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editing alan rickman characters to look bad in photo prank
⋆.𐙚 ̊ incl: severus snape, sinclair, colonel brandon, eli michaelson, frank benson, lionel shahbandar
first post!! lmk if i should add any characters or give me suggestions on what to do next!! 
Title: Valentine's Day
₊˚୧ CHARACTERS: Jamie | Sinclair Bryant | Severus Snape | Judge Turpin | Colonel Brandon ₊˚୧ PAIRING: x Reader [there's no gender specific pronouns so feel free to read it as a male/female/non-binary/etc! Valentine's for everyone!] ₊˚୧ HINT: Valentine's cards + small scenario for each! [ Enjoy! ]
WILL YOU BE MY VALENTINE?
Jamie
Jamie stared at the calendar on the wall, arms crossed over his chest with an impatient look on his face, lips scrunched, scoffing. Valentine's day was due, and for the first time, he was going to spend it as a ghost, watching others instead of having a share himself. But maybe he could make it work? Yes. He knew how he'd ask you. Would you be able to refuse Jamie when you'd find him waiting for you at home, playing your favourite melody? Perhaps. But you would definitely not be able to when he'd come over with a handwritten letter, the best he could come up with in this short time. His grumpy expression, everlasting, hid a hopeful glint in his eyes as he gave it to you. "So, darling, this is terrible, honestly, this is terrible. I couldn't do more because look at this! You have no supplies to make it better, but you should honestly appreciate the effort and give me a chance-"
Sinclair Bryant
"It might be a bit out of the blue, but tomorrow, this amazing place, and I tell you, darling, amazing place, they have the best pastries in town, they have this offer for Valentine's, and I couldn't help but think about you. I don't know anyone who enjoys a good treat as I do, but to get to the point, if you want to come with me, I'll pay for it, alright? I would love to have someone to enjoy some sweets on this day." Sinclair's honesty was remarkable, sweet and hard to refuse. He hoped you would agree, because secretly, he was going to surprise you with the 1+1 Valentine's pastries deal!
Severus Snape
Severus asked it because he had been nudged to do so by McGonagall, who insisted that everyone should have a partner for Valentine's. It wasn't like he had all that many choices, after all, only one person he tolerated enough, and… perhaps was fond of, enough to consider asking this question to. Whichever answer you would give him, though, he wouldn't care. A yes or a no, it held the same weight to him. That's what he told himself, of course. But deep down, a rejection would do even more harm to his already damaged self. "Don't flatter yourself. I am compelled to say this, for it is… merely a custom for this day."
Judge Turpin
"Your answer, dear?" You didn't feel like you had an answer, because frankly, you didn't. You didn't dare to get on Judge Turpin's bad side when you already knew the stories of what came to happen to the ones who dared to refuse Turpin's offers. Turpin towered over you with an expectant reaction, eyes studying you with a glance that told you his intentions to have you for this day were not of pure or innocent intent. Far from it, he wanted you for something impure, and you had no choice in the matter. "Hurry, I don't have all day."
Colonel Brandon
"I am aware that this query may be ill-timed, but as St. Valentine's Day approaches, I find myself compelled to offer my most sincere sentiments. I hold you in the highest regard and…should be most honoured if I might have the pleasure of your company on that day." The Colonel felt a wave of anxiety which he refused to show as he spoke the words. He was unfortunately used to rejections and would not be surprised if you turned him down. However, his desire to be in your company for the day was unmatched, for he had been lovestruck with you for many months, and this had been the most fit opportunity to confess, to a respectable length, his intentions.
COMMENT if you want to be added to the tag list so you're notified each time I post!
Title: Night Sins
Summary: You only meant to surprise and comfort Sinclair Bryant with a quiet evening by the fire, candlelight flickering softly around the library, but you didn’t expect it to become one of the most loving and sinful nights of your life… and the beginning of a future neither of you was afraid of anymore.
Author's note: Hey guys 🤍Okay, so apparently disappearing for months and then returning with candlelight, emotional damage, yearning, and Sinclair Bryant behaviour is just who I am now 😭 I swear, at this point it feels like I’ve been playing hide-and-seek with you guys. But after seeing all the love you guys have been giving Sinclair, I thought it was only right to launch him first, hehe. I hope you guys enjoy this soft/sinful little chapter, and let me know what you think! 😉
Warnings: Smut and Fluff
Pairing: Sinclair Bryant x Fem Reader
Part 1 and Part 2 here
Cross-posted on AO3
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After the under-the-desk incident with Sinclair, things didn’t rush forward the way you might have expected.
They softened instead.
Sinclair’s restraint didn’t disappear; it shifted. His affection found quieter ways to surface, gentler but more constant. Mornings began with longer kisses, the kind where he lingered just a second more than necessary, his forehead pressed to yours as if memorising you before the day stole him away.
When you walked together, his arm would settle around your waist without thought, his thumb tracing absent circles at your side. Sometimes his hand rested at your shoulder, grounding, protective. Sometimes he pulled you close in the kitchen, pressing a kiss to your hair as you worked.
He touched you more.
But he never pushed.
You felt it, the hesitation beneath the warmth that you thought was resolved. The carefulness. As though some part of him was afraid that if he took one step too far, one touch, everything might shatter.
And that was how you knew.
You were going to have to take the reins again.
Friday came quietly.
You woke to soft morning light filtering through the curtains, Sinclair already dressed for work, propped slightly against the headboard beside you. One hand idly caressed your hair while the other held a book, some car magazine he’d half-read, half-forgotten. When he noticed you stirring, his gaze softened immediately. He leaned down, kissing you slowly and familiarly, his palm cupping your cheek.
“Lucky thing,” he murmured, voice still husky with sleep. “An unexpected day off.”
You smiled, fingers curling into his sleeve. “Someone has to keep the house from missing you too much.”
He laughed softly and slipped out of bed, and you followed him downstairs, already moving in sync. Making his morning coffee had become a ritual, the exact grind he liked, the precise splash of milk, and the little spoon of sugar you pretended not to notice he needed. When you handed him the mug, he kissed your knuckles before taking a sip.
“I’ll be late,” he said gently. “Dinner with partners. Dreadful thing.”
You tilted your head, feigning seriousness. “Try to survive.”
“I’ll do my best.” Another kiss, longer this time. “Don’t wait up.”
You watched him leave with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, because you already had a plan.
The house felt different when Sinclair wasn’t in it.
Quieter. Bigger.
But still warm, still alive, thanks to Mrs Lora. The radio hummed softly through the halls as she baked, the scent of sugar and spice clinging to the air. You spent the morning together, sharing breakfast, laughter, and small, easy conversation. You helped her tidy the house, despite her protests; that was just who you were. You ate lunch together too, and when the afternoon settled, you began preparing dinner.
The library was your destination.
Sinclair’s favourite room — dark wood, leather-bound books, the fireplace waiting patiently beneath tall windows. You set up the candles carefully, one by one, placing them where the glow will soften the room rather than overwhelm it. Cushions were arranged by the hearth. A blanket folded neatly nearby.
Mrs Lora watched you from the kitchen doorway, drying her hands.
"So", she said gently, “you are planning something.”
You laughed under your breath. “Is it that obvious?”
She reached out and squeezed your hand. “He has carried his heart very carefully for a long time. He has suffered enough. I’m glad you’re here for him, honey.”
You thanked her softly, and when everything was ready, you sent her home with food packed neatly for her husband, one last small act of care.
“I’ll leave you two to it,” she said, smiling. “Enjoy your evening.”
Once the door closed behind her, you finally let yourself breathe.
You showered, changed, and slipped into Sinclair’s long white shirt, the fabric hanging loose and familiar against your skin. By the time dusk fell, the house was ready.
And dark.
He had woken before you, not because he needed to, but because he wanted to.
The light had not yet fully broken through the curtains, leaving the room in that soft grey-blue quiet where everything felt suspended, and you were curled toward him, breathing slow and even, one hand resting lightly against his ribs as though even in sleep you refused to let him drift too far.
He didn’t move.
He rarely did, not when you were like this, warm, unaware, close in a way the world never saw, because there was something quietly sacred about these moments, something he had come to value more than he ever expected.
Careful not to disturb you, his fingers moved gently through your hair, his thumb tracing the curve of your temple as though committing it to memory rather than simply touching it.
Something had shifted in him recently.
Not desire, that had always been there, but awareness. Of how deeply it ran. Of how easily you had become something essential rather than incidental since the under-the-desk incident.
It unsettled him.
Not enough to pull away, but enough to make him quieter about it.
When you stirred, he softened immediately, the instinctive guard slipping without resistance as he leaned down to kiss you slowly, letting it linger just long enough to say what he would not put into words.
Stay.
“Lucky thing,” he murmured, voice still rough with sleep. “An unexpected day off.”
You smiled at him, and something in his chest tightened—not painfully, but with a kind of quiet certainty he was still learning how to carry.
He took longer than necessary getting ready, adjusting his cufflinks with unnecessary precision, lingering near the bed under the pretense of reading when in truth he hadn’t taken in a single word.
He only stayed because you were there.
Because leaving felt… less appealing than it should have.
Downstairs, he watched you move around the kitchen in that effortless rhythm you had built together, the way you measured the coffee without looking, the way your fingers brushed his when you handed him the mug, as though these small, ordinary moments held more weight than they had any right to.
He kissed your knuckles without thinking.
Grounding himself.
“I’ll be late,” he said gently, already knowing he disliked the sentence.
Obligations waited for him. Expectations. A version of himself that existed long before you softened its edges.
“Don’t wait up,” he added, though he didn’t mean it.
He never did.
Part of him always hoped you would.
When he stepped out the door, he glanced back once.
You were standing in the hallway light, watching him.
And for a brief moment, one he didn’t allow himself to dwell on—he nearly turned around.
Nearly stayed.
But instead, he carried the image of you with him.
All day.
The dinner had been tedious from the start.
Sinclair sat at the head of the polished table, a glass of amber liquor resting between his fingers as conversation moved steadily around him—contracts, numbers, projections, expansion. He contributed where necessary, nodding at the appropriate moments, offering precise and controlled input when required.
But his mind was elsewhere.
It kept drifting back to you.
To the way you had looked at him that morning—sleepy, warm, wrapped in his shirt. To the way your fingers had curled around his sleeve when he kissed you goodbye.
He checked his watch once.
Then again.
A partner laughed loudly at something trivial, and Sinclair offered a polite smile, lifting his glass to his lips, though he barely registered the taste.
Distracted.
Unsettled.
Wanting to leave.
He wondered if you were asleep already, or if you had waited up like you sometimes did, curled into the armchair with a book you weren’t really reading. He wondered if the house felt quieter without him.
The thought settled low in his chest.
When the evening finally began to wind down, he didn’t linger.
He excused himself with practised ease, shook hands, offered composed farewells, and the moment he stepped outside into the cool night air, he exhaled more fully than he had all evening.
He wanted to go home.
Not to the house.
To you.
The road home stretched dark and quiet before him, headlights cutting clean paths through the night as the steady hum of the engine filled the silence, and somewhere between one turn and the next, his thoughts arrived home long before he did.
He found himself imagining it without effort.
Slipping inside quietly so he wouldn’t wake you.
Setting his things aside with practiced care.
Pushing open the bedroom door just enough to see you there, asleep and undisturbed, your breathing slow and even beneath the covers.
He would brush the hair from your face.
He always did.
He would slide into bed beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist, pulling you gently against him just to feel your warmth, your presence, something real after a day that had felt increasingly hollow without it.
Even if you didn’t stir.
Especially if you didn’t.
There was something deeply grounding about holding you when the world wasn’t watching, when there were no expectations placed on him, no roles to perform, no versions of himself to maintain—just quiet, steady certainty.
He hadn’t realized, until recently, how much he had come to rely on that.
On you.
The gravel crunched softly beneath his tires as he turned into the estate, the familiar path unfolding before him—but almost immediately, something felt… off.
The house was dark.
Completely dark.
Not dim, not partially lit, but absent of even the smallest glow—no lamp left on in the hallway, no soft kitchen light, no quiet flicker behind drawn curtains.
He slowed instinctively, his gaze lingering on the windows as though expecting something to change.
Mrs Lora would have gone home by now, yes, but you?
You never left the house like this.
There was always something.
A light. A sign. A presence.
His fingers tightened slightly against the steering wheel before he consciously forced them to relax, pushing the unease aside even as it settled low in his chest.
Don’t be absurd.
And yet—
The stillness of the night pressed in around him as he stepped out of the car, the air quieter than usual, the estate holding that strange, suspended silence that made even the smallest sound feel out of place.
He approached the front door, keys cool in his hand, and unlocked it with measured ease before stepping inside.
“Y/N? Hello?”
His voice carried faintly through the hallway, brushing against polished wood and empty space, echoing just enough to remind him how quiet it truly was.
For a brief moment, there was nothing.
Then—
“Library, Sinclair.”
Your voice reached him from deeper within the house, calm and composed, not softened by sleep, not distant or distracted, but deliberate in a way that made him pause where he stood.
Something in the tone.
Something in the timing.
It wasn’t wrong.
But it wasn’t ordinary either.
And that alone was enough to sharpen his attention.
His gaze shifted toward the faint line of light spilling from beneath the library door, and after only a moment’s hesitation, he moved toward it, each step steady but more aware now, more attuned to the subtle shift in the atmosphere.
He reached the door and paused only briefly.
Then pushed it open—
And stepped inside.
You were sitting on the windowsill, book open in your lap, pretending to read while you waited for Sinclair.
When headlights suddenly swept across the room, your heart leapt.
You closed the book at once.
A quick glance around, everything in place.
Candles arranged, table set and fire ready.
As you were doing so, you heard the front door open.
“Y/N? Hello?”
His voice echoed faintly down the hallway.
From the shadows, you called back, calm and composed, “Library, Sinclair.”
You heard his footsteps approaching down the hallway, steady, unhurried, the familiar rhythm of leather soles against polished wood, and your pulse quickened despite all your careful planning.
Moving swiftly but silently, you slipped behind the library door, pressing yourself against the cool wall just as the handle turned.
The door creaked softly as he pushed it open, the sound stretching in the quiet like a held breath, and the moment he stepped fully inside, you reached out without hesitation and turned the key behind him.
The lock clicked.
Soft.
Final.
He hadn’t noticed yet.
You didn’t speak.
Instead, slowly, deliberately, you stepped away from the door and crossed the room with unhurried grace, the hem of his shirt brushing against your thighs as you moved.
You paused beside the largest candle, the thick ivory pillar set at the centre of the table, taller than the rest, waiting.
You struck the match.
The flame flared briefly, bright and sharp in the dimness, before settling into a steady glow.
You held it to the wick.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
It caught.
And the flame rose, tall, confident, golden, brighter than the others.
One by one, you moved to the remaining candles, lighting them in a slow procession, allowing their glow to build gradually until the entire room softened into warm amber.
Firelight bloomed outward in waves.
Across the towering bookshelves.
Across the polished wood floor.
Across the small table set neatly by the hearth, sandwiches arranged, tea waiting, glasses catching reflections like molten gold.
And finally,
Across you.
Standing calm. Certain. Unmistakably intentional.
His shirt hung loosely on your frame, the sleeves pushed back just enough, the fabric falling to mid-thigh. Your bare legs caught the candlelight, skin warmed by the glow and shadowed by flickering fire.
The windows had been left slightly ajar, just enough to let the cool night air drift inside, carrying with it the distant hush of the river and the quiet murmur of evening beyond the estate.
Only then did you see him.
Not directly.
But in the dark reflection of the window glass.
He had stopped moving, completely.
Frozen where he stood.
You could see his silhouette first — tall, still and then the way his head tilted slightly, trying to understand what he was looking at.
Trying to understand you.
Then you turned to face him.
Not abruptly but not shyly as well.
Slowly, as though you wanted him to see every second of it.
The firelight caught the curve of your cheek first, then your mouth, then the steady calm in your eyes. You let him look. Let him take in the sight of you standing there, composed and deliberate, wrapped in nothing but his shirt and candlelight.
His coat slipped from his fingers as though gravity had suddenly doubled. It slid from his shoulders, half-caught in his hand before falling carelessly against his arm, entirely forgotten.
For a moment, he simply stared.
You stepped toward him.
Not hurried but measured.
Each step soft against the wooden floor, the hem of the shirt brushing your thighs as you moved through the golden glow.
“Come here, Sinclair,” you said gently, your voice low enough that it felt like it belonged only to the two of you. “Relax. Take off your coat. Let’s have some time together.”
He blinked, actually blinked like a man who had walked into something too carefully crafted to be accidental, too intimate to be coincidence.
Slowly, almost mechanically, he finished shrugging off his coat and placed it over the back of a nearby chair. His movements were controlled, but his eyes betrayed him.
They never left you.
Not once.
“I… wasn’t expecting this,” he admitted at last, his voice quieter than usual, stripped of its usual polish.
“I know,” you replied with a small, knowing smile. “That’s rather the point.”
You gestured toward the table beside the fire, where the candlelight shimmered against glass and porcelain.
“Mrs Lora helped me,” you continued lightly. “Grilled chicken sandwiches. Chamomile tea. I even packed some up for her and sent her home early. Thought you might be hungry after your night out with your partner bros.”
A faint, reluctant huff of laughter left him, warm and disbelieving.
“They are not my ‘bros,’ darling,” he corrected, straightening slightly out of habit. “They are associates.”
“Mm-hmm,” you hummed, stepping a little closer. “Very serious. Very corporate. I’m sure you discussed spreadsheets and world domination.”
Sinclair's gaze swept the room, then slowed, assessing.
The candles, fire, carefully set table, the locked door.
And then it returned to you where something in his expression shifted with less confusion and more awareness.
You closed the remaining distance between you until only inches separated your bodies. You could feel the faint warmth radiating from him, the subtle rise and fall of his breath.
Your hand lifted slowly between you, not rushed, not hesitant, but deliberate, until your fingers found the front of his shirt.
For a moment, you didn’t move.
You simply let your fingertips rest there, feeling the warmth beneath the fabric, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the solid reality of him standing so close.
Then, you smoothed your hand downward, intentional in every inch.
Your palm flattened lightly against his chest, gliding over the fine cotton as though confirming he was real, as though grounding both of you in the weight of this moment.
He didn’t stop you and didn’t even flinch.
But you felt the subtle change in him, the way his breath deepened, the way his shoulders tightened just slightly beneath your touch.
“Think whatever you want,” you murmured, your voice no longer playful but steady, layered with something quieter, something far more certain.
Your fingers traced absent patterns against his shirt, slow enough to be distracting, gentle enough to be dangerous.
Then you let the silence stretch.
Just long enough for him to feel it.
“But tonight…” you continued, softer now, your tone dipping lower as though the words themselves carried weight.
You lifted your eyes to his fully, not glancing, not shy, holding him there with your gaze.
“…you’re mine.”
The words did not leave you in a rush or with sharp insistence; they settled between you instead, warm and absolute, carrying a quiet certainty that did not need to be raised to be understood.
His breath faltered, not from surprise, not from protest, but from something far deeper and more intimate, a subtle yielding that seemed to unfold within him before you could even see it in his expression.
The air between you shifted almost tangibly, thickening as though the room itself had grown attentive to the moment that it wrapped itself around the two of you.
The way he looked at you, god.
Like you’d just stolen the ground from beneath his feet.
You both settled near the fireplace, close enough to feel its warmth but not quite touching at first. The food you had carefully prepared remained mostly untouched on the table beside you, the steam long since fading from the tea as it cooled unnoticed. Neither of you seemed to care. The world beyond that room had dissolved into something distant and unimportant.
Firelight flickered across Sinclair’s face, softening the lines that usually held authority and restraint. Without his coat, without his tie, without the weight of expectation pressing against his shoulders, he looked younger somehow. Gentler. Less like the man who commanded rooms, and more like the man who let you see him when no one else could.
Yours.
After a quiet moment, you rose and crossed the small space between you. He watched you carefully, almost reverently, as though you were something fragile—or something sacred.
You lowered yourself in front of him, kneeling slowly, your hands sliding over his thighs with deliberate intention, feeling the warmth of him even through the fabric. His fingers twitched at his sides, as though he wanted to touch you but wasn’t certain he had permission.
You reached for his hands and guided them upward, placing them firmly on your hips and holding them there.
“Sinclair,” you whispered softly.
He swallowed, his throat working under your gaze.
“You keep stopping yourself,” you murmured.
“I—” he began, but the words stalled.
“You don’t have to be afraid with me.”
The fire cracked behind you, and his thumbs tightened unconsciously against your waist. You leaned closer, brushing your nose lightly against his.
“Let me choose you,” you breathed. “The way you’ve been choosing me every single day.”
His eyes closed briefly, as though the simple honesty of that hurt him more than anything else could. When he opened them again, they were glassy, unguarded.
“I’m afraid,” he admitted quietly.
Your heart tightened.
“Of what?”
His voice came out rough, stripped of polish. “I’m afraid of wanting you this much.”
Oh.
Oh, Sinclair.
You cupped his face immediately, your thumbs resting gently along his cheekbones.
“How can you even think that?” you whispered. “Do you know I thank my lucky stars every day for that lunch we shared? For you? For getting a man like you?”
Your thumb brushed softly along his cheek.
“It’s me who worries I don’t deserve you. Not the other way around.”
His breath trembled faintly, and you softened further.
“I know someone hurt you,” you continued gently, “and I hate that she made you believe loving someone is something dangerous.”
You pressed your forehead to his.
“But I’m not going anywhere. You hear me?”
You guided his hands tighter against your hips, grounding him.
“Feel me. I’m yours. No one else. Just you.”
Then you kissed him.
Slowly. Warmly. Without demand.
There was no hunger in it, no urgency, just certainty. And that certainty was what undid him.
His hands finally moved of their own accord, sliding up your waist and pulling you closer as though he could not bear even an inch of space between you. His kiss deepened—not rough, not wild, but desperate in its tenderness, like a man who had starved himself of something essential and finally allowed himself to taste it.
When you shifted into his lap, he did not protest. He did not hesitate. He simply wrapped his arms around you, pressing his forehead against your shoulder and breathing you in like you were home.
For the first time since you had known him…
Sinclair stopped holding back.
Somewhere between breaths and soft, lingering kisses, his hands tightened slightly at your waist, not possessive but certain, as though something inside him had finally settled. Then he shifted, gently, carefully, as though you were something precious, and lowered you onto the thick rug before the fireplace, the wool warm from the heat and soft beneath your back.
“Sinclair—” you began with a soft, half-laugh, but the sound faded when you saw his expression.
The hesitation was gone.
What remained was want—raw, honest, and no longer hidden.
His knuckles brushed your cheek as though he needed to be sure you were still there.
“You make it very difficult to behave,” he murmured.
Your heart fluttered wildly. “Then don’t.”
That was all the permission he needed.
He leaned down and kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, as though memorizing the shape of you. His mouth traced from your lips to your jaw, then down along the curve of your neck, never rushing, every kiss lingering like a confession.
His hands slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, warm palms grazing your skin in a touch that was grounding rather than greedy.
“Still okay?” he whispered against your collarbone.
You nodded immediately. “More than okay.”
A quiet breath of relief left him, as though he needed to hear that more than he needed anything else.
The shirt slipped away somewhere between kisses, forgotten beside you, and the cool air against your skin made you inhale sharply—but his hands followed at once, warm and steady, reverent in their touch.
Not consuming.
Reverent.
Like he could hardly believe he was allowed to hold you this way.
“God…” he murmured softly, his voice almost breaking. “You’re…”
The words failed him.
Instead, he let his lips trace slow paths across your shoulder and down your stomach, every place he touched turning warm beneath his mouth. Your fingers threaded through his hair, holding him close.
That was when you realized something important.
He wasn’t trying to take.
He was trying to give.
Always giving. Always careful. Always putting you first.
And so you smiled quietly to yourself.
With a playful shift of movement, you rolled, reversing your positions so that he lay beneath you, blinking up in mild surprise. You straddled his hips, leaning down just enough for your hair to fall around his face like a curtain.
“I think,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his, “it’s my turn.”
His throat bobbed. “Your turn for what?”
You kissed him once, soft and deliberate.
“To take care of you.”
Your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, unhurried and teasing as you eased the fabric from his shoulders along with his trousers. The reaction was immediate, he shivered beneath you, this man who commanded boardrooms and unsettled executives reduced to quiet vulnerability under your touch.
“I’d like to give back that massage you gave me,” you murmured.
His hands found your hips automatically. “Darling,” he said hoarsely, “you don’t have to—”
“I want to.”
That silenced him instantly.
You pressed a kiss to his chest, then another, your hands smoothing over his shoulders as your thumbs worked gently into the tension you knew he carried daily. He melted beneath you, a soft, helpless sound slipping from his throat as your lips followed the slow path your hands created.
You deliberately skipped the places he expected, brushing past instead of settling, teasing without cruelty.
“Cruel girl…” he murmured faintly.
“You’re tense,” you whispered against his skin. “I’m helping.”
“You’re doing the opposite,” he breathed, though he made no attempt to stop you.
By the time you lifted yourself to look at him again, he appeared utterly undone, hair disheveled, breathless, eyes dark and soft and entirely yours.
And then, slowly, carefully, as though afraid you might vanish if he moved too fast, he shifted once more.
His hands slid to your waist, drawing you closer until his forehead rested against yours. Instead of rushing forward, he began with something far more dangerous.
He kissed you once.
Soft.
Then your cheek.
Your jaw.
Your throat.
And with each kiss, he murmured quiet confessions against your skin.
“Thank you… for the coffee every morning…”
Another kiss.
“For waiting up for me…”
Another.
“For choosing me…”
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Sinclair—”
“For loving me when I don’t quite know how to deserve it.”
And that—
That was what undid you.
He didn’t stop kissing you.
His lips moved slowly over yours, down the curve of your jaw, lingering at your throat as his hands trailed lower — fingertips tracing warm paths over your stomach, dipping lower with deliberate slowness that made your breath shudder.
“Sinclair…” you whispered, over and over, like a prayer.
He smiled faintly against your skin, pleased by the sound of his name falling from your lips.
His touch grew more purposeful, coaxing, patient, making sure you were ready, making sure you felt nothing but him.
“Oh, darling,” he murmured, voice rough with restraint, “you’re ready for me.”
You arched toward him at the sound of that tone alone, your fingers sliding through his hair before drifting lower, finding him and stroking slowly, wanting to feel him the way he was making you feel.
A low sound escaped his throat.
“Sinclair… I want you. Please… I want you now.”
He stilled at that.
Not teasing, but steady.
He lifted himself slightly, adjusting so he hovered between your thighs, one hand cradling your cheek. His eyes searched yours — dark, intense, but soft in a way only you ever saw.
“I love you, my darling.”
Your chest tightened. “I love you too.”
When he finally pressed forward and joined with you, you both gasped softly, the sensation overwhelming in the most beautiful way.
He moved slowly at first.
Gentle.
Measured.
Like he was afraid to rush something sacred.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between you.
The firelight flickered against the walls, shadows shifting as your bodies moved together in a steady, unhurried rhythm.
His lips brushed your neck, your collarbone, whispering your name against your skin.
“Look at me,” he murmured.
You did.
And the intensity in his eyes stole the air from your lungs.
The pace shifted, not frantic, but firmer, more demanding. The slow control gave way to raw need as your breathing grew uneven.
“Sinclair…” you whimpered.
His grip tightened around you.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “Always.”
The pressure built between you, tightening, coiling.
“Darling… I’m close,” you whispered, voice trembling.
“Me too,” he breathed,voice strained..
His pace quickened just slightly, not frantic, just deeper, more certain, and you clung to him, pulling him closer still.
“Together,” he murmured.
He moved deeper, closer, pulling you firmly against him as the tension finally snapped.
The release hit like a wave crashing against stone, powerful, overwhelming, stealing the world away for a few suspended seconds.
You clung to him through it.
He buried his face against your neck, holding you tightly as both of you trembled, breathing ragged and uneven.
When it passed, he didn’t pull away.
Instead, he wrapped his arms around you tightly and rolled onto his side, dragging you with him so you were tucked safely against his chest.
Your fingers traced slow circles over his skin as your breathing gradually steadied.
The fire burned low and the world felt quiet again.
He pressed a soft kiss into your hair.
And neither of you let go.
For a long while, neither of you moved.
You lay tangled together on the rug, the fire now burning low, the air warm and heavy with contentment. Sinclair’s arm was wrapped securely around your waist, his fingers lazily tracing patterns against your back as though he was still convincing himself you were real.
You pressed a soft kiss against his collarbone.
He hummed in response.
And then—
Your stomach growled.
Loudly.
You froze.
There was a beat of silence before Sinclair’s chest began to shake with quiet laughter.
“Darling,” he murmured against your hair, “are you hungry?”
You groaned softly, hiding your face against him. “Maybe a little.”
“My sandwich,” he said solemnly, glancing toward the untouched table, “has been calling to me for quite some time. I’ve been attempting to ignore it out of devotion.”
You laughed, swatting lightly at his chest. “Devotion?”
“Yes,” he replied seriously. “Very heroic of me.”
Reluctantly, the two of you rose, gathering discarded cushions and straightening the rug with soft smiles that wouldn’t leave your faces. Instead of abandoning the room for morning chaos, you found yourselves cleaning together — blowing out candles, stacking plates, wiping crumbs from the table.
At some point, Sinclair handed you his shirt with a quiet, knowing look.
You slipped it on, the fabric still warm from him, sleeves swallowing your hands as the hem brushed mid-thigh. He paused just to look at you, not teasing, not smug.
Just… soft.
“You look rather pleased with yourself,” you murmured.
“I am,” he replied simply.
It wasn’t glamorous.
It wasn’t dramatic.
But it felt… intimate.
Domestic.
Like something permanent.
Afterwards, you showered, separately this time, though he lingered by the doorway with a fond expression that made you blush, and eventually fell into bed wrapped around one another, sleep claiming you almost instantly.
He had expected many things when he walked through the front door that evening.
A quiet house.
An empty bed.
Perhaps finding you asleep upstairs with a forgotten book beside you, curled beneath the blankets while a lamp burned softly nearby.
But not this.
Not your voice calling for him from the darkened library.
Not the sight of candlelight warming the room in soft amber waves.
And certainly not you standing there in his shirt beside a carefully prepared table as though the entire evening had been created solely for him.
At first, he had assumed the power must have gone out somewhere on the estate, that perhaps you had chosen the library simply for the warmth of the fire and the comfort of candlelight.
But then he saw the table.
The tea.
The food untouched and waiting.
You waiting.
And he realized none of it had been accidental.
You had planned this for him.
No one had ever done that before.
Not without expectation.
Not without wanting something in return.
But you had looked at him that night as though loving him had been reason enough.
And somehow, that stayed with him far more than the intimacy itself.
Because long after the fire dimmed and your breathing softened against his chest, what lingered most in his mind was not desire, but the quiet realization that someone had finally created softness for him instead of demanding strength from him.
Overnight, something inside him had quieted.
The fears. The hesitation. The constant instinct to hold part of himself back in preparation for loss.
You had touched every guarded part of him with steady hands and asked for nothing except honesty in return.
And if he could have done anything in that moment, he thought he might have stayed there forever, wrapped around you on the rug beside the dying fire, listening to your sleepy laughter and feeling your heartbeat against his chest.
Or perhaps he would have lived through that evening again and again, exactly as it was, just to watch you look at him that way one more time.
Because for the first time in longer than he cared to admit, home no longer felt like a place.
It felt like a person.
You woke to the faint sound of Mrs Lora’s radio drifting up from downstairs, something cheerful and familiar humming through the house.
You reached beside you.
Empty.
The balcony doors were slightly open, curtains moving lazily in the morning breeze.
Curious, you stepped outside onto the upper balcony, and that’s when you saw him.
Below, in the garden just beyond the terrace, Sinclair stood in the early sunlight, sleeves rolled to his forearms, carefully arranging breakfast on a small table he had carried out himself — fruit, fresh bread, tea already poured, everything placed with meticulous care.
For a moment, you didn’t call out.
You just watched him.
The way the light caught in his hair. The way he adjusted the plates like it truly mattered.
And then you leaned over the railing slightly.
“Is that for me,” you called softly, “or Mrs Lora?”
He looked up immediately.
He turned at once, eyes softening when he saw you.
“For Mrs Lora, obviously,” he replied gravely. “She is an angel, and even if I attempted to charm her, she would refuse me out of loyalty to Mr Alfonso.”
You laughed.
“Will you come down, my darling?” he added, holding out a hand.
You quickly freshened up, pulling on soft sweatpants and a jumper before hurrying downstairs. Mrs Lora glanced at you knowingly from the kitchen.
“Sinclair is not going anywhere, darling,” she said warmly.
You only grinned and continued outside.
For a moment, he was nowhere in sight.
And then—
Strong arms wrapped around you from behind, lifting you clean off your feet as he spun you once in the morning air.
“Good morning, my dear,” he murmured against your ear.
You turned in his arms, mirroring his tone perfectly. “Good morning, my dear.”
You both laughed.
He kissed your temple before guiding you to the table.
The dock shimmered in the distance, children’s laughter echoing faintly from somewhere down the shoreline. Birds called from the trees, and the sunlight painted everything gold.
You ate slowly, knees brushing beneath the table.
At one point, Sinclair reached across and took your hand.
His thumb traced over your knuckles thoughtfully.
“I think,” he said quietly, watching the light dance over the water, “I would very much like to wake up like this for the rest of my life.”
Not dramatic.
Not on one knee.
Just steady.
Certain.
He turned to you then, expression soft but serious.
“If you’ll have me.”
There wasn’t even a pause.
You were already moving.
You lunged forward, knocking your chair back in the process, tackling him around the shoulders so suddenly that his own chair tipped backward onto the grass with a startled thud.
“YES,” you laughed breathlessly, half on top of him now. “Yes, yes, obviously yes!”
He burst into laughter beneath you, arms wrapping around your waist as he steadied you both on the ground.
“I shall take that as agreement,” he managed.
You kissed him — quick, bright, full of sunlight and joy.
That’s when the back door flew open.
“What on earth are you two doing?” Mrs Lora called, hands on her hips, though her smile betrayed her amusement.
You turned, still half draped over Sinclair.
“We’re getting married!” you announced.
Sinclair blinked up at you. “We are?”
You looked down at him. “We are.”
He smiled slowly.
“Well then,” he said, brushing hair from your face, “I suppose we are.”
Mrs Lora clucked affectionately. “I leave you alone for one evening…”
And as the morning sun carried your laughter across the garden, neither of you was afraid of forever.
Sinclair had been awake for some time before the rest of the house began to stir.
The morning light spilled slowly across the room, pale gold slipping through the curtains as he lay on his back, one arm wrapped loosely around your waist while the quiet weight of the previous night settled warmly in his chest.
For once, his mind was not crowded with unfinished thoughts or restless hesitation.
It was simply… calm.
Beside him, you shifted slightly in your sleep, pressing closer without waking, and he felt something dangerously close to wonder at how naturally the two of you had begun fitting into each other’s lives.
He glanced toward the balcony doors where the early morning breeze moved the curtains softly, and for a moment he considered staying exactly where he was.
Staying in bed.
Staying wrapped around you.
Staying inside this small, quiet version of the world the two of you had somehow created together.
Then his gaze drifted toward the terrace below, still washed in pale morning light, and a thought surfaced so suddenly that it almost made him smile.
Breakfast outside.
Something simple.
Something for you.
The idea settled immediately, warm and certain in his chest.
Carefully, so as not to wake you, he slipped from bed and pressed a soft kiss into your hair before stepping onto the balcony, the cool morning air brushing against his skin as the first traces of sunlight stretched slowly across the estate.
And for once, the thoughts filling his mind were not about work or obligation.
They were simple.
Make her smile.
Downstairs, he found Mrs Lora already there, her cheerful radio humming through the kitchen.
She glanced at him over her glasses.
“You are up early, Señor Sinclair,” she observed knowingly.
“I have plans,” he replied with unusual lightness.
She followed him to the terrace doorway as he began carrying plates outside himself instead of asking for help.
“For her?” she asked.
He did not pretend otherwise.
“Yes.”
Mrs Lora watched him arrange the table with meticulous care — adjusting the placement of fruit, straightening the napkin twice, and pouring tea as though it were a ceremonial act.
“You look different,” she said quietly.
He paused.
“Different?”
“Softer,” she replied simply. “This one… she is not passing through. She is staying.”
He didn’t answer immediately. He didn’t need to.
His gaze drifted upward toward the balcony.
“She is the one for you,” Mrs Lora added, voice gentle but certain. “I have seen many seasons in this house. This one feels permanent.”
Something settled in his chest at that.
Not fear.
Not hesitation.
Recognition.
When your voice drifted down from above, teasing and warm, he looked up instantly, and the moment he saw you leaning over the railing, sunlight catching in your hair, he felt something steady and unshakeable take root inside him.
This was it.
Not fireworks.
Not chaos.
This.
The laughter. The domestic ease. The way you hurried downstairs as though he might disappear.
When he lifted you in his arms moments later, spinning you once just to hear that unguarded laugh spill from you, he realized something quietly astonishing:
He wasn’t afraid of the future when it looked like this.
And when he said he would like to wake up this way for the rest of his life, it wasn’t dramatic.
It wasn’t impulsive.
It was the calmest truth he had ever spoken.
Your immediate, chaotic yes – knocking him backward into the grass, only made him laugh harder, arms wrapping around you instinctively as though he had been waiting for that answer all along.
When Mrs Lora appeared in the doorway, hands on her hips and smiling despite herself, he glanced at her over your shoulder.
“I believe you were correct,” he called lightly.
She waved them off, muttering about young people and recklessness, but her eyes shone.
As you declared to the entire garden that you were getting married, and he confirmed it with a smile that felt entirely unguarded, he realized something profound.
For the first time in his life, forever did not feel like a risk.
It felt like a gift.
And as your laughter carried through the morning air, bright and fearless, he held you a little tighter with all of his love.
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do you have any interest in writing any alan rickman character experimenting with sex toys?
i think that different characters would choose different toys... (imo lionel prefers a vibrator but sinclair might like a cock ring LOL)
as always, i love your writing and am patiently waiting for the next one 🙈
Aww, that's very sweet of you! I'm so happy you enjoy my writing; it really means a lot to me for you to say that! Admittedly, I was rather nervous to try to write headcanons for these characters. For most characters, I don’t really have hard-set headcanons for them (for example, I could probably argue several favorite toys for each of AR’s characters and make myself believe it in the process, too, lol). Anyway, I know this place is a safe space, and I’ve chosen to interpret these as short prompts. I’m also expanding the prompt to include equipment, not just toys. I’m totally open to doing more for other characters or doing different toys with the same characters! My asks are wide open too, lol, so please feel free to send in more requests! This is my first time writing both Lionel and Judge Turpin, so please be kind!
Alan Rickman Characters & Their Favorite Toys
Character(s): Severus Snape (x GN Reader), Lionel Shabandar (x Female Reader), Sinclair Bryant (x GN Reader), David Friedman, and Judge Turpin (x Female Reader)
Word Count: 1.5k
Warning(s)‼️: Sex Toys/Bondage Equipment. Masturbation. Sex. Erectile Dysfunction/Premature Ejaculation. Self-Flagellation.
Severus Snape - Collar
Severus Snape stalked the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, black cloak billowing in the dungeon’s characteristic darkness. Under the restrictive clothing he wore — layers of formal teaching robes doused in protective spells and held tightly closed with row after row of buttons — no one would have guessed the sour professor wore a thick band of leather — a collar. It was a present from his betrothed, a promise of their faithfulness given in addition to a traditional band for the fourth digit of his hand. The collar was a deep green, nearly black, embroidered with gold trim. The title “Prince” written in gold cursive attached to the front of the collar with a gold chain, almost like a necklace. Being owned, pulled between two different men, two different sides for decades might have made a collar onerous, taxing for some men, but for Severus, it was a relief. Warm relief that tasted ambrosial to belong to someone with only his interests at heart rather than their own or the entire world’s. The metal tag magically pulsed, a soft command for his presence. His cock twitched at what might, what he silently prayed, awaited him on your shared bed in your dungeon quarters.
[Author’s Note: I fully realize a more restrained Snape might not wear a BDSM-style collar. And, in that case, a more restrained Snape likely wouldn’t go for sex toys either. I think he would be very attached to his wedding ring—-perhaps his partner took the time to engrave the inside with their initials and the date—-or other items given to him by them.]
Lionel Shabandar - Your Vibrator
Lionel Shabandar did not share. So when he discovered a black heavy piece of plastic, bulbous head attached to a straight shaft with numerous buttons next to a half-empty bottle of lube buried in the covers of your side of the bed, he immediately grew suspicious. In other words, the great Lionel Shabandar, champion seducer and media tycoon, immediately grew jealous of six inches of battery-powered plastic. He knew damn well what it was before he sat on the bed and pushed the power button. A vibrator, not just a single woman’s best friend, but apparently a married woman’s as well. Did he not pleasure you enough? You always came at least once when he fucked you in bed at night…unless…unless that was pretend. A lie. What was so special about the damn toy that every woman desired one? He thought, trousers already unfastened at his ankles, black briefs pulled to his knees. He brought the massive head of the machine against the seam of his ballsack, an involuntary moan slipping from his parted lips. He dragged the toy from the root of his cock to the edge of his frenulum, grip slipping on the black silicone when the vibrations hit the sensitive skin with an intensity he was not at all prepared for. He bucked his hips, thick thumb hitting another button, the pulse of the long toy ratcheting up in its aggression. He passed the black bulbous head to his frenulum once more, a low grunt escaping from his soul as rope after rope of white cum shot from his girthy cock. The vibrator dropped from his hand, the pulses becoming immediately overwhelming post-climax. And that was how you found the proud lion later that afternoon…trousers and pants pulled down, dried cum staining satin sheets, black vibrator long dead between thick spread legs… and snore after snore slipping from a satiated Lionel Shabandar’s mouth. Somehow, the insufferable, prideful man made a mess look regal. Delicious.
Sinclair Bryant - Cock Ring
Sex after Natalie had never been pleasurable, nor simple, at least, not until you came along. Sinclair Bryant was a man often too deep inside his own head, focused five steps past the task at hand. He was forever grateful for you reminding him that sex didn’t have to be anxiety-inducing, didn’t have to be all nerves and trembling limbs. It did not keep his cock from obeying, however. He wasn’t the only man in the country who suffered from premature ejaculation, but the fact was little comfort when he could feel his erection start to soften and his balls begin to tighten while buried in your warmth to the hilt. Cock rings had been a godsend, like manna fallen from the sky. You’d ordered his first from one of the sex shops you frequented, a present gifted for his birthday night. He pulled the black silicone ring over the head of his weak erection, down his velvety flesh to the base of his shaft. Seconds later, he could feel his penis stiffen, feel the blood in his member sanctioned off from the rest of his body. Each thrust into you was that of a broken man made whole, each thrust taking him further from the failures of the past. Minutes later, you had already orgasmed, entire body shuddering, toes curling at the end of the sheets. Sinclair peeled the black silicone off his engorged member, the denied flesh purple, release overtaking him in one thrust into your warm hole. The dirty blond fell against your side, body drained, a smile of pure bliss still spread across his lips as sleep rapidly overtook him. And you couldn’t wait to order a vibrating cock ring for your anniversary.
David Friedman - Handcuffs
The first time it was an accident. The detective was desperately reaching for a bottle of lube in the bedside table drawer, only a small lamp providing a source of illumination amidst the dim room. His hand bumped into a pile of metal, a crackling noise echoing across the darkened room. He’d just locked himself in handcuffs. The handcuffs he normally kept buried deep in his suit jacket pocket. And he had no idea where the key was. David Friedman considered himself a logical man, but when a man’s been semi-hard since lunchtime and his sheets long devoid of another body, logic tended to quickly evaporate. The lube was found moments after his imprisonment, as if the object were quietly mocking him. Cold liquid soon became warm as his locked hands rubbed together, the ritual familiar for a heavily-anticipated Friday night. Jerking off was anything but familiar. His wrist couldn’t freely turn, couldn’t properly grasp his length from root to tip in one fluid motion. The metal cuffs ended up bumping into his bare belly and spread thighs. He couldn’t keep his mind from thinking how wrong this was, how dirty, how naughty. And that was where his enjoyment, his pleasure, came from that evening as he spilled himself onto fraying, stained sheets. He found the keys to his bonds the following morning on top of his bedside table, a plan for that evening already starting to be tossed around in his head. He smiled.
Judge Turpin - Cat O’ Nine Tails
Guilt settled deep within the old judge’s chest. It was not proper, it was not moral to lust after London’s new pretty, new perfect resident. You were all golden curls, narrow hips, and bursting chest—the sort of sight that often left him breathless. Wanting. And his wanting, his desire, often bred wanton thoughts. The kind that did not just leave his chest aching in the dead of night, but also a certain member of his anatomy. His cock, buried beneath the thick fabric of his trousers, throbbed against his leg. Relieving himself would likely be the easiest, the most prudent course of action. He removed the evening jacket spanning the breadth of his shoulders, shrugged out of the thin linen shirt beneath. White-haired chest now bared to the room, he swiped an object off his dark wooden bookshelf. A cat o’ nine tails, the queen of all whips and floggers available, the chosen instrument for his self-flagellation. Each thread, each strand crafted by his own hand. His hand slipped under his trousers, fingers wrapping around the flesh of his aroused penis, liquid already bubbling out the head’s thin slit. His thoughts immediately turned to you as he began his desperate strokes, the white-hot crest of pleasure the destination he hurriedly sought. The crack of the whip echoed about the empty house, his grunt of pain bit back with practiced ease. He thought of what your thighs might look like—milky white flesh he’d love to mark surrounding a slitted center he would very much like to—the whip struck the space between his shoulder blades, liquid beginning to drip down the spine of his back. His erection throbbed against his leg once more, the flesh pulsing, already so close to satisfaction, to bone-shattering pleasure. With a few more pumps of his hand, wetness painted the inside of his trousers, the familiar smell of his release filling the sitting room. He eyed the painting on the wall, stared at the scene of the woman’s flogging, the handle of the whip absentmindedly twirling between his fingers. He flicked his wrist, braided ends tearing a new gash into the scarred flesh of his lower back.
I will get on my hands and knees to beg- PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE SINCLAIR OR COLONEL BRANDON NSFW ALPHABET 😭🙏
NSFW ALPHABET - SINCLAIR
A – Aftercare
He means well. He really does. Sinclair assumes a glass of water and a quiz about your favorite philosopher count as aftercare. But if you look the slightest bit vulnerable, he panics, clutches you, and wraps his long limbs around you like a blanket. “Are you cold? Do you want tea? I’ll go get—no, stay, I mean—I’ll stay. Unless you want me to leave. Wait, are you crying or just glowing? I can’t tell.” He fumbles, but he stays.
B – Body Part (Favorite)
Yours? Your hands. The way they move when you speak, the way they grip his hair when he’s between your thighs. He stares at them like they’re a stock ticker. “You have beautifully assertive fingers,” he says, dead serious. His? His mouth. Not for vanity, but because he talks with it. Moans with it. Learns with it. And when he’s quiet for once… it means you’ve absolutely broken him.
C – Cum
Inside. Always. Not because he’s dominant, but because the idea of you carrying something of his short-circuits his brain. He groans, holds you tightly, and says, “I—I wasn’t supposed to—but it’s you, I couldn’t—God, I hope you’re not mad—” He gets very flustered about it. And you love that.
D – Dirty Talk
He tries. Starts off academic: “Your body responds with Pavlovian precision when I—oh! There, again.” But when he’s too turned on, it devolves into breathy praise and honest surprise. “Jesus Christ—how do you even—where did you learn—oh my God.” When you tell him to shut up, he only gets louder.
E – Experience
Technically? Plenty. Emotionally? Limited. He’s slept with Natalie, socialites and interns, but only ever truly felt anything when it’s you. He stammers, flushes, asks mid-thrust if you’re comfortable, and kisses you like you’re a new idea he doesn’t quite understand yet.
F – Favorite Position
Spooning. Not because it’s kinky—but because it’s safe. He likes holding you close, nuzzling your neck, murmuring sweet nonsense as he rocks into you. Also: face-sitting. It makes him dizzy, overwhelmed, and delighted. “Yes. Yes, crush me.”
G – Groaning
Unrestrained. No decorum. He moans like a man who’s been shown color for the first time. Gasps when you touch him, sobs when he finishes, whines when you pull away. “That was—statistically improbable. And so unfair.”
H – Hair
Chest? Light. Pubes? Trimmed, but slightly chaotic. He once tried waxing and screamed.
“You what? You waxed where?!”
“I wanted to impress you!”
I – Intimacy
He overthinks it. Studies your eyelashes mid-kiss, overanalyzes your breath patterns. But when you finally kiss him like you mean it—when he realizes you want him—he melts. Completely and utterly.
“Don’t move. Just—stay. I… I like this.”
J – Jacking Off
Constant. Discreet. Embarrassing. He does it while reading—not porn, novels. Sometimes financial newspapers. “I don’t know what happened—I was reading about mergers and acquisitions and thinking of you and now I’ve ruined my bathrobe.”
K – Kinks
- Praise kink (give it and he glows)
- Being teased (you on top, riding him slowly while he begs)
- Soft domination (“Do you want to be used like a good boy?” “YES. YES, MA’AM.”)
- Begging (from either of you, really)
- Overstimulation (“Oh my God, I came already—wait, you’re not done—ohh God—”)
L – Location
- He’s awkward in public but very into novelty.
- Against the bookshelf (he reorganizes after)
- Office desk (post-market close)
- In a bubble bath with a book open beside him, getting steadily soggier “I didn’t expect this. Not during The Wealth of Nations, at least.”
M – Marking
Blushes when you do it. Goes wild for it.
“Is that a bite mark?”
“Yes.”
“…Do more.” Also proudly displays faint scratches like war medals. Tells people his cat did it.
N – Nudes
Accidentally artsy. Uses good lighting without meaning to. Might quote poetry in the caption. Yours? He saves them obsessively. Uses words like “divine,” “goddess,” and “sublime architecture.”
O – Oral
Giving? He lives for it. His mouth is always moving, might as well make it useful.
He talks between licks: “You taste—mm. Wait, is that jasmine?” Receiving? He narrates the entire thing. “Oh my god. That—yes. That’s illegal. You’re—I’m calling the police.”
P – Pace
Eager. Erratic. Learns fast.
Starts too quick, then slows when he sees the effect it has on you. Also loves it when you control the pace. “Boss me around. Please. I deserve it. I made a spreadsheet about it.”
Q – Quickies
Always a disaster. You’re half-dressed, breathless, and he’s still trying to compliment your calves.
“I just—before we start—your ankle bone is so elegant, and—”
“Sinclair, shut up and fuck me.”
“…Yes, ma’am.”
R – Risk
Terrified of being caught. Gets off on being terrified. Tries to pretend he’s calm, but you can see him glancing around like a squirrel. “Someone might hear—oh my God, do it again.”
S – Stamina
Not bad, actually. He’s like a marathon runner who talks the entire time. He can go multiple rounds, but needs snacks, water, and existential reassurance after.
T – Toys
A small collection—alphabetized.
Mostly things he’s read about and bought on whim. Doesn’t always know how to use them, but wants to learn.
“Is this… for the butt?”
“…That’s a thermometer.”
“Oh. Right. Well. Good to know.”
U – Unfair
Too fair.
Will edge you and feel guilty about it.
“Was that cruel? I’m sorry. Did you hate it? Wait—why are you moaning then—OH GOD—”
V – Volume
Loud. Endearing. Rambly. Gasps, moans, begs, babbles. When he finishes: “Holy Christ, I’m going to write a paper on this.”
W – Wildest Fantasy
You, naked, reading to him while riding him.
You correct his pronunciation mid-orgasm. He begs to be edged while you quiz him on Shakespearean metaphors. Academic filth. Pure and simple.
X – X-Ray
Long. Thinner than average. Slight upward curve. Sensitive. Cries out when you touch him too softly. Uncut. Pretty. Once referred to as “aesthetically pleasing, with excellent symmetry.” (By him.)
Y – Yearning
Oh, achingly. He pines. He simps. He writes you post-it notes on your mirror. He texts, “Are you still mad at me?” even when you’re in the next room. He doesn’t understand love unless it’s all-consuming.
Z – ZZZ (Sleep)
He talks in his sleep. Full monologues.
Sometimes moans your name. Once murmured, “Buy low, sell high… oh, God, do that again,” and snuggled closer.
You never let him live it down.
Sinclair Bryant doesn’t know how to be perfect in bed. But he learns. Fast. And loves you with such earnest, ridiculous, devoted enthusiasm that even when he’s awkward—he’s yours.
Just the Childminder
Close My Eyes | Sinclair Bryant/Reader
Summary: A mid-divorce Sinclair Bryant needs help with childcare, and when you move in as a live-in childminder, you find yourself falling in love with the father as much as the son.
Word Count: 4.6k
Content: divorced dad Sinclair, brief Natalie appearance, reader gender unspecified
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
In many ways, choosing to stay with his wife after her affair was one of the worst decisions Sinclair Bryant had ever made. But if he could go back, he wouldn't do anything differently, because at least now he had his son.
Nathan was three when the marriage finally imploded. Natalie moved out, and while the court battle went on, they agreed Nathan would alternate weeks between his parents.
Sinclair knew he couldn't do it alone; he could hardly even keep the house clean. He had a housekeeper for that, but he couldn't ask her to look after Nathan too, so he put out a job advertisement for a live-in childminder.
After spending the day interviewing applicants at his office, Sinclair was just about ready to give up. He had one interview left before the end of the day, and all he could think about was getting home, having something to eat and watching an interesting documentary on the telly to take his mind off his problems.
When you walked in for your interview, you noticed two things about the man waiting for you: first, he was extremely handsome. Second, he looked exhausted.
Despite the exhaustion, he smiled and stood up to shake your hand. "Hi, you must be [Y/n] [L/n]. Sinclair Bryant. Please, take a seat."
He started by explaining his situation — his divorce, the care arrangements — and you knew he must have been telling the story all day. No wonder he seemed so tired and despondent. Interviewing people all day would be exhausting enough, but having to tell each one about your divorce was even worse.
When you were finally able to get a word in, you asked about his son, and Sinclair's eyes lit up. He seemed to almost glow — just a little, as if he could have shone but something was holding him back, like a dimmer switch stuck on low. By the time half an hour had passed, you felt as if you knew everything about Nathan Bryant — and his father knew nothing about you.
"Oh, look at the time! I am so sorry, I've completely blabbered on and barely even interviewed you."
"That's alright," you assured him. "I want to know about him. After all, he's the reason I'm here, isn't he?"
Sinclair looked at you curiously and smiled. "Yes, of course he is. You know, of everyone I've interviewed today, you're the first person to actually ask me about him."
You frowned. "Really? What have they asked about instead?"
"Oh, the usual, you know — hours, pay, location, benefits. A few have asked if he has behavioural issues, but that's about it."
"None of those matter if you're not a good fit for the child."
"Exactly! And it's good for me to get to know applicants, obviously, but it's not me you'd be spending all your time with."
"Maybe Nathan should be doing the interviews, then."
Sinclair laughed. "If he did, he'd just be asking you if you had any cookies! But I do think we're onto something. Would you like to meet him?"
———
As soon as you met Nathan, Sinclair knew you were the perfect fit.
You met at a park — somewhere open and public, so Nathan wouldn't feel pressured to interact with you, but where you could push him on the swings and help him down the slide to give him a chance to get to know you.
You won the boy over instantly, because when you bent down to greet him, you said, "Hi, Nathan, I'm [Y/n]. I'm so glad to meet you, because I need your help. I have way too many cookies and I can't eat them all on my own. Can you help me eat them?"
Nathan nodded enthusiastically, and as he sat on the bench munching happily on a double chocolate chip cookie, Sinclair said to you, "Did you just bribe my son into giving you a job?"
"Maybe. Did it work?"
"Depends. Do you have any more cookies?"
Your third interview took place at Sinclair's house.
You figured Sinclair had money. Your first interview was at his office, after all, so you knew he had some important finance job, and his suit was a dead giveaway too. But even so, when you drove up towards his house, you wondered if you'd taken a wrong turn — no way a house this big was just for two people.
Sinclair showed you around the house before leading you out into the garden, where Nathan was playing on his own, a woman sitting nearby watching him. Sinclair called out to his son, who looked up and smiled to see his dad, and ran over to him before promptly being picked up and whirled around.
Nathan squealed with excitement, and you managed to dodge out of the way of his foot spinning through the air.
"Thanks, Mei-Li!" Sinclair said to the woman who'd been watching Nathan play, and as she went back into the house, Sinclair said to you, "That's Mei-Li, she's my housekeeper. Complete lifesaver. She lives here too, so you'll get to know her. She doesn't mind watching Nathan for a few minutes here and there, but I couldn't possibly ask her to look after him full-time, not when she already keeps the entire place spick and span. Hence why I need you!"
You noticed the way Sinclair was talking as if he'd already hired you, but you decided to keep your mouth shut. After all, you were still interviewing, and you had no idea how many other potential childminders Nathan had been meeting.
You were, in fact, the only one who'd made it past the first interview. Sinclair had spent the next day calling every other applicant to tell them he wasn't moving forward with them — he insisted on doing it himself, despite his PA's offer to make the calls for him — and he had called you last to ask you to the park.
It wasn't that Sinclair was putting all his eggs in your basket; if it wasn't going to work out with you, he would have gone back to the drawing board. But you had been the only one who seemed to be there for Nathan, and not just for the paycheque.
Although Sinclair had planned to watch you interact with Nathan, he couldn't help getting involved when Nathan asked him to get the football out, and all three of you ended up kicking the ball around, competing to be the first to get it through the makeshift goal (made out of two garden chairs several metres apart). Nathan won of course, but not without you and Sinclair putting on the show of a good fight.
Years later, Sinclair would be able to tell anyone who asked the precise moment he knew you were perfect for Nathan: you were about to score a goal, dribbling the ball as slowly as you could while Nathan's stubby little three-year-old legs ran to catch up with you, and you 'accidentally' tripped — and as you feigned falling, you nudged the ball towards Nathan, giving him the chance to kick it past the chair-goalposts.
Sinclair hired you in his head there and then.
"He's with Natalie next week, so I can come and meet you if you need two cars, just tell me where and when," Sinclair said to you later that day, when Nathan was napping and you were getting ready to leave.
You looked at him with a frown. "Two cars for what?"
"For all your stuff. You know, clothes and that." Sinclair froze, thinking for a moment. "Oh, I just had that conversation with you in my head, didn't I?"
You laughed. "I think so. What were we talking about in your head?"
"Well, you moving in, of course! …Did I offer you the job, or was that in my head as well?"
"I feel like we're having this conversation backwards."
"Right! Sorry. Let me start again."
Sinclair cleared his throat and mimed rewinding himself, which made you laugh.
"[Y/n], Nathan and I have conferred and we've decided that we'd love to offer you the job. Would you be able to move in next week to start the week after, and would you like any help moving your stuff?"
You moved in the next Friday. True to his word, Sinclair drove over to meet you at your parents' house to prevent you having to take two trips — although, with the amount of time you lost to Sinclair chatting away with your parents, it might have been quicker for you to take two trips.
On the Sunday, you met the ex-wife when she appeared to drop Nathan off for the week. He was too caught up in the excitement of seeing you again to notice the way you dared him to a race up the stairs to get away from the whispered argument brewing between his parents, and when Natalie had left and Sinclair appeared to tell Nathan the news that you were moving in, the toddler may have been too excited to notice that his dad looked exhausted again, but you certainly noticed. You almost fell backwards onto the floor when Nathan tackle-hugged you, and over his shoulder, you saw Sinclair perk up again to see his son so happy.
It wasn't your first time as a childminder, but it was your first time as a live-in. The last family you'd worked for, you had always gone to their house at set hours while the parents were at work, and gone home again when they came home. Apart from a brief conversation at the start and end of your work day, you hardly actually spent any time with the parents.
Sinclair had told you from the beginning that you weren't working when Nathan was with his mum, so you were free to go home during those weeks, but you found that you didn't want to. For one thing, Sinclair's house was massive and had a housekeeper. Also, it didn't have your parents hovering over your shoulder. But mostly, it had Sinclair.
One of the very first things you had noticed about Sinclair was that his mood filled the room. When he was in a good mood, he lit up the room, but when he was in a bad mood, it permeated the air and you felt like he was dragging you down into whatever pit of negativity he was in at that time.
Fortuantely, Sinclair wasn't in a bad mood very often. He had the amazing ability to jump out of bed at 5am to go for a run, and left for work with a fresh burst of energy. He was usually a little down when he came home — tired from working hard, irritated at stupid clients, hangry from not having eaten since lunch — but seeing Nathan and having some dinner always perked him right up, and by the time he'd eaten and listened attentively to Nathan's stories about what you'd done with him that day, Sinclair would be his usual self again, like a battery that had been recharged.
Of course, you loved looking after Nathan, and you'd happily do it every single week, but your favourite part of the fortnightly cycle was definitely Sunday night, when Sinclair came back from dropping him off with Natalie, always carrying some takeout that he'd picked up on the way back. Mei-Li didn't work weekends and often spent her Friday to Sunday nights with family, so you and Sinclair would have the place to yourselves to eat whatever unhealthy takeout he'd bought and watch whatever terrible movie he'd rented.
"Oh my god, that was one of the worst films I've ever seen," you said as the most excrutiating hour and a half of your life came to an end. If it weren't for Sinclair's company and the deliciously greasy pizza he'd bought, you might have felt like you'd just been tortured. "Next time you pick up a film because it's got a dinosaur on the front, pick Jurassic Park, not Theodore Rex."
"I feel like I should sue Blockbuster for allowing me to rent it out."
"Oh, no, you're not escaping responsibility, mister! You chose that film all by yourself. If anything, I should sue you for making me watch it. Torturing employees like this can't be legal."
"Actually, you're off the clock now, so I can't make you do anything. You watched this of your own accord."
"You bribed me with pizza."
"Not true! I would have let you have the pizza even if you refused to watch the film with me."
"What, and leave you to suffer alone? Never. What sort of friend would that make me?"
Sinclair froze, his last slice of pizza in his hand suspended in mid-air.
"We're friends?"
"…Yes? I think so. Are we? I mean, I think of you as my friend. But if you just wanna keep it professional —"
"No, no, we can be friends!" Sinclair said hurriedly. He realised he was holding his pizza in the air, and lowered his hand. "I don't even think of you as a childminder. You're more like a friend who happens to live with me and look after my son. Who I also pay £300 a week."
"Technically you pay me £600 a week if I have every other week off."
"Wow, I really overpay you."
"Shut up!" you laughed, throwing a cushion at him. "You get paid, like, a bajillion pounds a year, you can afford less than 16 grand a year for, as Nathan so correctly describes me, 'the coolest childminder ever.'"
"You're right, there's no price on coolness. Or friendship. I'm so glad we can be friends, [Y/n]. When you stop working for me, can we still be friends?"
"Yes, of course! I don't plan on quitting any time soon, though. Unless you're planning on firing me?"
"No! Definitely not. You can stay as long as you like. Even when Nathan's all grown up and he moves out."
"Will you still pay me £600 a week?"
"Well, no, not if he's moved out…"
"Then nah," you said with a shrug before standing up to eject the tape from the VHS. When you turned back, you saw that Sinclair was chewing his pizza with a sad look on his face.
"I'm kidding, Sinclair! You're stuck with me. Ha!"
He perked up and smiled again. "Oh, good! There's no one I'd rather be stuck with."
You had been working for Sinclair for five months when he finally had his first court hearing. It was a normal day for you and Nathan — Sinclair left at the same time as always, but instead of going to work, he was going to court — and of course Nathan had no idea what was going on, but your anxiety for Sinclair gnawed at you all day. As the date came closer, Sinclair had more meetings and phone calls with his solicitor, and each one seemed to drain him more than the last. If communicating with Natalie through solicitors was having such an effect on him, what would seeing her in court do to him?
Mei-Li made sure dinner was ready the moment Sinclair came back, as she knew as well as you did what an effect the whole thing was having on him, and she also knew that eating food was his main source of comfort.
Even when eating, and even when listening to Nathan tell him about his day, that cloud of gloom over Sinclair's head didn't go away, and it wasn't until Nathan was in bed that you were able to sit down with Sinclair and ask him about it.
"Christ, it was awful," Sinclair sighed, running a hand down his face. He was watching a quiz show, which he usually loved because it meant he could either show off his knowledge or learn something new, but he hadn't answered a single question out loud before the ad break. "She denied everything. Blamed me for the breakdown — apparently I'm overbearing and controlling and always talked over her. And she wants me to sell the house and give her half the money! Can you believe that? I didn't even tell anyone about the affair, I was happy to just say irreconcilable differences. Now my solicitor says I should tell the court about the affair, but I can't do that, because it'd mean telling them she committed a crime! I don't want to send her to prison, she's not a bad person."
"Sinclair, she cheated on you."
"I know! Do you think I don't know that? But that doesn't mean she deserves to go to prison! I just want this over with, I want to get the divorce done and just focus on Nathan. But she's hardly mentioned him, all her statements are always about money. It's like that's all she cares about, not me or our son, just my bank account." He sighed and sank back into the sofa cushion. "Everyone said we got married too quickly. Guess they were right."
You reached over and took his hand in his and gave it a gentle squeeze.
"Don't waste your energy on her more than you need to, Sinclair. Just focus on Nathan. Did the judge make any orders about him?"
Sinclair shook his head. "No, this one was just about money. We have to go back for a different hearing with a different judge for the care order. I don't think she's gonna fight that one too much, though, we're both agreed 50/50 works. Although…" He looked at you anxiously. "She keeps making comments about you. I don't think she believes me that you're just the childminder."
Something inside your chest tightened around your heart, and you pulled your hand back.
Just the childminder. Not a friend. Nothing more. Just the childminder.
You tried to push down the feelings that were growing inside you day by day. Nothing good could come out of 'just' the childminder falling in love with the dad while court proceedings were still ongoing, and you didn't want to risk making anything worse for Sinclair or Nathan.
On the morning of Nathan's fifth birthday party, you were in the garden setting up decorations when the post came. As you climbed down the ladder, having successfully put up a banner on the back wall, Sinclair approached you with an open A4 envelope in his hands.
"What do you think?" you asked him, stepping back to admire your handiwork. It had taken several attempts, but you had finally managed to get the banner straight.
Sinclair looked up at the banner which read HAPPY BIRTHDAY NATHAN in big, colourful letters, and he smiled warmly.
"It looks great! He's gonna love it."
Sinclair looked back at you, and held up the envelope in his hands. "It finally came."
You looked at him quizzically. He showed you the piece of paper poking out of the top of the envelope: DECREE ABSOLUTE DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE
"Oh my god!" you gasped. "Sinclair! That's amazing. How do you feel?"
"I…" For the first time ever, Sinclair Bryant was lost for words. "Is it bad that I feel relieved?"
"What? No! No, of course not. The court proceedings have been killing you. I hate to see how upset you are every time you come back from one. It's like that woman's been sucking a bit of your soul out at every hearing. It's okay to be relieved, Sinclair — and it's okay to be sad too. You can be both."
Sinclair tucked the paper back into the envelope, then looked up at you.
"Thanks, [Y/n]. You've been a real lifesaver, you know? I'm not sure how I would have coped without you. I…" He paused. "Nathan really loves you. He thinks of you as a third parent."
You smiled, warmth spreading through your chest. "I love him too. Even if you told me you suddenly couldn't afford to pay me anymore, I'd still want to be in his life."
"Really?"
You nodded. "Of course. Please don't stop paying me, though."
Sinclair laughed. "Of course I won't. In fact, I think it's time you got a raise."
"Oh, Sinclair, you don't have to —"
"I know. I want to. I want you to know that I appreciate everything you do, [Y/n], even if it is your job."
You placed a hand on his arm softly. "It stopped being a job a long time ago, Sinclair."
"…Did I fire you and forget about it?"
You both laughed, and you saw the twinkle in his eye that just the thought of Natalie always extinguished. You realised suddenly that you were standing quite close to each other, and you had an overwhelming urge to kiss him.
You couldn't. You shouldn't. He was your friend, but he was also your boss. The divorce was literally still in his hands. If you kissed him now, he would think you'd just been waiting for your opportunity…
"I guess I'm a free man now," Sinclair said, glancing down at the envelope in his hands. "I didn't want to try dating again until it was all over, and now —"
"Daddy! Daddy, [Y/n]! Birthday!"
Nathan came running out of the house, all excitement and energy, and headed straight to Sinclair's leg to latch onto it like a koala bear.
"Birthday!" he announced again, looking up at both of you with a great big grin.
"That's right, it's birthday time!" Sinclair agreed. You stepped back as he leant down to pick Nathan up and pointed towards the banner. "Look what [Y/n] got for you. Can you read what it says?"
Nathan frowned in concentration, his little lips moving silently as he sounded out the letters, then his eyes lit up and he giggled. "Happy birthday Nathan! That's me!"
"It sure is. How about we have a nice big breakfast for a growing boy?"
"Yeah! Breakfast! Birthday breakfast!"
Nathan babbled excitedly as Sinclair carried him inside, and you followed, trying not to dwell on what Sinclair might have been about to say.
After the longest, most exhausting and yet single most rewarding day of your life, Nathan was finally in bed, and fell asleep almost instantly. Downstairs, you found Sinclair in the kitchen, pouring two glasses of red wine.
"I thought you'd need one after today," he said by way of explanation as he handed you a glass, and you took it gratefully.
You took a much-needed sip, then said, "I still can't believe she didn't show up."
Sinclair shrugged, swilling the wine in his glass. "I can. She doesn't need to impress anyone anymore. No chance I'll stand up in court and call her an unfit mother who misses birthday parties — as if I'd have done that anyway."
You placed your hand over his, stilling his movements. "You're an amazing dad, Sinclair."
"…Do you really think so? You're not just saying that because I pay you?"
"Of course I do."
"I get worried sometimes," Sinclair admitted in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. "I know we're friends, but… I wonder how much of what you do and say is because I'm your boss, and how much is because…"
He hesitated, then shook his head.
"Sorry. I'm being stupid. I'll put the telly on —"
He went to leave, but you grabbed him by the arm.
"Sinclair…"
You looked up at him, and he looked at you, both of you wishing the other to say something and too scared to say it yourself.
He was a good man. You knew he'd never overstep a boundary — so you had to be the one to remove the boundary altogether.
"I quit."
Sinclair's face fell.
"…What? No. No, you can't quit. Nathan needs you — I need you —"
"I don't want to be your childminder anymore."
"[Y/n], please —"
"I can't be your childminder anymore."
"But why not?!"
"Because I'm in love with you!"
Sinclair froze, eyes wide.
"…You're what?"
"Don't make me say it again. But I don't want to be just the childminder. I can't. I want… I want to be more to you. To Nathan."
"[Y/n]…"
Before he could even finish his own thought, Sinclair was kissing you. His lips were slightly chapped, and they tasted like wine; you went to pull yourself closer to him, but realised a moment too late that you both had full glasses of wine in your hands.
You broke apart and stepped back as you felt the liquid slip out of the glass. You managed to catch only a few drops, but Sinclair's silk blue shirt now had a streak of red on it.
You both froze for a moment, then burst into laughter.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"
"Don't worry about it," Sinclair assured you as you took both wine glasses and placed them on the kitchen counter, safe from any further splashes. "It's not the first time I've spilled wine on myself, I'm so clumsy."
He began unbuttoning his shirt, and you bit your lip as, inch by inch, his chest started poking out.
You'd seen him shirtless before. Last summer, during a heatwave, you had put up a slip'n'slide for Nathan, and Sinclair had worn nothing but swimming trunks as he played in the water with his son. You had ogled him a little then, but this was different — that was in broad daylight, playing in the water with his son. Now, it was late, you were alone, and you had just kissed him.
You had just kissed him. You'd really done that. Or had he kissed you? You weren't really sure. Maybe both. But you had definitely told him that you were in love with him, which was probably the stupidest thing you'd ever done.
After leaving his shirt in the utility room for Mei-Li to deal with in the morning, Sinclair came back into the kitchen, still shirtless, and found you were taking a deep drink of your wine.
"Are you trying to drink it all before I spill any more?"
You lowered the glass and put it back down, signifincatly emptier than it had been a few moments ago.
"Trying to drink as much as I can before you kick me out."
"Why on earth would I kick you out?"
"I just quit, told you I'm in love with you, kissed you, then got wine all down your shirt."
"Well, the first one I'm not accepting, and the last two were all me."
You looked up at him, blinking, trying to focus on his face and not his hairless chest and slight belly that just about poked over the waistband of his trousers.
"…And the second one?" you asked cautiously.
"The second one, I liked," Sinclair said, his fingers fidgeting with each other as they usually did when he was nervous.
"You did?"
"Maybe I could try the third one again. Now that we're not holding wine."
"And you're not wearing a shirt."
Sinclair glanced down, as if he'd only just realised he hadn't put a clean shirt on.
"Oh, right, sorry —"
"Don't be. Um, but yes, you can try the third one again. If you want."
"I'd like that."
The kiss was softer this time, a bit more cautious, and you gladly wrapped your arms around Sinclair's bare torso to hold him close. You had a thousand questions in your head — How long had he wanted this? Were you still going to work for him? What would you tell Nathan? — but you kept them in for now. There would be plenty of time for questions; right now, you had almost two years of pent-up feelings to express, and if the way Sinclair was holding you was anything to go by, he had been holding it in for just as long.
a Sinclair Bryant fanfic plsss, where he's soft and a Golden Retriever type of Guy 😭😩
tis a short one, but if I am feeling it it may become a series, since I clearly should start another one, even though I've got three others going!
The divorce was finalized on a Thursday. Sinclair didn’t remember the exact date—he only remembered the silence that followed. No angry words. No slammed doors. Just the cold slip of a pen on paper, and Natalie’s eyes refusing to meet his own.
He hadn’t cried.
He hadn’t spoken much, either.
He hated to think about it, who sleeps with their brother?
Was he not good enough?
Two years passed like that, mostly in grey. He sold the big house, moved into a smaller flat with fewer mirrors. Mirrors only remind you of things you’re not anymore.
And then there was the café. Or rather, the girl in it.
Her name was Charlotte.
He hadn’t noticed her at first. She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t the type of woman who dressed for attention. Just… warm. She always wore a cardigan with sleeves pushed up to her elbows, and her notebooks were always slightly smudged with pen ink. She smiled at the baristas. She always left tips. Once, Sinclair accidentally sat in her usual seat—by the window, facing the river.
She didn’t scold him. She just offered him the corner of her lemon tart and said, “It’s better when it’s shared anyway.”
He didn’t know what compelled him to accept. Maybe it was the way she said it—like it was the most natural thing in the world.
From that day on, he started showing up at the café every Tuesday and Friday. He always ordered the same thing: a black coffee and whatever pastry she was having.
Eventually, he asked.
“Why lemon tarts?” he said one grey morning.
She looked up, spoon pausing midair. “They make my mouth water. Like I’m alive.”
He laughed for the first time in months.
She gave him her phone number scribbled on a napkin with a little sketch of a fox in the corner. That fox ended up pressed between the pages of one of his law books—because no one had ever doodled for him before.
Their dates were soft things. Walks through Notting Hill markets. Old jazz records in her flat. Sunday mornings spent reading—her legs tucked beneath her, his feet resting on the coffee table, glasses sliding down his nose.
Sinclair didn’t know when it happened, exactly.
But one night, Charlotte fell asleep on his chest, and he didn’t want to move.
Not because he was afraid of waking her.
But because it felt like home.
He found himself doing ridiculous things. Bringing her favorite chamomile tea before she asked. Baking just to surprise her with warm banana bread after her night shifts. He bought her slippers with foxes on them—she’d once said her spirit animal was a sleepy woodland fox, and that’s all it took for him to remember.
And when she got anxious, which happened more than he expected, he didn’t correct her. He didn’t fix her. He just held her, murmuring: “It’s alright, love. I’m here.”
Once, she asked him why he always called her that—love.
“Because you make me feel like I’ve got a second chance,” he said, brushing her hair behind her ear. “You make the world...bearable. Golden, even.”
He didn’t say it often. He didn’t need to.
She saw it in the way he waited for her outside her office with a folded umbrella. In the way he always had her favorite album queued in the car. In the way he kissed her forehead like it was the most sacred part of her.
He still had his flaws. Sometimes he woke in a sweat, old regrets clinging to him like fog. Sometimes he forgot to call back. Sometimes he stared too long at nothing and she’d quietly place a hand on his.
But he tried.
God, he tried.
He made space for her in his wardrobe.
He let her keep her mismatched mugs in the cupboard.
And one afternoon, as she leaned over the kitchen counter reading the paper, he slipped a ring box beside her teacup.
Inside was a delicate gold band and a fox etched into the inside rim.
She blinked at it. Then looked up.
He didn’t say much.
Just, “Will you stay with me? Even when I’m rubbish?”
Charlotte smiled—wide, soft, the kind of smile that makes your chest ache.
“You’re not rubbish,” she whispered, cupping his face.
He was. Sometimes.
But with her, he was also something else: cherished, forgiven, golden.
And for once, Sinclair Bryant believed he might deserve it.
That request was me btw! I didn't mean to send it anon 😭
Second Chance at Happiness
🌸Requested by: @nonscathingbullets 🌸Pairing: Sinclair Bryant x plus size! f!reader 🌸Catergory: fluff 🌸Plot: Sinclair plans a special surprise for his longtime girlfriend 🌸Warning: brief comments on eating habits / plus-size bodies 🌸Word Count: 3.7 K 🌸Note: I finally got around to completing my very first request! I took my time working on this, as I wanted to make sure I did not accidentally offend anyone. I tried to stay true to your request (the most recent post that I answered)
Read it here on AO3 or below the break:
There was a time Sinclair was convinced he had it all: The inheritance that ensured him and his future generations will be set for years to come. The mansion in the English Countryside. The classic, luxury motor vehicle collection. The first editions of several pieces of classic literature. His successful career, working in the corporate world as a business analyst (specialising in forecast trends). And most importantly, Natalie; the beguiling wife any man could ever ask for. Life was perfect…up until three years ago.
Not once did he ever anticipate the one day he would eventually become a divorcé, no thanks to Natalie’s infidelity. The worst part of it all, neither one could disclose the true reason behind their separation. The only time they both came to an agreement (apart from the moment they exchanged their vows) was to declare “irreconcilable differences” during the proceedings as the reason, as opposed to adultery. No one would have believed him if he told the unadulterated truth.
Even his cousin, Lord Lionel Shabandar, the snarky-yet-sarcastic billionaire media mogul, the only person who truly knew him better than his own parents, understood there was more to the story than he led on. God knows how people would have reacted if they had discovered Natalie’s affair with her own brother!
“Bloody ironic, isn’t it?” He would mutter whenever he had a moment to himself. There were days where he would find himself scrutinising over ever little detail that led to the deterioration of his marriage; trying to figure out exactly where did things go wrong.
“You call yourself an analyst. Your special talent consists of making informed predictions for your clients; guaranteeing they make conscientious decisions that lead to successful outcomes. Yet, you failed to foresee the inevitable collapse of your own marriage, you blithering idiot!”
The minuscule voice in his head would regularly taunt—no, haunt him—for months leading up to the divorce, and a few more afterwards. Sometimes going as far as insulting himself and highlighting his failures in general. However, none of that was true. He knew he wasn’t entirely at fault. Deep down he knew that, yet the negative thoughts would eventually win. In fact, the one to blame was none other than his cheating ex-wife; for it was her decision to engage in an extramarital affair. A scandalous dalliance so taboo, had it been revealed, it would have brought upon severe repercussions to his reputation.
Think about it: Who knows what type of spurious lies would had be fabricated if people had discovered the real reason behind their decision to dissolve the marriage? Nobody would understand—is what he had assumed. The only ones who swore to take this to their graves were him, Natalie and Richard. Absolutely no one would ever find out…that is until he met you.
You first became acquainted with Sinclair five years prior, when he was considered a newlywed. Him and Natalie were the newest residents of Marlow, and news travelled fast when they became the new homeowners of the grand estate— the one located directly upon the banks of the Henley-on-Thames. Shortly after they settled into the quaint town, Sinclair made it his mission to familiarise himself with the locals, as well as the various points of interest around town. Of all the shops, he found himself drawn to the only Blockbuster rental—which also happens to be your workplace.
At the time, you never expected a man like him—highly educated, minted, refined and devastatingly handsome—would have a penchant for renting out worn out VHS tapes, as opposed to simply collecting his own copies. It didn’t take long for him to become a regular (if not, your most loyal) customer, which cultivated in an unlikely friendship culminating along the way.
Perhaps it was his love for cinema, along with an appreciation for the arts and literature, that attracted him to you when you two became acquainted. That being said, you did find your friendship with a married man highly unusual at the time, for a number of reasons, of course.
For starters, you’ve wondered why, of all the men in Marlow, would someone like Sinclair Bryant would take an interest in you. Despite being married to a woman who was conventionally beautiful in accordance to societal standards.
Petite, blonde, fair skinned and most importantly, skinny: that was the type of woman Sinclair had been in past relationships with. You, on the other hand, were the complete opposite to his former partners. Voluptuous figure, with all the curves in the right places; a soft stomach, and round yet soft facial features. Little did you know, Sinclair became smitten with you the moment he met you.
It shouldn’t come as a surprise when Sinclair began to notice you, really notice you. So much so, his weekly visits to your workplace were the main highlight of his week. His visits became a weekly necessity of his, stopping by at the shop every two or three days. Sometimes he would rent a few films, other times he simply wanted to see you. The way he would pay attention to you and ask genuine questions. How he would make mental notes on things you liked or disliked. What made you feel hopeful, and what could cause you any distress (which he made it his personal mission to prevent any harm for coming your way). The more he grew close to you—despite the ongoing divorce—the harder he continued to fall more in love with you.
The visits would lead to the pair of you spending more time outside of the shop. Monthly outings to the multiple history and art museums, others involved trying out new bakeries. Most of the time, you and Sinclair preferred spending time on his estate: from the occasional ferry rides captained by Fernando, the casual afternoon tea with his closest friends, spending time bonding over books and films in the comfort of his home.
It certainly took you by surprise when the pair of you cultivated a friendship over time. Despite the obvious socio-economic backgrounds you had compare to him, Sinclair went out of his way to prove to you it would not never deter him from ever wanting to distance himself. On the contrary, he appreciated that you never felt awkward that a man of his social stature wanted to associate himself with someone who did not come from generational wealth like him. Unbeknownst to you, Sinclair’s sunny disposition gradually improved over time. It was you who helped reignite the spark—snuffed out by his cruel ex-wife—he thought he lost.
You were the only person who sympathised with his plight, the only person he felt most comfortable admitting the truth to. And when he finally revealed the unspeakable truth behind Natalie’s infidelity, it was your composed reaction and reassurance that reminded him how was never at fault for his failed marriage. This was the juncture of your friendship, Sinclair Bryant understood his affections for you were no longer infatuation; it was the confirmation of how he truly loved you.
Perhaps it was this realisation that resulted in his sudden disappearance. How one moment allowed him to be completely completely honest with you, led him to distance himself from you. There were times you thought you were the problem—oh, wrong you could possibly be. The truth in the matter was, he needed to devote all his time and energy, ensuring his divorce was finalised before he could confess his truly feelings. He needed to be convinced no one would ever come between you; not even Natalie. He made a promise to himself to dedicate his life in chasing the one person who made him happy: you.
It had only been a few weeks when the divorce was finalised, which was the first time (apart from going to work and home) Sinclair decided to resurface back into society once again. And so, he paid a visit to the local Blockbuster to rent a few tapes to watch over the weekend—the very Blockbuster you worked at. Although you were heartbroken by his sudden departure and the radio silence from him several weeks ago, a part of you was relieved to see him resurface once again.
Despite the anger you harboured for a while, that didn’t matter when you confessed your supposed, unrequited feelings.
At the same time, he had no idea of the budding crush you had developed for him. Out of all the customers that stopped by, he was the only one who truly respected you. There were times he would go out of his way to defend you whenever other patrons would hurl rude comments regarding your physical appearance.
Even though you’ve never had an issue standing up for yourself, it always made you feel giddy inside whenever Sinclair came to your defence. In the past, whenever Natalie would make disparaging remarks about your weight; even going as far to warn him that he could ‘end up like you if doesn’t watch his figure’.
Despite the fact that you’ve grown accustomed to the fat-shaming remarks you’ve received over the years (and how you’ve always brushed them off with grace), it always warmed your heart observing him admonishing his cruel wife. And out of that friendship, an affectionate relationship between you two began to blossom not long after. From what you assumed to be unrequited feelings you had, turned into mutual reciprocation shortly after the divorce.
And here you were, three years since his divorce from Natalie, and approaching the two-year anniversary of your relationship with him. You never thought a man like Sinclair Bryant would ever consider being in a relationship with someone with a fuller physique; someone like yours.
At times, you do wonder how your life turned out like this. How you became attached to the most eligible bachelor—divorcé—in all of Marlow. How he fell head over heels for you; let alone wonder how special he made you feel.
Of course, not every relationship is perfect. Unfortunately, both you and Sinclair weren’t an exception. The intermittent stares and snide remarks from strangers alike caught up to you at times—even though you’d reassure him it had no effect on you.
Whenever you experienced fleeting moments of self-doubts, Sinclair would always say, “It’s not the physical appearance that’s worth focusing on. Rather, it’s the personality that truly matters to me. You, my darling [Y/N], will always be beautiful in my eyes—both inside and out.” And you knew that would always brighten up your mood, just a bit more; followed by showers of kisses he would give you.
You would wonder what he meant by that, considering how you would interpret the statement as vague. Even though you’ve always felt comfortable in your own skin—with your curvaceous hips and voluptuous figure—a part you would make you feel, somewhat apprehensive about his true motives. In other words, why would someone like Sinclair desire to be in a committed relationship with a heavier woman?
There is one thing you had always admired about him was his eagerness to impart several interesting facts about whatever topic had piqued his curiosity throughout the day. Whether it would be learning something new about the history of cinema, or something as insignificant about topics you never paid attention to. Yet, there was one interesting fact that he would never tire of bringing up in conversation, especially whenever you were with close friends: his admiration of Venus at the Mirror, 1613-14 by Peter Paul Rubens. With that particular painting, he would always explain Rubens’s affinity for painting curvy women in his sensual artworks; and how he would refers to you as his muse, his very own Venus.
The morning commenced as usual, with the exception being how unusually quiet Sinclair was during breakfast. Unless he’s scoffing down his favourite foods, or talking about an interesting fact he stumbled upon at work the other day, he’s never this quiet. Not when he is lost in his thoughts.
“Is everything alright, my love?” You asked, effectively bringing him back to reality.
“Sorry, what was that? Uh, yes, everything’s fine.”
“Are you sure?"
“Of course darling, my mind is simply occupied by the emergency I have to sort out at work this morning,” he kissed the back of your hand, reassuring you that everything was alright.
“In the meantime, why don’t you spend the day treating yourself to whatever you desire, hm? Perhaps you might like to indulge at a spa treatment for the day, maybe obtaining a new dress of your choosing for tonight?”
“Is there an event we expected to attend tonight?” You asked, your expression appearing to be visibly puzzled.
“Other that us commemorating our two-year anniversary together? No, none that I’m aware of.”
“Alright then. It’s clear to me you have a plan up your sleeve. Anyways, I’ll leave you to it, preparing whatever it is you might have in mind for tonight.”
“Thank you darling,” he kissed you, as you prepared to head out. “Oh, and one more thing: Do you mind popping into the bakery on your way back home this afternoon my love? I have a sense you will love what I’ve ordered for us later.”
By the time you returned home, you couldn’t help wondering exactly what he had in mind regarding your anniversary. Could it be a late-dinner reservation at the restaurant where he took you on your first date? What about an evening performance at the West End, and spending the night in London for a change of scenery? Or did he plan something more elaborate? You were yet to find out, as you glanced down at your new dress, hoping he would love your surprise outfit.
As expected, he was enamoured by the final reveal as he greeted you at the entrance; dashing with a black tie ensemble accompanied by a colossal bouquet of roses in hand. You on the other hand, dressed in a midnight-blue satin evening gown, accompanied by a plunging A-line, accentuating your curves in all the right places. You even took it further by getting a makeover—something you rarely do—even though Sinclair admired your natural form.
“[Y/N]…you, uh, you look…” he stumbled on his words, in a poor attempt to articulate his thoughts. His initial reaction led to your cheeks blushing at his sincerity.
“Do I look okay?” You murmured, your eyes shied, glancing down at your shoes.
“You look positively radiant, my love,” he confessed, while he pressed his lips to your temple with tenderness. “I have a special surprise waiting for you in the garden, but you are required to close your eyes before I can reveal what it is. Let me take this first, and then I’ll lead to the surprise.”
You nodded while he took the confectionary box from your hands, and carried it into the kitchen, imparting muttered instructions to the housekeeper in the distance. He resurfaced not long after, since it was time for him to finally reveal his surprise.
“Promise me one thing, [Y/N]; no peeking whatsoever,” he whispered sensually into your ear, the sound of his low-pitched voice could be felt pulsating throughout your body.
“Pinky promise, my love,” you guaranteed, just as he placed his large hands in front of your eyes—ensuring total coverage without messing up your makeup. He guided you through the house, passing the through the kitchen and dining room; until you arrived at the conservatory leading into the garden.
“When you’re ready, open your eyes darling.”
And staying true to tradition, Sinclair planned the celebration in a way he understood you would love: a starry night picnic in the garden at the home you share with him. The setup was spectacular; an outdoor theatre, coupled by Italian string lights draped overhead, creating a canopy of a soft glow above. There was a table dedicated to the cheese and chocolate fondue fountains with all your favourite toppings to indulge in. The music was playing softly in the background, with a playlist filled with song you would dance to with him—a reminder of the late night slow dancing sessions. He wanted to make sure everything was perfect, just for you.
“You did all of this?” You choked back the tears of joy, at the same time, you were taking in the scenery. The sunset stretched out an amber incandescence over the scenery.
“Of course I did. To commemorate our second anniversary together. To be fair darling, I did receive a bit of help setting up everything,” he confessed, the back of his hand caressing your cheek.
“That explains the unusual silence from you this morning, as well as your eagerness to rid of me for the day. I must admit, you were pretty convincing at keeping this a secret.”
“That wasn’t my intention, I promise. You know how awful I am at keeping surprises from you, [Y/N]. And to tell you the truth, I had already told my secretary to clear my schedule for the rest of the week.”
“Oh Sinclair…” your voice trailed off. “You really shouldn’t have gone through all this trouble. I mean, taking the time to organise such a spectacular evening for someone like me…”
“I don’t like how you talk down on yourself like that,” he said. “Do not, for one second, convince yourself that you’re not attractive; let alone think you not worthy of all of this. Just because society decided a woman such as yourself is not considered the archetype for what conventional beauty looks like, will never not be beautiful in my eyes. If I can see that, why can’t you?”
“It’s not that I do not necessarily agree with you, Clair,” you hesitated. “As much as I love you—and I truly do— it does concern me, regarding your feelings about what other people will always have to say about us. About you.”
He took your hand in his, and placed a tender kiss on it. His hazel eyes glimmered under the warm glow of the lights; making his eyes appear golden in the light, and responded, “You can be rest assured, my darling, there’s no need for you to worry about me. Ever. That is my responsibility. As your partner, my goal is to ensure you get to achieve all of your dreams and desires; no matter how significance. You make me happy in ways no other person could. I never fully understood the concept of what genuine love felt like—that is until I met you…”
The one thing you never thought to anticipate finally happened; watching the man you’ve come to love over the years, propping himself on one knee with a small blue velvet box surfacing from his pocket. Your eyes widen in awe as he opened the case; the contents revealed a stunning, princess-cut sapphire engagement ring.
“…and to prove all my loving encouragement for you has been nothing but true, I was hoping you legitimise it by spending the rest of our lives together. Make me the happiest man alive. Will you marry me, [Y/N] [L/N]?”
The words were caught in your breath. At the same time, you tried to prevent the tears from trickling down your cheeks, fearing it would ruin your makeup. However…it wouldn’t matter, anyways. The glimmer in your eyes coupled with the prickling tears, were the confirmation that he needed (if only he could tell in that very moment).
“That is only if it’s what you desire, of course. The last thing I want is to pressure you into—”
“—Yes, yes, YES! I’ll marry you, Sinclair Bryant!” You squealed in ecstasy, unable to maintain your composure, as you leaned in close for an affectionate embrace. He let out an exasperated sigh of relief—deep down he hoped you would agree to his proposal. His racing heartbeat steadied as your lips met his for a heartfelt kiss.
“May I?” He let out a low, baritonal murmur, as he presented the ring once more. You nodded, barely trying to contain your excitement as he took your soft hand in his, and settled the engagement ring in its rightful place. Not only had you never anticipated this day would come to fruition, yet everything that led you to this exact moment has finally come true.
“I took one of your rings from your personal collection a few months ago,” Sinclair let out a nervous chuckle, barely paying any attention to his reddening cheeks. “I had this night perfectly mapped out in my head. I wanted to make sure everything was perfect for you; that included seeing to it that you might like the design I chose for you…”
You stood on your tiptoe to settle a small kiss on his cheek, effectively leaving a deep crimson mark. A simple lip stain, reminding him of the love you have always possessed for him.
“It’s absolutely perfect. Thank you for asking me, my love.”
“No, thank you darling, for choosing me,” he hummed. The look in his hazel eyes glowed a vibrant amber in the sunset. He ran his fingers through his golden brown locks, pushing back any loose strands of hair would obscure his vision. All he wanted was nothing more than to take in every second in admiring you. He needed to capture every bit of this moment, creating a mental photograph of you. A daily reminder that he is lucky to have someone like him in his life.
“You have made me the happiest man alive, my love. No can ever take that away from you, or from me. I cannot wait to spend the rest of my life being dedicated to you. Without an iota of doubt, please know that I will always love you, [Y/N].”
You threw your arms around his shoulders, bringing your bodies closer together. “Of course I know that, silly. I will always love you, Sinclair. To the edge of the galaxy and back.”
🌸Credit for the dividers: @diviniyae
