✘ summary: {Extinguish thou my eyes: I can still see thee. deprive my ears of sound: I can still hear thee, and without feet I still can come to thee, and without voice I still can call to thee. Sever my arms from me, I still hold thee with all my heart as a single hand... – Rainer Maria Rilke} James March becomes obsessed with you, realizing that you were the wife he was supposed to have.
✘ w a r n i n g s: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT! SMUT, female reader, no use of y/n, foul language, rough sex, p in v, DARK CONTENT; very dubious consent, psychological manipulation, mental coercion, pining, watching you sleep, invasion of privacy, blood, gore, suffocation, choking, eventual reader death, forced marriages.
✘ a/n: started writing this in september and wanted to get it out before it fell into the void of never finished fics. obsession idea requested by anonymous, if they're still out there! not beta-read as per fucking usual shhhh. banners by @/veejiez @/strangergraphics, and @/bronzewasp!!
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The first thing you did after the breakup was book a hotel. After being kicked out of the house that you both shared, you had nowhere else to go, so a hotel was the only option. Specifically, a hotel in downtown Los Angeles called the Hotel Cortez. It was outdated, certainly, but the price was right and they had availability, despite your late notice.
The second thing you did was cut all your hair off — a short, very fashionable bob. You'd heard it said that hair held memories. Your boyfriend had always loved your long hair. So, naturally, it had to go.
As you breathlessly lug your two suitcases down the hallway, a rich and heady smell fills your nostrils — some cologne, paired with the smokiness of cigarettes. It's strong enough that you feel you must be sharing the space with someone else. You sniff, inhaling it, and gaze down the hall. First in front of you, then behind you. There's no one there, forcing you to assume that it's just years of lingering remnants of occupants — all of which have either retired to their rooms or checked out. Somewhere further down the hall, jazz music drifts towards you, creating an odd, liminal feeling. You furrow your brow, listening to the melange of music and crackling — it sounds like it's coming from an old gramophone.
"Weird."
You fish the key out of the pocket of your jeans and insert it into the slot, turning it carefully. Most hotels these days have key cards — not this one. The lady at the front desk made no apologies for the state of the hotel, only took your money, handed you your key, and sent you on your way.
That night, you call your best friend, Victoria. With your phone pressed against your ear, you stand in front of the open window, curtains fluttering on either side of you like ghosts. The streets of Los Angeles hum beneath you, while the city goes on living without you. You run your finger along the hemmed edge of one of the curtains and heave a sigh.
"Yeah," you say, bringing your hand to your hair to absentmindedly wind a piece of hair around your finger. "I know… but how was I supposed to know that I didn't matter to him?" You pause. "I loved him."
A cold breeze rushes in, sending an uncontrollable shiver down your spine. Your flesh prickles at the feeling, when suddenly, a shadow whizzes by in the corner of your vision. You turn sharply to face it — but are met only with your empty room. "What the fuck?"
On the line, your friend asks what's wrong and if you're okay.
"Yeah… yeah, I'm just… I thought I saw something. It's fine. Anyway…. yeah, well, it still hurts. I can't stop crying about it."
You feel the tears well up as you voice that, and hurriedly chew on the corner of your lip as she speaks, advising you that you need something or someone to get your mind off of him. The idea of a rebound sounds less than ideal, but truthfully, you're up to numbing the pain in whatever way you can.
"I guess so."
You meander over to your baby blue suitcase sitting on the edge of the bed and unzip it, flipping the lid over onto the mattress. With one hand, you rifle through the clothes until you find your pajamas — a matching set of sleep shorts and a button-up top. There are cherries and bows printed all over the fabric.
"I'm going to go to sleep. Maybe order room service, drink a few bottles of champagne, and cry some more."
You hold the phone away from your ear, muffling the shouts of protests from your bestie.
"I'm joking, I'm joking! Fuck, relax…. okay, bye. Love you too."
Ending the call with a tap of your thumb, you toss your phone onto the mattress. With your pajamas draped over your forearm, you head towards the bathroom. As you pass the front door, however, a folded piece of ivory paper slides underneath the door. There's no signature, but it reads:
"Early to bed, and you'll miss all the fun."
You furrow your brow, looking at the penmanship with a peaked curiosity. It looks old-fashioned, the sort of handwriting that you'd see on a vintage French postcard, with lines of unimaginable romance and tenderness. Still, you're unmoved by the invitation. Perhaps someone made a mistake with your room number. You toss the letter in the trash as you enter the bathroom.
After washing your face, you shed your clothes. You'd shower in the morning — you were too tired tonight. As you change, you pause, staring at your naked body, letting your eyes fall over the gentle swell of your breasts, the soft curve of your hips. You wonder passively when you'll be touched again, if ever. You heave a mournful sigh and button the shirt over your breasts before flipping off the light. Every bit of you aches with longing, but there's nothing you can do.
You'd promised Victoria that you wouldn't cry anymore, but as you sit on the velvet seat in front of the mirror to brush your hair, the tears well up in the corners of your eyes again. This would be the first night you had slept alone in years — and the thought terrified you. You'd given up so much for him, done so much for him, only to be tossed away like garbage when something new came along — years of your life, wasted. You reach up and wipe away the hot tears with the backs of your hands, trying to swallow the pitiful sobs that echo against the walls.
What was the sense in crying? Despite that thought, you couldn't help it, and more tears fell.
After a few moments, you lift your wet eyes to the mirror. At first, you think it's some mascara floating amongst the tears, creating imagery that isn't there. Next to your own reflection, a man in a navy pin-stripe suit stands beside you. Although you can't see his face, you suddenly hear his voice as he speaks.
"Exquisite. Your beauty is wasted in sadness, my dear."
You whirl around, searching the room behind you. It's empty. As empty as it had been all night, as empty as you felt. Apprehensively, you turn back around, facing the vanity again. The man still stands beside you. You should scream, but the way that his hand is ghosting over the curve of your shoulder is — not quite touching you, but there's a tenderness in the gesture that sends a shiver down your spine and quiets you. He leans down, hinging at the waist to bring his mouth close to your ear. It's then that you see his features. He's handsome; dark-haired, has a perfectly groomed pencil mustache, and his eyes are so dark, so intense that they're almost black. The longer he stares at you, the heavier his gaze feels, and you shiver.
"Do not waste your sorrows on the undeserving."
You blink hard, forcing a few heavy tears out. When you open your eyes again, the reflection next to you is gone. The room feels colder than before, and smells faintly of smoke — of smoke and that same cologne that you smelled in the corridor. Again, you inhale the rich smell, letting it stain your lungs. It's both comforting and unsettling, you decide.
You sit, stunned, at the vanity. Had you just actually hallucinated? Surely, you weren't going to accept the possibility that you'd just seen a ghost — those didn't exist. Hallucinations, on the other hand, were far more plausible. Especially in your distressed state. You reach underneath the fringed lampshade and turn the light off before straightening up.
You thought you'd dream of your boyfriend — ex boyfriend. Nightmares. But, instead, your dreams are strange. Very strange. Even erotic. They're filled with imagery of that man you saw in the mirror. He's naked, proudly, in front of you. You feel the crushing weight of his desire even as he stands near you, cock rigid and begging for somewhere to sheath itself. He ardently pursues you, touches your face, your neck, your breasts, and grazes over the soft, warm flesh of your thighs. A wet tongue laves over your cunt, parting her and tasting the sweetness that lies within. You arch your back, calling out a name you don't remember upon waking. At one point, you feel the mattress give way to weight. When you open your eyes, there's an indentation in the shape of a body next to you.
As the morning sun filters in through the curtains, you stretch until your muscles shake. Your hands lazily rub the sleep from your eyes, rousing you from your slumber. Surprisingly, you'd slept well. The bed was comfortable, the room was cold all night, and you slept soundly. You're grateful for it.
You blink the fuzziness from your vision, and that's when you notice that the chair is no longer facing the vanity, but instead, angled towards the bed, like someone had been sitting in it, watching you. You're certain that you hadn't left it like that.
Your eyes drift naturally to the mirror — your own reflection meets you, but as your eyes fall, you notice a single red rose rests on the vanity, next to your makeup bag. Your stomach tightens and drops to the floor.
Someone had been in your room.
Someone had been watching you sleep. You knew it. More than that, you felt it.
You push the covers down from your body and crawl over to the edge of the bed, scraping at the vanity until you claw the rose towards you. With a pitiful sigh, you bring it to your nose and inhale its sweet fragrance deeply. Though it has started wilting, the petals are velvet soft and pliable, drooping ever so slightly, the fragrance it holds still fills your lungs.
Romance.
To be longed for… you'd forgotten what that felt like. It had only been a day, but you'd completely forgotten what that felt like.
You drop the rose on the mussed-up sheets and head to the bathroom to ready yourself. Victoria had said that you should explore — and while she'll probably meant downtown LA — you were going to do just that. This aging hotel held secrets, and you were going to find them. After a drink. It didn't matter that it was nearing noon. It was four o'clock somewhere, right?
After showering, albeit nervously, for you couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched the entire time, you dress yourself in a simple summer dress and head downstairs and directly to the bar. There was no shame in a little drink, you decide. That's exactly what a blossoming alcoholic would say, Jesus Christ.
The bartender, a very fashionably dressed woman, makes your drink and carries it carefully across to you, setting a napkin beneath it before lowering it down. The black and gold napkins are printed with "Hotel Cortez". Although clearly not the most popular hotel on this stretch of LA street, the branding was on point. The first sip of your martini goes down smooth.
A young, cute guy across the bar smiles at you, raising his glass to you. You return the gesture, and smile softly. Perhaps he was going through a breakup, too. No, you thought. That was silly. He was probably on a business trip. Had a wife to go back to. Something normal. Something sweet. The thought deters you from moving seats to go talk to him.
Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a well-dressed man as he crosses the room swiftly, heading straight for you. You can't explain why, but you're suddenly feeling like a rabbit caught in the sight of a rifle. As he approaches, it takes you all of those few seconds to realize it's the man you hallucinated last night — a fact that you wouldn't dare admit to him, even as he boldly takes a seat next to you, sliding into it as though he belongs there. Somewhere in your gut, you feel he does.
"Good afternoon," he says.
"Hi." You swirl the liquid in your glass around nonchalantly, like you aren't trembling deep within your core. "Can I help you?"
"I am James March, owner of the hotel in which you so graciously sit." He speaks with such proud diction, enunciating each word carefully. He must be well educated or something. Maybe one of those history buffs.
"Okay…"
For a fleeting second, you see his brow furrow, almost as if he's frustrated that the title didn't immediately grab your attention. You presume that it had so many times before. The expression is gone in an instant and replaced by the cool, collected one he approached you with.
"Though you denied my initial attempts at meeting you, may I be so forward as to say that you, my dear, have taken my breath away by simply existing."
You swallow. That was forward. Your brain stuttered on the first part of that sentence — his initial attempts? What did that mean?
You roll your eyes. "Existing? Is that what I'm doing? I thought I was trying to drown it all out."
You take another sip of your drink, savoring the taste of the alcohol as it bites you back. Next to you, James leans forward, desperately trying to get your attention. He cranes his neck into your line of sight until you turn slightly, bringing your gaze to him, an eyebrow lifted on your forehead.
"Ah, the world can be so loud." Every word from his lips is as smooth as whiskey, dripping with refinement and elegance. You cross one leg over the other, disguising it as a casual movement.
"My dear," he starts, reaching for your hand. You resist, but only briefly. The minute he exerts any force in pulling your fingers from the stem of the glass, you succumb, drowning in the feeling of a man's hand on you again. "I offer relief from it all… from the grating echoes of misery."
"What… what are you talking about?" Your hand is limp in his grasp, allowing him to entangle his fingers with yours.
"In losing him, you have gained me. A true lover, a husband. Love should be rapturous! Fierce! Eternal! I can offer you all that and more!"
You choke on nothing. A husband? In losing him? Had he been listening to your conversation with Victoria?
"Excuse me? I… I don't understand."
"Oh, but you do." He nods earnestly. "You do. The rose enamored you, did it not? Enchanted by your dreams last night? It was destiny, my little turtle dove, that we met."
The world around you feels like it tilts off its axis, though still spinning haphazardly. The feeling is terrifying, and you yank your hand away from him to hold onto the bar with both hands. Your breaths come out in frightened little gasps, and you stare at the remaining liquid in your glass. It's only then that you wonder if your drink was spiked. Or perhaps you were hallucinating again.
"There, there. The realization of destiny is always a crushing feeling, my love. I was foolish in thinking I felt it with my first wife. It doesn't hold a candle to the sensations I feel now! Ardent! Demanding!"
…first wife…
"Say yes, my dear, say yes, and all your troubles will drift away."
You turn to look at him, just for a moment. You stand up from the stool and open your mouth to decline his offer politely, but nothing comes out. Instead, the world tilts the other way, and your body goes limp, crumpling forward into his waiting arms. The last thing you remember is the feeling of your cheek pressing up against his suit jacket, inhaling the intoxicating scent of him, paired with something so antique you couldn't name if you tried. As your lids droop once, twice, three times, you're vaguely aware of the guy at the other end of the bar standing up as you droop into the iron support of James' arms.
You say something — a single word before the world drifts away entirely. You, unfortunately, don't remember what it is.
In your unconscious state, you dream of strange things again. You dream of being woozy and bright and relaxed. You dream of holding his hands briefly, before holding out your own hand. You dream of kissing him tenderly on the mouth and taking hold of his shoulders and dancing with him in an empty ballroom.
When you wake up again, the bar is gone. In fact, the entire scenery has changed. Above you, ornate light fixtures are turned down low, casting a golden hue over the entire room. You're lying horizontal on silk sheets; you can feel them beneath your naked back as you writhe back and forth. You look down at your body fearfully. You'd been undressed without permission. Your ankles are tied to the bedposts, spreading your legs slightly. Similarly, your hands are bound tightly above you.
"Ah, there you are."
Your head snaps in the direction of his voice. He stands at your bedside, his nimble fingers undressing himself steadily. He wears a white, sleeveless undershirt and his trousers, which are quickly pushed down his legs.
"Where… Wh-what… what are you doing?"
"My dear," he starts, stroking his mustache thoughtfully. "Consecrating our beloved union!"
"What?"
James takes another calculated step, nearing the bed. He leans over you, looking deep into your wet eyes with a poignant reverence. He reaches above you, to your right hand, and carefully twists the ring on your finger. You feel the sensation of something there, something substantial that wasn't there before.
Your heart sinks. The dreams were anything but. "N-no, I didn't… I wasn't…. you can't do this… I never… said! Wait, please… oh my god, please…" Your lower lip starts to quiver as you speak, while confused, hot tears stream down your cheeks.
With a small, low vocalization, he kisses your trembling frown. "Now, now. No more of that. My little one, your tears are senseless — you mustn't be ungrateful!"
His cool hands trail down your naked stomach, the middle finger ghosting over the dips and curves of your abdomen. Still hinged at the waist, James allows his mouth to pepper the most darling of kisses in the wake of his fingers, like he's savoring each spot. For a moment before reality slaps you across the face again, you revel in the feeling of being touched, of being treasured. He reaches your mound and continues downwards confidently.
"W-wait wait!"
"Ah." He clicks his tongue. Your cunt, which is on display for him, has betrayed you in ways you'd never imagine. He draws a single finger up between your folds, and you feel no resistance to the action. In fact, you feel quite the opposite of resistance. Arousal that shouldn't be there — hot, sticky arousal.
"You see, my little darling, even you cannot fight love's truest natures."
You want to scream — but what would that do? Your own body has turned any future cries into a joke, into a useless persistence that he'd not believe.
He continues to savor your body. Kisses it, touches it, bites it. Tenderizing it until you're practically coming undone from that alone — and only then does he climb atop of you. His cock head nudges your entrance like a hound's nose in a rabbit's burrow, determined and predatory. You look into his eyes, and find nothing but the indescribable coldness of a mausoleum. You also notice the frightening gash that lines his neck like a collar. The flayed skin opens as he stretches his neck upwards, revealing deep, crimson gore that makes your stomach turn. Surely, a laceration like that would've killed a man.
The thought disappears with a new pressure.
"You were fashioned for me," he says before sliding himself into your wet, aching center. Once inside, he wastes no time. The savoring is over, and his purpose is clear. His thrusts are bullying, and with the intoxicating way he uses you, your body quickly feels like mush in his grip.
He picks up speed suddenly, his cock sliding in and out of your slick, swollen cunt at a dizzying pace. In turn, your moans match his thrusts, coming out in quick, shrill cries as his hips slam against your ass with a vigor that rocks your entire body like a rag doll. Above you, James clenches his jaw and growls deeply. "Mm, how delightfully vulgar you sound! Louder! I want every room in this hotel to hear your cries!"
Your orgasm erupts within seconds, clenching around his cock like a steel vice. Your voice echoes off the walls and rings in your ears. Perhaps marriage isn't so bad — not if it feels like this. With a deep, throaty moan, he loses himself inside of you, and his once-perfect rhythm falls apart.
"Now," he starts. "To finalize our marriage."
You're woozy again, gazing up into his cold, black eyes with a lust-blown softness. His hands trail up the warm column of your still-sweaty throat. They graze the sides of it, lovingly. Your chest heaves with labored breaths.
"I thought about all the ways I could do it, you know…" he continues, not letting you speak. "But strangulation, you see, is the most intimate." Suddenly, his strong hands clamp down on the front of your throat, tightly. Too tightly. Your body lurches upwards, but the weight of his is too much to fight. "Quite literally taking one's last breath from them… Ah, what could be more romantic than that, hm?"
You flail, gripping his bare forearms desperately. The pressure on your throat increases, and the smallest of stars circle your vision. He's going to kill you if he doesn't stop.
Oh god.
He's not going to stop.
You look up at him with pleading eyes and try to choke out words, promises, anything to make him cease his actions, but instead, he tightens his lips into a reassuring smile and softens his gaze for a moment.
Pity? No. Adoration.
Your head is swimmy, your face feels hot. You can feel the blood throbbing in your veins as he continues to strangle you, mercilessly. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish gasping for air, and all he does is hum above you.
"You're confused, my darling. I know." He presses down harder. Your voice cracks in agony.
"Marriage, delightful fornication, and now I'm killing you?" He clicks his tongue once more. "Seems so contradictory, but I assure you… this is the only way we'll be together, as we are now, until the end."
Your muscles go weak, and your grip on his arms drops off. Your
Your consciousness fades into the cool, looming darkness that surrounds you.
As the light fades from your eyes, he knows that he'll see you again and you him. But you don't.
