—yearned enough, so madly studied portrait & lighting to draw and render this out
maybe could've done better, so hopeful for another time. Creases of his brows, I adore. Slope of his nose to cheek as well. It's all very capturing. His ear, particular and structural. Illicits a need to be delicate as it calls to the feeling of being tangible.
It was so lovely to just shade and render and hopefully retaining what I was learning.
;ref. from '9 kisses'
—Fan Art of Jack O'connell, plus Shailene Woodley—
Ps. I know I mistaken request couse it was about lemon grass order where cook it's coded! Don't eat me in just tired gothic librarian who waits for her 2 weeks vacay 💋
Your birthday party was simple. No fancy venues, no pretension. Just you, your two closest friends, and one of the most popular pubs in Bristol. You were having a lovely evening, nursing a rum and coke and catching up on the usual gossip.
"So," your friend nudged you, a mischievous glint in her eye, "are you gonna finally do it?"
You felt a hot, instant blush creep up your neck. Talking about your sex life was always a point of contention; you were an adult, but still a virgin, and you hated the way your friends persisted in mocking you about it. You weren't in a rush, and you certainly didn't care for their standards.
"I don’t want to get chlamydia like you," you shot back, hiding your face behind your glass to avoid their reaction.
"Ouch," your other friend hissed, rolling her eyes as she swiped the glass from your hand. The blonde one, who had been quiet until now, leaned in close, her tone patronizing.
"Don't be such a bore. It’s your birthday, for God’s sake. Have a life, take a risk."
You looked at them, feeling the familiar pressure rising in your chest. You needed them to stop, just for one night.
"Fine," you blurted out, standing up and pointing toward the back of the room where the light flickered over the green felt of the billiard table. "One game. Pool. If I win, you two drop the whole 'virginity' thing. Forever. You never bring it up again."
Your friends exchanged a smirk, clearly sensing an easy victory. "And if you lose?" the blonde one challenged, crossing her arms.
You hesitated, your heart hammering against your ribs. "If I lose... I'll find someone tonight. I’ll shag someone. Anyone."
They cheered, delighted by the stakes, and practically pushed you toward the table. You picked up a cue, your hands shaking slightly. You were focused on the game, but your nerves made you clumsy. You fumbled your grip, your shot veered wide, and the white ball clicked harmlessly against the cushion instead of sinking the stripe. You were losing, and badly.
"Pathetic," one of your friends laughed, reaching for her drink.
Just as you sighed, preparing to miss another shot, a thick, rough Bristol accent boomed from the shadows nearby, cutting through the pub’s noise like a razor blade.
"Oi! That's a fuckin' tragedy of a shot, innit?"
The hair on your arms stood up. You didn't even need to look to know who it was. The pub seemed to go a notch quieter, even over the music. James Cook. The loudest, meanest prick the city of Bristol had ever birthed.
He stepped out from the dim corner of the room, his movements loose and arrogant, a cigarette hanging precariously from his bottom lip. He wasn't looking at anyone but you, his dark eyes tracing the way you stood—all shy, flushed, and clearly out of your depth. He leaned against the edge of the table, effectively invading your space and forcing you to look up at him.
"You're making a right mess of this," he drawled, his gaze dropping to the cue in your hand before locking back onto your eyes. "And I'm bored. Mind if I take over?"
The blonde girl didn’t miss a beat. She stood up straighter, throwing her shoulders back and shooting Cook a glare. "Piss off, mate. This is a private game. Nobody asked for your input."
Cook didn’t even blink. He let out a low, piercing whistle, his gaze flickering over the blonde for a split second as if she were nothing more than a nuisance before he dismissed her entirely. His eyes moved, sweeping across the table, and that’s when they landed on you.
He stopped mid-stride. He hadn’t truly seen you before—not really. But now, he was staring. He watched you nervously tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, a shy, fleeting smile tugging at your lips and revealing the soft, cute dimples in your cheeks. A slow, hungry grin spread across his face. You were the only thing in the room that mattered to him now.
"Well, well," he drawled, his voice dropping into that thick, gravelly Bristol accent that seemed to vibrate in your chest. He ignored your friend’s protest entirely, stepping closer until he was looming over the edge of the table. "I didn’t see you there, cute girl. What’s your name, then?"
The intensity of his stare made your breath hitch. Your face felt like it was on fire, turning a deep, burning crimson.
"I... I..." You tried to answer, but the words got stuck. You looked down at the pool table, then back up at him, your hands gripping your cue so tightly your knuckles turned white. "I-it's... it's [Your Name]," you finally managed to stutter out, your voice barely a whisper.
Your friends exchanged a sharp, knowing look. They had been trying to get you to loosen up all night, and they knew exactly what they were doing.
"I’m gonna go get a drink," one of them said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness as she shot the other a secret smirk. "Don't have too much fun without us."
Without waiting for an answer, they turned on their heels and walked toward the bar, leaving you completely exposed. You stood there, frozen, gripping the cue like a lifeline, while Cook remained exactly where he was—smirking, predatory, and clearly not planning on going anywhere.
You were left alone, caught in the middle of a game you didn't know how to play, facing the one guy in Bristol you probably should have run away from. You looked up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs, waiting to see what he’d do next.
Cook didn't take his eyes off you for a second, even as he fished a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He shook one out, lit it with a flick of his Zippo, and took a long, slow drag. The smoke curled around his face, blurring the sharp, chaotic lines of his features as he watched you struggle to find your composure.
"So," he exhaled, the smoke drifting toward the ceiling. "What's the story, then? Tryin' to take on the world with a cue you can barely hold, are ya?"
You swallowed hard, your grip on the cue stick feeling more like a crutch than a weapon. "It's my birthday," you murmured, your voice trembling. "And I've got this bleedin' bet. I need to win... but I can't play to save my life."
His grin went from a lazy smirk to something much wilder—sharp, hungry, and entirely unapologetic. He took a final drag of his cigarette, stubbed it out on the side of the table with a rough flick of his wrist, and hopped up. He sat back on the green felt, his boots hooking into the side of the table, his legs splaying out to trap you right in his space.
"A bet, is it?" he mused, leaning down so close you could feel the heat radiating off him.
"You're in luck, then. I’m a bit of a pro at winnin' things I shouldn't. Proper talented at it, I am."
He reached out, his hand wrapping over yours where it gripped the cue. His skin was warm and rough, his touch sending a jolt of electricity straight up your arm.
"I'll give you a lesson," he murmured, his voice dropping into that thick, gravelly Bristol rasp. "Teach you everything you need to know to smash this game. But nothing’s for free in this town, girl. I want a proper reward."
Your heart was hammering so hard you were sure he could see it. You were shy, you were out of your depth, and you knew you should run for the hills—but the pull of him was too strong.
"Sure," you breathed, your voice barely a whisper. "What... what do you want instead?"
Cook’s eyes swept over you, lingering on your lips before meeting your gaze with a look that made your stomach flip. He reached out with his free hand, his thumb ghosting over your cheekbone, tracing the line of your jaw with a slow, deliberate pressure.
"I'll show you," he whispered, his smirk widening as he pulled you just an inch closer. "Just keep your eyes on me, and don't go gettin' all shy now. It’d be a shame to waste the night, wouldn't it?"
You followed him to the back of the pub, where the heavy velvet curtains and a flickering bulb created a dim, hidden pocket of space. It was just the two of you now, away from the prying eyes of your friends and the noise of the crowd. The air here felt thicker, charged with a sudden, nervous static.
You stood in front of the table, feeling exposed. Cook was right behind you—so close that you could feel the warmth radiating off his chest against your back. His presence was overwhelming, a mix of cigarette smoke and something distinctly masculine that made your head spin.
"Right then," he rasped, his Bristol accent thick and low, vibrating right against your ear.
"If you wanna sink these, you can't be standin' like a statue, can ya? You need to lean in. Get yourself over the table."
Your heart did a frantic somersault. You felt hesitant, but his hand moved to your lower back, his palm firm and hot through the fabric of your top. He guided you forward, your hands meeting the edge of the table as you bent over the green felt.
You tried to keep your posture composed, but you felt incredibly shy. Behind you, Cook didn't move away. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was, his gaze dropping lower, his eyes locked on you with an intensity that felt like a physical touch. He took a slow breath, letting out a low, appreciative hum that sent a shiver straight down your spine.
"Yeah... that’s it, luv," he murmured, his voice dropping an octave, sounding rough and hungry. He shifted, stepping even closer so there was absolutely no space left between you. He leaned down, his chin brushing near your shoulder as he looked at you—at the way the white fabric of your skirt hitched up just enough to be dangerous. "Just a bit lower. Yeah, stay just like that."
You swallowed hard, your throat feeling tight as you obeyed his command. You lowered yourself further, the edge of the billiard table pressing firmly against your hips. With trembling hands, you nudged the white ball, your focus entirely shattered by the overwhelming feeling of his presence right behind you.
Before the ball even finished rolling, you felt them—his hands, hot and calloused, sliding firmly onto your waist and then settling lower, gripping your hips through the thin fabric of your white skirt. The contact was bold, deliberate, and entirely uninvited.
A small, shocked gasp escaped your lips, sharp and breathy in the quiet corner. You stiffened, your heart racing against your ribs like a trapped bird.
"Uh..." you managed to stammer, your voice cracking. "C-can you stop?"
Cook didn't move. In fact, he leaned in closer, his chest brushing against your back, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. You could hear the faint, rough chuckle rumble in his throat.
"Stop?" he repeated, his Bristol accent thick, teasing, and low. His fingers didn't loosen their grip; if anything, he held you a little tighter, pulling you just a fraction closer to him. "You’re the one who wanted to learn, innit? And I’m just helping you get the right angle, sweetheart. Don't go tellin' me you're gettin' all shy now... not when you're doin' so well."
The air in the dim corner felt suffocatingly hot. His hands, rough and commanding, didn't just stay on your hips; one moved upward, his fingers winding firmly into your hair. With a sudden, fluid motion, he tugged, pulling your head back until you were forced to look at him.
His eyes were dark, swirling with that chaotic, dangerous energy he was famous for. He held you there, trapped in his orbit, his face inches from yours.
"I heard it's your birthday, yeah?" he rasped, his Bristol accent thick enough to taste. "And you're lookin' for a bit of trouble to celebrate. Maybe I should give you somethin' worth rememberin', luv?"
Your heart was drumming so hard it hurt. You opened your mouth to stammer a reply, but the words died in your throat. He didn't wait for you to speak. His eyes dropped, traveling down your body with a hunger that made your knees turn to water.
He reached out and, with a casual, brutal efficiency, hooked his fingers into the hem of your white skirt. He didn't just move it; he hitched it up high, exposing you to the cool, dim air of the pub and his scorching gaze. He let out a low, appreciative whistle, his eyes widening as they landed on the dark, damp patch visible through your lace panties.
A wave of pure, mortified heat flooded your face, and you gasped, unable to look away from him.
"Mmm," he hummed, his voice dropping to a low, guttural growl that vibrated through your entire body. He leaned in, his lips brushing dangerously close to your ear as his hand stayed anchored on your thigh. "Look at that. You’re soaked, aren't ya? Nice and wet for me."
You tried to pull away, your breath hitching, a weak, "Don't..." slipping past your lips. Your face felt like it was burning, the shame warring with the dizzying, forbidden thrill of being looked at—really seen—by someone like him.
Cook didn’t let you move an inch. He only tightened his grip on your hair, keeping your face tilted up toward his, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear with a slow, deliberate pressure that made your skin prickle. He didn't look like he was going to stop; he looked like he was just getting started.
He let out a low, rough laugh, the sound vibrating against your cheek. "Don't?" he repeated, his voice a jagged, Bristol-thick whisper that teased you. "Don't what, exactly? Don't look? Don't touch? Or don't give you exactly what you’re clearly beggin' for?"
He leaned in closer, his lips grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, his breath hot and ragged. He could feel you trembling under his touch, your body betraying every protest you tried to make.
"You're a shy one, aren't ya?" he murmured, his fingers trailing down from your hair to brush against your collarbone, his gaze never leaving yours.
Your face was burning, a deep, flaming shade of red that you couldn't hide, so you kept your eyes squeezed shut, refusing to meet his gaze. The shame and the overwhelming sensation of his touch were making your head spin, but before you could even register the intensity of it, he acted.
With a firm, effortless lift, he hoisted you up by your hips, seating you right on top of the green felt of the billiard table. He didn't waste a second, pulling your legs wide apart so you were completely open to him. He stood between your knees, his presence overwhelming, his eyes raking over you with a look of pure, predatory triumph.
Cook didn't wait. He dove right back in, his calloused fingers finding their mark immediately. He began to rub and massage your clit with a rhythm that was both rough and strangely rhythmic, his touch demanding a reaction you were desperately trying to stifle.
As he worked, his fingers felt the tight, resistance of your anatomy, the telltale signs that he was the first to ever truly cross this line. He went still for a heartbeat, his eyes darkening as he realized exactly what he was dealing with.
A low, gravelly chuckle rumbled in his chest, vibrating through the table and right into you. He leaned in close, his face just inches from yours, his breath hot and ragged.
"Oh, luv," he murmured, his Bristol accent dripping with a mix of surprise and pure, jagged hunger. "You're a virgin, aren't ya? Proper little innocent."
He didn't pull away; if anything, he pressed harder, his thumb circling and teasing that sensitive spot with a slow, deliberate pressure that sent a fresh jolt of electricity through your entire body.
"I think I’m gonna like breakin' you in," he whispered, his smirk widening as he watched your eyes snap open and lock onto his. "Happy birthday, sweetheart. This is gonna be a night you're never gonna forget."
He didn’t give you a second to catch your breath. His fingers, already slick and working a rhythm that made your vision blur, suddenly dipped deeper, sliding past the entrance with a smooth, invasive pressure that made you arch your back off the felt.
A sound ripped from your throat—a high, shaky, and distinctly shy moan that you tried to swallow, but he caught it, grabbing your chin firmly and pulling your face up so you were forced to lock eyes with him.
"Don't go hiding on me now," he growled, his voice a low, raspy rumble that sounded like grinding gravel. "You sing fokin' sweet, but I need that cunt. Open it up for me."
You were trembling, your legs shaking against his hips, but you couldn't pull away. He began to push his long fingers into you, testing your tightness, his rhythm becoming more deliberate and demanding as he felt you struggle to accommodate him. You were so incredibly tight, and the friction of his skin against yours was electric, making you feel completely exposed.
He leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, his lips hot against your pulse point. He began to whisper, his dirty talk sharp and raw, uncomfortably honest in a way that made your skin prickle and your core clench around his fingers.
"Look at you," he hissed into your ear, his hand moving with a firm, steady pressure that made you whimper. "So tight, so fuckin' brand new. You're mine tonight, yeah? Every bit of this. I’m gonna feel you stretch for me until you’re begging for more than just fingers."
He gave another hard, deep push, and you let out another breathless gasp, your hands coming up to clutch at his leather jacket, anchoring yourself as he continued to explore exactly how much he could take from you.
Your head fell back against the felt of the pool table, a broken, breathless moan escaping your lips as his fingers dug deeper, exploring the tightness you’d never dared to share with anyone. The intensity was overwhelming, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
Suddenly, he shoved your shoulders back, forcing you to lay flat against the table. You barely had time to register the shift before his hands were at your waist, and with a swift, aggressive tug, he ripped the lace of your panties, tearing the fabric away until you were completely exposed to his devouring gaze.
He hovered over you, his eyes burning as he scanned your body, his smirk twisted into something feral. "I want my birthday cake," he whispered, the words hot and jagged against your skin.
You instinctively tried to pull your legs together, a shy, panicked flutter in your chest, but he immediately caught your knees, forcing them wide apart with a firm, dominant grip. He brought his hand down, delivering a stinging, sharp slap to your inner thigh that made your breath hitch and your skin flare with heat.
"Be a good girl," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that left no room for argument.
You were paralyzed, your mind blanking out, completely at his mercy. Before you could even form a thought, his head dipped down. You gasped as his warm, wet tongue made contact, lapping at you with a hunger that was almost animalistic. He didn't just lick; he pressed his face into you, his tongue swirling and flicking against your sensitive core.
Just as your hips bucked in involuntary pleasure, he drove two fingers deep into your pussy, pushing inside you with a firm, rhythmic thrust. The combination of his tongue and his fingers was explosive, and you let out a ragged, uncontrolled cry, your fingers digging into the green felt as he began to feast on you, showing you exactly how he intended to celebrate your birthday.
"Don't," you breathed again, your voice small and frantic, your legs instinctively trying to snap shut to shield yourself from his gaze.
But Cook just let out that signature, cocky laugh—a sharp, amused sound that echoed in the quiet corner. He didn't pull back; instead, he used his free hand to effortlessly brace your thighs, prying them apart with a firm, immovable grip.
"Don't be like that, luv," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rasp that made your heart skip. "You’ve spent all night worried about your little secret, haven't ya? Let's just see what you've got."
His eyes darkened, fixated on the contrast of his hand against your skin. Without another second of hesitation, his fingers slid downward. You gasped, your head dropping back as his touch—calloused, warm, and unerringly confident—sank right into the soft lace of your panties.
He didn't waste time with teasing; he went straight for the center of your heat, his thumb pressing firmly and directly against your clit. The sudden, jolting spark of pleasure was so intense that your knees buckled, and you had to grip the edge of the pool table just to stay upright.
"See?" he purred, his breath hot against your ear, his fingers finding a rhythm that made your head spin. "You’re absolutely drowning for it. And here you were, playin' the shy birthday girl. You’re a right little liar, aren't ya?"
He didn’t give you a second to catch your breath. His fingers, already slick and working a rhythm that made your vision blur, suddenly dipped deeper, sliding past the entrance with a smooth, invasive pressure that made you arch your back off the felt.
A sound ripped from your throat—a high, shaky, and distinctly shy moan that you tried to swallow, but he caught it, grabbing your chin firmly and pulling your face up so you were forced to lock eyes with him.
He leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, his lips hot against your pulse point. He began to whisper, his dirty talk sharp and raw, uncomfortably honest in a way that made your skin prickle and your core clench around his fingers.
"Look at you," he hissed into your ear, his hand moving with a firm, steady pressure that made you whimper. "So tight, so fuckin' brand new. You're mine tonight, yeah? Every bit of this. I’m gonna feel you stretch for me until you’re begging for more than just fingers."
He gave another hard, deep push, and you let out another breathless gasp, your hands coming up to clutch at his leather jacket, anchoring yourself as he continued to explore exactly how much he could take from you.
Your head fell back against the felt of the pool table, a broken, breathless moan escaping your lips as his fingers dug deeper, exploring the tightness you’d never dared to share with anyone. The intensity was overwhelming, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
Suddenly, he shoved your shoulders back, forcing you to lay flat against the table. You barely had time to register the shift before his hands were at your waist, and with a swift, aggressive tug, he ripped the lace of your panties, tearing the fabric away until you were completely exposed to his devouring gaze.
He hovered over you, his eyes burning as he scanned your body, his smirk twisted into something feral. "I want my birthday cake," he whispered, the words hot and jagged against your skin.
You instinctively tried to pull your legs together, a shy, panicked flutter in your chest, but he immediately caught your knees, forcing them wide apart with a firm, dominant grip. He brought his hand down, delivering a stinging, sharp slap to your inner thigh that made your breath hitch and your skin flare with heat.
Just as your hips bucked in involuntary pleasure, he drove two fingers deep into your pussy, pushing inside you with a firm, rhythmic thrust. The combination of his tongue and his fingers was explosive, and you let out a ragged, uncontrolled cry, your fingers digging into the green felt as he began to feast on you, showing you exactly how he intended to celebrate your birthday.
He didn’t hold back now. The playfulness was stripped away, replaced by a raw, dominant edge that made your pulse hammer in your ears. He started to fuck you with his fingers, the rhythm becoming fast, hard, and relentless. He jammed his hand in, stretching your walls to their absolute limit, his knuckles pressing against your entrance as he drove in and out with a punishing, rhythmic force.
You were a mess, your head thrashing against the table, your breath coming in sharp, shattered gasps. Every time he pushed deep, it felt like he was claiming every inch of you, his fingers scraping and teasing until you felt like you were going to come apart at the seams.
He pulled his head up, his hair messy, his face flushed with the same heat that was consuming you. He leaned over your body, his eyes locked onto yours, dark and filled with a possessive hunger that made your stomach drop.
He gripped your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin, and whispered against your mouth, his voice a jagged, Bristol-thick rasp. "You’re so fuckin' good, darlin'... so tight it’s killin' me."
He gave you another brutal, deep thrust, watching your body arch and your eyes roll back, then chuckled, a low, arrogant sound. "This is what you wanted, isn't it, birthday girl?”
You tossed your head back, your voice breaking as a loud, desperate moan ripped from your throat. It was too much—the way he was stretching you, the way he was claiming you right there in the open. But before the sound could carry across the room, his hand shot up, clamping firmly over your mouth to stifle you.
His grip was rough, his palm warm against your lips. "Quiet, luv," he hissed, his eyes pinning yours with a fierce intensity. "You don't want your gurls hearin' you now, do ya? They'd lose their minds if they saw what I was doin' to you."
He watched you, his gaze roaming over your face—your eyes wide, shy, and glazing over with a dizzying, intoxicating haze. He felt the shift in you, the way your body was vibrating under his hand. He didn't let up; instead, he found your clit and began to massage it with a brutal, aggressive rhythm that made your soul catch fire.
You hummed frantically into his palm, a muffled, high-pitched sound of pure sensory overload. A strange, coiling heat began to bloom deep in your belly, tightening and pulling at your very core.
"You gonna come?" he growled, his voice a low, filthy command that vibrated against your skin. "Come for me, luv. Cum for Cook, yeah? Show me exactly what you're holdin' inside."
You couldn't stop it; your hips bucked uncontrollably, you were thrusting your body against his hand, fucking his fingers with a frantic, primitive need. "Mmmphhh!" you moaned, the sound trapped against his palm.
He stared down at you with a mix of raw sexual anger and a terrifying, hungry fascination, his eyes dark with the thrill of your undoing. He watched the moment your eyelids fluttered and rolled back, your body stiffening as the first wave of your orgasm hit you like a freight train. You spasmed, letting out a muffled cry as you climaxed, a hot, uncontrollable flood of fluid drenching his fingers and the green felt beneath you, your body going completely limp as you squirted in the heat of his touch.
Your entire body was still spasming, waves of electricity rippling through your muscles as the aftershocks of your orgasm left you breathless and trembling. You were barely conscious of your surroundings, your mind completely blank, when the sharp, metallic clink and the harsh, unmistakable sound of a belt buckle being undone snapped you back into reality.
He didn't give you a single second to recover. Before you could even blink, his hands were on you, turning you over with a rough, insistent shove until you were sprawled face-down across the coarse, green felt of the billiard table. You were exposed, helpless, and completely at his mercy.
Whack. Whack.
The sound of his hand meeting your bare skin was like a gunshot in the quiet, dim corner. Two stinging, heavy slaps landed squarely on your ass, leaving your skin burning and your breath hitching in your chest.
"Fuck, luv," he groaned, his voice dropping into a ragged, guttural growl that sounded strained with pure, unfiltered desire. "You're absolutely wreckin' me."
He didn't waste any more time. He moved between your legs, his weight pressing you deeper into the table. He was slick with your own juices, and he pushed into you with one long, sloppy, and deep thrust that made you gasp, your nails digging into the edge of the table as he filled you completely. The feeling of him inside you—hard, hot, and heavy—was a stark, shocking contrast to the friction of his fingers, and he began to move with a primal, desperate rhythm, claiming you right there in the dark.
Cook!" you cried out, your voice hitching as the sheer intensity of him filling you shattered what little composure you had left.
He didn't need to be told twice. He latched onto your shoulders, his grip like iron, anchoring you to the table so you couldn't wiggle away from the depth of his thrusts. He started bucking his hips, slamming into you with a raw, rhythmic force that stole the breath right out of your lungs. Every strike against your back wall made your vision dance with white-hot sparks, your body instinctively clenching around him, trying to hold him as deep as possible.
He leaned down, his chin digging into your shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he drove into you, deeper and harder.
"Yes!" he roared, his voice a guttural, possessive growl that echoed in the small space. "That's it! Say my name, you little slut! Keep screaming it for me!"
He pulled back just enough to slam forward again, a punishing, delicious rhythm that had you gasping for air. He was relentless, his eyes burning with that familiar, wild hunger as he looked down at your back.
"Tell me, birthday girl," he rasped, his voice dropping into that cocky, filthy tone that made your knees turn to jelly. "You love it, don't ya? You love your Cookie Monsta? Tell me you love it when I own you like this!"
His hand clamped into your hair, yanking your head back until your neck was exposed and your body arched instinctively toward his chest. He held you there, effectively using your hair like a leash, controlling your every movement, your every gasp.
"Slutty girl," he growled, the words vibrating against your skin.
He didn't give you a moment to steady your breathing. He shoved his face toward yours, crashing his mouth onto your lips in a kiss that was bruising, aggressive, and entirely hungry. You moaned into his mouth, the sound drowned out by the wet, slapping rhythm of his hips slamming into yours. The friction between you was becoming frantic, everything getting so sloppy and slick that every thrust slid in with a heavy, wet squelch.
He didn't slow down for a second; if anything, he only picked up the pace, his entire body shaking with the force of his desire. His free hand snaked forward, wrapping firmly around your throat. It wasn't tight enough to hurt, but it was firm enough to make your pulse jump and to remind you exactly who was in charge.
He kept pounding into you, his eyes locked onto yours with a terrifying intensity as he watched you unravel.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a gravelly, broken wreck. "Look at what I'm doing to you. You're mine tonight, yeah? Every fuckin' inch of you belongs to Cook. You're never gonna forget the way I felt inside you."
He slammed into you again, harder this time, his thumb stroking your throat while he drove deep, his entire presence demanding that you feel nothing but him.
You let out a shaky, breathless whimper, your resistance completely shattered by the intensity of his control. You nodded your head submissively, your chin dipping as you pressed your body further into the green felt, silently yielding to everything he was demanding of you.
Cook watched you, his eyes darkening with a look of pure, predatory satisfaction. He saw the way you melted under his hand, the way you stopped fighting and started craving his dominance. A dark, jagged smirk spread across his face as he felt you give in.
"That's it," he rasped, his voice dropping to a low, possessive murmur that seemed to rattle your bones. "Be a good little thing for me."
He didn't waste a heartbeat. He positioned himself perfectly, his hips aligning with yours as he found your rhythm again. He didn't just move; he claimed you, driving deep into that sensitive, aching spot he’d been working on. Every thrust was calculated, deliberate, and devastatingly deep.
As he surged forward, hitting that precise point inside you that made your entire world tilt, you felt the pressure build—a thick, electric coil of heat tightening in your core. You were completely overwhelmed by him, your body moving in tandem with his, gasping as he pushed you right to the absolute edge again. He felt you clench around him, your walls pulsating, and he let out a guttural, satisfied sound of his own, his grip on your hair tightening as he brought you both right to the precipice.
His grip on your hair pulled your head back at a sharp angle, forcing your neck to strain as he leaned down to bite into your lower lip. The sting was electric, a sudden sharp pain that only fueled the spiraling ache between your legs. His other hand moved with brutal, heavy pressure, crushing your breast against the bodice of your dress, kneading the soft skin until you were gasping for air.
"You're close, aren't ya, luv?" he rasped against your mouth, his voice a jagged, gravelly demand.
You let out a broken, needy sound and nodded against his touch, your body betraying you as your walls constricted, clamping down around him with a frantic, pulsing heat.
"Shit... shit," he hissed, his composure finally fraying as he felt your internal muscles seize around his length. "This cunt... you're tight enough to kill me, you little fucker."
He slammed into you one last time, driving deep enough to take your breath away. You grabbed his face, your fingernails digging into his stubble as you let out a ragged, shattering gasp—the second orgasm hitting you like a tidal wave. Your body spasmed, shaking violently as the pleasure crested, and in that same heartbeat, he lost his own control.
He groaned, a raw, guttural sound that tore from his throat, his hips bucking hard against yours. He drove himself into you as deep as he could go, his body tensing as he surged over the edge with you, letting out a long, desperate, "Fuuuck!"
He collapsed against you, his heavy frame pinning you into the pool table, his ragged breathing echoing the frantic rhythm you’d just shared. He stayed there, buried deep inside you, his chest heaving against your back as he rode out the waves of his own release.
The silence in the room felt heavy, punctuated only by your ragged, uneven breathing and the frantic pounding of your heart. You were still sprawled across the green felt, your legs trembling so violently you couldn't pull them together if you tried. Every nerve ending felt raw, hypersensitive, and completely electrified.
Cook pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving, his hair matted against his forehead. The cocky, predatory smile that defined him was wider than you had ever seen it—a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. He’d taken everything from you, and he looked like he’d do it all over again without a second's hesitation.
He reached out, his hand—rough, calloused, and still slick with the evidence of what you’d just shared—and cupped your cheek with surprising, jarring gentleness. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made you feel completely undone.
"Happy birthday, luv," he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sounded impossibly proud.
You could only gasp, your lungs struggling to find air, your mind reeling from the sheer intensity of the experience. The reality of it—the pain, the pleasure, the way he had completely claimed you—washed over you in waves.
You blinked up at him, your cheeks burning with a deep, shy flush that wouldn't fade, even as you realized the life-changing permanence of the last few minutes. James "Cook" had claimed your virginity, and looking at him—so arrogant, so satisfied, so completely him—you realized that no party, no gift, and no celebration would ever compare to this.
What a hell of a birthday party it had turned out to be.
✨✨cat (this one looks almost identical to mine🥹), rosy maple moth, mouse✨✨
no pressure tags: @cuntbitchandthebottlemen @quietchaosclub @scalpdisease @crowsberries (so sorry for any unwanted/repeat tags, pls ignore if that’s the case!!)
i know you just listed it as an example, but would you be willing to actually write cook in the twilight universe?👀 my two worlds would be colliding then
Writing this has been so much fun. It honestly feels like I've drained every drop of my creative blood into this. The only problem I had was deciding whether Cook should be a werewolf or a vampire.
Scroll down to see which one won. Much love. ♡
The rain in Forks wasn't the way you'd imagined it.
Back in Sacramento, watching it through your bedroom window, it had seemed soft and almost comforting.
Here, it was relentless. Cold rain soaked through your jacket in minutes, and every tree, rock, and rooftop was covered in moss so green it almost looked unreal.
"Charlie says you're staying through graduation," Bella said, not quite looking at you as she drove her ancient truck toward the house.
Your half-sister had always been like this—quiet and guarded, like she was carrying around secrets she'd never say out loud. You'd only seen each other a handful of times: at your mom's funeral and again at Renee's second wedding.
You were the product of Charlie's first marriage, the forgotten daughter who'd stayed with her mother in California while Bella got the picturesque childhood in Washington.
"Just until I figure out my next move," you said, watching the trees blur past. "The city got… loud."
Bella's hands tightened on the wheel. "Forks is quiet. Maybe too quiet."
You almost laughed. You didn't know it yet, but quiet was the last thing this town was about to become.
The first time you saw him, you were in the Thriftway on Main Street, buying supplies for Charlie's kitchen because the man lived on frozen pizza and regret.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as you reached for the last carton of eggs, your fingers brushing against someone else's.
"Sorry," you mumbled, looking up.
He didn't look like he belonged in Forks.
He looked like he'd been teleported from a Manchester rave circa 2007—disheveled dark brown hair that fell into sharp blue eyes, a leather jacket that cost more than Charlie's boat, and a smile that was all teeth and trouble.
"Nah, you have 'em, love," he said, and his voice was smoke and honey, distinctly British, distinctly wrong for the Olympic Peninsula. "Not like I eat 'em anyway."
Something in the way he looked at you made your skin prickle. Not fear, exactly. Recognition, maybe. Like he was seeing something in you that you couldn't see in yourself.
"You're new," you said, stupidly.
"Just passing through." His gaze dropped to your throat, then flicked back up with practiced casualness. "Tracking something. Someone."
You should have run then.
Every instinct screamed that this beautiful stranger was a predator, that his casual lean against the dairy case was a pose, that his stillness was inhuman.
But you were tired, and you were lonely, and his smile was the first interesting thing you'd seen since you'd arrived.
"James," he said, extending a hand. "James Cook."
"Y/N," you replied, shaking it. His skin was marble-cold.
"Pretty name," he said, and his thumb brushed your pulse point. "Pretty everything."
You didn't tell Bella about him. You couldn't have explained why—some intuition that your sister, who'd been acting strange since you'd arrived, would know exactly what James Cook was and would try to keep you away from him.
But James found you anyway.
It became a pattern.
He'd appear at the diner when you were nursing coffee at 2 AM, unable to sleep. He'd be leaning against your car in the school parking lot when you went to pick Bella up. He never ate, never drank, never seemed to feel the cold in that thin jacket.
And he always looked at you like you were the answer to a question he was dying to ask.
"You're following me," you said one night, standing outside the library in the mist. You'd grown bold around him, reckless in the way that only lonely people can be with dangerous things.
"Occupational hazard," James said, lighting a cigarette he didn't smoke, just watching the cherry glow. "I'm very good at finding people. It's my gift, yeah? I can trace things. Scents, bloodlines, potentials."
"That sounds like serial killer talk."
He laughed, sharp and genuine. "Worse, love. Much worse." He stepped closer, and you didn't step back. "I'm Volturi. Do you know what that means?"
You shook your head.
"Vampire royalty. Enforcers. The ones who keep our kind in line." He said it casually, like he was discussing his job at a bank. "And I've been tracking you for three months, Y/N. From California to this godforsaken rainy shithole."
Your heart hammered. "That's not funny."
"Never is, is it?" His eyes were black now, pupils blown wide, and you could see the monster beneath the beautiful boy. "Your sister—Bella—she's got special blood. Makes her irresistible to our kind. A singer, they call it. But you…" He reached out, his cold fingers tilting your chin up. "You're something else entirely. Your blood doesn't just sing, love. It heals."
You tried to pull away, but his grip was iron.
"Do you know what that's worth to vampires? To be cured of the thirst? To feel human again, if only for a moment?" His voice had gone soft, almost reverent. "One drop of your blood can calm the monster. One mouthful could probably cure the venom entirely. You're not just a singer, Y/N. You're a bloody miracle."
"Let me go," you whispered.
"Can't," he said, but his grip loosened. "See, here's the problem. I was sent here to bring you to Italy. Aro wants to study you. Maybe keep you as a pet. Maybe drain you dry to see what happens." He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. "But I don't think I will."
"Why not?"
"Because," he said, stepping back, his eyes clearing to that devastating blue, "I think I'm in love with you. And I'm selfish enough to want to keep you for myself."
The next week was a blur of stolen moments and terrible revelations.
James told you everything—the Cullens, Bella's vampire boyfriend, the supernatural war brewing because your sister's boyfriend's family had broken the rules.
He told you about the Volturi's interest in Forks, how they'd sent him because he was the best tracker they had, how he'd been supposed to report back the moment he confirmed what you were.
Instead, he taught you how to run.
"You're not safe here," he said one night, watching you pack a bag in Charlie's darkened house.
Bella was out with Edward, oblivious to the fact that her long-lost sister was about to disappear with a Volturi guard.
"Aro won't stop. Even if I don't take you, he'll send others. Demetri. Jane. You don't want to meet Jane."
"So what do I do?"
James leaned against the doorframe, looking for all the world like the bad boy from a teen drama rather than a centuries-old killer. "You come with me, love. We disappear. I know places the Volturi can't reach."
"You're asking me to trust a vampire who admitted he was sent to kidnap me."
"I'm asking you to trust the vampire who's choosing you over his own coven," he said quietly. "I've never chosen anything good in my life, Y/N. I've killed, I've betrayed, I've been the worst kind of monster. But when I tracked you—when I found you in that shitty apartment in Sacramento crying over your mum's things—I saw something worth saving. Worth being saved for."
You looked at him—the sharp angles of his face, the vulnerability in his eyes that no predator should have, the way his hands trembled slightly when they weren't touching you.
"One condition," you said.
"Anything."
"You don't drink from me. Not ever. If my blood can cure you, I want it to be your choice to stay a monster. Not because I fixed you."
James Cook—reckless, impossible James—knelt on the worn carpet of your childhood bedroom and took your hand as though it was something precious.
"Deal, love. Though you're making it very hard to be good."
Outside, the endless Forks rain drummed against the windows.
Inside, your decision was already made. You chose the beautiful, impossible boy with an uncanny gift for tracking and a conscience that was as unpredictable as the weather.
You were choosing to be more than Bella Swan's half-sister, more than a walking cure, more than a victim of your own blood.
You were choosing to run.
And as James's cold hand found yours in the dark, you realized that maybe—just maybe—you were also choosing to live.
SEND YOUR REQUESTS HERE
the way i SCREECHED at the ending. this movie is literally stitched into my dna at this point. i've watched it a hundred times and it'll never stop being my comfort movie. ALSO james cook as an ancient vampire??? you're telling me that wouldn't be the hottest most unhinged thing ever??? remmick vibes fr.
prompt : finding a somewhat private area at a fancy party to fuck (coat closet, empty office, secluded corner on the big balcony, hedge maze if we wanna get dramatic, etc)
RAHH FARMER REMMICK yes yes yes. i did change it from a hedge maze to a corn maze to fit the scene !
ᰋ ˓ . contents. semi-public sex / risk of getting caught, oral sex / messy blowjob, throatfucking, gagging, spit, cum swallowing, size kink, shy!remmick, whiny!remmick, praise kink, light teasing. mdni 18+
“Darlin’—fuck, darlin’, your mouth,” Remmick whines, way past holding his tongue on curses, his big hand trembling against the side of your face as his cock slides heavy over your tongue, the broad head drooling a steady pulse of salty precum that coats your tastebuds.
Which, first of all, is rich coming from him.
This is the same man who had spent most of the afternoon standing around his folks’ backyard barbecue looking like he had never had a filthy thought in his life.
All shy smiles, pink ears, work-worn hands wrapped around a sweating glass of sweet tea while his mama told somebody from church that her boy was still “a little bashful around pretty girls.”
A little bashful.
Cute, really.
Especially considering that same bashful boy is currently tucked between two rows of tall corn with his jeans shoved open, belt hanging loose, shirt rucked up just enough to show the dark trail of sweat-damp hair under his belly button, and his cock forcing your mouth open so wide your lips feel stretched to their limit.
Very wholesome. Very family barbecue appropriate.
The corn maze was technically for the kids, but in your defense, the kids were busy throwing bean bags by the porch, and Remmick had been looking at your mouth across the yard like he wanted to climb out of his own skin.
You could only be expected to behave so much.
There were paper plates, folding chairs, somebody’s aunt fanning herself with a napkin, his daddy manning the smoker, and Remmick turning red every time your tongue slipped over your straw.
So, really, who could blame you?
Not you, that’s for damn sure.
Now you’re on your knees in the dirt, one hand wrapped tight around the thick base of his cock, the other curled around his tense thigh as spit slicks down your chin and makes a mess of your chest. You still can’t take all of him without your throat fighting it, and he keeps trying to apologize for it like that isn’t half the reason you dragged him out here in the first place.
“I’m sorry,” he pants, voice breaking as the head of his cock nudges the back of your throat. “Shit, baby, I’m sorry, you’re just—ohhh fuck, you’re takin’ me so good.”
The praise makes you hum around him, and Remmick nearly loses his knees.
The pride of somebody’s little southern town, reduced to gripping corn stalks because your lips are wrapped around his cock ten yards away from the potato salad. His hips twitch forward before he can stop himself, pushing in deeper, and you gag so prettily around him that his whole body jerks.
“Oh, Christ,” he chokes, looking down at you with wide eyes.
The second you blink up at him through watery lashes and deliberately relax your throat to take him deeper, Remmick makes a noise so desperate and broken it belongs in a confession booth.
His thumb strokes your cheek like he’s trying to be sweet about it, like there’s anything sweet about the wet, choking sounds your mouth is making or the way your throat keeps tightening every time he slips too far.
You pull off just enough to breathe, strings of spit clinging from your swollen lips to the flushed head of his cock, and his eyes drop to the mess with a look so stunned you almost laugh. His cock bobs in the air between you, heavy and angry-red, another bead of precum welling at the slit and sliding down the veined underside while you stroke him slow with your spit-slick hand.
“Look at you all shy,” you murmur, stroking him slow with your spit-slick hand.
Remmick’s face goes so red you’d think you’d slapped him. “Baby,” he whines, and there’s something so good about hearing that soft, embarrassed plea while his cock twitches in your hand.
“What?” you hum, batting your lashes like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing. “You want me to stop?”
His answer comes too fast, too honest. “No.”
You smile, and take him back into your mouth before he can feel too embarrassed about admitting it.
His hand finally settles at the back of your head, resting there with his fingers shaking like he wants to guide you and is too polite to be honest about it.
So you make it easy for him.
You press forward until your throat works around the head of him, gagging softly as your nose nearly brushes the hair at his base. He smells like sun-warmed skin and barbecue smoke and pure, desperate arousal, and it makes your head spin. Remmick’s hips buck, rougher this time, and the sound of your throat catching around him goes straight to the heat between your thighs.
Somewhere beyond the corn, someone laughs loud enough to remind you both that his whole family is still eating barbecue in the yard.
That should probably slow you down, but it doesn’t. If anything, the risk makes it hotter, makes you hollow your cheeks and suck harder, bobbing your head in short, sloppy strokes that have spit bubbling at the corners of your stretched lips.
Remmick realizes it too, because his grip tightens in your hair and his gaze darts toward the open end of the row before snapping back down to you, flushed and panicked and so turned on he looks like he might cry.
“Gonna get us caught,” he breathes, even as his hips rock forward again.
You hum around him again, and that’s the last of his manners.
Remmick starts fucking your mouth in short, desperate little thrusts, messy enough that your throat keeps catching around him and your eyes keep watering.
Your hand works what you can’t fit, slicking him up with every stroke, and his cock feels impossibly heavy on your tongue, pulsing every time you gag. His balls are drawn up tight, tapping against your chin on the deeper pushes.
“Good girl,” he whimpers, and then seems personally embarrassed that he said it so loud. “Sh—I’m sorry, I just—your mouth feels so good. So good, darlin’, you’re perfect. You’re perfect.”
Remmick’s hand tightens on your nape, his stomach flexing hard under the bunched-up hem of his shirt, and his hips stutter like his body is trying to decide between pulling away and burying himself deeper.
He chooses wrong. Or right. Depends on who you ask.
You take him until you gag again, and his cock throbs hard against your tongue.
“I’m gonna come,” he gasps, voice cracking into something downright pathetic. “Baby, wait, I’m—oh God, don’t stop. Please don’t stop.”
You hollow your cheeks, stroke him faster, and look up at him just in time to watch his face fall apart.
Remmick comes with a broken, keening whine, hips jerking forward in short, uncontrolled spasms as the first thick, hot spurt of cum hits the back of your throat. It’s a lot—pent up from hours of teasing and shy looks across the yard—and it floods your mouth in heavy, salty pulses.
You swallow around him greedily, throat working to milk every drop, sucking through every pulse, tongue pressed flat against the underside of his cock, until his thighs are shaking violently under your hands and his breathing has gone ragged and broken.
He tries to pull back out of some last-minute gentlemanly panic, but you don’t let him. For a man who was worried about being heard, he’s doing a terrible job of being quiet.
You keep your mouth sealed around him, sucking him through the oversensitive aftershocks until he’s whimpering softly, his cock twitching weakly against your tongue as you lick the last dribbles from the slit.
When you finally let him slip from your mouth, he stares down at you like you’ve ruined his life in the best possible way.
Your lips are swollen, your chin is wet, and there’s dirt on your knees while his cock gives one weak little twitch against your palm like it is just as stupid as the rest of him.
You wipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, smiling up at him. “You good?”
Remmick swallows, glancing toward the barbecue like he only just remembered his mama exists.
“I’m gonna need a minute,” he rasps, voice hoarse and fucked-out.
You glance pointedly at his still-open jeans, then back up at his wrecked face. “A minute to tuck yourself away, or a minute because you’re gonna get hard again if I keep looking at you?”
His blush comes back immediately.
God bless him.
“Both,” he mutters, and somehow, that might be the filthiest thing he’s said all day.
Requests are available to join the JOC Archive Server❗️
A little while ago I mentioned about a Jack Archives discord server. Today's the day where a link is available to request to join. The link will be available for a limited time and will expire after a set amount of time. This will be the first round to see how many are interested.
I know the title says it's an archive server. And yes, that is the first and foremost part of it, but it is also a community with a place to hang out as well.
A few reminders:
The server is still being updated and filled with content. But there is enough there that I feel comfortable letting people in.
Please follow the rules and steps. There is a bit of a process as I tried to make this as organized as I can.
Not every request will be accepted. There can be any number of reasons why someone gets rejected. Don't take it personally.
Pink and purple neon sliced through the smoke, stinging my eyes. The world had technically ended twenty-eight years ago when the Bone Temple exploded, but now? Now, things were just mixed. Cybernetic monstrosities, rogue robots, and retinal scanners shared the streets with the infected, who were bought and sold like slabs of meat. In the middle of this beautiful, chaotic hell, there was me. Sunshine.
I didn't remember where I came from or how I survived. All I knew was that the devils ruled this crazy cyber world. And he was the worst of them. Jimmy Crystal. Oh, pardon me. Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal. He demanded the full title, always.
I worked as a stripper at the Glass Glass, the only club left that featured real, breathing human dancers instead of cold, hollow holograms. Humanity was scarce, but people still needed to feel. They needed to touch. Jimmy was no exception.
The rumors said he belonged to some twisted cult, that he danced with Old Nick himself, and carried a mountain of bodies on his conscience. I didn't care. He gave me good tips, and in this world, that’s what kept you alive. Sure, he was eccentric—stalking around in a purple velour tracksuit, dripping in heavy gold necklaces, rings on every finger, and a literal tiara perched on his blonde hair. The other girls were terrified of him, of his erratic moods and that sharp, sadistic smile. But I wasn't. My kindness seemed to be the only thing that could anchor a monster like him. Whenever his heavy boots stepped into the club, his raw Scottish accent would echo over the bass: “Sunshine, lass.”
Until tonight.
Tonight, the Glass Glass was wild. I gripped the chrome pole, sliding down it with a slow, practiced grind. The cyber-mirrors were active, broadcasting my silhouette to the patrons.
Ding. Ding.
A high-roller token hit the stage. A half-cybernetic corpo rat in a synthetic tie was staring at me, drooling. I stepped closer, biting my lip provocatively, letting the neon catch the curves of my body. Dropping to my knees, I arched my back and began to shake my ass, slow and hypnotic. I giggled at the sheer desperation in his eyes.
"Enjoying the show?" I purred.
Before he could answer, the air in the room shifted. Cold. Violent.
"Not as much as you're going to enjoy mine, lass."
The raw, Scottish growl cut through the music like a blade. I spun around, my heart leaping into my throat.
The corpo rat was already on the floor. Jimmy had smashed his face into the cyber-mirror. Blood and shattered glass spilled from the man’s nose and cheeks, mixing with the neon light on the floor. The man groaned, but Jimmy didn't even look down at him. He just wiped a drop of rogue blood off his gold rings, his piercing eyes locked entirely on me.
I swallowed hard, the heat of the stage suddenly turning into ice. The crowd in the immediate area went dead silent, stepping back. Nobody intervened when Sir Lord Jimmy Crystal was on a tear.
"Jimmy..." I breathed, my chest heaving as I stayed on my knees, looking up at him.
He stepped over the groaning corpo rat, his heavy boots leaving bloody prints on the stage. The gold chains around his neck clinked musically, a stark contrast to the absolute fury rolling off him. He stopped right at the edge of the stage, towering over me. He tilted his head, the tiara catching the purple neon.
"What did I tell ye about shakin' what’s mine for the trash, Sunshine?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft, dripping with that thick Scottish brogue. He reached out, his gloved hand gripping my chin tightly, forcing my face up. His thumb pressed hard against my bottom lip, right where I had bitten it for the other man. "You look at me like that. Only me. Understand?"
I shuddered, the dominance in his voice sending a thrilling, terrifying spike of adrenaline through my veins. I was entirely at his mercy here, exposed and submissive under his heavy gaze.
"I was just doing my job, Sir," I whispered, playing into the game, my voice trembling just enough to feed his ego.
A dark, slow smile spread across Jimmy’s face. He liked the title. He liked the fear, but more than that, he liked the absolute control he had over me.
"Your job is to please me," he murmured, his grip softening just a fraction, tracing my jawline with a gold-ringed finger. He reached into his pocket and tossed a thick stack of high-value cyber-credits onto my lap, burying me in wealth. "Clean yourself up, lass. You're coming to my private room. And you're going to remind me why I haven't burned this entire club to the ground yet."
I swallowed hard, my throat feelin' dry as I stared at the shimmerin' pink glass of the private chamber’s entrance. I stepped inside, the air suddenly thick and heavy. Jimmy was there, sprawled across the plush velvet sofa, a crystal glass of amber alcohol in his hand. He didn’t look up immediately, but the atmosphere in the room shifted the moment I crossed the threshold.
I moved to the center, wrappin' my hands around the cold metal of the private dance pole.
Finally, his eyes flicked to mine. That sadistic, lopsided smile slid across his face.
"Ye’re a real piece of work, Sunshine," he rumbled, his thick Scottish accent rollin' over the words like gravel. "Dancin’ for other men? Right in front o' me? Have ye no sense o' shame, lass?"
"I… uh… I…" My heart hammered against my ribs. "It wasn’t like that, Sir."
Jimmy’s brow furrowed, his expression darkenin' into somethin' predatory. He tossed his drink aside, the glass rattlin' on the table.
"Not like that? Then what was it, eh? Enlighten me, if ye think ye can talk your way out o' this."
I didn't answer with words. I gripped the pole, locked my gaze onto his, and dropped low, lettin' my hips sway in a slow, hypnotic rhythm. I knew the white fishnets were a weakness of his—I saw his pupils dilate as he watched the movement.
A guttural, aggressive groan ripped from his throat. In a flash, he was off the sofa, his hands latchin' onto my waist with bruisin' force. He hauled me off the pole and slammed me down onto his lap. I let out a sharp, involuntary moan, my hands flyin' to his shoulders.
He didn't waste a second. His hand shot up, fingers closin' around my throat—not hard enough to choke, but enough to claim ownership. I could feel his hot, ragged breath against my skin, smellin' of spirits and smoke. He leaned in, his tongue tracin' a slow, wet line from my collarbone up to my jaw, his eyes burnin' with a mix of madness and hunger.
Then, with a blur of motion, he pulled a jagged blade from his tracksuit and held it right before my face, the metal glintin' under the pink neon.
"Old Nick was whisperin' in my ear," he growled, his voice a gravelly, terrifyin' purr against my ear. "Told me I oughta carve ye up for the disrespect, lass. Told me to let the blood flow for the sins ye've committed tonight."
He let the blade hover just millimeters from my cheek, his thumb caressin' my skin with terrifyin' tenderness.
"But I’m a merciful king, aye? And I’ve got other plans for ye tonight."
He crushed his lips to mine, the kiss hungry, sloppy, and tasting of expensive, bitter spirits. It wasn't a gentle greeting; it was a territorial claim.
"Mphm!"
I choked on a gasp as his hand tightened around my throat, his grip unforgiving. My eyes flew open, locking with his—his gaze was wild, manic, and absolutely possessive. He pulled back just an inch, his eyes raking over my flushed face.
"Wet," he murmured, his Scottish lilt thick and guttural, vibrating against my skin. "Aye, you’re very wet, aren't ye, lass?"
Before I could breathe, he slid a gold-ringed finger into the tight line of my panties. He didn't stop there. With a sudden, savage movement, he grabbed the blade he’d been brandishing and hooked the tip into the lace at my hip. With one clean, aggressive pull, he tore the white fishnet and the lace beneath it, exposing me to the cold air of the private room.
He didn't stop; he ran the flat, cold side of the knife blade slowly down the sensitive skin between my legs, tracing the shape of me until he reached the lace again, pressing the metal firmly against me.
"You’ve been a bad, bad girl," he growled, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that made my blood run cold and hot all at once.
"And you know well that when a lass acts out, she deserves a punishment."
He leaned in close, his nose brushing against mine, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic, twisted pleasure.
"Please, Sir..." I gasped, my voice trembling, tears pricking at my eyes from the sheer intensity of the sensation. "I... I’ll never do that again, I swear..."
He jammed the dull, cold steel of the blade between my legs, and a sharp, shuddering moan tore from my chest. My fingers dug deep into his velvet-clad shoulders, my knuckles turning white as I fought to steady myself against his relentless dominance.
Jimmy let out a harsh, jagged laugh, his eyes darkening with a feverish, cruel delight. He leaned in, his stubble grazing my ear as he whispered, "Oh, aye? You’re beggin’ now, are ye? I love that, lass. I love hearin’ you plead when you know you’re mine."
He held the handle of the knife with a steady, practiced hand, the cold metal shifting inside me. He began to twist it, the flat, rounded pommel of the blade pressing firmly against my sensitive folds, working them in a rhythmic, deliberate massage that forced me to arch my back against him. Every time I whimpered, he’d press harder, his thumb tracing the lace he’d torn, ensuring I couldn't escape his touch.
"You’re beggin’ like a good little thing," he crooned, his Scottish brogue thick and syrupy, dripping with malice and desire. "But you know the rules, Sunshine. A dance for another man... that’s a debt you’ve gotta pay. And I’m the only one who collects."
He increased the pressure of the blade, his movements becoming more frantic and demanding. The contrast between the cold metal and the heat of his skin against mine was maddening, leaving me completely undone.
"Does it feel good, being broken in, lass?" he growled against my neck, his hot breath sending shivers down my spine.
-You think you can dance for others huh? Your mine!
“Yes, yes Sir” - I moaned loudly and started bucking my hips into a blade. It was a strange cold feeling but I liked it.
My eyes were open when he dig not one not two, but three fingers inside you and burred them deep
"Yes... yes, Sir!" I shrieked, the sound muffled by my own gasps as I began to buck my hips against the rhythmic slide of the steel. It was a bizarre, chilling sensation—that razor-cold metal tracing my heat—but it sparked a fire in me that I couldn't extinguish.
Jimmy’s eyes widened, his nostrils flaring as he watched me fall apart for him. He moved faster, his movements jagged and unrelenting. To get better access, he splayed me wide with his gold-ringed fingers, his grip bruising against my inner thighs.
SLAP.
The sharp, stinging impact of his open palm against my sensitive skin made me cry out, my head whipping back.
"Count, lass," he hissed, his Scottish accent like a serrated blade. "Count the payment for your sin."
"O-one," I sobbed, my voice trembling.
He struck me again, harder, the heat radiating where he hit. "Two."
With every strike, the contrast between the freezing blade and the burning sting of his palm sent waves of liquid pleasure through me. I was melting, my body betraying me, soaking the velvet of his tracksuit. By the time I reached ten, the world was a blur of neon and pain. Tears tracked through my smudged mascara, leaving dark, ruined streaks down my cheeks.
"Good girl," he growled, the praise dripping with possessive malice. "Now... come for me."
I didn't have to be told twice. My control shattered. But Jimmy wasn't finished with the game. Just as I crested, he shoved not one, not two, but three of his fingers deep inside me, burying them to the knuckles, anchoring me to his lap. He felt me spasm and collapse around him, a shuddering, ruined mess.
He leaned forward, his face inches from mine, his blue eyes icy and burning with a terrifying, absolute claim.
"You think you can dance for another, eh?" he whispered, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that echoed in my bones. "You think you’re free to be looked at by the likes of that rat?"
He twisted his fingers inside me, making me gasp and arch my back.
"Look at me, Sunshine. Keep your eyes on me! You’re mine. My little toy, my little prize
He didn't slow his pace; if anything, he became more relentless, his fingers pumping in and out of me with a rhythmic, demanding force that left me gasping for air. The sensation was overwhelming, a tidal wave of friction and heat that climbed higher and higher until my head fell back, my eyelids fluttering toward the white, and my vision splintered into shards of neon light.
"Look at ye," he rasped, his Scottish brogue thick with a mix of cruel adoration and unbridled lust. "Like a fallen angel, darlin'. Old Nick himself would love ya, aye... he'd love to drag a prize like you down to the depths."
I couldn't help the sound that tore from my throat—a shattered, broken moan that echoed against the small, cramped walls of the room. The tide of pleasure hit me, a violent, electric surge that radiated from where his fingers were buried deep inside. I lost all ability to hold myself together; my body began to tremble, every muscle locked in a frantic, uncontrollable spasm.
"Oh yes! Oh, yeeeeees!" I cried out, my voice cracking under the intensity.
Jimmy’s expression shifted, his face twisting into a mask of triumph as he watched me completely unravel. He didn't pull back—he pressed deeper, feeding on my reaction, drinking in the sight of his "Sunshine" broken and gasping on his lap. He thrived on it, the way I completely surrendered to the punishment and the pleasure alike.
"That's it, lass," he growled, his voice a low, vibrating rumble against my skin. "Give it all to me.
He didn't give me a moment to catch my breath. His fingers coiled into my hair, pulling sharply until my head tilted back, exposing my throat to him. He dragged me off the sofa and across the floor, forcing me onto the small, circular platform at the base of the pole.
When the haze of the orgasm finally started to recede, I cracked my eyes open. His purple velour jacket lay on the floor, and his white tank top was damp with exertion. His trousers were slung dangerously low, exposing the raw, thick dick. I wasn't sure if my body could handle more, but the electric charge between us was intoxicating. Even through the fear, a desperate, dark craving pulsed in my stomach, demanding more of his sadistic attention.
"Do the pose," he rasped. His Scottish brogue was heavy, thick with the weight of his command.
My knees hit the platform with a dull thud. I reached up, my palms sliding against the cold metal of the pole, and twisted my torso. I arched my spine, letting my weight shift until my curves were perfectly displayed for him. I felt like a sacrificial offering, waiting for the blade.
Jimmy loomed over me, his silhouette casting a long, jagged shadow across the neon-soaked room. He paced slowly, He didn't touch me yet; he simply let his gaze crawl over the reddened skin of my inner thighs and the ruined lace of my lingerie.
"Aye, look at ye," he murmured, his voice a low, vibrating growl that seemed to echo inside my very bones. "A broken little doll, waitin' to be told her worth."
He stepped between my splayed legs, his knees pinning my thighs into the platform. He reached out, his calloused palm tracing the line of my hipbone, his heavy gold rings scraping ever so slightly against my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake.
He tightened his grip on my hair just enough to command my absolute attention.
"Look at me," he demanded, his blue eyes flashing with a terrifying, possessive intensity.
The friction was maddening, his heavy, thick cock stretching me to my absolute limit. I gasped as he hit every sensitive pussy nerve, his rhythm brutal and calculated. He knew exactly how to make me unravel, and I loved every agonizing second of it.
He lunged forward, teeth baring as he sank them into the soft skin of my shoulder. The sting was electric—a sharp, searing heat—and before the pain could even register, I felt his tongue dragging over the puncture, lapping up the tiny, crimson beads of blood. The taste of copper and sweat was intoxicating. His pace accelerated, his hips slamming into mine with a relentless, mechanical force. My body was a ruin of pleasure, my walls spasming and hungrily swallowing him, clutching at him as if I couldn't bear to let him out.
"Aye, that's it, lass!" he growled, his voice a guttural, primal sound vibrating against my neck. "Swallow it all! You’re mine, you hear me? Only mine!"
The room blurred. The pink and purple neons danced behind my eyelids, dissolving into white-hot flashes. I couldn't stop the moans; they ripped from my throat, raw, sloppy, and unbidden. My head was spinning as his pace became manic, a desperate, driving rhythm that left me no room to breathe.
Suddenly, he gripped my hips, his gold-ringed fingers digging into my flesh, and he thrust deep, burying himself to the hilt. A low, animalistic snarl tore from his chest as he surged, spilling his white sperm into me, filling me until I felt like I was being claimed from the inside out. I collapsed against the pole, my knees giving out as a tidal wave of pleasure shattered what was left of my composure.
He didn't pull away. He held me pinned, his chest heaving, his breath ragged and hot against my ear. As his pulse began to slow, he leaned in, his lips wet and stained, and pressed a firm, territorial kiss against the mark he’d left on my shoulder.
He pulled back just enough to catch my gaze in the cyber-mirror. His face was a mask of dark, triumphant hunger, his eyes burning with an icy, possessive flame. He reached down and roughly dragged his discarded purple velour jacket off the floor, wrapping it around my shoulders, effectively cocooning me in his scent—the smell of expensive alcohol, steel, and him.
He swept me up into his arms, ignoring the mess we’d made, ignoring the club outside.
He buried his face into the crook of my neck, his hand clamping onto the base of my skull with a cruel, possessive force that left no room for resistance. Im his Lilith, His my Devil. And Lord have mercy. I burn the whole world after him.
Sometimes I feel like all fic writers and readers are at am academy and we all have cozy dorms and our houses are dependent on the types of fics we write and our majors are our primary characters we wrote about and now I want to create this
Tags: Doctor/Patient, Pelvic Massage, Hand & Finger Kink, Vaginal Fingering, Penis In Vagina Sex, Unsafe Sex, Medical Kink, Post-Canon, Healing Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Cunnilingus, Medical Jargon, Tragic Backstory, Hopeful Ending, Smoking, Female Reader-Insert, Infidelity, Fingers in Mouth, Quiet Sex, Masturbation, References to Illness, Past Violence, Mouth Kink, Come Swallowing, The Shitty Husband Dies, Wakes & Funerals, Pining, Matchmaking, Sharing Clothes, Mention of Purging, Pillow Talk, Marriage Proposal, Happy Ending
Words: 10,777 (total words: 20,809)
Chapter: 3/3 (read chapter 1 | 2)
read chapter 3 on ao3 here (or below the cut) and the full story here
Just as Patrick promised, his visits are frequent over the following days. Due to your husband’s steadily declining health, however, they do not take the shape either of you expected.
He is actively dying, Patrick shares in the brief moments he is allowed to address you. Impending death, it turns out, requires thorough and careful attention, and so you must cling to the one brief but intoxicating kiss Patrick is able to steal from you over the course of these long, tense days.
You're unready for the chaos, and for Patrick's focus to be wholly devoted to the man you've come to despise most. Catching glimpses of him at work is a thrill, though it's hardly enough to satisfy your longing when you've had much more pleasurable and engaging activities in mind. Perhaps your preparations have not been so complete as you'd thought.
It's all a bit easier to endure knowing that very soon, you'll be returning to the office in Patrick's beautiful flat for your second appointment with him, where you'll have all of the privacy in the world to indulge in every desire with him, free from the prying eyes and listening ears of your household. You anticipate this without a shred of guilt, knowing the good doctor has the power to heal you the whole of you—mind, body, and spirit.
So, when your mother-in-law raps, urgent and uneven, upon the door of your bedchamber early the morning of this next session, dread fills you right to the marrow. You know he's gone.
This is what you wanted, isn't it? But why has it had to happen just now?
You open your door for her, seeing the grief writ upon her face in her ruddy, tear-streaked cheeks and downturned, quivering grimace, and as she sobs, there's no doubting what has happened. Her sorrow is so forceful that you, too, find yourself weeping for her loss, your own relief entirely swept aside for the moment. For the very first time, you embrace her thin, frail figure.
You half-expect her to push you away, to attempt to maintain some sense of propriety, but it's evident she needs this. Perhaps you do as well. Together, you cry, and squeeze, and whisper cooed reassurances. Though you do not share the cause of her grief, you can't help but commiserate deeply.
It's the closest you've ever been with her. The catharsis is immense. Perhaps you do have a friend in this world beyond the handsome doctor who’s reignited your soul and reminded you what joy could look like.
Maybe it's foolish, but you voice this sentiment.
“I am so sorry for your loss, Mutter,” you whisper in your country's tongue. “I, too, am aching. But we have each other now, at the very least.”
You hope this is not awkward. You've never addressed your Schwiegermutter directly before, and are not sure if Mutter is overly familiar, given the strain and distance of your connection.
“Please, daughter,” she answers, your heart feeling tighter even as it lightens. “Please call me Silvestrine. Or even Mama. Your words soothe me.”
“Yes, Mama.” You smile, even as more tears fall. It's been so long since you addressed your own Mama that the name aches even as it warms you.
Her son would have never allowed this when he was alive. In an instant, you recognise the intentional wedge he drove between you, keeping you, who lost your mother in youth, and she, who never bore a daughter, from ever creating a sense of kinship.
Once you've both calmed somewhat, the real work begins. It comes as a relief that Silvestrine is experienced in such matters. She sends out the servants to notify the relevant parties and fetch the needed help.
Meanwhile, the two of you sit and wait, your roles in society immutably altered for the next year, or more, as you enter deep mourning.
The first to arrive is a doctor to issue the death certificate. You observe him from your distance before he disappears into your late husband’s bedroom while wishing things were different—that it could be Patrick, come to see to the man now he was gone, so he could then come to see you—but he is not licenced here to handle this delicate issue.
Next come the dressmaker and milliner, who in stark contrast, come directly to find you and Silvestrine. They bring with them chests of dresses and bolts of fabrics and veils, all in a stark, stifling black you dread the thought of wearing. Only one day would be bad enough. You're to be seen in them for a year, at the very least.
And worse, despite the wealth of choice in fabrics—you’re drawn to the comfortable simplicity of the cottons and wools—the dressmaker will not accept your investment in anything but the bombasine. She says this heavy, silky matte fabric is the proper symbol of grief for a woman of your status, with its dull texture and lack of shine, and that nothing less will do.
It takes a long while for you to be fitted and for the alterations to be made. Come noon, the air is filled with the musical, clanging bells of the nearby church. They toll three times in your husband’s honour, and then three more, and three more. That goes on for an hour, and you're surprised at the sense of reassurance that fills your heart, renewing your courage, even as the dressmaker frets and chides you for not standing perfectly still. Others will know of the death by now. That makes it real. Means that, little by little, you're moving forward.
Despite your protestations, you're coerced into purchasing a few of these dresses, paired with black crape weeper veils that entirely obscure your face. On one hand, you are grateful you'll be masked, and free from feigning some deep emotion on your husband's behalf. On the other, you find the stiff, textured fabric uncomfortable after just moments of wear, and it feels purposefully designed to make everyday matters more challenging than they already are for a grieving widow.
Then, there's the cost. Silvestrine tells you not to concern yourself, that she is ready to pay any price related to mourning dress, but the expense still pains you. The finances are another aspect of your marriage you've never been allowed to oversee.
You know you're entitled, at least, to certain privileges under the law. You hold firmly to that knowledge, understanding this—a place to live, and a meager rental income—may be all you have.
You and Silvestrine secret yourselves away in your ugly new gowns as the commotion continues downstairs, with servants and clergymen organising the parlour for the wake that will begin the following morning, and stretch on for two days. You're not to mingle with the visitors when they come, as new widows and the mothers of the deceased are expected to be overly emotional, and to show unbecoming feeling would be a disgrace.
You also find yourself surprised there is no succinct German compound word for Silvestrine’s position—a mother who's lost her child. Now more than ever, she deserves a title befitting her poise and bravery, in spite of her loss.
It's strange to imagine that the coffin there houses the body of the man who kept you so unhappy for such a time. The lid remains closed, per tradition, which is a small blessing. No acquaintance should have to lay eyes upon his bloating, discoloured corpse. No one who held any admiration for him should have their memory tainted with the truth of his transformed visage.
And Silvestrine, it turns out, does not want to speak of her son. Perhaps the wound of his loss remains too fresh.
She shows a genuine curiosity about you, and you speak conversationally for the first time. Mostly, she's curious about your mother, and the memories of her you hold most dear. She's gentle and contemplative as you speak, and you find any caution you held evaporating as you cry and giggle and share stories you never have before, your heart bared fully.
___
The wake leaves you feeling like a prisoner in your own home, and though she won't admit it, it seems Silvestrine feels the same.
Downstairs, the attendants have been up since before dawn preparing feasts of sausage, potato, and cabbage for his visitors. You keep your distance but maintain a watchful eye over the proceedings. Perhaps, among the quietly murmuring acquaintances and colleagues arrived to pay their respects—some familiar, many more not—you might spy Patrick.
As the hours pass and he does not appear, your disappointment grows.
While you prefer the seclusion to being subject to a barrage of false, unwarranted sympathies, your home feels so changed by these recent events. It's bustling with too much activity, every window flung open so that your husband’s soul does not become trapped forever within its walls.
Similarly, every mirror in every room is concealed under black crape—another preventative measure against a perpetually caged soul. You, briefly, consider uncovering one, as eternal imprisonment would serve him right, but are too troubled by the prospect of his haunting to entertain the notion any further.
Each clock has also been stopped at the time of the discovery of his body. It's maddening not to know the current hour, making you feel stuck entirely out of time, trapped in a kind of limbo.
And it feels strange that at a time in your life that should be rife with challenging emotions, you hardly feel anything at all. It seems all you're capable of is to think, think, think.
Patrick should be here, you think aloud, again and again, despite every law of propriety forbidding him there with you. Only the merciful setting of the sun, and the quieting of the gathering downstairs, can convince you those hours have ticked by.
The days pass this way, your only solace your conversations with Silvestrine. They continue to be more healing, more revitalising, than you would ever have anticipated, but you cannot trust her with the one subject you yearn to discuss most—matters of the heart. The pining slows the time to a crawl, so the days appear to stretch on, and you know not when you'll have the pleasure of gazing upon Patrick again, much less enjoying his company in all the other ways he's demonstrated it can be enjoyed.
Church bells continue to signal the funerary process. On the second day of the wake, three tolls reveal his grave has been dug. The following day—the day of his funeral procession parading through the town—the bells chime for nearly the length of the ceremony.
You do not attend the funeral of your husband, of course. It's not expected of you. Neither does Silvestrine, for the same reason you were unwelcome during the wake. Public emotion is among the most shameful of acts. How dare anyone inflict humiliation upon the family with an outburst of emotion at the loss of a loved one?
It's the ultimate irony—that you're obligated to visibly mourn this death for a long while, and devote yourself completely to serving his memory, but that true feeling is viewed as poison to this process. Even under a stifling veil, your passion threatens to derail the stiff, unfeeling flow of society.
And the reality is that you'd have no difficulty containing yourself, but you simply would not want to be part of the ceremony. You have no wishes to honour his life.
And no desire to observe, but Silvestrine watches what she can of the funeral from a window, the procession sombre yet elaborate, involving more than one horse-drawn carriage on a winding, lengthy route through the town. You can't imagine the cost of such a display, and you wonder how much poorer you are for it, but are relieved at least to have your home empty of strangers.
Once the parade and the tolling bells conclude, your home can finally begin to look like itself again. The coffin, of course, has been removed, and all of the serving tables with their white tablecloths and pewter trays and platters all returned to their rightful places out of sight. Most importantly, the clocks resume, the windows are shut, and the mirrors are uncovered to shine again. The possibility of his soul here no longer lingers, lifting a heavy weight from yours.
That same evening, Silvestrine calls for you to join her in the study for a discussion. She produces a thick stack of folded papers, still enclosed by a red wax seal with some kind of legal coat of arms. She explains that it is her son’s last will and testament, recently probated and delivered by courier. She admits she knows not what it may reveal, but that she'd like to go through it together with you.
Her hands tremble as she cracks the wax and unfolds the many pages included therein, some in your dead husband’s hand on brown parchment, others returned on official stationery in the looping, perfect lettering of a solicitor in response.
You have certain expectations going into this process, so as you sit side-by-side in silence, reading the deceased’s words first, you're astounded at what you find.
Your eyes fill hot with fearful tears reading his letter, which insists you be disinherited, enquiring about which statutes can be referenced to demonstrate you have not performed your wifely duties in bearing him an heir. He finds it particularly egregious you've given him no son, suggesting an even greater affront deserves a punishment of some sort.
It's a struggle to read on, but Silvestrine holds you tight, whispering sweet words of support as she forces you to look at the response letter stating that this is impossible—that the legal code protects you as a spouse and nothing he could have said or done would have kept your dower from you, so long as you remained lawfully wed. Despite his wishes, and his attempts to circumvent the law, you are entitled to a statutory reserve share of the estate.
For a brief moment, you speculate. Had he ever contemplated divorce? It wouldn't have been possible without proof of adultery, and technically, you'd been completely faithful to him up until two weeks prior. You're nearly convinced it was he who drove you purposefully into Patrick's arms—before recognising the man was far too oblivious and buffoonish to ever conjure such a scheme.
The relief takes longer to settle in, bringing along with it more tears. It means you haven't been stripped of the things you'd prepared to depend upon.
He was 15 years your senior, so you'd always anticipated this day would come—if not so soon—and when it did, you'd be assigned a one-third interest in his real estate. It comes with some financial security, through tenant income, and ensures you still have a place to live, even if you have not inherited the land itself beneath the real estate.
He has left nothing else to you in the will. You cannot say you are surprised. Normally, the land title would have passed directly to his heir. Instead, his will specifically leaves absolutely everything else to Silvestrine. You're her tenant now.
She sighs deeply at this realisation as you wipe away what remains of your tears.
“If he'd been successful in removing you,” she whispers, “I would have ensured you were not left wanting, or shown out of your own home. I hope I've not given you that impression.”
“Thank you,” you say. “I fear he prevented me from developing any strong impression of you. I regret not coming to truly know you earlier.”
“You are not to blame, daughter,” she says. “Nor am I. The fault rests solely with him. I hope that we can be family, in spite of his best efforts. As we mourn, we must also look forward, yes?”
“I'd like that very much.”
She inhales, thin and shaky, and you take her hand. A sense of stifling guilt fills you for believing for so long that you were the only one living in a prison of your husband's devising. She was just as trapped, in her own way, by expectation within and without the household.
“Did my son ever speak to you of Conrad?” she wonders.
You acknowledge you know this was the same of his father—her husband—but that he never mentioned him.
“It is a shame he could not establish a greater influence before his own untimely passing,” she says. “He was a truly great man. My only love. Unfortunately, our child took after neither one of us, it seems.”
An, “Oh?” is all you can manage, curious but too polite to prod further.
“We could never tell the boy the truth, of course. That Conrad, a wealthy landowner and I, a lowly commoner, had concealed our left-handed marriage. Had he not stolen a false identity for me, and falsified my records, the child would not have inherited his privileges. It was such a risk Conrad was eager to take on my behalf. It would have destroyed the boy's confidence, his very sense of self, to know it. It's ironic, perhaps, that he became such a pompous elitist.”
You don't know what to say. Even now, you fear speaking unkindly of him to his mother.
“I cared for my son, as a mother must, but I do find his absence to be something of a relief,” she admits. “And I still mourn the loss of my doting husband, but I imagine it is a different kind of tragedy altogether to lose a man who never showered you with the proper devotion.”
“It was a lonely marriage,” you concede. “My feelings now are… perplexing.”
“I imagine they must be. And I must be honest—while I struggled with missing Conrad, I enjoyed a freedom after his death like I never had before. Once the mourning period was over, of course, I could do what I wished with my money. Go as I pleased. Conduct business. I was no longer his property. I hope you come to recognise the same and enjoy those freedoms yourself.”
“Thank you, Mama,” you say, gracious. “I intend to do just that. Although, I do anticipate this year of mourning to be most vexing.” “We will need to keep ourselves occupied then. I've thought about this quite extensively, and I believe it may be in our best interests to live more simply.”
“What, precisely, would that entail?” you ask.
She hesitates before she answers.
“Dismissing the servants,” she finally says, in a rush, as if worried you'll scold her. “They're mostly for show, anyhow, and there will be no need to continue entertaining guests. We can take up the tidying and the cooking. Relearn to look after ourselves. It would be good activity for us, I think. Keep us feeling industrious and useful, while saving money. And the space is so big we could… well, never mind about that.”
While the idea of cleaning the big house doesn't make you jump with joy, you can't fault her logic. It will be good to keep busy, to feel like your work matters, without bleeding your accounts dry in the process.
“Yes, I'm very amenable to that,” you answer.
___
In the morning, you must fulfill your singular public duty as a widow in deep mourning—attending church. This unavoidable social obligation requires multiple appearances per week, but at the very least, your stiff black veil gives you the opportunity to close your eyes and pretend you're elsewhere, or even dream, if you dare it. The supposition stings even more knowing that a tenth of your income will have to go to the church, when religion has never done you any good.
After your hours listening to droning bible readings, at last it's time to return home. One of the servants is waiting for Silvestrine to return to announce the delivery of a letter, and your heart leaps, pounding aggressively, once you realise it's come from Patrick.
She opens the letter with curiosity and reads it aloud in his formal, elegant German. None of what he's written is explicit or romantic, of course, but you feel the affection bursting in every careful pen stroke.
Frau,
I cannot express my deepest sorrow at hearing of your family's loss. You and your daughter-in-law have been foremost in my thoughts and prayers, and I hope that any pains, both of the flesh and the heart, are quickly soothed.
I also understand why she cannot continue her visits to my practice, though I fear for her health and mental well-being if her underlying issues remain unaddressed. If it is not untoward, I would hope to continue my house calls to attend to the family and see that you are both as well as possible during this difficult time.
With the greatest devotion,
Patrick Sumner
“That Sumner is such a lovely and thoughtful young man,” Silvestrine says. “Yes, I think we should call upon him to visit soon. Unless you have any objections, daughter?”
“No,” you answer, concealing your eagerness. It would not do to convey just how desperate you are to have him. “I think that would be very beneficial for the both of us.”
___
Next morning, you are surprised at the echoing emptiness of the house, not a maid or attendant to be seen as you make your way downstairs into the foyer. The home is silent except for some light chatter coming from the scullery. Inside, Silvestrine and a single housekeeper are hard at work grating potatoes.
“You're awake, daughter,” says Silvestrine, her voice rich and full of warmth. “I've let most of the servants out. Would you like to prepare the Kartoffelpuffer with us?”
“I'd like to try,” you answer.
You've never helped prepare a meal of any sort, but you're not unwilling to learn. In contrast your mother-in-law, you realise, is not at all inexperienced. She moves as if she's been awaiting this opportunity for years.
It seems you've already missed the hard work of peeling the potatoes, but you're out of your element as you stand over the grating device, like a miniature table with a sharp network of lattices as the surface, to do the coarse shredding. It's not fast or elegant work, as Silvestrine made it seem, but she does not complain about your performance as you take the work off her increasingly arthritic hands.
She praises your help once the potatoes are ready, placing them in a cheesecloth and tightly wringing it to bring all of the liquid into a bowl. She asks what you see. At first, nothing, before you notice the thicker liquid settling at the bottom, and the light, watery juice of the potato floating on top. She ladles away this top layer, keeping the valuable sunken starch before tossing the potatoes back in.
It's your turn again, with no choice but to let the stinging tears flow as you grate an onion into the potato mixture, before Silvestrine generously seasons it all with freshly ground nutmeg, and plenty of salt and pepper, before cracking in a big egg with a vibrant orange yolk. She mixes it gently using her hands until it's all the same uniform blend before wiping her hands.
All the while, the housekeeper has casually been tending to the flame of the stovetop. You cannot imagine it is easy to maintain perfect frying temperature over the unpredictable heat of fire, but you have to admire the way the hot oil in the skillet glistens beside a pot of water, nearly boiling.
You’re also in awe of Silvestrine as she dollops a heaping metal spoonful into the oil, unafraid of the splattering and crackling heat as you flinch from the stove. She continues the process until the mixture is exhausted. Then, with the spoon, she presses each mound of potato mix into a disc, with room around them to spare, the edges browning appetisingly with each passing minute.
This process takes time, so as the Kartoffelpuffer cook, she turns her attention to the now-simmering water. Deftly, she cracks one egg directly in, depositing it perfectly, the sunny yolk intact, to begin to cook. She repeats this process four more times before flipping the Kartoffelpuffer, immediately coming back to fish the beautifully poached eggs out one by one onto a dish with a slotted spoon.
At last, she seems happy with the Kartoffelpuffer, quickly moving the crisp, golden-brown potato pancakes onto another dish layered with a cloth to absorb the excess oil.
Though you didn't do much, you feel quite proud of the result. They look and smell delicious, and you have no doubt they'll taste so as well. It's all Silvestrine’s doing, but your contribution feels significant regardless.
She asks you to collect both plates of the freshly prepared food as she lifts a stack of dishes and handful of cutlery, ushering you into the breakfast room. You're happy to oblige, assisting her in setting the dining table, with each crispy Kartoffelpuffer getting topped with its own poached egg, and each setting a mug for hot coffee.
You're so caught up in the joy of the act that it takes a moment to register you've set a table for five. There's you, and Silvestrine, and…?
Right on time, there's some commotion at the front door. One of the attendants has returned from some duty outside the home, and behind him, Patrick follows, his eyes growing unmistakably wide at the sight of you.
You can't help but stare in return. His beard has grown in more since his previous visit, coming in thickest around his chin and under his lips and sparser up along the jaw. His looks are as captivating as ever, the beard enhancing his handsome symmetry, even if his skin appears rather pale and sickly, glistening slightly with a sheen of sweat.
And it feels so right him to be here you can hardly contain yourself.
“Mr. Sumner!” Silvestrine greets him. “It's a pleasure to see you've accepted my invitation. Come, sit.”
She arranges for Patrick to sit beside you, flanked on either side by the two servants, with Silvestrine sat opposite you both. You and Patrick exchange muted hellos and pleasantries, each trite word sparking between you as you ponder the hundred things you wish to utter to him, the thousand things you wish to do with him in the privacy of a closed room. It takes all of your concentration not to slide into a giddy delirium as Silvestrine thanks him for the beautiful letter and urges everyone to eat.
And the Kartoffelpuffer is as appetising as you dreamed, the flaky texture of the fried potatoes complementing the perfectly runny yolks, the sweet nuttiness of the nutmeg subtle yet essential.
“This is an exquisite meal,” Patrick marvels, his hands the slightest bit unsteady as he cuts in with knife and fork. “Truly exceptional.”
“My daughter here assisted me in making them just now,” Silvestrine says. “She is new to the kitchen, but already shows immense promise as a cook. What flavour!”
You're ready to protest—you’ve had little if anything to do with the flavour—but Patrick speaks next.
“I'm impressed,” he remarks, turning to you with a smile. “If continued practise produces more dishes like this, it seems a worthy endeavour. If cuisine sparks your passion, of course. Diversion is such a critical aspect of health in the wake of such a loss.”
You've nearly forgotten you're meant to be in deep mourning. The burdensome black dress should be enough of a reminder, but neither of you—widow nor mother—feels obliged to hold on to misery as the prevailing emotion when there's so much joy to be had. The servants seem unfazed, while Patrick appears fully invested in your wellness over decorum.
“I've enjoyed it quite well so far, yes,” you answer politely. “I can't say I'm responsible for much of the delectable dish in front of you, but Mama is a patient teacher. I'll happily continue my instruction with her and discover if it fully suits me.”
“I'm glad,” he says. “And you, Silvestrine. How are your spirits?”
“Oh, as can be expected,” she says. “The sadness ebbs and flows. I'd rather not bore you with an old woman's capricious emotions.”
“No,” Patrick insists. “I'd be very much up to the task of listening, if you're keen to speak. Many of my patients have found it inspiriting to discuss topics which would otherwise remain unaddressed or even buried. Like lifting a weight from one's shoulders.”
“Present company included,” you add.
You recall just how healing it was to be truly heard and seen for the first time—everything that followed aside.
Silvestrine considers this before requesting that you and Patrick accompany her to the study. You both follow gladly, and inside, you feel quite alive to be sat next to Patrick on the settee, opposite your mother-in-law, as she discusses the state of her heart of late, holding little back. You both offer a willing ear—and he his soundest professional guidance—and you can swear that by the minute, you can see the colour and health returning to his visage.
After this heartfelt conversation, Patrick offers an apology that he cannot stay, while making a promise to return soon for a proper physical with you. Your sex throbs at the mere mention, dismayed he must leave while deeply pacified by your time together—and eagerly anticipating when you'll see him next. “What a lovely young man,” Silvestrine notes once he's gone. “How lucky we are to have someone like him to nurture us in this time of need.”
“Yes, Mama,” you agree. “We're very, very lucky indeed.”
___
The following day is Sunday, which, yet again, requires you and Silvestrine to spend most of your day in reverent silence in the pews of the church.
Already, you've discovered that the other congregants avoid you both as if death is something they can catch, giving you space to let the repetition of the sermons become senseless noise in your ears as you travel elsewhere in your mind's eye, Patrick accompanying you wherever it takes you.
So, when he takes his seat beside you, recognising you even under heavy veil, you at first believe you're imagining him.
But no, Patrick is very real, his presence sturdy and grounding, and though you cannot politely share even a word with each other here, let alone a surreptitious touch, his willingness to accompany you manages to lift the drudgery of the obligation. This dullness shared is a gift, you think, passing with unexpected haste, to the degree you nearly regret the end of the service, when Patrick must bid you both a quick farewell.
___
Silvestrine surprises you the following morning with a knock upon your bedchamber door.
“You'll find the house empty today,” she explains. “I feel called to the church, and the two remaining attendants will be joining me. I'm sure you'll have no difficulty managing without us for a few hours.”
“Yes, Mama. Thank you.”
“Mr. Sumner should also be by shortly,” she adds, immediately grinning at your reaction. Apparently you're unable to hide your pleasure. “He's been most attentive. He appears so concerned for you, daughter.”
“He's the most thoughtful of physicians,” you respond with a truth. “I believe his treatment will be a boon to my humour. I must thank you for allowing his presence here.”
“I'd be a fool not to,” she says. “Any benefit to you is a benefit to me. And he is rather dashing, isn't he?”
Perhaps mercifully, she closes the door behind her before you get the chance to make your response. She doesn't know the half of it.
___
The time before Patrick’s arrival seems to stretch on indefinitely, an excess of nervous energy beating through your veins as you pace the house in your scratchy and dreary mourning gown.
In reality, he's there in less than a quarter of an hour, bursting in through the front door and slamming it behind him before he pulls you fully into a snug embrace.
“Oh my darling, my love,” he mutters, in English, his lips buried in your hair as he grips you, swaying. “You've endured so very much. How your heart must break.”
“I've missed only you, Patrick,” you tell him. “Needed only you.”
“I should not have waited. I should have been here for you from the moment it was possible…”
“No,” you insist. “You've done everything right. That we can even be alone here now is proof of that.”
You part gently, one of your hands rising to stroke his beard, the thick hairs wiry but soft under the pad of your thumb.
“What can I do for you now?” he demands. There's a hunger in his icy blue eyes. “What do you need? I’ll give you anything. Anything at all.”
“Take me to my room.”
He does what's requested, one hand scooped at your lower back, the other under your knees hiding beneath your skirts, to lift you and carry you to your chambers, laying you upon your bed.
“Now?” he barks, impatient.
You know what you want. It's everything you were denied the last time you enjoyed each other.
“I just need you inside me Patrick,” you beg. “Please.”
There’s a tremble to his eager nod. In fact, he's tremoring all over.
“Is there a particular way you'd like me?” he wonders, with a hard swallow.
“Is it wrong to think you'd look very fine fucking me in your shirt and waistcoat, with your trousers dropped around your thighs?”
“No,” he whispers.
He throws his braces from his shoulders, drags his beautiful knitted jumper off with one strong hand, and tugs his trousers down from his waist. Next, he frees himself from his drawers, so hard and ready for you that being made to wait another minute will make you scream.
“And would it be sick of me to wish to make love to you wearing nothing but your gloves and stockings?” he says, licking his lips.
“No, I'd find that very tasteful. Now, take all this off me—everything but the gloves and stockings.”
He’s careful with each thick funereal layer, his deft surgeon’s hands making quick work of ties and clasps and buttons until you're undressed precisely to his liking.
Then, he drags you to the edge of the bed, pulling your legs in their stockings over his shoulders, and without any preamble slides all of himself into your slick, wanting cunt, bottoming out against you.
You cry out together in unison, and the first intoxicating taste of what you missed so badly is even more blissful than you remembered.
Patrick’s hands fall under your ass, gripping you to pull you even closer to him, so there's no distance remaining between your bodies. Instead of working you, thrusting in and out, he remains buried deep inside you, rocking his hips to generate a different kind of building pressure, leaning over you so his twitching friction rubs your clit as your gasps and moans mingle in the air.
“Thank you, Patrick,” you manage to call between hitched breaths. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
As far as you are from the peak, there's something that feels complete about this kind of pleasure. Together like this, you are whole and free, like you've never been.
“I’ve thought of you every minute,” Patrick admits, his eyes in a half-lidded daze as he rolls his hips, lips held slightly open. “Of your sweet voice, of your cleverness, of burying my cock deep into you and never, ever leaving.”
“I've touched myself each night imagining just this,” you admit to him. “My visions of you have kept me sane.”
“And I, you. But nothing, nothing I can conjure in my mind's eye comes even close to the real thing.”
“We're not meant to be kept apart this long.”
And then his cries begin to grow closer together, his body twitching with such a frenzy that you know he can't last much longer. You don't want him to.
“Don’t you dare slow, Patrick,” you warn him. “I need to hear what you sound like filling me up.”
“But, you haven't finished…”
“Please, my love. I need this.”
Dutiful as ever, he obeys, his yelps of pleasure with those final rough pumps into you like music to your ears even as his magical motions cease.
Even as he softens inside you, he refuses to let you go, lingering in place as he holds your bodies together.
“I'm afraid I won't be able to go again today,” he says. “An unfortunate side effect of my past opiate misuse. But just tell me how I can best please you. I’ll do whatever you ask.”
“You’ve pleased me plenty. I'm not looking for release. Not now. I only want you.”
“Oh, you torment me,” he whines. “First I’m not allowed to come to you. Then, I'm denied the chance to make you come undone.”
“Yes, and you’re being very brave about it,” you tease.
Finally, he pulls out, helping you to clean up the thick white seed he's left inside you before sitting beside you on the bed.
He takes your hand, his beard brushing it as he plants kisses down its length to your forearm.
“You know, I've been rehearsing all the things I've dreamt of telling you,” he says. “It all felt so important. But now I'm here with you, everything else falls away. This is all that matters.”
“I feel the same. Why can't we just stay like this forever?”
It cannot be—not now. The mere thought gives you a deep chill, and you shiver.
“Are you chilly?” he wonders, placing warm, steadying hands on your bare shoulders. “Let me help you get dressed.”
“No!” you blurt out, eliciting a puzzled look from Patrick. “I only mean I'm sick and tired of wearing frumpy, irritating black day in and day out on behalf of a man whose death I celebrate.”
Patrick looks about the room.
“I understand,” he says. “Perhaps this will do?”
He hands you his soft jumper. It’s the colour of rich dark chocolate with a gorgeous corded texture, and it smells like him—of chlorine and sweet tobacco.
You throw it on without hesitation, safely blanketed in its warmth and woolliness. Wearing it feels nearly as good as an embrace, and you can't resist touching the sleeve to your cheeks and lips, luxuriating in the texture—in something that belongs to Patrick, freely given.
“You’ve never, ever looked more beautiful than you do now,” Patrick mutters, nothing short of awe in his voice.
“I've never been happier than now,” you say. “And that's all thanks to you.”
___
There's nothing like having your own home to yourself with Patrick, stepping through it without a care in nothing but his jumper, gloves, and stockings as he makes you tea.
“You're looking much changed today,” you remark from the dining table as he prepares the stove for a kettle, admiring his robust complexion and the certainty of his movements. “Had you been feeling unwell?”
“I was rather poorly, yes,” he answers. “I debated whether it would be wise to come by on Saturday in my condition, but very little could be done at that point to hold me back from you. It was the correct choice, it seems.”
“What ailed you?”
He pouts his lips, considering your question.
“It sounds preposterous, but I believe I've developed a new chemical dependency. Upon you. Upon the feelings you provoke in me. I craved you so badly I made myself sick. I'm lucky even the most minute doses of you seem to quell it.”
“We’ll have to be careful with that compulsion,” you say. “But I intend to give you a taste anytime you need me.”
He steps over to you and leans, his lips landing on yours. A sound escapes them like kissing you is so pleasurable he can't quite stand it. You recognise the sentiment in the touch of his soft lips and the pleasant friction of his beard.
“But I am not the one who requires consolation. You are braving every challenge with such ferocity,” he remarks. “A year is a very long time to be excluded from society, expected to do nothing but cloister yourself in grief. How are you faring?”
“Poorly, at first. Beautifully now. So long as I can have you, I think this will be a rather easy time.”
“I am relieved to hear it. I wasn’t aware you got on so well with your mother-in-law.”
“I didn't. Our close kinship has been a recent development, and such a welcome one. I'd wither away without her support, and yours.”
“And you're comfortable,” he asks, “with all that has been entailed to you?”
“Yes,” you answer. “I do not require much. I am guaranteed a place to live, and a suitable income. Beyond this, is seems, Silvestrine is insistent upon helping me.”
“Good,” Patrick says, nodding. You believe he plans to say more, but those words remain unspoken as you fall into silence.
“Did you attend the funeral procession?” you wonder instead.
“I did not,” he answers. “I wouldn't wish to even pretend to pay him my respects.”
“You could not have given a better answer,” you say.
___
You pass the hours comfortably in the parlour, sipping your tea and dining on fruit as you pry more deeply into each other's lives. You hope he is as enamoured with every bit of knowledge of you as you are of him. Your thorough understanding of him feels like a kind of power.
Anticipating the return of Silvestrine and the others, you begrudgingly remove Patrick’s lovely jumper and don your dreaded black dress again, though he carefully folds the garment and tucks it away for you in a chest in your room, so you can keep it close.
Then, it's back to the main room. You're still having a lively conversation with Patrick when everyone enters, and he stands and bows to greet them.
“I take it you had an enlightening time,” Patrick suggests.
“Yes, very.” Silvestrine smiles. “But perhaps not so enlightening a time as my daughter. See how she glows.”
You watch as Patrick’s cheeks flush, matching your own blushing heat. Perhaps you are too obvious, but Silvestrine’s outward joy for you is too sincere to deny.
“She responds very well to care,” Patrick deflects. “You know, I'd be delighted to see to you, too. I think an examination could be of great benefit, and it would please me deeply to know you're both as well as you can be.”
“Oh, I'm being mindful of our money matters for the time…”
“This would be free of charge,” he says. “For the both of you. Frankly, for the ease of my own heart, I must insist.”
This was something you hadn't considered. You're so unused to handling money matters, and are grateful for his generosity. Perhaps it's to be expected, but you don't see yourself in a position to make any demands.
“Well, then I must accept,” she concedes, matter-of-factly. “Give me only a moment and I will call you to my chambers when I am prepared for you.”
You thank Patrick quietly once she has strode off.
“As I said,” he reiterates, “I will be much happier knowing you're both in good health.”
He goes silent before adding, in a conspiratorial whisper, “And, between us, I have come concerns.”
You have no time to ask more before he's summoned upstairs. He spends a long while in his exam with her before finally, he emerges, and must soon take his leave of you.
“That Sumner is clever, but he has some strange ideas,” Silvestrine confides with you later during a private conversation in the library.
“Yes,” you agree, “but I haven't seen him miss the mark yet.”
You're certain you're the only of his patients he sees fit to lavish with multiple orgasms, so it's hard to rein in your curiosity.
“He's urged me—quite enthusiastically—to cease my use of calomel.”
You're familiar with the compound—mercury chloride—a powerful purgative some have hailed as a miracle drug.
“For what purpose was it prescribed to you?”
“For everything, dear. It's meant to be a panacea. For warding off consumption, flu, cancer—anything that might someday ail me—by purging the disease. But he says it's causing me to waste away. Rotting my teeth. And that the mercury within is toxic. Madness-causing even. I cannot believe he is serious.”
“I am sure his position is informed, Mama,” you say, hopefully not too firmly. “I am inclined to trust him.”
“Oh, and he was so gentle too.” She wrings her hands. “Do you really think that it is as he says? That preventative means could do so much damage?”
“If you are not at great risk of those illnesses it is preventing, yes. And especially if such prevention is not as efficacious as some might insist.”
“And am I growing rather thin and weak, as he's suggested?”
“That is for you to say, Mama. Perhaps it would do to quit your health tonic, just for a time, to see if your condition seems improved?”
“That is precisely what he has suggested to me. Perhaps I will follow the doctor's orders, then. But if I take ill, I shall have a few choice words for him.”
“As will I, but I don't think we need worry ourselves,” you share. “He wishes only for our wellness.”
“I suppose so,” she concedes. “On another, mostly unrelated matter, I have something I'd like to discuss with you.”
She spreads the papers of some form of legal document, as well as a schematic on a rolled parchment.
“I have learned more of the managerial stake in my son’s railway company left to me in his will,” she explains. “Now, I am in no state to step into his occupational position, but am to be considered something of a silent partner, for the time being. He's left it to me to interpret his wishes and vision for the company, and I must say I feel completely out of my depth.”
“I, too, am ignorant of such things,” you say. “But I am happy to attempt to aid you if you wish me to.”
“Yes, yes, that would be such a help,” she answers, with a sigh of relief. “An old woman like me can't hope to learn these things—and at such an inopportune time! A foreman will be coming and going to bring me the relevant paperwork and authorisations, explaining the best he can. I would so value your assistance.”
“Could it not be delegated to someone with the experience and insight to handle the work appropriately?” you wonder.
“Not for the first year,” she explains. “If I want to be able to sell the stake, that is. Which I very much do.”
“I see. Well, in that case, I would like to begin reading these materials directly, to familiarise myself with what is being asked of you.”
“Be my guest,” she says. “I find it all rather dull and indecipherable, but you've always been the keener mind. I shall bid you good night and leave you to it.”
Silvestrine is not wrong. At first, the work does seem as unknowable as it is tedious. The financials are a bore, the decisions made following no clear rhyme or reason, while always resulting in a striking uptick in profit. It's here that you notice an emerging pattern. Actually, all of this might be very interesting indeed.
___
Patrick visits twice more for exquisite homecooked meals—a collaborative effort courtesy mostly of Silvestrine—over the next seven days and sits with you in church on Sunday before it's your favourite day of the week yet again.
You're already dressed in nothing but his jumper when he arrives, and he's ready to lift you from your bare bottom, pulling him close with his caressing hands, so you can wrap your legs around him as he kisses you, ravenous and moaning all the while, like he's already pulsing inside of you. His kisses are insistent, like he needs you to breathe, like without this his heart will cease its beat, the many minutes melting away under his welcome barrage.
“What do you desire, my love?” he finally asks, panting, between kisses.
“I desire your impatience,” you say. “For you to do with me just as you please, without hesitation.”
“Then I wish to tease you in novel and perplexing ways,” he says, “as you have teased me.”
“I would like to see you try,” you goad. Again, he carries you to your bedroom and deposits you upon the bed. This time, he discards every layer of clothing—including a new cream-coloured cable-knit jumper—until he stands before you wearing not a stitch.
You're quite surprised when, again, he pulls your body to the edge of the bed, and even more shocked when, thick cock in hand, he chooses not to penetrate you, but instead to run its pink head along the soaked seam of your cunt.
He draws back before he thrusts again, fucking between the lips vigorously without entering you, and forcing you to call out when he grazes your throbbing clitoris.
“That feels good, does it love? Allow me to give you more.”
With his hand, he presses his bell-end to your clit, applying pressure in the perfect, tiny circles he knows you love so much. The sensation improves upon any digit, any tongue, bathed in your own wetness.
“Patrick, please,” you cry.
“Not until you’re coming for me,” he negotiates. “I know you can.”
You're certain he's right. His sensation is shocking in its rightness, the thickness of him tensing against you, toying with your sensitive bud.
For a moment, you wonder why, but it matters not as you learn to embrace this strange new pleasure of the flesh and then begin to feel the first overwhelming convulsions of your orgasm.
Patrick, too, must see its approach, immediately shoving his cock inside of you and replacing its motion against your clit with a coaxing thumb, stuffing and stretching you as you arrive with the buck of your hips and an uncontainable growl.
His rapid yet thorough strokes have you spellbound for the duration of your extended climax, but once it's run its course, he pulls out of you with a wicked smile.
“Patrick!” you whine. “Must you taunt me so?”
“I think I must,” he says, again running the pressure of his thumb along your cunt’s slippery crease. “After I've been deprived so badly of making you scream these last weeks. I might be obliged to conduct a test to see which method induces the greatest volume. If you're a willing participant, of course.”
“Yes, Patrick,” you beg. “Please don't keep me waiting any longer.”
“Of course, my love,” he says, in a painfully slow, drawn out manner. “First, an old favourite. The means of your first orgasm, digital stimulation of the pelvic interior…”
You're ready to tell him to stop wasting time when he slides two fingers inside of you, the gasp you emit promptly replacing the urge. It's evident he's done wasting time, immediately locating your most sensitive pleasure point and applying the work of his skilled fingers.
“Yes,” he coos as you tremble and cry out. “Show me how good this feels. You deserve all the goodness in this world, my love. It's all inside of you already. Just let me unleash it. That's it. That's it.”
Patrick knows your body better than you do at this point—knows when you're nearly ready to come—and his tender reassurances relax and rouse you at once, a self-fulfilling prophecy as you clench around his sturdy hands, his name the subject of your every heaved breath.
“Very good,” Patrick says, his pupils grown so wide you can hardly see the blues of them. “Nice and loud for me. But let's see if we can do even better.”
Without warning, he drops to his knees, his thick, round tongue greedily lapping up your dripping wetness, licking you clean, before he teases your pussy lips with kisses and nips of his teeth. Finally, he lavishes your clitoris with hard, fast flicks, making you twitch with a shaking sigh.
He moves in closer, tickling all of you with his beard, his hands gripped around your thighs for purchase as he works, his tongue moving up and down, or in tiny circles, and occasionally sucking you gently, drawing such a sharp, immediate pleasure you let out a hiss.
The only shame is that he can't speak and eat you at once, his only sounds the hums of delight that buzz against your pulsing clit. Perhaps that means you should make use of your voice in his stead.
“God, Patrick, I love that tongue,” you moan. “Show me what your fat, thick tongue can do, darling. Yes! You are so good, my love. Make me lose control with nothing but that perfect tongue and those soft lips—oh Patrick, I'm coming, I'm coming!”
When it happens he's swirling his tongue on you just so, and he keeps that particular motion on all the way through until the pulse running through you has run its course and your shaking has mostly subsided.
He kisses your inner thigh several times before he stands before you again, wild-eyed and grinning.
“Even louder that time,” he says. “Marvelous. Now, let's see how much noise you can make when I make proper love to you.”
“Let's. I've been patient enough.”
And it's the most wonderful feeling in the world to have his weight bear down on you, take in his fullness when he drives himself inside you, while kissing you passionately all over—hundreds of tiny whimpered kisses worshipping you from your lips to your neck and your chest and back again. One hand massages a breast while the other holds him upright, and then his head is buried in the bed beside yours, using both hands to lift your bum so he's hitting just where he needs with each shallow stroke.
“There it is,” Patrick says, gasping between strokes. “It truly is my greatest pleasure to make you come. So, so beautiful. And it's so, so close. God, I'm so lucky. God, I'm so very lucky…”
You interrupt him, shouting that you're coming again, nothing but electric bliss radiating through you and euphoric calls as his jagged and deep thrusts and irresistible whine tell you that you've finished together again. This feels like the magical, natural order of things.
Patrick kisses you yet again on the lips, deep and lingering, this time, before he hesitatingly lets you go.
“Just as I thought,” he whispers. “That method won out. By quite a large margin.”
“We'll, as much as I enjoy the other activities we practise together—and hope we never cease them—there's nothing I love quite like making love with you.”
“We're on the same page about that, at least.”
And you can't get enough of the time you're allowed to lay out on the bed with him, holding each other close, face-to-face, as he trails his fingertips down your soft skin, up your arm, down your belly, and back again.
Your own hand goes to the deep creases in his forehead, tracing the lines there. You know that look. He's thinking too deeply about something.
“What has you so preoccupied?” you ask him.
He sits up, clearing his throat. It's unexpected for him to be so serious, so suddenly.
“Our time together has brought me a peace I no longer believed possible,” he says. “I must ask, are you happy? With me?”
“I've never been asked a sillier question,” you answer. “You make me the happiest I've ever been, when my circumstances should be the farthest from it.”
“And when you imagine a future…”
“You are in it,” you interrupt him. “You are it.”
He pauses, taking this in.
“And in this—our—future, do you envision us wed?”
“I haven't had the opportunity to think that far ahead,” you admit, after a brief hesitation. “I will be very pleased so long as we can be together. But yes, I would be blissfully happy if you were to be my husband.”
His wide smile shows his sharp white teeth, but still there’s an uneasiness in his heavy eyes, lending something to his visage that troubles you.
“I can see why you might imagine I'd be uncertain about this,” you say, before he can object. “I've just been set free from subordination in such a miserable marriage. I'm stuck with the duties of a widow until the world at large has decided I've grieved enough, but even then, the marriage would grant me certain societal benefits moving forward. I would give it all up if it meant the two of us would be permitted to walk hand in hand in the street, without fear of ostracism and ridicule.”
“I am not so rich as he was,” Patrick whispers. “Would it be selfish of me? You'd not have the same comforts you're accustomed to, and I imagine your dower will revert if you remarry…”
“That would be a small price to pay.”
“You'd live with me, of course.” He smiles. “And I'd provide for you as well as I can.“
“That would be a most marvelous life, I think.”
“In that case,” Patrick says, taking both of your hands between his, “would you do me the greatest honour of becoming my wife?”
“Yes,” you shout out, before he's even completed his sentence. “Nothing could please me more.”
How long has it been that you've ached for a marriage based on love, and intimacy, and authentic connection? To receive care and affection, over control and ownership? To be eternally bound, attached to Patrick in a manner that is open and acknowledged rather than confined to secret meetings, feels so right and fair you can hardly believe it's reality.
You'll have to wait, of course. A minimum of nine months is essential in order to rule out pregnancy and inheritance scandals, while at least a year’s delay is customary. It seems so far off, and yet close enough to make your heart race with anticipation.
“We'll have to plan a wedding,” Patrick says next.
“Perhaps something quiet and cosy,” you suggest. “We don't have much in the way of friends and family.”
“We do not,” he agrees. “It is a pity we cannot marry immediately. I hope it is not presumptuous to say that the moment you agreed, I began thinking of you as my wife. What say you to that, Mrs. Sumner?”
“I say that I love the way you think, husband.”
___
It's later, when you're taking tea with Silvestrine, that she changes the topic from that of her favourite childhood biscuits to your late husband.
“My boy worked to make your life quite unhappy,” she remarks.
It's the truth, but even now, you'd prefer to avoid saying anything that may come across as disrespectful or a lack of appreciation.
“And you are still so young,” she continues. “And still beautiful. I hope you don't think it too late for yourself to find the right match.”
“You mean remarry,” you answer, as coolly as you can manage.
“I do. I understand that second marriages are not respected with high esteem, that many think them just a shadow of a ‘true’ first marriage, but I believe that's a frivolous reason not to seek out a second chance.”
“I agree, Mama. I think I should keep an open mind.”
This is especially true given your complete lack of a spiritual connection to the man.
“May I speak with you plainly?” she wonders.
“Yes, of course.”
“Based on your behaviour, I can assume Mr. Sumner has been nothing but entirely professional with you,” she says, “but it's plain to see the manner in which he lights up when he's with you. And your health seems to flourish under his watch. Would you consider entertaining him as a suitor?”
You go still, wondering just how much it is wise to reveal.
“He is very kind,” you answer carefully. “Intelligent. Passionate about his work. And yes, handsome. But most importantly he has treated me with such respect and dignity. Helped me find my strength. At the appropriate time, yes, I would be happy to consider him.”
“I must admit, I have been meddling,” she adds. “I’ve spoken with him and discovered he is a very eligible bachelor. He's not the type to believe that a young widow is any man's leftovers, and though he has not confessed it, I am certain he fancies you.”
So Silvestrine is playing matchmaker now. You suppress a giggle at the thought. It's best to continue allowing her to believe this was all her idea.
“It would be very pleasing to me if you are correct,” you say. “Would you be kind enough to encourage him, if you can? Not directly , of course…”
“You're right, daughter,” she says. “It's very early to discuss such things. You must think me so greedy, planning to get you out of the house, and end your dower…”
“Not, at all,” you insist. “I find it romantic. And, if all goes accordingly, he is not a poor man, and I will not go wanting. Perhaps it isn't too late for me. And then you will not feel burdened to keep this great big house on my behalf.”
You've noticed her fussing over it. The house is far too grand for the two of you, and you know she only tolerates the frustrations of its maintenance because the law entitles you to reside there.
“You two will make a very fine and happy couple,” she says, with a mischievous look.
“I do hope so.”
___
Thanks to Silvestrine’s plotting, you and Patrick are allowed additional time alone each week, and you continue to make the most of it, allowing her to believe herself some manner of romantic mastermind all the while.
Today, after some much-needed time on top of him in your bed, you dress yourself in his forest green jumper before directing him to the library, promising a surprise.
You're not sure what Patrick is expecting. A gift in the form of a book? An attempt at more sex on a stack of old volumes? What you have to show him is much more elucidating.
“This is proof,” he says, gasping as he riffles through the documents you've organised into careful stacks. “Of fraud, extortion, bribery, even murder. So thinly veiled it's evident at a glance. How on earth did you get your hands on this?”
“I'm effectively a co-partner of my late husband’s company,” you explain. “A foreman brings all of this to us to guide the most prudent business decisions possible. I've simply taken notice of other details.”
His jaw clenches and his hands ball into fists as he reads on.
“You’re as furious as I am,” you state the obvious. “But I'm very glad to have this knowledge, because it means we can put a stop to these evil men and bring them to justice.”
“Justice?” he baulks. “Do you propose we go on a murder spree? Because I cannot do that again, and I will not bloody your innocent hands with such violence…”
You're not expecting his passion, his protection. It only enamours you to him more deeply, and you are relieved that is not the only resort.
“Not at all,” you say, your voice softened to calm him. “We will bring these evils to light. Reveal the proof of their misdeeds and make them face the repercussions. And if that is not enough, we shall make arrangements to have them uncover their own corruption through pride and ego. Trick them into false dealings and recover what they've taken from those of whom they've taken advantage.”
“It would be very satisfying to see the expressions on their faces as they fall from grace,” he admits.
“And even more so to see their victims get what they're owed.”
“What of your late husband’s corruption?” Patrick wonders. “The insurance fraud. Would that be brought to light as well?”
“Only once Silvestrine is able to sell her stake in the business. Once her future is secured.I won't allow this to bankrupt her.”
“You have always been a secret dreamer, haven't you?” Patrick teases you with one of his widest smiles yet. “It's one of the things I love most about you, that lovely mind full of wild ideas. Yes, Mrs. Sumner. I will happily dedicate myself to your plan of righteous vengeance.”
“I knew you would, husband. Now, help me decide which of these obscenely rich and morally bankrupt bastards we should dethrone first.”
Guys. Guys. Please I want to get this entire fic tattooed to my body like holy scripture. This is so oooh ahhh no no we musnt but oh woe I yearn for you and you starve for me this is so I have memorised the feeling of your finger prints ghosting over my collarbones oh woe is me oh woe woe woe
Im going insane read this guys
