The Anvil and the Spinster-Chapter 14: To Consume , To Want , To Touch
Emma chooses—him, this, everything—and the line between duty and desire finally shatters into something irreversible.
Warnings:
Explicit smut, loss of virginity, power dynamics, possessive themes, emotional vulnerability, pregnancy themes.
Emma had not meant to linger.
The day had been easy.
That was what unsettled her most.
Summerhall no longer felt like something she was enduring.
It felt—
Warm.
Lived in.
The stones held the sun, heat seeping into her slippers as she walked. The air smelled of roses and dry grass, something steady and rooted.
She had laughed today.
Truly laughed.
Rhae had been the cause of most of it.
Of course she had.
The princess had been at her side from morning until afternoon, chattering endlessly, pulling Emma from one corner of the gardens to another, dragging her into conversations she would once have avoided.
“You think too much,” Rhae had declared, tugging her toward the fountain.
“I think just enough.”
“No,” Rhae insisted. “You think like someone who has already lived a life. It is very dull of you.”
Emma had laughed.
She had not meant to.
But she had.
And for a moment—
She had felt young.
That feeling lingered even after Rhae was called away.
Emma remained behind.
Just for a moment.
Just to breathe.
She wandered deeper into the gardens.
The quieter paths.
Where voices carried.
That was when she heard them.
“…he has six children already.”
“…then he knows exactly what he is doing.”
“…and she?”
A pause.
A soft, almost pitying laugh.
“She will learn.”
Emma stilled.
“…and if she gives him more sons—”
“Then she will have done her duty.”
“…and if she does not?”
Silence.
Then—
“Then she will not remain.”
The words struck deeper than they should have.
Because they were not wrong.
Because they were.
Emma stepped back.
A branch shifted.
Too loud.
“Princess.”
She stepped forward before they could search for her.
Composed.
Untouchable.
She inclined her head.
Said nothing.
And walked past them.
“Emma.”
Rhae.
Of course.
She had heard.
Emma did not turn at first.
“Did you hear them?” Rhae asked.
“Yes.”
“They are wrong.”
Emma almost smiled.
“Are they?”
Rhae faltered.
“I need a moment,” Emma said gently.
And this time—
Rhae listened.
But the moment Emma turned away—
She ran.
Emma did not notice.
She returned to their chambers.
Closed the door.
And finally—
Allowed herself to think.
Children.
The word felt different now.
Heavier.
Closer.
She had never allowed herself to dwell on it.
Not truly.
She had raised children.
Elinor.
Edmund.
She had been the steady one.
The caretaker.
The one who stayed.
And when Edmund reached his majority—
Sixteen—
She had already chosen.
The sept.
A quiet life.
A life that did not ask this of her.
She had never imagined—
Marriage.
A husband.
A man like Maekar.
Children that would be hers.
Not duty.
Not responsibility passed down.
But—
Hers.
Her hand moved to her stomach.
Without thinking.
Testing the idea.
Her breath caught.
Because the image came unbidden—
Strong.
Clear.
A child.
His eyes.
Her hands.
Fear followed.
Sharp.
Real.
The loss of control.
The expectation.
The weight.
But beneath it—
Something else.
Something warmer.
Something that made her pulse quicken.
Something she had never allowed herself to feel.
The door opened.
She did not turn immediately.
She knew it was him.
She always knew.
Maekar stepped inside.
Stopped.
He saw it.
Something had changed.
“What happened?”
“I heard them.”
That was enough.
“They spoke of children.”
Silence.
Heavy.
“I was going to leave,” Emma said quietly. “Before this. Before you.”
His gaze sharpened.
“The sept,” she continued. “When Edmund came of age.”
“And now?”
Emma exhaled.
“I do not know what I want.”
That was the truth.
And it sat between them.
Raw.
Real.
He stepped closer.
Slow.
Measured.
“Do you fear it?”
“Yes.”
“And yet—”
“I am thinking of it.”
That changed something.
Not just in her.
In him.
His hand came to her waist.
Emma did not pull away.
Her hand found his chest.
Solid.
Steady.
Grounding—
And not.
Because her pulse was racing now.
Because she could feel him—
Closer.
Warmer.
Real.
“I was never meant for this,” she whispered.
His voice dropped.
“You were made for more than you were given.”
Her breath caught.
“And if that includes this?” she asked softly.
His thumb shifted at her waist.
A small movement.
But it sent something sharp through her.
“Then it will be yours by choice,” he said.
Choice.
The word settled into her.
Deep.
Emma lifted her gaze.
Met his.
And for the first time—
She did not step back.
“Then show me,” she said quietly.
That was all it took.
His restraint broke—not in violence, not in haste—but in inevitability.
He moved closer, one hand firm at her waist, the other rising to her jaw, tilting her face toward his. The kiss was not rushed.
It was deliberate.
Deep.
A claiming.
But not forced.
Never forced.
Emma inhaled sharply against him, fingers tightening in his tunic as something inside her—fear, tension, restraint—unraveled all at once.
This was not duty.
This was not expectation.
This was—
Choice.
The world narrowed.
To breath.
To touch.
To heat.
His hands were careful, even as they were firm—guiding, not taking.
Her gown loosened beneath his fingers, not torn, not rushed—undone with the same control he fought to maintain.
And Emma—
Emma did not look away.
Did not retreat.
She watched him.
Felt him.
Choose this.
Every moment.
Maekar's control broke—not in violence, not in haste—but in inevitability.
He moved closer, one hand firm at her waist, the other rising to her jaw, tilting her face toward his. The kiss was not rushed. It was deliberate.
Deep. A claim. But not forced. Never forced.
Emma inhaled sharply against him, fingers tightening in his tunic as something inside her—fear, tension, restraint—unraveled all at once. This was not duty. This was not expectation. This was—
Choice.
The world narrowed to breath, to touch, to heat. His hands were careful, even as they were firm—guiding, not taking.
Her gown loosened beneath his fingers, not torn, not rushed—undone with the same control he fought to maintain.
And Emma—Emma did not look away. Did not retreat. She watched him, felt him, chose this.
Every moment.
The bed found them.
Or they found it.
She was not sure which.
Only that the world had shifted— and there was no going back.
He moved over her, not to cover, but to hold himself above, creating a space between them that was both charged and safe.expand give me a full scene
She lay against the sheets, their cool fabric a stark shock against the heat of her skin.
A tremor, fine and uncontrollable, ran through her.
Not from cold, but from the sheer, unguarded reality of this.
She was bare before him, a landscape no man had ever seen, and her body felt foreign, a territory she did not know.
He saw it.
Of course he did.
He did not speak.
Instead, he lowered himself beside her, the mattress dipping with his weight. His fingers traced the line of her collarbone, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver through her, different from the last.
This one was not born of fear, but of a sudden, sharp awareness.
He was mapping her.
Learning her.
His touch was a question, and her body, without her mind's permission, was beginning to answer.
His thumb brushed over the pulse point in her neck, feeling the frantic beat of her heart.
He leaned in, not for a kiss, but to press his lips against that same spot.
A soft, damp pressure.
A promise.
Emma’s breath hitched.
Her hands, which had been lying limp at her sides, lifted instinctively, one coming to rest on the solid muscle of his arm, the other finding the nape of his neck, her fingers tangling in the short, coarse hair there.
Encouraged, his kisses began a slow, languid descent.
Down the column of her throat, across the hollow of her shoulder.
Each press of his lips was a brand, claiming a small piece of her.
Her breathing grew shallow, each exhalation a soft, unbidden sigh.
The fear was still there, a distant hum beneath the surface, but it was being drowned out by a new, far more potent current.
Heat pooled low in her belly, a slow, heavy warmth that made her hips shift restlessly against the sheets.
He paused, his gaze meeting hers in the dim light. The question was there again, silent in his eyes.
Is this alright?
Emma answered by pulling him down for a kiss.
This one was different from the first.
Less of a beginning, more of a continuation.
She met his tongue with her own, a shy exploration that quickly deepened, emboldened by his response.
He tasted of wine and something uniquely him, something clean and dark and intoxicating.
She arched into him, her breasts brushing against the hard plane of his chest.
The contact sent a jolt straight through her, a raw, electric spark that made her gasp into his mouth.
A sound rumbled in his chest, a low groan of approval that vibrated through her entire body.
His control was a formidable thing, a dam holding back a river.
But her hesitant, exploratory touch was the crack that threatened to shatter it.
Her hands roamed from the nape of his neck down the broad expanse of his back, feeling the shift of muscle beneath warm skin.
She traced the line of his spine, her touch growing bolder with every shiver she drew from him.
This was a power she had never known, a heady, intoxicating thing.
She was no longer just the land to be mapped; she was becoming the cartographer.
Emma shifted, her leg sliding up to wrap around his hip, a silent, instinctive invitation.
The movement brought their bodies into full, devastating alignment.
The hard ridge of his erection pressed against the most sensitive part of her, and a choked sound escaped her throat.
Her hips rolled against him, a clumsy, experimental motion seeking more of that exquisite friction.
That was the end of Maekar’s restraint.
The dam broke.
The careful, patient man was gone, replaced by a man who devoured.
His kiss became a conquest, deep and demanding.
One hand tangled in her hair, angling her head exactly as he wanted, while the other gripped her hip, holding her steady for the slow, deliberate grind of his pelvis against hers.
The sudden shift stole her breath.
He was overwhelming, a force of nature, and the thrill of it was terrifying and exquisite.
She met his ferocity, her nails digging into his shoulders, holding on as the world dissolved into sensation.
“Maekar,” she gasped, his name a broken plea against his lips. “I…”
He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice a low growl that was rough with desire. “What do you need, Emma? Tell me.”
How could she tell him? She didn’t have the words.
She only had this desperate, aching need for… something. More. “Don’t stop,” she finally managed, the words feeling inadequate. “Please.”
A dark, satisfied look entered his eyes. “I have no intention of stopping.”
He kissed her again, a hard, brief press of lips before his mouth began its descent once more.
But this path was lower.
His lips closed over one peaked nipple, and a bolt of pure, white-hot pleasure shot through her.
He suckled, gently at first, then with a relentless pressure that had her writhing beneath him, her back bowing off the bed.
His free hand drifted down, tracing the curve of her stomach, the dip of her navel.
His touch was a promise of where he was headed, and a nervous anticipation coiled tight in her belly.
He paused, his fingers resting at the edge of the auburn curls between her thighs, his gaze locked on hers, asking one last time.
Emma’s breath hitched.
She was vulnerable, exposed, trembling on the edge of a precipice. But in his eyes, she saw no triumph, only a fierce, burning need to give her this.
To give her everything. She gave a single, jerky nod.
That was all he needed.
His fingers slid through her folds, and she gasped at the slick heat he found there.
He circled her entrance once, twice, a teasing touch that had her hips lifting, seeking, before one finger slowly, carefully, pressed inside.
She tensed, a brief, involuntary clench of muscle at the unfamiliar intrusion.
“Easy,” he murmured, his thumb finding the small, sensitive bud above and stroking it gently.
“Relax for me, Emma. Let me in.”
His voice, low and soothing, was the key.
She forced herself to take a breath, to release the tension in her muscles.
As she did, he pushed deeper, a slow, steady glide.
The sensation was strange, a fullness that bordered on discomfort, but then he began to move.
His finger withdrew, then returned, and the friction against her inner walls sent a jolt of pleasure so sharp it was almost painful.
“Oh,” she breathed, her eyes widening. “Oh, gods.”
He smiled against her skin, a small curve of his lips.
He added a second finger, stretching her carefully, and the initial sting was quickly eclipsed by the rhythm he set.
His fingers pumped into her, a steady, inexorable rhythm while his thumb continued its maddening circling.
The pleasure built, a tight, winding coil in her core. Her hands fisted in the sheets, her head tossing back and forth.
Words failed her, replaced by small, choked sounds, whimpers of need.
“Maekar… I… I can’t…”
“Yes, you can,” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Let go, Emma. Come for me.”
His thumb pressed down, and the coil inside her snapped.
A wave of pleasure broke over her, so intense it stole her vision, her breath, her very thoughts.
She cried out, a ragged, helpless sound as her inner muscles clenched and pulsed around his fingers.
He rode her through it, his movements slowing as the tremors subsided, leaving her boneless and trembling.
He withdrew his fingers, and she felt a brief pang of loss at the emptiness.
He rose over her, his body a solid, living shadow in the dim light.
He positioned himself between her thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging against her entrance.
He was bigger than his fingers. Much bigger. A fresh wave of apprehension washed over her, cooling the afterglow of her release.
He seemed to feel it.
He stilled, bracing himself on his elbows, caging her in without crushing her. He brushed a stray strand of hair from her damp forehead.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice a raw whisper.
She forced her eyes open, meeting his dark, intense gaze.
“There will be pain,” he said, his honesty a brutal, necessary thing.
“Just for a moment. And then there will be only this. Only us.”
He lowered his head, his lips brushing against hers. “And then you will be mine.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of fact.
The words should have frightened her.
Instead, they settled something deep inside her. A final, fallen piece clicking into place.
This was what she was choosing.
Not just the act, not just the man, but everything he was.
The possession, the protection, the future. All of it.
“Yes,” she breathed, the word a vow.
With a slow, deliberate roll of his hips, he pushed forward.
The pressure was immense, a stretching, burning ache that stole her breath.
Her hands flew to his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin.
He was watching her, his jaw tight with the strain of holding back, his focus absolute.
“Breathe, Sweet one,” he rasped.
She did, a ragged inhale, and with one final, forceful thrust, he broke through the last barrier.
A sharp, bright pain flared, and she cried out, a small, hurt sound.
He stilled instantly, buried to the hilt inside her.
He let her adjust, his body trembling with the effort of remaining still.
He rained soft kisses on her face, her eyelids, her lips, murmuring words she couldn’t quite hear but felt all the same.
Soothing.
Her body slowly relaxed, the pain fading to a dull, throbbing ache.
She shifted beneath him, an experimental movement, and felt a new kind of pleasure spark from the depths of her.
A deep, resonant satisfaction at being so utterly filled.
He felt it too.
He began to move, a slow, deep rhythm that was the antithesis of the frantic urgency from before.
This was a claim.
A marking.
Each stroke was a deliberate, possessive thrust, as if he was trying to embed himself into her very soul.
Her body responded, her hips rising to meet his, her legs wrapping tighter around his waist to pull him deeper.
The heat between them built again, a slow, simmering burn that was more intense than before.
The sounds in the room changed—the soft slap of skin, the harsh rhythm of their breathing, the quiet, desperate pleas that fell from her lips.
His name became a prayer, a chant, the only word she knew.
He shifted, changing the angle of his thrusts, and the new pressure sent a bolt of pure ecstasy through her.
Her head fell back, her body arching into his as the pleasure coiled tight, impossibly tighter than before.
“Maekar… I’m…” she gasped, unable to finish.
“I know,” he growled, his control finally shattering. His thrusts became harder, faster, driving into her with a wild, abandoned rhythm. “Come with me. Now.”
His command was the final push.
The world shattered into a million blinding points of light as her orgasm crashed over her, more powerful, more devastating than the last.
She moaned his name, her body convulsing around him, her inner muscles clamping down in rhythmic waves.
With a hoarse groan, he followed her over the edge.
He drove deep one last time, and she felt him pulse within her, a hot, flooding rush that marked her as his.
He collapsed against her, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure, his face buried in the crook of her neck.
For a long moment, the only sound was their ragged breathing, the frantic beating of their hearts slowing into a shared, steady rhythm.
Emma lay beneath him, her body humming with a profound, bone-deep satisfaction. She felt marked, claimed, and in the aftermath, cherished.
The world returned slowly.
In pieces.
In breath.
In warmth.
Emma lay against him.
Still.
Quiet.
Her head resting against his chest.
Listening.
His heartbeat was slower now.
Steady.
Grounding.
Her fingers curled slightly against him.
Not from fear.
Not from uncertainty.
From something softer.
Something deeper.
She had expected—
Regret.
Fear.
Distance.
Instead—
She felt—
Changed.
Not broken.
Not taken.
But—
Altered.
Opened.
Her gaze dropped.
Her hand moved again.
Resting low against her stomach.
This time—
It felt different.
Maekar noticed.
Of course he did.
His hand came over hers.
Covering it.
Warm.
Heavy.
Certain.
Emma stilled.
Her breath caught.
Neither of them spoke.
They did not need to.
Because the thought—
The possibility—
The future—
Hung there between them.
Real.
His head lowered slightly.
His voice rough against her hair.
“If it comes,” he said quietly, “it will not be by duty alone.”
Emma’s eyes closed.
“And if I want it?” she whispered.
Author's Note: First I want to state I am pretty sure I hinted at them consummating in another chapter but i want to write my full fledged first smut worthy of them and ugugg I am proud of myself. Also you better bet that Aerion going to find emma heavily pregant when he is aloud back at summer hall.
Warnings: wedding night, implication of consummation (not descriptive/SFW)
Synopsis: your gentle, intimate wedding night with Mr. Darcy.
It was a night bathed in moonlight, the cool air carrying the gentle scent of blooming jasmine from the gardens of Pemberley. You found yourself standing at the threshold of your new life, butterflies dancing in your stomach as you recalled the whirlwind of emotions that had led to this very moment.
The day had been a whirlwind of emotions—the grand ceremony, the joy of your family, and the overwhelming happiness of marrying the man you had come to love with all your heart: Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.
Soft flickers of candles illuminated the lavishly appointed chamber, casting a warm glow over the silk sheets and finely crafted furnishings. The opulence felt unreal, yet it was the coziness of the room, imbued with love and promise, that made it feel like home.
The delicate lace of your wedding gown whispered against the floor, and your fingers, trembling slightly, played with the edge of the sleeve. Tonight was your wedding night, and the thought of it made your cheeks flush with warmth.
A gentle knock at the door snapped you from your musing, and your heart raced as Mr. Darcy stepped inside. He looked every bit the gentleman: tall, with a refined air and a warm glow radiating from his usually reserved demeanor. The sight of him sent a rush of happiness through you, the man you had once deemed proud now wholly vulnerable and just as enamored.
“Good evening, my love” he said softly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. His dark eyes sparkled with a mix of affection and sincerity that made your breath catch.
The moment the door closed behind him, an air of intimacy enveloped the space. "Are you well?" His voice brought warmth and reassurance, grounding you amidst the whirlwind that was this day.
You nodded, though your voice seemed to elude you for a moment. "Yes… only a little nervous," you admitted shyly, your gaze dropping to your hands as you fidgeted with the lace of your gown.
“Today was a momentous occasion,” he began, his voice deep and earnest. “To have you by my side… I still cannot quite believe that you are now truly my wife.”
A shy smile tugged at your lips as you recalled the vows exchanged beneath the soft bloom of spring flowers, surrounded by the laughter and joy of your closest friends and family. “Nor I, Mr. Darcy. It all seems like a beautiful dream.”
“I assure you, it is very much real,” he said, his voice laced with tenderness. “And I would not trade it for anything in the world.”
An unspoken understanding passed between you, a shared admission that neither of you had ever anticipated finding such completeness in another. The weight of the evening melted away as his gaze held yours captive, his admiration evident.
Darcy crossed the threshold through the grandeur of the room, taking your hands in his, his touch firm yet gentle, his fingers gently untangling your own as he lifted your hands to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to each.
His musky scent of cedar and leather comforting as he whispered, “How fortunate I am to have you in my life. You’ve changed everything for me.
You leaned back to meet his gaze, your heart swelling at his sincerity. “And you have changed my world, Mr. Darcy. I once thought you were insurmountable…and now, you are my greatest support.”
"You need not dwell on nerves," he said quietly, his voice filled with affection. "We have all the time in the world, and tonight is not a night for haste, but for tenderness." His gaze held yours, and you could see the care, the love, in his eyes—a love that had grown over time, deep and steadfast.
“I have waited for this moment for what feels like a lifetime,” he whispered, “and yet, now that it is here, I find myself wanting nothing more than to make you feel safe, cherished.”
You blushed deeply, overwhelmed by his words, by the tenderness with which they held you. You had never imagined that such a proud and composed man could be so gentle, so considerate. You felt the weight of his love in every touch, every glance.
“I do feel safe,” you whispered back, your voice barely above a breath. “With you, I always do.”
Darcy’s hand moved to cup your cheek, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. There was a quiet reverence in his eyes as he leaned down, brushing his lips softly against yours. The kiss was slow, tentative—an expression of the deep emotions felt deep within your bosom. You felt the warmth of his breath, the softness of his lips, and all the nervousness that had been knotted in your chest began to unwind.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested gently against yours. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with emotion. “More than I can ever say.”
Your heart swelled with love for him. “And I love you,” you replied softly, your shyness melting away in the presence of his affection.
“Then allow me to show you just how much you mean to me,” he said, slowly guiding you to the lavishly embroidered settee that had been prepared for you both for this special night.
“May I?” he inquired softly, his voice a velvet caress as he brushed your hair away from your face. You nodded, breath hitching at the intimate nature of the moment.
With tender care, Darcy helped you out of your wedding gown, his touch never rushed or demanding. He treated you as though you were the most precious thing in the world, his every movement thoughtful and gentle. When you were finally settled on the soft sheets, he joined you, his arms wrapping around you in a protective embrace.
As the evening unfolded, you followed his lead, allowing him to guide you patiently and with a grace that soothed your nervous heart. Each tentative touch ignited sparks that coursed through you. The intimacy was profound, transcending the physical, as your connection deepened.
In the quiet stillness of the night, you rested your head against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body next to yours. His fingers traced soothing patterns along your back, and you felt a deep sense of contentment wash over you.
“There is no need for fear,” Darcy murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “We have all our lives ahead of us, my dearest.”
Underneath the canopy of stars that blanketed the Pemberley skies, you sensed that this was where you were meant to be, by Darcy’s side, writing the first chapter of a tale that neither of you would ever want to end. In that moment, the world outside disappeared; it was just the two of you, united as one, ready to face whatever came next—together.
What's a moment in mclennon history where you are sure something happened between John and Paul??
Well, define "sure."
I'm not sure at all—I wasn't there and don't have special juicy knowledge—but I will say this: They were both sexual humans, they were in an intense, marriage-like relationship the rest of their world accepted as such and made room for, they thought of themselves as special (b/c they were), meaning: exempt from rules that apply to others. They moved amidst queerness from an early age (Hamburg, Beat poetry, etc.). That's why I think that, if there was sexual tension between them, they recognized it as such, and probably acted on it. What place it would have had in their relationship (a big thing or a small, the winner takes it all), I don't know.
I also think it's more likely they never did anything than for them to have had sex only once or twice, and it being a big, charged thing between them. I just don't think sex, even with each other, was in itself that shocking to them.
Now, *feelings* and the names we give them...that's another topic entirely.
But that wasn't your question, was it? ;-)
All right. If I had to choose, I'd say: early days/wanking circle of two, Paris, and '67. And possibly India (in your room). But, every time, as part of an on-going situation, not as a sudden revelation.
So much for my boring quote unquote earnest take. Now, can we go back to talking about Woodland Sprite Paul and Hunter John, and leg combing?! ;-)
You see the first thing we love is a scene. For love at first sight requires the very sign of its suddenness; and of all things, it is the scene which seems to be seen best for the first time: a curtain parts and what had not yet ever been seen is devoured by the eyes: the scene consecrates the object I am going to love. The context is the constellation of elements, harmoniously arranged that encompass the experience of the amorous subject...
Love at first sight is always spoken in the past tense. The scene is perfectly adapted to this temporal phenomenon: distinct, abrupt, framed, it is already a memory (the nature of a photograph is not to represent but to memorialize)... this scene has all the magnificence of an accident: I cannot get over having had this good fortune: to meet what matches my desire.
The gesture of the amorous embrace seems to fulfill, for a time, the subject's dream of total union with the loved being: The longing for consummation with the other... In this moment, everything is suspended: time, law, prohibition: nothing is exhausted, nothing is wanted: all desires are abolished, for they seem definitively fulfilled... A moment of affirmation; for a certain time, though a finite one, a deranged interval, something has been successful: I have been fulfilled (all my desires abolished by the plenitude of their satisfaction).
Sekhem (5381) is the empowering Goddess. She is a warrior and a liberator. If stuck in a subjugating, uncomfortable or hurtful predicament, Sekhem can show the seeker how to escape with dignity.
Call upon Sekhem if you ever feel powerless, helpless, or deprived of that which you NEED to survive or be successful.
