be his wife? — but you were too relieved to have found each other again to worry about that. You closed your eyes too and, after far too long, you finally dozed off in your husband’s embrace.
To your relief, Lotte was kind. Her immediate concern wasn’t that you were encroaching on her marriage, but that you’d suffered a long torment, isolated away from your home and your family, unable to return for so long that you had been presumed dead.
Out of mutual respect, you both agreed to sleep in separate rooms, as neither of you felt comfortable asking the other not to sleep next to Karl, nor did you want to ask Karl to choose. The house had many bedrooms, as you and Karl had hoped to have a large family, but that wasn’t to be — instead, two of the three guest bedrooms became occupied, and everybody in the house slept separately.
The atmosphere in the house was quiet. Although occasionally boisterous, Otto was mostly well-behaved; Karl occasionally raised his voice, but was usually punished for it with a coughing fit.
At night you had dreams, and they were never pleasant. At first, you would wake only in a cold sweat, shaking, your heart racing in panic until you remembered where you were. But, one night, you woke with a frightened yell loud enough to at least wake Karl, who came rushing into your room. You tried to reassure him you had only had a bad dream, but one look at your panicked face was enough to convince Karl that you needed him.
“Do you have these dreams often, Liebling?” Karl asked softly as he stroked your hair soothingly, your head resting on his thigh.
“Every night,” you admitted in a quiet voice, as if it were some secret shame. “I’ve never woken with a shout before, though. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”
“Shh, don’t you apologise, Schatz. It is I who should apologise. It is foolish of me to let you be alone when you’ve had such horrors to endure. You will sleep next to me from now on, and I shall hear nothing more of it.”
“But what about Lotte?”
“She is a good woman. She will understand.”
Lotte did understand, perhaps too well. You almost found it insulting that she acquiesced the bed to you so easily. Did she not love Karl enough to fight for her rights as his wife?
Your concerns melted away when night came around again, and you climbed into bed with Karl. He wrapped an arm around you and held you tight, and you buried your head against his chest, feeling your anxieties and fears melt away as soon as you were under the protection of your husband’s warm embrace.
You woke the next morning having slept the whole night through for the first time in longer than you could remember. Karl had rolled over in the night, and he was half on top of you, breath on your neck and his morning hardness pressed into your thigh.
“Karl —” you grunted, trying to push him off you, but he was heavy — all you managed to do was to nudge him awake.
Karl grunted as he woke up, and he shifted slightly — but only to slide his knees between yours and push your thighs apart.
He breathed in deeply, his face buried in your neck, and his lips ghosted kisses against your skin as his hips began rocking against yours.
“Karl,” you whispered again.
He grunted again.
“What are you doing?”
“What do you think I’m doing?” Karl mumbled, his voice still heavy with sleep.
“We can’t…”
“Why not?”
Karl’s hand reached between your bodies, pulling up his nightshirt — your nightdress had already ridden up to your waist in your sleep.
“You know why…”
“We don’t do this anymore,” Karl mumbled as he rubbed his length between your folds, and your resolve began to fall away as you felt his flesh against yours. “Not for years now. She respects me, she is kind to me — but she does not desire me. Do you still desire me, Schatz?”
“Yes,” you breathed.
“Then let me give you your desire. You have waited too long.”
You felt his tip prodding at your entrance, waiting for your assent — and you thrust your hips towards him, only slightly, but enough for him to slip inside you.
You let out a quiet moan as Karl pushed further inside you, filling you even more perfectly than you remembered. He locked his lips to your neck, sucking on the skin there until he had fully hilted himself inside you.
Karl began rocking his hips against you slowly, softly, as if he had to break you in again. You were both still feeling the effects of sleep, so neither of you sought to move harder or faster — you were savouring the feeling of being joined again, of finally making love after so long thinking you would never be united again.
Although you tried to be quiet, you couldn’t be completely silent. How could you be, when Karl’s cock was caressing your walls just so, drawing out a moan from you each time? How could he be, when your cunt was squeezing him so tightly? You both tried to muffle your groans, with kisses and your face buried against Karl’s shoulder, but there was only so much you could do to remain undetected.
Outside the bedroom, the carpet muffled Friedrich’s footsteps as he made his way down the hallway to the bathroom — and he paused, hesitating, outside the bedroom when he heard a whine that sounded like you.
At first, he thought you were having a bad dream again — until he heard Karl’s grunts.
Friedrich froze. Not to listen, but with shock — and his heart began to pound with hope. He had never, in all his time with the Hoffmeisters, heard Karl and Lotte in bed. The most he ever heard was a coughing fit or grunts of pain — and these grunts were certainly not painful. If Karl was making love to you, that must mean he wanted you, surely, and Lotte would be free to leave with him. Perhaps your arrival was exactly what the household needed — Karl could be with you, Friedrich could be with Lotte, and everybody would be happy.
Your moans began to increase in pace, and Friedrich took that as his cue to move away from the door and continue on to the bathroom, his mind spinning with thoughts.
Karl hadn’t forgotten how to please you. He slipped a hand between your joined bodies and pressed his thumb against your clit, rubbing in small but exact circles as he increased the pace of his thrusts.
“Karl… oh, Karl… ah! I missed you so much — oh!”
“I missed you too, Liebling,” Karl growled in your ear. “You don’t know how much it pained me to lose you… how many nights I spent dreaming of having you in my arms again… and now you’re here, I will never let you go. I promise you that. You are mine forever, do you hear me?”
You whined and nodded your head as Karl’s thumb moved faster, causing coils of pleasure to wind up inside you, and you knew you were going to cum any second.
“Yes… yes, Karl, I’m yours…. I always have been.”
“Then prove it. Cum for me, [Y/n], milk my cock of my seed…”
You had to bite down on Karl’s shoulder as you came, your legs wrapped around his torso shaking with the impact of the waves of pleasure that just kept coming and coming as Karl continued rubbing your clit with his thumb, his cock slamming into you — and you were still riding the aftershocks when Karl spilled inside you, grunting what sounded like your name into your ear, his hips stilled with his cock buried deep inside you, but it was only when you had fully come down from your high and were panting, out of breath, that his thumb stilled and he brought his hand up to your mouth to suck his thumb clean.
You closed your eyes as you licked, and as Karl pulled his wet thumb from your mouth, you opened them again to see that he was gazing down at you adoringly, that small but warm smile that you had dreamt of for so long telling you everything you needed to know: you were home, and nothing would take you away again.
