#patrick sumner smut

[flixpii]

ALL OF HIS GHOSTS GATHERED AT YOUR THROAT 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒

patrick sumner x fem!reader one-shot.

you were only supposed to mind his appointments and type his reports, not dig up the fact that your quiet english employer is a cashiered army doctor from a cursed whaling voyage… and definitely not push him hard enough that he snaps and takes it out on you. (wc : 20.7k) ao3 link.

゛notes ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ based on this request ! jen, genuinely thank you for this idea 😩 i actually rewatched the north water while i was writing this (like repeatedly—almost 4 times). i also got the book so i’m happy to start that ! ignore any historical inaccuracies/dialogue misuse please… also, for the sake of the interview bit, reader's first language isn't english or german ( just vibe).

゛ contents ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ secretary!reader. rough / angry sex. boss–secretary power imbalance. post-canon!patrick. mentions of laudanum / opium use. implied violence / death at sea. obsession and invasive curiosity from reader. manhandling. desk sex. very light spanking. light hand on throat. unprotected p in v. creampie. messy sex. patrick cries after sex (yep). guilt / low self-worth. emotional vulnerability. mdni 18+

The advertisement had been brief, almost terse, as if whoever wrote it disliked the idea of asking for help:

Secretary required for medical practice. Must read and write English and German, possess neat hand, and maintain discretion. References preferred.

You read it twice in the window of the newspaper office, breath fogging the glass. 

The winter light on the street was thin and grey; tram bells clanged somewhere up the avenue, and coal smoke lay over the city in a low, stubborn halo. Behind the reflection of your own face, the words stood stark and promising. English and German. Neat hand. Discretion.

You had all three. 

So you went.

The address led you to a respectable building on a quieter street, a few turns away from the noisier thoroughfares. Not quite a grand boulevard, not quite a back alley; a place for people with modest means and tidy reputations. The brass plate beside the door read in crisp, newly-etched lettering:

Dr. Patrick Sumner Arzt

Someone had polished it recently. You could see your own gloved hand when you reached for the bell.

A narrow-eyed porter answered and looked you up and down, taking in your coat, your boots, the way you held your shoulders. He did not quite sneer, but you had played this game long enough to recognize the little shift in his mouth that meant he was weighing your worth like a parcel on a scale.

“Regarding the advertisement,” you said before he could ask. “For the secretary.”

He hesitated, then stepped back.

“You may wait in the front room,” he said. “Doctor is with a patient.”

The waiting room was small but clean. Two stiff-backed chairs stood against the wall, a narrow table between them holding a vase with three sorry-looking carnations and a German newspaper folded to the society pages. A boiler ticked faintly in the corner, its warmth slow to reach the edges of the room. 

The air smelled faintly of carbolic and wool, with an undercurrent of something metallic that made you think of a butcher’s shop after closing.

You took off your gloves finger by finger, tucking them into your pocket, and sat.

The muffled murmur of a voice carried through the door to the inner office, low and steady, threaded with another voice higher and strained. 

You could not catch the words, only the cadence: question, answer, instruction, reassurance. The tone people trusted even when they did not trust their own bodies.

You hadn’t expected a foreign doctor. 

The name on the plate had hinted at it, though; English, perhaps, or Irish. Men like that were either very good or very bad at reinventing themselves abroad. The advertisement’s demand for English as well as German suggested he had not entirely left his old life behind, whatever it was.

The latch clicked. The inner door opened.

For a moment, all you saw was the patient—a stooped man with a cough that shook him from shoulders to boots, clutching his hat in one hand and the other pressed to his chest. 

He shuffled past you toward the outer door, murmuring a thick-accented thanks, eyes fixed on the floor as if ashamed of the air he took up.

Behind him came the doctor.

He was broader than you expected, and younger. Not young exactly, not fresh, but not yet worn to the thinness you had seen in some older physicians who had spent their entire lives in crowded wards. 

His dark hair had been combed with brisk efficiency, though a few strands, some grey, had already slipped free at his temple. His shirt cuffs were spotless; his waistcoat was buttoned, his cravat tied with unassuming care. The lamplight caught on the faint sheen of fatigue at his brow.

He looked first at the patient to make sure he did not stumble, one hand half-extended as if ready to catch him, then at you.

The pause stretched hardly longer than a blink, but you felt the weight of it. The measuring. The question. His eyes were pale in a way that surprised you, grey-blue under straight dark brows, their tiredness doing nothing to blunt the keenness of his gaze.

“Miss?” he said.

“Regarding the advertisement,” you repeated, rising to your feet. “You sought a secretary, Doctor Sumner.”

Something moved behind his expression—recognition of the words he himself had written and sent into the world, perhaps, to see who they might draw. 

He nodded, once. “Yes. Of course. Come in.”

He stepped back to hold the inner door open for you. As you passed, you caught a closer sense of him: soap and starch, a faint echo of tobacco, and under that the ghosts of less civilized scents that clung no matter how well a man scrubbed. 

You took in the office in a swift glance as you entered. The desk broad, well-made, worn at the edges by years of other hands. The shelves, half-filled with medical texts in German and English, a few older volumes with English titles worn to ghosts on their spines. Glass-fronted cabinets with neatly arranged instruments that winked in the light. A single framed print on the wall, something pastoral and unremarkable, as if someone had chosen it deliberately for how little it said.

He gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.

“Please,” he said. “Sit.”

He rounded the desk, the movements efficient, and lowered himself into the chair on the other side. 

For a moment the only sound was the faint tapping of his fingertips against the blotter, as though he were reminding himself of the proper order of things: interview, questions, decision.

“You speak English,” he observed. “Your accent is good.”

“My father insisted upon it,” you replied. “He said where I'm from was not the whole world.”

“Wise man.”

“He is dead,” you said, not unkindly. “But he was.”

A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile; more like an acknowledgment that you had matched his tone and returned it with your own.

“I am sorry,” he said, with the automatic politeness of someone who has had to say such words enough times that they no longer know what else to offer. “How is your German?”

You switched languages mid-breath, answering him in crisp Hochdeutsch, then sliding easily into the local Berlin inflection that softened certain consonants. 

You explained where you had been born, where you had gone to school, the offices you had worked in, the ledgers and letters you had handled. You told him of the insurance company that had folded last year, the solicitor’s clerk who had tried to pay you in promises instead of coin, the aunt who had taught you to keep your handwriting small, neat, and quick.

His gaze did not wander once while you spoke. He watched you with the unblinking focus of a man listening for symptoms beneath the surface of someone’s words.

“And your references?” he asked when you paused.

You slid the folded pages from your bag and laid them on the blotter. He took them with careful fingers, smoothing each sheet before reading. 

You had seen men skim such letters in less than a minute, looking only for the shape of praise, not the substance. He read every line.

“Diligent… accurate… discreet,” he murmured, translating softly from German as he went. “Exceptionally quick at figures… temperament could be more docile.”

You lifted your chin.

“He did not say that to my face,” you said.

“He would not,” Patrick replied without looking up. “Men who expect docility rarely do. This one—” he tapped the line “—was written by Herr Weiss?”

You nodded. “He prefers women who nod and smile and say ‘yes, Herr Weiss’ and nothing else. I prefer employers who do not fall asleep into their soup at noon.”

That earned you a more visible flicker in his expression. It passed for amusement, or something near it.

“I do not eat soup at noon,” he said. “So perhaps we shall suit one another better.”

“It would be difficult to suit me less.”

He set the letters down, aligning their edges with unnecessary precision. His gaze lifted to you again, lingering a moment longer this time, not in rudeness exactly, but with the thoughtful reserve of a man deciding whether to ask something he is not sure is his business.

“Are you married?” he asked.

The question sat oddly in the room, plain and abrupt after the rhythm your conversation had found. You shook your head.

“No.”

His eyes dropped briefly to the papers in front of him, then rose again.

“Well,” he said, with a formality that did little to soften the awkwardness of it, “you are young. You still have time.”

You looked at him for a beat, unsure whether he meant it kindly or merely as one repeats something the world says often enough that it begins to sound like sense.

“I suppose,” you said.

A small silence followed. It was not a comfortable one, though not quite unpleasant either; only faintly peculiar, as if the question had revealed a seam in him he had not intended to show. Patrick cleared his throat softly and returned the letters to the desk, restoring them to their tidy stack before continuing.

“You understand that this practice is new,” he said. “I have only recently come to Berlin. We are still establishing ourselves. The work will not always be steady. Some weeks will be very busy, others quiet. I cannot promise a fortune.”

“I am not asking for a fortune,” you answered. “Only for regular wages and work that will not rot my brain entirely.”

His brows lifted, faintly.

“You find medical administration stimulating?”

“I find not starving stimulating,” you said. “And I am very good at not letting mistakes slip past me. Most doctors I have met need someone to tidy in their wake.”

That drew a real reaction, subtle but unmistakable: a small stiffening in the line of his shoulders, the barest narrowing of his eyes. 

You had touched something there, though you were not yet sure what.

“Most doctors,” he repeated slowly. “How many have you met?”

“Enough to know that they are all men,” you replied, “and that they all think their time is worth more than anyone else’s, and that most of them write as if their pen were a knife. I can read it, and I can make it legible.”

He let out a breath through his nose, somewhere between resignation and reluctant amusement.

“Very well,” he said. “I shall endeavor not to disgrace my profession’s reputation among you further.”

“You would have to work harder,” you said, and saw again that fleeting look—half startlement, half something darker that tugged at the corners of his mouth before he set his features back into their proper arrangement.

Silence settled for a moment, filled with the distant clang of a tram bell outside and the muffled thud of carriage wheels on slush. He steepled his fingers, studying you over the tips.

“There are certain… requirements,” he went on. “You will handle patient records. You will read correspondence intended for me. You will see names, conditions, histories. Some of them will belong to people of influence. Their privacy must be absolute.”

“Of course.”

“Discretion is not merely politeness here, Miss. It can be a matter of—” He hesitated, looking for a word, then chose, “—survival.”

The way he said it made you think he was not speaking only of patients.

“You will find I am very good at not repeating what I know,” you said. “Unless it is necessary.”

“Nebulous word, necessary,” he answered. “Who decides what falls under it?”

You let your gaze flick deliberately from his face to the letters on the desk, to the shelves behind him, then back.

“Whoever is paying me,” you said. “And, perhaps, myself.”

For the first time, his stare sharpened in a way that was not purely professional. It carried curiosity now, and something wary beneath it, as if he had recognized within you a familiar breed of stubbornness.

“I see,” he said softly. “You will wish to know certain things, then. To decide for yourself. Is that it?”

“I like to understand where I work,” you said. “Whom I work for.”

It was almost nothing, the shift you saw then, but you had a good eye for such things. The smallest tightening around his mouth; the very faintest line appearing between his brows. As if the words “whom I work for” had struck a place he would prefer remain untouched.

“I am a physician,” he said, just a shade too quickly. “I studied in England. I have practiced in London and elsewhere. My qualifications are in order. My patients are improving. For the purposes of your position, that is all that need concern you.”

“Elsewhere,” you repeated. “A very generous description.”

He did not answer that. His gaze drifted away for a fleeting second, to the window where pale daylight pressed against the glass, then back.

“Can you begin tomorrow?” he asked.

You had expected another question, another test. The directness of it startled you almost as much as his earlier moment of imprecision had. Your heart, which had been keeping a brisk, steady pace, stumbled once before righting itself.

“Yes,” you said. “I can.”

“Good.” He rose, you followed suit. “We begin at eight. You will see to the files, the ledger, and any letters that have arrived. I will explain the rest when you are here. Speak to the porter about the hours and wages on your way out.”

You smoothed your skirt, gathering your gloves once more.

“Doctor Sumner,” you said as you slipped them on, “do you want me to call you Doktor or Doctor?”

His mouth twitched again, as if caught between two languages.

“Doctor is sufficient,” he said.

“Then you may call me by my surname as well,” you replied. “If we are to keep up appearances.”

“Appearances,” he echoed, with a gravity that made the word feel heavier in the air. “Yes. We must keep those up.”

He walked you as far as the waiting room door. From there, you could see your breath already misting faintly on the other side of the glass entrance, the shadows lengthening on the street.

You paused with your hand on the latch.

“Until tomorrow, Doctor,” you said.

His gaze rested on you for a heartbeat, cool and steady, though you sensed something moving under its surface.

“Until tomorrow,” he answered.

You stepped out into the winter street with the new job settled in your pocket and his voice settled uninvited somewhere in your head, threading through your thoughts as you walked back past the shops and the stalls and the people who did not know there was a foreign doctor on a modest Berlin street whose past had been folded up and tucked away like a letter in a drawer.

You did not yet know what he had done. You only knew that his eyes looked like someone who had seen a horizon with nothing beyond it, and had lived long enough to walk away.

You also knew that no man who guarded his history so fiercely could possibly be as spotless as his references claimed.

That, more than the wages, more than the warm room and the steady hours, was what made you sure you would return.

The days that followed did not so much begin as slide into place.

You learned the habit of his footsteps before you learned half the streets between your boarding room and the practice. 

He arrived before you on most mornings, the faint print of damp on the tiled floor leading to his office, coat already hung, lamps already lit against the grudging dawn. 

The street outside would still be shaking off sleep, carts rattling over cobblestones, milk boys shouting half-heartedly, but in his rooms there was only the scratch of his pen and the soft hiss of the boiler.

The porter handed you a key on your second day.

“For when I am late and you are not,” Patrick said, as if that were a likely reversal. “There is no need to wait in the cold.”

You did wait in the cold once or twice, just to see what it did to him. 

The first time you arrived after he did, cheeks numbed, lungs stinging from the air, he looked up and his eyes swept over the damp edge of your hem, the way you held your arms in against yourself as you wrestled your gloves off.

“You should wear thicker stockings,” he said, turning back to his paperwork.

“You could start paying me more,” you answered, setting your bag down on your little desk. “Then I might.”

For a moment you thought he would pointedly ignore you. Instead he dipped his pen, wrote another line, and said, without looking up, “If you take ill, you will be no use at all. I would prefer not to have to train a second secretary in as many months.”

“That sounds very nearly like concern,” you replied, rolling a sheet of paper into the typewriter.

“It is self-interest,” he said. “Do not mistake it.”

You did not. You did, however, notice that on the following week, when you hung your coat in its accustomed place, there was a small paper-wrapped parcel waiting on your chair: woollen stockings, plain but thick, the type sold by the dry goods merchant three streets over.

He did not mention them. Neither did you. You simply wore them, and pretended the extra warmth did not feel like a concession you had won.

You learned his handwriting the way one might learn a foreign script. 

At first it was a tangle of loops and angles, impatient strokes that cut through letters or left them half-formed. 

By the end of the week you could decipher his reports with scarcely a pause, fingers flying over the keys as you translated his scrawl into orderly lines.

“I have seen worse,” you told him one afternoon, when he apologized—stiffly, awkwardly—for the state of a particularly hurried note scribbled between patients. “I worked for a lawyer once who wrote as if the ink were trying to escape the page.”

“He is not alone in that,” Patrick said dryly. “Medical schools ought to add penmanship to the curriculum.”

“And manners,” you added.

He sent you a flat look that held the ghost of some deeper humor.

“Have you applied to teach there?”

You met his glance over the top of the page.

“I am already improving one doctor,” you said. “The faculty would be too much work.”

He did not laugh, but his mouth did that small, reluctant shift again, the movement so brief that if you had not been watching for it you might have missed it.

You learned the rhythm of the days. 

Patients in the morning, a brief lull when he closed his door and you heard the steady murmur of his voice reading journals or letters from abroad, then another wave of people in the late afternoon. 

Women with headaches and unspoken terrors, men with coughs that rattled their ribs, children with fevers that painted pink flags on their cheeks. 

There were the respectable sorts—the wives of shopkeepers, the clerks with ink-stained fingers—and there were those whose clothes did not match their stories, whose hands bore calluses that spoke of lives he never asked them to confess.

He was not the same with all of them.

You saw it first with a sailor.

The man had walked in with a limp and a scar down one side of his throat, red and stretched, as if it had been made by something that did not care whether the knife cut clean. He smelled faintly of tar and stale sweat and something offshore you could not name. When he sat down, the chair creaked under his weight.

“Been told you’re foreign,” he said in crude German, squinting at Patrick. “Thought you might know how to fix what your folks broke.”

Something passed behind Patrick’s eyes, fast and hard. He smoothed it away with deliberate effort.

“Sit,” he said, voice even. “Tell me where it hurts.”

Later, when the man had gone and the waiting room had emptied, you brought in the chart to be filed. 

Patrick was standing at the window, one hand braced on the sill, staring out at nothing you could see.

“Is everything all right, Doctor?” you asked lightly, though something in the line of his shoulders made your own spine tighten in answer.

He did not turn at once. “Fine,” he said, after a moment that lasted longer than it should have. “It is cold. That is all.”

You did not remark on the fact that his hand on the window frame was white at the knuckles, or that he seemed to be holding himself as if expecting a blow.

Instead you asked, in the same pleasant tone you used when inquiring about ink supplies, “Shall I post your letter to London this evening? The one to the Society.”

His gaze cut to you then, sharp and abrupt, as if he had forgotten that anyone else inhabited the room. 

You saw it again—that quick flash of calculation, the weighing of what you knew, what you might guess, what you could prove.

“Yes,” he said. “Thank you.”

You learned his silences, too. Some were mild, only the pauses of a man thinking before he spoke. Others were jagged, the quiet of a cliff edge. Those came when you touched a nerve.

“So you studied in London,” you said one slow afternoon as you typed up an essay he had written for a journal, something about fevers in confined quarters.

“Yes.”

“On your own or with a patron?”

“On my own.”

“That must have been difficult,” you ventured. “I imagine there were not many—”

“There were enough,” he said.

You paused with your fingers hovering over the keys.

“Enough what?”

“Enough difficulties.” The words came out clipped. “Type the sentence, if you please.”

You did, but you stored the reaction away. 

London was a room you would return to; you could see the locked door in his face.

You discovered, to your surprise, that he took very little for granted from you. 

He did not assume you knew how to file his notes; he showed you the system, then stepped back and let you adjust it when you pointed out three redundancies. He did not thrust letters at you with a muttered “answer this”; he told you the gist of the reply he wished to make, and allowed you to shape the language, correcting only where necessary.

“You are straightforward,” he commented once, scanning a letter you had drafted in his name.

“I do not see the profit in being anything else,” you replied.

“Most people do,” he said. “You are an anomaly.”

“Anomalies are useful,” you said. “They show where the pattern breaks.”

“That is not always a comfort,” he murmured, half to himself.

You saw him angry once, though not at you.

A supplier had sent inferior bandages, the weave too loose, the cotton too thin. 

You found the parcel in the morning post and left it on the side table until he had finished with his first patient. When he opened it and saw what lay inside, a change came over him as swiftly as if someone had turned the temperature of the room.

“These will not do,” he said, voice stripped of its usual weary civility.

“They look adequate,” you said, more to taste the reaction than because you believed it. “Surely they are better than nothing.”

“Nothing,” he said curtly, “would at least not give the illusion of protection. These will unravel at the first strain.”

He reached into the box, seized a roll, and pulled. The bandage tore with shameful ease. The sight made something low in your chest tighten. Not only at the thought of poor materials but at the way his hand moved, abrupt and precise, as if used to testing the strength of things that might fail.

He dictated a letter to the supplier that afternoon with a scathing clarity you had not yet heard in him. His words were not loud, but they cut.

“You wish me to send this?” you asked when you had finished typing, lips twitching despite yourself at the phrasing.

“I wish him to understand that I will not have my patients’ wounds wrapped in rags,” he said. “Nor my practice associated with charlatans. Yes, send it.”

“You have a talent for insult,” you observed. “Dressed up very prettily in professional language.”

“Insult is cheap,” he said. “Truth costs more.”

“You pay in blood or reputation?”

“Both,” he said, and for a heartbeat he seemed to forget you were there.

There were smaller moments, too, less dramatic, that etched themselves into you perhaps more deeply.

Once, when a child with scarlet fever had been carried in by a frantic mother, Patrick had worked for two hours without pause, the set of his mouth grim as he cooled the boy’s skin and coaxed medicine between his teeth. 

You had seen doctors more distant than him, hiding whatever they felt behind professional detachment. 

He did not detach this time. He folded everything in instead, drawing his concern so tight it might have cut him from the inside.

When the crisis passed and the boy’s breathing eased, the mother burst into tears in the middle of the waiting room, clasping Patrick’s hands and pressing them to her lips. He stood, stiff and embarrassed, then gently freed himself and directed her toward the chair.

“Thank her,” he said when she had gone, and you stared.

“For what?” you asked.

“For paying,” he said. “For trusting. For existing. I do not know. People like to be thanked.”

The admission was so bald that you laughed, then covered it quickly with a hand.

“I shall write her a note,” you said. “In your name. You may sign it and pretend you thought of it yourself.”

“I would be lost without your guidance,” he said, so dry that it took you a moment to decide whether he meant it as a jest. You chose to take it as one and wrote the letter anyway.

You began, inevitably, to test the borders of his patience.

When you noticed that he avoided leaning back in his chair fully, you asked one day, “Is the upholstery to your disliking, Doctor, or are you simply unused to being at ease?”

“Chairs are more treacherous than they look,” he said without missing a beat, eyes on his notes. “One grows wary.”

“That sounds like the voice of experience.”

“You are very fond of implying I have lived some rich, scandalous life,” he remarked. “You will be disappointed to learn how dull it has been.”

“And yet here you are,” you said, “a foreign doctor in Berlin with no wife, no family, no stories that you will admit to. It hardly screams dullness.”

“Some stories are not suitable for offices,” he said quietly.

“Then you should not leave them lying about for the imagination to trip over,” you answered, and felt the tension flare in the air between you as surely as if someone had struck flint.

He gave you tasks and you did them, quickly, accurately. 

You brought him tea when his hands shook after a difficult case, pretending not to see the tremor. You ironed the creases out of his correspondence with London and Hull and places whose names he did not let you read, though you saw the postmarks when the letters arrived. You filed his reports, stamped the dates, sealed envelopes, minded the waiting room when the porter had to step away.

On the fourth week, he came in later than usual, collar askew, hair damp as if he had washed it in too much haste. His eyes were red at the rims, not from drink—you had seen enough men drink to know the signs—but from a night that had not included adequate sleep.

“You are late,” you observed, before you could think better of it.

“You are early,” he countered.

“I am exactly on time.”

“Then the clock is wrong,” he said, setting his bag down with more force than necessary.

You watched him strip off his gloves, fingers stiff. A faint bruise bloomed just under his jaw, half-hidden by his collar. Your gaze snagged on it; your mind leapt. 

“Rough night?” you asked, tone almost casual.

His jaw flexed.

“I slipped,” he said.

“On someone’s fist?” you said. “Or did a staircase take offense at you?”

His eyes cut to you, and for an instant there was nothing weary in them, nothing civilized. It was a flash, a bare slice of something raw and coiled and ready to do harm. 

“Do you find it entertaining,” he asked, voice low, “to gnaw at every scrap I do not freely give you?”

You felt the pulse at your throat stumble, then recover. Every instinct suggested you should lower your eyes, murmur an apology, retreat. Another, stubborn as a stone in a shoe, suggested otherwise.

“I find it difficult not to notice when a man who claims his life is dull arrives with fresh bruises,” you said evenly. “If you wished to be dull, you should try to hide the evidence better.”

The silence that followed had edges.

Then, unexpectedly, his mouth tilted in something very nearly like a smile, though it did not reach his eyes.

“Duly noted,” he said. “I shall try to be more boring for you in future.”

“I will believe that when I see it,” you replied.

You did see, over time, how much effort it cost him to pass for respectable. 

You saw it in the way he measured his words in front of patients with money, how he took care to speak formally with matrons who could ruin a practice with gossip over coffee. You saw it in the way he damped his accent down when he dictated letters to certain societies, how he straightened his cuffs until the linen cut into his wrists.

Once, after a particularly long evening surgery on a dockworker whose leg he had fought to save, you came back into the office to find him still at the basin, sleeves rolled past his elbows, scrubbing his hands as if the skin itself offended him.

“Doctor,” you said softly. “He will live.”

“For now,” he answered, not looking up. “I cannot keep him from the river forever.”

You stared at the water reddened in the basin, the way it swirled down the drain. He had already washed the worst away, but the smell lingered, rich and iron-heavy, beneath the antiseptic.

“You are very thorough,” you said. “Another man might have sent him to the hospital and gone home to bed.”

“I have no bed that calls to me,” he said. “Hospitals do what they can; I do what I must. There is a difference.”

“And what is that difference?”

“Responsibility,” he said simply.

The word sat between you with more weight than it should have.

In all of this, you nurtured your own quiet curiosity, feeding it on scraps. 

You asked innocently about his references, watching which names he allowed to rest on his tongue and which he swallowed back. You commented on English weather with feigned ignorance, just to see whether his eyes softened or hardened when he spoke of it. You mentioned ships passing on the Spree, their masts cutting the sky like black lines, and marked the way he went very still for a moment, as if he were listening for something far away.

Nothing in those early days was overtly scandalous. There were no slammed doors, no shouted arguments, no scenes. Only glances that lingered too long, questions that cut too close, silences that threatened to spill into something else.

You told yourself you were only amusing yourself, that a little prodding would do him no harm. You told yourself you were too sensible to become fascinated by a man whose past was stitched together from evasions.

Still, when you lay in your narrow bed at night and stared up at the cracked ceiling, it was difficult to push aside the image of his hands braced on the edge of his desk, knuckles white, or the way his voice roughened nearly imperceptibly when you suggested that perhaps he was not nearly as respectable as he pretended to be.

You had not yet pushed him far enough to prove it.

You would.

You did.

At first it was only little things, done in the spare minutes between patients, when the typewriter was quiet and the clock ticked loud in the small office.

You re-read his references.

They had impressed you on that first day because they existed at all; most men in his position would have relied on charm and a firm handshake, not a neat portfolio of letters stamped and sealed. 

Now, with weeks of watching him behind you, you looked at them with a different eye.

The English letters were brief and careful. Dr. Patrick Sumner has been known to us these past years as a competent and diligent practitioner, one read, the paper heavy with the faint scent of old smoke. 

The signature at the bottom belonged to a London physician whose name you had seen once in a medical journal on his shelf. The words were arranged politely, all very proper. You could almost hear them spoken in a drawing room while glasses were filled and no one said exactly what they meant.

Another spoke of his work “in Hull and other postings,” with no specifics, only a vague mention of “service at sea” that could have meant anything from a naval commission to tending sick sailors on a river barge. 

You ran your fingertip along the line, frowning, and imagined a ship in your mind’s eye, fog and ice and something worse.

His German references were fresher, and thinner. 

A professor from the medical faculty vouched for the soundness of his examinations but admitted they had not known him long. A colleague from a clinic on the other side of the city praised his “industry and seriousness” and said nothing at all about friendship.

They all agreed on one thing: he worked hard. They disagreed, or said nothing, about where, exactly, he had been before they met him.

You did not have the luxury of endless idle inquiry. Wages had to be earned, ledgers balanced, appointments kept. 

Yet whenever the stack of letters dwindled or the door to the waiting room stayed shut a little longer than expected, you found your eyes returning to the small collection of clues he had allowed you.

You began a list, as you might for a puzzle or a set of household accounts.

On a scrap of foolscap you kept tucked at the back of your drawer, you wrote:

Hull – mentioned once, then avoided. London – truth, but not whole truth. At sea – “service,” “river,” “ships,” never explained. Whale oil – flinched at smell. Gunshot scars? – shoulder? leg? must confirm. Left-handed with bottle, right-handed with scalpel.

Beneath those, a question in darker ink: What happened north?

You did not know that there was a north to think of, not in fact, only in the way his gaze sometimes seemed to travel in that direction when the weather turned and the air in Berlin bit sharper than usual. 

On those mornings you found him at the window with his hand unconsciously pressed against the glass, as if testing its strength, and you felt the hairs rise along your arms under your sleeves.

You had no intention of being reckless. Curiosity was a luxury women like you could rarely afford without cost. Still, there were ways to learn things without stepping too far out of bounds.

You started with the simple matter of addresses.

One afternoon, when he left a stack of correspondence on your desk to be sorted, you noticed that one of the English envelopes bore a return address from Hull. The name printed in the corner was familiar—Baxter & Sons, Shipping and Provisioning—in heavy, slightly faded ink.

You had seen it before in his file of references, on an old letter that vouched for Dr. Patrick Sumner in careful phrases. The paper there had been different, thicker, older, but the name was the same, right down to the little flourish on the final r.

You turned the envelope once between your fingers, feeling the cheapness of the stock. The lettering of the address itself—Herr Doktor Patrick Sumner, Berlin—was unmistakably his: that lean rightward slant, the way he pinched his ts narrow. Only the printed corner mark belonged to Baxter & Sons.

At the end of the day, on your errand to post the practice’s letters, you slid the Hull envelope across the counter with the others and leaned in while the clerk weighed them. 

She was a young woman with a sharp chin and an excellent memory for names; you had watched her sort whole crates of envelopes by street and district without once checking the ledger.

“Have you had many letters from this firm?” you asked, tone light. “Baxter & Sons, Hull?”

She glanced down, lips moving briefly as she read, then frowned.

“Not lately,” she said. “We used to see that name now and then. Old stock, I think. Closed some years ago. There was a bankruptcy, a death, if I remember. One hears things.”

“No one there now?” you asked, adjusting the angle of one of Patrick’s Berlin envelopes as if that were your main concern.

“Address is still on the books,” she said, licking a stamp. “But if they are sending letters from it, they are sending them from ghosts. Why?”

“No reason,” you said, offering a small smile. “I only thought I had heard the name before.”

Back at your desk, when the lamps were lit and Patrick had retreated to the examination room, you slid open his reference file and drew out the Baxter letter. 

The paper was older, edges softened by handling, the ink browned with time. The letterhead matched the envelope exactly: Baxter & Sons, Shipping and Provisioning, Hull, the same little ornamental scroll around the name.

The handwriting that followed, however, was not the same as on the envelope. The reference itself—Dr. Sumner has served with distinction—was written in a rounder, more deliberate script, one that had tried very hard to look like a High-born, English gentleman’s hand and not quite succeeded. Certain strokes tugged sideways, certain curves pinched together in a way you now recognized.

You had spent weeks watching him sign prescriptions and ledger entries. You knew how his pen moved when he was being careful.

You laid the letter on the blotter and studied the closing line. Yours, faithfully, and beneath it Baxter in that same not-quite-convincing hand, the ink a little darker there, as if the writer had gone over it twice.

He had spoken, in that fabricated voice, of Patrick’s “reliability aboard ship” and “experience with men injured in difficult climates.” He had mentioned “service rendered in extremity” and “qualities of endurance.” The phrases were tailored to impress a committee, to suggest hardiness and experience without naming anything that might be questioned.

Nowhere did he mention dates. Nowhere did he give specifics that might be checked. Nowhere did he say I continue in practice here or you may write to me with inquiries, the way honest referees often did.

You ran your finger along the forged signature once, feeling the faint indent the pen had left in the paper.

Baxter was not a doctor. Baxter was not alive. Baxter, as far as Berlin was concerned, existed only as a printed name on old letterhead and as lines Patrick had put into his mouth.

He had invented, out of a dead firm, a man willing to swear that Patrick Sumner was exactly the sort of respectable physician Berlin thought it needed.

You folded the letter and slid it back into its place, your heart beating a shade faster than it had moments before.

You wondered, not what Baxter had seen him do, but what he had done that made it safer to borrow the authority of the dead than to let the living speak for him.

You took to arranging his day’s letters in such a way that you could note the places they came from. London recurred, of course, as did Berlin’s own districts. Once in a while a name from further afield appeared—Manchester, Aberdeen, a northern port you recognized only because you had once traced a ship’s passage on a map for an insurance clerk.

You did not open any letter not addressed to the practice. 

That would have been too much, even for you. 

You did, however, read every scrap that bore the clinic’s name, and filed away the mentions of him you found there: we are glad to hear you are settling in, pleased to learn your health is improved, trust your new circumstances are more salubrious than the last.

More salubrious than what, none of them said.

It was not all letters and absent histories. You watched him.

You observed how his accent thickened when he was tired, vowels drawing longer, consonants softening, the English creeping in around the edges of his careful German. You noticed that he never sat with his back to an open window. You saw the way he checked the lock on the front door twice most evenings, fingers turning the key, then turning it again as if to reassure himself that the barrier would hold.

You began to test him in small ways that had nothing to do with direct questions.

One chilly morning, as you warmed your hands around a cup of tea in the office, you remarked, “Berlin complains bitterly about winter, but it could be worse. My aunt knew a man once who sailed near Greenland. He said the cold there could crack your teeth in your head if you breathed too deep.”

Patrick’s pen halted for a fraction of a beat above the page.

“Then your aunt knew a foolish man,” he said without looking up. “Teeth do not crack so easily.”

“You have been there, then.” You took a deliberate sip, watching him over the rim. “Near Greenland. Or somewhere like it.”

“I have read,” he replied, “as any educated man might. Do not mistake book-pages for biography.”

“Perhaps,” you said gently, “the mistake is believing you have only ever read about such things.”

He finished his sentence, set the pen down, and folded his hands on the blotter.

“If you are determined to make yourself a nuisance,” he said, “you will at least be efficient about it. Fetch the patient list for this afternoon.”

You fetched it, but you carried the taste of the exchange with you for the rest of the day. 

There had been a hairline fracture in his denial, a hair’s span of extra breath taken before he spoke. Enough to suggest that the words on the page and the shape of his memories overlapped more closely than he cared to admit.

You experimented with topics.

Ships drew him taut as a bowstring. When a patient from the docks came in smelling of pitch and sea-salt, his gentleness wrapped tighter, grimmer. 

You once remarked, when the man had gone, that you could see the fascination sailing held for some, all that horizon, all that room to run.

“You romanticize,” he said, too sharply.

“Do I?” You turned in your chair, eyebrow lifting. “I simply repeat what others say.”

“They are liars,” he said.

“Liars about the sea?”

“Liars about what it takes,” he answered. “About what it costs.”

You did not push further that day. You only added another line to your paper: Hates ships. Has been on one.

On another evening, as you shut the windows against a particularly bitter wind, you remarked, “It is remarkable how a city holds heat even in winter. All that brick and stone. Even when it is cold, it is not… empty.”

Patrick glanced up from his journal.

“You speak as if you have compared it with somewhere that was.”

“Have you not?” you asked. “You have been in cities all your life?”

His mouth tightened.

“Not all,” he conceded.

“Then where else?” You leaned one hip against your small desk, hands folded, making your inquisitiveness look as casual as possible. “If I am to know what addresses to put on letters, I ought to know the ones you consider home.”

He closed the journal with unnecessary care, as if containing something that might otherwise spill.

“Home,” he said, and the word sounded foreign on his tongue. “A flexible concept. Hull. London. Berlin now.”

“Only those?”

“Is that not enough for you?”

“For a man of your age and experience?” you said. “Hardly.”

He looked at you then with a flatness that told you you had touched something sharp. 

For a moment you thought he would tell you to pack your things, to take your cleverness and your doubts and leave him to his patients and his ghosts. 

Instead, he said, in a tone like cold water poured over coals, “You will address letters to the rooms in London and to the practice here. That will suffice.”

You curtsied a fraction, mocking and respectful at once.

“As you wish, Doctor.”

You were not foolish enough to go prying in his lodgings, or to follow him when he left the practice. 

That path led to trouble far greater than any answered question could justify. 

But the city had ears, and mouths, and you knew how to listen.

The porter, for instance, had been there longer than Patrick had. 

Men like that saw everything and believed nothing unless they could count it in coins. 

One evening, as you both lingered by the coat rack while Patrick finished with his last patient, you remarked that the doctor seemed settled now, that he must have arrived with a great deal of confidence to set up without any family nearby.

The porter snorted softly, adjusting his cap.

“He came with a bag and a box of books,” the man said. “Looked as if the train had chewed him and spat him out. Rented the rooms upstairs by the week. I thought he would last a month. Then the letters started coming, and the patients, and here we are.”

“Letters from where?” you asked, as if only curious about the postage.

“England, mostly.” The porter shrugged. “Some from further north. Strange stamps. Your English doctor knows people, that is certain. Or owes them.”

“Owes?” you echoed.

“If a man’s eyes look like that,” the porter said, “he has debts. Whether anyone comes to collect is another question.”

You turned that over in your mind as you walked home, boots slipping a little in the slush. 

Debts could mean anything: money, favors, guilt. 

You thought of Patrick’s careful letters, his precise hands, the thin grooves at the corners of his mouth that spoke of too many sleepless nights.

At a cheap café you sometimes patronized on your free afternoons, you overheard, by chance, a pair of medical students discussing a “foreign doctor in Mitte” over their beer.

“Took the examination twice,” one said, laughing. “Imagine that. As if one round of questions from old Gammel were not torture enough.”

“Still,” the other replied, “he passed, and they say he has references from London. Some whaling doctor, I heard, which must have been an education. Blood and blubber, what more could a man want. No wonder he looks half-dead all the time.”

You stirred your coffee and looked down into its dark surface, hiding the flicker that passed across your face.

Whaling. North. Ships. Hull. Blubber. You added each of those to your list in your head before you ever had a chance to put pen to paper.

Back at the practice, you carried on being exactly what you were supposed to be: brisk, efficient, annoyingly attentive. 

You reminded him of appointments, corrected a date on a chart he had mis-written, pointed out a discrepancy in the ledger that meant a supplier had overcharged.

“Are you determined to make yourself indispensable,” he asked once, dry as dust, “or is it accidental?”

“I would not wish to be easily replaced,” you said. “Who else would tell you when you have made an error?”

“Most people would have the sense not to,” he said.

“Then you have been surrounded by flatterers,” you answered. “I am a corrective.”

To all of this you added, in ink, under your previous question:

What happened north that a man spends this much effort building walls around it?

You did not yet have an answer.

You knew only that each time you pushed, even lightly, you felt the structure of his composure creak a little, as if there were something vast and heavy leaning against it from the inside, pressing to get out.

It’s Tuesday, which feels wrong somehow. Tuesdays should be for dull work and middling weather, not for tipping something off balance.

The day has gone long. 

A child with a stubborn fever kept him an hour past his last scheduled patient, and then a woman came in at the end with a pain she could not name, clutching at her ribs as if she feared something inside her might break through the skin. 

By the time he has seen her, written her prescription, soothed her anxieties enough that she could put her gloves back on without shaking, the street outside is already soaked in dusk.

You have stayed because you always stay on days like this. There is always more to type, more to file, more to straighten in his wake. The lamps are burning low, their wicks trimmed short to eke out the oil; the shadows on the wall have lengthened into blurred, unfamiliar shapes.

He closes the door on the last patient with a careful hand and lets his shoulders sag for a moment once it has clicked shut. 

You see it from your little desk, that brief surrender when he thinks no one is looking. Then he notices you still at the typewriter, fingers curled around the carriage return lever, and his posture draws tight again like a pulled stitch.

“You should have gone home an hour ago,” he says, crossing the room to his desk and shrugging out of his coat. His voice is roughened by the day, the edges sanded down by too many words.

“So should you,” you say. “But then who would write all your reports?”

“That is what tomorrow exists for.”

“Tomorrow already has a list.”

You tap the stack of half-finished notes at your elbow. He follows the motion with his eyes and exhales, something between a sigh and a humourless laugh.

“Very well,” he concedes. “We will ruin both of our evenings at once.”

You keep working, the clack of the keys and the soft slide of paper filling the quiet. 

He moves about the office tidying in his particular way—cap on the ink bottle, ledgers squared, instruments in their cabinet aligned with fastidious care. 

You hear the faint clink of glass as he straightens a jar, the low creak of the floorboards as he crosses to the window to check the catch.

It’s only when you begin to gather the finished pages that you realize how late it has become. 

The clock on the wall marks the hour with a dull, tired clunk. Outside, the street noise has thinned to occasional wheels on stone and the distant shout of someone closing up shop.

You slide the last sheet from the typewriter and smooth it with your palm.

“That is all for tonight,” you announce.

“Leave the rest,” he says. “We will manage.”

You stack the papers neatly, aligning each edge. 

As you do, your gaze catches on the corner of his desk where his reference file sits, its folder slightly askew from where he must have consulted it earlier. 

The knowledge of what you found in it the other day—toothless Baxter, conjured out of a dead firm and a forged hand—presses at the back of your tongue.

You have not mentioned it. Part of you had intended never to do so. Another part, the part that writes lists on foolscap and cannot leave puzzles half-solved, has been waiting for the right angle.

Perhaps it is the lateness, or the lamplight that makes his face look more bare than usual, lines carved deeper at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps it is the way he has been unusually quiet all afternoon, moving through his tasks with mechanical precision. Whatever the cause, when you open your mouth next, discretion does not come out.

“You are very good at arranging appearances,” you say lightly, sliding the stack of reports across his blotter. “Even your references are neat. Almost too neat.”

He glances up from the ledger he has been closing.

“Is that praise,” he asks, “or suspicion?”

“You never did say how you came by your letter from Baxter & Sons,” you continue, as if turning over a trivial curiosity. “I happened upon the name at the post. Interesting firm. Or rather, not a firm anymore.”

His hand stills on the ledger cover.

“Is that so,” he says. His tone has gone very flat.

“The clerk remembered them.” You move a little closer, hand resting on the back of the spare chair as if that is the thing that drew you. “Provisioners near the quay in Hull. Closed some time ago. Bankruptcy, tragedy, no one quite sure. Yet here they are, writing handsome letters on your behalf as if nothing has changed at all.”

The silence that follows feels thick, as if the air has gained weight.

He doesn’t answer at once. Instead he finishes the action he began, shutting the ledger and setting the pen down with exaggerated care. Only then does he lift his head fully to look at you.

“You have been making enquiries,” he says.

“You told me discretion was a matter of survival,” you reply. “I thought it wise to understand whose names are attached to this practice. Lest someone come knocking and discover we are employing ghosts.”

“That letter is in order,” he says, low. “It satisfied the authorities. It satisfied the Society. It is all it needs to be.”

“It satisfied people who do not live in this city,” you counter. “It does not satisfy me.”

His jaw tightens—a muscle jumps there, a small, betraying movement.

“And what would satisfy you?” he asks. “A sworn deposition from the dead? A notarized account of every step I have taken since birth?”

“A truth that is not stitched out of corpses and old letterhead would be a start,” you say, sharper than you intended.

The scrape of his chair is sudden in the quiet room, loud enough to make your heart leap once in your chest. He stands, not quickly, but with a deliberation that makes the movement feel heavier.

“When you were engaged here,” he says, coming around the desk, “the conditions were clear. You would be paid for your work. You would maintain discretion. You would not pry into matters that do not concern you.”

“You said discretion about patients,” you remind him, pulse beginning to pick up as he closes the distance between you. “You said nothing about overlooking forged references.”

He stops in front of you, close enough that you can see the faint reddening at the edges of his eyes. The lamplight throws the hollows beneath his cheekbones into sharper relief.

“That letter does you no harm,” he says. “It keeps this practice open. It keeps you in work. Whatever offense it gives your moral sensibilities, you may set it aside.”

“And what does it keep from view?” you ask, stepping into the danger because you cannot help yourself now. “What is it hiding that could not bear the light if the letter were honest?”

“Enough.”

His hand moves, and for a brief, braced fraction of a second you think he will seize your arm. The thought drives a thin line of heat down your spine, part fear, part something knottier. 

But he does not touch you. His fingers close instead around the back of the chair you have been using as a prop, knuckles whitening as he grips it hard enough that the wood creaks faintly.

“I have told you before,” he says, voice low, “you know nothing about what you are speaking of.”

“Then explain it,” you say, stubborn. “Tell me why you would rather put words in the mouth of a dead shipping clerk than let a living man of medicine vouch for you. Tell me why you think no one will notice the dates do not line up. You are not stupid, Doctor. So what are you?”

His eyes flash.

For a moment there is no weary courtesy in them at all, no practiced patience. There is only something feral and grey and exhausted with being cornered. It hits you like a gust off cold water.

“Careful,” he says.

The word is low, almost soft. It lands in the space between you like a hand on the back of your neck.

“Why,” you ask quietly, refusing to drop your gaze, “are you afraid I will say something you do not already say to yourself?”

His grip on the chair tightens. You hear a faint crack—whether of wood or of some taut thread in him, you cannot tell.

“You amuse yourself,” he says, “in prodding at wounds you do not understand. You stand in a warm room in Berlin and play at detective with other people’s survival. You have never watched blood steam on ice in air so cold it flays your lungs. You have never had to choose which man lives long enough to damn you when you sleep. You know nothing of what it takes to crawl back from that and put on a clean shirt for the benefit of clerks.”

The words come sharper, faster, as if some valve has slipped. His accent thickens around them. It’s not the polished speech he uses with patients but something rougher underneath.

You swallow, throat suddenly tight. The images he throws at you are harsh, but what grips you is not the description; it is the way his mouth shapes the last line—crawl back—as if he still feels stone under his hands.

“So there is something to crawl back from,” you say, softer now, more certain. “Thank you for confirming it.”

He makes a sound under his breath that is not quite a laugh.

“You twist everything,” he says. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that curiosity of yours is?”

“I know it unsettles you,” you reply. “Which suggests I am not entirely wrong.”

His expression shifts, anger refracting into something more complicated—frustration, yes, but also a weary kind of despair.

“You will stop this,” he says, and now he does let go of the chair to lift his hand between you, palm up, as if making an offer or issuing a plea. “You will come to this office, you will do the work you are paid for, and you will leave the rest. Or you will find employment elsewhere. There is nothing in my past that will improve your life to know, and there is much that could threaten it.”

The threat is not directed at you; you hear that clearly. It hangs over the sentence like a shadow, aimed at some group you cannot name. Men he has wronged, men who would like to wrong him. Authorities who would not trouble to distinguish.

“You underestimate me,” you say, because backing down now would mean accepting that warning.

“I do not underestimate you at all,” he says. “Quite the contrary. If you were stupid, I would not be having this conversation. You would not have noticed the letterhead. You would not have heard the lies breathe. You would file what you are given and sleep at night.”

His hand drops. For the first time you notice that his fingers are trembling, almost imperceptibly, as if the effort of holding himself together has begun to exhaust his reserves.

“Is that what you do?” you ask, unable to help yourself. “Sleep at night?”

He closes his eyes briefly, lashes a dark fringe against his pale skin, then opens them again. When he speaks, his voice has gone quieter.

“If you continue,” he says, “you will push me past civility. I do not wish that. Neither should you.”

The words land in your body as much as in your ears. There is a note beneath them you have not heard from him before, something that is not anger alone. Heat stirs low in your belly, unwanted and undeniable, answering to some edge in his tone you cannot pretend to mistake.

“I am not afraid of the truth,” you say, though your pulse is beating hard in your throat.

He leans in then, only a fraction, enough that you can see the tiny scar just at his hairline, the place where something once split the skin. His eyes are very clear.

“And I am not afraid of losing your good opinion,” he answers. “I have survived worse than the displeasure of one clever girl. But I am trying, very hard, to be the man I have written in those references. Do you understand?”

It is the first time he has admitted it so plainly—that the version of himself on paper is an aspiration, not a record.

Something in your chest shifts.

“You could start,” you say quietly, “by being honest with at least one person in this city.”

His jaw works, as if he is grinding down words he cannot bear to let out. 

For a heartbeat you think he might do it, that he might reach past the anger and pull something raw and true into the open. Then whatever battle is taking place behind his eyes concludes on the side of retreat.

“This conversation is over,” he says. “Go home. It is late.”

“And if I do not?”

“Then I will blow out the lamps and let you sit in the dark,” he says, with a flash of sharp, almost cruel humor. “Perhaps the company will suit you.”

You want to say more. You want to push him until that careful mask cracks entirely. Instead, you step back. The room feels suddenly small; the smell of coal and old antiseptic presses close.

“As you wish, Doctor,” you say.

You fetch your coat, your gloves, your hat. You feel his gaze on you as you pull them on, a mixture of censure and concern, perhaps, or calculation, or an unwilling fascination that mirrors your own.

At the door, hand on the latch, you pause and look back over your shoulder.

“Baxter is not the only ghost in this practice,” you say. “You know that, do you not?”

His lips press into a thin line.

“Go home,” he repeats.

On the street, the night air bites at your cheeks. Snow has started again, fine and dry, dusting the pavement and the shoulders of your coat. 

You pull the fabric closer around you and walk, heart still beating too fast, replaying the sound of his voice when he spoke of blood on ice and teeth cracking in the cold.

He had warned you away.

He had also shown you, more clearly than ever, that there is something there worth finding.

After that night in the office—the one where you pressed too close to his forgery and he warned you to stop—you move around each other more carefully.

He’s cooler with you in the days that follow. Not cruel, not overtly; Patrick does not slam doors or raise his voice. 

His punishment is absence. 

He keeps conversations to the barest professional minimum, speaks to you through notes and memos more than words. 

When you make a small jest, the sort that would once have earned a flick of his mouth, he lets it fall between you untouched.

If he means to freeze you out, he miscalculates. 

You grew up in rooms colder than this.

You respond with faultless efficiency. Every report is timely, every letter perfectly phrased. You anticipate his needs before he names them, set the instruments out before he asks, refill the medicine bottles without comment. 

You do not apologize. You do not back down. You simply refuse to vanish.

The stalemate begins to crack not with some grand gesture, but with a cut.

It happens on a busy morning when the practice is overflowed with patients. 

A woman’s child has vomited all over the exam room floor, the porter has been called away to help in the stairwell, and Patrick, already thin with strain, reaches too quickly for a tray of scalpels.

You hear the clatter from the waiting room. By the time you reach the doorway, the instruments have been righted, but there is a dark streak on the side of the tray and a brighter one along his palm.

“You should have left that to the porter,” you say, leaning on the jamb.

“He was not here,” he answers shortly.

Blood runs along his thumb in a neat line, pattering onto the floor.

“Sit down,” you say.

“I am fine.” He reaches for a cloth.

The cloth brushes the cut; blood wells fresher. His mouth pulls taut.

“Sit,” you repeat, more firmly. “Before you bleed over the next patient.”

For a moment it looks as though he will refuse out of sheer pride. Then, with a small, exhausted exhale, he gives in and lowers himself to the chair by the window.

You fetch the little tin of carbolic and a clean bandage from the cupboard. When you take his hand, his fingers are warm and still faintly damp from the water he splashed over them.

“Careless,” you murmur, more to the wound than to him.

“I was distracted,” he says.

“By what?”

He looks at you, and something in that gaze suggests a litany too long to name. He does not answer. You do not press. You dab the cut with antiseptic, ignoring the way his hand flinches under yours.

“Hold still,” you say. “You stitch other people without mercy.”

“Stitching myself is more efficient,” he replies under his breath.

“Not when you use the wrong hand.”

You wind the bandage, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath your fingers. When your eyes flick up, you find his already on your face. 

The room has gone very quiet around the two of you, the bustle outside the door dimmed to a distant hum.

“This is unnecessary,” he says.

“So are forged references,” you answer mildly. “Yet here we are.”

A breath-hitch that might be annoyance, might be the ghost of a laugh.

You tie the bandage off, neat and snug, and do not immediately let go. His hand is heavier than you expected. He looks down at where your fingers encircle his wrist, the white of the bandage stark against his skin.

“Thank you,” he says at last, the words stiff but sincere.

After that, the ice thaws an inch.

He still avoids anything resembling confession, but he stops treating you as if you have grown a second head. 

When you venture a small comment about a patient—“He will pretend he did not hear your instructions about diet” or “She will not take the draught as prescribed”—he listens instead of shutting you down. Once or twice, he even concedes that you are right.

“Your judgment is sound,” he says one evening, reading a note you have written in the margin of a report. “I had not considered that factor.”

“I doubt that,” you say.

“I had not considered it fully,” he amends.

You learn that he hates storms in a way that goes beyond ordinary discomfort.

One night, rain comes with a fury that rattles the windowpanes, wind shoving at the glass as if it wants to be let in. 

The last patient leaves in a rush, clutching his hat to his head, muttering about flooded gutters. You go to latch the windows more tightly, fingers working the iron catch.

When you glance back, Patrick has stilled.

He stands in the center of the room, shoulders drawn in, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. A flash of lightning throws him into sharp relief for a brief instant; the thunder that follows makes him start as if struck.

“Are you all right?” you ask.

“Yes.”

The answer is too fast, too flat.

“Storms bother you,” you say, more observation than question.

He swallows. “They are… distracting,” he concedes. “One remembers other noises.”

You think of a ship’s timbers groaning. Ice grinding. Gun shots.

“You could wait it out here,” you say, keeping your tone practical. “There is no sense walking back to your rooms while the streets are rivers. I can make tea.”

He hesitates, then nods once.

So you sit in the little inner office while rain drums on, two cups of weak black tea steaming between you. 

You talk about nothing of consequence: the difficulty of procuring decent paper at a reasonable price, the way Berliners complain about the cold as if they have never seen a winter before, the ridiculousness of a patient who insists on three opinions and then ignores all of them.

Several times, his gaze goes distant at a particularly loud crack of thunder. Each time, you draw him back with some trivial remark.

“Of the two of us,” you say lightly at one point, “I am the one whose roof leaks. I should be the one glowering at the sky.”

His mouth tips.

“Perhaps we can divide the labor,” he says. “You may glower, and I will endure.”

It’s not much. But it is something: an admission that he is enduring, that the noise chews at him.

You file it away.

There is a morning when you catch him sleeping at his desk.

You arrive earlier than usual, the sky outside still pale with the late winter dawn. The porter has not yet lit the stove; your breath ghosts in front of you as you shrug out of your coat.

His office door stands slightly ajar. You tap once and push it open.

He’s slumped in his chair, head tipped back against the wood, mouth parted slightly. One hand rests on his chest, the other hangs loosely over the arm of the chair. On the desk before him lies an open book in English, its pages splayed, a pair of spectacles he rarely uses set beside it.

It takes you a moment to realize he is not simply resting his eyes; he is deep asleep. The kind that arrives not by invitation but by ambush, seizing a body when it has been refused too long.

A sensible person would leave him. Instead, you step quietly into the room. The lamp on his desk is still burning, flame turned low. You adjust it, trimming the wick, then glance back at him.

Without the usual tension in his face, he looks younger. Not soft—there is too much carved into him for that—but less armoured. A small line between his brows suggests the dreams are not entirely kind.

You take the coat from the stand, the one that always smells faintly of tobacco and the street, and drape it over him. His shoulders twitch, his hand jerks, but he does not wake. His breathing evens again.

“Sleep,” you whisper, more to the room than to him. “For once, just sleep.”

You close the door quietly on your way out and go to make coffee strong enough for two.

After that, he’s less surprised when you anticipate his needs. 

He comes in one afternoon rubbing his temple and finds the ledger and pen already laid out, ink refilled, blotter cleared. He pauses, then nods to you.

“Thank you,” he says. “You are… efficient.”

“I have my moments,” you answer.

He begins, slowly, to offer you his own.

Snatches at first. A remark, as you both walk down the stairs one evening, about the smell of the docks in winter being better than in summer, “when the rot rises.” A comment about Indian heat—“It is not just hot, it is thick”—that slips out before he tightens his jaw.

In between, there are touches, small and careful, that do not quite trespass and do not quite stay innocent.

Your hand brushing his as you both reach for the same stack of notes. His fingers steadying your elbow when you slip on the wet tiles near the entrance. The time you stand too close behind him as you spell out a foreign name in a journal, your breath on his neck making him still just long enough for you to notice.

Each contact adds a new line to the map between you.

You do not stop digging. You only change your tools.

His gaze lingers on you a fraction longer than usual when he wishes you good night.

You stay later and later, not always by design. There is always more to do, some chart to finish, some cabinet to lock. Sometimes you leave at the same time and walk part of the way home together, your steps muffled in the snow.

“Berlin suits you,” you say once, watching his breath fog.

“Berlin tolerates me,” he answers.

“Is that not the same thing?”

“No,” he says. “But it is enough.”

You file that away as well: his sense of what he is allowed, what he is owed.

He has warned you, and for a few days you tell yourself you will be wise, that you will treat his past as you treat a patient’s sealed file—handled carefully, only when required. You do your work, you keep your place, you let his silences sit.

It does not last.

Curiosity, once it has tasted blood, does not starve quietly.

You start with the obvious: if the present is fabricated, some record of the real version must exist somewhere. Men like him do not simply appear. They are made, and the world keeps receipts.

On your next free afternoon, you take yourself to the university library instead of the café.

The reading room is dry and dust-heavy, its tall windows begrudging slivers of winter light. German students bend over their books, murmuring Latin to themselves. You present your letter of introduction from the practice—it is easy enough to obtain; Patrick is not the only one who can forge when necessary—and ask, in your best formal German, for any recent English medical registers and the London papers.

The clerk raises an eyebrow but shrugs and leads you to a shelf where the English volumes squat in neat, foreign rows. You run your finger along the spines. Medical Directory for England, Scotland, and Wales. 1856. 1857.

You pull one down and find the S’s.

There he is. Sumner, Patrick, M.B. The letters march in tidy black print. Qualifications from London, appointments listed in small type. Assistant surgeon attached to a regiment whose name means nothing to you beyond its number. Below that, a terse note in smaller font, added later in a different hand.

Cashiered. See Gazette, 18—

You feel your heart jump once, a misfire in your ribs.

You’ve lived long enough around soldiers and their widows to know what that word means. Not honorably discharged. Not quietly retired. Thrown out. Stripped. Spat back into the world with a stain that does not wash.

You make a careful copy of the entry in your notebook, hand steady despite the way your pulse flutters. Then you ask, as casually as you can manage, whether the library keeps English government notices.

The clerk, who has seen odder requests from foreign students, directs you to a series of bound gazettes. The pages smell of old ink and coal dust and something else—panic, perhaps, or that might just be your own breath.

You find the date. It takes longer than you expect; the cramped print swallows names whole. But then there it is, squeezed between promotions and mundane appointments.

Assistant Surgeon Patrick Sumner, found guilty by court-martial of conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, is hereby cashiered from Her Majesty’s service.

No particulars. No explanation. No detail that would satisfy anyone asking what, exactly, he did that was so unbecoming.

You sit with your fingers pressed to the paper for a long moment, letting the words settle. So: he was army. India, you think, remembering a half-formed remark he once made about heat that never lifts even at night. Not a passing fancy but a career, or the start of one, cut short.

Cashiered.

You picture him in a uniform that does not suit him as well as his current sober suit, shoulders squared under braiding, eyes younger but already tired. You imagine some tribunal reading charges out in a dry voice while he stands before them, stripped not only of rank but of the fiction that he is anything other than what they think he is.

You leave the library with ink on your fingers and his name written twice in your notebook, once as the directory spells it, once in your own hand, underlined.

The next thread comes not from paper but from mouths.

Berlin has a way of collecting Englishmen. Some are there on business, some on study, some, like your employer, for reasons that are less easily named. 

On a Sunday afternoon you find yourself in a cramped beer hall near the river where foreign students like to sit and mangle each other’s languages.

You have come, apparently, to practice your English with a girl from Manchester who wants to perfect her German swears. The table next to you is occupied by two men in tweed, one of them already flushed with drink.

“… told you, didn’t I?” he’s saying, his words slurring together. “Ran into Baines in London before I came out. Said there was a chap, name something like Sumter—I think—that he knew from the regiment. Bad business.”

You still, cup halfway to your mouth. The name is too close not to be who you think it is.

“Bad business in what way?” his companion asks. “Lost a limb? Deserted?”

“Worse.” The drunk one leans in conspiratorially, though his volume does not decrease. “Whole mess with the funds, some native business. They hushed the ugly bits, of course, not for his sake but for the regiment’s. Couldn’t have it all coming out in the papers. Cashiered him fast as you please. Last Baines heard, he was on some whaler, of all things.”

“Whaler?” the friend repeats, laughing. “Doctors travel in strange company.”

“Ship was called the Volunteer, I think,” the drunk says. “Or something like it. Left Hull for the ice. Baines said he thought the man must have gone mad to sign on for that after India. Heat to cold. Out of the frying pan, eh? There was talk the voyage didn’t go well. Lot of gossip. No one knows quite what happened, only that not many came back, if any at all, and any who must've had to be ruined men.”

Your hand tightens on your cup, knuckles straining under the skin.

The Volunteer. Hull. Whaler.

You watch the foam in your beer settle as the men drift on to other topics, their conversation snagging on politics and women and the price of coal. You do not look at them again. You do not trust yourself not to stare.

Back at your room that night, you write the new words in your list.

Army surgeon – India. Cashiered. Funds?  Whaler – Volunteer, Hull. Few to no survivors. “Ruined men.”

You underline ruined twice.

The picture sharpens. It’s still drawn in ink and rumors, but the lines begin to connect.

A young man in uniform, too clever for the dull grind of regimental medicine, turning cleverness to theft, or at least being accused of such. A court-martial. A disgrace. Then a whaling ship in the north, ice and blood and something worse, the last hail-Mary scramble of a life already off its axis.

No wonder he has had to build himself a new man out of forged letters.

You test pieces of it against him like pressed flowers against a living plant, seeing what matches.

One afternoon, when the waiting room is empty and the kettle is singing softly on the stove, you mention India as if it were an idle subject.

“I read a story the other day,” you say, setting a cup of tea on his desk. “About a soldier who served in India and said he still wakes thinking he is there, even years after coming home.”

Patrick’s hand, reaching for the cup, stops for a fraction of a heartbeat.

“India is sticky,” he says. “It clings. In clothes, in lungs, in dreams. Some men never get it out of them entirely.”

“You speak as if from experience,” you remark, watching him over the rim of your own cup.

“I speak,” he says, “as a man who has read more than one story.”

You let it pass, but only on the surface. Inside, you add another faint line, connecting his too-quick answer to the gazette’s terse notice.

On another day, you take the long way back from an errand and walk down by the river where the barges tie up. There is a tavern there that smells of tar and fish and cheap beer, frequented by sailors and dockers. You are not foolish enough to go inside alone, but you linger near the door long enough to overhear fragments as men go in and out, their words carried on smoke and laughter.

“… was on a Greenlander once,” one man is saying as he stubs out a cigarette. “Not as far north as the Volunteer went, mind you, but bad enough. Heard some tales about that voyage, though. Black, they say. Ship never right from the day she left Hull.”

“Was that the boat with the English doctor gone half-touched?” his companion asks.

“Something like that,” the first man grunts. “Baines—different Baines from the one at the hall—said there was a surgeon aboard who’d already been put out of the army. Said he was cursed, the lot of them. Came back wrong.”

You step away then, before they can look up and see you hovering. 

The river smells of rot and iron and distant snow. You close your eyes briefly and picture a ship trapped in a white world, surrounded by nothing but ice and the things that live beneath it.

Volunteer.

In the days that follow, you notice more. Now that you know to look, it is easier to see.

A scar along his shoulder when his shirt gapes unexpectedly as he reaches for a book on the higher shelf—pale and ragged, not from a neat surgeon’s cut but something more violent. The way he goes still as stone when a patient mentions an army posting. The odd mix in his manner with men who bear themselves like former soldiers: a familiarity that speaks of shared training, overlaid with a distance that says he no longer counts himself among them.

In the library again, you find, tucked in a corner of an English shipping list, a brief notice from a few years back.

The Volunteer, Hull, returned from northern waters after an unsuccessful season. Loss of several hands reported. Rumors of difficulties at the ice refuted by the owners.

Rumors. Difficulties. Words that smooth over rot.

You sit there, the book heavy in your lap, and imagine him on that ship, not yet the man you know but the seed of him. Court-martial behind him, disgrace a fresh scar, laudanum perhaps in his pockets, walking onto a deck that smells of whale oil and old wood, thinking he will outrun himself in the fog and the cold.

Back in the practice, you watch him deal with blood.

Once, when a man comes in with a mangled hand from a factory machine, fingers crushed and split, Patrick sets his jaw and works with a focus so intense it seems to narrow the world to the table and the wound. 

You have seen surgeons flinch before they hide it. He does not flinch. He leans in. Only afterwards, when the man is bandaged and sent away with instructions and a bottle of medication, do you see him step into the little washroom and brace his hands on either side of the basin for a moment longer than strictly needed.

“Was that worse than a whale’s eye,” you ask from the doorway, unable to stop yourself, “or about the same?”

He looks up sharply, water beading on his lashes.

“Where do you hear these things?” he asks, the question nakedly annoyed.

“Men talk,” you say. “They drink and they talk about ships that went too far north and came back less than they left. About doctors on those ships. About cashiers and courts and ruined men who somehow make their way to Berlin afterwards.”

He straightens slowly, wipes his hands on a towel, and turns to face you fully. The fatigue in his face is no longer just from the surgery; it is the deep-down kind that comes from digging out graves you had tried to leave undisturbed.

“There are a great many ruined men in Europe,” he says. “You will wear yourself out trying to catalogue them all.”

“I am only interested in one,” you say.

His gaze holds yours for a long moment. You see the calculation there again, the old instinct that weighs whether you are a danger. You also see, just for a flicker, the shadow of someone standing on ice under an endless sky, listening for cracks.

“You know just enough to be burned by it,” he says at last. “And not nearly enough to understand.”

“Whose fault is that?” you ask. “You have written your own story in such careful lines that there is no room for anything human between them.”

“Sometimes,” he says, quietly, “the human parts are the worst.”

You add that to your mental ledger as well.

You do not confront him outright. You do not say, I saw your name in the Gazette or I know you were thrown out. You do not say, They talk of the Volunteer like a ship cursed, and they speak of its surgeon in the same breath. You are not ready to lay all your cards down. He is certainly not ready to lay down his.

Instead you keep gathering.

The time you pass a newsvendor and see an old paper in the pile, its date smudged but legible. A column about conditions in India, mentioning in passing a scandal with army doctors and missing treasures. No names given, but the echo is enough.

The day he drops a small vial of laudanum and it shatters on the tiles, the smell rising like a ghost. His reaction is swift and quiet; he cleans it, disposes of the glass, but his fingers tremble just enough that you pretend not to see.

The evening he comes in later than usual, hair damp with melted snow, eyes red-rimmed in a way that does not quite look like lack of sleep. 

Piece by piece, a shape emerges.

Patrick Sumner, army surgeon. Patrick Sumner, court-martialed. Patrick Sumner, ship’s doctor on the Volunteer, voyage whispered about in beer halls and at student tables, details warped by distance and the love of a good horror story. Patrick Sumner, now reinvented as a quiet, respectable physician in a Berlin street, propped up by forged references from the dead and polite letters from the living who prefer not to look too closely.

You keep all of it in your head, in your hidden notes, in the way you hold yourself around him.

The lamps burn low, wicks pinched to make the oil last. Outside has sunk into that muffled hour when the street sounds come in as if through wool. You have loosened your collar, pushed your sleeves up a fraction. Ink stains your fingers. The typewriter sits silent now; you have already fed it enough sheets for one day.

Patrick is at his desk, the last of the day’s files open in front of him. His waistcoat is unbuttoned, shirt creased at the elbows, tie tugged slightly askew. He looks tired, but not in the soft way most men do after a long day. He looks like someone who has kept himself upright through sheer refusal and is now trying to decide whether to allow gravity a say.

“You can leave that,” he says, nodding toward the pile you are squaring. “It will wait.”

“So will my bed,” you answer, aligning a corner with unnecessary neatness. “It is not going anywhere.”

“That is precisely the point,” he mutters.

You slip the last folder into place on the shelf behind you and wipe your fingertips with your handkerchief, pretending that is all that keeps you there. Your heart is a steady thump in your chest, but there is a lift to it, an edge.

You did not mean to do this tonight, not in any precise way. There was no grand plan, no marked date in your head. But you have the weight of the notebook in your bag, the memory of thin print and muttered bar-room talk, and here he is in front of you, worn and raw and real. There will not be a better moment.

You turn back to him and say, in a voice that sounds conversational even to your own ears, “I met your name in a book the other day.”

He looks up, pen pausing above the line he is drawing.

“In what context,” he asks, guarded already.

“A directory,” you say. “One of those thorough English volumes that list every doctor in service. There you were among them. Sumner, Patrick, M.B. Manchester, London, a regiment number… and a note that you no doubt hoped no one would ever bother to read.”

His jaw tightens very slightly. “And yet you did.”

“I am thorough,” you say. “It mentioned that you had been removed from Her Majesty’s service. Not retired. Not honorably discharged. Cashiered.”

The word lands like a coin on stone between you.

He sets the pen down with care. “You have been snooping in foreign records. Congratulations. You have learned that your employer is not respectable.”

“Oh, I did not need a book to tell me that,” you reply. “The book simply gave me the proper word for it.”

The chair makes a low sound against the floor when it moves back as he stands.

“Is this your aim?” he asks, circling the desk with that measured prowl you have begun to recognize. “To collect labels for me until you have enough to satisfy your curiosity?”

“I like a complete set,” you say. “Cashiered in India. Then a whaling ship.”

His eyes flash for the first time, something sharp cutting through the flatness.

“The Volunteer,” you continue, because you have decided that if you are going to press, you might as well press all the way. “Out of Hull. Men in beer halls still trade stories about that voyage. About bodies on ice and seals screaming and sailors who supposedly came back less useful than the carcasses they cut up.”

He’s very still now, only his breathing giving him away.

“You have been listening to drunks,” he says. “An impeccable source.”

“Drunks, directories, gazettes.” You count them off on your ink-stained fingers. “For a man who insists his life is dull, you have left an impressive trail of wreckage.”

He steps closer, until the desk is between you in name only.

“What precisely do you want from this recital,” he asks, voice low. “Shall I applaud your research? Shall I tell you you have been very clever, that you have managed to stitch together a little of what men whispered about me in places I no longer belong?”

“I want,” you say, “for you to stop pretending that the only version of you that exists is the one you wrote in those letters.”

His mouth twists. “And what good would that do you?”

You meet his gaze steadily.

“It would mean I am not working for a lie I cannot see,” you say. “It would mean when I sit at that typewriter putting your name at the bottom of letters, I know whose name it actually is. It would mean when I hear someone say there was a doctor on the Volunteer who survived when better men did not, I do not have to wonder whether I am watching him wash his hands in the next room.”

He makes a harsh sound, more exhale than laugh.

“Better men,” he repeats. “You imagine there were better men on that ship.”

“There were certainly other men,” you say. “The talk in the taverns suggests not many of them came back. You did. And then you forged a dead firm’s letter to vouch for you because no living soul would do it.”

His temper edges in, tone roughening. “You have a very high opinion of your own safety,” he says. “Throwing those names about in rooms that have windows.”

“We are alone,” you point out. “Unless you have ghosts tucked in your cabinets along with the scalpels.”

You see the moment something in him snaps out of its groove.

He moves around the corner of the desk, not in a rush, but with an intent that sends a hot thread running straight through you. You could step back; you do not. He comes to a halt in front of you.

“You think this is a game,” he says softly. “You come here with your little facts, your scraps of gossip, and you set them on the table like cards. You prod at things you do not understand. For what? To see me flinch?”

“No,” you say, and your voice sounds a shade rougher than you intended. “To see you stop lying to my face.”

He looks at you for a long moment, then down at your mouth, then back up. 

“What would you like me to say?” he asks. “That I stole what was not mine? That I walked men into death and crawled out over them? That I have done things in cold and heat both that would curdle the little curiosity you cling to so tightly?”

Your heart kicks. “Yes,” you say. “Say it. Own it. Stop hiding behind polite German phrases and contrived references and ask yourself why you feel the need to play at being gentle when we both know there is nothing gentle about you.”

Something dark and hungry flickers over his face before he can choke it down.

“You truly do not know when to stop,” he murmurs.

“Then stop me,” you say.

His hand catches your jaw, fingers strong and unyielding, tilting your face up. You gasp, more from the suddenness than any real pain, and your hands go automatically to his wrist. His grip is not cruel, but there is nothing tentative in it, either. There is a throbbing line of heat down your spine that has very little to do with anger.

“Is this what you wanted,” he asks, thumb pressing into the soft place just in front of your ear. “You dig and dig until something ugly shows its teeth, and then you stand there looking surprised.”

“I am not surprised,” you manage. 

You hold his gaze, feel the question in his fingers, the storm building in the set of his shoulders. You lick your lips, the smallest flick of tongue, and see his eyes track the movement.

His mouth is on yours before you can drag in another breath.

It is not gentle. His lips crash against yours with weeks of swallowed temper behind them, teeth clipping your lower lip, breath hot and harsh.

For the first heartbeat you do not yield. Your palms come up against his chest in a startled, instinctive brace, fingers fisting in the linen of his shirt as if you might shove him back and force a measure of sense into the moment. You turn your face just enough to break the seal of his mouth, breath catching sharp between you.

He does not let you get far.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, broad palm cradling the base of your skull with a possessive firmness that stops just short of pain. The hold there steadies you, pins you, asks nothing softly.

The fight goes out of your hands before it leaves your body. Your grip on his shirt changes from resistance to clutching, and when he kisses you again, harder this time, you give way under it.

Your mouth moves beneath his, opening when his tongue pushes in, meeting him there at last, matching the pressure with one of your own.

A groan vibrates against your mouth—his or yours, you cannot tell.

When he lets go of your jaw it is only to get his hands on you elsewhere. One stays at the back of your neck, holding you where he wants you, the other drags down over your shoulder, thumb brushing the swell of your breast through your dress. He squeezes, testing, fingers digging into soft flesh until your breath stutters.

You break the kiss only because you have to, head tipping back, air coming in sharp little pulls. He takes the opportunity to bend his head to your throat, lips and teeth scraping along the thin skin there. The first scrape of his teeth makes your knees go loose.

“Patrick—” slips out before you can catch it, less accusation than plea.

He murmurs something filthy against your pulse, words hot and damp.

His hand at your breast moves, thumb hooking under the buttons that march down the front of your bodice. He yanks. Two buttons pop, one skittering to the floor.

You gasp, half scandalized, half thrilled.

“It took you long enough,” you manage, swallowing a shaky laugh.

He huffs against your throat, not quite amusement, more disbelief.

“You are insufferable,” he says. “Standing there with ink on your fingers and my history in your head, looking at me like that.”

“Like what,” you breathe.

His hand slides into your loosened bodice, fingers finding bare skin, cupping your breast fully now. His palm is hot, callused. When he drags his thumb over your nipple, it tightens under his touch, a direct line of sensation straight to your belly. 

“Like you’ve been imagining this while you were supposed to be typing,” he says.

Your own hands finally stop clutching at his wrists and begin to roam. You bunch your fingers in his shirtfront, feeling the muscles there tense under the linen. You slide one hand down, over the flat of his stomach, lower, to the waistband of his trousers.

You undo the buttons with quick, clumsy fingers, the way you might open a drawer you have no business looking into. Beneath, you find him already hard, straining against the fabric. When you curl your hand around him through the last layer, he swears softly into your skin.

“Oh,” you say, and you cannot help the little curl of satisfaction in your voice. “You have been thinking about this, then. All those late nights at your desk, Doctor.”

His hand closes around your wrist, not to push you away, but to feel your grip as you squeeze harder.

“Little clerk with her hand on her employer’s cock,” he mutters, almost to himself. “God help me.”

He reaches down, forcing your fingers aside. For a second you think he will drag your hand away entirely. Instead he fumbles his fly open, frees himself, and then pushes your hand back around him bare.

The heat of him in your palm makes your mouth go dry. He’s thick and heavy, pulsing against your skin as you stroke, slick already at the tip. You swipe your thumb there and he grunts, hips jerking.

“Is this how you imagined it,” you taunt, voice low. “Me on my knees in your nice clean office, taking what you pretend you do not want?”

His thumb digs harder into the tendon of your wrist.

“You will not be on your knees,” he says. “I have spent too long looking down on you behind that desk. Turn around.”

You hesitate only long enough to let him see that you are choosing it. Then you do as he says.

The edge of his desk bites into the front of your thighs as you press against it. Papers slide under your hands, crackling. He gathers your skirts in both fists, hauling them up, up, until the cool air hits your stockings and the bare skin above them. 

“Of course,” he says under his breath. “Of course you would wear these while you sit there giving me orders.”

“You bought them,” you remind him, fingers clutching at the far edge of the desk as he drags the fabric higher still. “If you dislike them, Doctor, you have only yourself to blame.”

He curses again, rougher this time. His hands find the tops of your stockings, thumbs stroking along that band of skin where garter ends and thigh begins. 

He hooks his fingers into your drawers and yanks them down. They snag at your knees; you kick them aside, pulse pounding so hard you can feel it behind your eyes.

Patrick pauses behind you, just long enough to make you crazy, taking in the view he has been denied all these weeks. 

“Smug little thing,” he says quietly. “Do you get wet digging through men’s filth, or has it just been me?”

You throw him a look over your shoulder, hair coming loose, breath fast.

“Find out,” you say.

His hand slides between your thighs, fingers finding you already slick, lips swollen and sensitive. The low sound he makes when he feels it is half groan half laugh.

“Oh, you have been waiting,” he says. “Dragging me over the coals and all the while—”

He slides two fingers through your folds, pressing where you are soft and open, then circles your clit. Your hips buck, an involuntary jerk against the desk.

“Patrick—”

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Say my name when you are doing something worthwhile with that mouth.”

You try to glare at him over your shoulder, but it dissolves into a gasp when he pushes one finger into you, the angle shallow, testing. He is not gentle—not cruel either. He moves with intent, and soon, another finger joins the first, stretching you, dragging against the ache inside you that has been building for weeks.

You rock back onto his hand, shameless.

“You talk so much,” he says, fingers pumping. “Let us see how long you last when there is something other than questions to occupy you.”

“You’re—your arrogance is astonishing,” you gasp. “Cashiered from one profession and still manages to be insufferable in another—”

He pulls his hand away abruptly. You whine, an undignified, desperate sound.

“Say please,” he says.

You grip the desk harder, panting. Pride and need war in your chest for a few ridiculous heartbeats.

“Go to hell,” you say.

His hand comes down on the curve of your ass, a sharp crack that sends a line of fire spreading outward. You yelp, swearing, heat blooming under his palm.

“You have earned that,” he says. “Standing there waving my sins in my face until I have no choice but to put you where you clearly wanted to be.”

“You are the one who—”

The second smack lands lower, over the fuller part of you, making your legs wobble. He soothes the sting with his palm, massaging, thumb straying down between your cheeks in a way that makes your breath catch.

“Last chance,” he says, voice gone hoarse. “Ask me.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, forehead lowering briefly to the cool wood of the desk.

“Please,” you say finally, the word dragged out of you. “Patrick. Please.”

He lets out a rough sound that might be a curse, might be your name, and his grip shifts from your hips to your waist.

“Turn around,” he snaps.

You barely have time to straighten before he hauls you bodily, hands firm at your sides, spinning you to face him. The room tilts for a moment, then the edge of the desk bites into the backs of your thighs. He pushes, and you go with it, palms splaying behind you for balance as he lifts you onto the blotter, papers crumpling under your weight.

“Here,” he mutters, crowding in, forcing your knees apart with his hips. “I want to see you when you ask for me like that.”

Your skirts are already bunched up from before; he shoves them higher with a vicious efficiency, baring you to the lamplight and his gaze. Cool air licks at your thighs, at the wet heat between them. You feel obscenely open on the polished wood, stockings rolled and biting into the soft flesh below your knees.

He steps between your legs and drags you to the very edge, dragging you forward until your cunt is snug against him, until there is nowhere else for you to go. One of his hands clamps around the back of your neck, steadying you, thumb pressed against your pulse; the other slides down, fingers splaying over your inner thigh, pushing it higher.

“Look at you,” he says, and his voice is ruined, scraped raw. “Ink on your fingers, my secrets in your mouth, and your legs spread on my desk.”

You glare up at him because you cannot think of anything else to do, breath coming fast. He answers by tightening his hand at your neck, pinning you in place.

“Say it again,” he orders. “Say please. Look at me when you do it.”

You swallow, lips slick, heart pounding against the heel of his hand.

“Please,” you whisper, meeting his eyes. “Patrick. I want—”

His mouth returns to yours, swallowing the rest of the sentence. 

While his mouth takes yours apart, his hand leaves your neck and drops between you. He catches the back of your knees, dragging your legs wider, forcing them up until your heels hitch against the edge of the desk. You’re half-lying back, half-held upright by his grip on you, the angle helpless.

“Hold on,” he tells you.

You grab the sides of the desk until your fingers ache.

The first press of him against you knocks the air from your lungs. He doesn’t bother with careful nudging; he lines himself up and drives in with one hard thrust, forcing his way past the resistance of your body. The stretch burns in the best, worst way, your cunt opening around him as he sinks deep.

A strangled sound tears out of you, much too loud in the small office.

“Fuck,” he groans, head dropping for a second, eyes squeezing shut. “You—Christ.”

He is big and unrelenting, filling you to the hilt, hips flush to the inside of your thighs. It feels as if he’s wedged up against your spine, deep enough that your whole body is tuned to where you’re wrapped around him.

“Patrick,” you gasp, fingers scrabbling for purchase, desk biting into your back where you’ve slid. 

He pulls back and slams in again, no gentleness in it. The sound of him hitting you—skin on skin, the wet, filthy slap of it—rings off the walls. He sets a pace that is ferocious from the start, hips snapping forward, using the grip on your legs to drag you onto him harder.

Each thrust drives a sharp little cry out of you, your body jolting, the edge of the desk digging into your lower back as he pounds into you.

You feel utterly taken, pinned open wide while he uses you, the angle letting him fuck deep and fast, everything inside you stretched around him.

“This what you wanted?” he bites out between thrusts. “You dig and dig until I snap and now—”

Another brutal stroke, and your head falls back, a gasp torn from your throat.

“—now you get exactly what you’ve been asking for.”

He punctuates the words with his hips, driving every syllable into you. The desk shudders under the assault; pens and papers go skittering to the floor. One of his hands drops from your leg to your waist, fingers clamping down hard enough you know you will wear his grip for days.

You cling to him and the desk both, pulled back and forth on his cock, helpless to do anything except take it.

“You look so sweet at that little typewriter,” he grinds out. “All neat and disciplined. And all the while, this—”

He shifts his angle, dragging against a place inside you that makes stars explode behind your eyes.

“—this is what you were built for.”

“Don’t stop,” you gasp, past caring how you sound. You can hear yourself, breathless and wrecked, but you don’t recognize your own voice. 

He laughs, a short, disbelieving bark.

“Stopping is not the problem,” he says. “The problem is not ruining you completely.”

His free hand slides up between your breasts, shoving your bodice aside more fully, rough fingers closing around your breast, thumb scraping over your nipple. The double sensation—him slamming into you from below, his hand squeezing your breast, calluses catching on sensitive skin—tips something precarious inside you.

Your thighs twitch, wanting to close around him, but he holds them open, forearms braced under your knees now, using the leverage to fuck into you even harder. You can feel how wet you are, how every thrust drives a slick heat up your spine.

“Look at me,” he grunts.

Your head snaps forward, eyes dragging up to meet his.

His hair has fallen out of its careful order, damp at his temple. His cheeks are flushed, jaw clenched, eyes blown wide and black with lust and something uglier, something like relief twisted into it. He looks wild, nothing like the contained man your patients see.

“All this time,” he says, punctuating each phrase with a deep thrust that makes you yelp, “you sitting in my office, poking at things that could get you killed… and you had no idea this was the safer part of me.”

His rhythm turns vicious, almost punishing. The desk thumps against the floor with every snap of his hips, and you’re past thinking now, fingers digging crescent moons into the wood. Every nerve you have is trained on where he’s driving into you, over and over, deep and fast and filthy.

You feel your climax barreling toward you with frightening speed, all the nights of wanting and imagining and not touching yourself enough to take the edge off pooling into this one brutal, relentless rhythm.

“Patrick—” you choke. “I am going to—”

“Do it,” he orders, cutting you off. His his hips somehow pick up speed. 

Your whole body bows, back arching off the wood, a cry ripped out of you that might carry to the street if anyone happens to be passing. Your cunt clamps around him in tight, pulsing waves, everything clenching unbearably hard. There's a heat crashing through you so fiercely you forget how to breathe for a moment.

He swears, a filthy, strangled sound, as you squeeze around him.

“Oh, you’re—Christ,” he grits out. “That’s it. Milk me then.”

He doesn’t slow, doesn’t give you time to come down. He fucks you through it, into it, dragging every last spasm out of your body. The overstimulation borders on unbearable, your nerves sparking, but it keeps you pinned in that white-hot place until you’re shaking.

His fingers bruise into your hips again, yanking you flush to him as he rams in as deep as he can go. He holds there, buried to the root, a torn-off groan spilling against your open mouth as his cock kicks inside you.

You feel the hot flood of him spilling into you, thick and heavy, pulsing in deep surges that your over-sensitized body drinks in helplessly.

He stays like that, locked against you, breath harsh and uneven, forehead pressed to yours, as if neither of you quite trusts your legs.

For a moment there is nothing except the sound of your breathing and the faint hiss of the lamps. Then he draws in a long, ragged breath and eases his grip on your thighs. You feel him start to soften inside you, each slow pulse sending a fresh, lewd trickle of warmth slipping out, wetting the tender skin between your thighs and the wood under you.

He pulls back, finally, cock sliding out of you with a slow drag that makes you shudder. You feel the loss sharply, empty and stretched, his spend leaking out in a heavy, sticky spill that you know is going to stain everything it touches.

Your legs are trembling; your stockings are crooked. Your bodice gapes where he popped the buttons, breast tender where his fingers have been. Papers under your palms are wrinkled and damp at the corners; a droplet of something—ink, sweat, you—spatters the blotter.

You drag in a breath, then another, trying to find words that haven’t been knocked out of you.

Across from you, Patrick takes a step back, just far enough that he isn’t pressed between your knees anymore. His trousers are still open, shirt askew, hair disordered. His chest rises and falls sharply, fingers flexing once at his sides as if he isn’t sure what to do with his hands now they’re not on you.

His gaze drops to the slick mess between your thighs, to the slow roll of his cum slipping out of you onto his desk, and something in his expression twists.

The lamplight throws all his sharp angles into relief, hollows under his eyes, the long line of his neck, the jump of muscle at his jaw.

His gaze keeps slipping—down to the state he has left you in, back up to your face, away again. Shame moves over his features like a cloud across a too-bright sky. It is an odd thing to see on him, raw and unguarded, now that the heat has burned out of his temper.

“You should—” he begins, then stops. His voice sounds roughened, scraped bare. “You should fix your dress.”

There is something almost absurd about the remark, after what he has done to you.

You huff a laugh that is more exhale than amusement and reach clumsily for your bodice, fingers clumsy at the torn line of buttons. You get one fastened and give up on the rest, breath still uneven.

When you look up again, his eyes are on your hands. The sight of you fumbling at your clothes, trying to restore some semblance of order to yourself on his ink-stained desk, seems to land in him like a blow.

He moves before you can read the decision on his face.

Two strides and he is there again, between your knees, crowding your space. You stiffen on instinct, but he is not reaching for your hips this time, not for your throat.

His hands come down, one on either side of you, palms planting on the desk, arms braced so he can lean in without tipping you backward.

You feel the heat of his body close again, but it's different now. There's no thrust in it, no forward drive. He bows his head, shoulders hunching.

Then he lowers his face into the curve of your neck.

He misses, slightly, cheek bumping your jaw, breath catching as if he has misjudged the distance. His beard scrapes your skin as he adjusts, pressing his forehead and nose into the place where your shoulder meets your throat, burying himself there as if the lamplight is too much for him.

At first you think he is simply trying to catch his breath, that the weight of him is only exhaustion. His heartbeat is a hard, restless thump against your chest, ribs expanding against your ribs.

Your hands, which had been hovering awkwardly in front of you, land without thinking on his shoulders, then slide up into his hair, still damp at the temple.

“Patrick,” you say softly, not sure whether it is a question or a warning.

He inhales against your skin, a long, shaky pull of air that seems to rattle all the way down. You feel it more than hear it, the way his chest shudders. His fingers curl against the wood beside your hips, knuckles going pale. For a moment he holds himself rigid, as if by sheer will he can make the next part not happen.

Then something gives. A flicker, like a tremor at the edge of your awareness. His shoulders jerk once, almost imperceptibly. You feel the breath he lets out against your neck, and this time there's a brokenness in it, a sound half-swallowed.

He tries to choke it back; you can feel the effort. The muscles along his spine go taut under your hands, as if he is bracing for impact. But the pressure inside him has nowhere to go now that he has loosened his grip on it, and you are too close not to notice when it finally spills.

The next breath he drags in hitches sharply, catching at the top as if there is something lodged in his chest. When he exhales, a small, helpless sound slips out of him, muffled against your skin. His fingers claw at the desk, nails digging into the scarred surface. The entire frame of him trembles, once, twice.

You realize, with a slow, strange shock, that he is crying.

Not loudly. Not with the grand, racking sobs you have seen from widows in waiting rooms. It comes like everything else in him does—tight, contained, trying desperately to be dignified in a situation that does not allow for dignity.

His breath stutters against your throat, damp heat blooming where his mouth presses. Another shiver runs through him, then another, the movements slight but unmistakable. The sound in his chest is thin and raw, that particular ruin a body makes when tears are being forced past teeth that do not want to let them through.

You simply sit there and hold him, hands sliding more securely into his hair, fingers combing through the dark strands at the nape of his neck.

He leans into it without seeming to mean to, head angling closer, nose crushed against your collarbone now, as if he could burrow under your skin.

“… should not have—” he manages, words scraping out in a low rasp. “Should never have touched you.”

“That seems a bit late to fret over,” you murmur, because you do not know how else to respond to an apology delivered with his face pressed into your neck.

He huffs a broken sound that might be a laugh if there were any humor in it. His shoulders shake again. You feel something wet and hot seep into the hollow just above your collar—the salt of it mingling with the sweat already cooling there—and for a moment your throat tightens, unwanted sympathy slipping in under the door of your irritation.

“You do not understand,” he says, voice muffled. “You have no idea what you are tying yourself to, sitting here with me. You should have left it alone. You should have left me alone.”

The words are harsh, but there is no force behind them, no push to actually dislodge you. If anything, his grip on the desk tightens, anchoring himself in place. The ruin in his tone undercuts the sting; it sounds less like a rejection than a confession.

“You say that,” you answer quietly, “and yet here you are. Crying into my neck.”

“Do not,” he says, breath snagging. “Do not make light of this.”

“I am not.” You ease one hand down, off his neck and onto his back, palm spanning the tense muscle there. He feels smaller like this, head bowed, shoulders hunched, the height he carries himself with folded in. “I am making it bearable.”

He trembles again, a whole-body shiver this time. For a passing second he presses closer, as if he could crawl through your ribs and hide. The idea that this man, who only minutes ago had you spread on his desk, driving into you with fury and heat, could also be this—small, frightened, leaking tears into your skin—unsettles something deep in you.

“If they knew,” he murmurs against you, words catching, “what I have done. What I was. You would not be sitting here, looking at me as if I am—”

His breath hitches, the next words swallowed along with another thin, shaky sound. He’s grinding his teeth; you can feel the tension of it in his jaw where it presses to you. He does not want to say it. He does not want to make it real by naming it.

“As if you are what?” you ask, gentler than you intended.

He shakes his head, a tiny, miserable movement. Tears soak another line into your throat.

“Human,” he says at last, the word almost soundless. “As if I am still that.”

Your hand on his back tightens.

“You are wretched,” you say, because softness feels like it would shatter him, “and stubborn, and arrogant, and you lie badly on paper. But you are not empty.”

He laughs then, a short, ruined thing that turns into a choked breath halfway through. Another shudder moves through him; another quiet, unwilling tear hits your skin. You do not shush him. You do not tell him it is all right. You know better than to offer absolutions you are not qualified to give.

You just sit there, half-undressed on his desk, legs still draped around his hips, and let him press his face into the curve of your neck while whatever has been gnawing at him finally finds a way out.

After a while, the shaking eases. His breathing evens out bit by bit, though every so often you feel a little aftershock move through him, some memory catching on the edges of his ribs. He does not lift his head. You are not sure he will be able to look you in the eye once he does.

You’re the one who moves first, eventually.

Your fingers slide up into his hair again, combing it back from his forehead, nails scratching lightly over his scalp. His shoulders loosen another fraction. You tilt your head to the side, resting your cheek against his temple, closing your own eyes for a moment.

“This,” you say quietly, after a long stretch of lamp-hiss and breathing, “is not going back in whatever box you had it in. You know that, do you not?”

His answer is slow in coming. When it arrives, it is a whisper, rough and resigned.

“I know.”

“Good,” you say. “Then we will start from that.”

He lets out a breath that feels, for the first time, less like drowning and more like the first cough after being dragged from cold water.

He’s still pressed against you, face hidden, hands braced, a man who has just fucked you senseless on his own desk and then folded in on himself like a paper figure that has tasted fire. 

There will be time later for anger, for questions, for all the sharp words you have not yet spent.

For now, you keep your grip on him steady and let him be exactly what he is in this moment: a ruin trying, foolishly and stubbornly, to hold itself together against your throat.

patrick @biebster @b1bbles @senselessviolets @cosmicpro @jakecockley @madkingcrowley @saaficat0311-blog @scannainscanrula @heyylolitaheyy @ceobuggy @carriemill @valvalvalval-val @bleedingsunlight @theabhartachsbride @h3r3t1c

[sunneebunny]

PATRICK SUMNER ♡ TIS’ THE SEASON FOR BABY FEVER

⤷ husband!patrick, breeding, slight tit sucking, riding, overstimulation, cream pie, talk of babies, p in v, praise - you can’t help but want a baby after seeing all your friends tend to their sweet babies -

The crisp winter air carried the scent of woodsmoke and decaying leaves, a fitting backdrop for the warmth that had taken root in your heart. You’d spent the afternoon with the Hendersons, cooing over their newborn son, his tiny fists waving in the air. It was a familiar, wonderful ache, one that you knew well. You and Patrick already had your own sweet joy, your daughter, a little girl of three with your eyes and Patrick’s tinge of red hair. Watching her sleep in her bed just last night had filled you with a love so profound it hurt.

You thought of your daughter, an only child, and imagined her as a big sister, her small hands carefully holding a baby, her voice whispering secrets to a new sibling. The thought completed a picture in your heart you hadn't realized was unfinished.

Now, you sat by the fire in the parlor, the house quiet save for the crackle of the flames and the scratch of Patrick’s pen. He was hunched over his desk, a good, steady man, the best father you could have imagined for your little girl. You watched the firelight catch the dark strands of his hair, and the longing intensified. A brother or sister for your daughter. Another piece of him and you.

Rising from your chair, you went to him, your hands resting on his broad shoulders. He stopped writing, leaning into your touch with a soft sigh.

"What is it, my love?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

You leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head, your fingers tracing the line of his tense shoulders. "Just thinking," you murmured, your lips brushing against his hair. He tilted his head back to look up at you, his dark eyes warm in the firelight, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips.

"About what?" he asked, his voice a low vibration you felt through your hands. "About our little girl? Or about the Hendersons' new lad?"

"Both," you admitted, moving to stand beside his chair, your hand sliding down his arm to lace your fingers with his. "Seeing them today…holding their baby. It made me think."

His thumb stroked over the back of your hand. "Think what?"

You took a breath, the words feeling both terrifying and thrilling on your tongue. "I was thinking about our daughter. About how she'd be as a big sister. And I was thinking… I want another one, Patrick."

His smile softened, his gaze turning impossibly tender. He let go of your hand, his large palms coming to rest on your waist, pulling you closer until you stood between his strong thighs. "Another one?" he repeated, his voice dropping to that intimate rumble that made your stomach flutter. "Are you sure, my love?"

You nodded, your heart thudding against your ribs. "I've never been more sure of anything. I feel a little silly- the ravenous need I have for you is unlike any other, and I want to have your child again, I want to be filled.”

Patrick let out a slow breath, his eyes searching yours. Then, a different kind of understanding dawned in his gaze, a look that was both doctor and husband. "My love," he said softly, his voice a low, intimate caress. "Are you aware of what day it is?"

Your brow furrowed in confusion. "Tuesday?"

A slow, handsome smile spread across his face. "It's the fourteenth," he clarified, his hands tightening on your waist. "The fourteenth day of your cycle." He watched as the realization washed over you, the scientific precision of his words colliding with the deep, emotional yearning in your heart. He knew your body as well as he knew his own. "You're at your peak. You're most fertile."

The air crackled with a new, potent energy. It wasn't just a wish anymore, it was a possibility, a tangible, scientific fact. "Oh," you breathed, the single word full of awe.

"Oh, indeed," he rumbled, his eyes darkening with a primal heat. "So you see, my love, we have a very small window of opportunity." He surged upward, his arms wrapping around you as he buried his face in the soft fabric of your dress at your stomach. You tangled your hands in his hair, holding him close, the desperate ache in your chest finally easing, replaced by a wave of pure, unadulterated want.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you, his hands sliding down to cup your backside, squeezing gently. “It's your body telling you- it’s nature.”  

He rose from the chair in a fluid motion, his strength effortless as he swept you into his arms. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms around his neck, and his mouth found yours in a searing kiss. It wasn't gentle or questioning; it was a kiss of agreement, of a shared purpose, deep and full of all the love you had for one another. He carried you from the parlor.

In your bedroom, he lay you down on the soft quilts as if you were something precious, his body following yours, covering you with his familiar weight. His hands were everywhere, pushing up your skirts, his calloused fingertips tracing the sensitive skin of your thighs. "You're so perfect," he murmured against your lips, his voice a reverent praise. "So ready for me. Your body knows what it wants, doesn't it? It knows it's time to be bred."

You arched into his touch, a soft gasp escaping you as his thumb found the slick clit between your legs, circling slowly. "Patrick," you whimpered, need coiling tight in your belly.

"Shh, I know, my love," he soothed, his mouth trailing down your neck. "I'll give you what you need. I'll give you everything." He freed himself from his trousers, and you felt the thick, hard press of him against your entrance. He looked down at you, his dark eyes burning with an intensity that stole your breath. "Right now," he said, his voice a low growl, “Big stretch like always, sweet girl, breathe in-”

With one slow, deep thrust, he was inside you, stretching you, completing you. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders.  

"Your cervix is soft, open, ready. I'm going to push my seed as deep as it can go, right where it needs to be." Each soft, steady stroke was a declaration, a promise. "That's it," he grunted, his forehead pressed against yours. "Take it. Take all of me. You feel that? M’right in there, sweet girl. That's me giving you our future."

The pleasure built, a blinding, all-consuming wave. His words were a litany of praise and desire. "So good for me. Always so good. My beautiful wife. The mother of my children.”

"Tell me, love. Tell me what you want."

"You," you gasped, your head thrown back against the pillows. "You, Patrick. A baby. Our baby."

"God, yes," he groaned, his pace quickening just enough to make your toes curl. "Say it again."

"Give me a baby," you whimpered, the words tumbling out, broken by his powerful strokes. "Please, Patrick. Fill me up."

"That's my girl," he praised, his voice thick with satisfaction. "I'm going to. I'm going to flood this sweet little womb until it can't hold anymore. I'm going to make sure you're carrying our child by morning." He lifted his head, his dark eyes locking onto yours, and the raw, possessive love you saw there was your undoing. "Look at me when I give it to you. I want to see your eyes when I put our baby in you."

You blinked your eyes open, your vision blurred with pleasure, and held his gaze. The connection was electric, a circuit of pure, unadulterated need. "So so big- ngh!" You choked out, “feel so full,"

"And you're going to stay that way," he promised, his voice a low, commanding growl that sent you spiraling. "I'm not going to let a single drop go to waste. I'll keep you plugged up all night if I have to. You'll go to sleep with my seed inside you, hmm?" His hand slid down your body, his palm pressing flat against your lower belly, right above where he was buried so deep inside you, and he gave you a sweet, wet kiss to your cheek. "Right here. Ngh! S’where my come belongs-”

The thought, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure of his cock, sent you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed through you, a violent, beautiful wave that ripped a scream from your throat. Your inner walls clenched around him, a greedy, desperate pulse, milking him.

"Fuck, yes," he snarled, his control finally shattering. He drove into you one last time, impossibly deep, and his whole body went rigid. “Look at me, honey, look at your husband- let me see those beautiful eyes,”

You felt the hot, thick flood of his release, a powerful, endless surge that seemed to fill every part of you. He pulsed inside you again and again, his groans a sound you would cherish forever.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the room were your ragged breaths and the frantic pounding of your own heart in your ears. He was a heavy, welcome weight on top of you, but he didn't move. He didn't pull out.

"Patrick," you breathed, your voice hoarse. "I can't, I can't feel my legs."

A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated against your skin. "Good," he mumbled into your shoulder. "Means you won't be going anywhere." His dark eyes soft and hazy with satisfaction. "We're not done, my love."

Before you could ask what he meant, he was shifting. With a strength that never failed to astonish you, he wrapped an arm around your waist and rolled, taking you with him until you were straddling his lap, his cock still buried deep inside you. You gasped at the new angle, the way it filled you to the hilt.

"There now," he murmured, his hands coming up to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your pebbled nipples. “Shhhh...” He watched you, brushing back the little baby hair stuck to your sweaty forehead.

"You're going to take another load, aren't you? You're going to take everything I have until I'm sure it's taken."

He began to move you up and down, with a slow, subtle rocking of his hips that sent jolts of pleasure through your oversensitive body. You whimpered, your hands bracing on his chest. "Patrick, I can't, it's too much."

"No, it's not," he soothed, his voice a hypnotic caress. "It's exactly enough. It's what your body was made for. To take me. To carry my child." He leaned up, capturing a nipple in his mouth and sucking gently, his tongue swirling around the peak. The dual sensations of his mouth and his hips rocking into you were overwhelming, stoking a fire you thought had been extinguished. "Just one more, sweet girl. One more to make sure. Give me one more, and I'll give you everything."

His words were like a drug, the pleasure began to build again. You began to move with him, matching his rhythm, your body knowing exactly what to do.

"That's it," he praised, releasing your nipple with a soft pop. "Ride me, love. Take what you need. Show me how much you want that baby." His hands gripped your hips, guiding you, his own hips rising to meet yours, each thrust a deliberate statement. Your husband takes your chin in his handa nd guides you to look down at the bulge in your tummy at each thrust. "Look down. Look at us. You feel me there, angel?"

Seeing him disappear into you again and again. It was the most erotic thing you had ever seen.

“Y-yes!”

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his eyes fixed on the same sight. "My beautiful, fertile wife. Taking my cock so well." He picked up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, more demanding. "I'm going to fill you again. I'm going to make a mess of this pretty little pussy, and you're going to thank me for it, aren't you?"

"Yes," you sobbed, the pleasure cresting, a sharp, blinding peak that stole the air from your lungs. "Yes, Patrick, thank you..."

Your second orgasm tore through you, and this time, he followed you right over the edge. With a guttural roar, he slammed you down onto him, his hips jerking upwards as he spilled himself into you for a second time. You felt the heat of it, another thick, copious flood that mingled with the first, filling you to overflowing until you could feel it beginning to leak out, trailing down your thighs.

“There- there-” he cooed between pants,

He held you there, his arms wrapped around you like a vise, his face pressed against your chest as he fought for breath. You were boneless, spent, a complete and utter mess, and you had never felt more loved.

After a long moment, he kissed you, a slow, deep kiss full of lingering passion. Patrick lifts you gently and grabs a pillow to place under your hips, guiding you to lie down.

"Stay just like that, angel," he whispered against your mouth, his hand coming to rest possessively over your lower belly. "We'll give it a little while. Let gravity do its work. We want to be absolutely sure."

⋆✴︎˚。⋆

[jimmysfingers]

THE WOMAN WHO CRIED WOLF.

ˋˏsummary: you noticed your husband’s strange behavior, but nothing could’ve prepared you for what it actually was.

this has literally been in my drafts gou for GOD KNOWS how long but like need jack in a robert eggers film stat

✧warnings : MDNI 18+, DARK LIKE HORROR THEMES, graphic violence & gore, blood, injury, animal death, body horror, monster creature sexual content, rough sex, oral (fem. receiving), biting, creampie, #BUSH

He went missing again.

Oscar had been a gift from Patrick after the two of you married. You frequently let him roam around outside, because most of the time, the tabby cat would return just a few hours later. He didn’t this time. A week passed, still no return.

With a heavy heart, you grabbed the bowl filled with cat food off the porch, you hoped it would lead Oscar back home. The door creaked as you opened it and slipped back inside, moving back towards the kitchen.

“..He still hasn’t come back.” You murmured as you emptied out the bowl into the trash.

“He’s somewhere out there.” Patrick sat at the table in his chair as he read from his book, his reading glasses perched on his nose. he didn’t look up at you yet.

Patrick sighed quietly, taking off his glasses and placing them on the table. He turned to face you, giving you his full attention. “I think, you’re worrying yourself too much about it.” It was quiet for a moment, he continued, “Oscar always wanders off for a few days and comes back.” His gaze was unwavering as he took you in, his voice going softer, “You know this.”

You finally looked away from the window and back at Patrick. You spun your wedding ring on your finger with a soft whisper of, “..Perhaps you’re right.”

For a moment, the gentle drops of rain and the trees tapping against the windows was the only sound in the small kitchen as he watched you. He sat up fully in the chair, holding his hand outwards, “Come here.”

You stared at his outstretched hand for a second, before moving across the kitchen and placing your hand in his. His large hand wrapped around yours, pulling you closer towards him so you stood between his legs. He brought your hand towards his face, pressing a lingering, soft kiss to your knuckles. “..He will come back." Another kiss.

Your heart fluttered as you watched him, gingerly pulling your hand out of his, “..I do hope you’re right.” You let your hands rest on his face instead. His eyes closed and he let out a soft sigh at the feeling. Instinctively, he leaned into your hands as they gently scratched through his beard, just holding each other close for a moment. After a moment you did pull away, moving around the kitchen as he sat back again.

He ran his hands over his trousers, looking back up when he heard the gentle thud of something on the table. A bowl filled with broth and some other vegetables, what caught his attention was the meat inside of it. “What’s this?”

“Something last minute.” You turned to grab cutlery for both of you.

He went quiet as he stared at the soup. It was as if it was as if everything went hazy besides the bowl in front of him, he could feel his ears started ringing—an intense feeling washed over him, something unexplainable. As the smell of the soup hit his nostrils, he felt the bile rise from the back of his throat. He gagged as he stood, his chair dragging across the wooden floors as he moved away from the table, covering his mouth.

The sound immediately made your head turn, your brows furrowing as you moved towards him, placing a grounding hand on his back, “Patrick, are you alright?”

He moved towards the water pitcher as he poured a generous amount of water into a glass. Taking a deep breath he nodded, “I’m fine.” His answer was gruff. He drank the water quickly, then exhaled. “..I’m fine, I’m fine. I’m just..not feeling very well, love.”

That was an understatement. For weeks now Patrick had been acting strange. He’d be more irritable recently, then it was the food, then the unusual amount of hair growth in..all areas (you’d noticed when he was changing one evening, not that you were complaining.) Leaving in the middle of the night was a recent development, but you were no fool, you knew he was doing it. Some nights you could feel him slip out of your shared bed and close the door behind him, you just didn’t know what was wrong or what he had been doing.

It wasn’t as if he would tell you anything either. Patrick had always been quieter, more reserved, not that you minded of course. You knew the things that he’d been through, but even then sometimes you’d wished your husband would just open up more.

You placed a placating hand on his shoulder, “..Are you sure you’re alright? Do you need anything? I can grab that medicine from the cabinet if you’d like—“

“I told you I’m fine!” He practically growled as he stepped away from you to lean his hands against the table. Instinctively, your hand pulled away from his shoulder, resting back down on your dress as you tried to ignore the small pang in your heart.

The room was silent besides the ticking of the clock in the hallway. After a moment, you’d heard Patrick sigh, running a hand over his beard as he murmured softly, “..I’m sorry love, I—“ He turned his head slightly, “I didn’t mean to lash out like that, I’m very exhausted.”

Your hands fiddled with eachother, “..I know.” You said quietly, looking back up at him and putting a small smile on your face. you still didn’t move closer.

He nodded once, before standing up straight and taking a deep breath, “I’m going upstairs.” He moved out of the kitchen.

It was silent in the room again, you knew not to follow right away—another time you might’ve, but at this moment you knew your husband just wanted to be alone for a couple minutes. You quietly moved downstairs, moving to empty out the uneaten bowls outside before moving back into the kitchen to put the porcelain into the sink. You finally moved back upstairs.

As you slowly opened the door, you’d noticed Patrick was turned on his side asleep in your bed. He was asleep, or at least looked to be. With gentle steps, you moved towards your wardrobe, starting to take off your dress with much effort. Usually, Patrick would’ve helped you with the complicated process of helping you rid of all the layers underneath your dress. But, you could do it yourself, not as quickly.

Eventually you were able to slip into your nightgown and place all of your things back into your wardrobe. You lifted the covers and moved into bed beside Patrick. Recently the house had been cold in the evening, so you moved in close to him in hopes of some of his warmth seeping into you. Time mixed together as you drifted off, your face pressed into your husband’s back.

A loud clatter interrupted your sleep.

You shot up at the sound. Your hands pulled the blankets closer towards your chest, “..What was that? Patrick? Patrick—“ The spot beside you was empty, Patrick had left again.

“..Patrick?” You called out again, not as loud as you would’ve liked it to have been—it came out as more of a squeak. Another loud sound from downstairs.

If Patrick was beside you he would’ve held you closer and told you it was just the house itself. The house was somewhat old and noises were a frequent thing coming from the walls or floorboards. But this wasn’t a sound from the home, it was something else.

Your hands reached towards the bedside table for the box of matches. With trembling hands and a few fails, the flame finally caught and you grabbed the candle.

You were mindful of your steps, keeping them light as you moved down the stairs, holding onto the candle tightly. Everytime you moved down a step the wood creaked and you winced.

“Patrick?” You hissed as your feet fell onto the carpeted floor at the bottom of the stairs. A crack of lighting made you jump. The wind and rain had gotten stronger, rattling the windows. There was another clatter, your head whipped towards the sound. It was coming from the cellar.

You never went down into the cellar in fear of what may be down there: bugs, rats, cobwebs. The mere prospect of going down into the cellar caused your already pounding heart to increase even more. But something was down there.

The door made a long creaking noise when you opened it. You stared down at the darkness. For a long moment you tried convincing yourself that when you’d walk down those steps nothing would be there. Or, that you would wake up in your warm bed and your dear husband would be beside you telling you it was ‘just a nightmare.’ Yes, that’s exactly what would happen.

Except that was not the case.

Your heel hovered over the first step before stepping down. The steps were cold, you could feel your breathing getting quicker. With each step the smell of the cellar filled your lungs—the smell of mildew and humid air. But there was another strong scent too, something foul, something that shouldn’t have been down there. Your hand shot up to cover your mouth as you gagged, tears immediately pricking at the corners of your eyes. It was the strong smell of decay, and of blood.

Reaching the last step your eyes moved around the cellar—that’s when your eyes caught the crouched figure in the corner. Although you had a candle in your hand, it was still quite difficult to really see what or who it was, you’d have to get closer.

You held the candle out further as you inched closer. Your eyes could just makeout a head of dark brown hair and the pale skin of someone’s back. Thin and thick scratch marks were littered across the skin, whoever it was seemed to be naked. The smell of blood became more apparent as well as an unnerving wet sound.

That was when you realized this wasn’t just some man.

“..Patrick?”

The wet-fleshy sound stopped and his head slowly turned.

His usually styled hair was tousled and damp as it stuck to his face. His entire beard was drenched, covered in blood and thick drool that fell to the stone floor beneath his feet. In his hands, he held something—intestines were hanging out of it’s stomach, a fistful of them in Patrick’s large hand. The fur was speckled black and white. You could’ve recognized that pattern from anywhere.

Oscar.

Before you could even cry out, the sound of shifting and cracking made you jolt as you tried your best to keep your grip tight around the candle still in your hand. “..Patrick? Patrick—“

He practically roared as he fell forward onto his knees, his hands clenched into the ground. The feeling of helplessness washed over you as you could only watch in horror as his bones shifted and cracked underneath his skin, dark, fur began to grow from out of his spine, spreading across his whole body—causing even more agonizing pain.

It finally stopped, your breath hitched.

His eyes found slid up to meet yours from the floor again, gods those eyes—so familiar and yet so different. His now clawed hands dragged against the floor, leaving thin white scratches in the stone as he dragged himself towards you.

“..Patrick, no—Patrick.” Your voice trembled as he got closer, until you felt a sharp stinging on your hand. The candle’s wax had melted onto your fingers. On instinct your hand recoiled back and the candle landed flat onto the floor. The room would’ve been pitch black if not for the small window in the cellar, the moonlight shining through it.

Your breathing was ragged as you stared at him, he looked as if he wanted to rip you apart—which would’ve felt impossible a few days ago, this was Patrick, your husband.

Perhaps that’s why it kept you from running back up the stairs and locking the cellar door tight, because despite the fangs and claws and fur, it was still Patrick.

“..Patrick, it’s—it’s me.” You tried for a gentle tone, but he was still moving closer. “You remember me don’t you? Oh, you must.” That did not seem to be the right response, he moved from off of his legs to stand tall in front of you, his chest rising up and down.

Something deep inside of you made you want to reach out and touch the dark fur covering his chest. But you hadn’t moved, yet.

His head tilted lightly, inside of his mouth—you could see each sharp tooth, the teeth that could oh so very easily rip out your throat if he wanted. But he didn’t do anything yet, perhaps Patrick did recognize you even in the state he was in.

He inched even closer and you closed your eyes. You could feel the warm press of his breath against your cheek and that metallic scent of blood, a thick rivulet of drool dripped down his chin. His clawed hand was moving up the front of your nightgown, the movement somewhat gentle.

A hot rush moved through you as his big, clawed hands traveled over your nightgown. In this very moment, fear may have been the last thing on your mind—perhaps it was the adrenaline. But that couldn’t explain the dampness you’d felt forming between your legs.

He was breathing heavily through his nose, before his hand suddenly moved and wrapped around your jaw.

You gasped softly at the feeling, it wasn’t forceful or rough, he just slowly tilted your head back. The blood from his hand smeared against your jaw and cheek. He pressed his nose against your pulse point as he inhaled deeply. You could hear a low rumbling sound from the back of his throat.

“..Yes—yes, it’s me. Patrick.” You coaxed, moving your head forward slightly to catch his eye. Then you felt the slick, slimy press of his tongue against your skin as he dragged his tongue from your collarbone to your upper jaw and you shuddered as goosebumps started rising on your skin and your cunt started getting wetter.

With trembling hands you moved to unlace the front of your nightgown, keeping your eyes on him—he hadn’t looked away, his chest still heaving with deep breaths.

You let the nightgown slip off of your body and into a pile on the ground. The cold air immediately made you shiver, your nipples hardening.

Before you could even really react two large clawed hands covered your breasts, squeezing at the soft skin and prodding at your nipples. You sucked in a sharp breath, trying to keep yourself still as you stared at him. Your eyes followed the thick string of drool that dripped from his mouth and onto your chest, sliding down your body.

You grabbed his hands in your trembling ones, gently guiding them down your body. You could feel the sharp edges of his claws graze drag down your body before finally reaching the tuft of hair between your legs, sliding his fingers between your damp folds.

Patrick seemed to falter for a moment, even in the state that he was in. His gaze was locked down on where his hand was, he could smell your arousal clearly.

“..Please, Patrick.” The sound of your voice brought his attention back to your face, his eyes darting quickly back and forth over your face. Although your husband was not fully himself, he was still aware enough to know who you were. He slowly dragged his hand back up your body, the blood on his hand leaving small streaks as he trailed his hand up, before stopping at your mouth. Instinctively, your mouth opened, your tongue flicking out to lick at them. You moaned softly at the taste, a mix of your arousal and the heady taste of blood.

“..Please.” You gave him the best look you could muster, your lips pressed against his fingers—anything to keep Patrick from tearing you apart right here.

And it seemed to be working.

He let out a low growl before he was picking you up and pinning you down against the damp stone floor, knocking the wind out of you for just a moment. You stumbled slightly as you tried to sit up, before his hand wrapped around your ankle and you yelped. He pulled you back towards him as he moved onto the ground above you, you could feel his cock pressing against your thigh.

His claws dug into the skin your thighs as he pulled you forward, pushing your legs back, “Patrick wait—oh!” But you were cut off when his head moved between your thighs and you whined.

His tongue moved across your pussy in frantic strokes, the foamy, thick spit dripping from his mouth mixing with your arousal. Your hips bucked around his mouth and you let out a squeak as you felt his sharp teeth brush over your clit, the feeling soothed away by the circle of his tongue over the bud—before taking it into his mouth.

“Oh! Oh gods, Patrick—” You mumbled out, moving one hand to grip at the damp strands of hair on his head, the other fumbling to press against the blood slicked floor beneath you. His movements were feral, as if he was trying to completely bury himself in the taste and scent of you. Instinctively, your hips began to buck up against his mouth, the coarse hair of his beard creating a delicious friction against your pulsing bundle of nerves. Your orgasm was rapidly approaching and all you could do was whine and squirm underneath your husbands mouth.

You knew that he could feel you getting close and he redoubled his efforts. The ground beneath you was wet with your juices, blood, and the spit from his mouth, yet this didn’t stop Patrick. You could hear him growl faintly, but nothing could’ve prepared you for his tongue sliding inside of your entrance, pushing and prodding at your inner walls.

“Oh my god!” Your orgasm washed over you suddenly and you cried out, your thighs clenching tightly around his head as you rode out your orgasm, pushing at his head when he continued licking at your cunt.

He finally pulled away, a thick strand of saliva connecting his lips to your cunt, before it broke away. His beard was drenched and his eyes were dilated. His hands tore into the remnants of his pants, ripping off the fabric completely.

Your insides clenched as your eyes followed the thick trail of hair that lead to his cock.

It stood proudly against his stomach, precum coming out the rosy tip in small spurts. It pulsed once, twice. Patrick had been a gifted man to begin with—but now, his cock looked almost intimidatingly big. You swallowed thickly, but didn’t ignore the way your clit pulsed at the sight.

He dragged your thighs to rest around his hips, which, you quickly surrendered to, moving to wrap your own arms around his back. The swollen tip of his cock pressed against your entrance and you squirmed.

And then he pushed inside of you and your brain melted.

His tip stretching inside had been enough, but now Patrick was fully inside, and the feeling was overwhelming. He hadn’t even given you a moment to adjust as he started to slam into you.

Intercourse with Patrick had always been a slow and gentle process. Your husband was ever dutiful when it came to you and your pleasure, putting it before his. A stark contrast to the rough fucking that you were receiving right now, this was hardly Patrick at all—just some savage beast taking what he wanted from you.

And yet you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not with the copious amount of pleasure you were experiencing in this moment.

You were flushed, head was thrown back with your hair in disarray around you, and your stomach and chest were heaving desperately as you were being pounded into with a force that was inhuman. “Oh, oh yes, Patrick, please—” You could barely even focus in the moment, not on the gorey scene around you, or the feeling of his sharp claws digging into the sensitive skin of your hips as he moved you back and forth, the only thing you could focus on was the feeling of his cock dragging in and out of you and his balls wetly slapping against your ass after every thrust.

You could feel your orgasm rapidly approaching as his cock hit your cervix with every deep stroke. Deep, vicious growls came from Patrick’s clenched fangs, some of the drool dripping from his mouth and onto your breasts.

When the tip of his cock brushed against the sensitive spot inside you one more time, you shattered around him and screamed.

You clenched around his cock as he continued thrusting into your spasming walls, eyes rolling into the back of your skull. Your hands fumbled to find the fur on his back, digging into it as you pulled your trembling body closer to him.

His pace didn’t falter as he continued rocking into you, but you felt him twitching inside of you, a telltale sign of his impending orgasm.

“Please, give it to me—I want it, please, please, my love—” You babbled, the skin of your back scraping harshly against the rough floor beneath you. All of your senses were overpowered by the raw pleasure your husband was giving you.

And within a few more thrusts, you felt hot, thick spurts of his cum fill you completely, some overflowing and creating a creamy circle where his cock connected with your cunt.

You were finally able to breathe again.

Then Patrick’s mouth sunk into the skin just above your nipple and all you felt was the pressure and searing pain. His jagged fangs sunk in deep into your skin, tearing right through your flesh. Blood immediately spurted from the wound. You screamed.

But nobody heard you from inside the cellar. Of course they hadn’t.

If a passerby did hear it, they might’ve just mistaken it for a drunken person.

It was just another person fooling around at night trying to scare people, that was all it was.

[loverssalvation]

— overworked ࣪. ᨳ

⨾ patrick sumner x fem!reader

⤿ synopsis : your husband has been working nonstop, but he makes it up to you after a particularly long day. . .

⤿ contents : wife!reader , mentions of injuries , praise , masturbation (f!receiving) , patrick is a hopeless romantic , slight voice kink ! 18+ MDNI

w.c. 2.3k

⩩ author notes : new character unlocked: patrick sumner! one of my favourites ♡ i’m lowkey in that part of the writing stage where i’m not sure what i’m writing anymore, i’m just typing words out and praying it fits. please enjoy this little one-shot!

┇likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated!  ❤︎ 

the rain came down hard against the glass pane of patrick sumners’ dimly lit office. heavy like hail, hurling itself down from the dark clouds that hung above the english sky. patrick stood at his desk as he urgently packed up all his necessary items, impatient to get home to you—his wife. patrick had usually been less busy, however his office had experienced quite an influx in patients over the last several days due to changing seasons. the common colds, the allergies, the injuries sustained from slipping on ice, you name it. it wasn’t uncommon for patrick to be on his feet all day, but this day in particular had him counting down the minutes until he could run out the door. he made sure everything was arranged correctly for the next day, but not as neatly as it normally was, there just wasn’t time for that. he had spent the last few days overworking himself, to the point where the few times he saw you was when he came home to you sleeping, or woke up to you sleeping. the candles were blown out, and the office was locked up. he walked down the darkened hallway of the building, passing by the offices of other specialists housed within the miniature medical clinic, all of them empty by now leaving patrick the last man out. he had meant to be home an hour ago, but patrick found it quite difficult to decline his services, especially when he knew it was an urgent matter. you were probably worried sick about him. he imagined you hopelessly staring out the window at the rain, an endless list of what could’ve happened to him warping around your mind and leaving you unsettled. in reality, you were waiting for him but not as worried as he thought you up to be. you had decided to spend your time waiting for him in the bathtub, a ritual you performed on certain nights when the home felt too cold without patrick’s presence. you stepped into the warm basin of water and held the sides to ease yourself in, letting your back rest against the cool porcelain. you tipped your head back and sighed, finally feeling soothed, although it would’ve been much better if your husband could join you. nonetheless, you let yourself get comfortable in the warm tub, scooting down slightly to cover more of your body. you reached over the side and grabbed a small bar soap and a coarse washing brush, lifting one leg out of the water to begin gently cleansing yourself. the water became considerably cloudy as a result of the soapy suds, shielding the view of your body under. your eyes were closed until you heard the unmistakable noise of the front door opening and shutting. patrick was home. heavy boots thumped up the stairway in an attempt to be gentle, patrick assumed you were already in the bed asleep until he saw the only lit room on the floor; the bathroom. the door was barely ajar, only a small sliver of light poked through from the bottom. patrick walked over to the door and slowly opened it, revealing you in the bathtub. his gaze landed on you and stayed there, not wanting to look at anything but his wife.

“aw patrick, i’ve missed you. please, sit” you smile gently at him, and gesture towards the small wooden stool beside the tub.

he walks forwards and makes himself comfortable on the stool. one wet hand reaches out from the water to tenderly caress his beard, small droplets of water dripping down his neck and to his knee. he holds your hand in place with his, and you wince at how cold he is.

“i apologize for my timing, it was not on purpose that i come home to you this late” his tone is gentle and soothing to your ears. the kind of voice you could fall asleep to. his tired eyes scanned over the barely visible figure of your body beneath the water, and then back up to your face.

“it is not your fault, my love. it is merely what you signed up for.”

“i never wish to have another day as long as this one. i thought of you the entire time i worked” he quietly admits.

“really?”

“you plague my every waking moment, my darling” he says it as if it were obvious.

his words never failed to make you feel special. patrick had a habit of talking with formalities, even with you, but he meant every word he said to you. he treasured you like no other person could.

you leaned upwards nearing his face before he got the hint that you wanted a kiss. he bent his head down slightly and pressed his lips against yours softly, careful not to ruin the moment. you let your lips linger near his before leaning back down, your eyes never leaving his.

“would you tell me about your day?” you ask him sincerely, but not wanting to press him incase he didn’t wish to debrief.

“you truly want to hear about it? it’ll bore you to sleep, i’m sure” patrick huffs a small laugh.

“please do, i have not heard the sound of your voice in what has felt like ages,” and it was true; patrick had been working a little more than he usually did, and you could see the exhaustion in his face. “and please come closer, put your hands in the water, my love” you grab his hand, signaling him to scoot forward, his abdomen pressed up against the side of the basin. you pull one hand against your collarbone, and he immediately feels the difference in body temperature. you roll up the sleeve of his white dress shirt.

patrick relaxes against your touch, finding comfort when in contact with your body. he begins, “as you know, i started my day early. my walk towards the office was dreary, but that is to be expected at this time. as soon as my doors were open, my practice became flooded with patients. all different types of cases and such,” patrick talked with a smallness in his voice, some words whispered and others softly spoken. during his talking, you would slowly drag his hand beneath the foggy water, closer to your breasts. he noticed you were moving his hand, but he refused to do anything about it just yet.

“it becomes difficult to distinguish the differences between common illnesses, all of them seemingly blending into each other. at the end of the day, i can only believe i have made the most correct decision for each patient,” you continue to pull his hand lower before placing his hand on one of your breasts. patrick doesn’t seem to falter in his speech as he lightly squeezed the fat of your breast, cupping them and smoothing a thumb over your nipple. you continued to stare at him as he talked, admiring him with a heavy lidded gaze. what were the odds that you would end up married to a man so easy on the eyes? he carried on with his talking with his hand simultaneously moving lower and lower, finger tips scraping over your midriff delicately. his profession consisted of touching the skin of many people, however your skin was much different to him, he could touch it all day without getting tired of it.

“i treated a young patient who had fractured his elbow after sliding on ice, it is certainly a painful area to injure but he was a strong boy, barely shedding a tear. then a woman came in claiming she may have contracted chickenpox” his hand was at your navel now, rubbing back and forth to the sides of your waist. you whined quietly at the ticklish sensation, and it made patrick’s eyes move to meet yours, already understanding what it is that you wanted. normally, he would’ve asked you outright what you desired, but this time he was going to let something happen without involving words. his gaze flicked back down to where his hand was, and brushed his fingers against your mound.

“are you sure you want to hear all the details of my day? you don’t seem to-” he began to speak again but you interrupt him, holding his hand under yours.

“keep talking. all i want is your voice” you say with lust practically dripping from your lips, pushing his hand down all the way to where you want it to be. you feel his hand freeze against you, breath hitching, but quickly relaxes. the pads of his fingertips dusted over your nakedness. you moan quietly and lean your head back, closing your eyes in the process.

“very well then, my dear. as i was saying, the woman had chickenpox. she was inconsolable over it, but i assured her that it would clear up over the course of a few days. then i sutured a man’s gash closed,” his fingers slowly ran up and down your slit, collecting whatever slick liquid that was beginning to seep out. every time his fingers moved upwards, he would press down slightly on your clit, eliciting a shaky breath from you.

“it was a deep cut. he had told me he sustained it from a rough night out, he couldn’t quite remember how it happened but judging by the look of it, it must’ve been done by a perpetrator with a blade” now he was rubbing small circles over your clit, and little noises were starting to break out of you. he wondered how you could get off to his gruesome stories, but you weren’t exactly listening to his words, more so his voice. the way it rumbled and rasped when he spoke quietly, aware of how loud his voice sounded when speaking full volume in a small echoey bathroom. patrick was not the type of man to raise his voice, he was quite a soft speaker, never really projecting his voice unless he wasn’t heard the first time. this translated into the bedroom as well. he was vocal enough to let you know it felt good, but he stayed quiet as he much preferred to listen to yours over his.

“the rest of my day became a blur, i believe i may have overworked myself. i spent more time thinking of you than my patients, which i assume must make me irresponsible. it is something i cannot help. i will indulge in my thoughts of you if my mind so pleases” you whimpered both at his words and his fingertips pressing harder against you, his pace unchanging. you open your eyes, and examine his starved expression. this is what he had been waiting to do all day.

“talk about me, now” you mumbled.

“i may not tell you very often, but you are one of the only things that keep me going in this life. i have no purpose if i cannot serve you.”

you bucked your hips into his hand, a clear indication his words were getting you off.

“o-oh patrick mmph” your words made him go faster, the water around his arm creating small ripples.

patrick watched how your chest rose in and out of the water every time you breathed, a tiny portion of your breasts poking out beneath the clouded water, wet skin shining against the candle light.

“i remember, the day i met you, that you would be the death of me. i never believed i would’ve been able to find someone after my time india, but you changed everything.”

the sensitivity in your core had you clenching around nothing. he knew exactly how to stimulate you and he wasn’t wasting any time with it. his fingers were now rubbing your clit at a moderate speed, and you could feel that euphoric sensation building up. your hips continued to jerk forward every time he became a little more rough.

“it’s so good—please—patrick”

“please what, angel?”

“g-god…please continue!”

“you want me to tell you more? how your mere existence consumes every part of me? how i cannot stand when you are not by my side? how i wish to touch as i am now every time i see you?” he was flustered from how much was spilling out of him, how vulnerable he was being. he couldn’t help himself if he tried, his feelings just tumbled out of him. he held your eye contact as slowly watched you nearing your finish. at this point, you could only nod and whimper at everything he said, words becoming too difficult to form. you reached out to grip patrick’s shoulder, but he grabbed your hand instead with his other free arm and held it to his chest.

“you’re close, aren’t you?”

“mhm! v-very..”

“come for me, my darling.”

you closed your eyes to help yourself focus, every rough drag of his fingers pushing you closer towards the finish line. you took a few deep, ragged breaths before it all came out. you finished with a loud whine and a buck of your hips up into his hand, chasing more friction. patrick watched the way your face contorted in pleasure, the way your eyebrows furrowed, your tongue when your lips parted and the sounds that would fall from them. god—it was such a beautiful sight.

“that’s it, thaatts itt. there you are. so good for me” he said, almost whispering to himself. he continued to circle your clit but very slowly and lightly now, pulling small aftershocks out of you. then he leaned down once again, lips locking against yours. one wet hand came up to caress the back of his head, dampening his hair slightly. you kissed him deeply as a thank you.

“patrick..” you pull away, lips mere centimetres from his.

“i’m listening.”

“would you..carry me to bed?”

“anything for you, my dove.”

[iamyourdailydoseofbi]

longing to touch you..

The last time Patrick had touched you was six months ago, a gentle hand on your lower back, the other holding on yours as he guided you in a waltz. You could smell the rum scented aftershave that clung onto his skin. You could feel the warmth of his breath fanning against the side of your neck. You could feel the rough cotton of his suit beneath your fingertips. He was so close, yet so far at the same time. It felt like there was an unspoken push-and-pull between the two of you.

You’d pull yourself closer into him, only for him to shakily force himself back⎯as if he was purposefully denying himself the pleasure of holding you close. It was concerning. It made your stomach fall. But, that was your  Patrick. He had not been the same since the war, and you could not fault him. The horrors that he had seen. The horrors that he had to do. Naturally, it would change a man and it did. But, there were moments where he was still your Patrick. Still the man that he used to be before.

“When do you leave?” You question, trying to be as casual as possible.

“Soon.” He forces out, his tone calm and blank.

“When will you come home? Surely, you will miss home on your travels around the world?” You try again, hoping to get more than a one word answer from him. 

“I will be fine.” His grip on your waist tightens slightly, clear indignation of what he was feeling.

“You’re shutting me out, Patrick.” You look over his face softly, “Do not shut me out, not now. Not when I know that you will be gone and I will be stuck here, waiting for you on bated breath.”

“I do not need you to worry, I will see to it.” He argues, avoiding your gaze.

“Will you?” You raise a brow, not convinced.

The last time Patrick had touched you was six months ago, before he traveled to the Arctic on the Volunteer. Now, you had him face-to-face once more and didn't know how to touch him. He had aged in his six months. His hair was longer. His beard had become overgrown. There were dark bags under his eyes, worse than before, now shades of purple and pale yellow that made it look like bruises. A part of you wanted to pull him into a hug, to stroke his hair and press gentle kisses onto his temple. But, you refrained. The glimmer in his eyes was one that scared you, cold and as if he had seen something so horrible that his mind would not allow him mercy to forget it even for a second. Even after the war, Patrick’s eyes had never looked like this before. 

“Patrick.” You nod, sucking in a breath through the gap between your teeth.

“( Y/n ).” He nods back stiffly, his hands clutching at the cap in his hand.

“It is..wonderful to see you once more.” You force a cordial smile on your lips, “I assume your travels went well? Seeing as you are here, standing before me.”

“Aye.” He nods again, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Good. That is…good to hear.” You nod again, not knowing what else to say.

Diverting your gaze down onto the floor, you had almost forgotten what it was like to speak to him, to have him in your home. You had grown used to the cold, to being alone, to his side of the bed being empty in more one than one. It felt foreign to just accept him back in, to pretend as if you hadn’t wondered if it was worth even leaving a space for him in your bed. If he’d even want a space there. He didn’t respond to your letters. Hell, he didn’t return them either. He just left you in this limbo of wondering, of waiting, of denying you the chance to move on.

Forcing a breath in through your nose, you tense up at the creaking of the floor under his feet, feeling him much closer than before. Brushing back strands of hair from your face, you flinch involuntarily, turning your head away from him. Perhaps, months ago you’d have leaped at the touch. But, not now, you wouldn't allow yourself to enjoy it when he’d just take it later on. Staring at the pale jade wallpaper on the drawing room, he lets out a shaky breath at the rejection, kneeling down in front of you. His fingers gently playing around with the hem of your skirts.

“The last time that we saw each other, you asked me to not shut you out.” 

“Did I?” You raise a brow, not remembering much of the conversation months ago.

“You did.” He nods, fiddling with the cap in his hand. “I spent every day thinking of it. I could not forget the look in your eyes, of the way you pleaded with me.” 

You don’t respond, staring at him silently.

“I failed you then, I won’t now.” He whispers, “I won’t allow myself to fail you again.”

“Will you?”

---

[a-rome-of-ones-own]

indigo night

patrick sumner x f!reader

masterlist

wc: 3.1k

summary: the arctic, 1859. a cook and a surgeon find refuge in the aftermath of tragedy.

warnings: sex (p in v); allusions to drug use; (helnik inspo iykyk)

notes: PART 4 of requests !! this one's inspired by @fluffy-bb-107. also - my knowledge of arctic geography is what i’d call decent but limited so if it's nonsensical please forgive me. BUT one thing we’re gonna do is use inuit place names always and every time OK!! (reader is cis female, no specific ethnicity or appearance) title is tamino. MWAH go nuts !!

After the ship went down, there wasn’t much to do but walk.

You and Patrick - the cook and the doctor - had made it out of the calamitous wreck and unstable ice floes and ensuing human violence relatively unscathed, nothing permanently scarred except perhaps your psyches. The filthy, bloodthirsty men of the Volunteer had been reduced to mere corpses drifting under the Arctic pack ice.

And now, with a worryingly light pack of supplies, you survey the endless horizon of blinding white.

“It’s west to Killiniq. Maybe twenty kilometres,” you offer, squinting at the sunlight bouncing off the land.

“How’d you know that?”

You shrug, drawing the woolen coat tighter over your shivering frame. “Always like to know where I am.”

“Alright,” he nods, pausing a moment with the hefty weight of the decision.

You set off without conversing any further: it’s a matter of life or death. The harmless flirtation you’ve shared once or twice on long nights below deck has no place here. The pace is measured - no time to stop or commiserate about your misfortunes. One foot in front of the other. The ground is densely packed and very shallow. Your borrowed leather boots soon grow soggy with the accumulated snow, but stopping is not an option.

It’s late spring, so the day is long and the sun won’t disappear for a few hours yet. Twenty kilometres is doable, you think. Not easy, but doable. This is the mantra you repeat under your frozen breath as the compass leads you both further and further west.

-

The cabin had been a bit of a shock to find.

By your (albeit very rough) calculations, you’ve arrived on the wrong side of the ice-locked island: the small main village is another several hours away by foot, and the generous daylight has already begun to fade. You’d been running through your options when Patrick stopped you with a gentle arm to the chest, gesturing to look ahead at the tiny blip of a building in the distance.

Upon closer inspection, the somewhat-dilapidated old house has good bones, and the door is capable of closing and locking with a satisfying thwump. What’s more, it seems well-stocked with oil and firewood, as well as a few boxes of tea and stale crackers. There’s even a small bed tucked into the wall, adorned with layers and layers of fur blankets. A fine coat of dust covers every visible surface.

Not luxury, but certainly an oasis.

“We’ll be alright here,” he proclaims in that very official voice he usually reserves for diagnoses.

“The owner’s gone, you think?” you ask, taking inventory of the space.

Patrick nods. “And even if he comes back, we’ll have a good story for him.”

“Alright. Get the fire going, and I’ll see what there is to eat.”

He kneels, begins fiddling with the flint and steel to catch a spark, while you rummage through the mostly-empty pantries. When the fire takes, he signals for the kettle and you hang it on the hook. Before you can pull away, his hands are on yours, tracing gently at the dry, cracked skin.

“Not frostbite,” he notes, “but I don’t like the look of it. Sit here a while and warm up.”

You nod, looking down at his bleeding knuckles, take a seat beside him on the tattered rug by the hearth. “And what about you?”

“Don’t worry about me.”

“Well, I can’t help that.”

He tries to hold your gaze, but there’s something jumpy about him, something nervous.

“How long since the laudanum?” you ask, voice softer and more yielding than feather down. His eyes drop to his lap, clouded with shame and hunger.

“Three days, at least. Perhaps more.”

“Alright,” you murmur. “What should I give you?”

“Another dose,” he grumbles. You laugh.

“And in the absence of that?”

“Whatever you can find.”

“Tea?”

“Yes. I’d like that.”

You pour out the steaming water into a cracked tin cup and offer it up to the surgeon. He accepts it eagerly, nearly burning his reddened hands in the process. “Easy,” you mumble. He grunts, fixes his watery gaze on the flickering glow of the flames before them.

“I'm afraid we'll never be warm again,” you say, dissolving the silence. It breaks his concentration. He offers a strip of dried seal meat from the bag he’d managed to salvage from the wreck.

“Ah, sure we will. We’ll be in town by tomorrow afternoon, like you said. Find a boat - another one of those dreadful, creaking things, and then we’ll be somewhere on the mainland by next week. After that, Katqmuk? New York? Back to Hull?”

“Oh, please God, not back to Hull,” you groan.

He laughs into his mug, daring a small sip at the still-boiling liquid.

“We’ll decide in the morning,” he declares. “For now, we rest.”

“Aye aye, captain.”

He shoots you a look of admonishment.

“Sorry.”

When the night comes, it falls like a woolen blanket: total, silent, and smothering.

Inside the cabin, the fire does its best to resist the natural rhythm of the world, struggles to provide a modicum of comfort to the house’s occupants. But resistance, as you’ve come to learn, is so often futile, and tonight there is no real fight to be had. You both retreat to bed, piling on every fur and rug and blanket you can pillage.

The shock of sharing a bed does not manifest until it’s time to get in.

“If you- er, I’ll take some furs, I’ll be alright by the fire,” he offers.

“That’s absurd.”

“I’m not willing to… compromise anything, Miss Y/L/N.”

“Well, I need the warmth, too. We both do.”

Still, he hesitates. You shiver violently in the interim.

“Fine,” you say. “Take the floor.”

A good half hour passes in relative silence. The wind is strong but not gale-force. It laps at the walls of the cabin, offers eerie moans here and there when it really picks up. The fire burns on and thank God for that. You try to get comfortable in the cot, swaddling yourself in blankets, but…

The sound of chattering teeth is unbearable.

“Patrick.” It’s all you need to say.

“Alright,” he concedes, rising to his full height. “But I’ll keep everything on.”

You roll over to face the wall. “Well, naturally.”

When he crawls in, he does so with the calculated slowness of a man announcing his every move in advance. You appreciate this consideration of your comfort, but every moment you spend with the covers thrown open is a moment the frigid air hits your back with awful force. Finally, the man settles in, enveloping the both of you in warm relief.

“Is that alright?” he whispers, low, nearly into your ear. You shiver and not with cold.

“Get closer, Patrick. I’m frozen.”

He does as you ask, letting his form mold against your back. Drapes an arm over your waist to keep you close. Sighs softly into the mess of tousled hair at the base of your flushed neck. For the first time, you feel at ease. In this moment of peace, your mind wanders back to the events of the day.

“I wish they’d told us they were going to sink the thing. I’d have let them. I hated everyone aboard.”

“Telling us would defeat the purpose of insurance fraud.”

“Still…” you trails off. “Might’ve liked a warning.”

He chuckles. The fire crackles.

“You hated everyone aboard, eh?”

“Just about.”

Then:

“But they won’t find us, will they? They’ll assume we went into town or that we died somewhere in the pack ice?” You hate how uncertain you sound, how desperate you seem for reassurance. But Patrick doesn’t chide you, nor does he dismiss the thought outright.

“Maybe. But we saw them, darling. They’re dead.”

“And if they aren’t…?”

“They are.” He says it with a quiet finality that doesn’t quite convince you.

You nod and he draws you in tighter. It feels good.

Aboard the Volunteer, it’d been nearly impossible to find more than a few moments of solitude away from the prying eyes of the crew. The doctor’s cramped office had proven a refuge for you both, a place of relative quiet and free conversation. In that place, you’d stolen a few glasses of fine brandy and exchanged opinions on Homer. You’d shared all the assorted tragedies of your respective life stories, revealed what could’ve compelled you to join a crew so isolated and so vicious.

And it was in that place that you’d discovered Patrick a few nights ago slumped over on a chair, barely breathing, reeking of poppies. It was you who’d revived him, you who’d poured the opium into the roiling sea and swore to him that it had all been spilled when the bottle fell. (Sometimes, a lie is the most compassionate option.)

After that, you made a point to stop by his cabin twice a day with a warm glass of something watered down and the best meal you could cobble together from the ships’s depressing stores. You’d watch him eat and drink and fall asleep. Watch as his eyelids moved with dreams you couldn’t begin to guess at, long ruddy eyelashes twitching.

Patrick is gentle and reserved. You like that, far prefer it to loud and volatile. You’re glad it’s him by your side in the ice and snow.

You let your palm rest on the back of his hand, warm and rough and sure. He softens, nudges his nose into the space behind your ear. Like this, you’re almost warm. Like this, sleep comes easier. Like this, it’s almost enough to forget the chill and the blood and the dark water.

Almost.

You wake with a start just after midnight, or some time around it. The air is glacial. The fire is low. When you breathe, a visible puff of air escapes from your chattering lips. The faint memory of gnashing teeth and angry men has yet to fade.

Patrick stirs behind you.

“Y/N?” he groans, voice heavy with dreams interrupted.

“S’too cold,” you whisper back. “I can’t sleep.”

In response, he rubs a hand up and down the length of your forearm, tries to induce whatever bloodflow there is. Pulls the furs tighter over your tangled forms. “You’re alright, sweetheart.”

“No, Patrick, I- I really don’t feel well.” Something wells up in you, something overwhelming and nameless.

“That’ll be the shell-shock. Between that and the exhaustion… little wonder you can’t sleep.”

“Could you just - I don’t know, is there nothing you can do?”

“I can hold you like this.”

“That’s not enough, that’s -”

In a fit, you turn to face him, a frustrated tear slipping from your lashes and burning an icy trail down one flushed cheek. Your body is trembling, teeth chattering. His brows go soft with concern.

“Please, Patrick.”

“Please what?” he asks, considering your wobbling lip and wet eyes and unspoken request.

The reply is a kiss - all yours, desperate, heated, nearly violent.

You’re lost in it, groaning at the wonderful heat of his breath in your mouth, tearing through your frozen form like a life-granting elixir. But it’s not just the heat that gets you: it’s the rightness of the action. You feel it in your bones. With his lips on yours, a sense of unbearable peace washes over you like a rogue wave.

“Y/N-” he pants against your mouth. You freeze. Draw back. “What are you doing?”

“What I want.” You pause. Bite a swollen lip. “Do you want…?”

“You know I do.” He holds your stare. “But are you certain?”

You nod and before there’s time to form a reply, his mouth meets yours with force. There’s hunger in it, yes, but more than that, it’s relief. It’s the balm of giving in to something once believed impossible, something as infinite as the landscape surrounding you on all sides and very nearly as perfect.

The doctor has been the absolute image of restraint for as long as you’ve known him. And as he lets his hands explore the length of your shivering body, you wonder if this ferality would’ve stayed locked away in that impenetrable mind of his if not for this awful turn of events. Patrick draws whimpers from your throat like they’re shameful confessions, like ancient impulses stirring to life after a long winter.

And then, he’s turning you over to face the wall. Before you can question it, he’s slipped his frozen hands under your woolen jumper. You gasp, arching back into him as you squirm away from his grasp.

“Don’t run from me, now,” he hisses into your ear. “Not after all that.”

“Y-you’re so cold,” you protest, still attempting to break free.

“Let me warm you up, sweetheart. Let me take what I want, yeah?” He pinches at a sensitive bud and you keen back into him. “And God help me, I want it.”

He pants soft and low at the nape of your neck, hands never slowing or faltering. Patrick moves with a surgeon’s touch. His hands are strong and steady, every movement sure and precise. It’s as if he’s trying to feel at the bones under your sweat-dampened skin, to break you down into anatomical components he can understand. All the while, you whimper and yelp at the feeling of his rough palms playing at the softest parts of you.

You feel him begin to swell, a heavy weight pressing into the small of your back. Experimentally, you give a roll of your hips and smile when he groans. His grip on your waist tightens as he exhales. “S’that what you want, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you rasp. “About fucking time.”

He barks a laugh and you can picture the wild, boyish grin that’s bound to have bloomed on his face.

“You really think I would’ve have fucked you on that boat? With all those cunts running about? Dirty rats and nasty waves?”

“No, I suppose you were waiting for an abandoned cabin in the high Arctic.”

He lands a gentle slap to your thigh and you squeal.

“Much better this way. You be as loud as you like, yeah?”

“So give me something to get loud for, Patrick.”

His hands drop to the fly of your trousers. Not the most appropriate attire for a lady, but there hadn’t been any question of abandoning ship in thick woolen skirts after the initial collision. With a frantic groan, he pulls the waistband down and slips a warm finger in between your legs. You keen, choking out an icy breath.

“Christ, sweetheart, you’re dripping,” his voice cracks. He pushes another finger in, pumps a few times, as if he’s testing your limits. You throw an arm back over his head, prompting him to plant soft, open-mouthed kisses on your burning neck.

“Just fuck me, yeah? Please, Patrick, just wanna get warm-”

It burns, the sheer want crawling its way through your blood. The very air around your bed is heated now, windows fogged and sweat forming at your hairline. It’s as if the memory of ice is slowly erasing itself from your body with every quirk of his fingers and cant of his hips.

“I’ll give it to you, Y/N. Just-” He does open the button at his own waist, freeing himself, aligning his body with yours. “Just take a breath, yeah? You’re ready for me? Y’think you can take it?”

You nod feverishly. “Swear to God, Patrick. I can, I can - I’ll be so good f’you, I promise-”

He pushes in with a low groan. You whine, nearly choking on it.

“S’so warm,” he nips against your ear. He reaches over your chest, caressing the soft flesh. “Like heaven.”

All you can do is nod.

“C-can I move? I - fuck, girl, you’re strangling me.”

“Move,” you manage, and he does.

He uses his grip on your ribs to ground his movements, pulling back and in with a depth that has your vision swimming. It’s not especially fast, but it doesn’t need to be. No, the feeling of him so deep inside of you, the desperate swirl of his hips pressing up against internal parts that you can’t even name -

“That’s it, sweetheart, just take it,” he coos. “Don’t have to do a thing. Just take it.”

“Patrick,” you gasp. “Please.”

“I’ve got you, darling. I’ve got you.”

The doctor repeats it like a mantra as he slips a hand into your trousers once more. Naturally, it doesn’t take the seasoned surgeon very long to locate the aching bud at the apex of your trembling thighs. When his thumb makes contact, you nearly sob with sheer relief. Those rough little circles combined with the pistoning of his hips and his feral groaning in your ear and the chill of the air on your bare breasts has you clenching down around him.

“Oh, sweet girl, y’can’t do that to me, you can’t-”

“I’m so close, Patrick,” you whine again, gripping at his wrist while he works you.

“Do it, fuck. Let me feel you, I need to feel you inside-”

When you come, it’s with a silent cry.

Patrick just fucks you through it, never stopping or even slowing. He whispers your name like a prayer, pulling his now-free hand to rest at the column of your throat. There’s no force or grip, only the erratic thrum of your heart under his palm.

“Not inside,” you rasp. “Y’can’t-”

“No, I know, I’ll just - fuck-”

Instinctively, you push him away and roll onto your back. He winces at the loss of contact, at the interruption of his careful movements. Wordlessly, you lift the jumper from your head completely, tossing it onto the pillow behind him. You kick off the rest of the trousers, already lowered to your knees. You’re no physician, but even you can see how blown his pupils are.

“Keep going, Patrick.”

“K-keep…?”

“On me. If you want?”

His brain takes a second to process it before he begins nodding violently.

“Yeah, fuck. Oh, fuck…”

Looming over your bare body - all soft curves and dimpled flesh and warm swells - it doesn’t take him very long to finish. When he spills onto you stomach, you giggle at the heat, letting your head fall back.

“Now what are you laughing about, sweet thing?” His grin is wide and adoring. “Can’t do that to a man when he’s just come off.”

“No, nothing!” You smile. “It’s just - well, I’m already cold again.”

“You don’t say?”

You nod.

“Right.” He reaches for a spare cloth, wipes himself from your skin, and leans in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. Just as you’re wrapping your legs around his hips to draw him in deeper, he pulls away. Begins moving down your body, stops between your open thighs. Presses a kiss to your clit. “Again?”

“Again.”

taglist: @inglourious-imagines @sylvicole-superieur @pearlstiare

[lycanscribe]

notes: 18+mdni, explicit, Patrick Sumner x m!reader, breeding kink, size kink, knotting, anal sex, oviposition, cum inflation, monsterfucking, handjob, bizarre nonhuman anatomy, bizarre nonhuman biology, Lovecraftian themes but you don't necessarily need to be familiar with Lovecraft, very loosely based on The Sinking City( but you don't have to have played it )

*don't think too hard about Patrick's internal genitalia. Tried to make it like a cloaca but if I based it off of a shark, he'd have a pair of dicks claspers. Logic? In my smut?

This has to be the longest One have ever written.

It had been six months since the Flood or at least by your best estimations. Six months since the beasts showed up. Nightmarish things with too many arms. You'd learned their sounds and how best to avoid them.

It was common practice to avoid the water at all costs. After Old Mr. Montgomery had gone mad after falling into it. Ranting about The Great Old Ones and muttering in a language you'd only heard from the Cultists.

Occultism was nothing unusual here. At least everyone owned a Ouijia Board or a deck of Tarot cards. The Cultists roamed the city streets in their bloody cloaks.

You were out by the beach around dawn when you had first caught sight of it. A pair of glowing cerulean eyes out in the water followed by a splashing sound. Your mother had warned you about being out here since the Flood. "The only thing you're going to find out there is trouble."

Since that first sighting whatever it was seemed to grow bolder with your presence. Could be a predator looking for an easy meal. Maybe some sort of scavenger. Despite your senses screaming at you, walked out to the end of the barnacle encrusted pier. In the before times, old men would come out here to fish.

You knelt down and came face to face with a man. Handsome, reddish brown hair that was slicked back with the water, neatly trimmed facial hair, and those unnerving blue eyes. "…Hello?" You greeted nervously and the man reached up with a hand that you could see was webbed. Like an amalgamation of a fish's fin and a human hand.

"I fell in off the pier. Be a lad and help me up?" The voice had an accent that you couldn't quite place. "You could just swim to shore?" You asked and the man shook his head. " Afraid I lost my bathing suit." Ah, you could see the embarrassment on his face.

The man had some definite fish features like the gills just below his collarbones. But there had been the Innsmouthers. Refugees from a city destroyed by the flood or something. Maybe this man was one of them?

You took the webbed hand against your better judgement, feeling the chilled skin. And then, you were pulled into the water. Despite your struggles, he held fast to you. He kissed you and you passed out.

When you came to, you were in a cave of some sort. The water reflecting on the ceiling. And your clothes were gone. Your hands instinctively covered yourself but then realized there was no one to see.

You looked around seeing all sorts of items. Bottles holding things you didn’t want to know, waterlogged books and maps, a pipe, and something that looked like a medical kit. You realized this was where the man or…whatever he was lived.

The sound of water breaking and there he was again. He dragged himself up onto the sand and then you saw it. Below the waist he had a fish tail like that cartoon your little sister had insisted on watching. His was black with a white underside. Like an orca whale. "You're a…" not a mermaid certainly. "Merman? Merperson?" The fish man shrugged.

"I was simply a man once. Suspect this is a result of falling into the Arctic Ocean awhile back. My name's Patrick." You gave your own name not wanting to be a rude guest. "Where are my clothes?" "Drying. Hypothermia isn't pleasant." He said with a faint shudder as if his body recalled the icy waters.

Patrick pulled himself closer and you found yourself touching his tail. Felt like a fish but not…unpleasant. "Not afraid?" "You haven’t given reason for me to be. Well, apart from the almost drowning part." "You wouldn't have."

"You're not going to eat me are you?" You asked having noted his unsettlingly sharp teeth, like a shark's. "I'm quite content eating fish." Patrick replied, "you're here because I’ve missed human companionship." He added as he rested his webbed hand over your heart. "The warmth of their skin." His other hand wrapped around your hardening cock. "And human intimacy."

Heat bloomed in you face at his words and his touch. And how fast your body had reacted to it. "How do you…?" "Shhh, that's not important right now. Let me make you feel good." He purred as he started stroking, quickly adapting his grip and speed based on your reactions.

Then he was kissing you again and you groaned into his mouth as your hips bucked into his hand. Your fingers at his waist to draw him closer as your other hand carefully brushed over his gill slits which earned you another pleased sound.

His hand let go of your cock before he pressed you against his pelvis where his own cock would be. Instead, there was a slit. Intrigued, you brushed your fingers against it which made him gasp. Getting bold you slowly pressed a pair of fingers inside watching for any signs of discomfort. You felt a protrusion which steadily grew under your touch until it emerged from the slit.

The cock looked human enough. You straddled his tail so you could press yours against his. He groaned as your hips established a rhythm to slide your cocks together. "How do you want me, Patrick?" You asked him as you felt his hot breath on your shoulder. "Ride me."

You glanced at his dick which looked slick enough but he was also thick. You'd taken a few cocks in your time but this would be a challenge. "Need a bit of foreplay if I’m taking this monster." You noted which earned you a blush. "Come here." He beckoned with his fingers.

During another heated kiss, you felt a dampened finger at your entrance before it pressed inside. The webbing was flexible enough for him to get knuckle deep. He steadily fucked you with his fingers until he had three of them in you. And then he hooked his fingers and you bucked against him. "There he is." He purred before his fingers withdrew.

Moving his hands to your hips, he guided you gently into place. "Take your time. No rush." He soothed with his thumbs stroking your hips. You took just his tip in you to tease him with your warmth. "Clenching on me already and I’m not even properly in." He chuckled as he pressed his hips upward.

Getting braver, you started to sink down on him. Feeling the slick stretch of him against your tight walls. "Fuck. So tight. So hot." Finally you had him all the way inside to the point you felt like he was in your throat. Though you knew otherwise.

Patrick seemed content to lie back and let you set the pace. Which you were fine with. You started slow, more grinding on him than anything else. "That's good. So warm." He purred, flicking his tail in pleasure. Encouraged, you sped up until you were lifting and dropping back on him.

"Never letting you go now. Gonna keep you here." He panted as he started thrusting up to meet your down motions. "Mine." He growled, as his fingers dug into your hips sure to leave bruises. "Maybe I'll breed you. Put my eggs in you." And for some reason, you found yourself being strangely okay with that.

"Patrick? Are you getting bigger?" "My knot. It'll keep me locked inside you. Fill you up." And that should not have been so hot where you felt yourself clenching down on him. You could feel it pressing against you as it sought to get inside. A few thrusts upward from Patrick and it locked into place and swelled further. "Oh god, fuck." You cursed at feeling the stretch.

"Gonna…can’t hold it." And then you were painting his abdomen and chest in thick white ropes of cum. And then you felt him grow erratic as he thrust as much as the knot would allow. And then he burst inside you. Filling you to the brim and you saw stars.

When your vision cleared, the knot was still in place. Patrick's hands were admiring your swollen belly.

"Mine."

If there’s enough interest, I might write a part 2.

[iceemochaa]

cw ⋮ 18+mdni . ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ p in v . Slight cock warming ‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎‎ ‎‏‏‎‎‏‏‎ ‎‏‏‎

He can’t stop holding your hips in a tight fist, barely able to catch his breath when you slam down in his lap in quick sharp snaps.

Your head was tilted back, crop top pulled above your breast, high enough for him to watch them jiggle with every wave of your pussy taking him in.

He was studying— well, trying to. Anatomy, he’s pretty sure, but you were distracting him with your hands the whole time. Gliding over his thighs while he tried to write down notes, stopping short where you knew he ached the most. Blinking up at him with the cutest puppy dog eyes you could muster.

“I know what you’re doing.” He said plainly.

“Doing what?” You said with innocence.

A back-and-forth game that only had one winner.

He said that this time would be different, that if you decided to stay over you had to be good.

You were good.

Just not in the way he wanted.

“B-Baby— you're so fucking—“ he groaned, angry at you and the perfect way you drip on him. Angry at how fast he succumbed to your wicked ways. Angry at you for everything, but mostly at himself for falling for it again— And again, and again— to the point that maybe he was the problem.

"Yeah— don't stop—" you moaned, rocking your hips to meet his unsteady jerks, feeling him break you open, pulsing around him with desperate need.

Your fingers dug into his shoulders, leaving soft crescent indents, your chest heaving with every drop. You dragged your fingernails down to catch around his shoulder blades, holding him in at his peak, stuttering about how big he is and how close you are.

His glasses were sliding off, sitting crookedly on the point of his nose, unable to stay in place. His hair was ruffled, sticking in every way possible— you're doing, might he add.

It’s from constantly changing from holding his shoulders for support to using his hair as your own personal handlebar— pulling and tugging when his cock kissed that deep part of your core that made your stomach lurch.

"F-Fuck! Baby— keep going!" You cried, dropping your full weight in his lap without a care for how loud you were being.

He thanks whatever God is out there that his roommate isn’t back.

“D-Doll— suppose’ to— be studying—“ you cut off his lame excuse with a kiss, rolling your tongues together with heated want, not once pulling back even if he tried to pull away.

Your hands found his scalp, forcing him to tilt his head to taste him deeper, hips still moving like it had a mind of its own.

The moment you broke the kiss, he hissed into your mouth when you stopped to feel him all the way in your cunt.

“F-Fuck! S-Shit—“

“Why study when you can study this pussy baby?” You whispered in his mouth, eyeing him with some form of mock sympathy. “A book won’t teach you anything.“ You exaggerated your words with a sharp roll of your hips.

“Test—“ he groaned, shuddering slightly. “F-Friday—“

“You’ve got enough time then,” you purred, kissing along his jawline. “Until then, I’m gonna keep riding you until you come— mhmm Kay?”

He nodded, dumb founded, wrapped around your pretty little finger.

Your very own personal chew toy to do what you like.

You gave him a heavy kiss, starting your hips back to slam on him again.

𐔌 authors note ꒱ This was originally about nerd! Patrick Sumner but It was late and I wanted to bang nerd!Remmick too. So double whammy 💃🏽