hi!! i'm theo/maple, a beginner writer and this is going to be my writing and fanfic blog, specifically imagines and reader inserts! i'm new to this kind of thing so go easy on me <3
Kinktober '25 Week One: Bondage and Overstimulation with Cook
James Cook x Fem!Reader
Kinktober Masterlist
Summary: Cook's been trying to get in your pants for years. One night, you finally decide to indulge him, but only on your terms. // Tying Cook up and making him cum so much he's reduced to a pathetic, whimpering mess.
WC: 3.9k
Warnings/Tags: MDNI 18+ ONLY. University AU (none of the bad stuff from S4 happened). Mentions of Drinking and Drugs. Bondage with Rope (m!receiving). Marks from Rope. Blowjob. Biting. Multiple Orgasms. Overstimulation (m!receiving). Unprotected P in V. Cowgirl.
Kinktober Tags: @sexy-monster-fucker @doevampiress @catclaw1
Cook pic credit to @scrprints
The music is deafeningly loud, techno beats pulsing through the rooms of your friend's flat. There's a swarm of sweaty bodies, filling and weaving through each room of the first floor. Dancing and grinding on each other, drugs coursing through their bodies with pungently strong drinks in hand.
Your friend Naomi is amongst the crowd somewhere, no doubt as fucked up as the rest and too far gone to care about the mess that'll be left to clean up in the morning. She figured what better way to celebrate the end of our first year at Uni than with a killer house party.
You're stationed in the main hallway, leaning against the stair railings as you nurse a drink and watch the night unfold. You have other plans in mind, plans that don't involve getting too wasted to remember anything in the morning. Plans that involve a certain cocky but devastatingly charming guy who's been trying to work his way into your pants for years.
You've denied him, over and over again. He's always either too drunk or too willing to fuck whoever to fill the gap inside him, and at one point looking for any body to use to get over Effy. But that's in the past now, things have changed since then. He's still promiscuous and reckless in his signature Cook ways, but a little more stable and level-headed.
And despite your repeated denials, you've always wanted him. Always wondered what it would be like, what he would feel like. You've spent just enough time wondering and are itching to finally take him up on it.
Just when you start to get restless, you spot him. Weaving through the small sea of bodies toward the hallway, his grin settles into a soft smirk when he sees you. Your name slips from his tongue, tinged with amusement, while his blue eyes glimmer.
"What's wrong, love? Don't wanna join in on the fun?" He questions, shoulder leaning against the railing next to yours.
"Nah." You swirl the largely untouched drink in your hand, eyes flickering over the party goers before settling on him. "Guess I'm in the mood for a different kind of fun tonight."
The insinuation hands heavy in the air with a smile tugging at the side of your mouth, just as your breaths grow a fraction heavier with anticipation. You take in the way his expression falters for a split second, brows raising above wide eyes before the bravado takes over.
"Different kind of fun, eh?" He steps closer, crowding into your space. "So what, tonight finally gonna be the night you let me into your knickers?"
Your head falls back with a airy chuckle and he eats it up, only emboldening his eagerness. He watches, transfixed, as your tongue darts out to swipe along your bottom lip.
"Maybe." The murmur slips out just as you turn to face him fully, your free hand reaching out to trace along the stretched collar of his shirt.
Only a few mere inches separate your bodies, the air hanging between thick and electric, charged with barely restrained lustful energy.
"But we're doing it my way, or we're not doing it at all." You state simply with a flutter of your eyelashes, enjoying the visible effect it has on his disposition, wavering from confident and cocky to amped and yearning.
"Whatever you want, princess." Cook's gaze slips down to your lips, a hand reaching out to rest on the curve of your hip.
Just as he leans closer, your face turns and makes his lips collide along your jawline as your hand drops to his, removing it from your hip and threading your fingers through his. The small sound of disappointment that falls from his lips sends a thrill through you, heightening with every step as you turn away, using your joined hands to lead him with you.
Your cups are discarded on the hallway table before he trails behind, eyes locked onto every movement when you guide him upstairs. There's already an ache building in his jeans, the pounding of his heart echoing in his ears with each step to the second floor.
The guest bedroom Naomi lets you crash in on occasion sits empty and waiting. Once the door closes, cutting the two of you off from the party still raging downstairs, he's on you. Body, hands, and mouth. Pulling you flush against him, Cook's lips crash against yours as his hands explore your curves, the touch hungry and greedy.
You melt at his touch, fingers sliding into his short strands of hair as you return the kiss with just as much eagerness. The heat between your bodies is palpable, blazing from more than just the warmth of the flat. His hands coax soft moans from you that he readily swallows, dipping under your clothes to feel your bare skin against his.
The next few seconds are a flurry of moans and clothes, hastily yanked off and discarded on the floor until nothing separates your warm, naked bodies from each other.
"Fuck, you're gorgeous." The breathy groan meets your ears just as his mouth dips to your neck, covering the sensitive skin in a collage of wet, open-mouthed kisses.
You can feel his body steering yours back toward the bed, taking control like he usually does. But not tonight. Just as the back of your calves hit the edge of the mattress, you spin your bodies around, falling on top of him as his back hits the sheets.
"I wanna try something." You softly proposition, beckoning his face to fall back from your neck to meet your gaze.
"Okay." He readily nods, chest heaving with heavy breaths and arousal, hard and throbbing between your thighs.
A smirk, calculating and scheming, curls along your mouth before you lean over the edge of the bed, hand fishing around in the overnight bag you left there for the familiar fibrous material. As you straighten back up, straddling his waist and dangling the rope from your fingers, Cook's eyes widen. There's a twitch in his hands, fingers digging a fraction deeper onto your hips.
"Fuckin' hell." The words come out in a rushed exhale. "Ya gonna tie me up or somethin'?"
"Mhmm. Got a problem with that?" You question, cocking an eyebrow and waiting expectantly for the answer you know will come.
"Well, shit… " Your eyes watch the gulp slide down his throat, Adam's apple bobbing with it. "Go on then, I guess."
The excitement radiating off of you is palpable, wary eyes watching as you lift his arms above his head and fasten the rope around his wrists, tying them to the poles lining the headboard with a tight knot.
"Better not leave me like this." The warning is a soft mumble, reflecting an unease that comes with the foreignness of being restrained mixed with his usual humor.
The material digs into skin with a flex of his wrists, testing their hold and finding little give.
"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it." There's a hint of sarcasm in your tone that makes him question whether this is some twisted trick, before your lips slot between his again.
Soft and leisurely. A stark contrast to the frenzied movements just moments prior. You've got him right where you want him, and you intend to take your time. To get him riled up, begging and aching for more.
Cook lets himself relax slightly at your touch, the glide of your hard nipples against his chest, your kiss slow and passionate but just as charged with hunger as his hard length nestles between your parted lips.
A heavy breath leaves his lips as you part from them only to begin exploring the bare expanse of his skin. Your kisses trail down his neck, over his chest, down his stomach that quivers under the touch, along the prominent v lining his hips until your mouth hovers over his cock, jerking at the feeling of your warm breaths fanning over the sensitive skin.
Your tongue slips out and with your eyes locked onto his, slowly licks from the base to the tip, flicking against the cleft of his engorged head. Soft groans leave Cook's mouth as you continue to lick over every inch of his shaft almost teasingly, giving him only a fraction of the pleasure your mouth holds.
The salty musk of him spreads, skin pulsing against your tongue before it swirls around the tip, collecting the beads of pre-cum that leak from it.
The action earns a shudder that runs through his body, pulling his rasping voice with it. "Yeah, tha's it."
"Ya like that?" A hand curls around his shaft, holding him steady as your tongue circles the head before wrapping your lips around it and gently sucking, as if savoring the flavor of a lollipop.
His eyes flutter and nearly roll to the back of his head, lips parted for a breathy moan to freely slip through before his teeth dig into the bottom one.
With a moan, your lips slide further down, letting his dick sink deeper into the warm, wet expanse of your mouth at a pain-staking, leisurely pace. The muscles in his thighs flex and twitch under your arms that pin them to the bed, fighting the urge to drive himself deeper into your mouth with a rock of his hips.
Once your lips meet the base of his cock, tip hitting the back of your throat, nose brushing against the batch of hair at the bottom, he exhales sharply with a deep groan.
"Fuuuuck, yeah." His half-lidded eyes watch as your lips glide back up to the tip, just as slowly as they sank down, swirling your tongue around the head. "Feels so good."
You set a steady pace, one hand joining your lips to work up and down his length, tongue wiggling against the underside of his shaft to make his breaths stutter. It takes everything in him to keep his eyes open and fixed on you. On the way your lips stretch around his girth, your own eyes gazing back up at him, the arch of your back that pushes your ass into the air.
The sight alone makes his hands flex with the urge to grab you, to tangle his fingers in your hair as you suck him off, to squeeze the meat of your ass, and the fibers of the rope dig against his wrists in response.
The tight hold of the restraints lock him in place, stripping him of control and in turn, heightening the pleasure spreading through his body with each suck and press of your tongue. His body shivers with it as your movements gradually quicken, working him faster and taking him deeper, breaking the breaths and moans that fall from his lips.
As if knowing exactly what will make him unravel, your free hand shifts lower and cradles his balls against your palm, fingers curling around to gently squeeze, ripping a strained whimper right from his throat.
"Oh, God!" Cook pants, hips trying to jerk up against you in response. "Yeah, just like that!"
The pace grows relentless, your lips and hand moving in-sync to stroke and suck his throbbing cock with the desire to make him unravel taking over. Your moans vibrate through him, adding to the already overwhelming sensations that are sending him closer and closer to the edge.
You feel his balls tightening against your palm, his swollen tip twitching at the back of your throat, his moans growing higher-pitched and mimicking strained whines.
A choke and squeeze is all it takes to make him come undone. His entire body seizes before trembling under the weight of his climax, spurts of hot cum shooting out of his tip and down your throat. You moan at the feeling, watching his face twist in pleasure as you swallow every drop.
Only when his breaths begin to even and body goes pliant against the sheets do you pull your lips off his red cock, still hard and pulsing as it slaps against his stomach. Pure, electric hunger courses through your body, lips leaving a trail of soft, teasing kisses along his shaft before moving to adore the rest of his skin.
Your eyes flicker up to his before your teeth dig into the pale skin at his hip, hard enough to leave a mark and spur a twitch in his body. Cook inhales sharply at the feeling, only to hear your mischievous giggle before soft kisses sooth the sting and continue the path up his form.
A moan leaves his mouth when they meet yours, greedily returning the sloppy but passionate kiss as satisfaction and arousal tingle through his core. He flinches at the feeling of your warm and soaking wet folds gliding against his still aching cock.
The tip notches at your entrance and you barely give him anytime for the muffled "Wai-" against your lips before you're sinking down onto his shaft.
His limbs tense as he hisses through gritted teeth before it fades into a shuddering groan at the feeling of your tight, wet walls wrapping around his throbbing dick.
"What's wrong?" You ask almost smugly, pulling away from his lips and straightening up into a straddle, hands caressing down his chest.
"Fuck, me cock's still sensitive ya know."
"Awww, poor thing." Your lips purse with the coo before curling into a smirk. "You sayin' ya want me to stop?"
Your walls pulse, squeezing around his shaft to pull a throaty groan from his lips. A frantic shake of his head answers your question.
"That's what I thought." Your voice is laced with amusement as your smirk spreads into a satisfied smile.
Bracing your hands on his chest, your hips begin to rock back and forth. Grinding down onto him, his thick girth stretches your fluttering walls, toes curling at the feeling of the tip kissing your cervix. The patch of hair at the base of his dick tickles your clit and you let out a gasping moan at the mix of sensations.
"Shit." The groan shudders and rumbles from Cook's throat, eyes rolling back before his lids squeeze shut.
The feeling of you wrapped around his tender, throbbing cock is overwhelming. So warm. So wet. So tight. The hot burning from his wrists blends into the intense pleasure as they push against the rope with the impulse to find your hips, to dig his fingers into your soft flesh.
He exhales sharply in exasperation at the restricted movement, only to let his head fall back against the pillows when your pace picks up. Your hips rock faster, grinding down harder, chasing the pleasure of his shaft massaging that spongy spot along your walls and the friction against your clit.
"Fuck! You feel so good." Your words flow through a drawn-out moan, head momentarily tilting back as you lose yourself in the pleasure that spreads like a blazing electric current through your body.
The thumping bass of the music downstairs fades, drowned out by the chorus of moans and heavy pants that fall from your lips. The creaking of the bed frame, its legs scraping along the wood floors. The wet sound of your cunt sucking him in. The soft slap of your ass against his balls.
"Tha's it. Use me cock." He moans breathlessly, watching as you ride him like his dick is your own personal toy. He's more than happy for it to be, already feeling the pressure building in his balls again.
Unsure of what to focus on, his eyes flicker between your face twisted in bliss, the bounce of your breasts, and where your bodies connect, all while fighting the pull to shut them with each tantalizing roll of your hips.
His fingers twitch with the desire to grip onto your ass, the restlessness from the restraints turning him pathetic as whimpers begin to fall from his lips. Each squeeze of your heavenly walls around his shaft works him closer and closer to another climax.
The sight of him beneath you like this, bordering on desperate with the sweetest cries of rapture is nearly enough to make you cum right then and there. He's teetering there on the edge with you, the maddening frustration of his restraints only intensifying every sensation of your body with his.
"Oh, Ohh god I'm-" Cook's warning is broken by a downright filthy whine as another orgasm crashes over him, spurts of warm cum filling your pussy.
You drink it all in. His head tilting back, amplifying the bob of his Adam's apple. The flexing bulge of his biceps as his now-red wrists strain against the rope. The tight clench of his jaw, pale face now flush and beading with sweat. The trembling tenseness of his body beneath yours.
It's enough to send you over the edge with him, hips stuttering as the dam breaks and releases a flood of ecstasy to spread through your shaking limbs. The sharp drag of your nails against his chest is dull against the waves of pleasure passing through.
His moans shudder in time with the tight, spasming grip of your walls around him, chest heaving with each attempt to catch his fleeting breath.
When the tension leaves your limbs, cries fading into hums, you lean down to find his lips once more. Bodies still joined, his lips readily slot between yours in a series of slow, savoring kisses. Tongues slip out to trace the edges, relishing the feeling of each other as the glow of pleasure continues to buzz softly between you.
Cook hums low and deep even as his wrists begin to ache, cock still twitching inside you, your joined slick dripping out and down onto his balls. Your hand cradles the side of his face and he leans into the touch, skin hot against yours, fingers slipping into the damp hair at the back of his head.
Just when he thinks you're done and that the restraints will loosen, your hips rock again, slow and testing as your pussy squeezes around him. A strained sob sticks in his throat before a gasp, glassy eyes staring up at the ceiling as if asking for mercy.
"Tryin' to fuckin' kill me." His voice is wrecked and it only makes you clench around him again.
You've never seen anything hotter than the James Cook reduced to a ruined mess beneath you, and it only fuels the need to keep going, to push him to the limit. Your movement shifts from grinding to slowly dragging yourself up his length until just the tip remains inside, when he thinks you'll get off entirely and call it quits, only to slide back down inch by inch.
"No, baby." You brush off the accusation with a grin, reveling in his hitching breaths. "Just wanna drain you dry."
The seductive whisper against his ear sends a shiver down his spine that reverberates through his entire body, dick already rock hard again. The wetness between your joined cores is nearly obnoxious, slicking every torturously slow bounce of your cunt along his length.
The relaxed pace you've set is difficult enough to handle as is, but once you move faster, hips slapping down harder against him, he's fighting the impulse to come undone again right then and there.
"Fuck, it's too much-" Those pathetic cries fall from his lips again and hit your ears like beautifully depraved music, fueling your stride riding his cock. His red length is sore and fucked raw but your pussy keeps gripping him so tight with every plunge.
"Yeah? Then why are you still chasing my pussy, huh?" A scoffed laugh accompanies your words with the feeling of his hips rocking up to meet every bounce despite his protests.
He can't help himself, the line between pain and pleasure is blurred with his aching cock and your velvet walls. Even as his dick begrudgingly begs to be relieved from the pressure of your cunt and his wrists are covered in red marks that won't fade until morning, his hips still lift to meet and take everything you give him.
"Tell me to stop and I will." You offer, despite both of you knowing he won't say no. It hurts too good and his whimpers are the only sounds to answer you.
The bed springs creak, your breasts bounce, the loud slap of your ass against his tender balls echo throughout the room with every unforgiving bounce. The further Cook slips into his pathetic, pussy drunk state only heightens your pleasure, your own whimpers mixing with his to fill the bedroom.
His eyes are wet and glassy as they watch your every move, lips pouting and parted with ragged breaths with every nerve ending in his body is alight with buzzing electricity. Each glide of his girth along your walls feels like pure bliss flowing through your veins, like a high from one of the drugs he always has.
You're addicted, and each thrust brings you closer to that beautiful, earth-shattering climax. But you need to see him come undone again, and if his faltering thrusts and sharp whines are any hint, he's close.
"Come on, Cookie. Give me one more." Your sweet coaxing is all it takes for him to break with a guttural shout that tapers off into soft cries with another intense orgasm hitting him like a tidal wave.
"Oh god!" His dick jerks inside you with each stream of cum, balls drawn up tight against your ass with every last drop flooding your cunt.
With a scream of ecstasy, your climax joins his, walls squeezing rhythmically to drain him dry of every drop. Your body collapses on top of his, chests moving together with ragged, heavy breaths as you ride the waves of your highs together.
Only when your breaths begin to even out do you begin to litter the side of his flush face with sweet kisses, murmuring soft praises. "You did so good for me, Cookie."
"Jesus Christ." Is all he can manage with a sigh, feeling your hands slide up his arms until landing on the rope restraints.
After a few seconds, their hold on his tender wrists releases, relieving him of the stinging pain with an ache in his arms. They fall down to find a gentle hold on your body just as it lifts off his abused cock, making him hiss before your warmth settles into his side.
"Wasn't expectin' that outta ya." He comments, your giggle in response pulling a splitting smile across his face.
The party still raging downstairs is long forgotten and neither of you could care less about it as the heavy weight of bliss settles into your tired bodies. Sleep soon takes hold and you spend the remainder of the night tangled together in the guest bedroom.
Cook expects to still find you there at his side when his eyes open in the morning, only to be met with the warmth of you fading from the spot on the sheets next to him, now empty. Everyone else in the house is still passed out from last night festivities.
All he knows is that despite his usual endeavors being limited to meaningless one night stands, you're different. You've awoken something in him and he's hooked. Looking for you everywhere he goes, lingering by your side like a puppy any time you're at a gathering together, waiting for whenever you'll give him your intoxicating touch again.
attendee : @jimmys-tiara
showing : stalker!remmick x fem!reader
screening type : midnight matinee (rated E)
snack of choice : ice cream
genre : horror/stalker romance
directors notes the way i strayed so far away from the plot of twilight and just used its ideas very loosely, is criminal. this one is a darker fic. dead dove do not eat. so ofc proceed w caution, i'm leaning into the idea that remmick can have a sort of mind contol ability and that spit serves as an aphrodisiac. also contains some depictions of murder. be mindful and safe guys! first time writing a real dark fic so excuse my vagueness. kept it relatively short. literally pwp. last one-shot of my followers celebration, thank u guys for the support and all of the requests, i appreciate each and every one of u. hope i did this one justice lexi <333
🎬 SYNOPSIS
Under a near constant cover of clouds and rain, there’s a small town where the air hums with secrets—and you can almost feel something pacing quietly behind your shadow.
YOU’D BEEN FEELING IT FOR WEEKS NOW.
That strange heat in your veins that didn’t quite belong to you — like someone else’s pulse was running under your skin. A restless, crawling ache that came at the worst moments: when you were trying to sleep, when the grocery store fluorescents were buzzing above your head, when the water in the shower ran too hot and you caught yourself with your fingers pressed to your lips, breathing like you’d just been kissed.
Only… you hadn’t. Not in any way you could name.
It was a memory that felt too sharp to be imagined, a sensation that seemed older than your own thoughts.
You’d been trying to rationalize it, drag it into the realm of the explainable. Stress, you told yourself. The murders happening so close to town — the bodies torn open and left along the tree line, the police tape fluttering like fever-bright warning flags in the wind. Blood sprayed in arcs that stretched far beyond the reach of any animal’s feeding, painting the earth in patterns too precise, too deliberate. The kind of carnage only a human could create. Except… humans didn’t move like that. Didn’t cover that kind of distance. Maybe that’s why the unease had sunk so deep, settling into your bones until it rewrote the way your own body felt.
Maybe.
But then there were the other moments.
The ones that couldn’t be explained by fear alone. Those flickers of heat that came not with dread, but with want. The way your breath would catch when a shadow lingered too long across the street. How you’d sometimes swear there was a presence behind you on the walk home — not threatening, exactly, but watching. Waiting.
It was never close enough to see, but close enough that your skin would prickle and your heartbeat would trip over itself.
And deep down — shamefully, inexplicably — you never sped up your pace. Because some part of you wanted whatever it was to catch up.
Your unconscious state was no refuge — only another kind of captivity. Sleep pulled you under like deep water, and there it was again: the glint of blood slicking unfamiliar hands, the curve of a smile that lied to you in its softness. In one breath, it was human; in the next, it broke apart into something far older and merciless. Teeth — impossibly white, impossibly sharp — flashed in the dark, not the jagged chaos of an animal’s, but the perfect, deliberate razors of a predator who chose its prey.
All of those nerves, all of that suspicion, knotted together into one unshakable pull — a lure toward the dark spine of the woods. Flashes in dreams of your feet bare, mud clinging cold between your toes, skin prickling beneath the soft kiss of rain that chilled straight through to the bone. And yet you went, as if called. The memory of arms winding around you, the slow, inescapable drag of teeth grazing your throat, should have set you running. Instead, it washed over you like the tide, leaving you breathless. It was all so devastatingly… serene.
But when the sun rose — or rather, when the light tried to break through its near-constant shroud of rain and clouds — it was as if some invisible thread had slackened. The spell loosened. Clarity hit you hard, like a freight train, and your mind felt your own again. Fear retreated, not gone, but shifted to some far, quieter corner, patient enough to wait until the sun dipped low and shadows pooled at the edges of town.
It wasn’t constant in daylight. But it was always there. Waiting.
Right now, though—this was just careless.
Your father — a well-respected sheriff, the man leading the case on the string of killings — had warned you more than once to stay clear of the woods. He hadn’t raised his voice; he didn’t need to. His words had been heavy enough.
Don’t go near them. Not for a walk. Not for anything. You don’t know what’s lurking out there. Just…be careful, yeah?
But the treeline still called to you, even under the muted gold light that managed to push through the rain-heavy clouds. The air was damp and cool, scented with wet leaves and earth. You could almost convince yourself it was safe. Almost. Your shoes sank into the soft, dark ground as you stepped past the first line of trees. Not deep enough to lose sight of the fading light — not yet. But deep enough for the quiet to change, for the weight of the forest to press in on you. A hush that wasn’t empty, but listening.
It was a short trek. You’d stopped checking your watch a few minutes ago, convinced you still had time before the sky turned black and the forest claimed the light entirely.
That was before you heard the rustling.
It wasn’t loud — just a shift of weight through wet leaves — but it caught in your ears, made your breath hitch. You stilled, listening.
From between the trees, a deer stepped into view. Its coat was slick from the rain, ears twitching, dark eyes glinting with a faint wariness. It froze when it saw you, chest rising and falling, every muscle ready to bolt.
“Ya shouldn’t be out here.”
The voice came from behind you, quiet but certain.
You turned, pulse kicking hard — and there, a strange man appeared. Not pretenses, no footsteps, not even the sound of his breathing.
Remmick stood just beyond the nearest trunk, shadowed and still, rain beading on his dark hair, eyes fixed not on the deer… but on you.
He didn’t step back when the deer fled. If anything, he stepped closer — slow enough that you could almost convince yourself it was harmless, deliberate enough that every nerve in you knew better.
He shifted his weight like he’d just realized how close he was, then gave this small, crooked half-smile. “Uh… Remmick,” he offered, as if the name might smooth over the fact he’d just materialized out of the shadows. “I’ve seen you around town a couple times.”
There was something in the way he said it — almost hesitant, almost shy — like he was trying to make himself smaller.
“Y’know it ain’t safe out here, right?” he added, glancing toward the thickening dark between the trees. “String of murders going on… sheriff’s got half the county in a panic.” His tone carried the faintest note of concern, but his eyes lingered too long, tracing over you like he was committing the sight to memory.
The mention of your father had the hairs on the back of your neck stand in attention, a chill licked up your spine as his words echoed again,
Don’t go near them. Not for a walk. Not for anything. You don’t know what’s lurking out there.
You didn’t answer right away, visibly shaken, and that faint smile of his curled sharper at the edges.
“Skittish thing, isn’t it?” he murmured suddenly, motioning toward where the deer had stood moments ago. “Heart poundin’ so fast you can almost hear it. Always watchin’ for the wrong kind of company.”
You swallowed. “It’s just a deer.”
“Mm,” he said, like he wasn’t agreeing. Then he started moving — not closer at first, but around.
“They make the mistake of thinkin’ stillness will save them,” he went on, boots whispering over the damp leaves as he circled. “But stillness… just lets the predator decide how it wants to take ‘em.”
The space between you was shrinking with every pass he made, his voice slipping in from different angles as he rounded you. His gaze flicked briefly to your throat before rising to meet your eyes again, and the look there made it hard to breathe.
“And once they know they’re caught,” he murmured from just behind your shoulder, “they realize it ain’t the teeth they should’ve been afraid of.”
You felt him close the last inch like the forest itself was pushing you into him. “It’s the way,” he said softly, “the predator never lets go once it’s tasted them.”
You eased back a step, the damp leaves muffling the sound. Your hands found the edges of your jacket, zipping it higher like the motion alone could create more space between you and him.
“I should…” you began, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. You gestured vaguely toward the thinning trees ahead, where what was left of the light bled pale gold through the trunks. “It’s getting late.”
The forest seemed to press in tighter around you for a beat before he moved.
Something flickered across his face — not anger, not surprise, just a slow recalibration. The look in his eyes shuttered — not gone, just tucked away. Then his shoulders dropped, and he let out a breathy little laugh, rubbing the back of his neck like you’d caught him in something embarrassing.
“Right, my bad, darlin’” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “Didn’t mean to… spook ya or anything. Just—” He glanced toward the darkening stretch of woods over your shoulder. “Not exactly the kind of place you want to be when the sun’s down.”
It was the way he said it — like it was a courtesy, like he was looking out for you — that made your pulse pick up again.
You nodded, slow, and stepped past him, the tension in your shoulders loosening as each footfall carried you closer to the treeline. The damp air shifted, cooler now, threaded with the faint scent of rain. The light ahead was brighter, thin but promising. Almost there.
Almost out.
The grip came so suddenly you didn’t hear him move. Fingers closed around your arm, warm and unyielding, pulling you back into the shadow between two wide pines. Your heart could’ve easily stopped right then and there, as if the woods could hear your heart beating like a war drum, the light began slipping, casting everything in a haunting daze.
“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low now — all traces of that earlier awkwardness gone. “You keep moving like that and someone might think you’re tryin’ to run.”
He didn’t crowd you immediately. Just stayed close enough that you could feel the quiet weight of his presence, his gaze slipping over your face, then lower, as if measuring the way your breath caught.
“Y’don’t want to run,” he said at last, almost like it was a promise. Or a correction.
“Get away from me, w-what-” You jerked your arm, but his grip tightened — not painfully, not yet, but enough that you knew you weren’t walking away. He stepped closer, closing off the space you’d carved for yourself, his shadow folding over yours.
Then the change happened. It was small at first — the subtle shift in his stance, the way his eyes sharpened into something unnatural, gleaming eyes that shone red — and then it was everywhere, a suffocating press of intent, his body closing in on yours
You twisted, trying to wrench free, but he moved faster than you’d thought possible. In one motion, you were stumbling back, your shoulders colliding with the damp earth, his weight following you down. The forest canopy spun above you, a blur of black branches and steel-colored sky.
“Stop!” you yelped, shoving harshly against his chest, but his hand caught your wrists and pinned them above your head. He clocked the way your face twisted, a scream waiting to rip from your throat, not caring who or what could be out here, just that you needed someone to take notice.
He just couldn’t have that. His other hand clamped tightly around your mouth, fingers strong enough to hold you still no matter how you thrashed.
“Shh,” he whispered, almost tenderly. “Just—stay.”
You bucked against him, but he leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your mouth. For a second, you thought he was going to kiss you. Instead, his grip on your jaw shifted, his fingers dug roughly into your cheeks, forcing your lips apart despite your attempts of screaming. His lips pursed like a wicked promise, the warmth of him was sudden, invasive — and then the wet slide of something on your tongue before you could twist away.
It was his spit.
The sick bastard had just spat in your mouth, a wet and intrusively thick glob.
You gagged, shoving harder, but his hand held you steady.
“Breathe,” he murmured, and his voice was too calm, too certain. “It’ll pass through ya quick. You’ll see.”
Already, heat was threading through your veins, that crawling, restless need you’d been feeling for weeks igniting like dry tinder. Your limbs felt heavy, your struggle faltering even as your mind screamed at you to keep fighting.
His eyes searched yours, and there was no softness left in them now, just eyes that gleamed red like a cat — followed by the satisfied stillness of a predator once the kill was assured.
Your nerves ignited like wildfire beneath your skin, every inch of your body flooding with a thick, syrupy heat that clung to your veins like molten honey and pooled low in your stomach. Your breath hitched, shallow and quick, and the edges of your vision began to soften and blur, warping the world around you.
Through the haze, his mouth twisted, and for a terrifying heartbeat, you saw it — rows of razor-sharp fangs spreading wide, gleaming with cruel promise, overtaking the familiar shape of his teeth. The predator beneath the surface had bared itself at last, a dark, ancient hunger made flesh.
“Shit, look at ya,” he whispered, his voice low and thick like smoke curling around your senses, dragging the words out just enough to tease the haze you were drowning in. “There she is—the one I’ve dreamed about, the one I came for.”
He leaned in closer, breath warm against your skin, voice dipping into a dark, almost reverent murmur. “Should’ve listened to that daddy a’yours,” he said with a slow, dangerous smile. “Lucky for you, ya caught me first. Would’ve tore his throat out like he was nothin’.”
His words hung heavy in the air, a twisted lullaby of possession and promise that wrapped around you like iron chains—binding you tighter in a spell you hadn’t even known was cast. Your senses flared and tangled, too scrambled and flooded to fully grasp the weight of what he said.
Sweat beaded at your brow, slick and cold against your skin, mingling with the sharp, almost metallic scent of him—copper and salt, sharp as fresh blood—and the damp, earthy aroma of rain-soaked dirt pressing into your back. Those smells were all you could hold onto, all that tethered you to the moment as your mind spun in a dizzying haze.
Everything else blurred, shrank, until it was just you and him, tangled together in a dark, silent promise you couldn’t—and wouldn’t—break free from.
And then it all crashed over you at once — like a dam breaking loose inside your chest. The heat swirling low in your belly had settled, wild and urgent, and without thinking you squeezed your thighs tight, once, then twice, locking around the warmth of his thigh that had found its way between yours.
His breath was a whisper against your cheek, soft and heated, sending a shiver rippling through you. “Oh, would you look at that…” he murmured, voice thick with amusement and something darker, more possessive. His nose brushed the shell of your ear as he leaned in closer, the faint scrape of stubble igniting your skin.
“Someone’s needy,” he chuckled, low and rough, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath as if savoring not just the moment—but you. His eyes rolled back just slightly, lost in the thick, intoxicating scent of your arousal that hung heavy between you. He could feel the slick gather at the corner of his mouth, warm and wet, mixing with the faint trace of your own saliva trailing down your cheek.
Beneath it all, his body responded—cock hardening with slow inevitability, pressing insistently against your thigh, marking you like a claim already made.
His fingers trailed from your jaw down the curve of your neck, dragging slow, deliberate lines that left fire in their wake. The heat between you pulsed with an urgency neither of you tried to hide. His mouth found the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, fangs grazing just enough to make you shiver—teetering on the edge of pain and pleasure.
“Can ya feel it?” he whispered, voice rough like gravel and honey. “The way you’re already mine... even when y’don’t want to be.”
You gasped, breath hitching as his hand slipped beneath your jacket, fingers curling around the bare skin of your waist. His touch was possessive, claiming, as his other hand tangled in your hair and pulled you closer—his mouth crashing onto yours with a hunger that burned hotter than the rain-slicked night.
Tongues tangled, teeth nipped with the intent of drawing blood, and the world narrowed down to the press of his body, the heat dripping like honey between your thighs, and the slick, intoxicating taste of him that still lingered on your tongue.
He ground into you, hips pushing hard where you wrapped around him, every movement a silent demand. His voice was a growl against your throat. “Drippin’ for me—didn’t even have to touch ya yet.”
Your hands roamed over his chest, pulling at the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel more of him, to lose yourself in the chaos of his control. But he stopped you with a sharp, possessive bite to your lower lip, smirking when you whimpered.
“Patience, darlin’. I waited long enough, don’t you think I deserve it?” He warned, voice low and dangerous.
You couldn’t answer, his lips trailed down your neck, across your collarbone, leaving a scorching path of fire as he let his fangs scrape enough to leave a mark. His hands slipped beneath your shirt, skin meeting skin, fingers exploring with a rough reverence that made your knees weaken.
The world spun, and you were lost—lost to the heat, to the dark, to him.
Too caught up in the dizzying feeling of him grinding into you, the world spun as you felt him flip you over and the cold air hit your thighs as he tugged your jeans down, just enough to expose you to him.
“That’s a damn pretty sight,” he chuckled darkly to himself, his calloused fingers pushing your panties to the side unceremoniously. The action had you keening, your cheek digging farther into the dirt as you pushed your hips back at him.
“That’s what I thought, darlin’. Don’t worry, I got you,” His words sounded almost tender, almost.
Any semblance of that was lost when he didn’t even bother undoing his belt fully, all air kicking out of your lungs when he shoved himself inside you with a bruising snap of hips, grunting when you gasped.
The ground felt damper now as tears flowed at the burn of him, but his body stayed molten against you, hips slamming in a rhythm that felt more like punishment than pleasure.
“Mine,” he bit out, teeth catching your shoulder hard enough to sting. “Out here, where anyone could hear you… knew you’d take it s’well” His spit hit your skin, hot and dirty, running down between your shoulder blades before he smeared it with his tongue.
You couldn’t tell if the ache in your knees was from the twigs and rocks or from how hard he drove into you, dragging you back onto him every time you tried to crawl away.
“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, sweetheart,” he rasped, pace brutal now, “not ‘til I’ve filled you so deep you can smell me on your skin all night.”
You were half-gone already, lungs pulling in ragged gasps, when he pressed in so deep your vision stuttered. His hand clamped your jaw, forcing your head to the side, baring the length of your neck.
“You think I’m just fuckin’ you tonight?” he murmured against your skin, voice slick with dark amusement. “Nah, baby. I’m keepin’ you. Think I was jus’ foolin’ around doin’ all that watching and waiting?” Every word punctuated by every snap of his hips.
The scrape of his teeth wasn’t gentle — he didn’t bother with the pretense. One moment you were shivering from the cold air hitting your heated ski , the next his bite sank in, tearing through flesh like it had been waiting for this exact second. White-hot pain bloomed, sharper than the thrust of him inside you, and then his mouth was pulling, drinking, groaning into the wound like he’d been starving for centuries.
Your knees buckled, but he held you upright, rutting into you while he fed, his moan low and guttural. Your pulse thundered in his mouth until it started to slow, the forest fading at the edges of your vision.
“That’s it,” he cooed, letting your blood slick his lips. “Every drop’s mine now.” His tongue lapped over the punctures, sealing them with heat, and you felt something—dark, searing—push back into you. Like his blood was alive, crawling into your veins, branding you from the inside out.
Your whole body jolted as you whimpered at the impact of it all. The night sounds grew sharper, brighter. His scent—iron, smoke, pine—was overwhelming, unbearable, addictive.
Remmick’s grin was feral, eyes locked on yours like he was watching the moment you broke. “Now,” he rasped, thrusting deep one last time, spilling into you “you’ll never be able to run from me. Not in this life, that’s for damn sure. You’ll never know another day without me.”
summary: wragby estate, 1983. a young art historian arrives to prepare the chatterley collections for auction... but not if the surly gamekeeper has anything to say about it.
warnings: yearn-y sex (p in v); england; lots of art lol
notes : today's fic is brought to you in part by d. h. lawrence (1928), jane austen (1813), and sarah henstra (2024). writing for oliver was hard because i cannot picture him with anyone but connie in the 1920s.... SO the humble au is here to save the day! reader is addressed as cis female, but no specific appearance or ethnicity. one thing about me is you WILL be reading about art‼️ title is paul mccartney because that's the album i listened to writing this.
likes and reblogs make my little heart beat faster ❤️ merci and enjoy
i'm gonna move, i'm gonna go
gonna tell everyone i know
livin' in a home in the heart of the country
When Lady Chatterley died, every auction house in London cheered.
Oh, she was a well-respected old woman, of course: she’d spent millions of pounds on the opening of orphanages and animal sanctuaries, devoted countless hours to volunteering for a variety of charitable causes, and even opened the forests of Wragby Estate to hikers and scout groups. Yes, she was well-loved for her acts of kindness, and no one was particularly happy to see her gone.
But.
The Wragby collection was the stuff of myth. In 1918, Constance Reid wed into an illustrious and ancient family with fingers in every pot: mining, rental properties, oilfields, politics, and so much more. No one knew why she’d chosen to marry Lord Chatterley of all people, who was, by all accounts, snobbish and boring. Based on her penchant for charity, it seemed an incongruous match.
Whatever the true reason for their union was, Lady Chatterley had inherited an art collection so immense in scope and value that it could almost match the grandeur of any major European museum. Over the years, she’d only added to it, hundreds of pieces: Michelangelos, Vermeers, Da Vincis, Picassos, Morisots, Gentileschis…
But for all her love of philanthropy, she had never - not once - opened the doors of Wragby to the public, not to journalists or scholars. No one knew why. The Lady was a mysterious woman, charitable with her time and money but never with the details of her life.
Wragby remained off-limits, and that was that.
So, naturally, when the Chatterley file landed on Y/N’s desk early one spring morning, she thought she must have been hallucinating.
“It’s mine?”
Her boss sighs.
“That’s what her solicitor said.”
“But that makes no sense.”
“Yeah, well, try telling them that. Apparently, the Lady asked for you by name.”
Y/N runs a hesitant finger over the folder. It’s thick, almost ripping at the spine, stuffed with aged and cracking yellow papers. On the front: WRAGBY - 1 of 1089.
“Why would she know who I am?”
“I don’t know, Y/L/N, but can I assume you’re interested or are you going to make me re-assign the dossier to someone else?”
“No, of course I’m interested.”
“Then go home and pack. You’re in Lincolnshire by tomorrow morning.”
For some reason, Y/N had always imagined that Wragby would be an imposing figure on the surrounding landscape. These old manor houses that dot the English countryside so often are, looming ominously over the hills as monuments to dead lords and unearned wealth. But Wragby is different: there is a softness in the air, here, an obvious respect for nature and her bounty. Birdsong fills the skies and wild plants have reclaimed large swathes of the enormous lawn. That isn’t to say that the grounds are unkempt - no, far from it. It’s clear that someone is caring for the land, nurturing plant growth and cutting back the parts that grow a little too wild.
Y/N stands at the gate near the bottom of the hill and takes a moment to appreciate the view. This was as close as the driver could get, but it’s no bother - after all, she’s very fond of walking and the path looks divine. Slinging her duffel bag over one shoulder, she begins the trek up to the house.
The air is a cacophony of wild sounds: cicadas chirping, birds warbling, frogs ribbiting, the far-off babbling of a brook. Back home in London, it’s rare to encounter anything wilder than a rat or a pigeon. Likewise, Y/N has virtually no knowledge about the plants which now envelop her. When she tries to describe them to herself, she feels a bit like a child (or perhaps an Impressionist): hazy brushes of heathery mauve fade into the tall pale grasses that reach like arms for the sky, and tiny dots of bright colour bloom vividly against them.
She’s so taken by the quiet splendour of the moment that she doesn’t hear the man behind her.
“You lost?”
It’s a deep voice, gruff and rumbly. The thick accent isn’t quite placeable - Midlands, maybe?
She trips, nearly tipping into a puddle.
“Oh, you scared me!” she laughs, looking back to face the stranger.
His face is unimpressed. Or maybe it’s just neutral - she can’t tell. His clothes are plain, a bit outdated, and covered in dirt. In one hand, he balances a shovel. He wipes the sweat from his brow with a tattered bandana.
The stranger then looks her up and down, registers the bags on her shoulder, sighs.
“No camping ‘ere. S’back that way.” He points to the gate.
“No, I’m the art historian. I’m Y/N.”
His face is utterly blank.
“I was sent to evaluate the late Lady Chatterley’s collection for auction?”
“Connie.”
“Sorry?”
“She was called Connie. We called her Connie.”
“Oh, ok. Connie’s art collection.”
Silence.
“So, are- um, did you work with Connie?”
“Aye.”
“My condolences.”
More silence.
Y/N nods, trying to figure out how to end this conversation and hightail it to the front door.
“Right. Ok. Well, it was wonderful to meet you.”
He considers her. Then, without hesitation, he turns on a heel and disappears back into the thicket of wild grasses he’d emerged from.
“See you around, then, sir,” she calls out, fruitlessly.
-
Thankfully, the housekeeper is more welcoming. Mrs. Bolton is an older woman, perhaps in her late sixties, and she stands a good head taller than Y/N. Despite the death of her mistress, she still greets her guest in full uniform. She offers to prepare a tray of tea and run a hot bath, which Y/N gladly accepts.
“Anything else you need, love, you help yourself.”
“That’s very sweet, Mrs. Bolton, but I don’t mean to impose.”
“Nonsense. What’s ours is yours.”
The ancient copper tub is an experience. Y/N reclines in it, sipping at her darjeeling, and imagines for a moment that she is Lady Chatterley, woman of the house. What must she have felt all those years ago marrying into such luxury? About living in the middle of nowhere, so far from everyone but her disagreeable husband? What a solitary life it must’ve been. Although, it seems that the staff genuinely cared for her, almost familial in the way they still talk about her.
A pang of sorrow runs through her chest.
She suddenly wishes, more than anything, that she could speak to Connie now. Why had she hidden the estate from the eyes of the world? Why was she auctioning it all off now? And - perhaps most importantly - how in the hell did she know her name?
Y/N sighs, long and slow, slips her head under the water.
The guest bedroom is lush - no other word for it, really. Its decor is deceptively simple: paintings are hung in what look to be secondhand frames, giving the impression that they’d been thrifted for a few pounds when in reality, to Y/N’s great surprise, they all appear to be authentic Constables. Likewise, the furniture is quite plain and austere, but to the auctioneer’s trained eye, it’s apparent that they’re all vintage pieces in perfect condition. She can’t quite believe her luck.
Dropping her bags, she falls backwards onto the bed, running a hand over the sheets.
“Fuck,” she whispers. The thread count is so high that it barely feels sewn.
It takes less than five minutes for her to succumb to sleep.
The sunlight burns through the lacy sheer curtains and right into Y/N’s eyes.
She peers over at the clock: 5:42. Sleep is a lost cause. With an aggravated moan, she forces herself out of bed. No one else is going to up at this ridiculous hour and even if Mrs. Bolton is, it’s far too early to start bothering her. With another weary sigh, she ties her robe at the waist and heads out to find some coffee.
The kitchens at Wragby are bigger than her entire flat in central London - not really a revelation, given the grandeur of the estate, but it still stings. She sets the pot on the stovetop, throws in some grounds, props her head in her hands to try and stay conscious until the brew is done. Mrs. Bolton must have blackout curtains, the lucky woman.
Someone fumbles with a key and the side door opens with a gentle click.
She locks eyes with the disgruntled man from yesterday, the displeasure obvious on his (not-unhandsome) face. She suddenly feels quite self-conscious in her little robe and sleep shorts. But they haven’t even exchanged a full sentence yet this morning - how can he already be scowling?
“Hello,” she offers.
He just grunts.
“Coffee?”
The man considers her for a long moment, heavy and invasive.
“Thought you were here to steal the art, not the food.”
Y/N perks up like she’s been slapped.
“I’m sorry?”
“No, I don’t want any coffee.”
He stalks past her, shoulder brushing hers with enough force to knock her off balance.
“Well, good fucking morning to you too,” she mutters, just loud enough for him to hear.
The man doesn’t bother to reply.
-
Despite the rocky start to the day, Y/N quickly finds a good rhythm. After making them both a quick breakfast, Mrs. Bolton shows her to the gallery rooms. It’s a good thing, too - there are enough wings and staircases and corridors in this place to make her head spin.
Each gallery follows a different scheme.
It seems that Connie had arranged her collection by theme and mood: melancholy moonscapes mingle with violent abstract scenes in all shades of blue, and fantastical Romantic forests face surrealistic renderings of contemporary suburbs. There’s ancient pottery nestled between ready-made sculptures, folk art and tapestries propped up against a Renaissance David. The whole thing is absurd and wonderful. It’s eclectic, it’s messy, it’s funny, it’s bold - it’s so Connie.
Y/N tears her eyes from a medieval wall hanging of a unicorn. “Can I ask why Lady Chatterley didn’t just donate this stuff? From what I understand, she was pretty passionate about philanthropy.”
“Well,” the old housekeeper huffs, rubbing at her cheek. “To be perfectly honest, I’ve no idea. It did strike me as odd, but those were her wishes. It’ll be a shame to see it all go.”
“I can imagine.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. F’you need anything, just give me a shout, darling.”
“Oh! One thing - is there a man who works here? A bit taller than me, maybe works in the gardens? A little, um… gruff, I guess?”
She snickers.
“Seems you’ve made Oliver’s acquaintance. He’s the gamekeeper. Quiet fellow - very reserved, very serious, but loyal to a fault.”
“Ah. And I take it he’s not keen to have me here?”
“Oh, he’s just protective of Wragby. No, don’t you pay him any mind. If he bothers you, you come find me - he’s not so old I can’t still whack him upside the head.”
She smiles. “I will.”
-
Y/N spends the next fifteen hours crawling through paperwork. Every artwork has a corresponding file, but said filing system seems to be based off alphabetical order by artist’s first name - except for Baroque and contemporary which goes chronologically (backwards) and for geometric Greek pottery which goes by gender and… vibe?
Christ.
By the time she manages to arrange the documents in any kind of sensical order, the sun has already set. Sighing, she drops the last folder. Her stomach is groaning. It may be the case that the upper class relies on servants for everything, but she cannot in good faith trouble Mrs. Bolton again for something to eat. No, she can make her own meal.
It’s a tricky feat, but Y/N manages to find her way back to the kitchens. There’s a note on the counter: Popped out to see some friends. Back around 11 xx. She smiles. A cursory look through the fridge reveals all kinds of ingredients, but the way her stomach is rumbling means she’s fresh out of patience.
Grilled cheese it is.
She lays out the bread, butter, and cheddar, turns the heat up on the pan. Just as she’s about to set the first sandwich in, the side door opens again. Oh God…
“Good evening, Oliver. Would you like a sandwich?”
Her smile is conciliatory, perfectly pleasant despite his earlier rudeness.
He shakes his head - no - and moves to walk past her. Frustrated, she moves to block his path. He smells like tilled soil and freshly-cut grass.
He grits his teeth.
“Mrs. Bolton said you don’t want me here. Why?”
“You’ve come to cannibalize the estate.”
She furrows her brow.
“No, I came because Lady Chatterley asked me to.”
“S’that right?”
“I’m not some opportunist, Oliver. She asked me by name.”
He cocks his head, scratches at his beard.
“Why would she do a thing like that, eh? Open Wragby up to the vultures?”
She crosses her arms.
“That’s what I am? A vulture?”
“D’you prefer looter? Burglar? Marauder?”
“Art. Historian,” she grits out.
He nods, saccharine smile on his lips.
“Ah. Well by all means, then. Sell what’s left of Connie off the the highest bidder.”
She narrows a glare.
“You’re a dick.”
He laughs.
“Well, s’long as we’re telling the truth - you’re a common thief with a fancy degree.”
She’s still gaping when he brushes past her.
-
That night, she dreams of the gamekeeper.
It’s hard not to: her window faces in the direction of his distant cottage, nestled deep in the meadow and through the dense woods. It has a chimney that spurts grey smoke up into the sky all night long. Through the sheer curtains, she can always make it out against the white of the moon. His presence is suffocating, inescapable - intimate.
And now he’s in her dreams.
Oh, she would never admit it out loud, but the unfortunate truth is that Oliver is frustratingly beautiful. Even when his blue eyes sparkle with disdain, even when he’s calling her names and pushing past her like her mere presence is contagious, she can’t help the way her body reacts. When he’d smiled that stupid fucking grin, she was torn between slapping it off and kissing it off.
In sleep, he touches her like she wants to be touched. He’s furious, she’s seething, and the electricity is supercharged. When they kiss, it’s teeth. When he kneels between her legs, it’s to devour. When he pushes her up against the wall, when he pushes up and in, it’s an act of hatred. He gives it and she takes it.
And somehow, she can’t bring herself to feel ashamed.
Y/N chooses to ignore Oliver for the rest of her stay. When he steps through the door in the mornings on his way to God knows where, she no longer acknowledges him. This arrangement seems to suit him just fine, and the two live out their parallel lives in solitude.
It still eats at her, though, his mischaracterization of her. Sure, she is evaluating the collection for auction - but it’s not as if it’d been her decision to arrange one. For that, he has Connie to thank. He might have a small, tiny, miniscule point, though, that Wragby without its art seems an unforgivable tragedy.
But what can she do about that?
By the end of the week, she’s finished the cataloguing of file #247. At this rate, she could be back in London by the end of the month. The thought irks her.
The return to urban life will be jarring. Even one week in, she’s already gotten used to the rhythm of life in the heart of the country, its slowness and splendour. More and more, she’s begun to start her mornings with long nature walks in the gardens beyond. Even if the presence of a certain gamekeeper continues to plague her, there’s no doubt that she’ll miss the birdsong, the wildlife, the fresh air, the cozy galleries…
Y/N is about to sign off on #247 when an errant slip of pink paper catches her eye.
It’s the first colourful one she’s seen so far, standing out like a neon sign shouting READ ME against the mountain of pale yellow and faded white. Gently, she lets it fall from the folder onto the antique wooden dining table. The handwriting is messy - exceedingly so, probably the reflection of the author’s advanced age. Which means…
-
“Can you read this?”
The forest is dark. Her woolen overcoat is stretched over two knit jumpers and a long scarf. Still, she’d had to shove her hands deep into her pockets and march briskly against the chilly wind just to get here. Her pink note is neatly folded, tucked into one sleeve. The cottage had been tricky to locate under the thickness of the tree canopy and the totality of the night’s cloud cover - but once she’d picked up on the scent of chimney smoke, it’d been easy enough to feel out a rough path.
Oliver’s door opens wide onto a view of his den, the cozy glow of the hearth within. He stands before her in an off-duty ensemble: well-worn jeans and a Fairisle jumper. The look on his face is one of utter confusion, mixed with his habitual contempt and maybe just a hint of… concern?
“What the fuck?”
She rolls her eyes.
“Is this Connie’s handwriting, Oliver, yes or no?”
He looks out into the black woods beyond.
“You couldna ask Mrs. Bolton?”
“She has a date tonight.”
They stand at an impasse. Y/N tries to mask the shiver running through her.
“Oliver, please.”
He sighs, waves her in.
“Come on, then. You’ll catch your fuckin’ death out there.”
“Thought you wanted me dead,” she mutters, brushing gently under his thick arm and through the threshold. Tonight, he smells clean, like pine soap and bright citrus. She tries to suppress the effect it has on her, to focus on the task at hand.
“Not dead. Just gone.”
The sting of something thorny runs through her. She glares as he shuts the door.
“So help me get gone. Read the fucking note.”
He holds out his palm expectantly, and she hands him the paper.
While he looks it over, she takes the opportunity to snoop through the one-room cottage.
It’s small, just right for one man living alone. The space is warm and homey, all swathed in knit blankets and soft rugs, personalized with sweet little paintings of country life and an extensive display of clothbound books. Lawrence, Baldwin, Joyce, Achebe… Christ, he’s well-read. A small border collie snores softly from its place by the vaulted loft bed.
“Didn’t expect you to be so good at interior design.”
“M’not,” he mumbles, squinting at the page. “Was Connie did it up f’me.”
“It’s very cozy.”
“Suits my solitary nature.”
“You seem very fond of her.”
“Aye, course I a- was.”
“Why?”
Oliver looks up at her, clearly unimpressed.
“What kinda question is that?”
“No! I didn’t mean- argh, just forget it.”
“Nah, then, what did you mean?”
Y/N leans against the back of the small sofa, arms crossed.
“Who was she to you?”
“She was good t’me.”
“Do you ever speak in two sentences at a time, or?”
“Can I concentrate on these fuckin’ hieroglpyhs or d’you plan on bothering me all night?”
She rolls her eyes, sighs.
“Fine. Sorry.”
“I loved her, sure, but she had handwritin’ like a blind bat on ket,” he mutters.
Y/N barks a laugh before she can help it. He looks up at her, lip quirked.
“So how’s it you’ve been going through her things all week but can’t recognize her writing?”
She shrugs, feeling a bit defensive.
“Everything else was typed.”
Oliver takes a seat at the kitchen table and gestures for her to join him. When she makes no move to, he pulls out a chair, scraping at the old wooden flooring. Points at it. Sighing, she complies.
“Right. Well, I can make out most of the words, but I dinna understand ‘em.”
“Ok. Just read them to me.” She pulls a legal pad from her bag, clicks open a ballpoint.
“Er- Hackney greets the atrium with golden light in the afternoon. Let them see how the…lagoon?… therein faces the great splash. Shit. That make any sense t’you, or?”
Y/N takes a long moment to think. This is all sounding like gibberish.
“The atrium… is the glass room with all the plants, right?”
He rolls his eyes, nods.
“Dick. Alright - wait, you said lagoon, before, what were you trying to say?”
Oliver shows her the note, underlines the mystery word with his finger.
“S’like raccoon but an L.”
“Laocoon.”
“What?”
“It’s a statue, a Roman copy of a Greek- you don’t care, forget it. It’s a sculpture.”
“Alright, Indiana Jones, fair play t’ya. And Hackney, as in… London?”
“What, you think Connie left us a scavenger hunt? Come on.”
Oliver shakes his head, stands to go look for something in the pantry.
She reads the message again, again and again, nibbling on the end of her pen. There’s something here, there has to be. If the ancient statue is facing something in the atrium, a splash, then…
“Shit!” she exclaims, hitting a fist on the table. “Not Hackney, it’s Hockney. As in David Hockney, A Bigger Splash.”
He returns with two glasses and a bottle of unlabeled brown liquor.
“Which is…?”
“A painting. You’ve seen it, the huge one in the tearoom?”
He nods, pouring out the drinks.
“Right. So… what mystery did we solve, then?”
She starts but cuts herself off abruptly. He’s right. What’s the significance of any of this?
“Let them see,” she quotes, still sounding out her thoughts. “I think, maybe… Connie was writing down her thoughts for a museum at Wragby?”
He slides her a whiskey glass. She sniffs at it, takes a cautious sip. Oliver actually smiles when she starts coughing. Not like he’s glad to see her suffer, but more like… he finds it kind of endearing.
He rubs a finger along the rim of his drink, as if considering her conclusion.
“Y’may be right. But,” he stops, shifting forward in his seat. “Why would she hire you?”
Y/N huffs, that pang of hurt ringing through her once again.
“Stop being mean to me, Oliver, I already told you- ”
“Nah, came out wrong. I only meant why someone from an auction house? F’she had no intent to sell?”
She relaxes, only slightly.
“I don’t know.”
He drums his fingers on the table, looking at her. His gaze is unapologetic, analytical. She squirms.
“I’m sorry for being callous w’ya earlier.”
She nods.
“Like I said- I’m just here to do what she asked.”
“Aye. I see that now.”
“And then I’ll be out of your hair.”
He mumbles a hm.
“Speaking of which-” She stands, grabbing her coat and scarf. “I’ve bothered you enough for one night. Thanks for the help and the… whatever I just drank.”
“Where’re you going?”
Y/N furrows a brow. “To bed?”
He shakes his head, standing to carry the glasses over to the sink. “No. You’re sleepin’ here.”
“Oliver, I know the way back-”
“No, y’don’t.”
“I mean, I can probably find-”
“Oh, s’that right? You won’t get lost, no hiker’s gonna stumble onto your pretty corpse come mornin’?”
“That’s morbid.”
“That’s the woods at night, girl.” He wipes his hands on a tea towel, grabs her bag and sets it down at the foot of the double bed. Leaning against the dresser, Y/N crosses her arms, trying very hard to appear indifferent.
“If all of this has been a ploy to get me in your bed, I’m not interested.”
Even she can hear the hollow lie in her voice.
He chuckles, all teeth and amusement.
“I’m on the couch. Bed’s yours, help yoursen.”
“Oliver-”
“M’not asking. Mrs. Bolton would skin me alive if she found out I let you walk home alone.”
She sighs, relenting. “Careful, Oliver, that’s almost basic human decency you’re showing me.”
“Aye. I'm a very decent man when I want to be.”
He stands before her now. The spice of his shampoo is overwhelming at this distance. She can see the soft, reddish curls in his hair that’ve yet to dry, suppresses the urge to reach out and twirl one through her fingers. Before she can process it, he’s leaning into her.
“What’re-”
The dresser door opens with a creak, and he pulls out an old shirt and boxers.
“For you, milady,” he mocks, still distractingly close. “Or sleep naked, if y’like.”
She grabs the bundle. Still, he doesn’t pull away. For the first time all night, his eyes don’t seem to be flirting or mocking or chiding.
No, they’re still and clear, like icy water at rest.
When he speaks, his tone is matter-of-fact:
“And just so you know, if I want you in my bed, I'll ask nicely.”
The cold night yields to a bright dawn. Birdsong fills the air, and the sound is almost deafening this deep in the untouched meadows. Y/N stirs gently, at first, tentatively, stretching out her legs to the edge of the bed. In that moment where sleep straddles wakefulness, her first thought of the day is that this must be a kind of pastoral heaven.
She’d dreamt of him again last night - no surprise there. No, if anything, these dreams were so much worse: more explicit, more insistent, more real. Here, in this room, in this bed, where she’s swaddled in the soft, worn sheets that smell so much of him - bright and strong and earthy…
Y/N shifts her thighs.
The door opens somewhere below her. She looks over, startled, but it’s only Oliver. He’s already dressed in his usual blue jeans and faded work jacket. She takes the opportunity to drink him in, the fit of the denim over his thick thighs and the ruddy waves of his messy hair. He’s whispering something indistinct, aimed at someone else.
“Hm?”
His eyes dart up to her. “Shit, I was tryna let you sleep for a bit. Just came in for Flossie, s’all.”
Upon hearing her name, the puppy yips and races out the door.
“S’okay, I’m awake.” She sits up in the pillows, stretches her arms over her head, yawns. “Let me make you a coffee or something?”
“Only if you were already plannin’ to. And call Mrs. Bolton, while you’re at it. Let ‘er know I took good care of ya.” He nods over to the phone in the wall by the fridge.
She yawns again, stepping down from the loft and into the sunlight of the kitchen.
“Alright.”
He’s looking at her distractedly, attention snagged on something.
“Oliver?”
His eyes snap up.
“What…?”
“Nothing.” His voice is quick, strained.
“Ok. Well, I have to get back to Wragby. Could you show me the way after breakfast?”
He nods tightly.
“Alright, I’ll see you-”
He’s gone.
Sighing, she moves to ignite the stovetop and locate a coffee pot. It’s only as she’s steeping the grounds that she remembers her bra is discarded somewhere on his floor.
-
At the manor, Y/N changes into a more comfortable day dress and a warm woolen jumper that nearly drowns her. These halls are drafty, and the cool spring is clearly hesitating to fall into summer. She picks up where she’d left off before last night’s revelation: folder #248.
Idly, the thought occurs to her that if Connie had written one little scrap note about her vision for the atrium, then surely there must be others. From there on, she keeps a close eye on every folder that passes through her hands. She shakes them out, rifles through every page to make sure nothing’s stuck, scans the parquet flooring for any fallen sheets. Nothing yet.
She’s been dodging calls from London all week. Her boss is hounding her for an update, threatening to send a team of colleagues up to Wragby to check in. This is the last thing Y/N needs: if she’s going to succeed in her scheme, she can’t very well have spies in her midst. She calls back with some story of unreliable telephone lines and swears that everything is just fine.
The afternoon passes slowly, finally crawls into late evening. There’s good progress being made. With this new mission fresh in her mind, it’s as if Y/N has an even stronger motivation to explore the collection. She can’t help but feel a sense of excitement at the prospect of a Wragby museum: all these treasures, finally open to the world.
Folder #319 is about to be stashed into the filing cabinet when a flash of blue catches her eye. She pulls it out, squints. The paper is much bigger than the pink scrap, though still age-worn and brittle. It’s folded into neat fourths, and when unfurled, she sees what appears to be a
“- floor plan!”
She’s in his kitchen once again, holding the note up like a trophy.
Oliver’s face is blank.
“For the museum, Oliver! We were right!”
“Aye? Let’s have a look.”
“Here. You can read it to me some other time. I just wanted you to see it.”
“Why?” He seems genuinely surprised.
“Well, because you loved Connie.”
He peers up at her, cocks his head.
“That’s good of ya.”
“And I know she’d want your input.”
“Why s’that? S’not like I know a Hackney from a Warhol.”
“Hockney. And it doesn’t matter. You know Wragby.”
He looks at her, then, startled, like she’s offered him something precious beyond measure.
She hums nervously.
“So… well, that’s all. You hold onto that, I’ll get out of your way-”
“You won’t stay?”
Y/N pauses.
“I don’t want to bother you more than I already have.”
Oliver scratches the nape of his neck, sighs awkwardly.
“No bother. Bit of company’d do me good.”
She resists the urge to beam up at him. Nods stiffly instead.
“Alright, then. Let’s make a museum.”
More and more colourful scraps begin to appear. It’s like they’re drawn to her, now that she knows to look for them. A vision forms of a sweeping public institution, a state-of-the-art museum that offers the very best of art and history to all, completely free of charge. Connie had been a true visionary, it seems, with a keen mind for exhibition design.
Y/N sips at her now-cold tea as she contemplates all the notes. Oliver had passed through a few hours earlier and delivered the drink before wordlessly patting her on the back and disappearing back into the manor’s labyrinthine halls. His way of supporting the mission, she supposes.
Mrs. Bolton is in on it, too, spending her free evenings with people in town campaigning for additional support from the community. Word is beginning to spread about Wragby’s potential transformation. Y/N is certainly going to lose her job because of it, but it’s very hard to care about something so trivial when she gets to spend her days plotting her dream museum and her nights consulting with Oliver.
He'd become a real ally in the project, decoding all of the documents and giving her more insight on what decisions Connie would have made in their shoes. It's as though there's something personal about it to him. Seemingly overnight, he's gone from a staunch opponent to an active collaborator.
And as of today, there’s only one untouched folder left in the pile.
#1089.
Weeks of filing and note-taking and cross-referencing, all leading up to this. Y/N almost hesitates to open it: to do so would mean the end of her little adventure. But finally, she gathers the courage to do so and bizarrely… the only contents are a printed research article and a handwritten letter.
The article, Y/N realizes with jolt, is her own.
Her graduate thesis, published in an American history journal… where she’d passionately argued for the necessity of art as a public good. The years after school had been tough: art has never been a good job market, and when the opportunity to work at the auction house arose, she’d snapped it up in the hopes of being able to move out of her mold-infested student flat. The job was hard, far from ideal, with long hours and depressingly low pay.
All of this she could stomach. What really bothered her was the lack of passion. All it was, really, was selling cherished works of art for millions of pounds to collectors who would never spare them a second glance. The job felt pointless, opportunistic, sanitized.
So since then, the urge to return to museum work has never really left her.
And somehow… Connie knew that.
Y/N looks over the letter, tries her damndest to decipher the thing but as usual, it’s hopeless. She knows she needs his help.
It’s another day in Oliver’s neck of the woods. Odd, really, how little time she’s actually spent at Wragby since coming to stay at the estate. But there’s something about his home that invites warmth and rest, prompts relaxation and ease. His company is easier, now, too: all of that brash antagonism has given way to total indifference, which is now, in turn, morphing into something like respect. This new shared goal has lightened the bond between them.
Plus, it’s quite invigorating to have a crush.
She’ll never act on it - that much is certain. Y/N will be back home in London soon enough and it’s not like Oliver feels anything for her but amiable tolerance. But the fact that it’s all one-sided is precisely what makes it so fun. She can flirt, she can bother him, be herself without any fear that it’ll turn him off. All that’s left to do is sit back, dream her filthy dreams, and help him realize Connie’s plans.
So, naturally, she’d spent all morning talking his ear off about the colourful instructions. Usually, they’d go their separate ways after a shared cup of coffee - her back to the manor, him to the woods.
But today, he’s allowed her to accompany him to the chicken coops.
“…and obviously, just to kind of preserve that layout, we’d wanna have those, um, more naturalistic scenes facing the starker modernist ones out in the- Oliver, are you listening?”
“No,” he replies simply, fiddling with a piece of wire fencing.
Y/N sits atop the fence of the horse’s pen, swinging her legs. The red rubber wellies land with rhythmic thumps against the wood. Her legs are bare in the clear light of the cloudless blue sky.
“Well, it’s important.”
“Sure, it is.” He dusts off his calloused hands, rises to his feet. “Here. You hold this down while I hammer.”
With a resigned sigh, she jumps down to do as he asks.
“Fine. I’ve talked enough. Your turn.”
He grimaces.
“How long have you been at Wragby?”
“Born here.”
“Here here?”
He barks a laugh.
“At the hospital, Y/N. Christ.”
“Oh.” Her cheeks go hot. “So you’ve known the Chatterleys your whole life, then?”
“Aye.”
“Oliver, I swear to God - give me two complete sentences in a row, and I’ll do anything you want for the rest of the day.”
This gives him pause. He lets the hammer fall and leans back in the dirt, hands folded in his lap.
“My name is Oliver Mellors. I’m 32 years old. I’ve known the Chatterleys my entire life. After my parents died, they saw to my education.”
He recites it with the monotone complacence of a primary student forced to share a fun fact about themselves in front of the class.
Y/N falters.
“You lost your parents?”
“Aye.”
“I’m very sorry.”
He shrugs.
“I was young, hardly remember ‘em. And Connie was very good to me when she didna have to be.”
“Well, I forgive you for being so mean to me, then.”
Oliver snorts, shaking his head, resumes his hammering.
“Right. Well, I do believe that was six sentences, I gave ya.”
“Fair enough. What’s your reward?”
He thinks for a moment.
“Silence.”
“Oli-”
“Silence.”
-
After one exasperating hour of quiet time, Y/N retreats to the cottage. It’s late afternoon now, and the weather has taken a turn for the worse. It won’t be long until the grey clouds give way to nasty showers. Oliver, though, insists on lingering up until the very last minute.
“It’s-”
“Shh.”
“No, c'mon, it’s about to rain.”
“I’m fine as I am.”
“But-”
“Shh.”
She groans, throws her hands up, and stalks back to the house without rebuttal.
No sooner than she kicks her boots off onto the welcome mat does a great thunderclap ring out, quickly followed by the sound of heavy rainfall.
She smiles. Serves him right.
Before allowing herself to relax properly, she sets the kettle to a boil and pulls out a mug. Scanning through his shelf of classics, she chooses a favourite and curls up on the couch by the fire. Listens contentedly as the fat raindrops patter against the old windows.
London is becoming more and more of a hazy memory against the brilliant reality of life at Wragby.
-
Behind her, the front door clatters open.
“Fucking hell,” Oliver mutters, shaking his head like a wet dog. She turns and watches as he rips off his jacket and jumper, leaving him in only a tight-fitted base layer. He kicks at his boots and peels off the soaking wet socks underneath.
Y/N sets the book down and goes to collect her drink.
“Aye, that’s good thinking-”
She presses a finger to her lips, shakes her head.
“But-”
“Shh.”
Turning from him, she pours out the water for one cup of tea.
“Y’cannae be-”
“Shh.”
He curses under his breath. From behind, she hears the sound of paper uncrumpling and the scratching of a pencil. Oliver reappears, holds up a new kind of note:
RE : MY REWARD - PLEASE LET ME SPEAK
“Are you quite sure?” She cocks her head. “You were so adamant.”
He nods.
“Well, alright then.”
“Thank you, Your Ladyship.”
She laughs and hands him the mug. “You need it more than I do, I think.”
He accepts it eargerly, blowing on it only once before taking a long swig. After pouring herself a cup, she goes to reclaim her seat on the sofa. Flossie curls up at her feet, and - donning a dry jumper and a fresh pair of trousers - Oliver joins them. He smells fresh and clean, no trace of the chicken shit she’d been subjected to all afternoon. Setting his mug down on the table, he leans over to peer at the book she’s selected.
“Persuasion? ”
“Yes - but don’t worry, I’m not stealing it. Or burglarizing it. Or thieving it.”
He groans.
“Oh, very funny. Aye, I know it’s not like that.”
“Do you?”
“I do.”
A beat.
“I’m glad Connie asked you here.”
Y/N stills, eyes unfocusing from her line on the page.
“Do you mean that?”
His stare when she meets it is unwavering, resolute.
“Aye. You gave up a couple million pounds just to help us.”
“Oh, please don’t remind me.”
He smiles and it’s almost overpowering in its honesty, its simplicity.
“Nah, really. I’m glad it’s you.”
“I’m going to cry if you keep being so nice. It’s unnerving.”
“Aw, dinna cry. Go on, tell me about your stark modernists and whatnot.”
She slaps at his arm.
“So you were listening!”
“Of course. I always am.”
It’s heavy, his declaration. It cuts right to the heart of her, makes her feel a kind of insatiable longing that’s very inconvenient. She tries hard not to read into anything, but it seems as though they’ve unconsciously inched their bodies much closer than they were before.
“Well… I don’t want to bore you.”
“You aren’t capable of it.”
She laughs again, face heating.
“Shit, you’re so witty! I’m always working just to keep up.”
“Nah, I’m always ten steps behind, it feels.”
Y/N pokes at his chest.
“See - that’s what I mean.”
He grabs at her hand as if to swat it away - only, he doesn’t let go. Instead, he rubs a lazy circle into the skin of her wrist with his thumb. Presses a kiss to it. She hitches a breath.
“I’m glad it’s you, Y/N.”
“You said that already.”
“Aye, and I’ll say it again cos I mean it.”
His voice is veering into a gravelly lowness. She lets her bottom lip fall open and the tips of her ears begin to burn. Her stomach turns with the feeling of being sat in the very front row of a rollercoaster, clinging on for life right as the first drop approaches.
“Yeah?”
“Aye.”
“Well, I’m glad, too.”
“Glad to have come?”
“Mhm.”
“Glad to have your museum?”
She nods. “And… glad it’s you, too.”
Her voice is all breath and no song. She squeezes her thighs together.
Oliver looks down at them like he’s in a trance.
Like he’s starving.
“Come to bed.”
The anvil in her chest drops.
“I thought you said you’d ask nicely,” she tries to joke, unable to think straight.
“I can be nice,” he continues listlessly, gaze now locked on her lips. “I can be so nice.”
“Oliver…”
“I can be anything f’you, yeah? Just gotta ask.”
She exhales, leaning closer into him.
“You feel it, dontcha? That little fire.”
He cradles her head in his large hand, runs a thumb across her cheek. Rubs at the flushed skin there. She breathes shakily, unable to contain it.
“Of course I do,” she whispers. “But I thought you hated me.”
He shakes his head, slow and deliberate.
“Nah, not me, sweetheart. Maybe I hated how lovely you are, how nice y’fight me, how hard I tried to hate the pretty girl come to Wragby to take it all away… Hated how y’looked so at home in my own, walking in like you own the place. Turns out, y’do.”
“Do I?” Her voice is tangled with curiosity and feeling.
“Aye, y’do. Ain’t nowhere else you’re meant to be.”
She can't look away. It's a game of chicken, seeing who'll break first and feed the hunger.
“So then ask me,” she says, willing herself not to tremble. “Ask me properly.”
He leans in, breath fanning across her jaw.
“Y/N, will you come to bed?”
She grabs him by either side of his head and draws him in for a desperate kiss.
The frayed wire has snapped, fully, sending wild sparks of electricity exploding into their little atmosphere. She pants into his mouth, hungry and aching and wanting. He braces a hand over the back of her neck, fixing her in place as he slots his body against her own.
It's just like the dreams - only, there's nothing hateful about any of it. No, this is better, infinitely so: Oliver is warm and hard and insistent against the pliant softness of her body. He digs his hands into the flesh of her hips and uses the leverage to lift her onto his lap.
This urgent closeness makes everything easier.
Her arms go to rest over the nape of his neck and he wraps her in a tight embrace. With her legs opened, knees resting on either side of him, he slowly begins to rock her back and forth. She gasps into his mouth at the friction.
It's like he's urging her to bask in the depth of the movement - no rush, no stress, no hurry at all. When she tries to speed up, to chase the electric feeling building between her strained thighs, he uses all of that muscle borne from years of manual labour to slow her back down.
“Please, I -” she pants, pulling away from his lips. “Oliver, I just want…”
“Tell me, sweetheart, tell me what you want.”
“Wanna feel good,” she manages.
He smiles, crooks a brow. Without breaking eye contact, he presses her back down against him, rolls her hips nice and slow. She chokes on a moan.
“That doesn't feel good?” he whispers into the shell of her ear, still urging her on. “Cos you're sure whimperin’ like it does.”
“I know… know you want it as bad as I do,” she chokes out against his lips. “Stop teasing me.”
His hands begin to wander upwards, palming her through her through the flimsy fabric. A thumb brushes tantalizingly over one bud, enough pressure to please but not enough to satisfy. She's still rocking against him, going as fast as he'll let her.
In one easy motion, he lifts the dress from her waist and up over her head. It's tossed somewhere behind him.
“Fuck me,” he breathes, sitting back, rubbing at the stubble of his jaw.
He takes a bare breast in one hand, running a finger over the petal-soft skin of it. Gazes up at her with unabashed reverence, like she's a sculpture of Aphrodite come to life, all warm and gentle and panting against her favourite acolyte. He holds her like he's trying to find the right way to worship a goddess of love and beauty.
“Fuck me.”
“M’trying,” she whines.
“Yes, y’are. Doin’ a beautiful job of it too, aintcha? So pretty like this, so hungry for it.”
She kisses him again, hard and pleading. His hands come to rest on her ass, guiding her frantic movements once again.
The rain is battering at the windows now, plunging the cottage into near-total darkness. And yet, when he pulls back to admire her in the dim light of the fire, he's still taken aback enough to breathe:
“Beautiful girl.”
He says it plainly, seemingly for no other reason than that it is true. States it as though it were a simple, obvious fact of the world: Beautiful girl. It rained today. The sky is blue.
He’d told her once that he didn't know the first thing about appreciating art.
How wrong he'd been.
Y/N looks down at him through half-lidded eyes and wonders how a man could be so perfect. He looks awe-stricken, hard and straining, utterly wrecked for her.
“Oliver,” she whines again. “Please.”
“Y’can't even wait for me to carry you to bed?” His voice is teasing, but there's an obvious suffering to it. “You need it that bad, yeah?”
She nods, desperate, willing to do or say whatever it takes to get him inside her.
Tutting, he brings his hands back down to her waist and stops her movements completely. She gasps, trying to fight the grip but utterly unable.
“S’okay, sweetheart, ‘cos I need it, too. Been dreaming about this for weeks. Seeing you in my bed, in my clothes-”
He runs a thumb over her spit-stained lips and she opens for him.
“So ask me,” he grins, mirroring her earlier plea.
“What?” Her mind is foggy with want and half-realized pleasure.
“Ask me nicely. What do you want me to do?”
“I…I want you to fuck me.”
“You want me to fuck you?”
“Please.”
He whistles.
“Such manners. Such a lady, aintcha?"
“Oliver-”
“Take me out, then. G’on.”
In her haste, she fumbles with his belt like it's the first time she's ever undressed a man. She can't even bring herself to feel embarrassed about this obvious hunger - whatever she's feeling, she knows he feels it tenfold.
His breath hitches when she wraps a hand around him, brushes an experimental finger over the head.
“Fucking Christ, sweetheart, fuck-”
“S’no fun being teased, is it?” she smiles, kissing his cheek.
He can't even form a reply.
Oliver looks at her, then, with that same unwavering stare from earlier. The stare that says there is nowhere else I'd rather be, no one else I'd rather be with. She falters in her touch.
“You wanna fuck me now, Ollie? S’that it?”
He nods, unblinking.
“Do it, then. Show me how nice you are.”
He flips her onto her back, settling her body gently onto the cushions. Pausing only to pull off his jumper, he lines himself up at her entrance before she’s even finished ogling his bare chest. He's pale, covered in little bruises and scars from the day’s work, and the muscles pull taut as he takes his place above her.
She pulls him flush against her body, lets his forehead rest against her own while they both take a breath.
“I've not got a condom,” he mumbles against her lips. “I'm sorry, I wasna expecting…”
“Not much fucking in this cottage, I take it, given your solitary nature?” she teases. He bites playfully at her nose. “S’okay, though, I'm on the pill.”
“Thank God,” he mutters.
And with a groan, he pushes into her.
Y/N’s head is stuffed with cotton.
The fullness is what gets her first. She feels as though she's being cleaved apart, her body split down the middle like a radioactive atom. The moan that leaves her throat is desperate - debauched.
Oliver just pants against her, stills his thighs to let her breathe.
“That's it,” he whispers - to her or to himself ? - “There ya go.”
“Move,” she pleads, choking on a sob. “You have to move, please-”
He answers with his hips, one full thrust, and she almost flies over the edge. It's never felt this good, this deep, this perfect. Part of her is almost convinced that this entire night has been the product of a tipsy dream, that she'll wake up at Wragby any second now soaked and shivering.
But the feeling of Oliver moving between her legs is too much and too overwhelming to ever be imaginary. She's still kissing him, hurried and starving. He can't seem to decide what to do with his hands, what to caress and what to grip.
He settles for all of it.
“Look at me,” he says, somehow still coherent. “You look at me when y’come off, yeah?”
She nods frantically.
He reaches down between her thighs, rubs easy circles into the bundle of nerves there, and she practically cries, eyes screwing shut from the sheer amount of pleasure happening all at once.
“I - I can't -”
“Aye, y’can and y'will. Just like that, lass, you take what you need. Y’take what I give you.”
“Oli-”
“That's it, Y/N, almost there, aintcha? Y’gonna let me have it?”
She nods again.
He leans down, mumbles in her ear.
“Do it, love. Let me feel ya.”
When she comes, her nails are clinging so deep to the skin of his back that she idly wonders if he'll bear these traces of her forever. He follows almost immediately, panting and whimpering against her sweaty collarbone, babbling her name like a prayer.
She kisses his hair, scratches at it long and slow. Gives him a moment to breathe. He settles in behind her, still joined, tucking her body up against his own. Wraps an arm over her stomach.
The weight of him is grounding. As his breathing softens, evens out, she finds herself matching it. Slowly, all the energy of the last half hour seeps from their veins, evaporating up and out into the evening air.
“Love you, love you, love you,” he breathes into her ear. Love on the inhale, you on the exhale. So soft she's not even sure she hears it.
They fall asleep together - bare, content, and warm.
On the small kitchen table behind the dozing lovers, there is an opened letter. The writing is shaky, scrawled, smudged where the graphite caught the edge of the author’s shirtsleeve.
But the message, once deciphered, is clear enough:
I’m sure you’ve been wondering why, exactly, I had my solicitors contact you when, in truth, there was never any real intention to sell. My response: please reread your monumental article. You write as though you still have hope for the world, for all the good things left to do within it. And - more importantly - you write like you still have hope for people.
I entrust you and Oliver with the collection. Do as you please - follow my guidelines, or don’t. The museum is yours, both of yours.
