Rickmas 2025 Day 24 | Gambit/Nobel Son/Close My Eyes | Lionel Shabandar/Reader/Eli Michaelson, Sinclair Bryant/Betty Bennett (OC)
Word Count: 1k
Timeline: Sharing + For the Love of Books
AN: I DID IT Y'ALL. Every year I say I'm gonna do every day of Rickmas, and every year I fail by a day or two, but this year I did it. Thank you to @deepperplexity as always for hosting this amazing event and shout out to @spectrestrings and @mc-tums-fog and all the other amazing writers who have been contributing! Next month marks 10 years since Alan died went on permanent holiday to Tuscany and it's truly amazing to see how he's still inspiring us after all this time (always) ❤ now to celebrate, here are three Alans at once!
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
Playing Monopoly with your family is a well-known method of causing arguments and fallings-out at Christmas.
As it turns out, it’s even worse when one member of your family is an actual billionaire with a real-life monopoly in the media industry – and he regresses into a sulking, petulent child when he loses.
And it’s even worse when the person who won is an egotistical narcissist who knows nothing about business and won completely by chance.
“I got the girl, I got all Lionel’s money… this is shaping up to be a very merry Christmas,” Eli bragged with a grin as he squeezed your ass, which was conveniently sitting on his lap at that moment in time.
“Shut up, Michaelson, it’s not real money,” Lionel huffed, crossing his arms as he sulked on the other end of the sofa. You’d been sitting between them on the three-seater, and when you found yourself bankrupt, Eli claimed your ass in lieu of your outstanding rent and you’d been sat on his lap ever since. “And you most certainly did not get the girl.”
“Really? ‘Cus last time I checked, that’s my name on the marriage certificate, not yours, rich boy.”
“Oh, Eli, stop it,” you admonished him, swatting his chest playfully, but truthfully you liked it when they playfought overyou. “You know the deal. I’m just as much Lionel’s wife as I am yours.”
“I still can’t believe you’re sharing your wife, Li,” Sinclair said as he arrived with a fresh tray of drinks in his hands. “You’ve never shared anything in your life.”
“You know, [Y/n], if we’d married like I suggested and pooled our resources, we could have won,” Lionel said to you. “But no, you had to stay single, and look where that got us. Both bankrupt and suffocating in a room full of Eli Michaelson’s ego.”
“I told you, you can’t marry another player and pool your resources, that’s not how the game works,” Betty said stubbornly. She was currently sat cross-legged on the floor, carefully putting the pieces of the game away in the box.
“And I told you, Betty, I do what I want,” Lionel replied.
“Yeah, except win,” Eli scoffed.
“Eli, stop teasing him!” you laughed as Lionel shot Eli a dark look. “Lionel, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll let you fuck me in the arse when we get home.”
Lionel shrugged. “Oh, yes, a pity arse fuck. That’ll make me feel better.”
“Will you two stop talking such filth? There are delicate ears here,” Sinclair said firmly.
“Sorry, Sinclair,” you said. “The kids are in bed, though.”
“He’s talking about the dog,” Lionel sighed, gesturing towards where Sinclair and Betty’s pet golden retriever was curled up on top of Sinclair’s feet. “Alright, fine, I’ll stop sulking. Lions don’t sulk, after all. I do expect that arse fuck, though, [Y/n].”
“What do I get?” Eli demanded with another squeeze of your bum. “I gotta get a prize for winning, don’t I?”
“You get what no one else has ever had: bragging rights that you beat Lionel Shabandar at Monopoly,” you told him. “And – your beer.” You leaned forward to grab two bottles of beer from the tray Sinclair had left on the table, and handed one to Eli. “Happy?”
“I suppose,” Eli conceded – even he couldn’t complain when he had your buttcheek in one hand and a beer in the other.
“Lionel, have I ever told you that your relationship is really weird?” Betty said as she tucked the closed Monopoly box under the table.
“Yes, many times. As have thousands of people on Twitter. Fortunately, I don’t care.” Lionel took a swig of his whisky. “At least I’m no longer manwhoring myself out, as you so eloquently put it. [Y/n] has managed to tame not only this lion, but Eli’s philandering dick as well. She’s that powerful.”
“You’re right, I am amazing,” you grinned. “And it’s a testament to how much you two love each other that I haven’t managed to snare Sinclair too. I’ve never so much as caught him staring at my boobs.”
“Even if I wasn’t with Betty, I wouldn’t stare at your boobs,” Sinclair insisted. “I’m a gentleman.”
“Unlike these two,” you scoffed, nudging Eli who was, in fact, staring at your boobs at that very moment.
“Hey, I’m just a man who knows what he likes,” Eli replied, not taking his eyes off your chest. “And I like your tits.”
“Yeah, I like yours too, babe,” you said, giving his man-boob a squeeze over his shirt.
“Hey! I also happen to like food. And food likes to go to my chest, apparently. And my stomach.”
“And still you somehow have enough left to clog up the toilet with your massive poos.”
“I don’t know what’s worse, you three talking about sex or talking about poo,” Betty said with a shiver. “Can we please go five minutes without talking about something involving Eli’s arse?”
“Let’s put a Christmas film on!” Sinclair announced. He went to get up, then realised the dog was still curled up on his feets. “Oh – Betts, would you? You can pick the film!”
“Muppets Christmas Carol!” Betty immediately announced, practically diving for the cupboard within the TV stand that held their DVDs.
“No! No, definitely not!” Lionel protested.
“Aww, why not? Muppets Christmas Carol is the best Christmas film ever,” you said.
“It’s not when these two turn to me and start aggressively singing there goes Mr Humbug at me.”
“Oh, now we gotta watch it,” Eli agreed.
“Outvoted four to one, Li!” Sinclair announced victoriously.
Lionel sighed. Ignoring Eli’s protests, you scooted off his lap and snuggled up to Lionel, your chin on his shoulder as you gave him the best puppy dog eyes you could.
He glanced at you, trying to sulk again, but he couldn’t resist you. With another weary sigh, Lionel put his arm around you, letting you cuddle up to him, your feet on Eli’s lap, as Betty loaded up the DVD and took her own place cuddled up to her own husband, and you happily settled in with your unconventional little family unit to watch Christmas films and point out every trait that Lionel shared with Scrooge.
Setting: It’s 1995, (10 years post-cannon, 9 years post-divorce in this story from The-Yucky-One-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named-By-Anything-But-Slander-Nicks) and you met Sinclair last year, instantly taking a liking to him. The past year, he’d bloomed into the talkative chap he used to be, even if you had no clue about his past beyond him being divorced and closed off before.
A/N: My brain is funny when tired + a little hopped up on painkillers from the dentist 😂😂😂 I hope you’ll love this, after the fighting and the deep conversations about cheating and divorce about needing time and being afraid of another Christmas spent with a broken heart and ice cream, we are now fighting death-wishing sheep in pretty conservatories with a panicky pupper Sinclair 😂👌🐑🐑🐑
Alright! Let’s wrap up Sinclair’s story for Rickmas2025!!!
Tags/TW’s: Kissing, Total Chaos, Sheep-Wrestling(?), Established Couple, Conflicting Emotions, The Right Person Changes Everything, Messy Emotions, Messy Thoughts and Scattered Talking, Confusion-Reflective Chaotic Writing Style, Info-Rambling
Word Count: 2.1k
LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST
Thirteen days had passed since you’d asked for time. Two weeks since the ugly Christmas sweater party, and what he’d done that set everything off in a roll of truths coming to light. Now, well, you were chomping at the bit to see him, to hug him, to kiss him, and just let him know you love him. Who wouldn’t love him? He’s the golden retriever of men.
You weren’t ready to ruin another Christmas, though. What if he’d changed his mind? Nope. For this year, you’d wait until the twenty-sixth before telling him that you love him, and to hear if he’d changed his mind or not regarding wanting you as well after everything — from his trauma response to you not being able to instantly digest everything for his sake and just blurt out how much you love the pupper of a man. That was the safest way to play it, for sure, to skip the whole ice cream and crying part of Christmas this year around by just waiting.
The phone blared on your desk with just one bloody minute left of the workday. You had no choice but to answer, though. Your boss glared through the window as you picked up the receiver. “Good afternoon, Y/n speaking, how may I—”
“THERE’S A SHEEP IN THE CONSERVATORY!” Sinclair shouted down the line in a rush. “I know I’m not supposed to call, not a word until you’ve decided and all, but there’s a whole SHEEP in the— Oh, you jumping bastard! Get off the bloody— NO! NO! NOT THE—” A loud rattling had you pulling the phone from your ear as the clock struck five pm.
You blinked, a whole sheep? Are there half sheep? “Sinclair?” you asked, putting the receiver to your ear once more. Muffled screaming, or shouting, and thuds of all kinds rang out on the other end. “Hello? Sinclair? Hellooo?” Bloody hell, this can’t be good. But you hung up, grabbed your coat, your bag, and rushed out of the office as your boss looked with drawn brows of confusion at you through the glass.
⩤•⫘•⩥
“NO! BAD SHEEP! BAD, BAD, oh for Christ and Mary, GET AWAY FROM ME!”
You couldn’t help but laugh with shaking shoulders and sucked-in lips (to keep it quiet) as you looked at the scene unfolding in the conservatory of Sinclair’s gorgeous home.
“NO! GO AWAY! I’m not a shepherd! Shoo!” he hollered, his robe flitting about his pyjama-clad legs where he stood atop the large chair with a rolled-up newspaper in his hand, aimed straight at the sheep’s head; some of Sinclair’s beloved plants hanging from its mouth, now that you took a second to look at it.
“Oh! There you are!” he shouted, an unapologetic rush to his voice and relief so palpable across his adorable face you couldn’t hold the laugh in anymore.
“What on earth are you doing?” You walked closer. “Are you going to hit it with that?” you asked disapprovingly, cocking your brow at the man looking close to ridiculous with one foot on the armrest and knees bent as if readying to pounce — or flee in a jump.
“What? No?”
“Sure looks like it. How did it even get in—” A loud braying interrupted you. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve already called for your owner.”
“You have?” asked Sinclair.
The sheep brayed and clomped off to the plants.
“NO! NOT THE MAGNO— NO! NOT THE RHODODENDRONS!”
“It’s a sheep, Clair. It’ll eat—”
“Stop it! STOP IT, DARLING! IT’S TOXIC!” Sinclair shouted in panic, waving and pointing wildly with the newspaper.
You didn’t hesitate, diving forward with a rush to grasp the walking sheep. It brayed as you grabbed at the wool on its neck. “Nope, nope, come on,” you grunted, fearing it would try to bite or kick you — or worse, run with you hanging on. “What can it eat?!”
“The green ones! The green ones! No, the other one!”
Sinclair waved and pointed some more while you fought and steered the sheep with an apparent deathwish. “Yes! That one!” he called excitedly as you redirected the sheep with all force in your body, and you let go (it wasted no time on fighting you when there was fresh greens to be had).
The doorbell rang as you brushed your hands against your legs. “That’s probably the owner,” you said, walking off.
“Hey! Hey! No, why are you leaving me here with the—”
You looked over your shoulder. “You’ll be fine, just stay up there, you little scardy-cat.”
“It might eat the cashmere!” He held up the end of his very fine-looking robe with something akin to terror over his widened and elongated features, mouth slightly open.
“Yeah, might,” you teased to his utter horror, apparently, before you took a right and headed for the door in a little sprint.
⩤•⫘•⩥
“There, that’s the last of it,” you said, wiping the last remnants of soil from the floor close to an hour later. “All clean!” you called to Sinclair, who was clearing away the broken pot and the chewed curtain in the garbage bin in the kitchen.
“Thank you, darling,” he said, coming around the bend as you closed the french doors to the conservatory — separating it from the rest of the house as the snow began to fall again beyond the enormous windows.
“It’s been a while now,” he said, handing you a cup of tea. “Have I— Do I cross your mind as often as you are on mine?” he continued with a voice so sweetly insecure you had to roll your eyes at him.
“I just need you,” you said in a straight-up confession, not saying anything unnecessary. “For this Christmas, the one thing on my wishlist, is you, Clair. That’s all, and I wanted to wait until after Christmas to tell you.”
“Why?”
It took a moment before you dared be truthful about it, but there was no need to hide it now that he’d already made it quite clear he really wanted you — why else would he have called you in an emergency? Why would he say you were always on his mind?
“Honestly…” you said quietly.
He nodded. “Honesty is quite great, quite grand, and quite wanted.”
“Yeah, I know… I just didn’t want to spend another Christmas with a broken heart, and we never really got to the full couple thing. I pretended we did, but we didn’t. So I thought, if I just stay quiet, I can pretend we’re a full-on happy couple, and I can spend Christmas not crying with a pint of ice cream, you know?”
Sinclair tilted his head, sipping his tea with a shake of his head. “I don’t really know, though. I love you, why would we not be a full couple, as you put it, even if we did have a fight—” he held up his hand when your head swivelled in a rush to him “—yes, I take full accountability for this first fight of ours, but we’ll have plenty more if all goes well, so just because we fight doesn’t mean we aren’t together anymore, does it? That would be nonsense. Nobody would be in a relationship then, it would be ice cream galore and tears all around. That’s not very Christmasy. Is it?”
You shook your head at him, not sure what else to do. Not that he gave you a chance to say anything.
“Anyway, why wouldn’t we be a full couple? We’re a couple, and we, or I at least, have no intention of not marrying you and have you by my side for the rest of my life. Do you have other plans?” he asked, sever all of a sudden, and he was honestly grandly attempting to hide the secret quiver in his voice you could still hear — you admired the fight he was seemingly putting up to be strong, though. “My darling, are you listening?” he asked while you tilted your head, lost for words for the moment.
“I won’t let you slip away this holiday, and now that I have you here, you ought to stay forever. Would you like that?”
You found your voice. “I’ve never even slept here.” You chuckled quite sadly.
“You haven’t?” he asked, seeming confused by the statement. “That can’t be right.”
“It is. You’ve spent the night at my place, but I’ve never stayed the night here.”
“Hm, well, we can’t have that. So you should stay the night.”
“Tonight?!”
“Yes. Tonight. Every night.”
“Every— Clair, what are you talking about?”
Sinclair stepped closer, discarding his tea on the table next to you. “Well, I think you ought to sleep here, stay here, be here when you’re not working or whatnot.” He gently took your free hand in his; those warm fingers stroked the back of your hand softly as he looked down. “You know, before the light bulb and all the other inventions that allow for more productivity and alterations of usable hours of the day, we used to sleep for eleven hours.” He tilted his head, looking up at you, as if seeking permission or wondering if you were paying attention. It was sweet. You always paid attention to his tangents and ramblings, though.
“Eleven hours of sleep? Sounds nice and revolutionary,” you said after a breath, wanting him to talk just a little bit more as he was starting to soften and lose some of the tension you’d barely been able to see hinted at under his loose clothing.
He smiled sweetly, a hint of that golden retriever excitement shining in his pretty eyes, so fixated on you even in his chatting. “We need sleep. Humans, I mean. But eleven hours of sleep is what the oligarchs see as lost maximising of profits, you know, to squeeze out of us lowly workers. Not to mention naps, we used to take naps frequently, and everything was done slowly. You had to wait between each aspect of something; there was no instant here or right this second there. Now it’s a rush, rushing and stressing and lacking sleep while being in light-polluted cities. Of course, if we’re tired and drained, we can’t rally and stand up to demand a reform, but society really ought to do just that. It’s not made for us, the human society is not fit for humans to—” He closed his mouth.
“What?” you asked, squeezing his hand gently.
“You are staying, aren’t you?” he asked, his puppy eyes all pleading and wanting.
“Yes,” you said with a smile of warmth as wide as the one his lips became at your reply.
“Good, I would like to attempt to sleep again. It’s been a struggle since you left without a promise to return again...”
“I’m sorry, Clair. That wasn’t my intention.”
He smiled. “I’m well aware, you’re kind to the bone.”
“Kind to the bone?” You laughed. “I think that’s a strange compliment, but I’ll take it.”
“Do you remember our mistletoe moment in the office?” he asked as you both stopped chuckling quietly, and you nodded. “Well—” He pointed upwards, getting your eyes to see not one but several mistletoes spread out all around the high ceiling and in the doorways’ tall arches.
“Sinclair, you’re hopeless.” You laughed, holding the tea out of the way before releasing his hand to grab at his neck just as his hands landed on your hips gently. “I don’t need any more time, or any mistletoe, just kiss me already,” you urged with a giggle, and he did.
Your lips pressed softly at first, and then he deepened the kiss with a warmth and want you’d not felt from him before. As you hummed into his mouth, and his arms wrapped themselves tighter around your waist, he seemed to let some inhibition go — something that had held him back went away, and you knew that you’d always be with him if you could help it.
Leaning back, he ended the kiss all too swiftly (if one asked you). But his blinding smile and softened eyes had your breath sticking in your throat in the best of ways.
“Knowing I’ll always be coming home to you,” he started quietly, chuckling and reaching up to grasp your neck as well. “It will be like Christmas every day, darling.”
“That’s quite the praise,” you said, cheeks turning warm under his honest eyes.
“Not praise enough.” He pulled you in again, kissing you harder and deeper while the tea in your hand sloshed over the cup’s edge with a splattering sound against the wooden floors...
LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST
A/N: Oh they are ADORABLE, aren’t they? Or, well, you guys, I guess 😂👏 That was it for Sinclair this year, and what a cute little couple we’ve ended up with, all up in their feelings and lovey-dovey 🥰👏
Rickmas 2025 Day 22 | Gambit/Close My Eyes | Lionel Shabandar/Reader, Lionel Shabandar & Sinclair Bryant, Sinclair Bryant & Reader
Word Count: 1.8k
Timeline: Champagne Problems
AN: This is set in an alternate happy parallel world where Lionel never cheated 🥲
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
December 1972
After nobly surrendering to Sinclair in a snowball fight, with not a single curse word or accusations of foul play of a sore loser (that was Lionel’s story and he was sticking to it), Lionel returned to the warm, snowball-less sanctuary of the inside of his family home where he was finally reunited with central heating, his dignity and, of course, his pregnant fiancée.
You were sat on the sofa, propped up by enough pillows to stock half of DFS, your legs laid out across the cushions. Your belly was big enough now that you could use it as a small table, and you currently had a catalogue open on top of it.
“Did you win?” you asked, not looking up from your catalogue.
“It was a close call. I magnanimously conceded victory to Sinclair to allow me to come inside and see you again,” Lionel said as he carefully extracted himself from his winter coat to hang it up on a coat stand to dry.
“He lost miserably,” Sinclair said cheerfully as he strode in after Lionel, treading snow in his wake as he made a beeline for a cupboard he knew was full of snacks.
“I lost with dignity,” Lionel insisted.
Sinclair was too busy rifling through the cupboard to dispute his cousin’s claim. After placing his boots to the side, Lionel joined you on the sofa, and you lifted your feet for a few moments to allow him to sit down, before resting them on his lap.
“What are you looking at, chérie?” Lionel asked as he rubbed your feet.
“Habitat catalogue. People keep asking me what I want for Christmas, so I figure I’ll choose some baby stuff.”
“Nonsense, choose something for yourself. We’ll get plenty for Lionel Jr at the baby shower.”
“Calling the baby Lionel Jr isn’t gonna make me agree to it, you know.”
Lionel grinned cheekily. He gently lifted your ankles from his lap, then placed them down on the sofa as he climbed on top of you to place his lips very gently on your bump.
“It’s alright, Lionel Jr, Mummy will give in one day.”
You laughed. “We don’t even know it’s a boy! What if it’s a girl?”
“Leona.”
“You should call it Sinclair!” Sinclair suggested as he plopping himself down on a nearby armchair, cradling a plate full of snacks as if it were his own baby. “You know, if it weren’t for me going back to talk to you at the café, you two never would have found each other again, so the baby wouldn’t even exist. You’re welcome.”
Sinclair popped a cracker into his mouth triumphantly, and the crunching sound caught your attention.
“Crackers,” you whispered.
Lionel sighed. “Really?”
“Crackers,” you said again, more confidently.
“I’ll go get you some!” Sinclair announced, placing his plate on the coffee table before bounding back to the snack cupboard to fish out some more crackers for his pregnant cousin-in-law-to-be, who he and Lionel knew by now, once she got her mind on a snack, would never stop complaining until she got what she was craving.
“What kind of pram do you think we should get?” you asked Lionel, your attention turning back to the catalogue now that you were satisfied someone was fetching you crackers.
Lionel frowned, bemused. “I don’t know. The kind that carries babies?”
“No, but like, is there a brand we should get? I don’t want people judging us because we don’t have some fancy designer brand. Do we just go for the most expensive one?”
“Since when do you care about anyone judging you for designer brands?”
You shrugged. “I don’t, but I do care about you. I don’t want to cause some faux pas and embarrass you because we got the wrong thing but I don’t know what the right thing is — ooh, crackers!”
You practically snatched the bag from Sinclair’s hand; fortunately, he knew you were just hormonal, so he didn’t take it personally.
“Sinclair brings me crackers,” you pointed out to Lionel, as if he hadn’t observed it himself. “Naming the baby Sinclair is seeming more and more appealing — ow! Stop it!”
“I didn’t do anything!” Lionel protested with a frown.
“Not you. Baby. Just kicked me in the bladder.”
You shoved a handful of crackers in your mouth, as if that would stop the baby kicking.
“Clearly, he doesn’t want you to name him Sinclair,” Lionel said smugly. “He wants to be Lionel Jr.”
The baby kicked again, and you winced.
“He doesn’t like that either.”
Lionel sat up and took the catalogue from you, wiping away the crumbs you’d spilled on it, and looked at the range of prams on offer.
“Nobody ever tells you this stuff comes with so many decisions,” he mused. “Choosing things like schools is one thing, but there are so many small details.”
“Jus wai unil you panna we’in,” Sinclair said through a mouthful of cheese.
You stared at him blankly.
“He said, just wait until you plan the wedding,” Lionel said, not looking up from the catalogue.
“How on earth did you figure that out?”
“Ten years of living with him. What about this one?”
Lionel showed you a pram, which was a horrific brown colour.
“Ugly. It’ll look like I’m pushing around a giant poo.”
“They come in different colours.”
“Get blue!” Sinclair piped up, his mouth temporarily free of snacks. “It’s been scientifically proven that blue lowers blood pressure and heart rate and decreases feelings of anxiety and aggression. So the baby will sleep more and cry less if it’s surrounded by blue!”
“I thought blue was supposed to be the boy colour,” you said. “Boys are nothing but anxiety and aggression.”
“I’m not,” Lionel protested.
“No, of course not, babe. You’re super cool and chill all the time. You didn’t throw a strop just now because you lost a snowball fight.”
“That’s right, I didn’t,” Lionel said firmly as he went back to the catalogue, flipping back through the pages to see what you’d already circled. “Christ, you don’t ask for much do you?”
“Advantages of marrying rich,” you shrugged.
Lionel peered at you suspiciously over the top of the catalogue. “I thought you weren’t with me for my money? In fact, you frequently protest when I try to spend money on you.”
“On me, yeah, but you’d better be splashing the cash when it comes to our baby. If you can afford the best for him, then the best is what he gets.”
“That he does,” Lionel said smugly. “He already has the best father and the best mother — why not the best stuff too?”
“And the best uncle,” Sinclair added. “Oh, hey, since he’s gonna be born before the wedding, are you guys gonna call him Shabandar-[L/n]?”
“I… had assumed he’d take my name,” Lionel said, glancing at you uncertainly — this wasn’t something you’d ever discussed. “Since you’ll be taking my name soon anyway.”
“Will I?”
“I bloody well hope so.”
“Well, I wasn’t sure if you wanted to — I mean, I know you don’t get on with your dad, so…”
Lionel shrugged. “I don’t care that it came from him. It’s my name. When I’m a success, it’ll be Lionel Shabandar people know, not Leonardo.”
“I’m surprised your mum didn’t go back to her maiden name after the divorce,” you mused. “If someone hurt me the way your dad did, I wouldn’t want their name.”
“She thought that if she went back to Turpin, people would think she was an unwed mother, not a divorcee.”
“An unwed mother like me, you mean?”
“That’s different, chérie. You and I are engaged to be wed.”
“They did think about it, you know,” Sinclair said. “After my parents got divorced, Mum asked me how I’d feel if we all changed our name to Turpin. But I still loved my dad, I wanted to keep his name.”
“Yes, yes, I’m the only one here whose father is a complete piece of shit,” Lionel said dismissively. He glanced back down at the catalogue. “Chérie, why have you circled a teddy bear?”
You looked at the page he was frowning at. “What’s wrong with a teddy bear?”
“What’s wrong is there’s a perfectly good lion toy on the opposite page, and you appear to have put a cross through it.”
“It’s too majestic. It’d out-lion you. Do you want him to think you’re second to the toy lion?”
“I am second to no one,” Lionel reminded you sternly. He placed the catalogue aside and leaned in close to you, one hand on your belly protectively. “Lionel Jr will know the pecking order.”
He reached up to brush some stray crumbs from your lips so he could kiss you — and you suddenly remembered that you had a bag of crackers in your hand.
You accidentally dodged his kiss when you looked down at the bag, intending to reach in — but that would have been pointless, as the bag was devoid of any crackers.
“Crackers,” you said with a sad whine.
Lionel sighed. “You drive me bloody crackers, woman.”
“Your turn to get them, Li,” Sinclair said from his armchair, where he had picked up the discarded catalogue and was now flicking through it himself, hoping to get an idea for a Christmas present or three for you.
“I know, I know. The things I do for you, love.” Lionel sighed dramatically, as if standing up and walking over to the cupboard was the greatest sacrifice a father-and-husband-to-be could make for his pregnant fiancée.
“And cheese!” you added before Lionel could get more than a few steps away. “Sinclair has cheese. I want cheese.”
Lionel pointed at his cousin warningly. “You need to stop eating snacks in front of her.”
“You’d ask me not to be myself?” Sinclair said incredulously.
“No, I — oh, never mind. I’ll get some more cheese. Do you know what? I was wrong — I’m not second to no one. Clearly, I’m second to [Y/n].”
“She’s the pregnant lady, she calls the shots,” Sinclair said as if it were an age-old adage.
“Yeah, when you grow a human, you can call the shots,” you agreed. “Until then: cheese.”
“Yes, yes, cheese.”
Lionel left the room to find some cheese, and Sinclair turned to you.
“Hey, I’ll get you some baby stuff too, but I really wanna get something just for you. Is there anything you want for yourself?”
You thought for a moment, but you shook your head, smiling. “No, there isn’t. I have a doting if slightly insane fiancé, the most caring future in-laws in the world, and although he’s not even born yet, I already know I’ve got the best kid ever. Also, I’m marrying rich. What more could I possibly want?”
“…Cheese?”
You gasped. “Cheese! And crackers! Lionel!”
“I’m coming, woman!”
Sinclair laughed. “Cheese, crackers and Lionel. You’re right. What more could you want?”
Pairing: Young & Adult Snape x Young & Adult!Fem!Reader
POV: Second, Reader & Third, Snape
Setting/History: You suffered amnesia when you were in an accident in December of 1977. You lost your loving parents as your flying carriage got trapped in a snowstorm and plummeted into a mountainside in northern Sweden. It took a year to find out who you were, but you never regained your memories of that day or what you had lived through before that. Only the faint memory of red snow flashed in your mind from time to time with a trailing horror so devastating it tormented you despite the lack of understanding of why. Now it’s 1999, one year after the war, and you have finally returned to your roots — even if you have no memory of them.
A/N: It’s time to end Snape’s story for Rickmas2025, I hope you’ll love it! I have few words to say of it but it is probably my favourite story ending of Rickmas2025… I hope you’ll enjoy it, darlings!❤
Tags/TW’s: Declarations of Love, Kissing, Overwhelming Devotion and Care, Past and Present Story Elements, Snape Lives, Post-War AU With History, Longing, Mutual Love, Lost Love Found Again, Amnesia from Adolescent Trauma Lifted, Painful Memories, Past Trauma Remembered, They Are Together At Last…
Word Count: 1.9k
LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST
⩤• SEVERUS •⩥
Two days had passed, with you sleeping through them, in the large mansion of marble and stone he found out to be your home. Unlike Malfoy Manner — where he had spent more time than he ever wished to remember — this space was warm, albeit too big. Your essence seemed to permeate the very walls, and all the fabrics and Christmas decorations softened it to a welcoming space. He did remember you being what he called filthy rich, but seeing how you grew up in such largeness of overflow was different to imagining a big house with a decorated porch (which he had no idea why he had imagined in his youth).
He had not explored much of the estate, though. He remained by your side while Christmas nights drew closer. Still, the nights were only of winter and darkness, but soon they would remind him again of how far away from family and friends he had been all his life. How in the cold skies, he found no peace or promise of hope. Not once had there been anything even close to such a thing as hope after your disappearance. Until, perhaps, now.
Looking out the large window, draped with glittering red curtains on either side, he drew a steadying breath. Out there, the stars shimmered, and snow sparkled in the air as the wind swirled it in the golden lantern glow. It is how it was the night you left… Some things never fade, and his memory of you that night seemed as detailed in that moment as it was when he experienced it all those years ago.
Your ever-watchful friend, Perri, had already sent correspondence to the healer Nikodemus, in Sweden, and received word in return of his arrival on the eve of Christmas Day. He wasn’t particularly happy about so much time passing when you had experienced such a traumatic and painful turn of events, with your memories flooding back at his appearance. Had it been his fault? Ought he have stayed away to keep the torment of your parents’ death at bay? I am selfish enough not to wish for it to be true...
His head swivelled as your hand gently grazed his. Your warm fingers stroked their way over his knuckles until you grasped his hand, and there were not snowflakes enough in the world to outnumber the thoughts and emotions colliding within him when you smiled at his stoic face with pure, unbound warmth. He dared not move, dared barely breathe as he sat stiffly on the edge of your bed, as he had not counted on you waking just yet.
⩤• YOU •⩥
There was a painful stillness to him, a stiffness to his back and muscles. You hadn’t expected him to be all love and heart, given the graveness of him, but feeling his cold hand lie so still under your grip had you smiling with sorrow. You wouldn’t be deterred, though. He’d held you, carried you, spoken so utterly softly with you, and shared memories in the most intimate of ways already so you knew there was warmth of a grand kind within him.
“Are you lonely, Severus?” you asked, your voice hoarse and low. “Have you been alone…all this time?”
“Yes,” he said, the gruff roughness of the low drawl had chills travelling down your spine of a delightful kind, despite his severity.
“Me, too,” you whispered as he offered you a glass of water with his free hand from the nightstand.
Sitting up, you refused to let go of his hand, but you took the glass in your other one as he watched you drink slowly.
“I promise, if you permit me to remain in your life, that never again will you be alone.” His words were stone-cold and so utterly low in tone. But, you knew him still, after all these years, you knew him deeply. His wish was so strong, and the longing in his eyes had you tearing up.
Your hand trembled, and he stole the glass away before you could drop it. “Thank you,” you said, feeling your throat soften already. “And I— Severus, I had you in my memories all this time because you matter. I know you’ve been remembering it for all these years, and I’m so sorry you didn’t find out, that we didn’t— That I couldn’t remember, couldn’t find you, couldn’t help…”
He reached up, his large hand grasping your jaw and chin so incredibly gently it made you press your hand against his to feel it more. The touch he offered was gentle and sweet in its hesitancy.
“I read about you,” you whispered with closed eyes. “The wizard who won the war, who fought the— The Dark Lord from within, and who has been praised as the bravest man… I couldn’t remember, I— I think it’s seeing you that’s triggering it all.” Your eyes remained closed, but you couldn’t miss how his breathing turned harder, not faster but deeper, and every little inch you were in contact sent a stiffness from him and into you.
“Bravest man, and most dangerous,” he murmured so quietly it was hard to grasp the words.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to—”
“Don’t,” he interrupted, and you looked up at him. “I do not wish for you to know of any of it.”
“What? But I thought—”
“Darling, the things I have done, what I have witnessed, it is torture to think of you knowing… I failed you so miserably,” he whispered with a voice akin to that of torment.
You moved slowly, your body stiff and weak from the past days, and he let you crawl atop his lap. His arms wrapped around you as you curled up in the safety of him so inexplicably inherent.
“Darling?” he drawled, your body softening as his chest vibrated beneath you.
“You make me feel safe.” So, so utterly safe. Nothing can get to me, take me away… Not in your arms. But the memories came from within you, not deterred by his presence.
“You have been as far away from family and friends as I have, have you not?” he asked.
But you shook your head. “No, I can’t compare my torment with yours, it would be rendered to a small ache and in my heart it’s far greater than that. I can’t compare my pain to yours, my loss, to your loss, it’s just so small.”
“Are you out of your mind? Lost your sense fully?”
“I don’t think I—”
“You lost everything. Your loss is yours, and even if my life has been a torment, with all the sorrow the world knows and more, yours is no lesser or smaller… That’s a preposterous thought.”
“Would you say so if the roles were reversed? If you had said your pain feels small compared to mine, would you accept that I don’t believe so?”
He turned quiet.
“Is it Christmas?” you asked, watching the snow while remaining in his embrace so utterly stiff but warm in its protectiveness.
“No. It’s the twenty-first.”
“Oh…”
“Saddened?” he wondered, adjusting his arms as you pressed further against his wide chest.
“No. I just hate Christmas nights, they’ve been…dark, and I’ve felt like I could almost remember the things that should never have faded to begin with.”
“You remember now, and through the years that lie ahead, you may change how it feels. Even if we can’t bring back the dead.”
“I would love to have my parents back, and all the years I’ve lost, but I…don’t think that’s how they would want me to spend my life. I don’t want to feel like I’m not living how they probably hope I will.”
Severus hummed, and you smiled at how it felt when pressed close. It was a sad smile, but who could blame you for it when sadness filled you in the midst of the joy. There was something about Severus that took everything away, and simultaneously allowed you to live in it all. Memories, and the present time, equally available and fully palpable without the fear that had haunted your lonely nights when nothing had been as it should.
You tilted your head back, not caring what you looked like when his eyes met yours with such utter warmth behind the dissolving layer of harshness. “Will you be the reason, when stars don’t align, for me to go on and find joy again? With…you?” you asked quietly, smiling through the sudden tears.
Severus gently moved his arm, and after a motion of his wand-holding hand, the room filled with lightly glowing stars all around. “I will always stay with you, find you, wait for you. If you allow it. If you want me to,” he murmured, as if the words were hard to speak and it warmed you in a manner you couldn’t dream anything else ever could.
You reached up to stroke his chilly cheek. “I love you.”
His eyes widened, and something seemed to travel through his entire body.
“Severus,” you said gently, sitting up atop his lap. “I love you. I’ve loved you for twenty-five years, and three of those you wouldn’t let me get close enough, and now I have twenty-two years to make up for.”
“What if…you stop?” he asked, no more than a breath after your declaration.
Silence lay between you as his eyes moved between yours, searching. “If you knew—”
You kissed him.
He jerked back and stiffened, but you followed, still pressing your lips to his until he softened with a sweetness so warm you whimpered as he harshly wrapped his trembling arms around you — not to hold you, but to keep you.
You wrapped your arms over his shoulders, nearly around his neck. “I love you wholly, Severus Snape.”
“Do you promise?” he murmured into your mouth; there was no heat to it, only the desperate longing of a broken man.
“My sweet little bat, I promise. I promise on the stars and the freedom you gifted the world through your unbearable sacrifices.”
“It was…for you, darling. For you, what you would have done.”
You leaned in closer, feeling his harsh, quick breath flowing over your neck and throat. “I know. MY sweet Severus, I know… But you did what no one else ever would have been able to. You are far stronger than me, than anyone else I know, and I’m sorry you had to be…”
⩤• SEVERUS • The night before Christmas Day •⩥
He watched you walk along the edge of the garden drenched in snow, a green scarf he’d gifted you that very evening sat wrapped thrice around your throat, and the too-big coat you’d stolen from his side of the closet swallowed you whole. His coat. You wore his coat again, and his broken heart couldn’t grasp the enormity of how life had turned. The warmth of you was a sensation he’d wished to feel for all those years you were lost to him — lost in the large world where he couldn’t find you.
He stood still, watching you twirling in the snow with your head tilted toward the star-speckled sky. His heart thudded harshly. Could there truly be such pounding of utter warmth inside a body that was marked so heavily with the torment of a dark and broken existence? Could his heart, so misused and unwanted, be a gift to someone as brilliantly wonderful as you? “I hope so…for I… I love you beyond life itself, darling...”
You stopped, smiling brightly at him while unknowingly setting his dark soul into a dance of the purest light. The wind pulled his hair about, and the coat flicked around his legs where it reached all the way to the snow below.
“Make the stars!” you called loudly to let the words reach him from so far away.
He chuckled, the distance hiding the rimming of tears in his eyes as he drew out his wand and flicked it in the shape of a star before they created a glowing arch above you. Your laugh filled his ears as you lit them up with your own spell in turn to send light all around, chasing away the dark of the night without a single struggle...
LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST
A/N: They made it - and they are loving each other, staying together and living happily ever after even if there will be hard times mixed with the wonderful ones. Gosh, I am so beyond in love with this story, I haven’t written properly for Snape in so long it feels like and this has just been such a lovely story to explore and partly get tossed at me at 3am in the morning in the midst of sleeping 🤣
I hope you’ve loved this! We have three more fics to go before Rickmas2025 is over, but we’re almost at the end of it all for this year ❤
Rickmas 2025 Day 21 | Sweeney Todd | Judge Turpin/Reader
Word Count: 2.7k
Content: smut, piv
AN: I originally was going to do something completely different for this day but then Turpin bust down my door demanding a part 3 so here it is
Part 1: Fireside | Part 2: God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
You had a strange routine with Turpin. Apart from that first night, you never spent the night with him. You’d meet him at court in the morning and, apart from the occasional quickie between hearings, he treated you just the same as he always had. After court, you went home with him “to assist with paperwork” — which usually involved you on all fours on his bed or, if he really did have paperwork to do, bent over his desk.
He always dismissed you promptly before dinner, so you never ate with him — you always went home for that, to be fussed over by your mother who insisted that you didn’t need to be working such long hours, and to be nodded at stiffly by your father, which by his standards was practically an embrace.
As Christmas drew closer, so did the end of the court term, and soon the courts would be closing for two weeks. When you questioned Judge Turpin about what would happen over the break, he said, “Hearings may not proceed, but there is plenty of work to be done. You will attend me at my home instead.”
And so you did — instead of meeting him at court, you went straight to his house in the morning and worked through the day. With no hearings to attend, and only his staff to interrupt if they dared, a lot more of that work was forgotten in favour of your legs being spread over his desk.
“It’s fortunate you’re so efficient,” Turpin mused the day before Christmas, when you were on all fours in front of the fireplace — the same fireplace he’d first forced you to strip in front of — while he pounded into you from behind. “An average clerk would never have time to spread their legs and get the day’s work done — but there’s nothing average about you, is there, darling?”
After he spilled his seed across your back, Turpin returned to his desk, and you resumed the case review he’d tasked you with earlier.
Once Turpin was satisfied he was finished for the day — both with work and with you — he was about to dismiss you when, on looking out of the window, you both saw that a fierce winter storm had been raging for a while, and the snow was so thick that at least the bottom third of his front door was blocked with snow.
There was no choice, Turpin decided. You had to stay overnight.
You didn’t protest. You wanted to be home for Christmas Day, of course, but you would never make it home alive in that snow, and you would rather not arrive home in a hearse.
Besides, staying overnight meant staying for dinner, which was something you had never done. You almost felt bad for Turpin that he lived alone and dined alone — almost, if not for the fact that he was cruel at worst and surly at best to everyone he met.
To your surprise, when you entered the dining room, you saw that the staff were setting a third plate for you.
Turpin sat at the head of the table and gestured for you to sit to his right, at the newly-placed plate. A servant poured wine for you both, and Turpin offered you a rare smile as he toasted your health before taking a drink.
You looked at the third plate. Who on earth could it possibly be for?
Turpin lowered his glass and looked at you appraisingly.
“Are you going to ask, or simply stare?”
You glanced back at him. “You don’t like questions, sir.”
“True. I shall allow a question this once.”
“…Who’s the third plate for, sir?”
As if to answer the question for you, the door to the dining room was opened, and in walked the last kind of person you thought you would see: a child.
A girl, surely not older than eight or nine. She looked as surprised to see you as you were to see her.
“Good evening, Father,” the girl said with a curtsey. “Good evening, ma’am.”
Father?!
Turpin gestured to the girl to sit down. She did so, and a servant poured her a glass of juice.
“Johanna, this is Miss [L/n]. She was attending me this afternoon when the storm hit; naturally, I would never allow a lady to face this weather even to cross the road, so she shall be staying the night here until the snow allows her to leave. Miss [L/n], might I introduce my ward, Johanna.”
You and Johanna exchanged polite “how do you do”s, and you wracked your brain for any time Turpin might have mentioned that he had a ward.
As the servants began to serve dinner, a thought hit you quite suddenly. The girl lived here, surely? Oh, Lord, you had no idea anyone was in the house other than servants — you didn’t hold back on the volume when you and Turpin were taking your rest breaks. Neither did he, for that matter. Had this young girl really been subjected to hearing all of that?
“Do you live very far away, Miss [L/n]?” Johanna asked in a measured, saccharine voice that told you she had to be very careful with her words around Turpin.
“Any other day I’d say no, but with all that snow between here and there, it might as well be the other end of the country.” You glanced between Turpin and Johanna. He was watching you, his face blank and unreadable as it usually was. “Have you been Lord Turpin’s ward for very long?” you asked cautiously.
“Johanna has been with me since she was a babe,” Turpin replied for her. “Her father was transported and her mother lost; I felt some guilt for the situation, having sentenced the father — though, of course, the true blame lies entirely with him for his transgressions — so I took it upon myself to raise Johanna as my own.”
“I am very grateful, sir,” Johanna said automatically, as if reading from a script.
Turpin smirked proudly. “Of course you are. I hate to think what might have become of you otherwise; likely the same fate Miss [L/n] would have suffered had I allowed her to make the journey home this evening. Fortunately, we are all here under my roof, perfectly safe from the dangers of the outside world, be they man or nature. Johanna is very keen to see beyond the walls of this house,” Turpin added to you as he cut into his steak, which was cooked so rare you could almost hear it mooing. “But I am determined that the evils of the world are not to encroach upon her. You agree, I’m sure, that London is a very unsafe place for a young girl.”
You had listened to Turpin in court enough to catch on to the subtle ways he manipulated conversations, pushing counsel towards certain submissions he wanted them to make, encouraging witnesses to give answers he wanted to hear. This was one such technique you had come to recognise — he wanted you to say that London was unsafe, but he daren’t ask you if it was and give you the opportunity to say no. Instead, he made a statement, relying on your desire to be agreeable not to contradict him.
Fortunately, you did indeed agree with him.
“Yes, London is very unsafe, especially at night. I hadn’t realised just how unsafe I felt walking around the city until I began walking around in your company, my Lord — the safety and security of your protection makes me feel as if nobody would dare harm me. I feel as safe on the streets of London as I do here, sir, so long as I’ve your strength and honour to protect me.”
“Ah, but on the streets, even I cannot always protect you,” Turpin reminded you firmly. “An open space, a busy crowd — an untoward need only attack me from the left while another attacks you from the right, and I would find myself unable to ensure your safety.”
“But surely, sir, that would never happen. What sort of fool would dare attack the man who could send them to the gallows with a gesture of his hand?”
“You underestimate the common miscreant, my dear. If they’re not fool enough not to recognise me, they’re fool enough to think they shall be the exceptional case that escapes my grasp.”
“Do you get attacked a lot in the street, then, sir?”
Turpin’s lips thinned dangerously. “Of course not, but I would be the fool to think myself infallible. The day some lech decides to do something so utterly stupid as to attack me, I do not wish for Johanna to be by my side and fall victim to the dangers of men. No, she is better to remain here, where she can be protected from the evils of the world.”
“I find the evils of the world rather exciting,” you said, looking at Johanna conspiratorially. “If all were good, your dear father would be out of a job, wouldn’t he?”
Johanna giggled, but quickly stopped and directed her attention to her plate when Turpin shot her a frown.
“I dream of a world wherein courts and judges are unnecessary,” Turpin said stiffly. “However, we do not live in a dream; we live in the real world, where men prey on the weak and vulnerable, and there is none more weak and vulnerable than pretty women.”
“Do you consider me weak and vulnerable, sir?” you challenged him.
“Of course not.”
“Then you do not consider me pretty?”
Turpin frowned, his jaw tightening as he realised the corner you were backing him into — and you, meanwhile, had a look of mischief about you which Turpin found simultaneously irritating and arousing.
“I do not consider your appearance at all, Miss [L/n],” Turpin lied, knowing it was a lie, and knowing you knew it was a lie — if he didn’t consider your appearance, he wouldn’t have tried to fire you for being too attractive.
“I dare you to defy your father’s expectations, Johanna,” you said to the girl, who was watching your back and forth with Turpin with some awe. “You will be a pretty woman, that much is clear. I dare you to be strong and unassailable too.”
The table shook slightly as Turpin’s fist came down on its surface.
“Johanna. After dinner, you will practice your piano forte. In the ballroom. Until I tell you you may stop. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father,” Johanna said in a small, meek voice that told you she knew exactly what Turpin was capable of.
“Good. Now, we shall finish our dinner in silence.”
——
You tried to grab on to something, anything — the bedsheet, a pillow, the headboard — but your grip never lasted very long before the ferocity of Turpin’s thrusts caused you to flail around on the bed again.
“You dare to defy me,” Turpin growled for the third time as his fingers dug deeper into your hips with each thrust. “In front of Johanna nonetheless. Strong and unassailable? Do you want her to end up like you, hiding her breasts and spreading her legs for her employer like a common whore?”
“Taking what she wants when the world offers her nothing,” you retorted, raising your head from between the pillows Turpin had, at least, allowed you to rest your head on. “If she wants to work, why shouldn’t she get a job? If she desires a man, why shouldn’t she act on it?”
“Because she’s - an - innocent!” Turpin hissed between gritted teeth. “Still young. Still uncorrupted. She can stay that way. Unlike you — she’ll never be like you, a cockhungry slut who hides her womanhood to get a job, then uses that womanhood to seduce her employer and make him so bloody addicted he can’t even contemplate firing her.”
With a growl of frustration, Turpin pulled out of you, flipped you onto your back, and swiftly re-entered you, his cock filling your cunt with a sinful squelching sound.
“I didn’t seduce you,” you insisted stubbornly. “I wanted to work. It was you that made me strip naked and suck your cock.”
“You didn’t fight it, though, did you?” Turpin sneered in your ear as he pressed his body against yours, the sweat of both your bodies making your skin stick to his. “You didn’t protest. Didn’t try to escape. Just fell to your knees and opened your throat for me like a desperate - little - slut.”
Turpin bit down on your neck, and you cried out.
“I’m not — ah! — I’m not a slut.”
He snorted disbelievingly.
“How can I be? I’ve only ever been with you.”
Turpin’s furious thrusts stuttered, but he quickly resumed his punishing pace.
“You’re lying,” he grunted.
“I’m not. Is that — is that what you really think of me?”
Turpin didn’t reply. He just kept thrusting, his face buried in your neck hiding his expression.
“Richard.”
You placed a hand on the side of his head and coaxed him to turn to look at you.
“Do you really think so little of me?”
You sounded so hurt, your brow furrowed in confusion, that Turpin faltered, his thrusts slowing, though never really stopping.
“You were… innocent?”
“Of course I was.”
Turpin sighed and closed his eyes, his head bowing slightly. “And I corrupted you.”
“No, you didn’t. I wanted it. I wanted you. God, I wanted you so much. You said you thought about me at night — I thought about you too, you know.”
Turpin looked up at you, his eyes narrowed.
“You thought of me?”
“Yes. And I… well, you were the first man I was ever with, but… that night wasn’t my first orgasm. I know how to give them to myself. I would do it at night and - and think about you.”
Turpin’s eyes flashed dangerously, and he smirked.
“Oh? And what were you thinking about?”
“I was wondering if those gold trousers of yours were honest or just flattering.”
Turpin chuckled darkly. “Oh, they’re both.”
“Mmm, I know that now.” You wriggled your hips beneath him, frustrated that his pace had slowed so much. “Much more honest than I imagined.”
Turpin grinned and unstuck himself from you to prop himself up on his forearms, his body looming over yours, keeping you trapped beneath him.
“Do you know, Miss [L/n]… I think you might just be worth keeping around.”
“Then what do you call this, if not keeping me around? I swear I spend more time with you than I do with my own family.”
He laughed then — and actual, real, honest-to-God laugh.
“Perhaps you’re right. In that case… I suppose a redefinition of your family is in order.”
“Sir?”
Turpin kissed you suddenly, a fierce, wet kiss punctuated with a renewed vigour in the fierce, possessive way he was fucking you.
You gasped against his lips as you felt your orgasm building, and you tried to pull away to breathe, but Turpin kept his mouth firmly pressed against yours, and you tried to breathe through your nose, but that was struggling too, being pressed up against his cheek.
Turpin unstuck his face from yours to allow you to cry out the rest of your orgasm, and his pleasure shortly followed yours, an ungentlemanlike moan filling the room as his seed filled your insides, and not only did he make no attempt to spill elsewhere, but he kept his hips firmly against yours, as if he was trying to fill you up as much as he could.
Usually, he rolled off you immediately and demanded you go to the bathroom to empty yourself of any seed he might have spilled inside you — but not this time. This time, he stayed firmly inside you, plugging you up with his cock. Weakly, you ran your fingers through his hair, and he made a sound that sounded almost like the purr of a cat being stroked.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and on one side of the house, Johanna played her chords, innocently unaware that across the house and up one floor, the man who kept her trapped and alone was in bed with the nice lady she’d met at dinner, and he was hard at work making her a little brother or sister to play with one day.
You, Johanna and Turpin, unbeknownst to each other, were all thinking the same thing: that it might be nice if Turpin kept you around — after all, Johanna needed a mother to teach her to be strong and unassailable, and why shouldn’t that be you?
Continuation of: (B1) A Christmas Wish, (B2) As the Right Bell Sounds, (B3) Winter Wonderland
A/N: We left at a real cliffy again last time, and now it’s been a few days so I’m chomping at the bits to sort this out for our dear Brandon and Y/n - let’s complete their story for Rickmas2025 with a marriage - we’ve got so many weddings this year! 😇❤
+A/N: We're celebrating Christmas with my dad tomorrow (here, hosting as usual), but it might be late before I get tomorrow's fic up, and it's also the last one I'm ahead with. 22, 23, and 24 aren't written and 23 I have Z-E-R-O clue what I should write for it, so that'll be fun to explore in a stressed rush as my in-laws are coming and staying for 3 days as well after dad 👀🙈 I hope your December is fabulous and that you're not stressing about like I am 😂👌
It was as if you dared not look at him, and he wondered why. He, who had spoken words of greatest consequence with his heart upon his sleeve most foolishly hopefully, well, he felt uncertain of your wish now that the sturdy ground lay beneath your feet. Had adrenaline overwhelmed you up there? Had he said something he ought not to? My heart is set, and my soul appears equally determined.
“Miss,” he started, clearing his throat as your gentle eyes glanced upwards at him. “Miss, are you finding yourself at a loss for words? Or, is it, perhaps, my actions that cause you a quieting discomfort now, when on steady ground?” The courage it took to speak was enormous. Battles and balls had little on the strength it required to open one’s heart, and his had been closed off for the longest of times. Yet, nothing quite felt like home like how speaking with you did so he found himself able.
“No, Colonel Brandon. Your actions and words have me most—” You turned quiet, averting your gaze as if you felt quite as moved as he. Could it truly be so?
He stepped forward, his hands reaching for yours where they rested against your dress’s outer skirt. He took your hand gently, feeling his heart galloping like horses across a raging battlefield. “I confess myself at a loss for words in your presence, miss. Even though…” He drew a steadying breath, quietly so, as he looked with unwavering eyes on you. “Even though it has never been easier to speak with another person, I am at a loss if you do not tell me your answer to my brazen question.” His heart drummed as if readying for the greatest battle.
“Please, do not prolong my agony but tell me swiftly if you wish to be my wife, despite the few moments shared, we can spend the many moments of the future together. And no, miss, my sense has not been swept away by the cold as you asked previously.” His heart now sat thickly in his throat, the nerves corded themselves under his skin, yet you kept him steady by your mere presence and he found the bravery he was renowned for — albeit for a different reason.
He witnessed your withheld smile falter, and the warmth in your eyes seemed lost from one hopeful moment to the next. “Miss?” he asked, all while keeping your gaze fixed by his, he would not yield in it.
“I am of poverty and servitude, Colonel,” you began with a quiet torment and fear in your voice he sensed echoed under his bravery. “You are far beyond my reach, and I ought not have you fall from the good grace of society by accepting—”
He boldly squeezed your hands. “Accept me. I beg you, to accept this old colonel with little but wealth and memories of war to his name. I will do my best by you, dear. I swear it. If…you will have me. If you will…allow me to attempt to bring you happiness.” There was a struggle within his chest to breathe; his confidence had all but abandoned its post with nought but hard-earned bravery rallying, and where he stood so straight-backed and firm in the views of the world, he felt nothing but fragile hope and a fear unknown to him before. One cannot be brave without fear. The greater the fear, the stronger the bravery needed to overcome it, and I shall overcome it for you.
⩤• YOU •⩥
He was beyond beautiful, from deep voice to bright eyes, straight back to long legs. But, what beauty his appearance held, was of little consequence when he had your heart soaring and your soul fluttering about as if carried by fairies in a swirling dance. His sweet words, his softened gaze, and the gentleness with which he held your stiff hands overwhelmed you in their earnest sweetness. This is a kind man, a prince charming if ever there was one, I’m sure of it…
“Dear, please, do not torture me further when I have you in my hold yet remain unknowing of your heart’s desire.” Your cheeks warmed, the fear ebbed away to nothing. “Will you take a roof cleaner, the daughter of a sweeper, to be your wife? Is it truly your wish to—”
“Yes.” Your breath faltered at his instant forwardness.
“But, Colonel, why? I do not understand what I—”
“Your kindness at heart, your angelic eyes, your sweet care and unassuming yet strong manner of existing in this harsh world, in the reality of your dangerous life, it is a wonder to behold.”
“I… Sir, I don’t understand how you can view me in such a fine manner. I have done nothing to earn such praise.” Your mind darkened, but he pulled on your hands and searched for your gaze with the softness you had only ever witnessed in his.
He drew a deeper breath through his nose and smiled. “Dear, you nearly died gruesomely upon our first meeting, yet you worried further about my health than your own. You have fought through your life dangerously, even I, with battles and wars behind me, appreciate your valour and strength for leading such a dangerous life unapologetically. I have not known many women such as you. I dare say, I have known none before.”
He spoke swiftly, his voice strong yet held low to keep the conversation private. Your heart fluttered, your fingers bent around his hands in return, while you fought tears of happiness at hearing him speak with factual examples of his seemingly misplaced praise. It appeared it was not.
“Miss Y/n, please. You would make me a proud husband should you accept me in marriage. I do not wish to ask for too much, but I will plead for your hand and hope that your heart may one day find warmth for me as my heart holds nothing but love for you.”
“Colonel,” you whispered, wanting to shout to the world that you felt the same. “I would love to be your wife. It would be an honour to be loved by the man I love so utterly in turn. A man so kind, so gentle, and so utterly caring.” You watched his face soften, his shoulders lowering as he seemed to turn light by your words spoken so utterly gently yet happily.
“We shall have a Christmas wedding, dear.”
A thrill shot through you, yet a whole year’s wait sounded too long when you wished to kiss him right then and there. “Within a year?” you asked, and he pulled you into his arms as if he had to have you there that very second.
“By the lord, no. We shall wed this Christmas, if I so must interrupt the Christmas Mass for it.”
⩤•⫘•⩥
Christopher had no need to interrupt the Christmas Mass for the two of you to be wed that Christmas. A mere week and a half had passed when you entered Delaford as Mrs Brandon. You couldn’t quite believe it, but you had no silly little wish of ever waking up if it in fact was a dream spanning weeks upon weeks.
“Darling, my dear love,” Christopher said, holding you close for a second before his head dipped low, and your stomach tangled itself in joyous knots of want as his lips graced yours so utterly softly.
“I love you,” you whispered against his lips.
“As I love you, my dear,” he murmured in return, the thickness of his voice as heavy as the love in your heart.
“Come, they must be waiting for us,” you said, not wanting to spare another second to the people who had witnessed you say yes in the church. But, alas, a wedding party was to be had.
“Duty calls, you mean?”
“Duty calls, time to rally the troops and please the masses,” you whispered cheekily, kissing him once more as butterflies filled your stomach and warmth exploded across your cheeks and chest.
“If I could but whisk you away, to dance across snow and be just you and I, my dear.”
“Yes,” you whispered, kissing his cheek before taking his arm to walk alongside him to the grandly decorated ballroom. “But we must do right by your friends and family, my sweet saviour.”
“Saviour?” he asked, and you nodded.
A little smile, so uncharacteristically mischievous, covered his slightly swollen lips. “I shall take great pleasure in telling Mrs Jennings that wives do, in fact, fall from the sky.”
“Christopher!” you laughed. “What a thing to say,” you continued with barely the countenance to hide your laughing.
You kept walking toward the ballroom as he spoke. “My dear, I believed the vastness of loneliness to be never-ending and all-consuming of my life until you, quite literally, fell from the sky and left me with a fully bruised back and stolen heart.”
“C-Christopher, please, you… My love, you shall never be lonely again. I will be by your side, forever—” you stopped walking, looking up at him with a sudden playful strictness “—but there better not be any other women falling from the sky atop you, you hear me?”
“Loud and clear, ma’am. Loud and clear.”
You laughed, he kissed your temple, and then you marched into the ballroom with wide smiles to the sound of loud cheers from the gathered friends and family. You danced the night away, never stopping to think of how a Christmas wish you’d thought to be so utterly silly and impossible had turned December into an absolute wonder.
Christopher dipped you, his steady hand at your lower back as unyielding as the smile stretching your lips as wide as they could possibly go. A set of violins sped up in their playing, your heart raced in tune, and he kissed you with devotion so earnest pouring out of him, only to be met by yours in equal measure.
“Merry Christmas, dear wife,” he said against your lips.
“Merry Christmas, my sweet husband,” you whispered in turn as he straightened the two of you and the world was so blissfully righted…
LINKTREE // AO3 // MASTERLIST
A/N: Imma just go over here and cry happy tears for a moment — they are so sweet and adoringly lovely. Seriously, they make my heart sing with joy and I hope you have loved following ladder!reader and this brave Colonel of ours this year 💞
Rickmas 2025 Day 20 | The Barchester Chronicles | Obadiah Slope/Grace Madison (OC)
Word Count: 1.1k
Content: pregnancy, death of parent
Part 1: Hello, December
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
When Grace left to visit the doctor, she expected her husband to wish to accompany her — but instead, Obadiah insisted on remaining at home.
“I sense your father needs my counsel now more than ever,” he said to her earnestly, taking her hands in his to kiss her knuckles tenderly. “Would you forgive me for following where the Lord sends me, dearest?”
“Of course, my love,” Grace agreed — how could she ever deny him her forgiveness for following the Lord’s path, knowing as she did his dedication to the church when they married? “I hope to return with only good news.”
“I’m sure you will, Mrs Slope.”
And Grace was returning not only with good news, but with the greatest of news — not only were her recent bouts of sickness not a cause for great concern, but in fact a cause for jubilation.
She tried to contain her excitement as she walked down the lane back to the house she shared with her husband and her father. What an enthralling year it had been! A chance meeting on the road with the chaplain she had admired from afar for so long had led to Obadiah’s dedicated spiritual guidance for Mr Madison, Grace’s father, and his companionship for her, for he oftentimes spent even longer walking the gardens with Grace than he did counselling her father. After such time spent together, Grace’s warm feelings towards the chaplain only grew — and so, apparently, had his towards her, and by Easter he offered his hand in marriage. They were married in the summer and now, December again, Grace had received the most wonderful news from the doctor — that she was carrying her husband’s child.
Her father was very sick; of that much, Grace was certain. His health had only declined, although Obadiah assured her that Mr Madison’s soul was well-nourished. Grace could only hope that God would grant her namesake and allow her father to live long enough to see his grandchild born.
That hope, it seemed, was not to be.
Grace arrived home to find her husband pacing the hallway, and her announcement of her news froze on her tongue when she saw the concerned expression on his brow.
“My love? Whatever is the matter?”
“My dear Grace… let us sit down.”
Obadiah led her into the living room and guided her to sit on the couch. He took her hands in his and bowed his head sorrowfully.
“My dearest wife… how sorry I am to bear this news. After you left for the doctor, I went into your father’s room — and found him unmoving.”
Grace gasped, a hand flying to her mouth.
“You cannot mean —”
“I am sorry, my dear. It seems your father left us during the night.”
Grace let out an anguished sob and buried her head against her husband’s chest, seeking comfort in his presence as grief overwhelmed her. Obadiah placed a hand on her shoulder and patted it gently.
“There, there, my dear. He is with the Lord now.”
She continued to sob, and Obadiah could do nothing but hold her and wait for her tears to pass.
“How awful that he was all alone!” Grace wailed, and Obadiah rubbed her back, hoping her tears would cease shortly.
Cease they did, but not shortly. Obadiah sat with his arms around the weeping woman for longer than he could estimate, and it seemed only to be once she had nothing left to give that her sobs finally subsided and gave way to heavy, laboured breathing, and at last Obadiah felt he could gain some conversation from her.
“Come, now, dearest. No doubt he was asleep at the time — and now he is with the Lord, comforted no doubt in the knowledge that he did not leave his only child wanting. With the fortune your mother coveted, you and I can live a comfortable life, can we not?”
“F - fortune?” you said with a frown, looking up at him, and at last Obadiah was able to relax his arms from the embrace. “Oh, Obadiah, what a cruel jest — I beg of you, now is not the time to speak of the imaginary fortune that existed only in her mind.”
Grace didn’t notice the way her husband froze, only his eye twitching — she was too wrapped in her grief to notice anything at all.
Obadiah’s mind was reeling. Imaginary? The fortune her mother had died for — the secret fortune her father had supposedly hidden all his life — the very fortune that Obadiah had married this pathetic, pitiful whelp for — was imaginary?!
An entire year, wasted. A year he could have spent romancing Mrs Bold for her very real fortune — and here he had spent his time winning the affections of a girl with nothing to her name. The money wasted on the wedding that he had considered an investment in Grace’s inheritance — gone. He had spent endless hours listening to the most boring woman he had ever met, even taken her to bed with the intent of giving her a child to secure the fortune — all to no end.
He had given Mr Madison only half the bottle of arsenic that now sat hidden in his pocket. Half had been enough for a frail old man on death’s door — would it be enough for a healthy young woman?
Was she even that healthy? Obadiah remembered suddenly the reason Grace had left the house which had given him the opportunity to deliver the poison.
“What did the doctor have to say, my dear?”
Grace wiped a stray tear from her eye, took Obadiah’s hands in his, and smiled, some joy attempting to break through beneath the sorrow that was still etched onto her otherwise plain face.
“I suppose, my love, you might say that where the Lord takes with one hand, he gives with another.”
“…Might I?”
“Yes. The sickness of the past few days is no illness at all — I am with child.”
Grace was smiling, grinning even, the joy of motherhood overcoming the grief of the loss of a parent — but Obadiah Slope felt no such joy. He smiled back, giving platitudes of joy and gratefulness, but inside, his heart was sinking.
He should have delivered the poison to the father much earlier — before he had had chance to impregnate the daughter. He would have had no qualms about delivering a second poison to her when discovering the fortune to be only imaginary, ridding himself of the useless wife and perhaps gaining the sympathy of Mrs Bold, sympathy which might turn to comfort and affection — but it was too late. The stupid girl was carrying his child, and he would not be so callous as to poison a pregnant woman.
Rickmas 2025 Day 18 | Sweeney Todd | Judge Turpin/Reader
Word Count: 1.3k
Content: smut, fingering
Part 1: Fireside | Part 3: Christmas Nights
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
Judge Turpin let out a long, deep groan that pierced your eardrum as he spilled inside you, his body shuddering and sweat dripping from his brow. He rolled to the side and collapsed, exhausted, onto the bed.
You, too, were exhausted and sweating all over. Although it was cold outside, with the amount of body heat that you generated between you, it felt as hot as a summer’s day in Judge Turpin’s bedchamber.
You had no idea how much time had passed. It was dark outside, you could see that much; but with the winter evenings getting longer and longer, that gave you little hint as to how long it had been since Turpin had forced you to strip bare, pushed you to your knees, and shoved his cock down your throat.
Apparently, Turpin was finished for the night. He laid on his back, breathing heavily, eyes closed and a satisfied half-smile on his face.
You giggled to yourself, which caused Turpin to open his eyes and look at you, frowning.
“What are you laughing at?”
“Nothing, sir. Only… this is the first time I’ve seen you smile. Is this all it takes?”
Turpin rolled his eyes, but he stretched an arm out to wrap around your shoulder and pull you in close, an unusually affectionate gesture that you would never have expected from him.
Nor would you have expected that you would feel warm, comforted and relaxed in Judge Turpin’s embrace, but here you were, your head resting on his shoulder while he held you close with one arm, the other resting lazily on his chest.
“If you must know, I was smiling because it occurs to me that, for the first time, I have a companion in my bed I don’t wish to evict immediately.”
“Do you… often have companions in your bed, sir?”
“Occasionally. I prefer not to allow whores into my home — too likely to steal from me. I usually go to the whorehouse myself. But I’ve had the occasional woman in my bed — lords’ daughters and the like.”
“And how many court clerks, sir?”
Turpin chuckled. “You would be the first, my dear — and preferably the only, unless I’m to discover all clerks are beautiful women in disguise.”
“I’ve met a few at court, and I’m quite certain they’re all men.”
“Good. I’d prefer to be the only judge with a beautiful woman for a clerk.” Turpin looked down at you curiously. “You seem unperturbed by my talk of whores and lovers.”
“I don’t expect a man like you to be a virgin, sir.”
Turpin raised an eyebrow. “And what, pray tell, is a man like me, exactly?”
You propped yourself up on your elbow as you considered your answer, choosing your words carefully. “Handsome. Powerful. Terrifying. You have the looks to attract women, and the power to convince them — myself included. You’re a man who takes what he wants, that much is clear, sir. I wouldn’t expect you to be chaste.”
“It doesn’t concern you that I may see you as just one of many women I’ve taken to bed?”
“Until a few hours ago, I didn’t think you even saw me as a person. I was surprised enough that you invited me for a walk after court. I certainly wouldn’t be so presumptuous as to expect more from you than I’ve been presented with.”
“I was going to fire you.”
You frowned. “Sir?”
“At the park. That was my intention, before that mutt attacked me. I believed you a man, and yet I had a desire to fill your throat with my cock — I had no choice but to send you away.”
“Then I’m grateful for the mutt’s attack, sir — unless you still intend to fire me, that is.”
Turpin wrapped an arm around your waist and, in one quick movement, flipped you over onto your back, pressing his weight down on you as he looked at you hungrily.
“Whyever should I fire you? Not only are you an excellent clerk, but you take my cock so well. You can deliver a judgment summary to me and leave enough time for a good fuck afterwards. I dare say, Miss [L/n], that you are the best court clerk I could possibly wish for.” He leant down and grazed his teeth against your throat warningly. “But, if you do wish to continue as my clerk, I must set some strict rules.”
“Sir?”
Turpin’s hand found its way between your thighs again and, aided by the slick he’d been coaxing from you all evening, he slipped two fingers inside you.
“Number one: no one must ever discover that you’re a woman. You are to continue your pretense; only I may see the proof of your womanhood.”
He scissored his fingers apart, stretching you out, and you bit your lip to contain a whine.
“Number two: your duties shall be extended outside of court. You will accompany me home after court, to assist with matters out of hours. Again, nobody may discover that said ‘matters’ involve my cock inside your cunt.”
He pressed his thumb against your clit, but he didn’t move — not yet.
“Number three — and this is most important — you may not, ever, so long as I shall live, take another man’s cock. You may not kiss another man. You certainly may not flirt with another man, giving him hope where there is none. Your attention, your lips and your cunt are mine to play with, and mine alone. Do you understand?”
You nodded, eyes tearing up with desperation as he filled you up with his fingers but seemingly refused to move them.
“Say it, my dear. I want to hear the words from your pretty lips.”
“I understand, sir.”
He flicked his thumb against your clit, just once.
“Say you’ll never take another man’s cock.”
“I’ll never take another man’s cock, sir.”
Another flick of his thumb, and another whine of desperation from you.
“Say that you’re mine.”
“I’m yours, sir. Please…”
Turpin grinned hungrily, his lust-blown eyes staring at you like a predator about to devour its prey.
“That you are, my dear, that you are. Don’t worry, you’ll get what you desire. I want to feel you cum around my fingers. Do you think you can do that, darling?”
“Yes,” you whined, practically begging now.
“Good girl,” Turpin whispered in your ear, and with that, his fingers began pumping in and out of you furiously. He watched your face carefully, as if memorising the way the pleasure he was giving you was etched across your features.
Somewhere outside, reminding you the rest of the world still existed, you could hear the voices of a choir in the street singing carols as they passed the side of the Judge’s house.
“God rest you merry, gentlemen / Let nothing you dismay…”
Turpin chuckled. “I am a merry gentleman indeed tonight — but as for rest, I doubt we’ll be getting much of that. Shall we call off tomorrow’s hearing and sleep instead?”
“I - I doubt we’d get much sleep, sir,” you gasped between moans.
“Hmm, right you are. Besides — I quite like the idea of having you nearby, knowing your cunt is waiting for me, while counsel drone on. And nothing will grant me such relief at the end of the day like a good fuck with my favourite court clerk.”
You didn’t reply — you couldn’t. Any coherent thought was gone from your head, pushed out by Judge Turpin and his fingers, dragging moan after moan from your throat, and when your orgasm followed, Turpin watched lustfully as your every body muscle contracted, and he thought that the sight of you writhing in pleasure beneath him was the closest one could ever come to looking at the face of God.
As you came down from your high, panting, Turpin withdrew his fingers from within you and raised them to your lips. You obediently licked them clean, tasting yourself mixed with him, and only when Turpin was satisfied you had swallowed it all did he replace his fingers with his tongue, kissing you sloppily — and you knew, from the hardening length pressing against your thigh, that the night was far from over.
