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Hello! This year, I will be writing for Kinktober. I have a lineup containing Alan Rickman's characters and hope to honour it by having a fanfiction out every day this October. I will write down the lineup below!
P.L. O’Hara -> Implied Incent | Masturbation | Orgasm Control
Eli Michaelson -> Age Gap | Dry Humping/Coming Untouched
Hans Gruber + Interrogator -> Threesome
Jamie -> Voyeurism
Grigori Rasputin + Jamie -> Finger sucking | Wax play |Dacryphilia
Judge Turpin -> Humiliation | Intoxication
Grigori Rasputin -> Blindfolds | Virginity
Alex Hughes -> Webcam
Lionel Shabandar -> Exhibitionism
Severus Snape -> Oral Sex | Punishment | CNC
Detective David Friedman -> Handcuffs | Somnophilia
Lionel Shabandar -> Sex Work | Kneeling
Karl Hoffmeister -> Dom Bottom/Sub Top | Medical Play
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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do you have any interest in writing any alan rickman character experimenting with sex toys?
i think that different characters would choose different toys... (imo lionel prefers a vibrator but sinclair might like a cock ring LOL)
as always, i love your writing and am patiently waiting for the next one 🙈
Aww, that's very sweet of you! I'm so happy you enjoy my writing; it really means a lot to me for you to say that! Admittedly, I was rather nervous to try to write headcanons for these characters. For most characters, I don’t really have hard-set headcanons for them (for example, I could probably argue several favorite toys for each of AR’s characters and make myself believe it in the process, too, lol). Anyway, I know this place is a safe space, and I’ve chosen to interpret these as short prompts. I’m also expanding the prompt to include equipment, not just toys. I’m totally open to doing more for other characters or doing different toys with the same characters! My asks are wide open too, lol, so please feel free to send in more requests! This is my first time writing both Lionel and Judge Turpin, so please be kind!
Alan Rickman Characters & Their Favorite Toys
Character(s): Severus Snape (x GN Reader), Lionel Shabandar (x Female Reader), Sinclair Bryant (x GN Reader), David Friedman, and Judge Turpin (x Female Reader)
Word Count: 1.5k
Warning(s)‼️: Sex Toys/Bondage Equipment. Masturbation. Sex. Erectile Dysfunction/Premature Ejaculation. Self-Flagellation.
Severus Snape - Collar
Severus Snape stalked the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, black cloak billowing in the dungeon’s characteristic darkness. Under the restrictive clothing he wore — layers of formal teaching robes doused in protective spells and held tightly closed with row after row of buttons — no one would have guessed the sour professor wore a thick band of leather — a collar. It was a present from his betrothed, a promise of their faithfulness given in addition to a traditional band for the fourth digit of his hand. The collar was a deep green, nearly black, embroidered with gold trim. The title “Prince” written in gold cursive attached to the front of the collar with a gold chain, almost like a necklace. Being owned, pulled between two different men, two different sides for decades might have made a collar onerous, taxing for some men, but for Severus, it was a relief. Warm relief that tasted ambrosial to belong to someone with only his interests at heart rather than their own or the entire world’s. The metal tag magically pulsed, a soft command for his presence. His cock twitched at what might, what he silently prayed, awaited him on your shared bed in your dungeon quarters.
[Author’s Note: I fully realize a more restrained Snape might not wear a BDSM-style collar. And, in that case, a more restrained Snape likely wouldn’t go for sex toys either. I think he would be very attached to his wedding ring—-perhaps his partner took the time to engrave the inside with their initials and the date—-or other items given to him by them.]
Lionel Shabandar - Your Vibrator
Lionel Shabandar did not share. So when he discovered a black heavy piece of plastic, bulbous head attached to a straight shaft with numerous buttons next to a half-empty bottle of lube buried in the covers of your side of the bed, he immediately grew suspicious. In other words, the great Lionel Shabandar, champion seducer and media tycoon, immediately grew jealous of six inches of battery-powered plastic. He knew damn well what it was before he sat on the bed and pushed the power button. A vibrator, not just a single woman’s best friend, but apparently a married woman’s as well. Did he not pleasure you enough? You always came at least once when he fucked you in bed at night…unless…unless that was pretend. A lie. What was so special about the damn toy that every woman desired one? He thought, trousers already unfastened at his ankles, black briefs pulled to his knees. He brought the massive head of the machine against the seam of his ballsack, an involuntary moan slipping from his parted lips. He dragged the toy from the root of his cock to the edge of his frenulum, grip slipping on the black silicone when the vibrations hit the sensitive skin with an intensity he was not at all prepared for. He bucked his hips, thick thumb hitting another button, the pulse of the long toy ratcheting up in its aggression. He passed the black bulbous head to his frenulum once more, a low grunt escaping from his soul as rope after rope of white cum shot from his girthy cock. The vibrator dropped from his hand, the pulses becoming immediately overwhelming post-climax. And that was how you found the proud lion later that afternoon…trousers and pants pulled down, dried cum staining satin sheets, black vibrator long dead between thick spread legs… and snore after snore slipping from a satiated Lionel Shabandar’s mouth. Somehow, the insufferable, prideful man made a mess look regal. Delicious.
Sinclair Bryant - Cock Ring
Sex after Natalie had never been pleasurable, nor simple, at least, not until you came along. Sinclair Bryant was a man often too deep inside his own head, focused five steps past the task at hand. He was forever grateful for you reminding him that sex didn’t have to be anxiety-inducing, didn’t have to be all nerves and trembling limbs. It did not keep his cock from obeying, however. He wasn’t the only man in the country who suffered from premature ejaculation, but the fact was little comfort when he could feel his erection start to soften and his balls begin to tighten while buried in your warmth to the hilt. Cock rings had been a godsend, like manna fallen from the sky. You’d ordered his first from one of the sex shops you frequented, a present gifted for his birthday night. He pulled the black silicone ring over the head of his weak erection, down his velvety flesh to the base of his shaft. Seconds later, he could feel his penis stiffen, feel the blood in his member sanctioned off from the rest of his body. Each thrust into you was that of a broken man made whole, each thrust taking him further from the failures of the past. Minutes later, you had already orgasmed, entire body shuddering, toes curling at the end of the sheets. Sinclair peeled the black silicone off his engorged member, the denied flesh purple, release overtaking him in one thrust into your warm hole. The dirty blond fell against your side, body drained, a smile of pure bliss still spread across his lips as sleep rapidly overtook him. And you couldn’t wait to order a vibrating cock ring for your anniversary.
David Friedman - Handcuffs
The first time it was an accident. The detective was desperately reaching for a bottle of lube in the bedside table drawer, only a small lamp providing a source of illumination amidst the dim room. His hand bumped into a pile of metal, a crackling noise echoing across the darkened room. He’d just locked himself in handcuffs. The handcuffs he normally kept buried deep in his suit jacket pocket. And he had no idea where the key was. David Friedman considered himself a logical man, but when a man’s been semi-hard since lunchtime and his sheets long devoid of another body, logic tended to quickly evaporate. The lube was found moments after his imprisonment, as if the object were quietly mocking him. Cold liquid soon became warm as his locked hands rubbed together, the ritual familiar for a heavily-anticipated Friday night. Jerking off was anything but familiar. His wrist couldn’t freely turn, couldn’t properly grasp his length from root to tip in one fluid motion. The metal cuffs ended up bumping into his bare belly and spread thighs. He couldn’t keep his mind from thinking how wrong this was, how dirty, how naughty. And that was where his enjoyment, his pleasure, came from that evening as he spilled himself onto fraying, stained sheets. He found the keys to his bonds the following morning on top of his bedside table, a plan for that evening already starting to be tossed around in his head. He smiled.
Judge Turpin - Cat O’ Nine Tails
Guilt settled deep within the old judge’s chest. It was not proper, it was not moral to lust after London’s new pretty, new perfect resident. You were all golden curls, narrow hips, and bursting chest—the sort of sight that often left him breathless. Wanting. And his wanting, his desire, often bred wanton thoughts. The kind that did not just leave his chest aching in the dead of night, but also a certain member of his anatomy. His cock, buried beneath the thick fabric of his trousers, throbbed against his leg. Relieving himself would likely be the easiest, the most prudent course of action. He removed the evening jacket spanning the breadth of his shoulders, shrugged out of the thin linen shirt beneath. White-haired chest now bared to the room, he swiped an object off his dark wooden bookshelf. A cat o’ nine tails, the queen of all whips and floggers available, the chosen instrument for his self-flagellation. Each thread, each strand crafted by his own hand. His hand slipped under his trousers, fingers wrapping around the flesh of his aroused penis, liquid already bubbling out the head’s thin slit. His thoughts immediately turned to you as he began his desperate strokes, the white-hot crest of pleasure the destination he hurriedly sought. The crack of the whip echoed about the empty house, his grunt of pain bit back with practiced ease. He thought of what your thighs might look like—milky white flesh he’d love to mark surrounding a slitted center he would very much like to—the whip struck the space between his shoulder blades, liquid beginning to drip down the spine of his back. His erection throbbed against his leg once more, the flesh pulsing, already so close to satisfaction, to bone-shattering pleasure. With a few more pumps of his hand, wetness painted the inside of his trousers, the familiar smell of his release filling the sitting room. He eyed the painting on the wall, stared at the scene of the woman’s flogging, the handle of the whip absentmindedly twirling between his fingers. He flicked his wrist, braided ends tearing a new gash into the scarred flesh of his lower back.
Sinclair Bryant smut, in his office under the desk, plsss
Title: Lunch Break Sins
Summary: What began as a random lunch break with Sinclair Bryant blossomed into the sweetest kind of love, tender, romantic, and full of comfort. Of course, it wouldn’t be complete without one sinful moment beneath his desk.
Author's note: Got this request and somehow ended up spending my time writing my very first Sinclair smut 😳🔥 Honestly, I just wanted to give him all the love he deserves in the world. I really hope it turned out well. Hope you guys enjoy reading it, and please let me know what you think! 🫶🏼
Warnings: Smut and Fluff
Pairing: Sinclair Bryant x Fem Reader
Part 1 and Part 2 here
Cross-posted on AO3
=============================================
You had no idea that lunch on a Tuesday would change everything.
The restaurant was packed, the kind of packed where tables were wedged together like an overfilled bookshelf and the line at the host stand curved dangerously close to the door. You’d been clever enough to call ahead and secure a table for one.
After checking in, you’d left your bag and jacket on the chair to claim your spot, then slipped into the restroom to freshen up, smoothing your hair and pressing cool water over your cheeks before returning.
But when you walked back out into the crowded dining room, someone was already sitting at your table.
Not just anyone.
He was broad-shouldered, with sunlit blond hair that looked like it refused to be tamed, falling over his forehead in soft waves. His whole aura radiated something warm, easy, golden — like he belonged in sunlight, not crowded restaurants. He was leaning over the menu now, lips pursed in thought, brow furrowed in concentration. He had absolutely no idea he’d committed the very specific crime of stealing your table.
“Excuse me…” you started, already rehearsing a polite-but-firm speech about how you’d called ahead, and yes, this seat was very much yours. But then he looked up.
Good lord.
His eyes were soft, the kind of soft that disarmed you instantly, framed by faint crinkles that deepened when he smiled, which he did, apologetically, as if he already knew he’d been caught. It was the kind of smile that could talk you down from a ledge.
“Oh— I’m so sorry, miss.” His voice was low, warm, tinged with embarrassment. “The place is busier than I expected, and I completely forgot to call ahead. If you don’t mind… may I share the table with you? Lunch is on me. And, sorry again for just sitting here without asking.”
You stood there, momentarily at war with yourself. One-half wanted to stay irritated, to point out that your bag and jacket had clearly been on the chair. The other half, the half staring into those earnest eyes, felt your annoyance melting like ice in the sun.
You sighed, smiling despite yourself. “It’s fine. We can share. But you don’t have to pay for me.”
“I insist,” he said quickly, relief softening his features. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he extended a hand across the table. “Where are my manners? Sinclair Bryant.”
You slipped your hand into his, the shake firm but warm. “Y/N L/N. Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure,” he said, his smile widening, “is entirely mine.”
The waitress appeared then, pen and notepad in hand, and you placed your orders. By the time she left, conversation had already begun to spark naturally between you.
“So,” he asked, resting his forearms on the table, “what do you do?”
“I’m a magazine writer,” you replied, sipping from the glass of water that had just been set down. “Mostly lifestyle and culture pieces. And you?”
“Stock analyst,” he admitted with a rueful chuckle. “Not nearly as glamorous, I know.”
You tilted your head, surprised. “Wait… which firm?”
When he told you, your jaw dropped. “You’re kidding. We’re in the same building. Different floors, but still.”
His eyes lit up with amusement. “And we’ve never crossed paths until now?”
“Apparently not,” you said, shaking your head in disbelief. “Guess fate was saving it for a crowded Tuesday lunch.”
He laughed, and something about the sound wrapped itself around your chest, warm and unguarded.
As the food arrived and time slipped by, the conversation grew more personal. Sinclair shared that he was divorced. “Her name was Natalie,” he said gently, without bitterness. “We were young, we thought we wanted the same things… but life has a way of proving otherwise. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. Just two people moving in different directions.”
You nodded, swirling your fork in your pasta. “I’ve had my share of failed relationships. If I’m honest, most of them were just… disappointing. The kind where you give and give, and they take until there’s nothing left. After the last one, I just stopped dating. Decided I’d mind my own business and let fate do its work.”
His gaze lingered on you a moment too long, something thoughtful and kind in his expression. “Sometimes, fate works in crowded restaurants,” he said softly.
You ducked your head, smiling into your glass.
The two of you talked until your plates were empty, lingering long after the waitress cleared them away. Eventually, reality beckoned: the office, the deadlines, the life waiting outside the cosy bubble you’d fallen into at the table.
As you stepped out onto the busy street together, you turned to say your polite goodbye, only for Sinclair to pause, almost hesitating before he spoke.
“We should do this again,” he said, and there was nothing casual about the way he looked at you, earnest, hopeful, golden.
Your heart skipped. “I’d love to.”
He smiled like he’d just been given the world.
And just like that, a Tuesday lunch became the beginning of everything.
Sinclair adjusted his watch as he hurried down the street, muttering under his breath about a meeting that had run too long. His stomach had been growling since late morning, but he told himself he could wait until after. He always told himself that.
Pushing open the door of the restaurant, he was met with the hum of voices, cutlery clinking, and the warm scent of herbs and baked bread. It looked full, too full, and for a moment, he thought about leaving.
Then a waitress with an apologetic smile appeared. “Good afternoon, sir. I’m so sorry, we’re at capacity at the moment. Unless…” She hesitated, biting her lip. “Unless you’d be open to sharing. One of our guests is seated alone, but she just stepped away for a moment.”
Sinclair frowned, considering — he was used to solitary meals, not interrupting someone else’s. But his stomach growled in betrayal, and the thought of skipping out now felt unbearable.
“Share, you said?” His voice softened, almost teasing, and the waitress relaxed. “Yes, I’ll take it.”
He slid into the chair, quietly smoothing his tie as he scanned the menu. Still, curiosity itched at him. What kind of woman chose to eat alone in a bustling restaurant? A businesswoman? Someone stood up? Or perhaps just someone who liked her own company.
He bent over the menu, tapping his pen against the page absently, trying to look casual. He didn’t notice you until your voice cut in.
“Excuse me…”
He looked up. And the world tilted.
You stood there with dampened cheeks, like you’d just splashed water on your face, hair smoothed back but with a stray strand falling into your eyes. The way you looked at him, half ready to scold, half surprised — knocked the breath right out of him.
God, she’s beautiful.
“Oh— I’m so sorry, miss.” His words rushed out, too fast, but he meant every one of them. “The place is busier than I expected, and I completely forgot to call ahead. If you don’t mind… may I share the table with you? Lunch is on me. And—sorry again for just sitting here without asking.”
He braced for irritation, ready to get up, but instead you sighed and smiled. Like you couldn’t stay mad if you tried. The warmth of it hit him square in the chest.
“It’s fine. We can share. But you don’t have to pay for me.”
“I insist,” he said, already imagining himself kicking himself later if he let this chance slip. He straightened and extended his hand. “Where are my manners? Sinclair Bryant.”
“Y/N. Nice to meet you.”
“The pleasure,” he said, and meant it, “is entirely mine.”
The waitress reappeared, and as orders were placed, Sinclair found himself leaning in, asking questions, wanting to know everything. A magazine writer, she said — and his grin widened when he realized they worked in the same building.
How have I never seen her before? he thought, laughing with you at the absurdity. Maybe fate had been hoarding this moment, saving it until today.
As dishes came and went, conversation flowed too easily. It startled him, how natural it felt to tell you things he rarely shared: about Natalie, about the divorce, about how sometimes even good people grew in different directions. When you admitted your own weariness with relationships, how you’d chosen to let fate work instead, Sinclair felt that same fate humming beneath his skin.
He watched you smile into your glass, and something inside him settled — like an answer he hadn’t known he was waiting for.
When the plates were cleared and you walked out into the street together, Sinclair’s chest tightened. He didn’t want the bubble to burst. He didn’t want to just let you go with a polite goodbye.
So he paused, heart thumping harder than he’d admit. “We should do this again,” he said, holding your gaze with all the hope he felt.
Your answering smile, soft, sure, radiant, undid him completely.
“I’d love to.”
And just like that, Sinclair knew: lunch wasn’t the end. It was the beginning.
Later that night
After the whirlwind of lunch and the impossible warmth that seemed to linger between you, you found yourself back home.
Your phone lay silent on the table, yet your heart wouldn’t settle. You had already checked your schedule twice, pulled out your planner, and, without hesitation, cleared Tuesdays.
Every task, every errand, you pushed them aside. You weren’t sure what to call the pull in your chest, but deep down, as you drifted off to sleep, you couldn’t shake the thought: maybe this was fate… maybe Sinclair Bryant might just be the one.
Across town
In the quiet of his manor, Sinclair leaned back against the armrest of his couch, his tie loosened, a smile tugging uncharacteristically at his lips. He’d tried to bury himself in paperwork when he got back from the restaurant, but all he saw in those pages was you, your laugh, the way you tilted your head, the spark in your eyes when you teased him.
Finally, he called for his PA.
“Clear my Tuesdays,” he said firmly, though his tone carried an unfamiliar lightness.
“Yes, sir. May I ask the reason?”
He only shook his head, still smiling faintly. “I… have a prior engagement.”
And later, as he retired to bed, Sinclair stared at the ceiling longer than he ever allowed himself to. His heart was restless, his mind full of you. For the first time in years, he let the thought of fate slip past his defences. And when sleep came, it was with your smile lingering in his dreams.
Since that first lunch, it had become routine.
Not the kind of routine that felt stale or repetitive — but the kind that quietly stitched itself into the fabric of your week, like something inevitable, something right.
You’d slip out of work and find Sinclair waiting in his car, a little smile tugging at his mouth as though the day had been worth enduring simply to see you at the end of it.
Sometimes he drove you out to quiet little luncheons tucked in private corners of the city, where he insisted you order dessert “because you’ve earned sweetness, love.”
Other times, he’d surprise you with something offbeat, a museum he adored, a vintage car show where his eyes shone brighter than polished chrome, or a quiet stroll down narrow streets until your laughter echoed in the dusk.
At the museum, you teased him as you paused by a marble statue. “Do you bring all your business partners to the museum, or am I special?”
Sinclair smirked. “Only the ones who can make me forget what I’m looking at.”
You grinned. “So you didn’t see the priceless statue right behind us?”
“Darling,” he said without hesitation, “I saw something better.”
Later, at a car show, you caught the way his eyes lit up as he leaned over polished hoods and chrome lines. “You look like a kid in a candy shop,” you laughed.
He straightened, mock-offended. “A very refined candy shop.”
“I’ll allow it,” you teased, nudging his side. “Go on then, show me which one you’d buy me.”
He leaned close, his voice low enough for only you. “Darling, you’d look better in the passenger seat of mine.”
It was effortless, being with him. The world that had felt sharp and demanding softened the moment Sinclair’s voice wrapped around you. You found yourself falling, not suddenly, but gradually, the way twilight folds itself into night.
And one evening, sitting in a café with the murmur of other lives around you, Sinclair leaned across the table. His voice was lower than usual, but clear, firm, the way he was when he meant every syllable. “I’m falling in love with you.”
It stilled you. The teacup halfway to your lips trembled slightly, but there was no hesitation in your answer. Your smile was small but sure, your reply a mirror of his truth. “I’m falling in love with you, too.”
From that moment on, something shifted. He wanted you close, always. The invitations to stay over stretched into entire weekends, and before long, Sinclair asked you to move in.
The manor was tucked among trees and shadows, stately without arrogance, warm without fuss. A path led down toward the river, where the water stretched wide and calm, little boats bobbing gently against rows of houses in the distance. It was beautiful, yes, but it was also him. A reflection of Sinclair himself: steady, quiet, dignified, and yet unexpectedly welcoming.
You paused just inside, taking it all in. “It’s… beautiful. It’s so you, Sinclair.”
He smiled softly, almost shyly. “That’s the first time anyone’s said that. I’m glad you think so.”
He came up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist, his chin brushing your shoulder as you looked at the view. “I prepared a picnic for us in the garden,” he murmured. “Unless you’re afraid of boats?”
You whirled on him, scandalized. “Afraid? Never. Where’s the dock?” Then you bolted off laughing, his laughter chasing after you as he followed.
The afternoon unfolded into something simple and perfect. He’d packed a basket and taken you out onto his boat, the river catching sunlight in soft ripples. He wore a sweater and a faded jumper, comfortable and utterly at ease, while you curled up in your own soft jumper and shorts. At one point, he leaned back against you, his head pillowed on your lap as though he’d belonged there all his life.
“That cloud looks like a Bentley,” Sinclair said dreamily, pointing. “That one like a roast dinner. That one—”
You bent down and kissed him mid-sentence.
His breath caught; then he blinked, grinning up at you like pure sunshine. “Darling… you’re very rude, interrupting my cloud analysis.”
You smiled against his mouth. “Worth it.”
“More than worth it,” he whispered, squeezing your hand.
That was your first kiss, and it lingered long after, like sunlight on skin.
From there, the little things began. A hand brushing yours when he passed you tea. A kiss to your temple before you parted for the evening. The quiet weight of his palm at the small of your back, guiding you through a door.
And the first time you came home after a brutal week, you barely made it past the foyer before collapsing against the wall, rubbing the back of your neck.
Sinclair emerged from the kitchen instantly. “What’s wrong, darling?”
“Bent over my computer all day,” you huffed. “Haven’t slept properly in days.”
He crossed to you in seconds, his hand warm at your elbow, guiding you. “Come sit on the sofa. I’ll take care of it.”
You tried for humour. “Handle what? My deadlines?”
“No,” he said with a grin, rolling up his sleeves. “But I can handle these knots in your shoulders.”
He massaged carefully at first, then firmer, coaxing the tension out with patient pressure. But before you melted completely, he kissed the crown of your head and said, “Not yet, love. You need dinner first.”
He disappeared briefly, only to return with a tray: grilled cheese, perfectly crisp and golden, alongside a steaming bowl of tomato soup. You ate slowly, his hand resting at your back the whole time.
Afterward, he drew you a bath, the steam curling into the air, lavender foam softening the edges of exhaustion. He showered behind the blurred glass screen, humming low under his breath, and when you were both clean and dressed again, he urged you to lie flat on the bed.
His hands worked over you with unhurried devotion, every stroke easing knots you didn’t even realise you carried. His voice was low, tender as his thumbs pressed into your shoulders. “I want you to feel at home here. Always.”
Half-asleep already, you murmured, “I think I already do.”
Even when you tried to return the favor, insisting he let you take care of him, Sinclair only chuckled, pulling you against his chest. “No, love. You rest. That’s all I need.”
Sinclair always gave more than you asked for.
And you, in return, began to realize you wanted to give him more. More care, more kisses, more of yourself than he ever thought to demand.
Which was how the idea began, the idea of surprising him, of giving him something that would finally shake his calm, make him feel as overwhelmed and adored as he made you.
Ever since meeting you at the restaurant for the first time, it had become routine for Sinclair.
Not a dull routine, not one of obligation, but something he hadn’t known he’d been starving for. Something that stitched itself into the fabric of his week until it felt inevitable, natural.
You.
Every evening, he pulled up outside your office, and he felt it, that tug at his chest, the small smile that insisted on forming the moment you stepped out into the evening light. The day’s endless meetings, the documents, the endless lists, all of it became worth enduring, simply for that single look on your face when you spotted him.
The luncheons, the museum halls, the vintage car shows… they were excuses, he knew. Excuses to give you pieces of his world, to see if you might choose to belong in it. And every time you laughed, whether at his mock-offended tone over cars, or at his very serious comparison between clouds and a Bentley, he thought, perhaps I might deserve this, after all.
But with the joy came a shadow. Because he remembered how badly things had ended before. Natalie had been a wound that bled long after she was gone. He had given too much, too fast. He had smothered with care, thinking it love, only to learn that his love had been too heavy for her to carry.
And now, with you, that you had looked him in the eye, voice trembling but sure, and told him you loved him too, he was terrified of repeating the same mistake.
He wanted to give you everything. He wanted to shield, to care, to provide, and yet he feared overwhelming you, feared becoming too much.
So every touch, every offer, every word of affection, he weighed with silent care, trying to strike the balance between holding you and setting you free.
The evening you came home, shoulders hunched, exhaustion clinging to your every step, Sinclair’s heart stuttered in fear.
“What’s wrong, darling?” His voice cracked sharper than he meant.
“Bent over my computer all day,” you sighed, rubbing at your neck. “Haven’t slept properly in days.”
He crossed the room at once, hand warm at your elbow, guilt pressing against his ribs. This is what he feared. That he would miss the signs, let you carry too much alone. “Come sit on the sofa,” he urged, softer this time. “I’ll take care of it.”
You laughed faintly, trying to lighten the weight. “Handle what? My deadlines?”
He rolled his sleeves, covering his worry with a grin. “No. But I can handle these knots in your shoulders.”
And he did, slow, deliberate, careful not just with his hands, but with his heart. He wanted you to feel cared for, yes, but not trapped. Wanted you to know this was your space, your choice, always.
He paused long enough to bring you dinner, which he had made once getting back from work, grilled cheese and tomato soup, simple but warm, the kind of thing that might coax you back to yourself.
Then a bath, the scent of lavender curling into the air. He showered quietly behind the blurred glass, leaving you the space to breathe.
And finally, when you were both clean and curled beneath soft sheets, Sinclair worked every knot from your shoulders, your back, your legs. Devotion in his palms, reverence in every press of his thumbs.
“I want you to feel at home here,” he murmured, voice catching on the truth of it. “Always.”
Your sleepy murmur in reply nearly undid him. “I think I already do.”
He pressed his lips to your hair, pulling you close. Even when you offered to return the favour, to take care of him, Sinclair only chuckled, though a trace of sadness lingered beneath. “No, love. You rest. That’s all I need.”
But as he held you through the night, your breath soft and steady against him, Sinclair admitted to himself the thing he hadn’t dared say aloud, I’m afraid. Afraid of failing again. Afraid of losing this. But I love her more than my fear.
The office was quieter than usual when you stepped in, the muted hum of computers and the faint shuffle of papers echoing down the hall. His PA had smiled at you before leaving for her own lunch break, telling you Sinclair had just stepped into the loo.
Perfect.
You didn’t hesitate. You slipped into his office, heart pounding, and ducked under his desk like you belonged there. The polished wood smelled faintly of cedar, and you tucked yourself neatly between the space his legs would soon occupy, grinning to yourself like a criminal waiting for the mark.
It was a stupid idea, maybe, but you’d been thinking about him all morning. Thinking about how he’d told you, almost apologetically, that he wouldn’t be able to see you today. Thinking about how much he’d done for you since the day you met. And thinking about how much you wanted to give something back.
The door clicked open. Footsteps. And then, softly, the sound of him humming Here Comes the Sun under his breath.
Your chest tightened. God, you loved that voice.
He slid into his chair, sighing as it creaked under his weight. You could see the outline of his thighs above you, the fabric of his tailored trousers stretched smooth over strong muscle.
You let your hand glide over his ankle.
“Bloody hell—” He jerked, legs tensing, and then looked down. “Y/N? What the—what are you doing under my desk?”
“Shh,” you whispered, your fingers curling around his calves. “It’s me. Now you’ve confirmed it, carry on with your work, love.”
He stared at you like you’d just suggested arson in broad daylight. “Darling… you do know you can just sit on my lap, right? Not—”
“Sinclair,” you cut in with a little huff, “back to work, Mr. Bryant.”
His lips parted in disbelief, then curved into that slow, wicked smirk that made your stomach flip. “You are utterly incorrigible.” But he turned back to his desk, shuffling papers, fingers resettling on the keyboard.
You began with something innocent — slipping off his shoes, massaging the arch of his foot. His sigh was immediate, deep and guttural, a sound that made your thighs clench. You worked up his calves, kneading muscle, pressing kisses over the fabric as you went.
“Mmh—love, that’s… that’s rather nice,” he murmured distractedly, flipping through a document.
When you reached his thighs, his voice cracked on your name. His chair squeaked as his posture shifted, his breathing shallow. You pressed your lips just above his knee and felt him flinch, then relax — then tense again when your hand cupped the obvious bulge in his trousers.
“Y/N—”
“Hush, Sinclair.”
Your fingers made quick work of his belt and zipper. He froze when you freed him from his trousers, his length heavy and flushed in your hand. You stroked him slowly at first, teasing, tracing veins with your fingertip, then leaned in to kiss the tip, soft, reverent.
He cursed, head thudding back against the chair. His knuckles whitened against the armrests as you licked a long stripe up his shaft before wrapping your lips around him.
“Oh… God, darling…” His voice was wrecked already, low and strained.
You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deeper, your hands gripping his thighs to steady yourself as you set a slow, torturous rhythm. His hips twitched despite himself, betraying the polished composure he tried to keep, little groans spilling out with every drag of your mouth.
He clutched at the edge of the desk now, documents forgotten. “Please, I— I can’t—”
You swallowed him deeper before he could finish, your name spilling broken from his lips like prayer. His thighs trembled around you, his body straining against the desk’s confines until finally he shattered, hot and desperate in your mouth.
You swallowed what you could, pulling back slowly, wiping your lips with the back of your hand. Reaching for the tissue box on his desk, you cleaned him gently, carefully, and when you stood, his hands shot out instantly, pulling you into his lap with a desperate kiss that stole your breath.
“You didn’t have to—” he began, voice still ragged.
“Sinclair,” you interrupted softly, cupping his jaw, “this is my love for you. You’ve been taking care of me since the start. Let me take care of you too.”
His eyes softened, that rare crack in his armor, so raw and open it nearly undid you. “I’ve never been loved like this before,” he whispered against your temple.
“Good,” you said, smiling as you stroked his cheek. “Then get used to it.”
He chuckled, breathless, forehead dropping to yours. “I don’t think I’ll ever recover from you, darling.”
You grinned, brushing your thumb over his lips. “Now… you still want lunch?”
His laughter shook through you, warm and unguarded. “I’m starving. And there’s a new dish I’d like to try.”
“Sinclair—”
He kissed you again, grinning against your mouth. “You.”
Hand in hand, you left the office together, the taste of him still lingering on your lips, and a very smug, very wicked secret tucked safely between you both.
