#desire and decorum mr sinclaire

[princess-geek]

Beatrice Foredale & Ernest Sinclaire

made by @missameliep

Thank you so much, my dear 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

You captured their essence and my heart, too! 😘

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[storyofmychoices]

Mr Sinclaire for the loveliest @princess-geek 💙

I know I'm late, but Happy Birthday, my dear friend! I hope you enjoy Ernest in this geometric style!

[Geometric Art Masterlist]

[missameliep]

Title: In a Little Book Shop - Part 1

Book: Desire & Decorum AU

Pairing: Ernest Sinclaire x Hayley Parker (OC)

Rating: Teen

Word count: ~3k

Summary: Ernest Sinclaire inherited his father’s little bookshop at London and, for the last decade, is used to the uneventful routine of a shopkeeper until a mysterious woman walks in and changes everything.

A/N: English is not my native language; there's one swear word; the poetry in bold blue letters are from Pablo Neruda's Poema 14 from "Veinte poemas de amor y una canción desesperada"; and Hayley Parker is @rosesnink's OC and I'm borrowing her.

Noe, I hope I did Hayley justice. This is just a silly little idea I had, and now I'm sharing it with you.

The Brahms’ piece playing in the back of the store swells in crescendo to a loud forte, almost muffling the sharp sound of the ancient brass bell at the door.  

Like every other Tuesday afternoon, at 3 o’clock sharp, the deliveryman walked in. Head bobbing to the music playing into that gigantic white headset he never takes off, today he was carrying only one brown box that almost matched the shade of the company’s uniform.  

The man nodded to Ernest Sinclaire, who had been sprucing up the counter for the past forty minutes, despite it already looking neat when he started or the fact that less and less customers have stopped by these past weeks. Not to mention most of the people who did cross the threshold were solely interested in the shop’s AC. With the heatwave, people certainly have fled London, he keeps telling himself.  

But he could be wrong.  

Printed books might have gone out of fashion this season like some insist. 

The situation has been so critical, he’s been considering his friend Bart’s suggestion of turning part of the antique bookshop into a cafeteria. 

‘A book ‘slash’ coffee shop. It’s trending', the man often says. However, Ernest is less than thrilled with the idea of fiddling with the antique shelves his father dedicated so many hours and love to restore years ago. Except for the improvement in the acclimatization and the profusion of autobiographies, the shop looks exactly like it did at its inauguration day in 1816. The framed lithographs in the entrance testify of the superb work.  

Almost bouncing, the deliveryman quickly crossed the distance between them, not sparing a second glance around, which Ernest always considers a shame. Does he even realize this bookshop has outlived 7 kings and 2 queens? 

Putting down a box with the handmade bookmarks commissioned to the talented artist Annabelle Parssons, Ernest signed the electronic receipt and took the brown box from the deliveryman’s hand. After the usual polite but wordless interaction, the man left. He was alone again when. The only sounds on the store from the first notes of one of Chopin’s nocturnals and the pens pushed aside to reach the pair of scissors in the top drawer.  

Like always, he unpacked and carefully inspected the content of the box. Taking one by one, he examines the book covers, searching for any sign of damage. This time the box is filled to the brim with several copies of two cookbooks that trend whenever another season of the Great British Bake Off starts.  

Cookbooks and travel guides are the best-selling items. Despite his personal opinions, he won’t complain if they keep the businesses going. Occasionally a customer after them might accept one or two of his recommendations or be drawn by the siren’s call of one of the poetry books or new authors he strategically places around the store.  

It happened to that young Spanish writer whose thrilling debut fantasy trilogy became the hit of the store last Christmas. He’s not ashamed to admit he had his friend Bart rambling about the story whenever a new customer arrived nor the way he made use of the beautiful art of the cover. Some of the customers were instantly drawn to the fiery red head in the cover – he cannot blame them though, since he was mesmerized by the heroine’s beauty himself – but most of them returned merely days later to buy the other books. Which reminds him to write a note to himself to place an order for more copies of the author’s new trilogy. 

A fit of laughter from a small child outside draws his attention from the paper and he smiles. His gaze follows the kid and the middle-aged woman holding their hand until they disappear after passing the large side window. The store’s location in the corner of two busy streets is privileged and is a perfect spot for people watching.  

Across the street, a pair of young women, who look too young to be drinking, linger by the pub’s door, and a group of teenagers walk past the door but don’t look twice at the windows. They are probably going to the ice-cream parlour two stores down.   

Keeping himself busy, he takes the recently arrived box. While moving some books aside to give space to the new ones without messing the systematic alphabetical and subject order, a copy of The Tucci Cookbook slips from his hand, hitting the ground with a dull thump. Kneeling to pick it up, a glimpse of someone outside catches his attention. An indistinct mass of blonde hair moves quickly, almost running. A second later, the bell rings sharply and hits the base producing a long higher pitched sound, like it does whenever someone opens the door with too much force. 

“For fuck’s sake!” The angry feminine voice startles him. There’s some mumbling while the door closes with a soft click.  

From where he is knelt, he only catches a glimpse of a pair of high heeled black leather boots, which is a rather unusual choice for a scorching day like this. The heels click sharply against the wooden tiles, while she moves around the store.  

“I’ll be with you in a moment,” he speaks to make his presence acknowledged, while pulling himself up and returning the book to the appropriate place.  

Moving around the box, he finally comes face to face with the woman, who had just removed an ash blonde wig from her head and was trying to shove it inside a small studded leather backpack. 

The woman’s hair is dark and glued to the head with a mix of sweat and some kind of greasy product, and her makeup is heavy, covering her face almost like a mask. The long and thick fake eyelashes look like spider legs and it’s hard to even distinguish the colour of her eyes. Not that he is trying to, of course. It was a polite gaze. Not even a gaze; barely a glimpse that allowed him to acknowledge the bright enticing eyes. 

Dressed all in black – black tank top, black sequin leggings, black heeled boots –, she looks like one of the artists that perform in The Club at Margaret Street. Even her lips are painted in a shade of ripe plum, almost black. If she’s one of the famous ones and is trending on Spotify or whatever is cool this week, he definitely cannot tell. Or maybe she’s just another TikToker committed to the art of making the most entertaining videos according to Bart, who often shoves the mobile into his nose to show the next Amy Winehouse, and wants to revel on the AC. As long as she doesn’t mess with the books and at least buy a bookmark, he’s fine with it. 

The woman zips up the bag and shoots him an inquisitive look. 

“Cat ate your tongue?” she asks and there’s a lilt of laughter in her tone. His gaze meets hers, and she looks pleased with his reaction and not offended, even though he’s been silent for impolitely long. 

His first guess might be right. She’s probably famous and he’s pulling a William Thacker again. And her eyes are brown in this light.  

He straightens himself and clears his throat.  

“Welcome to Ledford Park Bookshop. How can I help you, miss?”  

“I’m buying a gift.” 

“Anything in mind?” 

“A book.” 

Her wide teasing smile almost makes him smile, but he doesn’t. Instead, he keeps his usual bookseller unbothered expression that some might mistake by grumpiness, which is not. It’s professional and he’s learned from past mistakes: smiling freely encourages idle conversation. 

“I was thinking about poetry. Something sensual,” she speaks the last word with an accent. “Do you have anything?” 

“The Erotica section is in the back.” 

“Perfect!” she replies while looking over her shoulder at the window. There’s a hint of relief in her words and the sigh she let out, but perhaps he was mistaking it by the effects of the heat. 

Her heels click rhythmically following him to the back of the store, and he stops himself from glancing over his shoulders and let’s his mind picture the way her hips sashay instead. 

In a second, they’re surrounded by shelves dedicated to erotic poetry, art catalogues and a range of classic authors like Sappho and Ovid, to best-selling from the 20th century like Pablo Neruda.  

A smug grin pulls at the corner of his mouth as she looks around, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. This is the most frequent reaction to the extensive collection. Just one of the many treasures that pleases the regular customers, who keep coming back for more books, more enlightening conversations, more ideas for their own books.  

“Poetry is over there,” he points at the neatly arranged books on her right side.  

Looking over her shoulder, she asks, “Any Spanish authors?”  

Taking a deep breath to consider, his lungs are filled with her sexy and intoxicating perfume. It emanates from her body and hangs heavily in the air. His attention is caught by it like flies on spiderwebs. It takes all his willpower to remind himself of the question. To free himself from the web, he walks around her, trying to clear his mind, and his eyes settle on the section reserved to books written in Spanish, Italian and Portuguese. 

“Are you familiar with Pablo Neruda?” 

“He’s Chilean,” she corrects him without missing a beat. 

“You are absolutely correct. Most people mean books written in Spanish, I simply assumed that’s what you meant... I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t be,” she speaks bluntly, “I don’t walk around expecting recognition about my intellectual capacity or general culture. Especially not from men.” 

She slowly and deliberately walks in front of him, glancing over her shoulder. There’s a menacing but also hypnotizing glow to her eyes, almost catlike, what it’s probably enhanced by the eyeliner, but mostly because her eyes resemble those of big felines one would see in wildlife’s documentaries, it’s the same look when they are ready to jump an antelope. And her big defying eyes are definitely grey.  

With maybe hints of blue in this light.  

She turns around and deliberately sashays back to him. Smiling, she takes the book from his hand. Her mouth curls into a smile, wide and showing her a hint of her teeth, and it makes her look prettier. Pretty. She’s pretty. Not enough to tempt him, but pretty enough to have people composing sonnets about long legs and shapely lips. Not him. He’s not thinking at all about how desirable her lips look. 

Flipping through pages of the book, she starts reading one of the sonnets in perfect Spanish. But not any of them, she’s reading his favourite one.  

When she changes language, her voice is melodious in an unexpected way, it loses the edge, every word sounds like coated in honey.  

Entranced, Ernest cannot avert his gaze from her lips while she reads.

Mis palabras llovieron sobre ti acariciándote.  Amé desde hace tiempo tu cuerpo de nácar soleado. Hasta te creo dueña del universo.  Te traeré de las montañas flores alegres, copihues,  Avellanas oscuras, y cestas silvestres de besos. 

Before he realises, he’s reciting the verses with her, enunciating every word as clearly as he could.

Tilting her face up, her eyes flick from the page to his face. Her gaze burns his skin. She looks straight at him. Perhaps she’s looking straight to something hidden inside his eyes.  

Her voice fades and he recites alone the last two verses. 

Quiero hacer contigo  Lo que la primavera hace com los cerezos. 

Her expression changes, lighting up almost as if a treasure had been unearthed in front of her eyes. 

“¡Guay! ¡Hablas Español!” she cries, and the next words flow quickly and excitedly from her lips, and he cannot follow them at all, except for a few of the nouns and pronouns. His knowledge of the language is practically non-existent: he poorly reads and can only speak a few sentences to save his life in case of a catastrophe. 

“Sorry, I don’t. I only know some of Neruda’s poems by heart, and that’s one of them.” 

He lowers his gaze, shame burning his cheeks and warming him more than the heatwave had done so far. His fingers go to the collar of his white shirt, and pull at it, loosening it slightly. 

“For a moment, you could have fooled me.” Her words sound too flirty, almost daring.  

Is it a dare? Would she want me to pretend? 

Her lips twitch, pulling at the corners when she laughs. It’s impossible to look direct at her eyes, like one cannot look at an eclipse, risking burn their retinas. The intensity of her gaze probably does the same. His gaze wanders, then focus on the shelves, from one book spine to the next.   

“Why learning the poems if you don’t speak the language?” Her long fingers run through the spines of books, stopping his contemplation. “Trying to impress the ladies?” 

The silence stretches for a bit, giving him time to think; he stares at her, considering if she’d be truly interested in the truth. 

“My father worked with publishing,” he started, and his voice did not falter or waver as it would years ago; it’s easier to speak about him, almost comforting as if planting these memories like seeds, they’d bloom... “Every summer I’d work a few days a week at the office... When I was fourteen, he was working on a collection of Neruda’s poems and... well, that’s it.” 

“That's it? That's barely a story,” she laughed. “So, what happened? You memorised the poems to impress your father or something...?” 

He shook his head and delved into the memories of the suffocating summer surrounded by manuscripts and heated arguments about the imagery invoked by the cherry trees. “Father was a man easy to please. I never felt the urge to impress him. It always seemed that being myself was enough...” 

“Lucky you.” The hollow laugh that left her mouth startled him, but she recomposed herself. When she spoke again it wasn’t a question, but a statement, “Your father taught you about poetry.” 

“He taught me most things, including the tragedy of translators ignoring the profound differences between cultures and the meaning lost in translation when the works is rushed, and one chooses literality over intent... I was probably too young at the time to truly understand all he was trying to say... But I noticed in Spanish the poems sounded...” he paused, searching for a word. “More poetic somehow... Melodic in a different way... And then I memorised this one. And plenty of others –” 

“Which ones?” she cuts him off, and he’s about to answer – and Ernest suspects her feline eyes would compel him to answer questions until his throat was sore and his mind emptied of words – but the phone rang.  

With a sigh, he excuses himself. “If you need any help, don’t hesitate in calling me.” 

“I won’t.” The same expression from before returns, and so is the sharpness behind the words. 

He walks behind the counter to take the call, and he can no longer see the woman; for once, he’s not worried about shoplifting.  

The call takes longer than he wishes, and his patience almost runs out when the caller keeps inquiring about books’ covers that would match a specific shade of purple. The person doesn’t know the name of the author or genre, just that it's trending online.

He lets out a long exhale through his nose.

Any other day, this wouldn’t bother him, and he’d welcome the challenge, putting the phone down, he’d look around, like an archaeologist digging a site. But now he must go back to this one customer, because he needs to serve well. Nothing else. 

“Maybe you should stop by. We’re open until 20:00.” 

The person reluctantly thanks him and hangs up. 

Ernest’s eyes search the monitor underneath the counter. She’s moved to the shelves on the side of the store, next to the psychology section, closer to Jung. 

There’s a book close to her face, but her gaze is not on the pages. 

“Have you changed your mind about the gift?” he asks softly trying not to startle her or sound pretentious but fails.

Her shoulders tense and heave with an intake of breath, before she turns around to look at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Should I take the Neruda, or should I browse some more?” she asks breezily, one side of her mouth curled with a smirk, “I wonder if there’s something else more... suitable for my taste...” 

“By all means,” he replies politely, “Feel free to look and see if there’s anything else, you’d prefer.” 

“I definitely will.” She glides amongst the tall shelves closer to the window, then halts and looks at him over her shoulder. He was observing her, and his cheeks warm at being noticed.  

“Our bestselling books are over that table,” he says and returns to the task of organizing cook books but still observes her.   

Finally, her heels click as she comes to him.  

“I know what I want,” she says casually, and the book in her hand passes to his hand.  

Neruda.  

Her fingers graze his, and his breath catches in his throat. He swallows hard the surprise. That’s the most human contact he’s had in several weeks, and it’s surprisingly pleasant. Not anything else. His heart is racing because he’s shocked. This entire interaction has been incredibly odd. 

From the backpack, she takes a few notes to pay for the book. The money is placed in the counter, and so is the change. His attention is entirely focused on gift-wrapping the book, and not once he looks at her while doing it.  

When the package is passed to her hand, she thanks him, says goodbye and leaves.  

He never gets a name; but she lingers by the door and smiles pointedly at him before closing it. Surrounded by a cloud of her perfume, he wonders if it’s the last he’ll see of her. 

Thanks for reading!

[bri1234]

Created this from the quote at the top that @peonierose had sent to my inbox! I'm rereading D&D right now and thought the quote fit my MC and Mr. Sinclaire 😊

[rosesnink]

Threads of Gold

Author's Notes

A few days ago, I commissioned Thia @oh-so-youre-a-nerd from their Your Characters comms this beautiful piece of Mr. Sinclaire and Marianna, and the moment I saw the sketch, I knew I had to bring it to life.

I am aware that I said I'd stop writing Marianna here, but she's too amazing to just quit writing her here and the brainrot's stronger, lol.

English isn't my first language, so please forgive any typos/grammar mistakes I may make.

To read more of Ernest and Marianna's journey, click here!

Check out my masterlist for more!

Summary: Ernest and Marianna share a cozy and intimate moment

Word Count: 644

Category: Fluff

Rating: G

Book: Desire and Decorum

March, 1812

It was late night, and Ernest Sinclaire found himself in Marianna’s house once again. He had duties in London, and if he had endured them, it was to see her once the moon was out. After a passionate session, they got decent and Marianna prepared some tea before the man went back to his townhouse.

“What am I to you, sir?”

Ernest looked up, blinking, rather confused and drowsy. “Sorry?”

“I asked you what do I mean to you.”

“I… haven’t thought about it deeply. But… I know that I like being with you, and not just because of…” his ears flushed pink, but he carried on “but more than that. I like talking to you, listening to what you have to say…”

Marianna bit her lip “I feel the same. I can’t explain it, but… there’s something about you that keeps drawing me back to you.”

They both stood in silence, the theme on the conversation weighing heavily on them. It was clear that they were more than lovers, yet they weren’t in love with one another. Not at least on his part. It’d be more complicated for her than him. He wasn’t the first man of his station to marry someone like him. Indeed, the second wife of his ancestor, Walter Sinclaire, had married a woman of the night’s daughter who sold oranges for a living, and theirs had been a beautiful and tempestuous relationship that had led to the century-old tale of the duelling pistol hanging in Ledford Park.

He could see that she did not wish marriage. The way she shifted and acted when the word came out in her presence wasn’t difficult to miss for someone like him. He was used to lurk somewhere and observe and read the room, an underrated societal skill few used, desperate to shine in the scene. Many failed miserably, and it was quite pitiful to watch.

But somehow, Marianna always stole the spotlight. Despite being eleven years his elder, she looked like she was his age, maybe younger. Her fair skin shone brightly on the fireplace’s shadows, her golden locks now down and messy. The thin nightgown carved her perfectly plump figure, sign of years of work, children perhaps as well. He suddenly remembered his travels to Italy, and seeing the statues of Aphrodite and being mesmerised by the detail of the naked female body. It came to him that the same proportions had been given to Marianna: beautiful hip dips, her body being plump and soft like a pillow. Her face was earth-shatteringly striking: light blue like the Pacific Ocean, plump cheeks and mildly full lips with the perfect shape that drove him mad every time he kissed them. Her neck was elegant, and her collarbones had this effect on him that he couldn’t describe. She was too beautiful to work there, enduring blithering idiots and blind drunks who sought refuge from their wives. She was a work of art, and he wished he was blessed with the gift of art. He’d gladly paint her. The image sent heart flutters to his chest.

Getting close as she gathered her thoughts, he stroked her hair, smelling the jasmine and the hint of rosewater on it. Marianna softened at his touch, not daring to turn around and face the question in both their minds.

Playing with her hair, he created threads of golden hair, the colour of the sun, and set aside some stray hairs to kiss the nape of the neck “I may not have the word for it yet, but you mean more to me than the English language’s adjectives can provide. Know that. Always.”

Embracing, they observed how the sun slowly rose, and Ernest hoped that, whatever happened between one another, memories like these would prevail in both their memories.

[sapphoschoices]

Mr Sinclaire would do numbers on Tumblr, and I'm not joking he's literally so (unintentionally) funny

[princess-geek]

(Funny coincidence: A few days ago, I broke my plaster nutcracker. Unfortunately, I wasn't as lucky as Clara)

I am completely delighted with this story! And it's not just because it combines two stories that I love.

You mixed the two plots very well. King Rat aka Duke Richards was brilliant!

I can't stop thinking about our prince!

Great job and thank you for sharing with us, dear @ladylamrian!

Female Main Character: Clara (Desire & Decorum)

Pairing: F!MC × Ernest Sinclaire

Summary: A Winter Fairytale AU - Young Clara receives from her father a nutcracker as a gift.

Word Count: 4K words

Rating: General (Fluff, Fairytale AU, Christmas)

Warnings: none (just ugly Richard much uglier)

-> My complete Desire & Decorum Masterlist <-

Desire & Decorum Fanfiction Taglist: @bri1234 ; @tessa-liam ; @princess-geek ; @gmsrrn98 and whoever wants to join... @choicesficwriterscreations ; @choicesdecember2024 [Christmas ; ...] & @choicesjanuary2025 [Light ; Joy ; Connection ; New Love]

Comments via Reblog wholeheartedly welcome

Author's note: Inspired by the Ballett & Fairytale called "The Nutcracker" where the heroine has the same name like my Desire & Decorum Main Character, Clara.

In this magical rewrite and retelling, Clara, a young girl with a kind heart, gazed in wonder at her new Nutcracker toy gifted by her father, Vincent, the Viscount of Edgewater.

"Oh, my Nutcracker, you're so handsome!", the girl praised as she held her wooden toy in her hands which looked almost like a human.

"Clara, dear! Clara!!"

The girl heard the grandmother call out from downstairs, so she immediately placed the wooden figure on her bed sheet, left her chambers, and hurried toward the calling woman.

After helping her grandmother, the young girl returned to her chambers only to find her younger brother, Harry, next to her broken toy. The figure lying on the floor with a missing arm.

"Oh no, my nutcracker!! What have you done?", she panicked and quickly grabbed the wooden figure from the floor. Then she picked up the missing toy arm which she found from under her bed.

"I only wanted to play with this soldier but it broke so easily. That's a dumb toy."

"Hey, don't say that about Father's gift. And that's my Nutcracker and not yours. Go and play with Edmund.", she scolded, wanting him to leave.

"Hey children, why the shouting? What happened.", a gentle voice called out. It was Viscount Vincent, the father of the children.

"Father, Harry broke my nutcracker!", little Clara sobbed and pointed at her sibling. Harry tried to avoid his father's gaze as he spoke.

"I'm sorry, father. I was just playing, and it happened by accident."

And then the boy left, leaving his sister alone with the father. The viscount discovered his daughter's sadness which broke his heart. How happy he made her with just a simple toy.

"My darling dear, please don't cry. I promise to fix your toy."

"You would do that, father?", she asked as she slowly calmed herself down.

"Anything for my Clara.", Vincent softly whispered before planting a gentle kiss on his daughter's forehead. She was the only daughter and a father who would do anything for their baby girl. He carefully took her wooden toy and its dispatched arm.

"Thank you, father. You're the best."

"I just don't want to see you sad, my child. Especially not on Christmas Eve. I'll be right back."

Determined to help, the viscount left Clara's chambers with her toy in hand, ready to fix it. Despite the challenges, he successfully reattached the arm. After just half an hour, he returned the toy to Clara, looking as good as new.

"Yayy, my nutcracker got fixed. Thanks father.", she happily squeaked.

In the dead of night, after everyone else had retired, Clara decisively woke up in her chambers to check on her nutcracker. She confidently reached for the cupboard next to her bed as the clock struck midnight. In an instant, hordes of mice flooded the room, and the walls, furniture, and everything surrounding her expanded to dizzying heights.

"Aaahh, what's happening?! Is everything growing or am I shrinking? Help!", she panicked.

Little Clara shrank into the size of a doll. The same size as her Nutcracker. She discovered her toy standing next to her with features like a real human. There was nothing wooden of him anymore. He looked more handsome and real. Light skin, chestnut curls, and stormy, blue eyes.

"Uhh, who are you?"

"Why your nutcracker, of course, milady. They also call me Ernest Sinclaire. And this gentleman is at your service now.", he spoke before raising her knuckles to plant a kiss on them which made the girl blush.

She found her nutcracker already beautiful as a toy, but now even more. Handsome, dashing, and those perfect manners. A man of her dreams.

"You're so kind. Dear Nutcracker,... I... I mean... Dear Mr. Sinclaire, were you always a nutcracker? How did this happen?"

"My Clara, it's only fair if you know the truth. I wasn't always a nutcracker, but a human like you. I got cursed."

"What?", she gasped and he nodded.

"Yes, cursed by no other but the evil Mouse King."

"Mouse King? And is there a way that your curse can be broken"

"Only by the sweetness of the Sugar Fairy."

"First a mouse and now a fairy? What does that mean?", the girl got confused than before.

"I sadly don't know either what the sweetness of the Sugar Fairy is or if she even exists, but that doesn't stop me from fighting. I won't give up that easily."

"Oh Ernest, your story is so sad. I wish I could help you."

"Clara, you helped me already. You're a wonderful girl and treat me perfectly. You don't see me as a toy but as a real human. Someone with real feelings. And thank you for stepping before. It kinda hurt when your brother was messing up with my arm.", he chuckled.

"Does your arm still hurt?" she whispered and gently stroked the injured part.

"Not when I have you, Clara. Besides, your father took great care of me. He's a good man who raised a beautiful girl."

"Oh, Ernest. You're...", she blushed.

"Yes, dear Clara?"

"Oh shut up, you're gorgeous. I like you being more human and real. You're so sweet, kind, and just perfect. You're the best gift I ever received. Even as a toy I love you."

"Clara darling, it fills my wooden heart to hear this. I wish I could spend more time with you in my human form and dance all night with you forever."

"Oh Ernest, why not dance now?"

Clara created delicate ballet movements that were pleasant to watch for Ernest. The movements of the feet were graceful, the movements of the arms and the fingers were very fluid, and the whole body got synchronized.

"Love, may I join for this dance?", he asked and extended his arm to her. She happily accepted and both started a powerful waltz. Everything around them faded away and they only focused on themselves and their dance.

"My beautiful... Clara, look out!!", her nutcracker panicked as their dance suddenly got interrupted by unwanted intruders.

"Ernest, what's happening?"

Clara was shocked and now found herself amid a battle between an army of gingerbread soldiers and the mice, led by their king.

She discovered her nutcracker shouting orders to the gingerbread men, who were joined by tin soldiers, and by dolls who served as doctors to carry away the wounded. The Mouse King returned. As the old, gray-haired being tried to advance on the nutcracker, Clara immediately threw her slipper at him to protect her nutcracker.

"Hey, you ugly rat!! Back off!!"

"Who dares to call me an ugly rat?!! The powerful Mouse King Richard!!", the almost human-like animal hissed at the girl.

"Leave Ernest and the toys alone!! Your army is hurting innocent people.", she dared to answer back while Mr. Sinclaire and the other toy soldiers were too busy fighting off some rats, Richard's minions. One of them was a light-gray human rat called Sir Gideon, who was now swordfighting with Clara's nutcracker, Ernest Sinclaire.

"My, my, what gorgeous piece do we have here? A pretty girl in my kingdom."

"Excuse me, I'm not a piece!!"

"That anger... How fierce! I like that. Why don't you join me, beautiful? I'm a King. Fight by my side and I'll make my Queen.", he spoke as he tried to move closer to her.

"Ewww, no thanks. I love Ernest Sinclaire and not you, old rat. Stay away from me."

"Nobody rejects me. And you...", Mouse King Richard got interrupted as he analyzed the battlefield.

Many of his minions sustained injuries and were defeated while the toys claimed victory in the battle. Unable to tolerate defeat, he issued a command to retreat, vowing to return and strike back harder. Mouse King Richard and Rat Sir Gideon escaped with a handful of their minions, fully intent on scheming for revenge and launching a powerful counterattack.

"Wohooo, Ernest!! They're gone. You defeated them!!", Clara cheered before running towards her soldier for a hug.

"My Clara darling, my love, are you alright? Did he hurt you? I'm so sorry I couldn't keep Richard away from you."

"It's alright, we're both safe now. Is your arm alright?", she wispered in worry.

"Well, I'm used to losing some parts of me while battling, and it doesn't hurt. But this time it feels strange. For the first time, I feel like I used to feel when I was human, Clara. That means the Sugar Fairy must be near."

"Then we have to find her to make you back human again. Does your arm hurt?"

"Manageable, Clara. But for keeping you safe, this pain is nothing to me."

"Then let's find the Sugar Fairy. Lead the way, my love."

Ernest confidently journeyed to the magnificent Land of Sweets alongside the girl. This vibrant realm was under the rule of the Sugar Fairy. The paths were adorned with colorful toffees, and towering lollipop trees captivated young Clara. They boldly crossed a candy cane bridge over the rich chocolate milk river. Energetic bees buzzed around, offering them delightful honey as they soared through the air. In this land, everything and everyone exuded a powerful sense of harmony and joy.

"It's like heaven here, Ernest."

"I was genuinely surprised to uncover this hidden world that embraced me. Nonetheless, I firmly miss the experience of being human again."

"Listen, you're still human with a heart of gold. You can feel happiness, pain, and love. Your mind is sharp and capable of strategy. While you may be made of wood at the moment, that doesn’t diminish your humanity. Together, we will break this curse."

As they stepped into the enchanting Land of Sweets, a vibrant kingdom ruled by the whimsical Sugar Fairy, they were greeted by an extraordinary assembly. Gingerbread soldiers, with their gleaming icing decorations and candy buttons, stood tall and proud. Colorful dolls with sparkling eyes danced joyfully, while fluffy teddy bears flanked them, their soft fur inviting hugs. All around, toys of every kind chimed and chimed with delight, their laughter ringing like bells in the air. The joyful procession celebrated the young couple's bravery, honoring them for vanquishing the wicked Mouse King, Richard, earlier that day.

"You were so heroic.", a ballet dancer sang as she twirled around them.

"Mister Sinclaire saved us again! How will we ever thank him?" Ginger, the teddy bear cheered.

"All hail, Mr. Sinclaire!!", the crowd joined.

"Who's the pretty girl with you, Mr. Sinclaire?" an elderly woman asked and winked at them. Everyone got curious too.

"Madam Tarte, may I introduce Clara? She's with me and together we are here to meet the Sugar Fairy."

"The Sugar Fairy? We have never seen her."

"To the Sugar Fairy? Mister Sinclaire, take my horses for the travel.", Mister Crumble offered.

Ernest, the nutcracker, gratefully accepted the warm words of encouragement and generous help from the villagers. In a display of kindness, they lent him two magnificent mares. Clara, with her spirited demeanor, perched elegantly on a chocolate-brown horse named Caramel, whose rich, glossy coat shimmered in the sun. Meanwhile, Ernest chose a striking white mare with delicate snowflake patterns dotting her fur. She was named Marzipan.

With a sense of adventure, they took off, riding swiftly through the meadows as if propelled by the very wind itself, their laughter echoing through the air. The journey led them to the enchanting crystal palace, where the fairy was said to reside. Upon their arrival, the pair dismounted and led their horses to a gentle stop, leaving them tied outside before stepping into the palace, ready to discover the magic within.

The walls of the palace were magnificently adorned with exquisite marble, showcasing intricate carvings that told stories of a bygone era. Each detail in the craftsmanship added to the grandeur of the surroundings. The floors, meticulously polished to a near-mirror finish, gleamed under the soft glow of the chandeliers, creating a mesmerizing reflection that enhanced the opulence of the space.

"So this where the good Sugar Fairy lives. It's beautiful.", Clara admired.

A cheerful gingerbread soldier adorned with colorful icing and a shiny candy button for a uniform greeted them with a warm smile, his sugary frame exuding a delightful aroma of cinnamon and spice.

"Greetings, I am Ernest Sinclaire, accompanied by Clara. We have journeyed a considerable distance to seek an audience with the esteemed Sugar Fairy. We hold a deep respect for her and sincerely believe that she possesses the power to assist us in lifting the curse that has been cast upon me. Would it be possible for us to visit her?"

"Greetings, Mr. Sinclaire. We have had the pleasure of hearing numerous accounts of your remarkable adventures throughout the land, particularly your courageous confrontations with the nefarious Mouse King. It is our honor to welcome esteemed heroes like yourself to our community."

"Thank you, Sir Luke."

"Regrettably, I am unable to assure you that you will have the opportunity to meet the Sugar Fairy today, or at any time in the future."

"Why is that?" the nutcracker asked with concern.

"I regret to inform you that the Sugar Fairy has been absent for an extended period and has yet to make her return," the soldier announced, eliciting a concerned reaction from the couple.

How can they possibly break the curse on Mr. Sinclaire now? The Sugar Fairy was their only hope, and the thought of him remaining a nutcracker forever was heartbreaking. He deserved the chance to be human again.

"I'll never return back into my human again."

"Please don't say that, Ernest. I know things feel overwhelming right now, but we will find a way through this together. Trust me, my love. I'm here for you," she said softly, wrapping her arms around him. He pulled her closer, seeking comfort, and she gently stroked his soft hair, hoping to calm his racing thoughts.

"Clara, I thought I'll be soon back human but..."

"I completely understand how you feel, my love. Believe me, I share those sentiments too. But please always remember that my love for you remains unwavering, whether you’re human or a nutcracker. You are, and always will be, my Ernest Sinclaire. My hero, my love, my everything. Your kindness, generosity, loyalty, and wonderful heart are what drew me to you, and I cherish that deeply."

"I truly love you too, Clara."

As she heard these little heartfelt words, an overwhelming warmth spread through the girl's heart. In that moment, she stood on her tiptoes, yearning to connect with him, and leaned in for a kiss. Their lips met in a tender, passionate embrace, a beautiful expression of their deep love. An experience that felt like the sweetest thing Ernest had ever tasted.

They found themselves surrounded by a radiant light that enveloped them with hope. It was a glow so captivating that toys from the nearby towns and villages rushed toward the mysterious source, eager to uncover the wonders that awaited them.

When Ernest Sinclaire slowly opened his blue eyes, he found that the girl before him had transformed. No longer was it just Clara, the girl he had known so well. Instead, it was Clara in a dazzling new form as the Sugar Fairy herself. Her brown hair shimmered like spun sugar, cascading down her shoulders in soft waves, and she wore a gown that sparkled with hues of pastel pink and blue. The air around her was sweet, filled with a hint of candy as she smiled down at him. Her radiance illuminating the room and filling Ernest with a sense of wonder and magic.

Clara of Edgewater stood enchanted. Her eyes wide with astonishment. She was dressed in a breathtaking gown. Its fabric shimmering like liquid silver as it cascaded down to the floor, each fold and flare danced gracefully with her every movement. The gown was adorned with tiny sequins that twinkled like stars, adding a touch of magic to her appearance. On her feet, she wore delicate ballet slippers, soft and pastel-hued, embellished with sparkling accents that caught the light with each step she took.

Perched atop her flowing hair was a radiant tiara, a masterpiece of artistry that sparkled with an array of precious gemstones. Each gem seemed to reflect its own story, glistening in hues of sapphire, ruby, and emerald, casting a gentle glow around her. Strikingly beautiful, she felt as if she had stepped straight out of a fairytale, transformed into a princess wrapped in elegance and grace. In that moment, she truly was a vision of purity and enchantment, completely bejeweled and captivating.

"Clara darling, you look like an angel."

The same radiant light enveloped the figure of Ernest Sinclaire, illuminating him in a warm glow. As the transformation began, the once solid wooden form gradually shifted, its hard exterior melting away into soft, supple skin. Flesh and blood filled out the structure, revealing a body full of life and vitality. Before anyone’s eyes, the inanimate wooden toy had transcended its limitations to become a fully realized human being. Indeed, he stood there as a true man, embodying the very essence of humanity as it was always intended to be.

"I'm... I'm back human. After all these times, I'm back in my own body and not a nutcracker anymore."

"Ernest, what happened? I don't understand. Just look at me... What is going on?" she begged for an explanation as she couldn't understand what just happened.

"All the time we were searching for the Sugar Fairy without knowing that you are the Sugar Fairy, Clara. You broke my curse and made me human again."

The enthusiastic crowd surged around them, their cheers rising to a deafening crescendo, echoing the excitement in the air.

"All hail Clara, the Sugar Fairy!!"

"No, that's impossible. I'm not the Sugar Fairy. I'm Clara, just an ordinary girl," she asserted firmly. The man gently placed his hands on her shoulders and looked deeply into her eyes.

"Dear Clara, I truly understand how difficult this is to accept. I felt the same way when I transformed from a human into a nutcracker and entered the Land of Sweets. Your sweetnes, your loving kiss was what broke the curse of the evil Mouse King Richard. It was only the sweetness of the Sugar Fairy that could accomplish this, which is why I believe you are the Sugar Fairy. You have given me the gift of humanity once again."

In a dazzling celebration that filled the air with sweetness, the young heroine was honored and formally welcomed as the Sugar Fairy. The festivities featured an impressive array of delectable treats from around the globe, each one more inviting than the last. Velvety chocolate from Switzerland, with its rich, creamy texture. Spiced gingerbread from Germany, bursting with warm flavors. Fragrant coffee from Arabia, with its enticing aroma. Delicate tea from China served in vibrant porcelain cups. And colorful candy canes from Russia, gleaming under the twinkling lights, were all beautifully displayed.

As laughter echoed throughout the Land of Sweets, the toys danced joyfully and captivated the crowd with their spirited performances. The atmosphere was electric with joy and happiness.

As the dawn approached, it was time for Clara to awaken soon. The night was coming to an end. Mister Sinclaire bowed to her respectfully and kissed her goodbye.

"Ernest!" she shouted, her voice breaking the tranquility of the early morning. Clara’s eyes fluttered open to find the golden sunlight streaming through her window, painting a warm glow across her room. The gentle rays danced on the walls, illuminating the delicate patterns of the wallpaper. Snuggled comfortably in her soft, plush blankets, she felt cocooned against the cold of the winter morning. She lay nestled in her cozy bed, surrounded by the familiar comforts of her chambers, momentarily lost in the peacefulness before the day began.

All the memories of Ernest, the Land of Sweets, the Mouse King, and the Sugar Fairy were still fresh in her mind, which she couldn't forget or shake away that easily. It felt so real. Was it all a dream, or did it happen? The only way to find out...

The girl swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet brushing against the cool wooden floor. She glanced around her room, eyes scanning every corner in search of clues. Clenching her fists, she imagined what she might find a glimmering piece of candy cane or perhaps a fragrant piece of gingerbread. Her mind even wandered to the thought of an ugly rat with a tiny crown.

"Wait a second, where is the nutcracker which father gifted me yesterday on Christmas Eve?", she thought loud as she discovered that her toy was missing. It wasn't lying in the cupboard at her bedside anymore, which made her panic.

"No, no, it can't be... There must be a logical explanation. I bet Harry took my Nutcracker again. That boy..." she groaned and rushed downstairs. As she entered the main hall, she began shouting.

"Harry, come here!! Where is my nutcracker?!!"

"Are you searching for me?", someone chuckled which surprised her.

It was a young man who entered the parlour with Clara's father, Vincent, as their new guest. He was good-looking, tall, with curly brown hair, gray-blue eyes, and fair skin. He wore a white shirt with a scarf wrapped around his neck, a beige vest, and a navy blue jacket paired with brown trousers. A smile spread across his face as he noticed the girl.

"Ernest?" she whispered with surprise.

The handsome man she danced with last night in Nutcracker form was now standing in front of her, alive. Maybe it wasn't a dream after all? Or was it just a coincidence? But where was her Nutcracker then?

"Sugar Fairy.", the man whispered to her and winked which made her blush. Maybe the adventures of last night did happen. She would happily trade her toy for the dashing man in front of her.

"I hope you don't mind having a guest with us tonight, Clara.", Viscount Vincent suggested, which the girl didn't mind at all.

The entire family gathered around the beautifully adorned Christmas tree. The warm glow of the lights cast a festive ambiance in the room. They savored a traditional meal together, filling the air with the tempting aromas of roasted meats and seasonal dishes. At the table sat Father, whose jovial laughter rang out. Grandmother, with her wise and twinkling eyes. Harry, who eagerly shared stories with Edmund. Clara secretly stole glances with the special guest, who added an extra touch of joy to the occasion. It was a moment of togetherness, warmth, and cherished memories.

"Soooo... Do we know each other?" she dared to ask without letting anyone notice their interactions.

"You might know me already, Clara. I hope you're not sad that you don't have a nutcracker anymore."

"This Sugar Fairy rather wants to have you, my hero. Now Mouse King Richard won't stand a single chance against my man.", she confessed as their hands met under the dining table.

[choicesficwriterscreations]

February Creator of the Month: Noesapphic

Each month, CFWC highlights one of our talented fanfic writers or artists, and this month’s creator of the month is the lovely @noesapphic!   The writer is selected at random. More info can be found on the navigation page. Past COTM's can be found here.

Quick Links:

Tumblr Blog Masterlist

How do you want to be known on Tumblr? 

Noe is fine, really!

More below...

1- When did you start playing Choices? What was the first book you played? 

I started in 2018. I was bored in a friend's house and fighting good old insomnia when I saw the app and tried it for funsies. The first book was 'High School Story'. 

2- When and why did you join Choices fandom?

I joined around late 2018 early 2019 and I had just left my community in Amino because the admin had gone full puritanical dictator and I was curious about Tumblr.

3- How did you pick your blog name? 

It was simple: my nickname is Noe and I am a sapphic (aka lesbian). It's a no-brainer, really. 

4- Pull up the first post in your archive, and tell us about it!  

It was a reblogged quote. I related to what it said and I reblogged it 

5- Do you write fanfiction, create fan art, or are you one of those really gifted people who do both? 

I write fanfiction. God did not grant me art skills I'm afraid. My fingers are too fat and my pulse is terrible. 

6- How long have you been creating for Choices and for any other fandoms?

I've been creating for fandoms as long as I can remember. I've had a really troubled life, so creating stuff helped me. As for Choices, I've been creating stuff since 2019 

7- What is your favorite Choices book, and what is your favorite Choices book to create for?

Without a doubt, Desire and Decorum. The first book is simply a masterlist and its characters are so well-written, and everything about it just draws me to it. They definitely botched the other books, but it will always be in my heart. I also enjoy creating for other historical books and books that have similar themes 

8- Share your first Choices fanfic or fan art that you posted with us. Do you still like it, or would you change it if you were creating it today?

It was a set of headcanons of Mr. Sinclaire and my MC, Celestine, finding out that they're going to be parents. While my spelling is terrible, I wouldn't change a thing. The engagement I received was such, it drove me to write for more. I haven't stopped creating since. 

9- What your favorite piece of fiction or art that you created? 

It's no secret for anyone who pays attention to my blog: my au, The Cursed Heiress, is probably my best creation. It's complex and a juggernaut of lore and history, and has all I've ever wanted in a fic and book in it. Although a close second is my Tudor AU, For Love and Duty. I simply love the 'arranged marriage' trope 

10- Do you have a fic/art that you didn’t expect to be well received, but it was? What about one you expected to do well but found it could use a little more love?

The second part of a one shot, A True Man, was probably one of the most difficult to write, and with a very traumatising and important theme. I was 100% hoping anon hate telling me to delete it, but found instead that the people ate it up! It has now 30 notes (which is A LOT for a small fandom like the D&D one) and now that I reread it, I'm proud of what I created and the message I wanted to send, which resonates with happenings of my past and experiences. 

11 - If you could write only angst, fluff, or smut for the rest of your writing life, which would it be and why? 

Definitely angst. There's something so cathartic and relieving as letting out those emotions you can't express out loud without being locked up for being unhinged, and it has helped me understand myself many times. Also, smut is def something that I can't physically write 😅 

12 - Do you ever recognize yourself in any of your MCs or in your writing?

There are small parts of me in every MC. A fragment of my past. Something of their lore that I went through. Something I aspire to be. Something I wanted to be once. I like to think that every writer leaves a part of their heart and soul with each character they create. 

13 - What element of writing/art do you struggle with most?

Ooof, where to begin. I think the hardest part is to just write. I can go on for weeks looking at my turned-off laptop and goof off on Tumblr. But when I do write, the 'boring' parts or writing a character that I am not familiar with or that there isn't much info about can be challenging. 

14 - Do you have any neglected work you really want to finish?

Oof, where to begin, lol. My modern AUs, The Viscountess and Plan B. There's also Your Most Ardent Admirer and For Love and Duty. There's the fix-it fic series of the Blades LIs. Profiles of my MCs from several series. And also fic ideas that I want to create, but don't know where or how to start it. Woe is me indeed 😭 

15 - If someone you know in real life (who isn’t involved in fandoms) asked to see your work, would you let them? If yes, what would you show them first? 

Depends on the person. I would be very, very picky. I did show some parts of The Cursed Heiress to two trusted friends. But I wouldn't be against showing my mom a few chapters of The Viscountess… Unfortunately, she does not speak a word of English and I am terrible at translations, so it's wishful thinking, lol. 

16 - Are there any writers (published authors and/or fanfic writers) who influenced your writing or art? Are there any artists that influence you?

For the published ones, Holly Black and Cassandra Clare have probably been my biggest help. Leigh Bardugo is also a newer inspo, and Spanish author Laura Gallego got me into fantasy, and anonymous author Bebi Fernández's raw and brutal prose have helped me find my voice. I have now bought George R.R Martin's Game of Thrones, looking for new sources to grasp. 

As for fandom-wise, the very first writer to inspire me unfortunately hasn't been active since the pandemic, and despite our differences, @hellospunkiebrewster 's writing and essays got me into Regency and its history. My thriving years were by her side, and I'm grateful of having had a great fandom friend and hyper. The most recent ones are @missameliep my amazing fandom mom (te quiero mami 🥰) and some pieces by @princess-geek 's writing have inspired me to expand my horizon. 

17- Which one of your stories would you most like to see as a movie/series? 

The Cursed Heiress, definitely. I think that my messages would resonate with many people. There's also The Viscountess: many people should see the messages Nicole, Anne and others have, and for what I have planned (and have been stalling out of laziness 🫣) would put things into perspective for many minorities and certain groups that are neglected by society and governments alike.  19- Do you write original fiction or create non-fandom art? 

I am now at the outlining stages of making The Cursed Heiress an original novel. I tried many times to make my own novel, but always dropped it. But now that I've been for years with it, I feel like this might be the one project I dreamed of publishing one day. It's tough and scary, but I'm loving the ride so far. 

Also, I have tried my hand with poetry, but it didn't have engagement and felt like talking to a wall, so I now feel discouraged. But if someone out there is interested, lmk 👀 

20-  What other hobbies do you have?

Apart from literature, I love make-up, skincare, cooking and making gifs and videoedits. I also love travelling and discovering new adventures and learning as many languages as I am capable. I also love listening to music. Basically anything that has to do with the humanities and art, I'll take it. Also, I am very invested in modern royal gossip. I know, not very republican of me… 🫣😅 

21 - What’s your favorite emoji? 

Apparently, the one I use the most is 🫡🫶🏻👀. Heh, sounds like me, lol 

22: BONUS - tell us anything you’d like (if you want to).

____

Two reminders to both creators and onlookers alike: 

Creators: making content is NOT a race or a chore. It's something you make just because, and share it with the world. If you don't enjoy it, it's not worth the effort. 

Onlookers: I know how much you may love X thing, but remember that behind that art, fic, etc, there's a person with real feelings, real life and that is taking off free time to make something. Enjoy it, reblog it (please, reblog the stuff you love) and if you don't like it, filter the tag, block and move on. It's really that simple. 

Also, happy Valentine's Day AND Black History Month to the black creators of Choices! You're awesome and we love you ❤ sending you love 🥰 

[choicesmc]

Leanne “Annie” Sinclair

Tisn’t beauty, so to speak, nor good talk necessarily. It’s just it. - Rudyard Kipling, Mrs Bathurst

made using: [Girl Maker] by @/ummmmandy

banner by @\sweetmelodygraphics from [this] post

So, upon reflection, I’m headcannoning that Gigi comes from a socialite family. The picrew above is of her mother in her prime. To me, it puts Gigi’s hyper awareness of both wealthy and celebrity figures in an interesting perspective. Rather than just being a quirk of her being online, this would reframe her interest in these figures as a result of her upbringing as well as an online quirk of hers.

In specific, I headcannon that the Sinclair family is the same one as Ernest Sinclair from Desire and Decorum… but six generations (and several branches) removed. Leanne turned their modest inheritance into a sizable social empire though her influence has begun to wane with the new age.

[depressedchoices]

I am replaying desire and decorum again, and is it just me or did they put way too much effort into Mr. Sinclair(I mean this in a positive way) like the way he just ARREGHH!!! the house party he hosted and just couldn’t keep his eyes off me until the other woman had to YELL his name!!! TF

HE LIKES ME ! HE LIKES ME!! (and im trying to romance prince Hamid too 😞 i like Hamid but the TENSION 🥵 between Sinclair & I is just 💦💦💦)

[princess-geek]

🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰

Mr. Sinclaire, my hero ❤️

[princess-geek]

Mr Sinclaire x Lady Beatrice Foredale

by @ladylamrian

[missameliep]

🎂 🫶🏻

Thank you for your ask, my dear, and for your support and friendship! 😊

Here's a moodboard for a Desire & Decorum AU inspired by your detective Hayley Parker. I hope you like it (and the actual fic when I post later)

Summary: Ernest Sinclaire inherited his father’s little bookshop at London and, for the last decade, is used to the uneventful routine of a shopkeeper until a mysterious woman walks in and changes everything.

If we're mutuals, send me an ask!

[bri1234]

Just ended Desire & Decorum 2. I would like to announce being officially engaged to Mr. Sinclaire ❤️🌹

But what shocks me... Who is that mysterious stranger? Supposed to be dead according Henrietta??? Don't tell me it's my brother, Harry 🥺🥹 I always wanted to have a brother

Ahhhh omg I can’t wait for you to find out!!!

Honestly I think the 3rd book might be my favorite because MC can finally be with their LI lol

Let me know what you think as you get farther into book 3!! 😊

[princess-geek]

This one has a very special place on my heart <3

Today’s attempt to art is dedicated to the wonderful @princess-geek. Thank you for always being there. Your friendship means a lot to me 💖

Sorry it only kind of looks like Ernest Sinclaire... I tried! 🙈

[rosesnink]

Mad Love

Author's Notes

During the holidays, Thia @oh-so-youre-a-nerd and I made a content trade and today I sent the final product to them and wanted to share it with y'all! Read the warnings and tags just in case, though.

English is not my first language, so please forgive any typos and grammar mistakes

Check out Thia's amazing art here!

Summary: Mr. Sinclaire and Tulsi share a sizzling moment in the carriage (based on b1 chapter 8's event)

Word Count: 1.1k

Category: Pining, historical, slowburn

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Mr. Sinclaire x MC (Tulsi)

Book: Desire and Decorum

The couple ran towards the carriage, the rain turning into a full-blown storm. Mr. Sinclaire dragged Lady Tulsi as far as he could, considering how small she was. At last, he spotted one and shouted “Sir! Sir? The lady needs to go to Grosvenor Square! I can pay!”

The driver, not denying himself good coin, ushered the couple inside and after clarifying the destination, started driving towards the luxurious neighbourhood. Still panting from the exercise and the events of the bridge, Mr. Sinclaire took a breath. He looked at Lady Tulsi, who somehow managed to look beautiful despite being soaked through and panting from such an effort.

He would’ve offered his coat as a relief, but he was as soaked as she was. The last thing he needed was to worsen still her condition. Regaining her breath, she looked at him, and by God, was she beautiful: with her rich brown skin, and her fiery red hair, as red as the end of the flames in the fireplace back at his house.

“That took… a turn.”

“I-it did.”

He couldn’t help being nervous around her. They were soaked, the dress’ fabric was feeble and one could see a glimpse of what it hid. He could see a glimpse of her chemise, which hugged her figure perfectly, allowing him to see certain curves that a man ought not to. Swallowing hard, he looked away. It was improper to gaze upon an earl’s daughter in such a way. Had he not been soaked as well, he would’ve offered his jacket without hesitation.

“Did you mean it?” Tulsi asked “when you said…”

“Of course I did, my lady. With my heart on a fist.”

Her enchanting brown eyes gazed at him intensely, and he gulped, his heart beating impossibly fast. He liked to think that the thrill on his body was due to the cold rather than Tulsi’s effect on him. Not tearing his gaze, he brushed away a strand hair from her face “There’s something about you, Lady Tulsi… The way you challenge me, fuddle me, the way you talk, that beautiful smile that makes my head spin… I can’t have enough, I crave more, I crave—,” He stopped short, swallowing hard. If he continued, he might regret it later. Or not. He did not know which one was worse.

Tulsi leaned in his direction, and he sucked up his breath “Crave what, Mr. Sinclaire?”

He fought against his best senses, but his eyes nevertheless landed on her lips: a dark pink with pink rogue and probably tasted of roses. The thought made his heart beat even faster, and before he could even think of it, he was leaning towards her as well “Can’t you tell, my Tulsi?”

Her hands were on his chest, drawing small and sizzling circles on his damp clothes, and his whole body felt like he was on fire. Her hands were surely smooth, as smooth as a baby’s skin, and warm. Her hands then went up to his upper chest, where he was sure she felt his heartbeat. His body responded by leaning dangerously closer to her, and her hands were then on his shoulders. Against his best senses, his hand went to her untamed red hair, and the other to her gorgeous blue dress, returning the favour. A throaty hum came out of her, which encouraged him to carry on. They flushed their chests together, the damp clothes giving the other a forbidden glimpse of one another. His hands at last found at last her hair, and buried his fingers in its scalp. It was smooth, like touching the finest silk. His other hand found the small of her back, and her body was probably as warm as his own. Her hands then found his jaw, which she traced, and he had to bite back certain noises coming from his throat. He shuddered from pleasure when her fingers found his lips, tracing them, and he nearly ended such torture. He kissed the tip of her finger, and his eyes found hers. They were blown with wanting and yearning, as surely his were, her cheeks warm and her mouth open in a small ‘o’, much like himself. He worked the courage to break the embrace when the carriage passed over a pebble, and both tumbled to the floor, Tulsi on top of him.

Her face was now only a few inches away from him, and Tulsi murmured something. His hands were now on her waist, and felt every inch of her, and her of him. He could not speak, he could barely breathe or move. This position was all too perfect, the woman he had always dreamt of having at his entire mercy, and nothing but a dark carriage all for themselves.

“Will you look at that, Mr. Sinclaire,” mused Tulsi “it seems we have some sort of habit on tumbling onto one another. What will you do now?”

He took a deep breath “I—I don’t… mean to take such liberties with you, my lady?”

She purred sensually in his ear “But what if they’re eagerly given, sir?”

His whole body tensed of anticipation, wanting nothing to end such torture and kiss her until he could no longer remember his own name. Her hand traced his cheeks, drawing their bodies impossibly close, a small, throaty moan coming out of him.

“Don’t, Tulsi.” He whispered.

“Whyever not?”

“Because if we start now, I won’t stop myself from doing… things a gentleman ought not to do to a lady.”

“I don’t wish to be a lady right now.”

By God, she was an expert at driving him mad, was she not? Many sinful thoughts once again raced in his mind, many terrible ones a gentleman ought not to think. If he could, he’d give himself to her, allow her to make him hers, and hers alone. What an incredible feeling that must be, to have Tulsi claim him as he so badly wanted her to.

But the rumours of her came back. He’d only make them true, and Edgewater would sink. Mustering an Herculean effort, he got up, not daring to touch her, for if he did, he’d be back to the limbo where only he and Tulsi would ever exist. Her untamed red hair, her warm brown skin, her full lips, her intoxicating warm body…

He cleared his throat as the driver pulled to her destination. He helped her out and kissed her hand. Suddenly, her lips were on his cheek, and he inhaled sharply “Good night, sir. Let’s do this again sometime.”

If such thing happened, he would surely die of heart palpitations. Coming back onto the carriage, composing himself, indicated the driver to take him home, a few neighbourhoods away from hers.

If it wasn’t clear how maddening his affections for her were then, now all doubts had been cleared in a few minutes.