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Three Nights a Week

Pairing: Florence Seward x Prostitute!Reader

Words: 8.5k

Part: 1/2

Summary: Dr. Florence Seward doesn’t usually take her work—or her girls—home. But there’s one she keeps going back to. One she watches a little too long. It’s not love. It’s not obsession. Not yet.

Warnings: Prostitution, Obsession, Stalking, Older Woman/Younger Woman, darkish, Scissoring, Fingering, Oral, Praise Kink, Degradation Kink, slight somnophilia, Power Imbalance, paid sex, Cum Eating, Voyeurism, Florence gets off on reader being dirty and unclean, Possessive Behavior

AO3

AN: This is gonna have a hopefully very fluffy second part.

It’s raining again—soft, cold drops that cling to the wool of your shawl and soak through the thin satin of your dress. You’ve stopped feeling it, mostly. The cold, the wet, the ache in your ankles from walking too long in shoes that don’t fit quite right. You lean against the brick and wait for a carriage, a man, a hand reaching out with a coin.

But it’s her.

Not always. But often enough that you expect it now, that pale flash of her wrist when the door opens, her hand gloved in black leather, always the same way—like she’s summoning you, not inviting. Like you’re a patient she means to examine.

You don’t know much about her, only what the other girls say. That her name is Florence. That she’s a doctor, that she lives alone, that she never smiles. That she doesn’t fuck anyone but who she pays. That she’s got a thing for girls who smell like sweat and whiskey and haven’t eaten all day. That she always comes—Monday, Wednesday, Saturday.

You let her take you in the carriage without a word. She never speaks much on the way back to her house, only stares, her mouth tight, her eyes dark with something you’ve stopped trying to name. Not lust. Not tenderness. Hunger, maybe. The kind that doesn’t care where it feeds.

By the time you reach her doorstep you’re soaked through, shivering, but she doesn’t rush. She never rushes. She watches you like you’re an object she’s studying. A rat in a trap. A throat to dissect.

“Inside,” she says finally, her voice low, velvet-slick. She opens the door and steps aside, lets you walk past her. Her eyes graze your hips, your thighs, the wet cling of your dress. You think she likes it when you look like this—cold, dripping, dirty.

She locks the door behind you with a click that sounds louder than it should. Echoes in your spine. You hear the scrape of her boots on the floorboards, the way she peels off her gloves one finger at a time.

You don’t turn around. You know better than that by now. “Upstairs,” she says.

You climb the steps, one by one, your wet shoes slapping the polished wood. Her house is too quiet, too clean. It always is. Smells like lavender and pipe smoke and something sterile underneath—like chalk and iron. Like a morgue.

You’re dripping on the floor by the time she reaches the bedroom. She doesn’t mind. She never does. She likes the mess. “Take it off,” she says.

And you do. You let the shawl fall, then the dress, clinging and cold and heavy with rain. You peel off the stockings slow. She likes to watch you struggle. She likes to see the bruises on your knees, the faint outlines of men's fingers where they shouldn't have been on any proper girl. She steps closer. You can feel her behind you now—close, but not touching.

“You didn’t wash,” she murmurs. “No,” you say. Your voice is hoarse. Honest. “Didn’t have the money.”

“Good.” She unbuttons her coat. You hear the sound of it sliding off her shoulders. Her hands are on your waist then, fingers digging into your skin hard enough to hurt. “I like you better this way.”

She pushes you forward, not hard—just enough. Your hands catch the edge of the bedframe. You lean, bare and wet and shivering. She doesn’t speak again. Not yet.

You hear the jangle of her belt. The rustle of her undershirt. The sound of her breath, measured and calm.

And then—her fingers. Between your legs. Rough, unkind. She doesn’t ask if you’re ready, doesn’t care if you are. She parts you with the same cool precision she might use on a cadaver. Just another body. Just another poor little cunt to open and examine.

“You’re already wet,” she says, voice low, almost disappointed. “Do they touch you like this on the street?”

“Sometimes.”

“But not like I do.”

You don’t answer. She pushes two fingers in deep, crooks them cruel, and you gasp—knees buckling, your forehead brushing the carved wood of the bedpost. “Say it.”

“Not like you,” you manage. “They don’t—fuck, Florence—”

She tightens her hold on your hip, fingers still working inside you like she’s searching for something buried. You moan, broken and breathless.

“I pay for you,” she whispers. Her voice is in your ear now, hot and level. “That means I decide what gets touched. What gets ruined.” You nod. You’d say yes but you can’t breathe.

She pulls her fingers out just long enough to spit in her hand. Wipes it over your cunt like it’s nothing. Like she’s greasing a tool.

And then she’s in you again. Fingers pumping harder now. Meaner. She’s close behind you, grinding against the back of your thigh, using you like you’re nothing but heat and holes.

You’re sobbing when she makes you cum—messy, shaking, clenching around her knuckles like your body can’t bear to let her go. She doesn’t stop. Not until you go limp in her arms. Not until she’s ruined you the way she likes. Sloppy and spent, shaking and silent.

“You’ll come back Friday,” she says, already wiping her hands on a cloth. Her tone is final. “You’re filth, but you’re mine.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It’s already past midnight when her carriage pulls up.

She doesn’t step out right away. Just sits in the dark, gloved fingers tapping slow against the inside of her wrist, eyes narrowed behind her spectacles as she watches you work.

You don’t see her yet. You’re too busy leaning against that crumbling lamppost on the corner of Redchurch and Wilmot, the one with the rusted base and the broken glass pane. Your dress is shorter than usual tonight—tight, stained at the hem, one strap fallen loose over your shoulder like bait. The man you’re with looks old, drunk. He keeps pawing at your tits through the thin fabric like they’re his, like the coin he gave you bought more than time.

Florence watches as he backs you into the alley.

She clenches her jaw. Not out of jealousy—she doesn’t believe in that. But because she hates how long it’s taking. She hates that someone else gets to touch you first. Gets to split you open on filthy brick while she waits like a vulture in her velvet-lined box.

He’s quick, at least.

You’re on your back for maybe four minutes before he’s done, mumbling something you don’t respond to, wiping his cock on your cheek like you’re a rag and stumbling off into the dark.

That’s when she steps out. He doesn’t see her. He wouldn’t remember her even if he did.

But you do. You feel her before you see her—that sharp, clean scent of her cologne, the hard clack of her heels. You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, chin still dripping, and straighten up just enough to meet her eyes.

“Sorry,” you say, quiet. “Didn’t think you’d come tonight.”

“I said Friday.” Her voice is dry. Calm. “And I’m punctual.” You nod, already swaying on your feet. Your knees ache from the pavement. You’re soaked through with spit and filth. You look like nothing. She drinks it in like wine. “Get in,” she says, nodding toward the carriage. “Before I change my mind.”

You’re trembling when you climb in beside her. Cold and damp and still open between the legs from the man before. She doesn’t ask questions. She never does. Just closes the door behind you, the locket at her throat catching the moonlight as she sits down, prim as ever.

“Did he pay you well?” she asks after a moment. “Three shillings.” She clicks her tongue. “You’re worth more.” You don’t say anything. You never do when she talks like that.

Her hand lifts slowly. Curls around your jaw, thumb pressing just beneath your lip where it’s red and raw. “I’ll double it,” she murmurs, voice low. “But only if you don’t wash.”

You nod again, stomach fluttering. You know what she wants. She’s wet already—she always is when she picks you up after a job. Something about tasting the others on you. Something about undoing them with her own hands.

She doesn’t light a lamp when you get inside the house. Just locks the door like always and guides you wordlessly up the stairs, her hand flat against your lower back, steady and firm. The hallway is dark but familiar. You know the steps by sound now, by the echo of your own breathing, the soft creak of the fourth stair from the top.

You’re still dripping.

His cum is cold on your thighs. You can feel it sliding as you walk, feel the sting between your legs where he’d tugged too hard. You’re shaking again, whether from nerves or chill you don’t know—but Florence’s grip never falters.

When she gets you to the bedroom, she doesn’t even bother to undress you.

She pushes you back onto the bed and climbs over you, still fully clothed in her crisp white shirt and vest, her gloves tucked neatly into her breast pocket. Her hair’s come slightly loose from the rain, strands clinging to her cheek, but her eyes stay sharp. Focused.

She unbuttons your dress at the front—just enough to expose your chest, the curve of your ribs, the dirt smudged along your clavicle. And then she lowers her mouth.

She licks you slowly. Not just your breasts, but everywhere. The grime along your neck. The sweat caked in the crease beneath your arm. The blood where your lip split earlier. Her tongue drags over it all, warm and deliberate, like she’s cataloguing it. Tasting not just skin, but the city itself—its rot, its soot, its sickness.

You whimper when she mouths at your collarbone, her teeth grazing the bruise that bloomed there last week.

“I can taste him,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you. Her lips are at your chest now, tongue laving one nipple, then the other, her breath hot and even. “What was he? Banker? Butcher?”

“Don’t know,” you whisper. “Didn’t ask.” Florence smiles, slow and small. Her hands slide down your body, cool fingers catching in the folds of your ruined dress.

“You’re so fucking filthy,” she breathes, and there’s no disgust in it. Only awe. “You let them touch you. Let them use you. And then you come to me like this.” She kisses down your stomach. Licks the sweat. The dirt. The old bruises. And then she gets between your legs.

You flinch when her tongue presses flat to your cunt—still raw, still leaking—but she groans like it’s the finest thing she’s ever tasted. She doesn’t shy away from it. Doesn’t wipe you clean. She licks through the mess, slow and greedy, her nose pressed against your slit, her tongue catching on every trace of what he left behind.

You’re crying before long. She doesn’t stop. She eats you like she’s starving. Like there’s nothing in the world more holy than the filth between your legs.

When you cum, it’s wet and choking and full of shame. She pulls it from you with her mouth, her hands gripping your hips so hard they’ll bruise.

And when you’re spent, panting and sticky and sore, she lifts her head. Her lips shine in the dark. She doesn’t wipe them. You’re still shaking when she pulls away.

Still soaked. Still filthy. Just softer now—limp and wrecked and hollowed out in the way she likes. You don’t try to speak. She wouldn’t answer if you did. She’s already rising from the bed, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand like she just finished a meal.

Her skirt is still buttoned. She never took it off. She never does. You roll onto your side, cheek pressed against her pillow. It smells like her—sharp and clean and cold. You hate how badly you like it. How your body aches for the weight of hers again, even now, even after she’s left you messy and bruised and filled with the taste of someone else’s cock still barely licked away.

She stands at the mirror for a long time. Adjusting her collar. Tightening her cuffs. Running a comb through her damp hair with a surgeon’s precision. She doesn’t look at you while she does it. You watch her anyway, eyes half-lidded, your breath still catching every few seconds.

It’s still dark out when she checks the clock. You feel it coming. You always do. “You can stay until five,” she says. Still not facing you. “I have patients in the morning.”

Your throat burns. “Thank you.” She doesn’t answer. Just slips on her coat, fastens the top button, and finally turns.

You wonder if she ever sees you when she looks at you. Sees you. Or if all she sees is a body—warm, broken, willing. She steps closer. Not soft. Not slow.

Her hand brushes your hair back, and for a second you think—maybe. Maybe she’ll sit down. Pull you against her. Let you fall asleep against her chest just once.

But she just tucks the blanket up around your bare shoulders. It smells like sweat and spit and sex and she doesn’t flinch. She just says, “Lock the door behind you.” And then she leaves.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The woman across from her won’t stop talking.

Something about betrayal. A sister. A man with pale teeth and a black coat who won’t leave her dreams. Florence nods when expected. She scratches notes she won’t read later. Her mouth is still sore from where your thigh pressed against it.

You were gone by the time she came upstairs—blanket folded, door locked. Good girl. Just like always.

But she’d caught the scent of you still clinging to the sheets. The filth of the street. The men. The mess. And something inside her had twisted.

“—and I told her, I told her, if he ever touches me again I’ll slit his fucking throat—”

Florence hums. She’s not listening. She’s watching the way this woman cries, how her hands shake as she speaks. And suddenly she sees you—not the way you cum, not the way you beg—but the way you looked the first time all those months ago. Shivering, cold, waiting for her hand on that corner like you’d wait for death. Unafraid. Hopeless. Filthy.

God.

She presses her fingertips to her temple.

“Doctor?” Florence looks up. Her glasses are smudged. She hadn’t realized. “Do you often feel hatred?” she asks quietly. The woman blinks. “Toward him?”

“No. Toward yourself.” A pause. “Yes.” Florence writes something down she doesn’t mean. Her mouth is dry.

She didn’t fuck anyone else this week.

She’d had a girl the week before—barely twenty, with hair like hay and teeth yellow from opium—but it hadn’t taken. Florence had laid her out and tried, but it was wrong. The smell. The shape. The lack of you. She’d cum, eventually, but it had tasted like dust. Afterward, she’d tipped the girl double and told her not to come back.

She hasn't touched another since.

“I have this… feeling,” the patient says, voice lowering. “Like if someone really saw me, they’d be disgusted. And still—I want it. I want to be seen.”

Florence looks up. And there it is. That sick thing in her chest. That pulsing ache. She’s seen you at your worst—piss-slick thighs, blood on your gums, cum drying on your belly—and it didn’t disgust her.

It made her want.

You never ask her for more than what she gives. You never whine, never press, never stay longer than allowed. You’re obedient. Devoted. And still—still—you walk the streets. Let them touch you. Let them rut against you like pigs. Because you need it. Because you don’t believe you deserve anything else.

She pays you four times what you ask now. Every time. She says it’s because you’re worth it. But really—it’s penance. Really—it’s because she wants to own you.

The patient is crying again. Florence blinks once. Then smiles. A slow, brittle curl of the lips. “I’m going to recommend a new medication,” she says, calmly flipping a page. “And a change in how you think about longing.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

It happens on a Thursday. Not one of your nights. Not one she pays for.

She tells herself she’s only walking home from a late appointment. That the route simply overlaps with the districts where girls like you work. That she isn’t looking for you. That she isn’t slowing her steps each time she turns a corner. But she is.

She sees you long before you see her.

You’re standing under a broken gas lamp, the flame inside flickering weakly, making shadows smear over your face like soot. You keep shifting your weight from one foot to the other, rubbing your arms through the thin sleeves of your dress. You look exhausted. Hungry. Hopeless. And perfect.

Florence stops halfway down the block, the winter fog curling around her boots. She doesn’t move closer. Not yet. She just watches.

You speak to a man. Not a good man—she can tell by the way his hand reaches for your waist before you’ve even named your price. You laugh at something he says, but it’s the hollow, practiced laughter she’s heard from you a hundred times.

Florence’s jaw twitches.

She doesn’t question why she’s here. Why her pulse spikes each time you tilt your head, offering yourself up for a coin. She just… drifts after you, silent as a ghost, each step measured so carefully that even she doesn’t hear it.

You lead the man down a narrow side street. She follows. You lean against the wet brick. The man fumbles with his trousers. He’s breathing through his mouth. You’re already kneeling before he can speak. Quick. Efficient. Desperate.

Florence grips the iron railing beside her so tightly her glove creaks. She hates this part. Not because of the filth. Not because of him. But because she isn’t the one who put you on your knees.

She watches the back of your head bob once, twice. Watches the man groan, his fingers digging into your hair. Watches the way you wince as he pulls. She doesn’t blink.

When he finishes, he barely spares you a glance. Hands you a single coin. A single coin. You tuck it into your bodice like it’s nothing and wipe your mouth with your wrist.

And that’s when you look up. You sense her presence without seeing her. Something stiffens in your shoulders. You scan the street, the dark windows, the fog. You don’t see her. You never look high enough.

She’s leaning against a balcony rail in the shadows, breath steady, eyes fixed on the way your throat moves when you swallow someone else’s mess.

You start walking again. She follows. A few paces behind. Silent. Automatic. Thoughtless. She tells herself it’s curiosity. Clinical interest. Concern for a girl who might freeze in the cold if she doesn’t find enough business. But none of that is true.

The truth is—she doesn’t want to lose sight of you. Not for a minute. Not for a single goddamned step.

She watches you approach another man. Your voice low. Deferential. Sweet, even as your face stays blank. You slip your hand onto his arm the way Florence has seen a hundred times.

She feels heat in her stomach. A cold, sick, possessive burn. She shouldn’t be here. She should go home.

But her feet move forward again, quiet and steady, tracking the rhythm of your steps like she can’t remember how to stop.

She doesn’t think the word stalking. She tells herself she’s simply observing. Protecting. Studying. But she follows you until the sun begins to rise.

And somewhere in the back of her mind—deep enough she refuses to touch it—she knows: She isn’t watching you work. She’s watching you belong to everyone but her.

It’s nearly dawn when you finally give up.

Florence watches from across the street, her fingers curled tight around the edge of her coat. The sky’s gone pale behind the rooftops, all silver and soot, and the air stings her lungs when she breathes in.

You’re stumbling now. Your legs keep folding the wrong way. You’ve barely made a coin tonight. She knows. She watched. She counted.

You cut down a narrow lane, past a shuttered grocer and the corpse of a broken woman, and disappear behind a pile of crates into a gap between buildings that isn’t wide enough to be a proper alley. It smells like piss and mold and something that’s been rotting for weeks—but you don’t flinch.

You spread your coat out like it’s something warm. It isn’t. You curl up slow, careful, aching. Florence doesn’t move.

She stands there for a long time, watching the way your shoulders twitch, the way your fingers search your own body for warmth. Thinking of the way it makes her wet—the thought of fucking you there, asleep, on the wet ground. You pull your knees up. Your hair’s sticking to your cheek with sweat. You don’t even try to look around. You’re asleep within minutes. Passed out, more like. Spent. Starved.

Florence’s jaw clenches. Her gloves creak again. She’s still standing in the shadows across the road like some awful caricature of a man in a fog coat. Except she isn’t a man. She’s a doctor. A woman. A woman with a house and a bed and heat and money. A woman who’s seen disease rot the brain, lungs dissolve under filth, skin peel back from the bone.

She knows you’ll die if you keep living like this. She knows. She could take you home. Right now. She could step into that alley, lift you into her arms—you're light enough, she’s sure—and bring you to her house. Run a bath. Make tea. Wash the blood from your knees and the grime from your thighs and feed you. Tuck you into her sheets and kiss your shoulder and tell you that you don’t need to walk those streets again.

She could do it. But she doesn’t. She stays where she is. Hands frozen in her coat. Eyes pinned to your body like a surgeon watching for breath.

Because if she takes you—really takes you—there’s no going back. Not to neat transactions. Not to clean clinical need. If she brings you home, it’s not for a night. It’s forever. And she doesn’t know what that would make her. So she stands there instead. Just watching. Waiting for the sun to fully rise. Trying to pretend her hands aren’t already reaching for you in her mind.

You’ve gone still. Too still. Florence stands at the mouth of the alley, staring down at the small, curled shape of you, and something in her stomach turns.

Your hands are tucked between your thighs, fingers blue at the tips. Your lips too. There’s no color in your face—just ash. The rain from earlier hasn’t dried. It’s soaked into your hair, the back of your dress, the thin lining of your coat. You must be freezing.

You’re not even shivering anymore. That’s what does it. That silence. That stillness. Florence steps into the alley without thinking.

Her boots crunch against gravel. She kneels beside you. Her coat shifts as she moves, the wool brushing your arm. You don’t stir. She lays a hand gently on your wrist. Your skin is ice. Still a pulse, but shallow. Faint.

Florence swears under her breath—soft, vicious—and shrugs out of her coat before her mind can catch up. It’s still warm from her body, from the walk. She spreads it over you carefully, sleeves tucked beneath your back, collar up to your chin.

You don’t move. But your chest rises once. A little sharper. Florence exhales. She doesn’t leave. She just sits there.

Her back against the wall, legs stretched out in the alley beside yours. The stink is terrible—wet garbage, rotted wood, mold—but she stays. Because you’re here. Because you’re breathing. Because she doesn’t know what she’d do if you stopped.

The sky is paler now. She watches your lips. Your hands. Your eyelashes where they tremble faintly against your cheek. She tells herself she’s only waiting until the sun comes up. But she doesn’t look at the sky again. Only at you.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

You wake up stiff.

Your back is soaked through, spine aching from the bricks. Your mouth tastes like copper. The cold’s still there, dull and pressing, but it isn’t biting anymore. Not like it was.

There’s something heavy over your shoulders. Wool. You blink, slow. Look down. A coat. Not yours. Not like anything you’ve ever touched before. It’s thick. Heavy. The lining is soft, lined in a dark satin that catches the weak morning light like oil. It smells like clove and lavender and pipe tobacco and antiseptic.

Your heart lurches. You know that smell. You lift the edge of the collar to your face. Breathe it in again. Familiar. Impossible. And then you see it. Stitched just inside the lining, by hand, with small, neat black thread:

F. Seward

You stare at it.

The street noise comes back all at once—carriage wheels on cobblestone, a child shouting somewhere, the clatter of a door slamming shut—but it feels far away.

She was here.

You look around, but the alley’s empty. No footprints. No sign of her. Just the coat, still warm from her body, wrapped tight around you like a secret.

You don’t take it off.

Not when the sun fully rises. Not when you wander down to the bakery with the broken shutter to beg for day-old scraps. Not when the other girls catcall you on the corner and ask which poor bastard you robbed to get that fine thing.

You just pull it tighter. The lining brushes your bare arms with every step. Her name pressed against your skin like a brand. You don’t know what it means yet. If it was a kindness. A slip. A promise. But you wear it all day, wandering.

You don’t mean to end up at the hospital. You’re just walking. Like you always do. Through the winding lanes, the filthy markets, the narrow little alleys where the walls lean in close like teeth. It’s barely noon, but you’re already tired again. You’ve eaten nothing. You’ve slept on stone. But the coat helps.

It makes people look at you different.

Still hungry, still poor—but less like prey. There’s power in it. Weight. You feel it every time the hem brushes your calves. Every time you catch the scent of her, still clinging to the collar.

You don’t take it off. You walk for hours. And somehow—without meaning to—you end up on a wide gray street lined with trees.

The buildings here are taller. Clean. There's a dull shine to the windows, and the brass placards on the doors aren’t tarnished like the ones downtown. You stand on the corner for a moment, adjusting the coat where it slips off your shoulder.

And then you cross.

You walk to the middle of the block and stop. Not because you mean to. Because you feel pulled. There’s something familiar here. You can’t place it. But your chest aches a little and your stomach twists.

You look up at the building in front of you. Big. Stone. Imposing. You don’t know what it is. Some kind of clinic, maybe. Or a private ward. The sort of place that doesn’t take women like you. That probably calls the police when a girl lingers too long outside.

But you don’t move.

You’re tired. You rest your shoulder against the wrought-iron fence, the one circling the front garden, and pull her coat tighter around your frame. The wind’s started to pick up. You close your eyes for a moment. You don’t know you’re being watched.

Two floors above, Florence sits by the window in her office, unmoving. The patient is still speaking. Something about voices in the walls, about rats. Florence doesn’t hear a word. Her pen is motionless. Her mouth slightly open.

Because you’re there. You’re right there. In her coat. Standing on the pavement like you belong nowhere at all—and everywhere.

Your head is tilted up slightly. Lips parted. You look lost. Or dreaming. Or ruined. She doesn’t understand it. Why you came. How you found this place. What drew you to this exact slab of pavement beneath her window at this precise hour.

You couldn’t have known. But you're there.

She watches your fingers brush the hem of the coat. Her coat. She sees you take a slow breath. She sees the way your knees buckle just a little before you steady yourself against the fence.

And then she feels it. That awful, rising heat behind her ribs. Not lust. Not this time. Want. Desperate, dangerous want. The kind that makes people do foolish, permanent things.

“Doctor?” the patient says. Florence doesn’t turn around. Her hand presses to the glass. And she doesn’t look away. She’s out of her chair before she even registers she’s moving.

The patient is still speaking—some meandering tale of paranoia and betrayal—but Florence doesn’t hear a word. She grabs her coat from the peg by the door. Doesn’t fasten it. Doesn’t take her gloves.

“Doctor—?” the woman says, confused. But Florence is already gone. Her boots strike the hallway tile like gunshots. Fast. Sharp. Final. A nurse at the desk calls after her—“Dr. Seward, your next appointment is waiting—!”—but she doesn’t break stride.

She takes the stairs two at a time.

There’s a physician she knows standing by the entrance, mid-conversation with the director’s wife. He opens his mouth to greet her but stops when he sees her face—blank, breathless, intent.

And then he sees you. So do the others. You haven’t moved. You’re still leaning against the fence, half-asleep on your feet, Florence’s coat wrapped tight around your thin shoulders like a blanket. You blink when the door opens and catch sight of her barreling out into the daylight, hair mussed, eyes blazing, breath visible in the cold.

You straighten slightly. Confused. “Florence…?” She doesn’t answer at first. She stops just inches from you, eyes dragging over your face, your lips, your bare legs beneath the hem of her coat. Your hair’s tangled. Your eyes dull from hunger. There’s dirt on your cheek.

She exhales. A sharp, shaky thing. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I just—walked.” She touches your wrist. Feels your skin. Still cold. And then she sees the people staring. The nurse by the window. The surgeon just outside the doorway. The woman with the little velvet gloves whispering to her husband: Isn’t that one of the street girls from the east quarter?

Florence hears them. She sees their eyes rake over your body—taking in the scuffed shoes, the bruises on your throat, the way the coat doesn’t belong to you.

And she doesn’t care. She steps closer. Lifts a hand. Brushes the hair gently out of your eyes. “Have you eaten?” You shake your head. “Come with me.”

You hesitate. “Florence, I—I wasn’t trying to find you, I swear—”

“I know,” she says quietly. “It’s alright, sweetheart.” Then she reaches down. Laces her fingers through yours. And turns. Leading you toward the back entrance. Away from the stares. Away from the questions. You follow. And she doesn’t let go. Not even once.

She doesn’t say much more on the way to her office.

Just grips your hand a little too tight and keeps her head down. There are whispers in the hall. A nurse frowns when she passes. One of the junior doctors stares outright. You hear someone murmur the word whore behind you, not even trying to hide it.

Florence doesn’t flinch.

She opens the door to her office—empty now—with quick, clipped movements and guides you through it without looking at you. The coat is still draped over your shoulders. Your feet ache. You haven’t eaten. But her hand is warm.

There’s a little room in the back, past the shelves of case files and the jars of tinctures. She opens the door with a small brass key she keeps on a chain around her neck. “I keep this room for patients who need quiet,” she says. Her voice is measured. But not cold. “You can stay here until I’m done with my sessions.”

You step inside.

It’s… clean. Dim. There’s a faint scent of tea and cedar. A couch with a blanket folded neatly at the end. A washbasin. A single oil lamp burning low on the far table.

It feels safer than it should. You turn to her, unsure. “You don’t want me to leave?” Her eyes meet yours. Something flashes behind them. Want. Worry. Maybe something worse. “I don’t want to lose you again.” You swallow.

“Sit,” she says. “I’ll bring you something later.” You don’t argue. You lower yourself onto the couch, folding your legs beneath you, pulling her coat tight again even though the room is warm. Your head feels too light. Your chest too full. She watches you for one more moment. Then she turns. And locks the door from the outside.

The day passes in soft, flickering silence.

You drift in and out of sleep, lulled by the quiet sounds through the walls—the murmur of voices, the scrape of chairs, the occasional cough or cry. You think you hear her once, behind the door. Firm. Focused. But it sounds different now. Like someone holding something back.

She brings you tea halfway through the day. Pours it for you herself. She doesn’t speak while you drink it, just sits across from you for a few minutes, studying you with a gaze that never wavers.

You fall asleep with the empty cup still in your hands. When you wake, she’s back. Her gloves are off. Her hair’s come slightly undone. She looks tired. But she’s watching you.

“You’re coming with me tonight,” she says quietly. You nod before you even think to speak. Her lips press together. Almost a smile. Almost. She reaches out. Brushes her fingers down the side of your face. Soft. Reverent. “Good girl,” she murmurs. “You’re mine now.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Her house is dark when you arrive.

She doesn’t light the parlor lamps. Doesn’t speak, either. Just takes your hand again and leads you down the hall, past the office, past the bed you’ve fucked on too many times to count. She doesn’t stop there tonight.

She takes you to the bath. You stand in the doorway, silent, unsure. Steam curls from the porcelain tub already half-full, water glinting gold in the low lamplight. There’s a pitcher beside it, a bar of hard soap wrapped in cloth, and a stack of clean towels she must’ve set out before she left for work.

She planned this. Planned you.

Florence lets go of your hand. Rolls up her sleeves. Doesn’t ask you to undress—just starts doing it for you.

First the coat. Then your dress. Then the rest, slow and quiet, her fingers brushing your bruises, your hips, the curve of your ribs. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. She runs one thumb along the edge of your jaw, then down your neck to your collarbone.

“You don’t have to clean me,” you whisper.

“I want to.”

“But you like it when I’m—”

“I still want to.”

She helps you into the tub.

The water stings at first—too hot—but you sink into it anyway, muscles softening, breath catching. You watch her roll the sleeves higher, past the elbow, and kneel beside the tub. Her fingers dip into the water, slow and steady.

She picks up the soap and starts with your shoulders. Careful. Gentle. She scrubs your arms, your back, your thighs. Lathers your feet with her bare hands. Her thumb catches on an old cut near your knee. Her eyes linger on the raw spots where you've rubbed yourself red from cold.

She doesn’t speak. Just works. And when she’s done, she rinses you clean with water from the pitcher—warm, not scalding. Her fingers linger on your scalp when she finally tips your head back and soaks your hair.

You feel like you could cry. But you don’t. You let her help you stand, still dripping. Let her wrap a towel around you. Let her guide you down the hall.

And this time when she opens the door to her bedroom, she goes in with you. Not just to watch. Not just to fuck. But to stay.

She undresses slow.

You sit on the bed, towel around your shoulders, watching her from the center of the room. She doesn’t hide. Doesn’t turn her back. Just pulls her shirt open, button by button, and lets the fabric fall away.

She’s pale. Paler than you expected. Soft. Not thin, not hardened like you are—she’s got a full belly, round hips, dimpled thighs, stretch marks on the underside of her breasts. Her arms are plush and her ribs barely show, and there’s a darkness to her body, a weight that feels real.

You reach for her without thinking. She lets you. Your fingers trace her stomach. Her waist. The soft slope of her breast. She breathes shallowly as you touch her—like she doesn’t know what to do with it.

Like no one’s done it in a long, long time. “I’ve wanted you,” you say. “For a while.”

“I know.”

“Why now?” She doesn’t answer. Just climbs into the bed beside you. Her skin is warm. You drop the towel and climb over her, straddling her thighs, both of you bare. She lets her hands fall to your hips, her breath catching as your cunt grazes her skin, slick and warm and clean for once.

“You’re beautiful,” you say. She laughs, but it’s soft. Shaky. “You’re mine,” she whispers. Then she leans up. And kisses you. Not sharp. Not demanding. Just hungry.

You grind down against her slowly, your bodies slick against each other, and when she rolls you beneath her, it’s the first time she’s done it without gloves. Without clothes. Without any space between you at all.

When you cum, she stays inside you—two fingers deep, her mouth pressed to your throat, her hips shaking. And she doesn’t let go of you after. She stays. Wrapped around you. Naked. Real. Yours.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The light in the room is soft when you wake.

Not sunlight exactly—just the dull, heavy gray of morning pressing against the tall windows, seeping through the curtains like mist. It’s quiet, too. No carriages outside. No footsteps overhead. Just the gentle creak of the wood as the house settles, and the sound of slow, steady breathing behind you.

You’re still in her bed.

Still warm from the night before.

Your legs are tangled in the linen sheets. One shoulder bare. The air smells like lavender water, ironed cotton, and something else—something low and earthy and unmistakably her. It clings to your skin, to the pillow, to the towel still folded on the chair where she left it last night.

She hasn’t left.

She’s behind you, body curved around yours, one arm slung heavy over your waist. Her palm rests just beneath your ribs, fingers splayed, like she’s still making sure you’re real.

You don’t move. You keep your breath shallow, slow. Waiting. Because this is where it always shifts. Where the warmth drains out. Where she remembers what you are.

She never lets you stay long. Never touches you like this in the morning. Never sleeps after. Never keeps you past first light. And yet—she’s still here. Her chest rising against your back. Her hand, warm and steady, brushing your skin with each slow breath.

You hold still and listen. And then she shifts. Not away. Closer. Her hand moves up, over your stomach. Her lips brush your shoulder. Barely there. You breathe in too sharp, too fast. She feels it. Her hand stills.

“…You’re awake,” she says softly. You nod, but say nothing. You don’t trust your voice. You think you hear a smile in her next breath. It’s faint. Almost sad. “I thought you might have left.”

“You usually tell me to.” She doesn’t answer that. Not right away. Her hand drifts lower. Down your belly. Across your hip. Slow. Familiar. But this time, it doesn’t feel like routine. It doesn’t feel like possession. It feels like something else.

She leans in and kisses the back of your neck. Soft. Unhurried. You don’t understand it. You twist in her arms just enough to look at her.

Her hair’s half-loose, flattened on one side. She’s still got pillow lines on her cheek. Her mouth is parted, her expression unreadable. Open in a way you’ve never seen before.

You whisper, “Florence?” She doesn’t answer. Just closes the space between you and kisses you. Not like the nights before. Not like someone tasting what they’ve bought. But deep. Tender. Wanting.

Your breath catches. You pull back just slightly. Just enough to see her eyes. “Why are you doing that?”

She searches your face for a long moment. Then she reaches up, fingers brushing your cheek, your jaw, your lips. You feel small under her touch. Bare. Not because you’re naked—but because she’s really looking at you now.

“I didn’t sleep for hours,” she murmurs. “Because of me?” She nods once. “Because I kept thinking I’d wake up and you’d be gone.” You swallow hard. “You always want me to go.”

“I haven’t truly wanted that for a while,” she says. “I just thought it was easier.” You blink. Your eyes sting. She kisses you again. And this time, you kiss her back. She rolls you onto your back, the sheets rustling under you both. Her mouth moves over yours, soft but greedy, her hand warm on your chest. You arch into her touch without thinking, your fingers threading into her hair.

“You let me touch you last night,” you whisper.

“I wanted you to.”

“You’ve never—”

“I know.”

She leans down and kisses you again. Deeper this time. More sure of herself. Her breasts press against yours as she shifts closer, her thigh sliding between your legs. You gasp into her mouth and she drinks it in. “I don’t want to stop,” she murmurs against your lips. “Not this time.”

“Then don’t.”

Her hand slips down your side, across your stomach, between your legs. You’re wet already—warmed by sleep and want and the fact that she’s still here. Still touching you. Still choosing to stay.

You rock into her hand, your breath catching in your throat. And Florence watches you like she’s memorizing every flicker of your face. Not just studying you now. Loving you. Like she doesn’t care if you see it. Like she needs you to.

You end up on top of her.

Her legs spread wide beneath you, soft thighs pressed against yours, her skin pale and pink where the sun finally spills across the bed. Her hand is at your hip, guiding your body into place, your cunt already slick and aching, and when your clits finally drag against each other—wet, slow, just right—you both gasp.

It’s not rushed. There’s no money on the table this time. No cold calculation. No clinical detachment. Just her hands. Her mouth. The rhythm of your bodies grinding together in the sheets, heat growing between your thighs with every slow, deliberate roll of your hips. She tilts her chin up, chest rising with every breath, her hair damp with sweat against the pillow.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, her voice cracked open. “God, look at you, darling…” You whimper at the pet name. You can feel her soaking you, her clit slipping against yours, her hand clutching your thigh tight, like she’s scared you’ll vanish if she lets go.

“I should’ve told you,” she says. “I should’ve—fuck—I should’ve told you sooner.” You nod. You can barely speak. You’re grinding down harder now, the friction delicious, her body soft and real and beneath you.

“I’m in love with you,” she breathes, like it’s a confession she’s bled for. “You understand me? I love you.”

You stop for half a second—just long enough to see her eyes. She looks wrecked. Red in the face. Bare in a way you’ve never seen her. “You don’t have to go back,” she says. “You don’t have to sell yourself anymore. I’ll take care of you.”

Your hips start moving again, and she moans—louder now, her thighs twitching, her cunt grinding against yours like she can’t help it. You’re both soaked, both trembling, and you can feel the tension building in your belly with every desperate slide of skin.

“I’ll keep you,” she whispers. “I’ll feed you, I’ll fuck you, I’ll spoil you—I’ll never let you sleep on stone again.” You whimper her name. She cups your face.

“My darling girl,” she says, voice thick with heat and awe. “My sweet little pet. You’re mine now, do you understand?” You nod. You’re crying and you don’t know why. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.”

She arches up into you. You feel her clench. You’re close—so close—the friction almost too much now, your clits slick and throbbing as your bodies slap together faster, harder, desperate.

“I’m going to take care of you,” she gasps. “Forever. No more corners. No more begging. Just me. You’ll have me.”

You cum first. It hits you in a wave—your thighs shaking, cunt spasming, your whole body curling forward as you cry out into her mouth. She follows right after. You feel her twitch, feel her cry out under you, her hips grinding through it, her voice breaking as she moans your name again and again.

You collapse on top of her, panting. She wraps her arms around you, sweat-slick and spent, and kisses the side of your head. “Mine,” she murmurs. “Mine. Mine.” You don’t answer. You just hold her tighter.

You don’t remember falling asleep.

But when you wake, the sheets are still warm, and so is she. Florence is sitting up in bed beside you, half-dressed, her hair tied back in that lazy way that makes her look less like a doctor and more like someone who wants to spend the day in.

She’s watching you. Not with hunger this time. But with something quieter. Steadier. She brushes her hand over your back. “Morning, sweetheart.” You groan. Curl into her side. Your thighs still ache. She kisses your temple, then reaches behind her—pulling something from the chair. “Here.”

She drops a soft, worn nightgown into your lap. Ivory cotton. Probably older than you. The neckline is embroidered, the fabric thin from years of washing. “Put it on,” she murmurs. “You’re not going anywhere.” You blink, still groggy. “What?”

“I said you’re mine.” She smooths the nightgown over your hips before you even start dressing. “That means you live here now.” You stare. She smirks. “You’re going to be my housewife, aren’t you?”

Your heart flutters. You didn’t expect that word to land the way it does. You pull the gown over your head with trembling fingers. It smells like her. A little like cedar. A little like cloves. You’re swimming in it, but you don’t care. Florence watches you from the bed like she’s already proud of you.

She gives you the run of the house. “Go where you like,” she says, refastening her blouse. “Except the cellar. That door stays locked.”

You pad barefoot through the halls, touching the walls, trailing your fingers along the shelves. Her house is bigger than you thought. High-ceilinged. Quiet. The wood floors creak under your steps, and the morning light spills through the windows in soft golden lines.

You find the kitchen. The parlor. A sitting room you doubt she ever uses. And then—you find her study.

You almost don’t go in at first. The door’s slightly ajar. It smells like tobacco and paper and whatever dark oil she uses to polish the furniture. Warm. Dry. Comforting. There’s a fire still burning low in the grate, and the armchair facing it looks lived-in in a way nothing else in the house does.

You slip inside.

The shelves are full of books with cracked leather spines. A phonograph sits on the side table. There’s a blanket draped over the back of the chair, and a teacup still sitting in the saucer from yesterday.

You curl up in the chair without thinking. The fabric is warm. You hug your knees to your chest and breathe in the scent of the room—her scent. It feels like a heart, this room. Like the center of her. Like the only place in the world that’s ever felt safe.

You don’t hear her come in. But you feel her when she stops in the doorway. Her voice is low. Soft. “Found your favorite already?” You nod into your knees.

She crosses the room. Leans down. Kisses the top of your head. “That’s alright,” she murmurs. “It’s yours now, too.” You look up at her. She brushes a strand of hair out of your eyes. “My little housewife.” You smile. And for the first time in your life, it doesn’t feel like pretending.

By afternoon, you’re still in the study. The fire’s been stoked. Florence is reading, legs crossed, spectacles low on her nose, a thick book balanced in one hand. She hasn’t said much since lunch, but she hasn’t let you out of her sight, either.

You’re on the rug now.

Curled at her feet like a cat, her nightgown still wrapped around you, sleeves too long, hem puddling on the floor. Your hair’s damp from the bath she ran for you earlier. Your belly full for the first time in days. She made you eat everything.

And now you’re here. Now you’re hers. Her hand drifts down sometimes—just to touch you. Stroke your shoulder, comb through your hair, cup the curve of your cheek like she still can’t believe you’re real. She hasn’t said those words again—I love you—but you feel it in everything.

In the way she lets you stay. In the way she hasn’t offered you money. In the way she doesn’t look away.

You shift closer, lay your head against her knee. Her fingers find your scalp, stroking slow. “I’ll buy you a ring,” she says quietly, still reading. “Eventually. When I think you’ll believe me.”

You don’t answer. You just press your face into her thigh. Hold her tighter. She closes her book. Slides it onto the table. Her hand never leaves your hair. “We’ll make a life,” she says. “You’ll see.” You believe her. For once, you believe someone. And this time—you stay.

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