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coldkidcookieneck · 12 days ago

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Title: To Love Is To Burn

Summary: It all started with a trip to the grocery store — and a very dramatic fall. Who knew that tripping, literally, could land you straight into the arms of a dangerously handsome stranger with a smirk, a secret, and the patience of a saint?

Author's note: Hey, my dear readers, this is my first take on writing our darling Sinclair, and it all started from that one scene of him sitting in the aisle — I couldn't resist using that gif for this one-shot, so let me know what you think. Hope you guys enjoy reading it🥰

Pairing: Sinclair Bryant x Fem Reader

Cross-posted on AO3

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The supermarket lights buzz faintly overhead — cold, commercial, and unforgiving. You’re fresh off your final lecture of the day, still mentally crunching data sets and seriously regretting choosing fruit over a proper lunch. Your backpack digs into one shoulder like a boulder as you chew on the remaining banana you never finished from breakfast.

You're here out of duty. Your parents were stuck in a meeting, your brother had something to do at his university, and someone had to pick up groceries. Naturally, that someone was you.

And because you're you, you're determined to make the most of it. Maybe sneak in a few guilty-pleasure snacks and pretend you're not internally screaming from information overload.

So here you are, still in your university clothes, with sweatpants, an oversized hoodie, worn trainers, chewing on a banana like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart, skimming through your list like it holds the meaning of life.

You exhale sharply and mutter, “Okay… bread, milk, eggs, avocado, softener… and don’t forget chocolate.”

You’re weaving between aisles, back and forth from your list to the shelves, And then— BAM.

Your foot catches on something solid.

You go flying, arms flailing, your banana shooting out of your hand like a javelin.

You hit the ground with a graceless thud. Something rolls away from you. You blink.

A banana. Your banana.

And then you see him.

A man, no, a man — sitting on the floor of the aisle with one leg stretched out, tying the laces of what are easily the most expensive dress shoes you’ve ever seen outside a Bond film.

You’re furious. Flustered. And now bruised.

“Oh my God, who the hell ties their shoe in the middle of an aisle?!”

Sinclair hadn’t meant to sit there that long.

He’d come in for wine. Maybe chocolate. Something meaningless and indulgent, anything to distract from the mess Natalie had left behind.

That… disaster.

He should’ve known. It was never going to last. He had built a dream out of glass and watched it shatter. Again.

Now here he was, in a grocery store, tying a shoe that didn’t even need fixing.

He wasn’t thinking clearly.

His mind kept drifting to New York, to the house they almost bought, to late-night conversations that always stopped just short of honesty.

He tugged the laces tighter. Useless habit.

And then, chaos.

A weight slammed into him. A body. A noise. A voice. Furious. Feminine. Sharp.

"Oh my God, who the hell ties their shoe in the middle of an aisle?!"

He blinked.

A young woman early twenties, maybe, was sprawled beside him, hair slightly windblown, a banana peel clinging to her hoodie. Her banana had rolled away, landing near a stack of soup cans like something out of an action film.

And yet somehow, she looked like the most vivid thing he’d seen in weeks.

He straightened and said, “Apparently, someone with poor timing. Are you hurt?”

You wince, muttering, “Just my dignity. And my banana.”

Your eyes follow the doomed fruit. Neither of you speaks for a moment.

Feeling mildly guilty and oddly intrigued, Sinclair offers, “Please… allow me to pay for your groceries.”

You’re already dusting yourself off, refusing help with the stubborn pride of someone who’s had one too many long days.

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got to get back to my shopping and back home, and I don’t let strangers pay for my bananas.”

He rises too, slowly, brushing off his coat. His eyes linger on you — not inappropriately, but with the quiet curiosity of a man who hasn’t been surprised in a long time.

You turn to leave.

He hesitates, then asks again, “You’re sure?”

You glance over your shoulder, a little softer now. “Yes. And maybe next time you feel like tying your shoe… don’t do it in a public walkway.”

A ghost of a smile plays at his lips. You roll your eyes and walk off, muttering something about human hazards and banana casualties.

But he doesn’t stop watching you go.

Later that night, in your room

You collapse onto your bed after unloading the groceries, helping your mum prepare dinner, and in the end, you manage to get yourself ready for bed.

You're exhausted, your body sore, your brain fried, and all you want is to sleep. And as you were dozing off, you were thinking of what you learned and did today.

But instead of lecture notes, formulas, or even what you forgot to buy for your snacks, he flashes across your mind.

Shoes. Perfect hair. An accent you’re sure could make the word “mayonnaise” sound poetic.

And he sat in the middle of the bloody aisle.

You smirk to yourself.

“He tripped me,” you mumble to no one. “Like. Full-on tripped me. With his....shiny Oxford shoes.”

A small laugh escapes your lips. You hate that it bubbles up so easily.

Still. You have to admit…

He was kind of cute.

Elsewhere, Sinclair's Manor

Sinclair set down the wine bottle he didn’t even want.

The lights are dim. His coat hangs untouched on the back of a chair. His mind, however, refuses to shut down.

She had that look — someone just barely keeping it together, but still too stubborn to crumble. And a banana. God, she threw the banana like a weapon.

He let out a faint exhale, rubbing his jaw.

What was her name?

He didn’t ask. He never asked.

But still, somehow, she stayed in his thoughts.

Not Natalie. Not the past. Just the girl in the hoodie and the trainers… and the banana.

It’s been a few days since the supermarket incident, but the memory lingers.

Not always. Sometimes, you’re too busy — finishing coursework, wrangling your schedule, helping your mum around the house. Sometimes your focus holds.

You hadn’t meant to think about him this often — the man with the sharp jaw and sharper wit, the one who looked at you like you were both absurd and amusing. But every now and then, when your mind drifts, when you flip open Sense and Sensibility, unfortunately, a certain stranger’s amused smirk always slips in right after the good Colonel’s name.

That strange man with the disarming charm, stupidly expensive shoes, and the nerve to quote poetry with his posture alone.

You don’t know his name. You didn’t ask. But he sure looked like the kind of person who had a middle name and a coat for every day of the week.

You’ve mostly convinced yourself it was a one-time, freak coincidence.

Until tonight.

You’re dressed simply but well — wide-leg jeans, a nude knit long-sleeve top, white sneakers. Casual. Comfortable. A little flushed from the summer air and the walk over.

Your parents walk ahead with your brother, chatting about work or something equally boring. You trail behind, nose deep in Austen. Something is comforting in Austen’s rhythm, something soothing in Colonel Brandon’s quiet loyalty. You’ve read it dozens of times, but still… he always shows up when Marianne least deserves him. And he always stays.

The restaurant is just ahead. You’re almost at the door.

And then—

Your sneaker catches on something solid. Not pavement. Not a crack in the sidewalk.

Someone.

Your book goes flying. Your arms flail. And then you’re falling — straight into the chest of someone stepping out of the restaurant.

There’s a dull thud. An involuntary oomph.

And then... silence.

You blink.

Of course it’s him.

Standing tall, elegant as ever, in that same coat, charcoal grey, perfectly cut, and that same frustrating smirk just starting to curl at his lips.

“Are you following me?” he asks, voice calm, eyes flickering with unmistakable amusement.

You groan into his coat. “No. No, no, no. Not you again.”

You push yourself upright, mortified, brushing off your top with the grace of a cat falling off a shelf. You don’t even have time to process how good he smells — clean, expensive, something citrusy and warm — before the sarcasm starts up again.

He steps back slightly, adjusting the sleeve of his coat. “I do admire the consistency. You’re becoming quite good at this.”

You give him a deadpan look. “You have some sort of gravitational pull, clearly.”

He stoops to pick up your book, turning it over in one hand. “Sense and Sensibility,” he notes.

Then, his smirk deepens — just a bit.

“To love is to burn,” he quotes smoothly, voice low and steady. “To be on fire.”

Your head snaps up. “Do not quote Colonel Brandon at me, sir.”

You snatch the book back with dramatic annoyance, cheeks absolutely aflame.

You’re seconds from melting into the floor — and that’s before your brother arrives.

Your older brother, ever the eagle-eyed sibling, always ten seconds away from delivering a public roast, materializes beside you, arms crossed and eyebrow raised in pure big-brother judgment.

“Oh,” he says dryly, surveying you and the stranger. “So this is what happens when we let you walk five feet behind us.”

Your cheeks are burning. Your parents are staring. Your dad has paused mid-step, one brow raised. And your mum? She looks between you and the tall stranger, lips twitching.

“You alright, love? Did that gentleman break your fall?”

You want to die. Immediately.

“I’m fine. No one broke anything. Everything is perfectly unbroken. We’re going to our table now. Goodbye.”

You gather your book, your dignity, and your limbs, and hurry toward the hostess stand like it’s the only exit from your shame.

Behind you, your family is whispering. Laughing.

And Sinclair?

He simply rights his posture, smooth as ever, brushes imaginary dust off his coat, and nods politely toward your mum.

They are visibly stunned by his entire Bond meets Jane Austen aura.

As you disappear into the restaurant, you catch the faintest sound — just under the soft piano notes and clinking glass.

Sinclair, amused, murmurs to himself, “That’s twice.”

Restroom

Later, you excuse yourself to the restroom after your brother won’t stop teasing, and your dad makes a scene out of calling him your future son-in-law.

The restroom is blissfully empty, the lighting soft and the air cool. You lean over the sink, gripping the porcelain edge like it might explain the last ten minutes to you.

What is wrong with the universe? Why does this man keep appearing every time you let your guard down? First the supermarket, now this?

Twice in one week and you don’t even know his name.

You shouldn’t care. But your heart is still doing that weird fluttery thing and your cheeks are still flushed.

And damn it, when he smiled at your parents like that…

You take a deep breath, shaking your head at yourself.

Then you catch it — just the faintest trace of something on your sleeve.

You lift it to your nose.

It’s his scent.

Something clean. Citrusy, maybe. Or saffron. You’re not sure. But it’s really good. The kind of cologne that lingers — expensive, subtle, and completely unfair.

You exhale, half-laughing to yourself.

“Even if he tripped me... I liked the way he quoted Colonel Brandon, and did I hear him mutter that twice? ” You mumble to your reflection.

Keep calm.

It’s fine. Just a weird coincidence. Nothing more.

Still... you wouldn’t mind running into him again.

Just… maybe not face-first.

Restaurant Car Park

Whereas, at the restaurant car park, Sinclair walks slowly to his car, sliding his hands into the pockets of his coat.

He should be annoyed. Most people bumping into him unannounced would earn a glare, not a smirk.

But there’s something… different about you.

Not just the way you mutter like you’re narrating your own personal Greek tragedy. Not just the book in your hand. Or the way your family looked half-concerned, half used to it.

It’s you.

You, with your wide eyes and your dramatics and your stubborn refusal to let him be amused at your expense.

He smirks again, under the streetlight.

She never asked for my name.

He lets out a soft laugh to himself — the kind that escapes before he can catch it.

“And what the hell was I thinking quoting Colonel Brandon?” he mutters.

Still, he’s grinning as he unlocks the car. Slides in.

And for the first time in a while, he’s still thinking of someone… hours later.

Maybe next time, he’ll stop being so polite. Maybe next time, he’ll ask your name first.

Or, better yet — maybe you’ll crash into him again.

Your university’s annual fundraising gala was the kind of event you never really looked forward to — too many clinking glasses, too many preppy alumni pretending to remember your name, and too many professors trying to out-wine-snob each other. But you had to admit… they did know how to decorate.

Golden fairy lights hung like fireflies overhead. Glass chandeliers glimmered above velvet-draped tables. It felt like stepping into the ballroom of a storybook. A very expensive, overly-academic, still-kind-of-awkward storybook.

You were dressed to match the magic tonight — in a silk corset lace-up evening gown that hugged your curves like it had been stitched with intentions. Deep midnight blue. Satin sheen. Your hair curled, your cheeks kissed with shimmer, your lips painted with pink gloss.

And heels. Heels. The worst betrayal of the night.

“Remind me again why I agreed to come in these?” you muttered, wobbling slightly.

Emily laughed beside you, clinking her champagne flute against yours.

“Because I dared you. And because this is the only time in the semester you’ll be able to dress like a Bond girl and actually get away with it.”

You snorted. “Yeah, except Bond girls have balance.”

Your friends were all dressed to the nines, grouped together by the champagne table, laughing and doing their best not to look like broke grad students in a room full of very rich donors.

You didn’t bring a partner — not that it was required. Most people came solo or with friends. But your thoughts kept wandering…

The gala didn’t require a partner, but as you sipped cheap white wine with Emily and the others, his face kept flashing behind your eyes. The accidental touches. The sarcasm. The smirk.

“You good?” Emily asked, nudging your shoulder.

“Huh?”

“You were staring at the pianist like he owes you money.”

“I’m just dizzy.”

“Girl, you’re tipsy.”

“I’m elevated.”

Emily snorted. “Just don’t fall again. No tall men in tailored suits around to catch you this time.”

You grinned. “Tragically.”

She gave you a look. “Right. Sure.”

Before you could retaliate, someone called your name across the room — you turned toward it, the cheap white wine in your system making the floor sway just enough to be treacherous — and then:

Your heel twisted.

You stumbled.

And you crashed directly into a man in a black suit.

Again.

“Shit—” Your hands braced against a chest. A familiar one. Solid. Warm.

He caught you like he always seemed to — with both arms around you and a low, surprised grunt in your ear.

“…We must stop meeting like this,” he muttered into your hair.

You groaned into his shirt. “I swear to God, this one wasn’t your fault.”

You looked up. It was him. The guy who tripped in the aisle and at the restaurant entrance. Moreover, the guy who replaces Colonel Brandon in your dreams.

“I’m beginning to suspect fate has a rather wicked sense of humour,” he said, dry as ever.

You tried to step back. Your heel wobbled again. He kept a hand steady at your waist — the contact making your stomach flip.

“Do you follow me or… do I just naturally fall on you wherever I go?” you asked, trying for humor but breathless.

“Well, if it’s not intentional, it’s certainly impressive. Three times now?”

You laughed, still pink. “Are you keeping score?”

“Just curious how many falls it takes before someone lets me buy them a drink.”

You blinked at him. God, he looked good. His suit was tailored. Dark. Under the string lights, there was a softness to his features that hadn’t been there before. A flicker of something behind his eyes.

“…You can buy me water,” you said. “I think I need one.”

His smile deepened.

He guided you gently toward a quieter table off to the side, away from the main party. His hand brushed your arm as you sat. You noticed the way his eyes lingered on you — more lingering than before.

“You clean up…” he said slowly, voice low. “Devastatingly well.”

You gave him a look. “Was that a compliment or a warning?”

He chuckled. “A little of both.”

You both sat, eyes lingering now. Curious. Charged.

He tilted his head, gaze soft.

“I just realized,” he said, “I still don’t know your name.”

You smirked. “You’ve caught me mid-fall three times and now you ask?”

“I like to take my time,” he said, voice dropping.

You stepped a little closer, playful. “Hmm… you first, then.”

He hesitated, then offered a hand.

“Sinclair Bryant.”

You blinked. “Sinclair?”

He nodded, amused.

You squinted dramatically. “That sounds like the name of a man who owns a vineyard and casually sails on Thursdays.”

“And what do I actually look like I do?”

“Secret vigilante. Or tech billionaire.”

Sinclair smiled, eyes narrowing. “Your turn.”

“Y/N Carrington.”

His lips twitched. “That doesn’t match the woman who just tackled me in front of academia’s finest.”

“Would it help if I said Carrington is the name I give when I flirt with strangers at galas?”

His eyes darkened. “Are you flirting, Carrington?”

You winked. “I’m wearing heels and drinking wine. What do you think?”

You both laughed — easy now, a little wine-sweet and curiosity-drunk.

“So… Mr. Sinclair,” you mused. “Are you always this conveniently placed when I lose my balance? Or are you secretly hired as my personal crash pad?”

“Only on weekends,” he replied. “But I do offer loyalty discounts.”

You grinned. “I’m studying to be a data analyst at University of London, by the way. Which sounds cooler than it is, I promise.”

Sinclair blinked. “You’re kidding.”

“…No?”

“I am one. Or was. Now I just manage a bunch of brilliant ones.”

You squinted. “So you’re the boss everyone secretly rolls their eyes at.”

He gasped, mock-offended. “I am delightfully tolerable, thank you.”

You giggled, tipsy and warm. Then, without thinking—

“So… does Mr. Sinclair happen to be dating anyone?”

He paused. Just for a second. His gaze shifted — from your lips to your eyes.

“Not at the moment,” he said softly.

“‘Not at the moment’ sounds suspiciously like heartbreak,” you teased, voice gentler now.

“…Maybe,” he murmured. “It’s hard to let someone in when you’ve been a placeholder before. You start wondering if people are ever meant to stay.”

There was a pause — quiet, heavy.

“…There was someone,” he added after a beat. “Natalie. We were… something. She said I was too serious. Too quiet. Too much of a placeholder until the ‘real thing’ came along.”

Your heart squeezed.

Not because he was broken. But because of how carefully he held the pieces.

Without thinking, you reached out and touched his hand. Just briefly. Just enough.

“You’re not a placeholder,” you said softly. “You’re the main plot twist.”

He looked at you like you’d surprised him. Like maybe no one had said something like that before.

Then your name rang out again — Emily, waving from the entrance.

“Driver’s here! Come on, babe!”

You stood, smoothing your gown. He rose with you, instinctively offering his hand again.

There was a pause.

You thought of kissing him on the cheek. Be brave, girl. Just this once. Kiss him. Before you talk yourself out of it.

Then, without thinking more, you leaned forward and kissed him. Just lightly. Just on the cheek.

“Try not to catch anyone else tonight, Mr. Sinclair.”

You walked off into the crowd, heels clicking, heart racing, dress shimmering. And as you settled into the car, you thought,

That man’s going to be the death of me. Why didn’t I give him my number? Who knows, maybe I might trip over him again?

And just like that, the gala faded behind you. But something else?

Was just beginning.

He wasn’t supposed to be here.

Well, technically he was — the invite had come straight from one of the charity wings his company sponsored, and the university's gala was just another smiling obligation in his corporate calendar.

But he didn’t feel like smiling.

Too many professors use trading jargon. Too many teenagers pretending to be wine judges. Too many tight handshakes and tighter smiles.

Sinclair nursed a glass of red and drifted near the edges of the ballroom, where the chandeliers didn’t glare quite so hard. His suit was tailored, tie loose, hair behaving for once. He looked the part. As always.

But his mind was far from here.

Her.

That damn girl who barreled into him at the supermarket.

And then again at the restaurant.

A walking hazard. A beautiful, infuriating, sharp-tongued hazard. The girl, he quoted Colonel Brandon, too.

He caught himself scanning the crowd, like he had any right to expect her here.

Come on, Bryant. You're at a university fundraiser, not in some sappy romance drama.

He turned his head, about to retreat to the outer hall for some air—

Crash.

Something, someone, collided with his chest. Hard.

His arms went around her automatically, steadying instinct kicking in before his brain caught up.

A familiar scent. Familiar hair. Familiar chaos.

His eyes widened.

No. Bloody. Way.

“…We must stop meeting like this,” he muttered into her hair, trying not to smile.

She groaned into his shirt. “I swear to God, this one wasn’t your fault.”

God, it’s really her.

He glanced down. Midnight blue. Corset gown. Glossy lips. Glittering eyes.

His breath stuttered.

He hadn’t even known he’d memorised her. And yet here she was — falling into his arms like the universe was playing matchmaker with a sense of humour.

“I’m beginning to suspect fate has a rather wicked sense of humour,” he said, keeping his tone light even as his heart jackhammered.

She tried to step back — and stumbled again. He caught her waist.

Her eyes met his, wide. Breathless. Slightly wine-blurred.

Dangerous. Absolutely dangerous.

“Do you follow me or… do I just naturally fall on you wherever I go?” she teased.

He raised a brow. “If it’s not intentional, it’s certainly impressive. Three times now?”

She laughed, cheeks flushed. “Are you keeping score?”

He was. Against his better judgment.

“Just curious how many falls it takes before someone lets me buy them a drink.”

He said it like a joke.

He didn’t mean it like one.

They ended up at a smaller table tucked to the side, and Sinclair hadn’t realized how loud the room had been until her voice was the only one he wanted to hear.

Her dress shimmered when she sat. He followed, slower — trying to recalibrate.

Trying not to stare.

Failing.

“You clean up…” he said slowly, letting his eyes trail from her shoes to her cheekbones, “devastatingly well.”

She gave him a look. Witty. Suspicious. Beautiful.

“Was that a compliment or a warning?”

Yes.

He chuckled. “A little of both.”

Her name came later. Y/N, Carrington. Soft on the tongue. Slightly posh. But her delivery? Full sass.

She winked. Teased. Flirted.

Sinclair hadn’t flirted like this in years. Hadn’t wanted to.

There was something in her. Spark and softness. Fire under gloss. When she touched his hand, barely, it felt like someone had struck a match along his skin.

Then she asked a question that made him skip a breath.

“So… does Mr. Sinclair happen to be dating anyone?”

He paused.

Just for a second. His gaze drifted — from her lips to her eyes.

“Not at the moment,” he said quietly.

“‘Not at the moment’ sounds suspiciously like heartbreak,” she teased, voice gentle now.

He gave a short breath of a laugh — but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“…There was someone,” he admitted. “Natalie. We were… something. She said I was too serious. Too quiet. Too much of a placeholder until the ‘real thing’ came along.”

He hadn’t meant to say that much. But the words tumbled out anyway, carried on the hush between them.

He hadn’t said her name in months. Not out loud.

Natalie had always craved noise — parties, people, constant motion. She loved socializing, especially with her brother.

But with her, he’d never felt seen.

Only… kept.

And in the end, discarded — like a well-worn book on a crowded shelf.

Then her voice cut through the quiet, calm and certain.

“You’re not a placeholder.”

His eyes lifted.

“You’re the main plot twist.”

That line hit harder than it should’ve. Knocked the air right out of him.

Then, as he was in a daze, Sinclair heard her friend calling. She stood, smoothing her gown, and he rose with her, instinctively offering his hand again.

But there was a pause, and leaning forward, she kissed him. Just lightly. Just on the cheek.

“Try not to catch anyone else tonight, Mr. Sinclair.”

She walked off into the crowd, heels clicking, heart racing, dress shimmering.

Sinclair didn’t move. Couldn’t.

He stood there, stunned, hand drifting to the place her lips had touched.

Her words still echoed in his ears.

Her warmth still lingered on his skin.

That dress.Her laugh. The way she looked at me. God. How did I not ask for her number?

But maybe who knows, she might trip over me and I might be there to catch her again, Sinclair thought, smiling to himself.

He walked back into the gala again.

It had been nearly two months since the gala.

In the time between, life had dissolved into a blur of textbooks, final exams, and nights where you fell asleep with highlighters tangled in your hair. The cold halls of the university library never felt lonelier than during finals week — and somewhere between caffeine-fueled essays and restless dreams, you stopped allowing herself to think about him.

Sinclair.

Even his name felt like a risk now. Like breathing smoke.

You hadn’t given him your number. At first, you told yourself it was an accident. Later, you realized you were afraid. Because what if it had only been a moment? One of those rare, crystalline nights that wasn’t meant to follow you home?

And then came the envelope.

It appeared on your dorm desk the day you returned to pack up your things. Neatly placed. Ivory cream, thick parchment, sealed with an old-fashioned wax stamp the color of deep plum. Across the front, in elegant cursive, was written:

Miss Carrington Dorm Room 7 – West Wing University of London

Your fingertips tingled as you traced the letters.

Inside was a single folded sheet. The ink was dark, pressed in with purpose. No smudges, no mistakes. The lines were clean — but you could almost feel the hesitation behind the words, the way the writer had sat with them, rewritten them silently a dozen times before finally committing them to the page.

Miss Carrington, If this letter reaches you — and I hope to God it does — I would very much like to see you again. Hyde Park. Friday. 4 PM. Please. To love is to burn, to be on fire.

No name. But you knew.

The letter trembled in your hands.

That night, you lay on your childhood bed, staring at the ceiling while the letter sat on your nightstand like a question mark that had taken form. You kept reading the last line over and over.

To love is to burn, to be on fire.

Had he meant it metaphorically? Had he written it in haste or truthfully? Did he feel what you felt that night — the sense that everything had shifted the moment they met?

The next morning, your mother caught you in front of the mirror, brushing your hair with a kind of nervous focus you hadn’t seen in a while.

“Going somewhere?”

You hesitated. “Meeting someone.”

Her mum raised a perfectly sculpted brow. “A boy?”

“…Sort of.”

Your mother grinned. “Then wear the pink one. The floral sundress. You always look beautiful in that one.”

“I don’t know…”

“He’ll like it,” her mum said with conviction, already walking to the closet. “You look like a dream when you dress up.”

You didn’t say it aloud, but part of you remembered how Sinclair had looked at you that night, in that blue satin gown. How he’d murmured something about you looking “well cleaned up.” The phrase had echoed in your mind like a compliment.

So you wore the sundress. Pale pink, delicate flowers blooming across the hem like secrets. It danced around your knees when you walked. Your mother gave you a ride, fussed over your hair one last time before you stepped out near the park’s entrance.

“Call me if you float away from happiness,” your mum teased.

You smiled nervously. “I’ll try.”

Meanwhile, Sinclair had been sitting on the same bench for the last twenty minutes.

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Maybe nothing. Maybe he just wanted to feel like he’d tried.

Sending that letter had been a gamble. The University of London had hundreds of students. But he remembered Carrington. He remembered the way she held herself. The faint northern accent in her voice. The way she’d laughed despite herself at his terrible, dry jokes.

He’d tracked down to the west wing, by bribing the porter with an espresso and two quid just to find and double-check room numbers. Dorm Room 7. Miss Carrington. That was as close to fate as he could get.

Now he sat there, black coat buttoned, pretending to read the same page of his book for the fifth time.

Maybe she wouldn't come.

Maybe she’d laugh at the note. Maybe it never reached her at all.

He closed his book and let the spring sun warm his skin. If she didn’t come, he would leave in fifteen minutes. Maybe ten. He hated waiting.

But then, a flicker of pink.

A shape moving just beyond the hedge-lined path. A flash of hair he hadn’t realized he’d memorized. And the dress — soft, sunlit, unmistakable.

His heart stopped.

She was walking toward him.

You saw him the moment you rounded the corner.

He was there. Black coat. Paperback in hand. Sitting on the park bench like something out of a forgotten poem.

The sight of him knocked the wind from your lungs.

He looked up. Both of your eyes met. And something in his expression shifted — a quiet storm settling into still water.

You walked faster. Then slower. Then tried to act like you weren’t staring.

And just as you passed, the universe, yet again, conspired.

Your foot snagged on a root curled through the path. You pitched forward, gasping.

But before you could fall, strong arms caught you.

“…Got you,” he murmured.

Your palms pressed into his chest. One hand gripped his shoulder. His hands were at your waist, warm and sure.

Your froze. The world tilted — not from the stumble, but from him.

Their faces were inches apart.

You could see the gold light reflecting in his eyes, and you could feel his breath against your cheek. He wasn’t smiling now. No teasing. Just… watching you. Like he had so many things he wanted to say, and didn’t know which to begin with.

“Why is it always you?” you whispered.

His voice was quiet. “Maybe it’s always supposed to be me.”

Something broke open in your chest.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

“I think I’ve been falling for you this whole time.”

For a moment, nothing moved. And then, the tiniest shift.

His lips quirked. Not in amusement. In something else. Admiration, maybe.

He leaned in.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Giving you time to pull away.

You didn’t.

The kiss was soft.

Certain.

A quiet promise stitched together from every unsaid word, every unspoken longing. It was warmth and ache and relief all at once — the kind of kiss that made the world hush and time fold in on itself.

When both of you finally pulled apart, breathless, you didn’t fall.

You floated.

And this time, he was there to catch you anyway.

Two years later

The sun poured like honey through the wide windows of their home — their home — nestled just past the city, where the trees bloomed thick and the air always smelled like fresh beginnings.

Their daughter, barely steady on her legs, toddled across the garden with all the determination of a storm. She was small and soft and completely fearless — and like you, her mother, had a curious knack for tripping over invisible things at just the right moment.

And as always, Sinclair was there.

He caught her mid-fall, scooping her up with practiced ease. She squealed with delight.

“Well now,” he said, lifting her with mock-seriousness, “another girl in this family who falls at my feet.”

You snorted from the patio.

“She didn’t fall for you, she just fell near you.”

He grinned. “Close enough.”

You walked over and gently swatted his arm. “Arrogant.”

He kissed your temple. “Married you, didn’t I?”

The baby giggled between you, clapping her hands as if she'd understood the joke. Her curls caught the sunlight — like yours — and her little nose crinkled just like his when she laughed.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, arms wrapped around the both of them.

He held you tighter.

And in that moment, warm garden air, baby laughter, a little chaos, a lot of love, you knew.

You’d fall for him all over again.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #sinclair bryant x reader #sinclair bryant #close my eyes

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muiitoloko · 4 months ago

Note

Oioi, quero compartilhar uma ideia que eu tive: Lionel começa a pensar que ele precisa de um herdeiro pq ele já não é mais tão novo e a Shabandar Media precisará de um outro CEO no futuro, ele passa em frente a uma loja de roupas de bebê e vê roupas com tema de safari na vitrine e a de leão chama muito a atenção dele, ele tem o baby fever ativado e o breeding kink aguçado pela ideia de "manter a empresa na família" - baby fever + breeding kink = 🔥

A ideia foi essa, pode mudar, editar, fazer o que quiser com ela pq eu devoro todas as fics que vc escreve de tão boas que elas são, obrigada por ser uma das únicas pessoas que escreve fics do Colin e do Alan ♥️

Title: The Heir to the Shahbandar Empire

Summary: A chance glance at a baby store sparks an unexpected obsession in Lionel: an heir. His wife is in for a wild ride—starting that very night.

Pairing: Lionel Shahbandar × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Author's Notes: Obrigado pelo seu pedido! Espero que goste disso 🫶

Also read on Ao3

Lionel tapped his fingers against the steering wheel, exhaling sharply as he sat at yet another red light. He had dismissed his driver for the day, deciding to take the car himself—a rare indulgence. He hardly ever drove, always being chauffeured from one event to another, from one extravagant business deal to the next. But today, he wanted the feel of the car under his hands, the control, the freedom. It was an unfamiliar yet exhilarating experience, despite the absolute disaster that was London traffic.

His sharp, dark eyes flicked to his phone, resting in the mount on the dashboard. Nothing particularly interesting. No urgent calls, no pressing messages. A rare quiet moment in the whirlwind of his life.

He sighed and looked out the window instead.

That was when he saw it.

A small boutique nestled between two towering buildings, its window display carefully arranged by a young shopgirl. She was adjusting the tiny outfits on display—delicate, soft fabrics in pastel hues. But it wasn’t the quaint charm of the boutique that caught Lionel’s eye. No, it was the baby clothes. More specifically, the safari-themed ones.

And, of course, the lion outfit.

Lionel’s fingers tightened slightly on the wheel as he took in the sight of the miniature costume—a tiny, golden onesie with a fluffy mane around the hood, little ears poking out at the top. It was ridiculous. Adorable. Nostalgic.

He had one just like it when he was a child—though his had been an actual costume, not an outfit. He had worn it constantly, roaring around the grand halls of his childhood home, declaring himself “King of the Pride Lands.” His poor nanny had spent more time coaxing him out of that costume than teaching him any proper etiquette.

But Lionel didn’t think about that time, about his own childhood.

He thought about an heir.

His heir.

Something stirred deep in his chest—an unfamiliar, unsettling sensation. He wasn’t getting any younger. He was already older than most men who started thinking about such things. His empire, his fortune, his legacy—it had to go somewhere. He could leave it to one of his distant cousins, or even to you, his brilliant, beautiful wife. But a child… a son, a daughter—his blood— was suddenly an idea that lodged itself in his brain like a splinter he couldn’t ignore.

And the most ironic part of it all? He had never wanted children.

He despised them. Couldn’t stand their incessant whining, their sticky hands, their unpredictable tantrums. He had spent years relishing his freedom, his untethered, indulgent lifestyle. A child was the last thing he had ever considered.

And yet, here he was.

Sitting at a red light. Staring at a baby store.

Thinking about breeding you.

A sharp honk from behind jolted him out of his thoughts.

Lionel’s hooked nose flared as he snapped his gaze to the traffic light. Green. Bloody hell. He had been sitting there too long. With a low growl of frustration, he slammed his foot on the accelerator, his luxury car surging forward.

But his mind was elsewhere.

His fingers gripped the wheel tighter, his jaw set with newfound purpose.

The idea of a child—the very thought of you, his wife, his lioness, swollen with his heir—had ignited something deep within him. It wasn’t just possessiveness. It was more than that. It was primal. A need that had been lurking beneath the surface, unnoticed until now. He had built an empire, ruled his kingdom. Now, he needed an heir to inherit it. To carry his name.

And if he was going to do this… he was going to do it tonight.

He pressed down on the accelerator, weaving through traffic with reckless precision. He had to get home. Had to get to you.

Because tonight?

Tonight, he was keeping the business in the family.

You heard the familiar hum of Lionel’s car as it pulled into the driveway, the sound as recognizable as the man himself—powerful, controlled, yet always on the verge of breaking the rules. You smiled to yourself as you hurried to greet him, as you always did, your steps light with anticipation.

But the moment Lionel stepped inside, you knew something was different.

His sharp, dark eyes locked onto you with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. He barely let the door shut behind him before he was on you, sweeping you up in his arms in one fluid motion. A gasp escaped your lips as he carried you with effortless strength, spinning around and setting you down on the nearest surface—the ornate dresser in the hallway. The wood creaked slightly under the sudden weight, but neither of you cared.

“Lionel!” you laughed breathlessly, your hands bracing against his chest, your pulse already quickening. “What the hell has gotten into—”

Your words were swallowed by his lips crashing into yours.

The kiss was desperate, bruising, his hooked nose brushing against your cheek as he tilted his head, deepening the contact. He wasn’t just kissing you—he was consuming you. His hands gripped your hips possessively, fingers digging in like he was afraid you might disappear if he didn’t hold you tight enough.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he was tugging at his own clothes, not bothering with his usual meticulousness. His jacket was the first casualty, ripped from his shoulders and tossed to the floor with no regard for its expensive tailoring. His tie followed, yanked loose with a growl, the silk slithering to the ground like a discarded snake.

“Lionel, what—” you started, half laughing, half gasping, as he moved between your legs, his hands already sliding under your dress.

He didn’t answer immediately. He just kissed you harder, his baritone voice muffled against your lips as he muttered, “Time to make a baby.”

You froze for half a second, your mind scrambling to process what you had just heard. Your fingers instinctively pressed against his chest, pushing him back just enough to look into his dark, feverish eyes.

“A baby?” you echoed, blinking. “Lionel, you—”

He didn’t let you finish. His hands moved to your thighs, gripping them firmly as he pulled you closer to the edge of the dresser, spreading your legs around him. His fingers hooked into your panties, tugging them down with purpose.

You caught his wrists, stopping him, though amusement curled in your lips. “Wait, wait, wait—” you laughed, still breathless. “A baby? You? The same Lionel Shahbandar who once declared that children are sticky, loud, and should be kept at least fifty feet away from him at all times?”

Lionel huffed, rolling his eyes, but his hands remained firm on your thighs, his grip unyielding. “I might have said that,” he admitted, his smirk betraying no shame. “But I’ve changed my mind.”

You scoffed, arching an eyebrow. “Oh? And what brought on this sudden… paternal epiphany?”

He exhaled sharply, his hands roaming up your thighs, fingers pressing into your soft skin. “I need an heir,” he said, his voice a mix of arrogance and something dangerously raw. “Someone to inherit everything I’ve built. My empire, my fortune—hell, even my bloody art collection.”

You stared at him for a beat before bursting into laughter. “So, what? Mufasa has decided it’s time to produce a Simba?”

Lionel tilted his head, amusement flickering in his dark eyes as he leaned in, his hooked nose brushing against yours. “And if I have?” he murmured, his voice a slow, deliberate rumble that sent heat pooling between your legs.

You grinned wickedly, lowering your voice to a deep, exaggerated tone, imitating Mufasa from The Lion King. “Everything the light touches will be yours, my son.”

Lionel let out a low chuckle, his hands sliding under your dress again. “Christ, you’re ridiculous,” he muttered, though the amusement in his voice was unmistakable. His smirk turned wicked as he pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin of your neck. “But you’re also fucking perfect. And you’re going to look even more perfect carrying my child.”

You shivered at the possessiveness in his tone, your teasing expression faltering just slightly. “You really want this?” you asked softly, searching his gaze.

Lionel pulled back just enough to cup your face, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. For once, the mischief in his expression was overshadowed by something deeper—something almost reverent.

“I do,” he murmured, his baritone voice softer now, but no less intense. “I want to see you swollen with my child. I want to know that I’ve left something behind in this world that’s mine. And not just anything—ours.”

Your breath caught at the sheer sincerity in his words, your heart pounding against your ribs. He wasn’t just saying it to rile you up—he meant it.

And God help you, but you wanted it too.

You swallowed hard, your hands sliding up to grip his shoulders. “Then don’t just talk about it, Lionel,” you whispered, a teasing smirk playing at your lips despite the heat coiling in your belly. “Prove it.”

His eyes darkened.

“Oh, love,” he murmured, his hands gripping your thighs tighter as he tugged you flush against him. “You have no idea what you’ve just unleashed.”

With that, he hooked his fingers into your panties and tore them clean off.

You gasped, but before you could say anything, Lionel was already undoing his belt, the sharp clink of metal sending a thrill down your spine. His trousers followed, pooling at his feet, and then he was pressing against you, his thick cock already hard, already leaking, already desperate.

“Gonna fuck my baby into you,” he growled, his voice rough as he lined himself up. “Gonna fill you up so full of me, there won’t be any doubt.”

You whimpered, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he rubbed the head of his cock against your soaked entrance, teasing, taunting.

“Say it,” he ordered, his breath hot against your lips. “Tell me you want it.”

You moaned softly, your legs tightening around his waist. “I want it,” you gasped, your body aching for him. “I want you to fill me up, Lionel.”

He groaned at your words, his control snapping.

Without another second of hesitation, he thrust inside you, burying himself to the hilt in one deep, possessive stroke. You cried out, your nails raking down his back as he stretched you, filled you, owned you.

“Fuck, love,” Lionel groaned, his hooked nose flaring as he watched you take him. “So tight, so perfect. Like you were made to carry my child.”

He pulled back, only to slam into you again, setting a brutal, claiming pace. His hands gripped your hips, his fingers bruising as he fucked into you like a man possessed.

“Gonna breed you,” he rasped, his voice a dangerous growl. “Gonna keep you full of my cock, my cum, until it takes.”

You moaned helplessly, your body arching into his, every hard thrust pushing you closer to the edge.

“You like that?” he taunted, his baritone voice dripping with arrogance. “Like the idea of me knocking you up, love? Of everyone seeing you round and knowing you belong to me?”

“Y-yes,” you gasped, your legs trembling as pleasure coiled tighter in your core.

Lionel grinned wickedly, one hand slipping between you to rub at your clit. “Then come for me,” he commanded. “Come on my cock, love—let me feel you.”

You shattered around him, your release crashing over you in waves, your body convulsing as his name tore from your lips.

Lionel cursed, his grip tightening as he fucked you through it, his thrusts growing erratic. “Gonna fill you up, love,” he growled, his voice barely more than a breathless snarl. “Gonna put my baby in you.”

With a final, deep thrust, he groaned, his entire body tensing as he came, spilling deep inside you, his heat flooding your womb.

For a moment, neither of you moved, the only sound in the room your ragged breathing.

Then, Lionel smirked, pressing a lazy, satisfied kiss to your shoulder.

“That’s one,” he murmured. “Best be ready, darling. I don’t intend to stop until I’m sure it takes.”

The living room buzzed with quiet conversation, the warm glow of candlelight flickering off the crystal glasses and fine china Lionel had insisted on using, despite your protests that it was just a private family gathering. You sat with Sinclair, Lionel's cousin, and your father, along with a few other close relatives; the air was thick with anticipation.

“Where the hell is he?” your father grumbled, checking his watch for the third time in as many minutes. “It's just my grandson's birthday party, not the coronation of a damn king.”

You sighed, leaning back against the plush couch. “Oh, you know Lionel,” you said, waving a dismissive hand. “He always likes a bit of drama.”

Sinclair, lounging beside you with a drink in hand, smirked. “A bit of drama?” he echoed. “Darling, the man treats every moment like he’s starring in his own personal Shakespearean epic. I wouldn’t be surprised if he made an entrance on a golden chariot.”

Just as the words left Sinclair’s mouth, the first notes of The Circle of Life blared from hidden speakers.

Your heart sank.

Sinclair’s eyes widened in pure delight.

“Oh, God,” you muttered, already burying your face in your hands.

The doors to the living room burst open with dramatic flair, and there stood Lionel, dressed in what could only be described as a monstrosity of theatrical excess—a golden robe, billowing as if conjured by unseen wind, cinched at the waist with an absurdly ornate belt.

In his arms, your one-year-old son, Liam, was decked out in a plush lion onesie, complete with little ears and a tail. His tiny fists waved excitedly in the air as Lionel lifted him high, mimicking the famous scene from The Lion King.

“NAAAAANTS INGONYAMAAAAAAA BAGITHI BABAAAAA!” Lionel bellowed, voice rich and baritone, completely committing to the performance.

The room fell into stunned silence.

Your father blinked. Once. Twice. Then slowly turned to look at you.

“This,” he said flatly, “is the man you married.”

You groaned, massaging your temples. “Unfortunately.”

Meanwhile, Sinclair, the absolute menace that he was, immediately got into the spirit of things. With a grand, sweeping motion, he slid off the couch and bowed deeply before Liam, arms outstretched in a display of reverence.

“The heir to the Shahbandar dynasty has arrived!” Sinclair declared, his voice filled with mock solemnity.

Your mother covered her mouth, stifling a laugh.

Lionel, grinning like a mischievous fox, slowly turned to face the assembled guests, his expression positively regal. “Behold!” he proclaimed. “My son, my heir, the future ruler of the Shahbandar empire!”

Liam giggled, wiggling in his father’s grip, completely oblivious to the spectacle.

Your father exhaled sharply. “I need a drink.”

You nodded. “Same.”

“Would you like to hold your grandson?” Lionel offered grandly, lowering Liam to your father’s level.

Your father reached out, but just as he was about to take Liam, Lionel dramatically snatched him back at the last second, holding him high again. “NOT YET!” he declared. “THE CEREMONY IS NOT COMPLETE.”

“Oh, for—” Your father clenched his fists, looking dangerously close to throttling Lionel.

Sinclair, meanwhile, had abandoned all dignity and was now kneeling on one knee, arms raised as though awaiting divine blessings. “We pledge our loyalty to the young lion!” he cried.

Your father shot Sinclair an incredulous look. “Are you seriously encouraging this?”

Sinclair, without missing a beat, simply shrugged. “Might as well lean into it.”

Your hand smacked against your forehead as Lionel continued. “With this child, the Shahbandar name shall live on for generations! No longer shall we be merely a legacy of wealth and power!” He thrust Liam slightly higher. “WE SHALL BE A DYNASTY! ”

Liam giggled again, kicking his chubby legs in delight.

Your father let out a long, pained sigh and turned to you. “Divorce is always an option.”

You patted his arm sympathetically. “I’ve thought about it.”

Lionel, apparently satisfied with the ceremony, finally lowered Liam and kissed his chubby cheek. “Ah, my little lion,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “You have no idea the empire that awaits you.”

Sinclair wiped a fake tear from his eye. “That was beautiful, Lionel. Truly. Shakespeare himself is weeping from beyond the grave.”

Lionel turned to you, grinning. “Admit it, love. This was far more entertaining than some dull little cake-cutting.”

You let out a long, suffering sigh but couldn’t quite suppress the fond smile tugging at your lips. “You’re impossible.”

Lionel smirked, pressing a kiss to your temple. “And yet, you married me.”

Your father groaned into his drink.

Sinclair raised his glass. “To the heir of the Shahbandar dynasty!”

The rest of the family laughed and clapped, the initial shock giving way to amusement. Even your father eventually softened, shaking his head with a chuckle as he finally took Liam into his arms.

As the music faded and Lionel draped an arm around your shoulders, he leaned in close, his baritone voice low and teasing. “I was thinking we should start working on another heir and a spare. What do you say, love?”

You arched a brow. “Lionel.”

“Yes, darling?”

“Shut up and cut the damn cake.”

Sinclair clinked his glass against Lionel’s. “You heard the lady.”

Lionel sighed dramatically. “Very well. But next year, we’re doing a full reenactment of The Lion King. I shall require elephants.”

You groaned.

Your father choked on his drink.

Sinclair, already scheming, grinned. “I’ll make some calls.”

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #lionel shabandar x reader #lionel shabandar #sinclair bryant

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smilingformoney · 1 month ago

Text

Champagne Problems

Chapter 4. How Did It End?

Lionel/Reader

Summary: In 1989, an argument breaks out at Sinclair's wedding; in 1971, Lionel and Sinclair move to Cambridge to start university.

Word Count: 14.2k

cw: drug misuse (specifically cocaine), cheating

All chapters here!

Read on Ao3 or WattPad or the below the cut:

1989

You weren’t surprised to discover that Sinclair’s wedding was taking place at a vineyard. It seemed exactly the kind of unnecessarily extravagant place a rich person would hire out for a wedding.

You couldn’t help but wonder how much Natalie was contributing towards it. Between Helen’s millions and Sinclair’s millions, the Bryants had more than enough to fund the whole thing; you didn’t expect Natalie’s job as a secretary paid nearly as well.

The whole thing had Sinclair all over it. It was in a vineyard in France, because of course it was, and most of the guests, you discovered as you mingled, were people Sinclair knew. Relatives, co-workers, friends, friends of friends, partners of all the above. They all knew Sinclair somehow, and had either never met Natalie, or like you had met her only briefly in the shadow of Sinclair’s energy.

Not for the first time, you wondered what Sinclair saw in her. She seemed nice enough, and she was certainly pretty, but she wasn’t very interesting.

As you met more and more of Sinclair’s friends, you began to feel out of place, not because you weren’t rich - he had plenty of normal friends - but because you weren’t married. Sinclair’s last minute invitation had included a plus one, but you’d come alone, and you were feeling it.

You wondered if maybe this was, at least in part, the reason Sinclair had proposed to Natalie after only six months: all his friends were married. You heard countless stories about Sinclair being a groomsman; at 36, he was probably feeling like he was missing out by not being married. And Natalie, pretty and nice Natalie – she was good enough.

You hoped she really was good enough for him. Sinclair was one of the sweetest, funniest, kindest people you’d ever known, and you didn’t want him wasting his heart on someone he was settling for.

You certainly weren’t the only person who thought they were something of a mismatch. Numerous guests made comments about their strange pairing, and how quickly Sinclair had proposed.

“Has he had many girlfriends before her?” you asked one of Sinclair’s old university friends who’d introduced himself as Nigel. “I’m a bit out of touch, last one I knew about was Emily.”

“Emily!” Nigel exclaimed. “Now that’s a throwback. No, he’s had plenty since her. Poor thing, he was devastated by that one. Devastated by all of them, really, he throws his whole heart into every girlfriend he has.”

“I’m not surprised; he throws his whole heart into everything.”

Nigel nodded in agreement. “Aye, that he does. Right, let me think — so you knew Emily. That ended in third year — he was balls deep in his dissertation when she wanted him to be balls deep in her.”

He guffawed at his own joke.

“Oh, here’s the kicker though — two weeks they’d been broken up, he was still miserable of course, and she went and slept with his cousin.”

You choked on your drink.

“What, you mean Lionel?”

“Yep, nothing gets you over an ex like shagging his nearly identical cousin, I suppose. Well, after that was Amiee, lovely girl she was — he was gonna propose, actually, but she moved abroad. Then there was Laura, now Natalie. No, wait, there was Alex just before Amiee. Anyway, I suppose this time he decided to lock Natalie down before anything went wrong.”

You grimaced. “That’s not really the reason to get married.”

Nigel shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Not everyone gets married for true love. Sometimes it’s enough love.”

The door to the ceremony room was opened then, and an usher announced that it was time to take your seats.

You’d been to a lot of weddings by now: like Sinclair, your friends around you were all getting married. And at every one, the ceremony room had had a groom’s side and a bride’s side. There was no such arrangement here: apart from the front rows reserved for family, anyone could sit anywhere.

You wondered if it was because there were very few, if any, guests for the bride’s side.

You decided to take a seat near the back. You didn’t know anyone, and you were a last-minute invite; you’d feel a bit of an imposter ingratiating yourself into the swarms of family and friends.

A figure appeared next to you, and although you were staring off into space, you just knew who it was.

Maybe you had a connection. Maybe you recognised his scent. Or maybe you just recognised the energy of a self-absorbed arsehole.

“Sinclair wants you to sit up front with the family,” Lionel said.

You reluctantly looked up at him.

Dammit. Why did he have to look so handsome in his three-piece suit?

You glanced up to the front of the room. Sinclair was hovering around the altar with his other groomsmen, but he caught your eye and waved you over with a grin.

“Alright, but he’s responsible if Georgina kills me.”

The corner of Lionel’s mouth twitched, as if he were trying not to smile.

“It’s been seventeen years, [Y/n]. She’s over it. Come on.”

You took a steadying breath, then followed Lionel up the aisle. Sinclair greeted you with a grin and a bear hug, as if seeing you at his wedding was the best thing that had happened all day.

“[Y/n], I’m so glad you made it! Here, you sit with Mum. Mum, you remember [Y/n], right?”

You turned to where Helen and Georgina were sitting, Georgina at the end of the row on account of her wheelchair, and a seat next to Helen left empty for you. They were both in their sixties now, but neither of them let that stop them looking absolutely amazing: they were both completely grey, and while Helen had cut her hair short, Georgina had styled hers into an elegant ‘do that had definitely taken hours.

If either of them held any resentment for you, they didn’t show it. Helen stood to greet you, and you found yourself pulled into another bear hug.

“Of course I remember you! I’m so glad you’re here, [Y/n]. I couldn’t tell you how excited Sinclair was when he told us you were coming. Come, sit, sit.”

She practically pulled you into your seat. The seat on the other side was empty, and you really hoped Sinclair wasn’t doing something stupid like putting you next to Lionel.

As Helen chatted away to you, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Lionel was standing with Sinclair, talking to him in hushed tones.

The three groomsmen were all dressed identically to Lionel, except that his pocket square was a different colour, denoting that he was the best man.

You smiled. Of course he was the best man. Who else would Sinclair have asked? He had more friends than you could count, but Lionel had always been his best friend.

To your relief, Lionel didn’t sit next to you; when the ceremony began, he took his seat across the aisle from Georgina. You ended up sat next to one of the other groomsmen instead.

Sinclair certainly seemed happy. But whether he was happy to be getting married to Natalie or just to be getting married at all, you weren’t too sure.

The wedding breakfast was, of course, extremely generous. Sinclair went all out on the food, and when he gave his speech, he used cue cards to stop himself going off on tangents, though you did see Lionel nudge him a few times to bring him back on track.

When finally the speeches were done and the food cleared away, it was time for the first dance.

Sinclair was very good at a lot of things, but dancing wasn’t one of them. They’d clearly rehearsed it, and you could see Sinclair’s brow furrowed in concentration as he focused on remembering the dance moves and not tripping over Natalie’s feet.

The song ended, and finally you were free of the formalities. You grabbed a champagne flute from a passing waiter and practically ran outside, where several tables and chairs offered a reprieve and some ashtrays.

“Not sticking around to dance?” said a familiar voice as you took a much needed drag from your cigarette.

You turned and, sure enough, there he was.

“I’m not drunk enough yet,” you said shortly. “But I’m working on it.”

Lionel took an unoffered seat next to you. He rested his chin on his steepled fingers and looked at you.

“You know, if you’re going to be friends with Sinclair again, you’re going to have to talk to me at some point.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

Lionel scoffed.

“Really? Nothing at all?”

“Is there something you expect me to say?”

“No, of course not,” Lionel said bitterly. “You had nothing to say that night either. No explanation, just… gone.”

You laughed. “I thought you were intelligent, Lionel. Did I need to explain myself?”

“After what you did to me? Yes! I gave you everything, [Y/n]! And I wanted to give you so much more! But you just… left. One word, that’s all you gave me. All our relationship came to was one bloody word. So, yes, a little explanation would have been welcome.”

You took a long drag from your cigarette and looked at him.

“Wow. All this time, I thought you knew. I thought it would be so easy for you to connect the dots. But you’re so fucking narcissistic, you probably don’t even realise you did wrong, do you?” You shrugged. “I’m surprised Sinclair didn’t spell it out for you.”

Lionel sighed and rubbed his temple, as if the conversation were giving him a migraine. “[Y/n]... I am not a man who asks for things. I take them. But I am asking you now to give me an explanation. Please.”

“Wow, the P-word. Did that hurt to say?”

Lionel slammed a fist on the table.

“Dammit, [Y/n]! I loved you! I fucking loved you and you didn’t even –”

“If you loved me, you wouldn’t have cheated on me!”

There was a long pause as you stared one another down, both daring the other to break, but Lionel’s silence told you everything you needed to know.

You scoffed and sat back in your seat. “You’re not even trying to deny it,” you muttered as you put out your cigarette in the ashtray.

Lionel groaned and held his head in his hands.

“How the fuck did you know?”

“Sinclair’s not stupid. He knew something was up. You really thought you could have it all, didn’t you? You thought you could fuck around when he wasn’t there and he wouldn’t notice. You didn’t even try to be discreet, because why would there be consequences for your actions? And you’re such an egotistical arsehole that even now, after seventeen years, you still can’t figure out that you fucking around and my leaving you were connected!”

“Of course I thought about it, but I didn’t think you knew! I didn’t think Sinclair knew, much less that he’d tell you.”

“Of course he told me! He may be your cousin, but that doesn’t mean he’s anything like you. He has morals. He knew what you’d done and what you were planning, and he knew he had to tell me.”

“Fucking bastard,” Lionel cursed. “I’ll have him for this.”

“No, you bloody well won’t,” you said sharply, standing up as if to block his way. “None of this is his fault. You cheated on me. You broke my heart. And, yeah, maybe I should have spelled it out for you. I’m not squeaky clean in this. But Sinclair is, and this is his wedding, and you are not going to ruin it by blaming him for something that was entirely your fault.”

“We could have worked things out!” Lionel shouted. He was on his feet now too, towering over you, though you showed no sign of being intimidated by his height. “I knew it was wrong, so I stopped! I wanted this” - he gestured around him - “and everything that comes with it. I wanted to give you everything, to be loyal, to live with you and share my life with you. I realised that I couldn’t have it all, and so I chose you. I wanted to give you the world, I could have given you the world!”

“We don’t need anything from you, Lionel! Not your broken promises, not your money, nothing!”

He stared at you, brow furrowed. You shook your head, grabbed your drink, and stepped away from him as you took a long gulp of champagne.

Eventually, Lionel spoke.

“What do you mean, we?”

You turned back to him, frowning. “What?”

“You said, ‘We don’t need anything from you.’ Who’s we?”

“Me, I meant me – I. I don’t need anything from you.”

He approached you slowly, methodically, like – well, like a lion hunting its prey. You knew from the stern expression that you were fucked, and when you backed into the wall, you had nowhere to run.

“[Y/n]. I’m going to ask one last time. Who - is - ‘we’?”

“Me…”

“...And?”

You glanced away instinctively, but you steeled yourself and looked him in the eye.

“Our son.”

- - -

1971

After your Paris trip, you were hit with some serious post-holiday blues. Not only did you have to return to boring old England, but you missed being in a bubble with Lionel. You’d spent the entirety of Sunday in your hotel room, having sex and ordering room service, drinking and smoking, having sex again, and resting as much as you could before Lionel was ready to go again.

He hadn’t been exaggerating — he really was like a wild beast that had been unleashed. He’d been able to hold back before, when sex was just a fantasy, but now that he knew what it was really like, he couldn’t get enough.

And he was adventurous. He wanted to have sex on every surface possible. On the sofa, in the jacuzzi - which was a godsend when your muscles ached - and even, occasionally, in the bed.

You were, of course, very eager too. But he really seemed to be aiming for the fifty times a day that lions apparently shagged when they were in heat. And Lionel was definitely in heat.

“I’m going to buy my own private jet one day,” Lionel murmured to you on the plane home — first class, of course. “Then we can fuck in midair while I fly you around the world for romantic getaways. Where do you want to go next? I hear Italy’s very romantic.”

You went straight home after landing, as you knew your mum would worry if you didn’t, and on Tuesday you went back up to Windsor to see Lionel again.

“You should just move in, [Y/n],” Sinclair said as he greeted you with a bear hug, as if you’d been away for months, not days. “Lionel’s so grumpy when you’re not around. He mopes around like a lovesick puppy.”

“No, I don’t,” Lionel insisted. “Come on, [Y/n], let’s go upstairs —”

“Aww, c’mon, you guys just spent a whole weekend together, and you wanna run off for some privacy already? I’ve been so bored here on my own!”

Sinclair flopped down on a nearby armchair dramatically.

“And you want to leave me alone again!”

You laughed at his endearing antics.

“Alright, fine, let’s have some lunch first,” Lionel agreed reluctantly.

Sinclair cheered, whether for food or company or both, but he was too distracted by stuffing his face and telling you every thought he’d had since last week to notice that Lionel was getting very handsy with you on the sofa.

After pulling his hand away from roaming under your t-shirt for the third time, you made an excuse about needing the bathroom, and snuck away upstairs.

Lionel got the hint, and he followed you soon after.

“Christ, I thought he’d never let us go,” he growled as he tugged your t-shirt over your head. “I could have stuck my hand in your knickers and he wouldn’t get the hint.”

You giggled. Lionel pushed you backwards onto the bed and climbed on top of you, condom already in hand as he pulled your shorts down your legs.

“Those little booty shorts aren’t helping. All that thigh on display, just waiting for me to do this…”

He placed his hands on either thigh and pushed them apart, then growled with desire when he saw his prize.

You tried to be quiet, conscious that Lionel’s bedroom was right above the sitting room you’d left Sinclair in, but he had other ideas.

“What do you know? My bed squeaks,” Lionel laughed as he pounded into you hard enough for the bed to start protesting.

Your response was a garbled moan, and Lionel grinned. He loved it when he rendered you speechless. It was usually then that he asked you questions - how does it feel? Can you feel my cock stretching you out? Do you want me to slow down? - just to hear you trying to formulate a response.

You burnt through condoms like wildfire. Lionel had to buy a new box at least every week, and you just knew that he was so confident and smug when he returned to the pharmacy yet again for more condoms.

The summer ended far too fast. Lionel never ran out of fancy places to take you (when you managed to convince him to put some clothes on and get out of bed), Sinclair never ran out of interesting things to tell you about, and it was only when you physically saw Lionel packing up that it really hit home that he was leaving.

“You’ll come visit me, right?” you asked him for the umpteenth time as he tried to squeeze all of his identical white shirts into one box.

“Of course I will, chérie. I can’t promise how often, I’m sure I’ll have a lot of studying to do, but I’ll come back as much as I can.”

“Mmm, I don’t think your cock’ll let you stay away for very long,” you teased, coming up behind him to trace your hands over his shoulders as he continued folding shirts. “You’ll be going from fucking every day back to wanking every day, it’ll be torture.”

Lionel smirked.

“We’ll just have to make up for it when I come back.”

You tried not to cry when he left. You knew he liked to be stoic and strong, and he told you lions don’t cry. You were his lioness, as he loved to remind you, so you did your best to keep the tears at bay.

With many final kisses, hugs, I love yous and promises to call, you finally let him get in the car. You hugged Sinclair goodbye too, and he had no qualms about crying as he said goodbye to you.

It was three long, excruciating days before you had a phone call.

You almost fell down the stairs running when your mum told you Sinclair was on the phone.

“Sinclair, hi! How was the move? How are you? How’s Lionel? Is Cambridge boring? It’s totally fine if you wanna come back.”

Sinclair laughed on the other end of the phone. “Hello to you too, [Y/n]! I’m great, and Lionel’s great too! Sorry we haven’t called, it took ages to get the phone line installed in our flat. The guy literally just left, I called Mum first, then I called you. Lionel’s out, otherwise he’d be the one calling you, obviously, but I didn’t want you to worry. Cambridge is so fun! This first week is just social stuff, that’s what Lionel’s doing, he’s at the get to know you event for his course. Mine’s tomorrow. He misses you loads. So do I! I wish you could have moved with us, it would be so cool if the three of us were living together! Though we’d never get any coursework done I suppose, we’d be having too much fun. Lionel definitely wouldn’t. Do you want me to ask him to call you when he gets in?”

“Oh, yes, please!” you said, glad to finally get a word in. ”Mum said she’s gonna get a second phone that I can keep in my room since I’m gonna be using it so much. When do you guys start your classes?”

“On Monday! We got our timetables yesterday, we actually have one module together! Most of my classes are 9 o’clock starts, but I don’t mind, I like getting up early. It also means I have more time later in the day so I can do more societies! There are so many, I wanna join them all, but I don’t think I’ll have the time. I know Lionel wants to join the Future Leaders Society. That’s for people who want to be innovators, and we both know what his ambition’s like, and I bet he’ll make loads of connections. He said I should join too but it clashes with the Rambling Society, and I really wanna join that one. That’s rambling as in walking, not as in talking a lot, I don’t need a society for that, I know I do enough of it myself! Oh, wait, I think he’s just — hey, Li! Li, the phone’s working! [Y/n]’s on the line now, do you wanna talk to her?”

After a moment or two, you heard Lionel’s familiar voice, and just a simple “Hi, [Y/n]. Has Sinclair let you get a word in yet?” was enough to make you feel warm and comforted.

“One or two. How was your event? Sinclair said you were meeting people from your course.”

“Mmm, some very interesting people there… and some very uninteresting people. It’s a curious mix. Some are clearly only doing Business because that’s what their parents told them to do. I expect half of them will drop out by the end of the year.”

“Leaving only the best still in it, I suppose?”

“Exactly. I’d wager there’ll be no more than ten left next year, mark my words, and I’ll be top of the class, of course.”

“It’s not a competition, Li.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, everything’s a competition. I compete to be the greatest, Sinclair competes to be the loudest, and you compete to be the sexiest. We’re all winning, of course.”

You smiled and glanced around to make sure your mum wasn’t eavesdropping from the corridor again.

“I miss you,” you said quietly. “I keep thinking about you. Sleeping alone in my bed sucks.”

“I miss you too, chérie,” Lionel said in a low voice, similarly making sure Sinclair wasn’t eavesdropping. “Wanking into my hand’s just not the same anymore.”

You giggled, blushing. “Lionel! What if Sinclair hears you?”

“Oh, please, like he doesn’t do it too. I have to go, love, I really need a shit —”

“Charming.”

“— and I think Sinclair will burst if I don’t tell him how this event went soon. I’ll call you tomorrow, alright?”

“Okay. I love you, Li.”

“I love you too, chérie.”

“Tell her I love her three!” Sinclair called out in the background.

You laughed.

“Tell him I love him four.”

Lionel sighed. “Sinclair, she says she loves you four.”

”Yay!”

“I can’t believe I’m sharing a flat with him,” Lionel said, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “Bye, love.”

“Bye.”

Lionel called you again at the weekend, and you could tell by his voice he was hungover. He must have really drunk a lot to be hungover since, apparently, lions don’t get hungover.

Your mum got the second phone installed a few days later, and you were able to call Lionel with some privacy. He and Sinclair both already had lines in their bedrooms, and when Sinclair was out at his morning class and your mum was at work, Lionel called you with a very naughty idea.

“You want me to what?”

“You heard me. I want you to put your hand in your knickers and tell me how wet you are.”

“Not very, I just woke up… and you’re not here to wake me up with your wandering hands.”

“Mmm… we’ll soon change that, chérie. You’ll just have to be my wandering hands for me, won’t you? Let’s see… I usually start with touching your tits. I love feeling your nipples growing hard in my hands. Do you think you can make them hard for me?”

Lionel wasn’t the only one calling you regularly; Sinclair called often to catch up. Sometimes you felt like you were getting a university education by proxy when he rambled on about what he was learning on his course, although you didn’t really understand most of what he said. What you were more interested in hearing about, and what Sinclair was very happy to change the subject to, was a girl called Emily he’d met at one of his societies.

With no Lionel around to distract you, you became bored very quickly, so you asked your dad for more hours. He was trusting you more and more, and when he began scheduling you to open the cafe at 5 o’clock in the morning, you found it easier to stay at his the night before, rather than commuting in from Winchester — and so you found yourself spending half your nights at your mum’s house and half of them at your dad’s.

They weren’t the only parents vying for your time. Helen and Georgina had apparently decided, as Lionel’s girlfriend, you were the stand-in for their sons at the parties and events they were always going to. You couldn’t say yes to everything, as much as you wanted to — there was no way you could go to a fundraiser or whatever it was (you were never really sure) in London the night before you had to open the cafe at 5am – but you were always happy to attend when you could.

You were busier than you’d ever been. You had a full-time job now, working more hours in a week than you would have spent at school a year ago, and you had managed to find yourself caught between four parents in three different places — your mum in Winchester, your dad in Basingstoke, and Helen and Georgina in Windsor.

So when Lionel’s calls became less frequent, you didn’t notice at first. You were busy, and so was he. Even Sinclair was calling you less, busy as he was with the five university societies he’d finally settled on, and of course the girlfriend he was so in love with.

Christmas break finally came, though your dad reminded you every time you mentioned it that there was no such thing as Christmas break, and in fact the cafe would be busier than ever at Christmas with all the shoppers about. He wasn’t cruel, though; he let you take the weekend off when Lionel and Sinclair came home.

It was snowing harshly the day they were due back, and you spent the whole day worrying about their drive home. Georgina and Helen had the heating on and the fireplace crackling, and you were drinking them out of their hot chocolate, but you didn’t feel truly warm until you saw Sinclair’s car coming up the driveway.

You rushed out to meet them, the snow crunching beneath your feet as you ran as fast as you could without slipping over. Sinclair had hardly turned the engine off when Lionel was climbing out of the passenger seat, looking adorably grumpy in his big winter coat, and within moments snowflakes began landing in his soft blonde hair.

His grumpy expression quickly melted away when he saw you. He grinned, and you practically jumped into his arms.

“There’s my girl!” Lionel said with relief as he embraced you. “Oh, chérie, I missed you so much. Come on, upstairs, let’s fuck.”

You laughed and hit his shoulder playfully as he set you back down in the snow.

“Keep it in your pants, mister. At least let me say hello to Sinclair first.”

Sinclair was wading through the snow around the front of the car, his eyes barely visible between the hat pulled low and the scarf wrapped around his face. He waved at you, then promptly slipped and fell.

“Oh, no! Sinclair, are you okay?” you gasped, trudging over as quickly as you could to help him up.

“I’m okay!” came Sinclair’s muffled voice somewhere beneath his scarf. He finally stood up straight and pulled down his scarf to give himself some air to breathe. “Hi, [Y/n]! You wouldn’t believe how crazy the motorway was. I thought I was going to crash, like, ten times! But we made it!”

With a grin, he wrapped his arms around you as best he could considering his many layers.

“I’m so cold, though! Have Mum and Georgie got the fire going?”

“Yes, get yourselves inside, it’s freezing out here!”

The three of you carefully made your way into the house, treading carefully so as not to slip (again, in Sinclair’s case). A couple of the housekeeping staff were taking Lionel and Sinclair’s suitcases inside, and the boys both groaned with relief when they passed the threshold and were met with warm, central heated air.

Helen and Georgina came over to greet their sons, and Helen fussed over Sinclair’s inability to go more than a few feet in the snow without falling flat on his face.

“Hot toddies all around, I think,” Georgina decreed. “Come on, let’s get you two by the fire.”

Within minutes, you were all gathered around the fireplace with soothing hot drinks in your hands, Lionel and Sinclair sitting closest to the fire as they defrosted from their long car journey, and through chattering teeth Sinclair gave a blow-by-blow account of each near-crash they’d experienced, and the two actual crashes they’d seen.

Your hand was in Lionel’s, your chair pulled up close to his so you could rest your head on his shoulder. As Sinclair rambled on, every now and then, Lionel squeezed your hand or kissed the top of your head, and even occasionally managed to get a word in to contribute to the story.

When finally Sinclair finished his story and moved on to talking about his new girlfriend, Lionel decided it was time to unpack his suitcase. You stayed downstairs a little longer to watch the entertaining show of Helen quizzing Sinclair about when she was going to meet his girlfriend, then decided to make your way upstairs to check on Lionel.

You found him in his room, suitcase nearly unpacked, though the thought of finishing it was immediately forgotten when you walked in.

“God, finally, I thought you’d never come up here,” Lionel growled with relief. He dropped the socks in his hands and crossed the room to pick you up by your hips and twirl you around to deposit you on the bed, causing you to squeal with laughter.

“Clothes off, now,” he demanded, his hands already on his belt. “I have waited way too long to fuck you again.”

“Hey, you’re the one who never came home to visit,” you pouted, though of course you obediently pulled your jumper over your head. “You promised you’d come home for weekends, and you never did.”

“I know, chérie, I’m sorry. I could never find the time. But I’m here now, and I am going to remind you who you belong to.”

You shivered a little in the cold when your clothes were off, but Lionel quickly warmed you up when he pushed you onto your hands and knees on the bed and swiftly entered you from behind.

“Fuck, I missed this,” Lionel growled as his cock slid up your walls. “Perfect… fucking perfect…”

He gripped your hips firmly and wasted no time fucking into you hard and fast, as if he had to make up for the last three months.

Your hands clenched into fists as you held on uselessly to the bedsheets. There was no use trying to get any sort of purchase; the only thing keeping you in place was Lionel’s firm grip on your hips, pulling your body back towards him with every passionate thrust.

He was grunting with every thrust, and occasionally between grunts you heard a moan of your name. He must have known when your orgasm began to build, and being the arsehole that he was, he pulled out, leaving you hanging — but not for long. He flipped you onto your back and climbed on top of you, the promptly began fucking you again.

“I want you to look at me when you cum,” Lionel growled between gritted teeth. “I want to watch as you come undone. I want you to know that you’re mine.”

“I am yours, Lionel,” you promised. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and he promptly dipped his head to your neck to pull at the skin with his teeth. You whined at the sensation, and he looked up at you, grinning proudly.

“Yes, you are. My fucking lioness. No one could ever — ever compare to you. Fuck. You take me so fucking well. [Y/n]…”

He was like a man crazed. His hips were pounding into you, his fingers gripping your shoulders like you were his lifeline, and his lips and teeth were grabbing at every inch of your skin they could reach.

“I love you, Lionel,” you moaned as you ran your fingers through his hair and he moaned right into your ear.

“I love you too, [Y/n]. I love you. I fucking - nngh! - love you so much.”

Your orgasm was building up again, and this time, he was going to let you have it. He heard your moans increasing in pitch, felt your walls squeezing him, and he just continued mumbling words of affection into your ear as his cock kept pummelling in and out of your desperate, hungry cunt.

“That’s it, good girl - good girl, cum for me. Cum around my cock, chérie. Mhm, that’s it — Christ, you’re so fucking beautiful. So perfect…”

You cried out his name as you came, and when he followed shortly after, your name sounded more like a roar.

He collapsed on top of you, panting, and the cold air stung against your sweaty skin. After a few moments, he shifted and pulled out of you to discard his condom in a nearby bin. He wrapped you up in his arms and took you under the duvet to cuddle, his lips ghosting your skin as you both laid there, content, warm in each other’s arms and in the afterglow of sex.

“Lionel… how would you feel about not using condoms?”

He didn’t respond at first. He just laid there, his arms still around you, though you felt a stillness in him.

“I don’t want kids,” he said firmly.

You shifted to prop yourself up on your elbow and look at him. He was looking at you with a frown, trepidation written all over his face.

“I was thinking I could go on the pill. I really… I really want to feel you properly, Lionel. I want to feel your skin against mine… and I want to feel you fill me up when you cum. Don’t you wanna know what it feels like raw?”

Lionel looked you up and down hungrily. “Yes, I do. Fuck, I do. I want nothing more. But…” He sighed and shook his head. “It’s too risky. I think it’s safer if we keep using condoms.”

“Okay,” you said, a little dejected. You’d really thought Lionel would jump at the idea.

“I’m sorry, chérie,” Lionel said softly. He pulled you back in close to him and kissed your forehead gently. “But I really don’t want you to get pregnant, and I’d be too busy worrying about it to enjoy it. You understand, don’t you?”

“Of course I do, babe,” you said. You kissed his shoulder and looked up at him with a smile. “I just thought you’d like it, but if you’re not comfortable, that’s okay. I just want to make you happy, Li.”

“Oh, you do,” he said earnestly. He stroked a sweaty strand of hair away from your face and smiled. “You have no idea how happy you make me, chérie. I love you.”

You kissed him, and though you intended it to be a gentle peck, he apparently had other ideas and kept his lips firmly pressed against yours.

You lazily threw a leg over his hips, intending to make out for a bit, but you felt something very familiar resting against his stomach.

You broke the kiss and giggled. “Again? Already?”

Lionel grinned with pride. “I’m always ready for you, love.”

“Mmm, clearly. Alright… but it’s my turn.”

Lionel opened his mouth to question what you meant, but all he let out was a groan when you adjusted your hips and sank down onto his cock, ready to ride him until the bed gave out.

- - -

The Christmas holidays went by far too quickly.

Your dad was right: there was no Christmas break at a cafe. But he was your dad first and your boss second, and he’d survived the Christmas period without you, he could do it again. Despite your insistence that it was okay, he point-blank refused to schedule you in for more than a few shifts a week.

You spent almost every day with Lionel, and it was like he’d never left. You spent a lot more time indoors than you had in the summer, not nearly going out as much, but neither of you had any cause to complain — it was just an excuse to spend longer in bed. When you did go out for some fresh air, somehow you gave Lionel cause to throw a snowball at you, and a snowball fight erupted, though a truce was quickly called when Lionel managed to pin you down in the snow and pepper you with kisses instead.

Christmas Day was unlike any Christmas you’d had before. In the past, you alternated Christmases between your parents, and it was always a small affair with just the two of you. This year, you were told in no uncertain terms that you would be spending Christmas with Lionel and his family — and so were your parents.

Your parents, who hadn’t actually seen each other for years, not since you became old enough to travel between them yourself. Your parents, who hadn’t met Lionel yet, and now they were going to meet the whole gang in one fell swoop.

They were civil with each other, but not friendly. They didn’t really talk to each other directly, you noticed, and sat as far from one another as they could. Lionel charmed them, and Sinclair entertained them with his endless stream of interesting facts.

Yours weren’t the only divorced parents in the house that day: Sinclair’s dad was there too.

“This is really weird,” you said to Lionel quietly once you had a moment alone amongst all the conversations, drinks, cigarettes, games and more drinks. “My parents, Sinclair’s parents…”

“We just need my father and we’ll have the whole set,” Lionel said casually as he lit up a cigarette. “Good thing he’s not here, though. I’d probably punch him in the face.”

“Have you heard from him?”

Lionel shook his head and tucked his lighter into his pocket.

“Not a peep. Let it stay that way.”

Christmas Day was one thing; New Year’s Eve was another.

You thought you’d been to some insane rich people parties already, but New Year’s Eve was on a whole other level. Helen and Georgina hosted, as they did every year, and the party was apparently so insane that they’d never let Sinclair and Lionel attend before as they were underage; they’d always gone to a party at a friend’s house.

Even with all the time you’d spent at the mansion, you’d still never managed to explore every single room, and tonight, every single room was in use. Every guest room was made up, every random room that had no apparent purpose filled with rich people drinking, dancing and doing drugs. Marquees in the garden hosted even more revellers, and you were sure at one point you saw Harold Wilson snorting a line of coke.

You loved a party just as much as any other eighteen-year-old, but this was a lot. You hardly saw Helen and Georgina, as they were playing the roles of hostesses, and when you lost Lionel in the crowd, that was when you started to panic.

You looked for him everywhere, but he was nowhere to be seen. Just as you were considering calling a taxi to take you back to Basingstoke, you heard something between a sob, a moan and a retching sound coming from behind a bush.

You followed the sound to investigate and found Sinclair kneeling in the dirt, his head buried between two ferns as he fertilised the soil with the remnants of his dinner.

“Sinclair, hey,” you said softly, kneeling down next to him to rub his back gently. “You okay there, mate?”

“No,” he groaned, his head still between the ferns.

With apparent great effort, Sinclair came out from within the greenery and sat back on his bum.

He looked awful. His face was pale, his eyes half-closed, and his wet face indicated he might have been crying too.

“Did you drink too much?” you asked, rubbing his shoulder comfortingly.

Sinclair shook his head.

“Did you… take something else?”

He nodded.

“As well as drinking?”

Another nod.

“Sinclair, please don’t tell me you took coke.”

“‘Kay, I won’t,” he said miserably.

Who on God’s green earth would possibly think it a good idea to offer Sinclair Bryant cocaine? He was already vibrating with energy most of the time, adding cocaine would probably give him a heart attack. Add alcohol as well, and you were just glad you’d found him conscious in the bushes and not dead.

“Come on, let’s get you inside,” you said. You put Sinclair’s arm over your shoulder, put your arm around his waist and tried to lift him. “Crikey, you’re heavy. Come on, you gotta help me out here.”

Sinclair’s response was a garbled moan, but he at least managed to push himself to his feet with your assistance. You readjusted your grip on him and did your best to drag him back towards the house, his feet stumbling along the way as he did his best to walk.

He tried to talk to you, but at some point between his brain and his mouth the words turned into mumbled nonsense. You, meanwhile, tried to get him up the stairs, but he decided that the middle of the staircase was the best place for a nap and tried to curl up to sleep.

You tried to drag him to his feet, but he was a useless lump.

“Sinclair, you can sleep in your bed! Come on, it’s like, thirty seconds from the top of the stairs to your bedroom.”

You tried to pull him along the floor, but he was still too heavy. You weren’t quite drunk, but you’d had enough to drink that your strength was not at its peak.

“Sinclair, c’mon, please,” you begged. “You need to get to bed.”

“‘Sokay, I can sleep here,” Sinclair mumbled.

“Emily’s waiting for you in your bedroom, don’t you wanna see her?”

His eyes shot open then and he looked up at you.

“Emily?”

“Yes, Emily. Come on, let’s go see her, okay?”

Sinclair nodded and, with the help of the bannister on one side and you on the other, pushed himself to his feet.

“Thought she was in Cardiff,” he mumbled, his ability to formulate words apparently now rejuvenated after his short stair nap.

“No, she’s here,” you lied. “She’s in your bedroom, so let’s get you there, okay?”

Sinclair smiled happily and nodded, letting you guide him down the hallway to his bedroom door. He tried to open the door, and when he couldn’t get in, he moaned sadly, like a wounded puppy.

“She locked me out!”

“No, Clair, we locked our bedrooms to keep guests out, remember? Where’s your key?”

He reached into his pocket and grinned victoriously when he pulled the key out. He tried to put it in the lock, but it wasn’t until you placed your hand over his and held it steady that he managed to get the door unlocked.

He swung the door open with more force than necessary, and within a few steps, Sinclair was face-down on the bed.

You took the key out of the keyhole, closed the door behind you, and locked it again.

Finally, a moment of peace.

“You said Emily was here!” Sinclair grumbled.

It was a short moment.

“Yeah, well, I lied. I had to get you off the stairs. What if you threw up all over that carpet? You wanna explain that to your mum?”

Sinclair, who was now sitting up on the edge of the bed, folded his arms like a petulant child.

“I wanna see Emily.”

“Emily’s in Cardiff, Clair. You’ll see her really soon, I promise. Now, let’s get you into bed. Do you think you’re gonna be sick again?”

Sinclair shrugged, still sulking.

You sighed.

“Alright, fine. Let’s just get you into bed. Where do you keep your pyjamas?”

Sinclair pointed at a chair in the corner, which had a pile of worn clothes on it, including a set of pyjamas, which you retrieved for him while he tried his best to take his shoes off.

“Here, let me do that,” you said. You put the pyjamas down on the bed next to him and knelt down to untie his shoes. “You get your shirt off.”

Sinclair was quiet while you untied his shoes and slipped them off, and when you looked back up at him, he was still fully clothed, his arms folded protectively over his chest.

“Sinclair. Shirt. Off,” you said firmly.

He shook his head. “Can’t let other girls see me naked.”

You scoffed and shook your head incredulously. “Sinclair, first of all, this is the least sexy situation I’ve ever been in. There’s a high chance you’ll throw up any second, and if you do, I’m sitting right in the firing line. Second, I’m not other girls. I’m [Y/n]. Lionel’s girlfriend. Remember?”

Sinclair looked at you properly, and seemed to recognise you suddenly.

“[Y/n]! Yeah, you’re [Y/n]. Lionel’s [Y/n]. He loves you loads, you know.”

You smiled. “Yes, he does, and I love him loads too. And if he were here, he’d also be telling you to get into your pyjamas, so how about we give that a go?”

Sinclair nodded and started trying to unbutton his shirt, but his drunk and high fingers had lost all dexterity. He whined in frustration, so you took over, and to your relief he let you kneel in front of him and unbutton his shirt without complaint.

“[Y/n], do you think it’s too early to tell Emily I love her?” Sinclair asked as you continued working on his buttons.

“Do you love her?”

Sinclair nodded enthusiastically. “I do, I really do! I think I wanna marry her one day.”

“Well, it’s never too early to tell someone you love them, if that’s what you really feel. But marriage — it might be a bit early for that.”

“Lionel wants to marry you.”

You froze and looked up at him.

“…What?”

Sinclair nodded, grinning with excitement. “He does! He’s not gonna propose yet but says he wants to marry you one day. Ohmygod, maybe we could have a double wedding! You and Lionel, me and Emily. Wouldn’t that be so fun?”

“That’s… not something to think about yet,” you said firmly. “It’s too early for me and Lionel, and it’s certainly too early for you and Emily. Right, shirt off, pyjama top on. Reckon you can do your trousers yourself?”

“Yeah, I think so…”

“Good. You do that, I’ll find a bucket or something in case you’re sick again.”

You went into the bathroom and spotted the bin. You tied up the liner and took it out, leaving the bin empty and ready to catch any last bits of dinner Sinclair might have left to bring up.

Back in the bedroom, Sinclair had managed to get his pyjama top on and was lying on his back, his eyes closed, apparently having given up halfway through unbuckling his belt.

“Jesus, Sinclair,” you sighed. “You’re like a giant baby.”

You put the bin down by the bed and reached down to unbuckle his belt for him.

“Please don’t let Lionel walk in right now,” you muttered as you loosened his fly, trying carefully to avoid even lightly brushing against his boxers.

Sinclair’s eyes snapped open when you reached for his waistband.

“I can do it!” he insisted.

“Okay,” you said, raising your hands in innocence. “You’re a big boy, I’m sure you can take your own trousers off.”

You stood up straight and looked away as Sinclair tugged his trousers down. They went flying past you in the vague direction of his clothes chair, and you heard some more fumbling as he finished putting his pyjamas on.

“Done it!” he announced proudly.

You turned back to him, and sure enough, Sinclair had managed to get into his pyjamas almost entirely by himself.

“Well done, Clair. Now to get into bed. Can you do that?”

“Oh, I’m an expert at getting into bed!”

He stood, pulled back the duvet, and practically dove under the covers. You laughed as he pulled the duvet up to his neck, leaving only his head resting on the pillows with a contented smile.

“Very good, Sinclair, well done,” you laughed. “Now, the bin’s here in case you need to be sick again. How are you feeling now?”

“Sleepy,” Sinclair replied, his eyes already closed.

“Okay, I’ll leave you to crash. And please don’t ever take cocaine again, okay? You are the last person in the world who needs a stimulant.”

“Sleeping,” Sinclair said insistently.

“Okay, sleeping. Good night, Clair.”

“Night, [Y/n].”

You took his key and locked the door behind you as you left. You managed to find some water in the kitchen and brought it back up for him, leaving it on the bedside table for when he woke up. Not wanting anyone to disturb him, you locked the door again and pocketed the key, making a mental note to let him out in the morning if he didn’t have another key in there.

You were just thinking about going to try to find Lionel again when you were suddenly grabbed by the wrist by a figure moving at twice the speed of a normal human being and dragged down the hallway to Lionel’s room, where your kidnapper practically barrelled into the door to open it before throwing you face first onto the bed.

The door slammed shut, you heard a key turn in the lock, and you barely had time to turn around when Lionel was pouncing on you. His kiss was hardly a kiss, and more a very enthusiastic attempt to get his saliva all over your face.

“Lionel, what —”

“Need to fuck you,” he growled desperately, his hands already fumbling with his belt.

“Where have you been? I was looking for you for ages.”

“Downstairs. Legs, open, now.”

Before you had a chance to obey, Lionel grabbed your knees and pushed your legs apart, forcing your skirt to bunch up around your waist. He growled and pushed your knickers aside with one hand while the other lined his cock up with your entrance. He was about to thrust into you when —

“Lionel, condom!”

He swore in frustration and practically threw himself across the mattress to wrench open the bedside drawer and pull out a condom.

Lionel had been wild and passionate since that day in Paris, but as he tore the condom wrapper open with his teeth, you realised this was something else. He was like a man possessed — or a man on copious amounts of cocaine.

You sat up and took Lionel’s face in both your hands, forcing him to look up at you from where he was trying to roll the condom down his shaft.

You looked in his eyes. The usually amber iris was hardly visible between his dark, wide pupils and the red of the bloodshot whites.

“Lionel, how much cocaine have you taken?”

“None.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“Okay, fine, two lines. But I’m fine, chérie, I swear —”

“Don’t you chérie me. I’m not fucking you if you’re high.”

Lionel groaned in frustration. “I’m fine, really. Come on, let’s just do it, it won’t take long —”

He wrapped his arms around you and rolled you back onto the bed, kissing you sloppily again as he tried to align his cock with you again, the condom still only half rolled down.

“Lionel, seriously, stop it. I don’t want to fuck you like this.”

He groaned again, but he pulled away.

“I’m so fucking horny, [Y/n], I’m about to burst!”

“Then have a wank, but we are not having sex right now. I’m not aroused, it’ll hurt, and you’re not thinking straight.”

“Gah, fine.”

Lionel yanked the condom off his shaft and tossed it aside. He took his cock in his hand, and you’d hardly had chance to sit up properly before he came, his seed launching into the air by a few centimetres before landing on the bed.

“Would have been better in your cunt,” Lionel grumbled as he wiped his hand on the sheet.

“Yeah, well, too bad. Was it you that gave Sinclair coke?”

Lionel’s head snapped up to look at you with a frown.

“I’d never give Sinclair coke, he’d have a heart attack. Why, has he taken some?”

“Yeah, I found him outside mid-crash, vomiting in the bushes.”

Lionel swore loudly and tried to get up, but his trousers were still halfway down his thighs, so he ended up falling on the floor with a thump.

“He’s fine, he’s asleep,” you said as Lionel tried to stand up again. “I got him into bed, despite his best efforts to sleep on the stairs.”

Lionel paused trying to do up his fly.

“…He’s alright?”

“As he can be. He’s got water and a sick bucket. I even managed to keep him awake long enough to get him into his pyjamas, though I did feel like I was dressing a giant baby.”

Lionel sighed with relief. He finished doing his trousers up and began pacing around the room frantically, running his fingers through his hair.

“If I find out who gave Sinclair cocaine, I am going to fucking throttle them,” he swore. “Some fucking idiot probably thought it’d be funny. Fuck! I shouldn’t have left him alone.”

“You left me alone too.”

Lionel stopped his pacing and looked at you.

“Did I? All I remember is I lost you in the crowd, the next thing I knew I was in the sitting room with a rolled-up tenner. I don’t even remember… my mind’s blurry…”

He pinched his nose and furrowed his brow as he tried to put the pieces together, but it didn’t help that the drugs were still coursing through his system and his brain was moving too fast to stop and think.

“Li, can we stay in here for a bit? The party was getting a bit much for me anyway, and you’re probably gonna crash soon. I don’t want to have to drag you up the stairs like I did with Sinclair.”

Lionel laughed at the thought of you dragging a half-asleep Sinclair up the stairs. He looked up at the clock on the wall, and through his blurry, drunken vision he could just make out that it was 11.40.

“I hope I don’t pass out like Sinclair before 12. I want that New Year’s kiss.”

You smiled.

“Well, I’ll tell you what. I’ll go and get you some water and something to eat. You stay here and… I don’t know, run around in circles until the drugs wear off. We’ll have our New Year’s kiss, and by the time you crash, you’ll already be in bed. Unlike Sinclair, who crashed in a bush.”

Lionel nodded, and you could see by the way he was twitching and shifting his weight from foot to foot that he was still feeling the effects of the cocaine he’d taken, although the insane horniness seemed to have washed away when he came on the bed.

As you stood up from the bed and pulled your skirt down, you glanced at the stain he’d left.

“And if you’re feeling up to it, maybe change the sheets while I’m gone. I don’t fancy sleeping under a jizz-stained duvet.”

1972

A few days into the New Year, it was time for Lionel and Sinclair to go back to Cambridge. You didn’t bother holding in your sobs this time, and Lionel gently wiped a tear from your cheek with his gloved hand as you hugged him goodbye.

“There, there, love. We’ll be back before you know it. I promise I’ll call you as much as I can.”

You nodded, sniffling.

“I love you, my brave lion.”

He grinned. “And I love you, my fierce lioness.”

Lionel pressed a firm kiss to your cold lips and turned away to climb into Sinclair’s car. You turned to Sinclair and gave him a big hug.

“I’ll call you too, [Y/n]!” Sinclair promised. “And I also love you. Platonically. I don’t have a cute pet name for you, though.”

You laughed and pulled back from the hug. Despite the cold, and despite the sorrow at saying goodbye, he still shone with energy.

“Well, then, I’m going to call you a golden retriever,” you decided, “because if a golden retriever were to stand on its hind legs and turn into a human, I’m pretty sure it would just turn into you.”

Sinclair’s eyes lit up and he grinned. “I love that! Okay, we need to go, I want to get there before the sun goes down. Bye, [Y/n]! This has been the best Christmas break ever with you around. Thanks again for looking after me at New Year’s, if it weren’t for you I might have still been in that bush the next morning! Oh, and make sure you tell your parents I said bye, it was so great to meet them at Christmas —”

Sinclair was interrupted by the sudden honking of his own car’s horn. You both looked over and saw that Lionel had leaned over to the driver’s seat to slam his hand down on the horn.

“Sinclair, stop hogging my girlfriend and get your arse in the car!” he shouted, his voice slightly muffled by the car window.

“Go on, Clair, get going. Have fun talking Lionel’s ear off for the next two hours.”

Sinclair laughed and gave you one last hug. Lionel honked the horn again and kept his hand pressed firmly down until Sinclair had opened the car door and sat himself down.

You took a few steps back to give them some space to drive off, and with one last wave, they were gone.

Spring went by excruciatingly slowly, but at least you were busy. In late January, your dad opened a second branch of his cafe in Reading, so he was spending more and more time there, which meant leaving you to open and close the Basingstoke cafe on your own — so much so that he officially promoted you to assistant manager.

Sinclair and Lionel did come home for Easter, but it was over far too fast. You couldn’t get away from work as much now that you were assistant manager, and the boys had to prepare for their exams soon, so you only managed to see Lionel fleetingly. Easter came early that year, so they were due back at university before their birthdays, which meant you didn’t even get to celebrate with them.

Eventually, summer came around, and they came home. You managed to take some leave from work so you could spend time with Lionel, who was even more excited to see you than ever before. Helen and Georgina’s birthday party marked a year since you’d officially called yourselves boyfriend and girlfriend, and Lionel was actually humming to himself as he got dressed for the party.

“What’s got into you?” you asked with a laugh as you emerged from the bathroom, having finished your make-up, and heard his humming as he stood in front of the mirror.

“Nothing. I’m excited for the party, that’s all.”

“You explicitly told me last year you hate your mum’s party, that’s why you invited me, to make it bearable.”

Lionel shrugged, but he was still smiling as he adjusted his bowtie.

“I have a good feeling about tonight, that’s all.”

“Hmm, I don’t know… I think you know something I don’t.”

Lionel turned to you with a cheeky smile and pulled you into his arms.

“All I know is that I love you, chérie, and if you don’t know that, I’m not sure what else I can do to prove it.”

You giggled and batted his chest playfully. “You charmer, you. Well, whatever you’re avoiding telling me, I’m sure I’ll find out in due time. Now, I promised Sinclair I’d help him choose the wine from the cellar. Why he wants my opinion, I have no idea, but I’ve learnt not to question him.”

“Because asking him one question inevitably leads to a long-winded answer?”

“Precisely. I’ll see you in a little while, okay?”

“Alright. I love you, [Y/n].”

“I love you too,” you said with a smile. You leaned up to kiss him, then left to go and meet Sinclair in the wine cellar.

You’d been in the wine cellar only a few times. It was a strange place, completely cut off from the rest of the house, and when you closed the door behind you, it was easy to forget there was an entire house above you.

Sinclair hadn’t got a headstart, apparently. The wine was all still untouched, and he was pacing back and forth, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

“Hey, Clair. I’m here as promised. Not sure why you want my help with the wine, though, I know nothing.”

He froze when he saw you, his eyes wide in alarm, as if he hadn’t been expecting you.

“[Y/n], hi. Um, I lied. I don’t need your help with the wine. I need to talk to you… privately.”

You frowned and looked at him curiously. Whatever it was, it was clearly causing him great distress. You approached him and took his hands in yours, stopping his nervous fiddling with his shirt.

“What’s wrong, Sinclair? Is it something to do with Emily?”

He shook his head.

“No. No, not Emily. It’s about… Lionel.”

“Lionel? What about him?”

“Maybe… maybe we should sit down.”

Sinclair led you to a corner of the cellar and you both sat down on the small sofa you hadn’t even noticed before. It faced a low table, which you suspected was for tasting the wines to choose the perfect vintage.

Sinclair’s shirt sleeves were the next victim of his nervous fidgeting. He was leaning forwards slightly, his elbows resting on his knees as he stared at the floor, as if what he had to say was written down there somewhere.

“It’s two things, actually. One he doesn’t know that I know, and the other… he told me, but he made me promise not to tell.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t —”

“No, I have to,” Sinclair insisted. “I have to. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. He’d probably say I’m betraying him by telling you, but… I’d be betraying myself more if I didn’t tell you.”

“Sinclair, you’re scaring me,” you said in a quiet voice.

He sat back, took a deep breath, and looked at you. The devastation and fear in his eyes had every worst scenario running through your head.

“Lionel’s been cheating on you.”

Your stomach dropped. You felt like someone had wrapped a fist around your heart and squeezed it tight. You didn’t even know what to say, what to think… your first instinct was to refuse to believe it, to insist Lionel would never do that to you. But another voice in your head told you that it explained a lot of questions you had been asking.

You’d told yourself he was becoming distant and calling less because he was busy with coursework, but if that were the case, why was Sinclair able to find the time to call you more regularly than your own boyfriend, when Sinclair’s timetable was much more hectic?

And you’d never understood Lionel’s reasoning for refusing to stop using condoms. You could go on the pill, you’d offered to several times, but he’d always said that he wanted to use condoms regardless. Because he didn’t want you to get pregnant, he said, but the pill was just as effective.

“How do you know?” you asked after a long moment of silence.

“I was suspicious for a while. He’s been acting weird all year, but I always put it down to adjusting to university, to missing you, to going out too much. The first thing that made me think something was up was when I was taking the bins out and I went into his ensuite to empty his bathroom bin, and I saw used condoms in there. I asked him about it, and he said he — he wanks into condoms to save on mess. I believed him.

But after a while, I started noticing a pattern. I always empty the bins on a Thursday, because the bin men come on Friday morning, and I would see the condoms on the top, like he’d just put them in there. Then there was a bank holiday, so the bin day changed, so I emptied it on a Wednesday instead, before I went to play cricket. And there were none in there. I thought that was weird, like he was wanking weekly, on a Wednesday. Who schedules that?

And then I had an awful thought. What if he was using them every week at the same time… because he was seeing someone every week at the same time? Specifically, while I was at cricket. I thought there was no way that was true. He loves you, he wouldn’t do that to you. But then he said something. We were at the pub with some mates, you know, boys’ banter. And he made a joke, he said, ‘I wank every day and that’s still not enough.’ But I thought that couldn’t be right, because I always found the condoms on the Thursday, and there were only ever one or two. Not that I counted, but the only other things I ever saw in there were empty loo rolls and beard hair. You know, they stood out. I’d have noticed if there were seven.

And so I… I decided to investigate. To see what he was doing on Wednesdays while I was at cricket. One of the guys on my course does photography as a hobby, he likes to sit in trees and photograph birds. So I asked him if he could try and see into our flat.”

Sinclair reached into his jacket pocket with a trembling hand, and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

“He gave me a few pictures. Some of them were - um - more explicit. Far more of him than I ever wanted to see. But this one showed enough to prove what was happening without, you know, showing too much. You don’t have to look at it, I just thought if you wanted proof…”

You snatched the photo from Sinclair’s hand before you changed your mind.

The sound you made then would haunt Sinclair for years to come. It was the sound of his friend’s heart breaking, of all your hopes and dreams for a future with Lionel smashing to the ground.

Sinclair’s friend had a good camera. It was Lionel, alright. Your boyfriend. He was sitting naked on the sofa, an expression on his face you’d seen many times — one you thought only you had seen. A naked woman was kneeling in front of him, her head in his lap, and his hand was on the back of her head.

“I’m really sorry, [Y/n],” Sinclair said quietly.

You shook your head, eyes still glued to the photo, as if looking at it longer would make it stop existing.

“Not your fault,” you said, your voice cracking slightly.

“I should have said something… shouldn’t have believed him about the condoms.”

You scoffed. Fucking condoms. No wonder he was so insistent on using them. Well, at least he was keeping you safe from STDs while he fucked other girls.

“Who is she?”

“I don’t know. I asked my mate to go back the next week and see if he could get a picture of her face. And he did, but… it was a different girl.”

Your fist clenched, and the photo became crumpled in your hand.

“...A different girl?”

Sinclair nodded, his eyes wide with trepidation, as if worried what you might do next.

“A different — what, does he fuck a different girl every week?!” you shouted, throwing the screwed-up photo on the floor.

It was one thing if it was another girlfriend. If he’d fallen in love with someone else but didn’t have the guts to break up with you, that was one thing. But if it was different girls, that meant he was just shagging them, and that made it worse, because it meant that putting his dick in something wet was more important to him than you were.

“I don’t know, [Y/n], I’m sorry, we broke up for summer that week so I wasn’t able to ask my mate to go back.”

“Did you confront him about it?”

“No, I’ve not told him that I know. I wanted to speak to you first. I thought you should decide what to do.”

“But you came home weeks ago! Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“I’ve been trying, but it’s so hard, [Y/n]. I kept changing my mind whether to even tell you or not, and whenever I did decide to tell you, I couldn’t get you alone. You’re always together. And you’re so happy together, I didn’t want to upset that. But when he told me about tonight, I knew I had to tell you.”

“Tonight?” you said with a frown. “What about tonight?”

You knew it. There was something Lionel wasn’t telling you. Something that was making him excited for a usually dreaded occasion…

“He’s going to propose.”

The fist that had gripped your heart earlier seemed to squeeze even harder.

Lionel was going to propose. He was going to get down on one knee, in front of everyone, and ask you to swear your fidelity to him, when he’d spent the better part of the last year sticking his cock in a different woman every week.

You stood up and prepared to storm out, but you heard Sinclair calling after you.

“[Y/n], wait —”

You paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked back at him, tears in your eyes.

“Thank you for telling me, Sinclair. You did the right thing.”

You left before he could convince you not to.

- - -

Sinclair usually dreaded his mum and Aunt Georgie’s birthday party, for all the reasons Lionel had told you last year. But this year, he was dreading it more than ever before.

He couldn’t get you alone again. He wanted to ask you what you were going to do, but you were nowhere to be seen, and he knew you hadn’t said anything to Lionel, because he was still buzzing with excitement for his grand proposal.

Everyone was in on it and, not knowing anything about what Sinclair had told you, Helen and Georgina were excited too. They both adored you, and they were sure you’d say yes.

Sinclair adored you too, of course. He wanted you to be his sister so badly. Okay, technically if you married Lionel you’d be his cousin-in-law, but Lionel would always be his big brother in Sinclair’s mind, so as far as he was concerned, if you married Lionel, you’d become his sister-in-law. And in some ways, he already saw you as his sister. You were definitely so much more than just his cousin’s girlfriend.

That was what had made the whole thing so difficult for him. He’d promised Lionel not to tell you about the proposal, but he knew he’d never forgive himself if he let you be proposed to in front of all those people without knowing the truth.

He hoped you could work it out. He certainly hadn’t told you in order to break you up. But you had to have all the facts before you made such a life-changing decision.

When his mum and aunt started herding guests into the main entrance hall, Sinclair knew it was time. He tried to find you, but among the crowd it was impossible. He didn’t catch a glimpse of you until you, he and Lionel were being herded up to the landing that overlooked the room.

Lionel had planned it all meticulously. Sinclair stood with the two of you on one side, his mum and aunt on the other. They quieted the crowd and Aunt Georgie spoke as if she were about to give a speech. On cue, Sinclair moved over to stand by his mum, leaving you and Lionel alone.

Georgina announced that Lionel had something to say, and suddenly all eyes were on the two of you. This was it. Your boyfriend, the person you loved and trusted most in the world, the person who’d betrayed you so utterly that looking at him now just made you want to cry — he was about to propose to you.

In front of everyone. Sinclair, Helen and Georgina, who’d taken you in as their own. Extended family, friends and friends of friends, they were all gathered together, all listening attentively as Lionel addressed them.

“A little over a year ago, just before the end of term, I had my future planned out. I was going to go to university, get a first class degree in Business Studies, and become a great businessman. I’m still doing all those things, of course; watch this space.”

A polite titter came from the crowd, and Lionel flashed a grin.

“But I hadn’t accounted for one thing. I hadn’t considered that one day, I’d sneak out of college for a smoke and find a strange girl I’d never seen before trying to peek into the windows.”

He looked at you with an amused smirk.

“I know what you’re all thinking — no, it wasn’t the boys’ changing room.”

Another polite laugh from the crowd.

“It was the Art classroom. You see, we had some original Monet paintings on display, and she wanted to see them. So I, never one to deny a beautiful woman in need, helped her sneak in to see them.”

Yeah, and you won’t deny any woman in need of dicking down, you thought bitterly.

“She left before I managed to get her number, but with the help of Sinclair here” — he gestured to his cousin, as if anyone was in doubt who he was — “I managed to track her down. She, it transpired, had been looking for me too, and was only too happy to let me take her out for a drink. The rest, as they say, is history.”

Lionel turned his attention fully to you. You were trying to keep your face blank, but you had no idea how you were coming across, only that Lionel was undeterred.

“[Y/n], despite my assertions that it was impossible, you really have tamed this lion. I have every intention of becoming the great man I’m destined to be, but I can only do it with you by my side.”

The crowd gasped as Lionel dropped to one knee. Somewhere, you heard a camera clicking. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring box. He opened it to present you with a sapphire-encrusted ring, and in another version of events, you might have marvelled at how beautiful it was.

“[Y/n] [L/n]… will you marry me?”

His speech was still ringing in your head. I had my future all planned out… I’m never one to deny a beautiful woman in need… I managed to track her down… I’m destined to be a great man.

It was all “I” and “me.” It was all him. His life, not yours; his plans, not yours. Most of the people in the crowd didn’t know you, and nothing Lionel had said had told them anything more.

It wasn’t about you — and maybe it never had been.

You took a steadying breath.

You loved him. You hated him. You didn’t want to break his heart. He’d already broken yours.

You only had one thing to say before you turned and left.

“No.”

- - -

1989

“Our… son,” Lionel repeated slowly. “You were… you were pregnant.”

“I didn’t know then. I only realised a few weeks later.”

“Oh, well, that’s alright then!” Lionel exclaimed sarcastically, waving his arms in a wild shrug. “It’s not like you had my phone number or my address. It’s not like I was trying to call you for weeks afterwards. It’s not like you could have fucking told me!”

“Would it have made any difference? I didn’t want you in my life, and you made it perfectly clear you didn’t want kids.”

“Just because I didn’t want to be a father, doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have! You had no right to make that decision for me, [Y/n]! I mean… Christ. How old is he now? Sixteen? Does he even know?”

“No. He knows who you are only because you’re famous. He has no idea I ever even knew you, let alone that you’re his father.”

“Does Sinclair know?”

“Sinclair? No, why would he know?”

“Well, he knew about everything else apparently.”

“No, Sinclair doesn’t know. I cut off contact with him too. It fucking sucked, because he’s one of the best people I’ve ever met, but I couldn’t bear to look at him, not when he looks so much like you.”

Lionel collapsed into a chair and buried his head in his hands.

“Christ. I can’t believe this.”

“If it makes you feel any better, you’re not on the birth certificate, so you don’t have any responsibility for him. If something happened to me, he wouldn’t show up on your doorstep.”

“But we used condoms!” Lionel said with a frown, pulling his hands away from his face to look at you, bemused. “We always used condoms.”

“Condoms break,” you said with a shrug. “Even your fancy ones.”

Lionel swore. He stood up again and began pacing around, running his fingers through his hair. Meanwhile, unbeknownst to either of you, you were being watched from a window, although your argument was muted to your observer.

“They’re really going at it,” Georgina said with concern. “Maybe we should intervene. I know Sinclair wanted to get them talking, but I don’t think this is what he hoped for.”

“He’s your son, George, you might be better equipped,” Helen replied, leaning over her sister’s head to peek outside.

“You know I want to, but I’ll feel ridiculous trying to calm him down when I’m all the way down here now. I know it’s his day, but maybe we should send Sinclair.”

Helen glanced over at her son, who was currently trying to balance chatting away at some friends with stuffing his face full of food from the buffet.

“I think you’re right. We just need to make sure nobody follows him outside. Tell you what, I’ll get the microphone and keep everyone distracted. You get him outside and guard the door.”

“Deal.”

Within minutes, Sinclair had abandoned his conversation and his plate of food, his aunt was parked in her wheelchair in front of the door, and his ears were being subjected to one of the worst arguments he’d ever heard.

“YOU JUST SAID I MADE THE RIGHT CHOICE, SO WHAT DOES IT MATTER?”

“IT WASN’T YOUR CHOICE TO MAKE, [Y/N]!”

“What the fuck is going on out here?!” Sinclair demanded. “This is my wedding! It’s supposed to be the happiest day of my life! Why are you having a bloody screaming match?!”

“Tell him, [Y/n]!” Lionel said to you with a sneer. “Tell Sinclair the truth. You won’t tell anyone, will you, Sinclair? Considering you didn’t tell me for seventeen fucking years why the only woman I’ve ever loved rejected my proposal in front of our entire family!”

Sinclair held his hands up innocently. “It wasn’t for me to tell! Wait – tell me what? Is there something else?”

Lionel stared daggers at you. You sighed and crossed your arms.

“I have a son,” you admitted. “We – we have a son.”

Sinclair’s jaw dropped. He looked between you and Lionel like you were playing tennis.

“Wait – you mean you and Lionel have a son? Li, you never told me –”

“That’s because I didn’t fucking know, you nitwit!” Lionel snapped. “You wanted to know why we’re having a bloody screaming match – that’s why. Because [Y/n] just told me that we have a bloody son.”

Sinclair stared at you as if you’d just grown an extra head. “Well… what’s his name?”

You laughed and shook your head.

“Lionel hasn’t even asked that yet, and it’s the first question out of your mouth.”

“You didn’t ask his name?” Sinclair said to Lionel with a frown.

“I don’t want to know! I don’t want to know anything. This isn’t changing anything. Clearly, [Y/n] thinks they’re getting on just fine without me, so they can continue that way. I don’t want to know his name, his school, his birthday, nothing. What I would like to know, however, is why my wheelchair-bound mother is sitting in front of the door like a fucking bouncer.”

Lionel pointed towards the door; through the window, the back of Georgina’s chair was visible.

“She’s making sure nobody follows me out here. So we could have a private conversation.”

You sniffed and stood up straight.

“I’m sorry, Sinclair. You’re right, this is your day. I ruined your mums’ birthday party in ‘72, now I’m ruining your wedding day. I should leave.”

You went to walk past him, but Sinclair placed a hand on your shoulder.

“I’m sorry, [Y/n]. I thought if you and Lionel talked, you could work things out. At least put the past behind you.”

You shook your head.

“Sinclair, you’re sweet. But this is too messy to just talk it out. Um, but before I go…”

You took both his hands in yours and looked at him seriously.

“I know my opinion doesn’t matter, and you can make your own choices, and I might be totally wrong about this. But for what it’s worth… you can do so much better than Natalie.”

You gave him a kiss on the cheek.

“Bye, Clair. I really hope you prove me wrong.”

You didn’t give him a chance to respond, and you didn’t give Lionel a second glance. You opened the door back into the reception, and Georgina moved her chair out of the way. You locked eyes for a second, and you hesitated.

“Georgina… I’m really sorry I ruined your birthday. Would you tell Helen for me? I’m – I’m gonna go, before I ruin this wedding too.”

Georgina didn’t say anything, so you left.

You were at the reception desk, waiting for a staff member to call you a taxi, when Sinclair came jogging up to you.

“[Y/n], wait!”

“Sinclair…”

“Just… one thing. Would you tell me your son’s name? I know Lionel doesn’t want to know, but I’d really like to, if that’s okay with with you. And maybe one day, if he does want to know… I could tell him. So he won’t have to bother you.”

You smiled. How was he always so sweet? It was his wedding day, you’d just blown up at his cousin and told him you didn’t like his new wife, and he was still concerned about you.

“His name is Cole.”

“Cole. Cool! Cool Cole, ha ha. Um, I don’t suppose we can still be friends, can we?”

You shook your head, tears welling in your eyes. “No, Sinclair, I’m sorry. I want to be… and maybe one day we can. But you’re too close to Lionel.”

Sinclair nodded his head sadly. “I understand. Well… it was nice seeing you again, [Y/n]. Despite the argument, I am really glad you came. If you ever need anything - and if Cole ever needs anything - just come find me, ‘kay?”

You nodded. Sinclair kissed you on the cheek, and with a sad smile, he turned back to the party.

#alan rickman #sinclair bryant #lionel shabandar #gambit 2012 #close my eyes 1991 #champagne problems #lionel x reader #John Gissing looks like a 30s/40s Lionel to me so I figure I'll just use him #since Lionel in the film is much too old lol

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unclosetedrickmaniac · 5 months ago

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Today we mourn the 9th anniversary of this sweet sweet man's death. Rest in peace to the soul that owns a mighty large chunk of my heart

#alan rickman #severus snape #sinclair bryant #lieutenant general frank benson #sense and sensibility #galaxy quest #snape community #eye in the sky #a promise #close my eyes #die hard #the butler #something the Lord made

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nazfanrickman · 5 days ago

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You should be studying for finals but Alan Rickman fairies are here;

#alan rickman #harry potter #colonel brandon #hans gruber #sinclair bryant #sketch #quick sketch #severus snape

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evans23 · 7 months ago

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RICKMAS 2024 - DAY 3 - A TREAT

Pairing : Sinclair Bryant x OC

Summary : It's December, Sinclair's favorite time of year, at least before his divorce. But this year, it will be his first Christmas with a woman who truly loves him for who he is, not for what he represents. She is his special treat.

Tag(s)/Warning(s) : Smut. Fluff.

A/N : And here the third story for this intense Rickmas. It's challenging but it brings me a lot of joy. Thanks for it @deepperplexity

This is the part 2 of I am yours

Part I

Also read on AO3 - Wattpad

Two months. It had been two months since you had finally offered yourself to Sinclair for his greatest happiness. Officially, you had been a couple for eight months, but it had taken you time to offer yourself to him and to feel comfortable enough to tell him your little secret. Well, you hadn't really told him, Sinclair had guessed and you had simply confirmed.

It was now the beginning of December. The week before, you had celebrated your birthday, a drizzly day in November but that Sinclair had managed to brighten up with his presence. And with a chocolate cake, your favorite. He hadn't forgotten. Some people like to make fun of him by saying that he always talks without ever letting anyone else get a word in edgewise, but that's not true, he knew how to listen too.

Today, you were both busy decorating the tree that stood in the beige-toned living room. The warm atmosphere of the room, illuminated by the garlands and the small colored lights that blinked all around you made the living room even more comforting than usual.

"This tree is a little too big, isn't it ?" you asked, laughing softly.

"It doesn't even touch the ceiling," Sinclair replied, kissing your temple.

This was your first Christmas together. The fifth for him since the divorce with the one-who-was-no-longer-named. Well, in your head, you nicknamed her the bitch who had fucked her brother.

"What do you normally do at Christmas ?" you asked, hanging a glass ball on the tree.

"When I was a kid, we had big, lavish parties. My parents' whole house was decorated: big trees, luxurious dinners, expensive gifts. The kids stayed in the playroom most of the time. Honestly, it was kind of boring."

You looked away, a little embarrassed. It was obvious that you and Sinclair didn't come from the same world, even if it had never bothered him.

"With... With you know who, it was always very cold. If I threw a big party, she told me she felt left out, if we were invited to my parents' house, she said he made fun of her - which is totally false ! - and if it was just the two of us... well, I wasn't enough for her. And nothing I could offer her was ever enough," he said bitterly.

He fell silent, his cheeks slightly red, as if he regretted talking about her. You took his hand in yours and gave him a small smile. Sinclair tried not to mention his ex-wife in front of you so as not to hurt you, but sometimes, it was stronger than him, he needed to talk about it. You didn't mind, you understood that he was still terribly scarred by what she had done to him and you appreciated knowing that he trusted you enough to open up and share what was still hurting him today.

"But after the divorce, and after an exorbitant amount of therapy, I learned to love the holidays again like I did before... her."

"At home, we didn't really have any traditions," you said to lighten the mood and distract Sinclair from his gloomy memories, "it was just my parents and I. We'd eat a simple meal and then spend the evening in front of the TV watching Christmas movies. But it was never really a big holiday in our house."

"Do you regret it ?" Sinclair asked sincerely.

You thought for a moment before shaking your head.

"Not really. When I was little, we spent Christmas at my grandmother's house with my father's whole family and it was so... hypocritical. Everyone pretended to get along and smiled at each other falsely. Of course, I was too young to understand, but once I was a teenager, those Christmas parties became heavy. When my grandmother felt too old to host us all, we started to do it just the three of us and it was fine like that... And then... as an introvert, big crowds tire me out quickly," you added with a small smile.

"I know, and I am eternally grateful to you for accompanying me to all my professional parties," Sinclair said with a smile even brighter than the garland he was diligently hanging on the wall.

"It's normal, I want to be with you. That's what good girlfriends do !"

Sinclair's smile widened even more.

"Are you glad your parents are here for New Year's ?"

"Yes, they love you," you replied, handing him a thumbtack.

Your parents had met Sinclair shortly before you moved in with him, and your mother had told you that it might have taken you a while to decide, but at least you had chosen well. Your mother never made a mistake, and you had known she was the right one. As for your father, all it took was for Sinclair to start talking to him about sea fish for him to fall under her spell.

"I'm glad to spend this Christmas in a simpler way," Sinclair said in his deep voice as he stepped down from his stepladder.

"Really? I don't want you to change your ways for me."

"Not at all. It's you and you alone that I want to be with. This will be our first Christmas and I love this simplicity."

He kissed you tenderly before deepening the kiss. He lifted you up with ease and as your legs wrapped around his hips, he led you into the bedroom to share a tender moment under the sheets filled with caresses, tender kisses and sweet words whispered in your ear.

The following days, you began to create your own traditions. You walked in your favorite park on a sunny and dry but particularly cold afternoon at Sinclair wrapped you in his wool scarf when you started to shiver despite your own scarf and your wool coat lined with silk that he had given you for your birthday.

You had also spent an entire afternoon preparing gingerbread cookies and cupcakes with delicious and colorful decorations with Christmas music in the background and in the evening, to accompany your pastries, you had prepared a hot chocolate garnished with marshmallow.

There had been Christmas movie nights of course, but also board game nights and many reading nights during which you took turns reading your favorite novels, sometimes introducing the other to an author they would never have thought of reading before.

And slowly but surely, the days had passed until December 24th. Sinclair, who had worked all month, was finally enjoying a well-deserved day off. In the early morning, you had left him to enjoy a restful sleep and had gone to prepare his favorite breakfast: fried eggs with sausages, bacon and warm toast. You had also prepared a hot chocolate that you hoped would soothe his irritated throat and you had left a bar of honey-filled chocolate, your favorite.

You woke him up with a series of kisses on the back of his neck, but without you expecting it, Sinclair turned you over with a fluid movement and you found yourself pinned to the mattress, Sinclair pinning you before his solid body.

His lips crushed gently on yours as one of his hands moved up the t-shirt - his t-shirt - that you had worn to sleep. His lips traveled down your throat and, in one movement, Sinclair removed your t-shirt to let his lips travel down your almost naked body.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered in your ear.

"Keep going," you told him as you buried your fingers in his dark blond hair.

His lips traveled down to the bottom of your stomach as his fingers played with the edge of your pajama pants. You lifted your hips slightly and he slid your pants and panties down your pale legs before throwing them to the floor.

You placed your cold hands underneath Sinclair’s shirt, making him shiver slightly but, far from turning him away, he continued to explore your body, his tongue gently caressing your clit.

“Sinclair, please,” you whispered as one of his fingers teased your entrance.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he continued to tease your clit, his eagle-beaked nose pressing just where it should have been to make you moan without giving you the release you craved.

Just as you were about to come, Sinclair stopped, chuckling softly when you let out a small frustrated groan. He then got rid of his boxers, and positioned himself at your entrance, his hard member teasing your soaking pussy, ready for him.

He gave you a tender look to make sure you were ready. A nod from you, and he was already slowly sinking into you, his slow and calculated thrusts sending shocks throughout your body.

"Faster," you said in a breath.

Sinclair didn't need to be asked twice, his movements intensified, but still with a certain reserve. His member was longer than average and even if since your first time you had shared several nights together, you remained inexperienced and you were still learning to recognize what you liked and didn't like while he guided you with patience and love.

"Sin... Sinclair," you stammered as you felt your orgasm building inside you.

"I love you, [Y/N]," Sinclair said breathlessly.

"I love you too," you replied, one of your hands gripping his hair and the other sliding down his back.

Sinclair picked up the pace a little more, his eyes closed as if he was trying to stay focused as your toes curled against the sheets and your nipples hardened with each new thrust from Sinclair.

"[Y/N], I'm gonna... I'm gonna..."

Sinclair didn't have time to finish his sentence as his orgasm caused shockwaves into your vagina, triggering your own orgasm. Feeling your tight pussy contract against his cock, Sinclair let out a grunt of satisfaction, a primal grunt that made your own chest vibrate.

Sinclair kissed you one last time, then pulled out, leaving you with an empty feeling that he quickly filled by holding you close to him.

"Thanks for breakfast," Sinclair whispered, making you laugh softly.

The rest of the day passed in relative calm. You were wearing casual clothes. You had nothing planned and no one was going to disturb your little cocoon of warmth and intimacy. In the living room, the tree was shining brightly, on the TV, "Die Hard" was distracting you and the cinnamon and orange scented candles added a pleasant touch. You were wrapped up in a fluffy blanket, leaning against Sinclair's chest, who was totally absorbed in the movie, so much so that he had forgotten his bowl of popcorn.

Well sheltered, protected from the cold outside and the snow that had started to fall at the end of the morning, covering the garden and the windowsills with a white blanket, you felt good, safe in each other's arms. And for the first time in a long time, Sinclair felt serene.

After the movie, you headed to the kitchen. You had taken care of the main course: vegetarian lasagna, and Sinclair of the dessert, a surprise you knew nothing about. The smell of tomato sauce and grilled cheese perfumed the entire kitchen. Sinclair was busy preparing the table while you watched the lasagna. When you came back with the dishes, you saw Sinclair's effort to prepare a pretty festive table. He had laid out a pretty white tablecloth decorated with gold snowflakes. Candles provided an intimate atmosphere and in the background you could hear Wham!.

"I can't wait to taste your lasagna !" Sinclair exclaimed as he sat down at the table with an almost childish excitement.

You had done well to have planned two large dishes of lasagna. Sinclair had several helpings and he was already looking forward to knowing that there would be some more for the next day... or for the evening if he ever got a little hungry.

"Please, this is my first try so don't make fun of me if it's inedible," he said as he arrived with his dessert.

It was a Christmas Pudding that looked... unappealing. But you said nothing, waiting to taste it to give your opinion. If the visual aspect was not the most inviting, the taste was exquisite.

"You're too demanding of yourself, Sinclair. It's delicious," you said between bites.

Your sincerity, your happy and loving gaze, erased all his fears. With you, he didn't aim for perfection. All he wanted was to see that glow of pride, contentment and reassurance, mixed with the obvious love you had for him.

You shared a hot, foamy bath enhanced with lavender essential oil accompanied by champagne. You dozed gently against him as he told you how sparkling white wine had become champagne. He continued by telling you about Henry II and how his conquest of Gascony had allowed the introduction of viticulture in the United Kingdom while wrapping you in a thick bathrobe.

A few hours before Christmas, you settled back into the living room, both of you covered with a blanket. Sinclair was reading Emily Bronte's work out loud while you absently stroked his arm, wondering how you had managed to be so lucky, to have met such a man and for him to have let you into his life without knowing that Sinclair was asking himself the same question.

"A hot chocolate?" he asked suddenly, making you jump slightly.

You nodded and smiled gratefully. Except that when he came back, Sinclair was not only holding a steaming cup in his hand, but a small package that he handed to you with barely contained excitement.

You opened the velvet box under his watchful gaze. Inside, there was a gold mesh bracelet with several small pendants.

"Sinclair! This is too much!" you exclaimed, moved.

"Nothing is too much for you," Sinclair answered sincerely, taking the bracelet to put it on your wrist. "A book, because you were reading Sense and Sensibility the first time I had the courage to talk to you, a cup, for the milkshakes you drink every day, a car so that you have one of my passions with you, a clover so that you always have luck and a heart," he listed as he presented each pendant to you one by one.

"My heart," he added almost shyly, a rare occurrence for Sinclair.

You kissed him without hesitation and he hugged you.

"I'm a little ashamed to give you my gift now," you said with a little redness in your cheeks.

"I'm sure I'll love it !" Sinclair exclaimed excitedly.

You went to get it, hidden among your beauty products, and handed it to him a little shyly. You had spent weeks and weeks to finish it on time. It was only yesterday afternoon that you had finally managed to complete your work, albeit imperfect.

You would have liked to give Sinclair something more beautiful, but he already had all the books in the world including first editions - not that you could have given him a first edition on your meager salary as a receptionist for a private school - and you had never seen him wear jewelry.

"[Y/N], it's beautiful," Sinclair said as he unwrapped a hand-knitted scarf.

You weren't really convinced, but nothing could have made you doubt his sincerity, especially when he wrapped it around his neck without hesitation.

"I know it's not much..." you started, but he interrupted you almost immediately.

"It's perfect ! Just what I needed to keep warm this winter."

And just like I will always protect your heart, Sinclair, you thought without daring to say it out loud.

He hugged you and you settled back on the couch. Sinclair turned on the TV just in time to see the beginning of Little Women, a movie he knew you loved. He absently played with the bracelet that hung around your wrist, smiling to himself. There, in the comfort of your home, in the warm caring embrace, he felt at peace.

Nothing mattered anymore. Past failures, loneliness, Natalie and Richard, nothing. Except you. You and the calm with which you surrounded his existence, soothing the demons of his past that had haunted him for so long, reminding him again and again of the burning pain of the humiliation he had felt.

As midnight struck, announcing Christmas, and the snow fell harder, Sinclair observed your peaceful face on which the glow of a candle danced. You had finally fallen asleep, totally abandoned in his arms, in full trust. His heart swelled with love. You had become, in a short time, the center of his universe, his source of joy, peace, love.

You were his present and his future. You were his special treat.

#alan rickman #sinclair bryant x reader #sinclair Bryant #puppy sinclair #evans23 #rickmas2024 #Rickmas2024

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lovesickmermaid · 22 days ago

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Alan Rickman as Sinclair Bryant in Close My Eyes (1991)

#Alan Rickman #Sinclair Bryant #Close My Eyes #mom look i made my first gifs #the fact that she cheated on the worlds most beautiful man with her BROTHER?!#immediate jail time

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neick-hitlz · 6 months ago

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- We miss you ❤️‍🩹

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ang3l-bear · 8 months ago

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Beep bop art drop

#doodles #alan rickman #art #sinclair bryant

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vintageisbest · 1 month ago

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Close My Eyes ~ 1991

#alan rickman #sinclair bryant #close my eyes #close my eyes 1991

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coldkidcookieneck · 1 month ago

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Author's Note ✨

Hey, my dear readers 💌

Just wanted to share a little update!

Most of you know me from my All By Myself Severus Snape series and my other Snape works, but I’ve never really said this out loud: I’m a massive fan of all things Alan Rickman—not just our favorite brooding Potions Master.

Lately, I’ve been working on a few new stories featuring some of his other iconic characters, and I’m excited to say I’ll be slowly sharing those here too! They’re still in the works (packed with drama, yearning, and a bunch of emotions ), but I figured it was time to let you know that more Alan chaos is on the horizon ✨

So, whether you’re here for Snape, Turpin, Brandon, Frank Benson, or someone else entirely, thank you so much for being here. Your support means the world, and I can’t wait to bring more of Alan’s characters to life 💫

Stay tuned for more Alan energy, more yearning, and a whole lot of emotional turmoil.

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#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader #alan rickman characters #severus snape #judge turpin #colonel brandon #sinclair bryant #frank benson #eli michaelson #karl hoffmeister #hans gruber #rickmaniac #rickmanverse

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muiitoloko · 1 year ago

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For Sinclair what if the reader is vulnerable and insecure because she’s not from the same world of him and feel inferior because she didn’t go to university and has a life pretty boring and chaotic (like unemployment and thing like that) and as he his someone important and relatively powerful from the upper class she’s afraid of him will finally get rid of her because she wrongly thinks she’s not enough ?

Title: In the Eyes of the Beholder

Summary: In his eyes you were everything.

Pairing: Sinclair Bryant × Fem!Reader

Warning: Smut

Author's Notes: Alright, folks, let's address the elephant in the room—I'll admit, this might not be my shining moment in the world of writing. Blame it on the pesky little gremlin known as writer's block. As usual, though, I'm all ears for any feedback you've got!

As you sat across from Sinclair in the cozy café where you first met, your mind was consumed by a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. You didn't know why, of all people, Sinclair chose you. He was everything you weren't - beautiful, wealthy, and intelligent. You, on the other hand, were just a simple waitress who hadn't even attended college.

Sinclair had a charm about him that was impossible to resist. Like a human golden retriever, he exuded warmth and affection, his infectious enthusiasm drawing you in from the moment you first met. He would come to the café regularly, striking up conversations with you that ranged from the mundane to the profound. It quickly became apparent that he loved to talk, and you found yourself captivated by his every word.

Despite your initial reservations, you couldn't help but be drawn to Sinclair. His kindness and genuine affection for you melted away your doubts, and before you knew it, you were swept up in a whirlwind romance.

But as your relationship with Sinclair blossomed, so too did your feelings of guilt and inadequacy. You couldn't shake the nagging feeling that he deserved someone better than you. He had everything - a successful career, wealth, and a bright future ahead of him. You, on the other hand, struggled to make ends meet, living paycheck to paycheck in a small apartment.

You felt out of place in Sinclair's world, like an imposter pretending to belong. The stark contrast between his life of privilege and your humble existence only served to highlight your insecurities.

Yet, despite your fears and doubts, you couldn't bring yourself to let go of Sinclair. His love and affection filled a void within you that you never knew existed, and the thought of losing him was unbearable.

But beneath the surface, a nagging fear lingered - the fear that one day, Sinclair would realize that he could do better than you. That he would tire of your shortcomings and leave you behind, casting you aside like a forgotten relic of his past.

As you sat in the café, lost in your thoughts, Sinclair reached across the table and took your hand in his. His touch was warm and reassuring, a silent reminder that you weren't alone in your fears.

"Is everything alright, darling?" he asked, his voice soft and concerned.

You forced a smile, pushing aside your doubts for the moment. "Yes, everything's fine," you replied, your voice barely above a whisper.

But deep down, you knew that the shadows of doubt and insecurity would continue to haunt you until you found the courage to confront them head-on. Until then, you could only hold onto Sinclair's hand and hope that his love would be enough to see you through the storm.

As a customer walked through the café door, you quickly got up, slipping into work mode with practiced ease. Sinclair watched you go, a fond smile gracing his lips as he admired your efficiency and grace. He checked his wristwatch, noting that your shift would end soon, and he could finally take you to your apartment.

Settling back in his seat, Sinclair leafed through the magazine he had brought with him, his curiosity piqued by the articles within. He commented to himself about the interesting tidbits he found, his voice a constant hum of chatter that filled the quiet space of the café. He was never one to stay quiet for long, his enthusiasm for conversation infectious and endearing.

Lost in the pages of the magazine, Sinclair didn't even notice the hours passing by. He was thoroughly entertained, engrossed in the world of fashion and style until you interrupted him, now dressed in your normal clothes as your shift had ended.

Sinclair nodded, standing up eagerly as you approached, showing you the magazine with a child-like excitement. "Look at this, darling," he exclaimed, pointing to a particularly captivating article. "It's all about the latest trends in fashion. Isn't it fascinating?

You chuckled softly, amused by Sinclair's enthusiasm for fashion magazines. "I didn't know you were into reading about fashion," you remarked, teasing him gently as you walked outside together.

Sinclair shrugged, a playful glint in his eyes as he replied, "Oh, I just like reading all kinds of things. Fashion, technology, literature... you name it."

You couldn't help but tease him further, poking him playfully in the side. "So, does that mean you enjoy reading porn magazines too?" you quipped, a mischievous grin spreading across your face.

Sinclair was quiet for the first time, looking at the fashion magazine in his hand with more interest than usual. You observed him, amused by the sudden shift in his demeanor, and couldn't help but notice his ears turning red, a sure sign that he was blushing.

With a good-natured laugh, you teased him. "How many Playboys do you have at home, Clair?" you joked, your playful tone bringing a smile to his face.

Sinclair protested, his voice tinged with embarrassment. "I'm not a pervert, darling," he protested, holding up the magazine defensively. "They're not Playboys, they're scientific journals discussing... um, intimate topics and different sexual positions."

You couldn't contain your laughter, the image of Sinclair with such magazines seeming utterly incongruous with his kind soul. Opening the door to your apartment, you ushered Sinclair inside before following him in.

As you settled into your cozy living space, you couldn't help but marvel at the complexity of Sinclair's character. He was a millionaire futurologist, a man of intellect and curiosity, yet there was a childlike innocence to him that never failed to charm you.

As Sinclair settled down on the couch next to you, you couldn't help but feel a surge of affection toward him. Pulling him close, you nestled into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his body against yours. You couldn't shake the curiosity about why he didn't share all the things he learned in those articles about sex, but you decided to let it slide for the moment.

Sinclair, sensing your closeness, nodded in agreement, his brown eyes meeting yours with a hint of uncertainty. "Can I kiss you?" he asked softly, his voice tinged with a mix of anticipation and nervousness.

You caressed his cheek tenderly, a gentle smile playing on your lips. It was a question he had asked countless times before, a testament to his respect for your boundaries and his genuine desire to make sure you were comfortable.

"You don't have to ask, Sinclair," you whispered, your voice filled with reassurance. "You know you can kiss me whenever you want."

With a relieved smile, Sinclair leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a tender, loving kiss. It was a familiar sensation, yet it never failed to send shivers down your spine, igniting a fire within you that only he could quell.

As the kiss deepened, Sinclair's hands began to explore your body, his touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through you. He caressed you slowly, his movements gentle and deliberate, as if savoring every moment with you.

Feeling emboldened by the intensity of the moment, you took control, straddling Sinclair as you deepened the kiss. Your hands roamed freely over his body, tracing the contours of his frame as you lost yourself in the heat of the moment.

Sinclair responded eagerly, his hands roaming over your body with a newfound sense of urgency. It was a dance of passion and desire, a symphony of love and longing that transcended words.

As the kiss finally broke, you rested your forehead against Sinclair's, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you gazed into his eyes. With a mischievous glint in your eyes, you slid your hand under his shirt, feeling the softness of his skin beneath your fingertips. Sinclair's chest rose and fell with each breath, a rhythm that matched the quickening pace of your own heartbeat.

Feeling the few scattered hairs on his chest, you trailed your fingers lightly, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through his body. Sinclair let out a soft moan of pleasure, his grip on you tightening as he reveled in the sensation of your touch.

With a newfound boldness, you tugged at Sinclair's shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin as you peeled it away. Sinclair offered no resistance, his eyes dark with desire as he watched you with a hunger that matched your own.

As his shirt fell to the floor, you wasted no time in exploring his bare chest, pressing kisses along the expanse of his skin. Each touch elicited a gasp of pleasure from Sinclair, his hands roaming over your body in search of more.

But just as you were lost in the heat of the moment, Sinclair gently stopped you, his voice low and husky with desire. "Can I take control this time, darling?" he murmured, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered his request.

A wicked grin spread across your lips as you nodded in agreement, eager to see what Sinclair had in store. "Of course, Clair," you replied, your voice thick with anticipation. "I'm all yours."

With a confident smile, Sinclair stood up, his eyes filled with a hunger that mirrored your own. You eagerly clung to him, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carried you to your bedroom. Each step was deliberate, as if he were savoring the anticipation of what was to come.

Gently placing you on the bed, Sinclair's hands moved with purpose as he began to undress you. With practiced ease, he unbuttoned your blouse, revealing the lacy bra underneath. His touch was electric, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your body as he trailed his fingers along your skin.

Moving on to your jeans, Sinclair helped you slide them off, his gaze never leaving yours. You felt exposed, vulnerable, yet strangely exhilarated by his intense gaze. As you lay there in just your bra and panties, you couldn't help but feel self-conscious, the mismatched lingerie a stark reminder of your insecurities.

But as Sinclair looked at you, his eyes filled with adoration and desire, all your doubts faded away. In his eyes, you were a goddess, a vision of beauty and perfection that left him breathless.

As he leaned in to kiss you, his lips soft and hungry against yours, you felt a surge of desire coursing through your veins. Sinclair's hands trailed along the waistband of your panties, teasing and tantalizing as he explored every inch of your body with a hunger that matched your own.

With each touch, each kiss, you lost yourself in the heat of the moment, the world around you fading away as Sinclair ignited a fire within you that burned hotter than the sun. In that moment, there was only the two of you, lost in a symphony of passion and desire that knew no bounds.

As Sinclair whispered sweet nothings in your ear, his voice husky with desire, you surrendered yourself to him completely, knowing that in his arms, you were safe, cherished, and loved beyond measure.

"You know, darling," Sinclair began, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine, "I've always been fascinated by the intricacies of human desire and sexuality."

You couldn't help but chuckle at his typical segue into another of his rambling conversations. "Oh? And what exactly have you discovered in your studies?" you asked, a playful glint in your eyes as you indulged him.

Sinclair's grin widened, his excitement palpable as he launched into his explanation. "Well, you see, it's all about the psychology of desire, the interplay of hormones and neurotransmitters, and the myriad ways in which humans express their carnal instincts."

You listened intently, amused by Sinclair's earnest enthusiasm for the topic. "And where did you learn all of this?" you asked, genuinely curious about the source of his knowledge.

With a proud grin, Sinclair confessed, "From my extensive collection of sex magazines, of course!"

You couldn't help but laugh, shaking your head in amusement as Sinclair continued to ramble on about the intricacies of human desire and sexuality. His enthusiasm was endearing, if not a little overwhelming at times. As you reached to undo his belt, Sinclair's voice faltered for a moment, his attention momentarily diverted by your playful actions.

With a playful grin, you teased him, "I think I'll have to conduct my own research to verify your findings, Mr. Bryant. "

Sinclair chuckled, his fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra as he tried to keep up with your teasing banter. Finally managing to undo it, he watched with a mixture of awe and desire as you slipped out of the straps, revealing your breasts to him.

His brown eyes darkened with desire as he took in the sight before him, his breath catching in his throat. For a moment, he was speechless, his mind racing with a thousand thoughts and emotions.

But then, with a hungry look in his eyes, Sinclair finally fell silent as he leaned in to take one of your nipples in his mouth. You gasped in pleasure, arching your back as he suckled gently, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

Moaning softly, you tangled your fingers in his blond hair, urging him closer as he lavished attention on your sensitive flesh. Sinclair's touch was electric, igniting a fire within you that burned hotter with each passing moment.

As Sinclair lavished attention on your sensitive flesh, his touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body, you couldn't help but moan softly, your breath hitching with each flick of his tongue. His blond hair tickled your skin as he continued his ministrations, his mouth hot against your skin, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

Feeling emboldened by the intensity of the moment, you let out a low whimper, your fingers digging into Sinclair's scalp as you urged him closer. His baritone voice whispered sinful promises against your skin, sending shivers of anticipation coursing through your veins.

As Sinclair's hands roamed over your body, his touch ignited a fire within you that burned hotter with each passing moment. You arched your back, pressing your body closer to his, desperate for more of his intoxicating touch.

With a hunger that matched your own, Sinclair explored every inch of your body, his lips trailing down your torso as he worshipped you with a reverence that left you breathless. Each kiss, each caress, sent bolts of pleasure racing through you, building the tension to an unbearable crescendo.

As his lips closed around your other nipple, sucking and teasing with expert precision, you couldn't hold back the moan that escaped your lips. Sinclair's touch was electrifying, igniting a fire within you that threatened to consume you whole.

With trembling hands, you reached for the waistband of his pants, eager to return the favor and drive him to the brink of ecstasy. As you teased the fabric, Sinclair let out a low growl of desire, his hips bucking against your touch as he urged you on.

With a wicked grin, you slipped your hand beneath his boxers, feeling the hardness of his arousal against your palm. Sinclair gasped in pleasure, his breath hot against your skin as you stroked him slowly, savoring the feel of him in your hand.

But Sinclair held your wrist gently, his touch a silent plea for you to pause. As he stood up, he released your hand and began to remove his pants and underwear, kicking them aside with practiced ease. You followed suit, shedding your underwear and tossing them aside as Sinclair returned to the bed, his gaze never leaving yours.

Settling back onto the bed, Sinclair reached for you, pulling you close as he began to speak. His voice was a soothing rumble, a comforting presence in the midst of your swirling emotions.

"Thank you for being with me, darling," he began, his voice soft and sincere. "I don't know what I would do without you. You mean everything to me."

Confusion clouded your thoughts as you listened to his words. How could he be thanking you? You were nothing compared to him, a simple waitress with nothing to offer but your love.

Sinclair must have sensed your turmoil, for he reached out to gently wipe away the tears that streamed down your cheeks. "You are everything to me," he murmured, his voice laced with tenderness. "You've given me something I never thought I would find – true love."

His words struck you to the core, a wave of emotion washing over you as you struggled to comprehend the depth of his feelings. How could someone like Sinclair, with all his charm and intelligence, consider himself lucky to have you?

"I don't understand," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion. "I don't deserve you, Sinclair."

But Sinclair shook his head, his eyes filled with conviction as he spoke. "No, darling, it's the other way around. I finally found someone who loves me for who I am, not for what I have."

Tears continued to flow freely down your cheeks as you listened to his heartfelt words. In that moment, you felt overwhelmed by the magnitude of his love, humbled by his unwavering devotion to you.

Sinclair reached out to cup your face in his hands, his touch gentle and reassuring. "Please don't cry, my love," he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion. "You are everything to me, and I am grateful for every moment we share together."

His words were like a balm to your wounded soul, soothing the doubts and insecurities that had plagued you for so long. In Sinclair's arms, you felt safe, cherished, and loved beyond measure.

With a trembling smile, you leaned in to kiss him, pouring all your love and gratitude into the tender gesture. In that moment, there were no doubts, no fears – only the overwhelming certainty that you were exactly where you were meant to be, in the arms of the man who loved you more than life itself.

#sinclair bryant x reader #alan rickman #sinclair bryant #close my eyes #alan rickman x reader

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