Berlin, Germany, 1869. After the events of The North Water.

Patrick stepped out onto the cobbled pathway, seeing his breath in the air as he pulled his gloves on. You stepped out next to him, dressed in your warmest skirts and coat. He peered down at you in his peripheral but was displeased to find your face was obstructed by your hat.

He had insisted on you staying home while he ran his errands, but you were far more insistent, going on about how you “needed the air” and “wanted to spend time with him.” With one more glance at you when you took his arm, he led you down the dampened pathway.

The two of you had been married for two years now, rounding on your third, and Patrick was a quiet lover. Despite the years knowing him, he was still quite stiff and reserved when it came to speaking about himself or showing affection. Still, he had his ways of showing he cared. Even if that was by minute squeezes he gave your arm before you crossed a road or leaving an extra strudel for you at breakfast.

The only thing you couldn’t crack about him was his past. You were both two of few English speaking people in your town, though Patrick was decent in Deutsch, so you figured he had come from elsewhere.

“Just down here,” he tugged your arm gently, leading you to what looked like an apothecary. He didn’t see the way your brow lifted, removing his hat as you both stepped into the building.

You let go of his arm to give him room to roam but still stayed close by. The owner of the apothecary was an old man who eyed you suspiciously to which you lowered your head, choosing to stay close to your husband.

Patrick looked around on the shelves before addressing the owner, “four ounces of the laudanum, please.”

You watched as his hand clenched into a fist on the counter, bouncing it absentmindedly. You were well aware of his indulgence and you also may have snooped around in his study, finding many empty vials of the substance.

He looked over at you as the owner riffled through the supply, smiling shyly as if you had caught him red-handed.

The owner wrapped the bottle up while Patrick paid for it, offering his arm once more as you both left the apothecary. The cold bit at your nose once you stepped out and you wished you had brought a scarf. You squeezed your husband’s arm lightly, letting him guide you to where else he needs to go.

“You should’ve brought a scarf,” he murmured as if sensing your discomfort. “It’s awfully cold out.” He steered you around for quite some time, buying a couple things for his studies as well as some ingredients for the house. Despite your protests, he even bought you a fresh new pair of slippers as your old ones had started to fray.

As soon as you both arrived home he had you sit down so he could unlace your boots—just one of the many ways he showed his affection.

While he quietly undid the laces of your boots, your mind began to wander over to the paper bag which contained the laudanum, and how much time he spent in that study of his. You knew he must’ve had some medical background since there were many anatomical texts in his study, and not to mention how trivial he was about your health.

“What did you do before coming to Germany?” You asked tentatively, noticing the way his fingers paused for just a second.

Patrick was always honest with you, but it was rather he held information back. He sucked in a breath before continuing his ministrations, “must you be so curious?”

“Well, sometimes I feel you know me better than I know you.”

He hummed quietly at that. It wasn’t a jab at him and he knew it. It was simply a fact, one that he felt bad about constantly. He slipped your last boot off before rubbing your ankle, his thumb smoothening over your stocking. He stood before you, picking up the paper bag which held his personal purchases. “Come.”

You watched him walk off for a moment before rising to follow, placing the bag of groceries on the counter on your way. He led you into his study. You’d been in here countless times before, most of which you had snuck in to ponder about his texts. You rounded his desk to take a seat while he looked around on his bookshelf before meeting your curious gaze.

“I was an army surgeon back when I lived in London,” he explained slowly, as if debating whether or not to tell you the full story. When your curiosity remained unwavering, he resumed, but not before staring at your fingers as you shed your gloves. “I was stationed in Delhi, but to spare you the details, I was soon cashiered and left with nothing but a limp…”

His eyes flicked back up to yours but quickly avoided your sympathetic look and reached for a worn journal on the shelf, fingering through the pages. “I eventually boarded a ship, the uh- The Volunteer. Horrid things, horrid times.” He practically shuddered as he recalled the events. His gaze returned to you with a deeply furrowed brow, “the things that happened were much too vile for a lady like you to hear.”

“Why haven’t you told me about this?” You frowned not out of contempt, but sadness for making him feel like he should withdraw this information from you.

“It’s not that simple,” he sighed before pushing the journal back onto the shelf, “I had done things and well, I had to flee London essentially.” He looked at you nervously, frowning back at you. “I had to make sure I could trust you.”

“Patrick…” your shoulders slumped. You had figured he was hiding things from you for good reason, but you hadn’t expected him to assume you’d rat him out on whatever it was he did.

“I know,” he sighed and walked over to where you were sitting, dropping down onto his knees and lying his head down on your lap. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Another part of me also wanted to leave my past behind and start anew.”

You weren’t upset by his admission, just sad he had kept it hidden for so long. His head remained in your lap, only turning slightly once your fingers started through his hair.

“An army surgeon, hm?” You started more lightly, “much more qualified than I thought.”

He froze slightly, lifting his head to glare at you in mock offence. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Here I thought you were just a physician, turns out you served as a surgeon.” A grin tugged at your lips upon seeing him pout, “what else have you been hiding from me?”

Patrick couldn’t keep his sulking up for long, not when his beautiful wife was getting a kick out of teasing him. His hands rubbed at the sides of your hips, shaking his head. “Nothing you need to worry about.”

He rose to his feet with an audible grunt, turning to put his earlier purchases away. But you weren’t quite done, still wanting to know more.

“You know a lot then?” You hummed softly, trying to sound casual as you leaned forward in the chair with a hand on your chin, playing with a pen.

“You could say that,” he rumbled absentmindedly.

“So, you could give me checkups?”

He looked over his shoulder with a furrowed brow, “that, I could… why?”

You leaned back in the chair, stretching out with a cheeky grin. “Just wondering. It’s always good to go to the doctor’s, and seeing as you were one, it’s more convenient.”

“I suppose you’re right…” he squinted at you suspiciously before returning to his organizing. Just as you had composed yourself, he murmured, “what are you getting at, honey?”

The endearment sent a pang of warmth to your chest. It wasn’t often that he used them on you, but each time was a pleasant surprise. You offered a gentle hum in wonderment, shrugging even though he couldn’t see it. “Nothing, just making sure you’re alright with me asking.”

“Are you hoping for a more… confidential checkup?” The way the question came out, you wondered if he meant to say it aloud, due to the way his shoulders tensed and his ears reddened. You also froze at the implication and didn’t respond save for a small gasp. “Sorry- That wasn’t what I-”

“What would that entail?” You asked despite yourself, somewhat curious as to what a ‘confidential checkup’ looks like.

Patrick said nothing for a long while, staring off into the abyss as he struggled to find an excuse to his unintentional innuendo. “It’s not inherently sexual,” his eyes darted over to you for a split second before looking back at the wall, “but it may involve… intimate procedures.”

“Oh,” was all you could say. The room quickly filled with tension, the awkwardness was suffocating. Intimacy was never an issue for you two but perhaps one was more shy than the other. And you weren’t the one. “We could do a confidential checkup, make sure nothing is wrong with me, yes?”

Patrick fidgeted with his hands, pursing his lips to the side until his eyes met yours. “Of course, it would warrant that there are no issues.”

“Shall we do it after dinner?” He answered with a slight nod and kept his head bowed as you got up to leave the room.

As soon as the door shut Patrick finally let his shoulders relax. Unbeknownst to you, he was being driven crazy. He let out a deep sigh and ran his fingers through his hair, doing his best to compose himself. He’d been doing his best to keep his needs tame throughout his time with you. You, his poor, dear wife had no idea how much he wanted you.

The floorboards creaked under his feet as he walked towards his desk, picking up your discarded gloves. He thumbed over the fabric, letting himself feel the softness that enveloped your hands everyday. He imagined the warmth and possibly even sweat that seeped into the gloves.

Before he knew it, he lifted the gloves up to his nose, closing his eyes to inhale your scent deeply. Something sweet, a tinge of musk, and irrevocably you filled his senses. And now, all he could think about was where else smelled like that.

“Over here, honey.” Patrick guided you over to the chaise with a hand on your lower back, not fully pressing, but enough for you to feel the heat seep through.

You sat down tentatively and watched him carefully as he walked around to grab his dog-eared journal. He took a seat across from you and slipped his reading glasses on before draping his stethoscope around his broad shoulders. You’ve seen his medical instruments before, some of which he let you tinker around with.

He looked so focused in his seat—glasses framing those ice blue eyes as they squinted at his notes, suspenders sitting pretty on his shoulders, and fingers lightly tapping a pen against the leather journal. The journal was soon abandoned as he rolled his seat closer to you, taking the stethoscope into his hands.

“Undo your bodice, please.” His voice was a low murmur, as if embarrassed to ask it. Your hands moved delicately to unlace the front of your bodice to create enough space for him to perform his procedures. Patrick took a sparing glance at you but just as quickly looked away, “actually, remove your bodice completely.”

Your cheeks warmed immediately upon his request but did so without a word, leaving yourself in your skirts and a thin chemise. Despite being married and having had seen you in far less clothing, he kept his gaze respectful as he put the eartips of the stethoscope into his ears.

The cool metal pressed over your chemise which sent a shiver down your spine from unexpectedness. Patrick leaned a bit closer but still had his eyes averted to keep your modesty. He dragged the chestpiece over your heart and paused for a moment to listen to your pulse. He hummed in satisfaction before moving it down to your sternum, sliding his free hand onto your back.

“Breathe in for me, slowly.” He rumbled, listening as you did. “And out.” He moved the chestpiece around a couple times—just underneath your breasts and back.

He pulled away with an approving nod which could only mean that your lungs and pulse were in good shape. You sat awkwardly as he wrote in his journal, still improper in just your chemise and skirts.

The checkup resumed in bashful silence. Patrick moved about doing the necessary routine checkups—blood pressure, reflexes, and strength tests. You saw how relieved he seemed to be after seeing no abnormalities in your results. Patrick often worried about you, though he didn’t show it as to not worry or annoy you.

“Perfect,” he murmured as he looked over his notes and scribbled more onto the worn paper. You smiled triumphantly and reached for your bodice, wanting nothing more than to cover up. “Hold on,” he stopped you with a raised hand, “not quite done yet.”

“Oh?” You almost pressed on why you were not done, but then remembered his earlier words—how it may involve intimate procedures. “Oh.”

Patrick allowed himself to take a gander at you, shamefully dragging his gaze down your half-clothed body. His ears warmed and he cleared his throat before snapping up to look into your eyes. “It won’t take long, much of it is just to determine there’s no cancers and that your… receptors are in working condition.” He stumbled over his words as he fought to maintain eye contact, overcompensating by adjusting his glasses multiple times. You weren’t sure what he meant by receptors, but you had a feeling you’d be well aware soon.

He got up to grab gloves before returning at your side, snapping the latex against his wrists. Patrick was internally fighting himself to be respectful. Throughout your marriage he remained nothing but sweet and respectful, always making sure you were comfortable. The fact that he still had to proceed with these routines made it so much harder for him, and he wished he kept this side of him hidden from you a while longer.

“For this examination, you’ll have to remove your chemise.” He murmured as calmly as possible. He observed the way you perked up in shock but moved without a word, like always. He admired your resilience and how despite the awkwardness, you followed his commands without complaints. He wondered what else he could make you do. As you undressed further, he turned away to give you privacy, though it wouldn’t matter much sooner.

You murmured a soft confirmation for him to turn back around and the sight almost ended him as he faced you once more. You were sat straight and proper, skirts tousled and breasts out for his eyes only. The standard procedure would usually involve feeling the breasts under a fabric to keep propriety, but of course Patrick took advantage of your home examination to see your body in all its naked glory.

“I’ll just be feeling for any abnormal bumps or lumps,” he explained while fixing his gloves, mentally thanking the latex for hiding the sweat gathering on his palms. He knew this was an innocent procedure. It was checking for breast cancer for god’s sake, but he couldn’t deny the stirring in his gut as he began to reach for your breast.

Your breath hitched as his hand cupped the swell of your breast, holding the tissue for a moment. A slight shiver ran through you which resulted in your skin pebbling, and your nipples hardening. It had been a while since Patrick had touched you and even though this was strictly medical, his fingers sent a little flutter in your lower stomach.

His fingers started groping and feeling around, squeezing and prodding. You felt as though these gestures were beginning to feel less innocent once he kept it up for longer than you assumed it’d take. Your breathing became laboured in turn, your skin warming as the heat bloomed deeper.

Patrick suddenly switched to the other breast, giving a not so unintentional swipe over the peak which punched out a moan from your mouth. His hand stilled as he realized what he had just done.

Neither of you verbally acknowledged what just happened and Patrick continued the examination with more careful hands. It was hard not to squirm and even harder to keep your hands to yourself. You wished you could touch him the way he was touching you, but you didn’t want to scare him after he was vulnerable enough to share his past, and again, this was a medical exam.

He released your breast and turned to his journal to jot down some notes before clearing his throat gruffly, “no issues there.” His hands were tingling, warm from touching your skin and sweaty under the gloves from how flustered he was getting. Without missing a beat—and without looking up—he ordered, “remove the rest of your clothes.”

“What?” If you could feel any more humiliation, you’d combust, but something in your gut made you want it. “Is that necessary?”

Patrick snapped his head up, seemingly realizing his rashness. “I- Well- Uh- Yes, it’s extremely important you’re bare for the next examination.” He stumbled over his words, wiping his gloved hands on his trousers as if that could remove the sweat clinging to his palms.

With a moment’s hesitation, you removed your skirts and petticoats, and finally, your drawers. Patrick held his breath as he watched you, hiding the way his eyes darkened by pretending to fix his gloves and glasses. You laid down on the chaise and placed your hands over your stomach in an attempt to retain the propriety you carried.

“Part your legs for me,” he placed his hand on your knee gently. He caught the way your eyes widened in horrified shock and explained, “it’s to ensure your pleasure receptors are responding.” Patrick knew he was making things up, there were no such things, but he did not have the guts to admit he just wanted to touch you.

“I’m sure I have no issues there,” you attempted to get out of the situation, but to no avail as he tugged your knees apart. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to go through with the examination, the issue was that you were absolutely soaked.

He gave you no reaction as he eyed your moist center, but a twitch at the corner of his lips gave him away.

“Stop it,” you scolded bashfully, “it is perfectly normal, a woman’s body will do many things.”

“Oh, I know.” He allowed himself a bit of smugness into his tone, proud that his plan was working. His stool slid along so he was positioned by your legs, dragging a finger up your calf and admiring the way your skin pebbled so easily. “Your body is responding. A good sign.”

He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smirking. Judging by your lack of questioning, he knew you believed him in performing this pseudo-examination. His fingers continued their path up your leg, tracing over your knee, and then your inner thigh. He could see the hair on your legs stick up and the pulse between them.

You let out a shuddering breath as the tip of his finger met your puffy clit. It didn’t move or even push, it just rested over the needy thing. Patrick’s eyes gazed intensely as your walls clenched around nothing. All attempts at propriety were thrown out the window as you squirmed in frustration, bucking your hips to feel something more than just pressure.

He awarded you with gentle circles over your clit, two fingers swirling in tandem with each other. His eyes flicked up to your face, observing the way your eyes fluttered shut and the way your lips parted. “Now, your body is definitely responding.” Before you could snap at him, the pads of his fingers pressed down harder, tracing harsh circles now.

“Patrick,” you couldn’t help but moan, “is this really an examination you’ve done with other patients?”

“No,” he admitted, no longer ashamed now that you were unravelling. “This is just for us.”

The usually quiet office was now filled with the obscene sounds of your slick and breathy moans. Patrick was breathing almost as heavy as you were, lips parted while his tongue darted out every so often to wet them.

You bit your lip as you watched his dark, hungry eyes, his glasses had slipped down his nose a bit. He’d never looked at you this way before—so irrevocably infatuated with how wrecked you’d become. Your clit was pulsing with need as his fingers rubbed back and forth over it, the sensation burning down your calves. Moans wretched themselves from your throat and your hips bucked in an embarrassing cry for more and less at the same time. Patrick was glaring down at your center, blue-grey pupils barely noticeable. Your legs shifted in an attempt to hide yourself from him, but his other gloved hand reached up to pry a leg away.

A wet whine left your mouth as he suddenly pulled away. You’d fallen out of the daze to realize that your eyes were wet with unshed tears, the pleasure was overwhelming. Your husband looked down at you with a tinge of guilt, his hardened features softening.

“Oh, honey.” He whispered, leaning down to nuzzle along your hair line, pressing kisses there. “You okay? I’m sorry.” You responded with a meek nod, nuzzling back against his face. He shifted in his chair, no doubt adjusting himself. His warmth left you once he leant back on the stool, “for the next examination, I’ll have to remove these, is that okay?”

You looked to him after blinking back your tears, his hands were gesturing to his gloves. Your mind was still swimming somewhere high above you which made you unable to think for a moment. You almost forgot that this was a checkup, an examination of your responses. Beneath the softness however, there was hunger in his gaze. And yet, you nodded.

“I’m afraid I’ll need verbal confirmation.” He suddenly switched back to that authoritative “doctor” voice he had on before, all the tenderness he just showed was gone.

Your cunt clenched around nothing, mouth opening and croaked, “yes.”

He efficiently discarded the gloves before moving closer once more, positioned side by side with your hip before moving his hand over your core. His middle finger gathered the slick that dripped from your hole, lubing the digit up before pressing in slowly. A low groan left his lips as he felt you contract around the thick finger, rubbing against your walls. Your eyes rolled back as he explored you with little shame, the pad of his finger rubbing hard against the ridges inside of you.

“Nothing unusual,” he rasped, very clearly trying to stay composed but failing. His finger prodded around a bit more, not yet thrusting, just wiggling around and rubbing. He made a face of disapproval and your heart lurched, “but very tight.”

A cry tore out as he shoved a second finger into you without warning. No gentle, slow press like he did with the first. Just a dull pain as your hole stretched to fit his fingers. They twitched as he heard your cry, but didn’t pull them out. The digits rested and let you adjust.

His tenderness returned as he planted a soothing kiss on your jaw, the scratchiness of his facial hair distracting you from the throb down below. His fingers drew back slowly, your hole instinctively closing around them. “Shh, relax sweetheart.” He cooed into your ear while his free hand stroked your knee.

You turned your head to rub your head against his cheek, like a cat seeking warmth from its owner. The soft praises and encouragements helped you relax and his fingers began moving, slowly. In and out the two thick digits went, a sticky sound escaping every time they withdrew. Your legs grew less tense as he worked you slowly and you could feel the knot in your gut grow tighter.

“Patrick— I’ll—” Your back arched off the chaise as you warned him of your incoming release. Much to your displeasure, he removed his fingers with an audible ‘shlick.’ His brow twitched as you let out a soft keening sound before bringing his soaked fingers up to his lips.

“Not yet,” he chastised, licking your slick off his flesh. You watched with hunger and a tinge of disgust as he savoured your taste, wondering if he liked it or if it was horrible. A groan escaped him as he licked more and more off his fingers, eyes fluttering shut as he cleaned them off. “Good, your pH balances are perfect.”

His eyes blinked open and you could now see how wide his pupils were blown. You swallowed thickly, both eager and nervous to see what the next examination would be. His eyes bored into yours to the point you felt almost bashful to be looking at him directly. You could tell he was still holding back by the way his fingers clenched into his trousers and how he shifted in his seat to relieve the aching bulge that was hidden beneath them.

It was getting hard not to just take you as he pleased, but Patrick was a gentleman, and he knew you were fragile. If he were to act without thinking he knew he’d break you. As much as he’d like to see that, he knew he had to tread lightly, take it one step at a time. Which is why he chose his next words carefully.

“Our final examination is to make sure you can reach your peak,” his voice was getting rougher by the second, the lust coursing through his veins as his eyes wandered in places that would have him shanked if you were not his wife. “While I don’t doubt that you can, you’ve almost proved it just now, I must find a specific spot to help bring you there.” You watched him lick his lips as he zeroed in on the tuff of hair between your legs, “I would use my fingers, but I have something better.”

Your skin was already plastered in a sheen of sweat, your baby-hairs sticking to your forehead. The implication was made clear once his hands moved to his belt, those thick fingers that were once in you were now moving to reveal something even thicker.

A lump formed in your throat as his hands pushed down his trousers. His cock sprung out, thick and flushed at the tip. He ran a palm up the length of it, brushing over the head to wipe away precum. Patrick sucked in a breath at the way you ogled him. The sight wasn’t new to you, but the nature of this encounter was.

It was confusing in all the right ways—an innocent doctor’s checkup turning into something so vile and lewd, wrong but right.

The chaise groaned under his weight as he climbed on, pulling your legs around his hips. He lowered himself over your body, hands on either side of your face as he rested his forehead against yours.

For a moment you two just breathed each other in, lips parted and brushing. He reached up and removed his frames, tossing them aside where they clattered somewhere on the floor. His lashes dusted your cheeks as he leaned down while his thumbs came up to rub along your jaw. While the moment was lovely, all you could focus on was the heavy weight resting on your lower stomach.

Patrick knew it too, you could tell by the way it twitched against you. He tugged your bottom lip down before kissing your firmly, moaning lowly into the kiss. It broke off with a loud smacking sound and his hands crawled down your sides until they reached your hips, squeezing once. His eyes flicked between yours and where his cock rested against your belly.

His panting was barely audible as one hand left your hip to grab his cock, thumb rubbing along the base. You shifted your hips in quiet impatience to which he tutted and slapped his shaft on your stomach gently. “Patience,” he rumbled, “it’ll come soon.”

Your head fell back in frustration and you huffed at the ceiling. He watched you in this small act of defiance, admiring the arch of your neck as you exposed your throat to him—bare and sticky with sweat. Before you knew it, his nose was prodding along your neck, his sniffs tickling you just the slightest bit. He took one long inhale and groaned, twitching his hips. With a final kiss to your throat, he leaned back to look down between you two again.

“Beautiful,” he murmured. “The female body—your body—was always fascinating to me.” He dragged a large palm from your chest down to your waist. “Your reactions especially. You’ve always wanted me, no doubt about that, but seeing you, so raw, so… so vulnerable…”

He shook his head and reached down to position himself properly. He pushed forward without warning, making your breath catch as he sheathed himself inside in one go.

The pain was immediate—burning through your hips and locking up your legs. You jolted as your core clenched around him tightly. It felt like an electric shock and you hissed through your teeth.

Patrick leaned down upon seeing your discomfort, peppering kisses on your face while rubbing your thigh in an attempt to soothe. “Shh,” he hushed before kissing you firmly, “it’ll be alright. The pain is just as important for the examination.”

A tear slipped down to your temple, but his lips quickly found it and pecked along your sweaty hairline. For a moment, you just laid there panting while your body adjusted to the feeling of him inside. It had been a while since the last time you both coupled, so it was almost as if your body forgot how it felt. Almost.

As soon as you began to loosen up was when he started to move. It started off with short, shallow jerks, moving just enough that you could feel it. Nothing pleasurable yet, just the feeling of being full. His thumb pressed into the side of your jaw so he could force you to look at him. You were letting out soft puffs of air, legs trembling where they rested over his thighs. His hands pressed into the soft cushion beneath you, being very conscious not to crush you.

After ensuring you were no longer in pain, his thrusts became more deliberate and drawn out. A slow press in until he was seated fully, and then a slow pull back—not all the way, no, just enough to watch the way your hips chased after him. He repeated the motion a couple times, observing your reactions closely. However, it was hard to when you were throbbing around his length and whimpering like a pup.

The soft, breathy whimpers that left your lips had him straining. He was already pushing himself throughout this entire checkup that he had to keep his hands clenched by your sides in order not to grip bruises onto you. He ducked his head down to rub his nose into your cheek, panting hotly as he slammed his hips harder.

The room filled with the sounds of your panting, his groans, and the wet slap of his balls against your ass. He moved his hips in a way that let you feel every inch of his cock, scooping upwards in search of something. Your walls constricted in response, throbbing like you wanted to swallow him whole.

“Perfect,” he groaned, his head now resting against your collarbone. “Your body is responding excellently.” Another hard thrust and a moan slipped out, earning you a soft bite.

Patrick’s attempts at keeping his hands off your body proved unsuccessful once the passion burned hotter. He cupped your ass in both hands and squeezed as he pulled you in in tandem with his thrusts, the head of his cock hitting even deeper than before.

He could tell he was getting closer to that spot by the way your moans turned needy and breathier, so he honed in on that spot and went harder.

You clenched around him as your back arched, pushing your breasts into his chest. He sighed softly at the contact and almost melted, rubbing his head against yours like a cat wanting attention. His cock was relentless, pulsing into you at such a fast pace that you could hear the slosh of your shared fluids.

It was then that you felt it—the rush of pleasure and the settling of this inner ache as he finally found that spot. Your eyes rolled back into your head and your moan was cut off, leaving your mind reeling in pure bliss.

Above you, Patrick watched in a mix of awe and affection. He licked his parted cracked lips, wanting to let you feel out this moment for yourself, but also wanting to ruin you further. Instead, he maintained his speed and pressure and brought his hands up to your ribcage.

“Good,” he whispered once you could see again, grunting a little as he snapped his hips. “That proves the spot does exist.” He said that mostly to himself, but even in your blissed out daze did you pick up on it.

You moaned out again as he hit the spot over and over again. The beginning of your end was soon arriving as the tension in your belly grew tighter.

Your hands didn't know what to do. You’d been as modest as you could be throughout the encounter but now you were completely debauched—hands scrambling over his back and into his hair, tugging enough to send the man above you whimpering into your shoulder. The sweat in his hair coated your fingers which slid down to his neck, pressing into his skin as you pulled him into a heated kiss.

He groaned into the kiss, his teeth and tongue clashing with yours. His own hands slid under your head and into your hair, holding you still unlike his hips moving below.

The heat was reaching an all time high. Every part of your body was dripping with some sort of fluid—sweat, slick, and saliva. You were burning all over, deliciously so. The ache in your cunt was starting to feel almost uncomfortable and you broke the kiss to let out a soft keening noise. Patrick’s eyes widened immediately and his first instinct was to peck your cheeks.

“’m okay,” you mumbled hoarsely, throat sore from all your cries. “Just so… close…”

“I know,” he cooed, licking the sweat off your neck. His pace didn’t change, maintaining those steady, deep thrusts. “You feel perfect… so pretty…” His praises egged you on, making your walls throb and close around him rhythmically.

You weren’t the only one close to your breaking point. It was evident in his actions that Patrick was there too. His hips stuttered every so often, his cock pulsing angrily at the sound of your moans and the feeling of your warm flesh. He panted heavily into the crook of your neck and let his whole body sink down onto yours, ensuring you were flush against him.

“You’re still… wearing all your clothes,” the revelation came to you as soon as you felt him all over. He had removed his waistcoat earlier so his shirt had since been wrinkled and damp, and his trousers hung loosely around his thighs.

“Taking them off would be…” his voice came out as a whisper. He was straining to hold off his release, wanting to come with you. “…well, it’d be unprofessional. Wouldn’t it?”

You felt the cheeky grin against your collarbone and clenched around him in revenge, “you’re ridiculous.”

He shuddered in response and nibbled your neck, “your cunt seems to like it.”

Before you could snap at him for being so vulgar, the head of his cock punched your sweet spot, knocking a loud cry out of you. He didn’t tease, too busy trying to make you both come to make fun of your attempts at propriety.

“There you go…” he whispered as a hand slid down to the curve of your ass, “take it, sweetheart.”

You were uncomfortably hot—feeling the sweat drip down your temples and pool between your breasts, but the pleasure just kept building. You were beginning to lock up and tighten around him, bucking yourself up to chase that friction.

With a few more pumps, you were sent over the edge. Your thighs trembled with the shock of overwhelming pleasure coursing through you. Your eyes rolled back into your head as a shaky cry escaped you, grasping onto his shoulders while he kept moving to coax you through it.

Patrick pushed himself up to gape down at you, bringing a hand up to brush away your sweaty hair from your face. He liked seeing you like this, fully debauched and wrecked. The sight—along with the way your walls fluttered—had his hips stuttering and he soon followed you over. You felt his head drop and the warmth flood your insides.

The moment you came back to earth, you went limp. Patrick’s lips grazed your shoulders while his fingers traced gentle shapes into your skin. He let you bask in the silence and bliss, pecking the softness of your jaw.

The tension still hung in the air, the room heavy with the scent of sweat and sex. You blinked away the haziness and caught your breath, feeling lighter than you had before.

Patrick withdrew from you with a slick sound and sat back to button his trousers. You just laid there and watched him with half-lidded eyes, no longer worried about covering up. He turned to look at you and his eyes landed right between your thighs where the evidence of his release leaked from your cunt.

“Christ almighty,” he shuddered and turned away to rub his eyes as if that could wipe away the sight of that. He rose with a grunt and walked out, leaving you completely bare and lewd in his home office. You didn’t make any attempt to move since the tremble in your legs was still very relevant, and because you knew he’d return soon.

A soft sigh left your lips as you closed your eyes, feeling that post-coital drowsiness that always took over. It wasn’t until you felt the warm press of a wet rag did you realize Patrick was back, but you didn’t open your eyes. Instead, you let him wipe you down, feeling the wet washcloth slide from your neck, between your breasts, and then between your legs.

He pressed a soft kiss on your closed eyelids after he was done pampering you, coaxing your eyes open with a gentle nudge of his head. “Are you feeling alright?”

You met his tender gaze with a yawn, earning a squeeze to the thigh. “Feeling really good.”

“Yeah?” He chuckled softly and covered you with a thin blanket, “that wasn’t too much for you?”

“Not at all…” you smiled sleepily, still feeling light and dazed. “I think we should make these checkups weekly.”

Patrick barked out a laugh before kissing your cheek, shaking his head. “Weekly might be much… but I won’t turn down any requests for an intimate checkup.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

He smiled at you and then stood to gather his things, flipping through his journal. “Safe to say you have no issues or complications. Everything is in order, now get some rest.”

You watched his back as he walked to his desk, blinking drowsily as the feeling of sleep slowly took over. “Yes, doctor.”

npt:: @wintrynightz @heart-of-alex @pittsick @rogersgal @kismetsfawn @amourflores @userhotd @im-miss-worldblog @prettysouled @severedlamb @dontlistentodaisy @deadbeatpup @fawnrott @gilmrres @gengarwebs @heapingfern @lilahthedoll @carmysdoll @cup1dssorrow @cumkissed @vlarrtrgryn @beafond @nuitts @meiyokstarr

when you'd first met dean winchester, this reality seemed to mesh well in the presence of someone like him. dean never tended to shy away from sharing his opinion, even when it cost him. he was headstrong, and usually said the first thing that came to mind, and the confidence he exuded—no matter how performative—was something you admired. you hid in the shadows of dean, comfortable to do so until it was suddenly inconvenient.

it was inevitable that once the two of you began to grow closer, dean would hit a wall. you both craved something deeper, and that kind of closeness required you to share more than you usually were willing to—or even felt the need to. you were seen, not heard, but dean made it very clear that when it came to you, he wanted to listen. very gently, he’d pointed out the fact that you felt like half of a person sometimes, existing just above the surface of the depth of your being. 

you had gone so long without sharing that depth that it had taken some time to open yourself up, but eventually, you’d found a light powerful and strong enough to chase away the shadow you had belonged in for far too long. 

it was never too much for dean to handle, and every part of you was always welcomed. he had come to hear you, even in the silence, but he was particularly fond of the version of you that practically wouldn’t stop sharing. the version of you that could talk for hours on end, sharing just about every thought you had with him. dean had created that safe space for you, and it was obvious that it had nurtured the part of you that had been neglected for years. he didn’t take it for granted that there was a time when he could barely get two sentences out of you, let alone an hour long yap session like the one you were subjecting him to now. 

from the impala, to the motel, through showers and patching each other up, you’d been rambling on and on about the case you’d just finished—and of course, dean listened. 

there had been a mutual consensus on how tired the job had made the both of you, and yet there you were, pushing off sleep in favor of your fascination of the supernatural. a mode that turned on whenever you knew that you were free to ramble without the fear of being seen as too much. 

you were tucked into the motel bed, cuddled up next to dean with your forearm pressed against his chest as you continued to share your thoughts. dean had been doing his best to follow along, fighting high levels of sleep and exhaustion that were slowly starting to win the fight.

you had paused mid-sentence, finally noticing how sleepy he had become, and you watched him for a moment, smiling to yourself as he blinked back at you with slumberous eyes. 

“i was listening. i promise.” he insisted, words slurring in a way that made your brows furrow with empathy despite your laughter. 

dean adored your laugh, and a smile as beautiful as the stars graced his face at the sound of it. your eyes scanned his features, heart aching at the sight of your beautiful, sleepy boyfriend. slowly, you began to shake your head back and forth. 

“you’re annoyingly beautiful, you know that?” you told him.

“..’m sorry.” was his quiet response. it was all he had to offer, really.

you doubled over, laughing quietly at his words, dean’s grin now hidden by your hair. he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head before you pulled back, your eyes falling over his face again. 

“you should get some sleep.” your urged gently with a sweet smile. 

“i was listening, you know.” dean insisted again, wanting you to know that no matter what, he always would be. 

“i know, but you need your rest.” you said, reaching up to run your hand through his hair.

dean leaned into your touch, eyes finally falling shut, and what you did next came as naturally to you as breathing. 

you moved closer, leaning in to thank him for loving and acknowledging every part of you by pressing a soft kiss against his forehead, followed by a couple more across the tops of his cheeks, one for each eyelid, one on the tip of his nose, and the sweetest of them all bestowed upon his soft lips. 

“goodnight, dean.” you whispered, pressing another to the corner of his mouth. 

his breathing had already begun to even out, and you made yourself at home in the comfort of his embrace, head coming to rest on his chest—perfectly content, and entirely loved. 

p.s — it's been a minute! life has been a lot to deal with lately, but i am still here xx hope you guys enjoy this sweet fic! much more to come !!

— daisy

When you stumble around the corner of the stables, the last thing you expect to see is Roy with a letter in his hands.

Conversations with Alice flood back to you. The letter is recognisable, of course, from the late night whispers in the warm enclosure of bed. Being as the house was small, and the extra beds were for Iyovi and Truckee. It was for this that the only left space for you, when you'd shown up to their home one afternoon, was in Alice's bed. Somewhere in the back of your mind you remember sharing beds like this with the girls of your family, way back when. At the ranch, with Alice, you'd lay cuddled together on cold days and poles apart on the hottest.

Most nights Alice liked to pillow talk; telling you things she'd die before admitting to her son or to his grandmother. Listening to her came easy, her voice the steady warmth of sisterly whispers and ears neither of you otherwise had. She'd tell you her inner thoughts, her most secret tales, her plans, her wonderings. And most nights you'd be lulled to sleep by her talk before ever hearing the full of it.

For days after Roy's arrival, the shared bed whispers were far more of a conversation than they usually were. You'd both eagerly chatted, low voices wavering between bewilderment and wonder. And when Alice told you about the letter she'd found - *Roy Goode, Lucy Cole, Jim Goode, California...*it had taken Iyovi's vexed visit to your room to get you to stop talking about it and at last surrender to sleep.

The letter, she'd said, was unopened. Now, having seen Roy staring down at the folded, yellowed paper the way he was, you could only surmise that he'd at last worked himself up to reading it.

You try and duck back around the corner, but Roy calls you right back inside on the instant. His voice is low when he calls your name, but not hesitant. Purposeful. Soft.

"It's alright. Really," he beckons. "You come here needing something?"

"Nothing much. Just wanted to check on Maybelle," you nod to one of the horses in confession. "Would hate to interrupt. I'll just go on and get."

"No, no, you’re not interruptin' none. Fact I'd welcome the company. Won't you join me?"

This time you let your hands fall down your skirts in defeat and meander your way back in. The sand coloured beauty you'd called Maybelle nudges her face happily into your hands when you greet her, and you giggle lowly when you feel a puff of her hot breath between your fingers. Maybelle is all the more eager when you give her a gentle scratch about her ears, ever the easy lover.

"You got a real way with 'em," Roy mentions.

"Comin’ from you that means a mighty lot. Truckee and I got to agreeing that you're some sorta horse whisperer, you."

"Oh, is that so?" He nods in approval, "Well. My point still stands. You got a real way with them yourself, Milady."

"You always call me that. Milady. I'm no lady, Roy. I'm just some girl who the old wind blew the wrong way and won't take back." Your voice catches when you deliver the words, and you swallow, busying yourself with Maybelle's tangled mane in order to hide your expression from Roy. Talking about your old life, remembering wandering the woods, and the Iyovi found you…it always brings a catch to the back of your throat, a sting in your eyes.

"Seems to me you could be a lady, being as you're so lost,” he tells you gently. “You could be a real regal lady, and we'd all be none the wiser, you could be. I'd believe it."

Your tears disappear before they're realised.

"And we don't know none about you, either. Seems to me you could be some Lord and we'd not know."

Roy laughs low. "I'm no Lord, Milady. That much I do confirm." He nods his head toward the pistol lying atop his jacket, over by his feet. "That ain't the common object of a Lord now, is it? Least not in my books. Well, wouldn't be if ever I read me some. Books."

"You can read them aplenty now. Thanks to Alice and Truckee and Callie's old primer, you'll be reading up a damn storm."

"Thanks to you too, Milady."

"You know you're always welcome. I'd help you over again if you needed it," you tell him. You stare into his eyes when you say it, way into his soul. You mean it. Every word.

"Help me now," Roy whispers. Slow. His ask comes in a gentle wave, entirely at the mercy of your answer. His want, the sea to ask, your willing, the moon to accept. Roy picks the letter back up and smooths the creases over his knee. "Help me read it."

"Your brother's letter? Isn't it?" Roy nods slowly.

"I need you to help me read it. If you want to, like. If you want to. Please?" The letter flutters shut on his lap, and he sighs, running a hand wearily over his face. "It's just that...I'm afraid I don't know to read nearly enough words."

"Sure you do. I've seen you sounding them all out, and you get ‘em all eventually. You'll be dandy."

"I'm not so sure I wanna take that chance. Not with this. I wanna understand everything he's saying to me." For a moment the two of you only stare. Maybelle nuzzles your shoulder. Roy's soft blues pierce.

Hell. Jim's letter sure ain't no primer.

"What do you say?” Roy punctuates his question by patting the hay beside him.

You'd never much enjoyed sitting in the hay, being rough, scratchy and poking as it is. Sometimes the stuff would stick right in places you'd rather it didn't, and other times would strike through ripped holes of the thrice mended skirt you wore. Alice's old one, naturally, faded and many times patched, thin enough to make sure you'd feel every bit of that hay. Still, the invite of Roy's morning blues was proving themselves a feat to resist.

Roy smooths out his letter after he unfolds it. When he begins to stumble over the words, you realise he's sitting so close you can feel the vibration of his voice through his arm, pressed against yours.

Later, in bed, you lie awake for hours longer than is your usual. Sometime after too much tossing and turning, you lie flat on your back and admit your truth with a breathy sigh.

"He wanted me to read his brother's letter with him," your whisper is sleek and barely there in the night. "And I did."

A lilt of silence drifts as a stray breeze cools your shoulder. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say Roy Goode is a fool in love." Alice's words have you smiling stupidly into the dark. You had not known if she was awake to hear you, though you were not surprised; Alice was always there when she was needed, and Alice was always right.

The afternoon memory is a ghost in front of you, as if you're watching it all happen in the shadows of the night. His letter fluttering to the floor. His hand finding yours. Your arms encircling him. His arms tight around your back, hand on the back of your head. The way your hair stood on end as his breath graced your neck.

Then, as if she can see the memory with you, Alice laughs a soft laugh. "And I'd say that you are too. Whatever are we to do with you?”

You roll over onto your back. It’s a few minutes later when Alice’s muffled breathing announces she’s at last surrendered to sleep.

“Will you miss me when you go on to your brother?”

Roy Goode had taken your face in his hands. From this angle, the sunlight hit his glistening eyes just right. From this angle, the face of this wanted killer was fragile, expectant.

“Not if you come with me.”

Too many options. You weigh them. He'll give anything, you could ask for his mouth or thick fingers or dick. Could push off your back and clamber onto his lap. He's a mess but hiding it well, save for telling pinched brows.

"Wanna see you better."

He sits high on his knees and blinks at you, trying to focus. It's hard, when you're a glowing vision in his backseat and nude besides underwear. An angel. Splayed and running a tender hand along his chest, your thumb coaxes his nipple.

"Fuck," he hisses, dark lashes aflutter.

You smile. Rarely are you the one doing the teasing.

"Sensitive," you coo and pinch quick. "Oh, you like that."

Ribbons of silver moonlight bleed through the windows, strapping across his abdomen. They set the honey-blond hairs above his belt flaming white, flowing down his navel in a band, beckoning to be licked and touched.

You twist his nipple between a delicate thumb and index. He barely swallows a whimper.

"Baby." He scrambles to hitch your thigh up his waist, holding it there while he helplessly grinds the swell of his jeans against you. "Fuck, you're so- so good. A fuckin' angel."

Your hand falls and settles on his bicep. He ruts slow and stuttered, lowering himself to press the point of his nose beside your ear. Powdery fragrance, he breathes in and in again, chest flowering with sticky, sweet love.

"Dean, I... oh."

He raises his head, fingers kneading at the dough of your leg. His rings indent cold and your half-lidded eyes tug his heart achingly. You've such a breathy, faraway voice and he hasn't even fucked you stupid yet.

"Good?" he checks. "Feels good? You like this?"

You nod feverish, catching his chin with a sloppy, pillowed kiss. He's got enough sense to grin lopsided and swallow your mouth whole, tongue needling for yours. This earns him a dreamy, lilting sigh that pits straight to his gut and pools there in welling heat.

"Y'sound like..." he starts, mumbling and blissed, following a connecting string of saliva back towards your lips. Can't ever get his fill, mind a mantra of you, warm, soft, sugary. "Heaven. What does heaven sound like?"

A shaky breath passes from your nose. "Heavenly, I'd guess."

He licks a stripe on your throat. Your arms cross over his shoulder blades, palm scooping through spiked hair, hips lifting to meet his movement. A small, hiccupping sound flies from him traitorously, bordering on plea.

"Jesus- shit," he says. His clothed thrusts become sloppy.

"Here," you offer, reaching for his belt. "Please."

There's nothing else to think about, to feel, except for your fingertips grazing past that musky trail on his low stomach. He slows, missing the friction as it wanes, but adoring your cautious expression. Excitedly nervous. Your pinkie curls around a belt loop. His palm skates the length of your thigh.

"Y'don't have to," he murmurs. "It's okay, baby."

Dean decides you must be magic, when your eyes find his. Glittering jewels amidst the dim light in the car. He can see your smile, a perfect, curling thing, and holds back from kissing you again and again until your brain is mush.

"Want to," you reply. His belt comes undone with a clink.

The button of his jeans pops out lazy under your tentative touch, but he doesn't rush. Rolls his lip beneath a shiny canine as you slide the zipper down and stifles a whiny beg. You're soft and pretty and he wants to bury himself in your skin forever.

You work his jeans to his knees and then pause to watch him quietly, ignoring his straining boxers, your chest pulling with prolonged rises. He wonders where that brief teasing went but loves you just as much, like this. Affected.

"Hey," he whispers. Leans quickly to give a smacking kiss to your hip bone. "You're beautiful."

"Thank you. You're, um. You're beautiful, too."

His body pangs. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. Can you fuck me, now? Please."

Yes, yes, yes.

Clumsy in this small space, he manages to kick off his pants without hitting the top of his head and yanks his wallet from the back pocket to grab a condom. Brings it to his teeth and tears it open. His supply is diminishing.

"Yeah, yeah, baby. Yes. C'mere."

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