pip.

You watch the rain drip from the rooftop and splash onto your windowsill. The drops are sludge-like and black, as the water mixes with the soot kicked up by the chimney sweeps from the evening before. Poor lads. You gave them a coin for the work, which the doctor had chided you for.

“You don’t have any to spare, my dear,” he said, looking at them from the window.

You saw the smiles crack over their little soot covered faces and felt no remorse. 

“Their happiness is priceless, Patrick.”

Secretly, Patrick’s heart thumped over the act of kindness. Your generosity and maternal instinct was something he admired greatly.

The good doctor is out, restocking his stores. You know he keeps laudanum for an injury from service in India. He was worried the rain would make you ill, so you’ve been directed to stay inside, stay dry, and keep warm. 

You could be resting. You could be making yourself a small meal or having tea with the woman who lives across the way. You could be reading or doing your barre exercises but instead you are in Patrick’s room. 

A room you know well, seeing as you fretted over it for months before finding your perfect tenant. You flip through his notebooks, hoping to find anything that could teach you something about him. You can see the thick veil that covers his past. It slips down like fine silk over him, hiding him from you whenever you ask. Even in your softest voice, he denies you. 

You have a strong suspicion the doctor is falling in love with you. Many times you feel the same way. He is like a husband to you, doting on you and scolding you when you need it. His presence is felt in every corner of your flat– you feel him most in the quiet light of early morning when your body aches for him. It is a physical need you have never experienced before Patrick.

You open a small journal, flipping past scrawlings of medical jargon you could never understand. You pass a page of sketches– it takes a moment for what you’ve seen to take root– then swiftly turn the page back, gasping quietly. It is illustrations of a woman’s nethers, all in excruciating detail. 

“Oh my,” you murmur, holding it to the candle. 

His script is smaller on the words, beautiful, sensitive, and divine. His words carry the reverence of prayer. You imagine him curled over this notebook by candlelight, carefully drawing these. The light of the flame hugging his distinct profile and making his beard glow bronze.

You nearly drop the candle when you read your own name.

My ballerina. My perfect angel. My spinning figurine. 

You close the book quickly and blow out the candle, rushing to your room. You hide under the blankets like a child. A strike of lightning turns your sheet ghostly translucent and the low growl of thunder that follows has you shivering. 

You remain there, spiraling. You remember a morning two weeks past where you woke up sore– the way the men leave you sore– but you had been with nobody besides the doctor the night prior. How long has this been happening? You’ve had strange dreams of hazy touches and lingering kisses. Your stomach churns at the thought of those being reality. The doctor you trusted– the doctor you loved. How could he do such a thing? Treat you no better than the sailors and patrons from the theatre that used you and left you sobbing into the blanket. 

You hear the door to the flat open and footsteps, each one searing holes into your mind through your ears. He calls for you, his voice getting nearer. Each one is more sugared than the last. He must have gotten a drink while he was out. 

“Where have you gone to?” Patrick asks.

He knocks on your door softly.

“My dear?”

“I-I am… ill, Patrick! Don’t come in. Please, I don’t want you to catch it,” you swiftly lie to him.

“You should let me examine you if you believe you are ill,” he answers, his tone lower.

You nearly retch at the word examine. The doorknob turns and he smiles sweetly at you.

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost,” he coos to you playfully.

He leans down, cupping your face sweetly. His thumb pushes your jaw down to let him peek at your tongue and throat. You wonder fleetingly if he has ever used your mouth, and once more try not to vomit. 

“You seem to be in perfect health, dear. What gave you such a fright?”

His voice still brings you so much comfort, despite the horror of his transgressions. You cannot look at him, so your arms encircle him instead and you sob into the work-worn fabric of his waistcoat. He cradles the back of your head and soothingly rubs your back.

“Save your tears, my girl. I’m here.”

“No men, please. Not this week, I-I cannot bear it,” you foist your fear onto another party. 

“No, no. You’re not well. Perhaps not sick, but something is troubling you. I’ll brew us some tea, sweet girl. It’ll warm you up and calm your nerves some,” he suggests in a low, kind voice. 

Tea. You gag again, and he lowers himself to your level.

“No! No, Dr. Sumner, I… I think even tea would be t-too much for my stomach,” you lie once again, avoiding his eyes. 

“Alright, dear. We’ll have some later,” he insists. 

You decide there, in his gentle clutches, that you will have your revenge on Patrick Sumner. 

Laudanum is the mysterious, bitter taste in every warm cup of tea he’s handed you. You thought perhaps he was just quite bad at brewing it, but the truth is much more sickeningly sinister. Drugging you to have his way with you, to prod at you and leave evidence of the indecency in his journals. It is vile.

So you will do the same for him. You are no better than the educated doctor with a blackness in his heart. Your will haunt him and make him regret violating you in this way. You have spent more time in his room, as he goes out to the opium dens and smokes the frozen past away. You know who he is now. You know the ship Volunteer and the villain Drax. The lives Patrick has taken, and he’s ruined one life too close for comfort. She looks at you in the mirror with grief in her face. But you won’t let him take your beauty too.

You practise your barre. You arrive early to the theatre and leave late. You refuse the tea, citing your sensitive stomach. The doctor is still so intent on touching you, even without the net of laudanum to catch you in. You see the anger behind his eyes and the frustration twitching at the corner of his mouth. 

Without the medicine you feel so ill. You sweat like you’ve been dancing for hours. Your sleep is fitful and your evenings are spent heaving over a bucket. 

But the laudanum is how you will catch the doctor.

You share a laugh with him, watching his face turn red in the light. His hair is slightly damp– the doctor keeps himself very clean and bathes often. You tip your glass to your lips, taking a small sip as Patrick finishes his own. He grins at you, blinking slowly. 

“You are so beautiful,” he admits, the blur of intoxication smearing his words. 

Educated doctor. He’s a fool to miss that your drink has hardly dwindled. Not to see you pouring it into the water basin behind you.

“You seem well,” he notes sweetly. “You know,” he leans in, his usual façade of properness shredded to ribbons by the drink, “I nearly worried you’d become pregnant.” 

You swallow.

“I was furious at the notion,” he confesses, scowling into his drink.

He meets your eyes and his expression softens. 

“I trust your virtue, my darling girl. The anger was with my own diligence as your physician- or lack thereof. That I would have let some ship rat from the docks fill your perfect cunt…” he trails off, shocked at his own candor. “Forgive me. I’ve had too much to drink. I-”

He attempts to stand and teeters, crashing back onto his bed. Within moments, the surgeon is asleep. You take the cup from his fingers before it spills on your floor and drips onto the pub patrons downstairs. You blow out two of the candles, leaving you in cooler darkness. 

Patrick is beautiful. The tight knot of worry that troubles his face has been undone. He looks so peaceful– his expression is blissfully vacant. The dark cloud of his mysterious past has dissipated, allowing a blue moonbeam to light his pale face.

You reach for him. As a test, you trace over his features. His beard and his jaw, up to the creases on his forehead, and down the length of his nose.

For a moment, the events he chronicled in the journals cross your mind. The cries of clubbed seals. His plunge into the ice. The poor cabin boy. Lifetimes of horror in less than one year. 

The pity fades when you see his eyes dart around beneath closed lids. A sleeping beast is still a beast. Your hands slip down to his chest, unbuttoning his waistcoat and shirt. Your first act of exposure is his chest. Cream coloured and freshly blushed from your touch. There is a charming quality about him. 

His trousers follow. His cock is mostly soft, which surprises you. All of his skin is the same pale colour. Your confidence wanes as you smooth one hand up his thigh and watch his cock jump. Your fingers wrap around him and squeeze lightly. A strangled wheeze leaves his throat. The confidence returns, heating your face and making your heart pound. Patrick throbs in your grasp, his cock hardening slowly. You feel slightly offended. You’ve known men who are thick in their trousers before you take them inside. You often have to comfort the masculinity of the men who stiffen when Patrick examines them for disease. 

You lean over him, grabbing at his face. He makes a louder noise, something throaty– he sounds like an injured animal. You want to hurt him. 

You have a better idea.

You think of him testing your cunt with his fingers. The calculated thumb that rubs over your clit to bring you to an unwanted orgasm. You push his legs apart, smirking at the wanton sound that leaves him. You wonder if he’s had plenty of women, if he’s used to this. His back arches in a way that makes your eyebrow arch. Maybe he’s had men, too. You reach over him and steal the pillow from his head, shoving it under his hips to prop them up. 

He is so noisy, this doctor. You crawl back up again, pushing two of your fingers past his lips. He groans around them as you gather up some of his spit. 

You look between his legs. One digit to start. The moment you press against his hole he cries out, head lolling to the side. It slips in slowly– he’s a bit looser than you expected, but the spit still helps. He squeezes around you and whimpers above you. This isn’t the first time you’ve done this for a man. You know they love it, with their burning cheeks and whispered requests. 

Patrick is no different. He looks distressed, but the way his cock is throbbing illustrates the opposite. With your other hand, you continue stroking up and down the length of him, leaning forward to lick the tip of it. 

You know he’s put his mouth on you. You’ve been wondering for months what could be causing the chafing on your most sensitive inner thigh. His beard is no doubt the culprit. The colour has lightened from how often he finds his mouth on you.

You’re patient with the doctor. Slipping your finger in and out until you feel you can add a second. Your every urge says to hurt the doctor, but deep inside you know he never hurt you. Violation is different. 

“Wh- where… what…” Patrick attempts to speak. 

You freeze. He moans again, a shaky arm reaching up to cup his forehead. 

You didn’t think of his resistance to laudanum. The nights he’s spent in the opium den have made him even less vulnerable to it. 

“I know what you did,” you hiss, clamping your hand around his cock and curling your fingers.

He gasps, his eyes falling shut.

“Treating me like a little doll,” you snarl. “Taking off my clothes, touching me-”

“Sweet girl-”

“Speak again and I will gag you, Patrick,” you threaten him. 

You meet his shivering gaze. He looks so frightened. Your handling becomes rougher. 

“I trusted you. I thought you were protecting me,” you continue. “You are nothing but a cur, Doctor,” you spit his title at him. “A monster and a killer.”

His eyes widen above you.

“Oh, I read your journals. Every last word. All those men you left unburied to die in the arctic. You have such a hatred for the sailors because you see Drax in the eyes of each one.” 

Tears prick at your eyes. 

“I have woken up morning after morning aching for you without knowing it,” you confess. “My stomach has been in knots. My very soul is spoiled.”

You lean over him, driving your fingers up to the knuckle. A choking noise bursts out of him. You fully intend to choke him.

“I am going to ruin you, Dr. Sumner,” you whisper, a mad grin spreading across your face.

You stare at each other for a moment. You are prey turned predator.

“Please,” he begs. “My girl, please…”

You move back slightly, shocked at his words. His hand comes up to cup your cheek. 

“My darling… my ballerina… ruin me, I beg you.”

You dart forward, pressing your mouth against his. You have never kissed the doctor before– perhaps you have, but not while awake. You feel the brush of his beard on your face. Your fingers curl once, twice, three times more as your thumb rubs over the head of his cock. You pull back to watch him shatter. He howls, throwing his arm over his face to hide from you. You won’t allow it, nudging it away with your forehead. He feels your breath fan over his cheek. He gasps and moans pitifully into your lips, coating your hand in his syrupy spend. 

You are both exhausted. You are in a whirlwind of emotion. You have never felt angrier or closer to someone or so bloody nauseous in all your life. You listen to him speak softly. Praises of your name and professions of love. Vows of protection and honesty. His hand at your shoulder, rubbing over your skin. 

You quickly withdraw your fingers, making him whine like a woman. You let go of his cock and lunge at him, slapping his face. And then you kiss him again. 

“I’ll take care of you. My love, my sweet girl,” he murmurs, his lips at your temple. 

You sob like a child, hiding in his bare chest. You pay no mind to the mess and let the doctor comfort you.

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Jack sits in the Bureau car with tinted windows across the street, watching you nervously wave goodbye to Ellen and rush back to the house. You look both ways and still don’t see him. Idiot. A sports car speeds down the street– not a foot away from you! His heart skips a beat. You could have been hurt, or worse. 

He takes off, white-knuckling the steering wheel. How could you? He only has one rule for you, and you’re just breaking it? Day after day, going over to Ellen’s house to do God knows what with God knows who else. 

He parks the car in the garage and smoothes back his hair. He takes the elevator up from the garage to Surveillance. 

“Cutting it close on lunch there, Jack,” a coworker notes. “Too good for the cafeteria?”

“My lady makes a good tuna salad, Frank,” he jokes, trying to hide his grimace. 

At the end of the day, Jack says goodbye to the lingering agents in Surveillance– the ones without wives to get home to, who will probably heat up a TV dinner and fall asleep on the sofa. He casually strolls out to the parking lot. He fishes for his car key in his briefcase and scowls at that little plastic Dialpak hiding inside. He felt like throwing up when he found the thing buried among the powders in your makeup drawer. 

He drives home slowly. He wants to drag it out. He smirks a little at the thought of you tapping your foot anxiously while staring at the clock. Maybe you’ve frantically searched through every drawer trying to find your misplaced contraband. 

He parks in the drive and takes his sweet time walking up the path. He unlocks the door and pushes it open. 

“Honey, I’m home,” he calls.

He grins when he sees you. You do look frightened, but relieved. Your toe is tapping just as he predicted, and your shoes are on. 

“You’re so late,” you coo, walking over to take his coat. “The traffic must have been awful.”

He wants to start off nice. Ease you into this punishment. 

“Your shoes are on,” he states. 

“Hm? Oh. I, um, I was just trying them on with this dress,” you clumsily lie. 

“In the garden?” he adds, pointing to the smudge of dirt on the toe. 

“What?” you play dumb.

He grabs you by the arm and brings you to the kitchen, sitting you at the dining table. The plastic chair wobbles with the force. He kneels down, snatching your heel off your foot and inspecting it. 

“It’s dirty, sweetheart,” he grits through a pained-looking smile. “You went outside,” he accuses.

“J-Jack, I-” he sees the panic on your face setting in, “I’m sorry, Jackie, I’m so sorry, I was just dropping off that Tupperware Ellen had brought over-”

“For thirty minutes?” he barks at you, standing up. 

His hand squeezes your shoe and you watch his face turn red as the vein in his forehead pops out. 

“You… you were watching me?” you whisper in realisation. 

“Why didn’t you call her?” he snarls, his blue eyes wide and crazed. “She could have come and got it herself-”

“Because that sounds insane! Hi Ellen, I know you just live across the street but could you come to me and get your dish? You know they all ask, Jack! ‘Why can’t you leave the house? Why don’t you ever go anywhere without him?’” you shout at him. 

He throws your shoe across the kitchen, striking the clock and making it fall to the ground and shatter. You gasp but before you can complain about the clock being a gift, he’s got you by the arm again, lifting you out of your chair and taking your place. He drapes you over his lap and reaches for the hem of your dress. 

“Jack! Jack, no-!”

Your voice and struggles are both paused by a hard smack on your backside. 

“I’m your husband!” he shouts, spanking you again. “You’re mine, for better or for goddamn worse, and a good wife oughta listen to her husband. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Jack, of course,” you plead. “Yes, of course, please-”

“Be a good girl for me, sweetheart, please?” he says softly, patting your behind gently with that big, warm hand. “I love you so much, honey, I wake up in the night just worried sick about everything out there. You’re so beautiful, there are so many… deviants out there who would want to hurt you.”

“Please, d-don’t-”

He spanks you again, again, and five more times until his hand is rubbing that stinging heat in. You sob, gripping his trousers for something to hold on to. 

“Don’t you ever leave this house again without me,” he barks.

“I won’t, I won't," you bawl, your mascara blurring your vision of the tile in the kitchen.

“I don’t like to hurt you. I don’t like it at all, honey,” his voice slips into that squeaky, desperate tone again. “You can’t leave, baby. You can’t. I’ll just die if anything happens to you, sweetheart. I’ll die.”

You can’t even speak anymore. You’re overwhelmed by the broken glass and his rage and the heat between your legs– you realise suddenly that his hand is between your legs. 

“Oh, honey,” he purrs. “I knew you liked this.”

“No-”

“No, no, I knew it. You love it when I put you in your place, sweetheart. You’re such a good girl for me,” he breathes, his fingers skimming over the soaked-through gusset of your nylon panties. 

Despite your best efforts, you moan.

“I know what you need, honey.”

Your stomach drops.

“You need a baby.”

“No, no, I don’t want a baby, J-Jack, stop it, no-”

He lifts you up and pushes you over the dining table. 

“You’ll look so perfect with a baby. You’ll have something to worry about right here at home. No reason to leave, no reason to go over to anyone’s house. They can come here and help you with our little angel,” he explains. 

He’s giddy like a schoolboy, fumbling to unbuckle his belt and unzip his trousers.

“Jack- can I- y-your fingers first, please,” you beg in a choked sob.

“Ellen’s such a stupid whore, isn’t she?” he ignores your request, seething behind you. “Putting all these goddamn… ideas in your head, like you’re some kind of bra-burning college student. You’re not!”

He pushes you down and rips your panties down your legs, lining up with your soaking cunt. He drags the tip of his cock through your folds and pushes in slowly. You cry out, clawing at the table.

“Don’t scratch up the table, baby, we haven’t had dinner,” he snarls, leaning over you.

He lifts your hair and kisses the nape of your neck, inhaling deeply.

“Your shampoo smells so nice,” he murmurs. “I gotta give you a little baby. And maybe we don’t stop at one.”

You bawl, trying to wriggle out from under him. His large hand plants on your back, pinning your body to the table. Finally sheathed inside, he twitches, nudging your cervix. 

“J-Jack,” you croak. “Plea-”

Before you can finish begging, he pulls out until only the tip is in you and slams back in. He’s punishing you with this. It’s hardly even pleasurable for him, the way he pumps in and out of you like an animal. His hand fists into the skirt of your dress, using it to yank your hips back to meet his thrusts. The zipper on his trousers pinches into your thigh each time he drives home. 

“You’re my wife, my wife. You didn’t choose any of those other fucking morons in class, you chose me. Me! God, honey, you just make me so damn angry sometimes! I don’t want to yell at you!” he tries to hold back the rage shaking through his justifications.

You wish you could deny your body, but the warmth gathering in your tummy is hard to ignore. You’re cold and lonely all day in your empty house. 

Maybe it would be better to have a kid. You’d have someone to take care of, to keep you company and play with. And once the first went off to school, you could have another on the way. 

Jack watches the crease between your brows smooth out. 

“That’s it, baby,” he coos, holding you gentler. “That’s my girl. Lemme take away all that worry. Lemme give you a baby, sweetheart.”

“Yes, Jack,” you breathe, arching your back and allowing him to sneak his hand under you.

His fingers rub tight circles around your clit. He’s precise and quick. You’ve been married for long enough that he knows how to take you apart like he does his firearm. 

“There she is, c’mon. Don’t cry, sweetie. Don’t cry, this is a good thing,” he lies, trying to comfort you and coax you into an orgasm. “I know babies take better if the mama cums… cum for me, sweetie, be good for once today, please.”

You shatter in his hands, and he takes his time picking up your pieces. Kissing away tears, smoothing his hand over your shoulder. 

“Fuck, baby. Feel so good. I’m so clo-se…”

All the sweet words in the world have you in a deep spell— only taken out by the familiar sensation of his warm cum filling you up.

“Atta girl, hon. Love you so much.”

He gives you one last swat on the backside and pulls out. His fingers immediately plug the hole. 

“We’ll just stay here for a while… until it has time to take. And then we can have dinner.” 

He kisses your cheek. 

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you too, Jack,” you whisper, stuck under his thumb like you always are. 

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Lion looks away as you push him against the wall. You quickly lock the front door of your shared apartment, then grab his face and turn his head back.

“Look at me,” you growl at him. “I can’t believe you would do that to me!”

“I’m so-rry-”

“You embarrassed me in front of all of our friends!” you shout. 

At the nice dinner you had gone out to with his manager and agent, Lion had mentioned offhandedly that his real dream was always to open a laundromat. You saw red, and before you could stop him from talking he alluded to retiring soon.

“I-I meant it though, I don’t wanna box an-anymore,” he whines, his eyes not facing you.

You dig your nails into his cheeks. 

“Fuck, ow! Why do you care s-so much?” he asks you, his voice wobbling with incoming tears.

“Why do I- are you fucking stupid, Lion?” 

You know exactly what to do. The same card you pull every time, the one that gets him to kiss your feet and beg for forgiveness.

You sniffle, storming away from him. 

“No, baby, d-don’t cry,” he urges you.

You hold your eyes wide open for a second, fanning air into them. You feel the sting of them drying up and the slow welling of water at the bottom. You blink, letting two small tears collect your mascara and drip little black lines down your cheeks. 

Lion watches you turn around and face him, feeling heat in his stomach when he sees your teary-eyed pout. This always happens. The moment you get sniffly or start to tear up, he feels dizzy. Something about you crying just makes him so horny. He’s desperate to stop your tears– or at least turn them into tears of pleasure. 

“I’m sorry,” he coos quickly, rushing over to try and hug you. 

You push him away, shaking your head.

“I don’t believe you,” you spit as you fake cry.

“I-I mean it! Please, baby-”

Your hand moves from his face to his forehead, pushing him down onto his knees.

“Prove it, Lion,” you huff out, blinking your eyes to let a fat tear fall onto his forehead. 

It streaks down the middle of his face, leaving a trail of black speckles in its path. 

“Wh- prove it?” he questions quietly. 

You feel his arms hugging around your legs, his cheek pressing to your bare thigh. Your eyes go wide at the press of his hardening cock against your shin. 

“You are such a sick little freak, Lion!” you accuse him, the tears flowing freely now. “You always do this! Every time I’m c-crying because you won’t listen to me I see you getting fucking hard-”

“No, no, it’s b-because you look so pretty! You look so pretty, baby, that’s why! I wouldn’t- I don’t-”

“Ugh! You’re such a liar!” you shout.

You really have to try not to smirk. He’s just so damn easy. 

He hugs your legs closer and you try to squirm away. Your heel grazes his cock in his trousers and he groans. 

“Lion,” you complain. “Move!”

“Please, please, I’m sorry,” he begs you. “I’m so sorry, baby, please,” he cries. “I-I’m drunk, I wasn’t thinking straight…”

He rocks his hips against your heeled foot, chanting apologies to the hem of your dress. He kisses the tops of your thighs as your dress rides up. Your false squirming continues, but you have to cover your face to hide your grin. 

Lion lets his legs spread wider, his hot breath fanning over your thighs. He continues to apologise, the words becoming more broken and desperate with every drag of his clothed cock over the straps of your heels. Your movement doesn’t help, sporadically pushing and sliding your foot against him. Your dress rides up– he’s been pushing it with his hands– so far that your lacy panties are on display. He kisses over your cunt, licking the fabric over your folds until it’s stuck to you with his spit and your want. 

“I’m sorry, baby, t-tell me you forgive me, say you forgive me, please, please,” he sobs, shaking on the floor below you.

“You’re so stupid,” you snarl at him. “You don’t even know how great of an athlete you are. You’re the best boxer I’ve ever seen, Lion-”

“Stop, stop, j-just say you forgive me,” he pleads, humping your leg faster now.

“Everyone else out there is a little boy playfighting and you’re like… you’re like a fucking tiger,” you gush, curling your hand in his hair. “You would give that up? For what? To wash other people’s clothes?”

“Please,” he whimpers, looking up at you with tears in his eyes. “I’m not quitting, I won’t quit, I promise.”

You lean down and tug on his hair.

“I forgive you.”

He gasps for air, jerking against you as he cums in his trousers, making a mess of his nice boxer briefs. He slumps against your leg and you feel his tears dripping down your thigh. 

“Get those in the machine, since you wanna do laundry so bad,” you snark, shoving him back with your hand on his forehead.