doormatty3 - Tumblr blog

doormatty3 · 3 months ago

Text

Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 13 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)

Masterlist Ao3

Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink

Summary

[Patrick Wilson x Original Female Character] [Patrick Wilson x Original Character] Éléanor had always adored winter: its snow, its crisp air. But what she treasured most was retreating to her cosy cabin in the Swedish mountains. There, she could bake, sketch, and enjoy the solitude, far from the noise of the world. At least, that’s how it used to be—until a new neighbour arrived. Patrick Wilson was tall, charming, and with a smile that seemed to melt the coldest days. As they struck up a friendship, Éléanor found herself drawn to him, even though he remained oddly secretive about his last name and evasive about his work. But when a fierce snowstorm trapped them both, it became clear that Patrick might just be the warmth she needed in more ways than one. OR: Patrick uses his body to warm up Éléanor in the snowy mountains.

Wordcount: 4078

A/N: So...here we are at the final chapter of Éléanor and Patrick's journey—thank y’all for reading along! This story truly holds a special place in my heart; it's probably one of my favourite things I've ever written.

Back in France, Éléanor slipped back into the rhythm of her days at the café, but something inside her had shifted. The town was the same, cobblestone streets winding between sun-bleached buildings, shutters clattering softly in the wind, and the soft hum of early morning life. The café, too, was unchanged. Its windows still fogged with warmth each morning, the scent of butter and sugar curling out into the street like an invitation. But Éléanor…Éléanor had changed.

Everything felt faintly distant, as if she were living in the outline of her life, not quite filled in. Her hands still moved with practised ease—mixing flour, folding dough, pouring espresso with a steady hand—but her mind wandered constantly .

Every scent, every moment of quiet, carried her back to the mountains. To the creak of the cabin floorboards, the sound of snow falling thick outside the window. To the warmth of Patrick's flannel shirts, the way he said her name like it was a secret only he knew.

There were mornings when she’d pause while setting out the croissants, her fingers lingering on the warm trays, remembering the way his hands had moved over her skin—slow and reverent. She’d catch herself staring at the window, eyes unfocused, wondering what he was doing at that exact moment. If he was thinking of her too.

Virginie, ever the perceptive friend, noticed the change in Éléanor.

There was a lightness to her step and a sparkle in her eye that had not been there before. It was as if Éléanor was carrying a secret joy with her, one that she was reluctant to fully share but could not completely hide. Virginie’s teasing continued unabated, with playful comments and knowing glances.

“You keep staring out the window like he’s going to appear in the fog,” she’d tease as she passed by with a tray of espresso cups.

Éléanor would only roll her eyes and mutter something about inventory, but her blush betrayed her.

“You’re completely useless,” Virginie would sigh dramatically. “A disaster. You’ve been ruined by love.”

But there was no malice in her voice—only affection. A deep and wise sort of happiness for her friend. Virginie, who had once sworn Éléanor would grow old married to her oven and her sourdough starter, now watched her with the warm amusement of someone witnessing the first bloom of something rare and true.

Late at night after the café closed, Éléanor would slip on the flannel Patrick left her, curl up in it by the window of her small apartment, and reread the letter he’d left again and again until the ink faded and felt etched into her memory.

She’d look up at the stars. The same sky, she told herself. The same moon. Somewhere out there, maybe he was looking too.

She whispered goodnight to him even though he couldn’t hear.

Her sketchbook was filling faster than it had in years. Between scribbled café orders and hasty recipe notes, drawings unfurled like vines across the paper. She drew without thinking, without planning—just chasing moments before they vanished. His eyes appeared again and again, as if by muscle memory: the way they crinkled when he laughed, how they turned stormy in thought. She traced the gentle curve of his nose, the way early morning light dappled across his cheekbones, the silhouette of him standing in the doorway of their snow-covered cabin, haloed by frost and sky.

Once, she caught herself sketching the chipped enamel mug he always used—the navy blue one with the constellation painted on the side, the rim cracked just slightly. Another time, it was their boots in a heap by the fire, tangled together like sleeping dogs. Small things. Ordinary things. But they felt like anchors. She drew as if by capturing them, she could keep their world from slipping through her fingers.

But the days stretched.

Time moved differently now—slower somehow, heavier. Mornings arrived not with the clatter of alarms but with a quiet ache that settled in her chest, deep and dull. There was a rhythm to it, involuntary: two weeks since he left. Twelve days since she last heard his voice over a flickering video call. Three days since that last text—just a simple thinking of you , but she read it over and over, like scripture.

Their last conversation replayed in her mind like a vinyl record left looping—his voice low and certain, even through the static. We’ll figure it out, he’d said. This isn’t the end. She wanted to believe it, clung to it. But promises felt fragile now, too easily broken by distance, by life pulling in different directions.

Because it wasn’t just geography that separated them anymore, it was the weight of everything unspoken. It was time zones and obligations and the yawning unknown. The world he had returned to was fast and bright and loud. The world she had returned to was warm and small and still.

And somewhere in between, they tried to hold onto each other.

_____

One crisp autumn morning, the little French town wore its autumn colours like a painting—cobblestone streets scattered with golden leaves, ivy turning crimson along the stone walls. Inside the café, the warmth of cinnamon and fresh pastries mingled with the soft hum of conversation and the hiss of steamed milk.

Éléanor moved through it all with the grace of someone who had built her world cup by cup, pastry by pastry—her fingers expertly shaping croissants and loaves of bread, her arm reaching for familiar mugs on familiar shelves. But her mind wasn’t fully there; it hadn’t been for weeks.

The rhythm of her days was the same, but her heart beat out of time.

She hadn’t seen Patrick since that snow-wrapped goodbye in the mountains. Weeks had turned into months, and though they still called, still texted, still promised—it wasn’t the same. Their words, however tender, were filtered through phones, screens, delays, and exhaustion.

He was lost in the whirlwind of a new film project—long days, strange cities, late nights under someone else’s stars. She, after battling a nasty bout of flu and the sudden loss of her and Virginie’s one reliable assistant, was buried in flour and fatigue, barely keeping up with the café’s demands.

Éléanor missed him.

Missed the way his laughter filled a room, the curve of his lips around her name, the quiet weight of his hand on the small of her back as she moved past him. The way he always remembered how she took her tea. The way he made her feel like the centre of some beautiful secret.

And though she tried to hold onto hope, there were days—especially between the mid-morning bustle and the lull of the early afternoon—when she felt the ache of him like a shadow stitched to her spine.

Virginie tried in the gentle way only old friends could. She brought warm croissants and stories about absurd customers, played Édith Piaf and sang along off-key. But even she came to understand, with a quiet sort of resignation, that there was a space inside Éléanor shaped precisely like him. A hollow nothing else could fill.

No distraction, no comfort, no well-meaning attempt at joy could soften the edges of his absence. He was gone—but not in any way that time could erase. He was gone in a way that lived on.

_____

It was the same chime she heard a hundred times a day, a soft, familiar sound that usually meant one of the regulars had popped in for their usual five minutes of café gossip. She didn’t even look up at first, her hands busy pouring a swirl of foam into a latte.

But the silence that followed made her pause.

No casual greeting. No rustle of newspapers or clink of coins in the tip jar. Just stillness, and then a slow, deliberate step.

She turned toward the sound—and froze.

A man stood in the doorway, haloed in the golden morning light. He wore a charcoal wool coat that clung to him like it had been made for his shoulders. Dark jeans, travel-worn boots. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, and sunglasses hid his eyes, but there was something unmistakable about the shape of him. Not just the outline but the way he moved.

There was a kind of quiet power in his posture, a groundedness that came not from vanity but from certainty. He walked towards her with the steady pace of someone walking towards something they never stopped hoping for. Every step pulled the breath further from her lungs.

The porcelain cup in her hand trembled.

It couldn’t be.

But even before he reached the counter, she knew. Her body knew. Hersoul knew. That tilt of his head, that unmistakable rhythm in his stride—it was him.

Patrick.

His name caught in her throat before it could leave her lips.

He stopped in front of the counter, close enough that she could smell the cold still clinging to his coat, mingling with a trace of cedar and something faintly citrus. He pulled off his sunglasses first—slowly like he wanted her to see. Then he removed his hat and set it gently down beside him.

And just like that, he was there.

The man she had dreamed of and longed for. The man she had missed with a kind of fierce, unbearable softness. His eyes—those ocean-blue eyes she had memorised—met hers, and she saw it all written there: the same ache, the same joy, the same impossibility of what they’d found and the inevitability of it too.

His hair, still thick and swept back with that easy elegance, was more styled now than it had been in the mountains, less windswept, more deliberate, but the touch of silver at his temples remained. His jawline was clean-shaven, more defined than she remembered, the angles crisp beneath the café’s warm lighting.

Éléanor still hadn’t moved.

Her flour-dusted hands hovered in midair like she’d forgotten how to finish a task. Around her, the café went on—coffee brewed, chairs scraped, soft music murmured overhead—but the world had gone utterly silent. As if it, too, had paused to make space for this.

All she saw was Patrick.

And then he smiled—slow, familiar, achingly tender. The kind of smile that had once lit up snowy mornings and quiet evenings in the mountains. It was just a little off-centre, a little imperfect, which somehow made it feel entirely his. A smile that didn’t just greet her, but reached into her chest and stirred the pang she’d tried so hard to quiet.

“ Bonjour, ” he said, his voice low and rich, laced with the softness she remembered. “I thought I’d stop by… see how you’re doing.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came at first. Her throat clenched tight, swollen with everything she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in his absence: disbelief, wonder, fear, the tremble of hope. She blinked rapidly, her heart clawing up her throat.

“Patrick?” she managed, breathless. “What… what are you doing here?”

He took a single step forward—just one—but it was enough to close the aching space between them. His smile softened and grew more vulnerable.

“I missed you,” he said quietly, the words simple but full. “I couldn’t stay away any longer.”

And before she could stop it, before the tears could gather, before her hands could remember they were holding anything, he leaned in and kissed her.

It was gentle. No urgency, no fire—just a soft meeting of lips that said more than any words could. It was a kiss made of memories and hope, of the long nights apart and the longing tucked into every unanswered call. It tasted like winter mornings and shared silence and something beginning again.

All she felt was the warmth of him: his arms around her, solid and familiar, and the quiet weight of the moment pressing against her chest.

Éléanor’s fingers curled into his coat as her arms wound around his waist, anchoring herself to him, to the proof that he was real and here and hers, even if just for a breath. He smelled like travel, airports and late-night taxis, maybe—but beneath it all was that same familiar scent she had memorised and mourned. Cedar. A touch of citrus. Warm skin and something she couldn’t name but had never once forgotten.

When they pulled apart, she looked up at him with wide, glistening eyes, her voice threaded with awe. “I can’t believe you’re actually here. How did you even pull this off without me knowing?”

Patrick’s chuckle was low and warm, the sound of it curling around her like a familiar song. “I wanted to make it a bit of a grand entrance,” he said, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Besides… I’ve been thinking. About us. About how we might finally steal a little more time together.”

Her heart surged at his words.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she said, voice trembling with sincerity. “There hasn’t been a single day I haven’t thought of you—wondered when we’d find our way back.”

He reached for her hand then, fingers threading through hers with ease, like they had never let go. His grip was warm, grounding. Real.

“I’ve thought about it too,” he said softly. “About us. About how to make this something more than moments snatched between flights and phone calls. I don’t want this to be a beautiful story we almost had. I want it to be real. All the way real. Even if it means changing everything.”

Her breath caught again, this time on something sharper—something like fear, or joy, or both tangled together.

“You’d do that?” she asked. “You’d really… change everything?”

Patrick didn’t hesitate.

“For you?” he said, his voice breaking just a little. “In a heartbeat .”

_____

They spent the rest of the day wrapped in the kind of quiet joy that only follows a long-awaited reunion. The hours slipped by like soft pages turning—each one filled with laughter, stories, and stolen glances that said more than words could.

Patrick’s visit was a balm to the slow, gnawing ache Éléanor hadn’t quite known how to soothe. His presence, so tangible now, grounded her in a way she hadn’t realised she’d been missing.

They wandered the cobbled streets of the town like they had all the time in the world, unhurried and open to wonder. Patrick moved through it all with the easy awe of someone trying to memorise everything—the peeling shutters, the ivy-wrapped balconies, the scent of yeast, rain, and roasting chestnuts in the air. He paused at flower carts to admire the late-season blooms, stooped to pet the lazy cats sunning themselves on doorsteps, and listened with a soft smile to the melodic rise and fall of French spoken in passing.

Éléanor led him through the pieces of her life as if she were offering him sacred things.

She brought him to the little bookshop tucked behind the church, its door creaking like a secret as they stepped inside. The scent of ageing paper and leather-bound time wrapped around them, and Patrick lingered at the poetry shelves while she traced her fingers over familiar titles. She watched him as he read snippets aloud in a hushed voice, each word softening in the intimacy of the space.

She showed him the park where she liked to sketch, pointing out the bench beneath the chestnut tree with its gnarled roots and canopy of rust-red leaves. “That’s where the light falls just right,” she murmured. “Around three-thirty, maybe four.” Patrick didn’t say anything, just looked at the tree like it mattered to him now too.

And, of course, they returned to the café. The hum of conversation, the smell of espresso, the clink of ceramic—all of it felt different now with him there, woven into the pulse of it. It no longer felt like a place where she simply endured her days; now, it held a moment—a spark of reunion, a doorway to something new.

Each place was a piece of her life, and sharing them with Patrick made everything feel more vivid, more real.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in strokes of amber and rose, they found a quiet bench on a hill just above the town square. The bells from the distant cathedral chimed the hour. Around them, the world slowed.

They sat close, their shoulders brushing, neither of them rushing to speak. There was a stillness between them now, not heavy, but full. The kind that follows months of waiting, of missing, of holding onto love through distance and silence and all the in-between spaces where longing tends to collect.

Patrick was the first to break the quiet. His voice was low and thoughtful.

“Time’s strange, isn’t it?” he said, his gaze sweeping the dusky horizon. “It stretches, pulls at you. You blink, and a week’s gone. Or it slows, painfully slow, when all you want is to be near the one person who makes the noise bearable.”

Éléanor nodded, her eyes on the streetlamps flickering to life one by one below them. “I know,” she murmured. “Sometimes I’d stand behind the counter, hands deep in flour, and suddenly it would hit me, how far away you were. Like I could feel the absence, like physically.”

He turned to her then, his eyes—those impossibly clear, storm-still eyes—holding hers. His hand found hers again, fingers brushing across her knuckles like a question. And then, more firmly, he wove them together.

“I’ve thought about you every damn day,” he said, quiet but unwavering. “ Every day, Éléanor. Not just in passing. You’ve been in the background of every thought, every scene, every silence.”

Her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. With the weight of months behind it, with a steadiness that cut through all the what-ifs and what-could-have-beens.

“I love you,” Patrick said then. No grand flourish. Just the truth, placed gently in her hands. “And I’m tired of letting life happen around us, hoping we’ll find our way back each time. I don’t want to keep living in the pauses between visits. I want more. I want space where we’re not waiting. I want a life that includes you—not just in memory or messages, but every day.”

Her breath caught. The words fell over her like rain after a long drought. She didn’t realise she’d been waiting to hear them until now, didn’t realise how deeply she’d needed the assurance.

“I love you too,” she whispered finally, her voice rough with feeling, her eyes shining in the golden spill of light from the streetlamp overhead. “I’ve loved you in every quiet moment. And I think… maybe we’ve spent enough time just trying to make it work. Maybe now it’s time to build something real.”

Patrick exhaled, his shoulders relaxing as if she’d unlocked some tightly held breath. A smile curved at his lips, not wide, but real. Grounded.

“I want a future with you,” he said, his voice steady, certain. “Not this patchwork of calls and crossed time zones. I want to make plans and keep them. I want to know when we’ll wake up in the same place again—not just hope for it. I’m tired of wondering. I want to know .”

Éléanor let out a soft laugh, delicate and trembling at the edges. It slipped from her like breath after surfacing from deep water.

“So do I,” she said, her words barely louder than the wind brushing through the trees. “More than anything…You still feel like home. Even through a screen, even when it’s late and I’m tired, and your voice is the only thing keeping me from falling apart. But I want more than that now.”

He nodded, and she saw the way his throat moved when he swallowed, emotion making his voice rough around the edges. “I don’t want us to be something that waits for windows to open. I want a door. A life. One we walk into together.”

They stood, not in a rush, just moving as if guided by some shared rhythm. Twilight had deepened into night, the sky bruised in hues of violet and navy, stars blooming into view above them. They wandered the path toward town, shoulders brushing, hands naturally finding each other again.

Éléanor glanced over and really looked.

It hadn’t been that long—a few months since they’d last stood in the same room. Video calls, voice messages, the daily check-ins, they’d kept each other tethered. But this—being here, in the same space—was different. Every detail of him felt more vivid, more textured in real life.

The way his wool coat moved with him, how the collar was still turned slightly from where he’d adjusted it earlier. His jaw was more defined than she remembered, clean-shaven now, the sharpness of his features softened by the warm cast of the streetlamps. His mouth was slightly downturned in thought, but the corners lifted when he glanced her way. That same lopsided smile that made her chest ache.

His hair was slightly longer than the last time she saw him in person, combed back with a casual sweep that didn’t quite tame the wave. There was more silver at his temples now, something he’d brushed off over video, but in person, it gave him a kind of quiet gravity.

“Do you think we could really do it?” she asked softly. “Not just see each other more, but actually live together in the same rhythm? You with your films. Me with the café. Those lives are so different.”

Patrick was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the stone path ahead. “I’ve thought about that,” he said finally. “And maybe it won’t be simple. I can’t promise I won’t still disappear into some set in another country. But I can promise I’ll never let that be the whole story. I want to build something steady—with you at the centre of it. Not the edges.”

She felt her heart pull towards him like a tide shifting.

“I’ve gotten used to being alone in certain ways,” Éléanor admitted. “Not lonely, always. Just… independent. Protective of my space. Of my time. But then you came, and everything softened. It still scares me how much I want this.”

Patrick squeezed her hand gently, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “It scares me too,” he said. “But the kind of scared that feels like standing on the edge of something good. Something real.”

He looked over at her, eyes clear and open. “I’ve been thinking about the life we could make. Not the dreamy version—but the real one, the everyday kind of life. Grocery runs. Sunday mornings in bed. The little things. I miss them. I miss you in them.”

She turned to him fully. “You always made it feel easy. Even when it wasn’t. And I don’t want a life that’s paused between visits either. God, I want something we can step into together.”

He smiled, soft and a little crooked. “So let’s stop waiting.”

They paused near the fountain in the square. The windows of the café glowed a few steps away, warm and inviting. The scent of roasted coffee and sugar drifted into the night, mingling with chimney smoke and the chill of fall.

“You know, I don’t need a perfect plan,” Éléanor said. “But maybe we could start with a season when you’re not filming. A few months where you’re here. Where we see what this looks like in the sunlight, not just the in-betweens.”

He turned to her, blue eyes steady. “I’d like that. I could stay here. Take fewer projects. Maybe even something local. I’ve already started pulling back. Making room.”

She looked up at him, eyes shimmering. “You’d really do that?”

“I already am,” he said. “You just didn’t know it yet.”

And somehow, that —more than the kiss, more than the arrival—was what undid her. Not the grand gesture but the quiet work he'd already begun. The sacrifice he hadn’t demanded applause for. The space he’d made for her, even when she wasn’t watching.

Their hands stayed clasped as they stepped back into the familiar warmth of the café. And for the first time in a long while, Éléanor didn’t feel like she had to choose between what she’d built and what she wanted.

They were already starting to overlap.

And maybe that was what love really looked like—not sacrifice, not surrender, but something bigger. An ever-expanding circle. A life made larger by letting someone in.

9 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 3 months ago

Text

Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 12 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)

Masterlist Ao3

Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink

Summary

Wordcount: 3363

A/N: Well...this is a very sad chapter. But where would we be without some kind of angst, right? Happiness? Don't know her

Their last day came quietly, not with drama or fanfare, but like an exhale—slow and inevitable.

It arrived in the hush of early morning, barely noticeable at first, just a change in the light. Pale blue seeped in through the windows, stretching in long, cold beams across the worn wood floor. Outside, the world was still and muted, muffled under a fresh fall of snow. The trees stood silent, their branches heavy with white, as if even they didn’t want to disturb the quiet.

Inside the cabin, nothing had changed, and yet everything had. It looked the same with coffee brewing in the corner, the stove humming softly, steam rising from the kettle—but everything felt off. Thicker. Slower.

Like the air itself knew what was coming and didn’t want to name it.

They hadn't spoken about it.

Not last night, when they had gone to bed in a frenzy, with the kind of urgency that bordered on frantic. Clothes were stripped hastily, mouths finding each other in the dark. Not with tenderness, at least not at first—more like hunger. As though touching more would delay the truth. Wishing that they could outrun the morning with every kiss, every bite, every breathless moan against skin.

Later, when the rush had slowed, and they lay tangled in the sheets, limbs knotted, breath slowly returning, there had been a moment. A soft, quiet space where his hands smoothed gently over the bruises his mouth had left. His fingers had moved slower then, reverent. Like he was trying to memorise every inch of her: the slope of her hips, the curve of her spine, the softness behind her knee. She’d let him. Let him trace her as if that touch might stay with him longer than the memory.

Not this morning, either, when she’d stirred awake before the light had fully broken. His arm had been wrapped tight around her waist, and his body curved into hers like a question he didn’t want to ask. She’d kept her eyes closed, just for a few more minutes, pretending it was any other morning. But the ache had already settled low in her chest, a dull throb that grew louder with every passing second.

He’d kissed her shoulder then, slow and aching. Not to wake her or to start anything. Just because he could—for now.

And then, like a quiet echo of the night before, he’d taken her apart again. This time softer and slower. There was no rush, no frenzy. Just long, unhurried touches.

Éléanor had felt the goodbye in every movement, in the way he looked at her like she was already slipping away. And she hadn’t stopped him. She hadn’t said a word.

Because saying it out loud would’ve made it real.

Still, the words had hovered on the tip of her tongue, sharp and trembling. She’d almost told him then, with the morning light pooling across the sheets and his hand tangled in hers, that she had fallen in love with him.

But she didn’t. Because if she said it and gave voice to the feeling blooming wild in her chest, then she’d have to face what came next.

Patrick was leaving that evening.

And they still hadn’t talked about what came after. What this was. What they were—if anything at all.

Now, Éléanor stood at the stove, flipping the last pancake with mechanical precision, watching as it bubbled and browned in the pan like nothing had changed. Like her world wasn’t quietly unravelling around her.

She wore one of his sweaters, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the hem grazing her bare thighs. It smelled like him—cedarwood, snow, and something deeper she could never quite name. Something she’d learned to associate with safety.

With home.

Her hands moved automatically, but her chest was tight, every breath measured. The sweet scent of maple syrup mingled with the faint smokiness of the fire behind her, but she barely registered it. Her focus was on the pan, on the sizzle, on not thinking about the inevitable. Not thinking about how much she’d fallen for him, how him leaving would surely break her heart.

Behind her, Patrick was setting the table with a kind of reverence, like each ceramic plate and mismatched mug held meaning.

She caught a glimpse of him in the reflection of the kettle—his tall frame bent slightly, shoulders stiff beneath a flannel shirt that looked a little too lived-in. His jaw was tight, his brow drawn in focus as if placing the cutlery just right might somehow stop time.

Éléanor slid the pancake onto a plate and turned off the stove. The quiet seemed to grow louder without the fan’s low hum. She stood for a beat too long, hands gripping the counter as it might steady her.

“Breakfast’s ready,” she said at last, her voice too soft, too even. As if pretending everything was normal could make it so.

Patrick gave a short nod, but didn’t answer right away. She finally turned and met his eyes, and there not yet—but she felt the pause between them, thick and full of things neither had dared say. When she finally turned, her eyes met his, and the weight of what she saw there hit her like a fist to the chest.

Something quiet. Something breaking. Something she wasn’t ready to face.

Not yet.

“So,” Patrick said after a beat, his tone light in a way that didn’t quite land, “any plans for Jacques today?”

Éléanor’s eyes flicked toward the windowsill, where the sourdough starter rested in its usual spot, the faintest fizz of bubbles along the surface. “He’s resting,” she replied, forcing a small smile. “I might bake tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

A word she said too lightly, dropped between them like a stone. She’d said it too easily like it was guaranteed. Like he’d still be here to smell the crusty bread fresh from the oven, to tease her about naming her starter like a pet, to lean his hip against the counter while she worked and sneak kisses in between folding dough. Like tomorrow wasn’t a future she’d have to face without him.

Patrick nodded and poured maple syrup over his plate like it was any other morning and not their last one. They ate in near silence, the scrape of cutlery and the occasional murmur filling the space where something heavier wanted to live.

When the plates were cleared and the kettle whistled for a second round of coffee, Patrick reached out and tugged her into a hug. It wasn’t sudden or showy. Just quiet and long as his arms encircled her slowly, his chin resting lightly on top of her head.

Éléanor didn’t hesitate but folded into him, letting the warmth of his chest soak into her like sunlight she’d never feel again. Her arms wrapped around his waist, fingers curling into the back of his shirt like they could anchor her there.

She hadn’t meant to cry—not yet—but the tears came anyway. Not in a rush. Just one, then another, sliding silently down her cheek and onto the front of his shirt. She didn’t wipe them away.

Patrick’s arms tightened, steady and solid, letting her sink further into him, letting her pretend, just for a few seconds longer, that this didn’t have to end.

“You’re gonna make it hard to leave,” he murmured, his voice thick, the words barely brushing the air between them.

Éléanor gave a soft, shaky laugh against his chest. “You were never going to make it easy,” she whispered, the words barely catching in her throat.

He pulled back just enough to look at her. Not far—just enough to see her face. “I’ve been avoiding it,” he said, searching her eyes. “Talking about it. Us. What comes next. But I think not saying anything is making it worse.”

She nodded slowly, her sleeve brushing under her eye. “I know. I’ve been doing the same.” Her voice cracked like thin ice underfoot.

They stood in the middle of the kitchen, morning light pooling around their feet, the silence stretching. She tilted her face up to his. Her eyes drank him in—the messy streaks of silver in his tousled brown hair, the scruff on his jaw she loved the feel of against her skin, those blue eyes that had undone her since the very first glance.

“I’ve fallen for you, El,” Patrick said, barely above a whisper. “Completely. Somewhere between the first cup of tea and the second snowstorm.”

Her breath hitched. She blinked slowly, trying to keep it together. “I have too,” she said, voice raw. “Fallen for you. I just didn’t know how to say it. I still don’t.”

The quiet between them shifted. It wasn’t uncomfortable now—it was full. Heavy with everything that hadn’t been said, everything they were finally saying.

“But…” Éléanor’s voice cracked, barely more than a breath. She swallowed hard, willing the words to come out steady. “You have your life. Your world. Los Angeles. The red carpets. The interviews. Scripts and meetings and premieres. People depending on you to be there, to show up and shine.” Her eyes flicked down, her fingers twisting into the hem of his shirt. “And I have mine. This place. The bakery in France. Virgine. And I…”

Her voice faltered.

“I know,” he said quickly, cutting in like he couldn’t bear to let her spiral. His voice held that same soft urgency she’d grown to crave. “I know, El. It’s not easy. It’s not neat. It’s not some fairytale where everything magically works out. I get it.”

She looked up at him again, eyes shining, bottom lip trembling like she was holding back more than tears. “I just…” Her breath hitched. “I don’t want this to become something I look back on and wonder if it was even real. I don’t want to be sitting in that bakery one morning, wondering if I dreamed you. If this was just some perfect little snow globe I got to live in for a few days before it shattered.”

Patrick reached for her then—not just a comfort, but something steadier. More certain. “It’s not a snow globe,” he said, voice low and sure. “It’s not something we had and leave behind. It’s something we are. Something we started. ”

“But how do we keep it?” she asked, almost pleading, her gaze scanning his face for an answer she wasn’t sure existed. “How do we make this real when the world pulls us in opposite directions?”

He lifted a hand to her cheek, brushing a thumb over the tear she didn’t even realise had fallen. “We try, ” he said, the words gentle but solid. “That’s all we can do. I come to France. You come to L.A. Or maybe we meet in the middle. We don’t let time or distance scare us off before we even give this a chance. We take the messy version, the complicated version, because it’s ours. And if it’s real—El, if it’s anything like what I feel in this moment—then that has to be enough to start.”

She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Her hand came up to cover his, pressing it tighter to her cheek like she could absorb the comfort through skin alone. “It is real,” she said, voice cracking with conviction. “It’s the realest thing I’ve felt in a long, long time.”

“Then we don’t let go,” he murmured. “Not now. Not when it’s only just beginning.”

She leaned into him again, forehead resting against his, their breaths syncing in that quiet way only people who truly saw each other could manage. Time blurred at the edges, the soft creak of the cabin settling around them. Her fingers curled around the back of his neck, memorising the texture of his hair, the warmth of his skin.

Éléanor closed her eyes and tried to hold it all—the scent of coffee and woodsmoke in his clothes, the scratch of his stubble against her temple, the sound of his breathing and the weight of his promise. She tried to carve the moment into her memory so deeply it wouldn’t fade, no matter how far he went.

_____

By late afternoon, the light had shifted into that soft, grey-blue hush that meant evening was closing in. Outside, snow drifted down in slow, deliberate spirals, dusting the windowsills and softening the world into a quiet kind of stillness.

Inside the cabin, Patrick moved slowly and deliberately, folding sweaters with a care that bordered on reverence. He checked drawers he already knew were empty, ran his fingers over the worn spine of a book on the shelf, zipped and unzipped his duffel like he was waiting for something to stop him. Every movement carried the weight of goodbye. Every breath seemed measured.

Éléanor stood quietly in the doorway, arms folded, her shoulder resting against the frame. She didn’t interrupt. Just watched him. Memorised him. The slope of his shoulders. The way his brow furrowed slightly when he folded things too neatly. How he hesitated before placing the last shirt in the bag like it might keep the moment from ending.

She’d already gathered her things earlier in the day. her favourite mug, a few clothes, her worn leather sketchbook. Jacques sat in his jar on the counter, bubbling quietly like he too could sense the change in the air. Her own cabin was just a short walk away through the snow-dusted trees, but it felt impossibly far. Like crossing back into her old life meant leaving something vital behind.

She hadn’t really been back since that first storm—the day she slipped and he caught her, the day everything began. They’d fetched her things once or twice, but this cabin, his cabin, had become their shared space. Their shelter. Their pause in the world. They’d cooked in this kitchen, fallen asleep tangled under its blankets, and kissed beside its fireplace. It had held something sacred.

And now, it was ending.

Patrick zipped his bag for the last time, the sound sharp in the stillness. He stood by the door, his coat already on, bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes lifted to meet hers, and she could see it—the heaviness in them. The reluctance. The ache that mirrored her own.

“I guess this is it,” he said quietly, voice low and rough at the edges.

Éléanor nodded, but it took her a moment to find her voice. Her throat was tight, her chest aching in that hollow, too-full way that only comes with endings. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I guess it is.”

They walked to his car in silence, the only sound the soft crunch of their boots through the fresh snow. The cold didn’t bite so much as it wrapped around them like a breath held too long—quiet and expectant.

At the car, Patrick slid his bag into the trunk with a reluctant thud. He didn’t open the driver’s door. Didn’t reach for the keys. He just turned to her, his breath clouding in the winter air, eyes scanning her face like he needed to remember every line of it.

“I really don’t want this to be the end,” Patrick said, voice rough, thick with everything he was trying not to feel.

“It’s not,” Éléanor said quickly, hands finding his. Her fingers were cold, but they clung to his like she’d fall without the grip. “I want to try. Really try. Whatever that looks like.”

His eyes glistened, the sharp blue of them going soft with emotion. “Me too,” he said. “I’m in, El. All the way. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s hard.”

She nodded, but the tears were already slipping free, warm against her cold cheeks. She stepped in close, pressing her forehead to his, her breath mingling with his in the narrow space between them. She breathed him in—the smell of his coat, the cedar from the cabin, and underneath it all, the scent that was just him . The one she already knew she’d never forget.

“I don’t want to say goodbye,” she whispered, barely managing the words.

“Then don’t,” Patrick murmured back. “Say, ‘See you soon.’ Say, ‘Call me when you miss me.’ Say, ‘I’ll save you the middle slice of the next loaf.’”

A watery laugh escaped her lips, trembling. “Okay. I’ll save you the middle slice,” she said, brushing her nose against his.

He kissed her then—slow and deep and aching. Not like the kisses from before, all heat and urgency. This one was steadier, full of everything he couldn’t say aloud. A promise. A plea . A memory being etched into both of them.

And she kissed him back like she could hold time in place, her hands burying into his hair, pulling him closer, anchoring herself. It tasted like salt, and she realised he was crying too.

When they finally broke apart, it felt like something torn.

Patrick gave her one last look before he climbed into the car, shut the door, and started the engine. The low rumble of it shattered the quiet. Éléanor stepped back, arms crossed tightly over her chest as if holding herself together. The headlights flared to life, cutting golden paths through the white haze, casting long shadows that danced against the trees. The tyres rolled forward with a steady crunch, carving tracks into the untouched snow.

She didn’t wave.

Didn’t move when the car turned down the narrow road, disappearing between the pines. Didn’t blink when the red taillights vanished completely. The silence that followed was deafening—thick, echoing, absolute.

Only when the wind shifted and the trees creaked did her breath finally hitch. And then, quietly, she broke completely. Tears slipped free, carving warm trails down her chilled cheeks as she stood alone, letting the stillness absorb her grief. The kiss still lingered on her lips, like the ghost of something holy.

The walk back to her own cabin was a blur. The snow muffled her steps, her heartbeat loud in her ears. When she opened the door, the air inside hit her like a stranger—stale and cold, untouched since the start of the week. Her boots left damp marks on the floor as she stepped inside and dropped her bag. She didn’t take off her coat. Didn’t bother with the lights.

She just stood there.

And then she saw it.

The flannel.

Folded neatly on the chair by the hearth. The deep green one Patrick always wore. The one she’d stolen more than once and claimed as hers. Her breath caught as she crossed the room and picked it up, fingers brushing the fabric like it might dissolve. It smelled like him—cedar, smoke, and warmth.

She cradled it to her chest, then noticed something beneath it: a folded piece of paper, slightly smudged at the corners.

Her fingers trembled as she picked it up. It was a sketch with rough pencil lines on plain paper. Her, curled up in the armchair, hair spilling loose over one shoulder, legs tucked beneath her. The perspective was all wrong: one eye too big, her body slightly lopsided, and her hand looked more like a mitten than anything anatomical, but she knew instantly when he’d drawn it. That quiet morning when she’d been reading and he’d pretended to be writing emails.

Below the sketch, scrawled in his unmistakable handwriting:

You always see me. I wanted to try and see you back. I know I’m not good at this, but I hope it makes you smile.Keep the flannel—something warm for when I’m not there.But El… I really, really want to be with you.

Love,P.

She pressed the note to her chest like it could steady her. Then she sank into the chair he’d drawn her in, curled into the flannel, and let herself cry—quiet, aching sobs that rose from somewhere deep and sacred.

They were tears of longing, of love, of all the words and moments they hadn’t had time to live yet.

The cabin was still cold. The wind howled outside. But wrapped in that flannel, the fabric still holding the warmth of his body, she didn’t feel entirely alone.

And this time, the tears didn’t feel like goodbye.

They felt like hope.

20 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 3 months ago

Text

Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 11 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)

Masterlist Ao3

Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink

Summary

Wordcount: 5601

A/N: So I've finished writing the fanfic! So if you've got requests for the next one lemme know.

The air was thick with the crisp bite of winter, and each breath Éléanor took felt sharp and refreshing. The snow underfoot crunched with a satisfying sound as she moved, leaving a path of shallow footprints that led to the half-finished snowman. The clearing, surrounded by tall evergreens that seemed to bow under the weight of the snow, felt like their own private world, untouched and serene.

Éléanor glanced at Patrick as he rolled the final ball of snow, muscles flexing beneath his thick jacket with each movement. Stray flakes clung to his stubbled jawline, and his breath came in quick puffs, visible against the pale backdrop. His eyes found hers, and a playful smirk spread across his face as he caught her watching.

“Caught you staring,” he teased, his voice warm with mischief. His eyes sparkled with mischief beneath the knitted beanie that sat slightly askew on his head, a lock of hair falling across his forehead.

“Maybe I was admiring your snowball-rolling technique,” Éléanor shot back, unable to suppress a grin. She tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach as Patrick’s eyes narrowed in mock suspicion.

“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” he said, stepping closer with the snowball balanced between his hands. The light in his eyes danced, a teasing glimmer that made her want to both laugh and shiver.

“Just put the snowball on top,” Éléanor retorted, rolling her eyes but stepping aside to give him room.

Patrick chuckled, the deep, warm sound filling the quiet clearing. “This is starting to look more like a snow titan than a snowman,” he replied, rolling his snowball a bit closer. It was already nearly half his height, and the effort had painted a slight flush on his cheeks.

Éléanor burst into laughter again and reached out to give his snowball a playful nudge. “Hey, it’s winter. If we’re going to make a snowman, we might as well make one the gods would envy.”

Patrick’s lips twitched as he fought back a wider smile. “Well, I guess if anyone could create a snowman to rival the gods, it’d be you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Éléanor said, raising her eyebrows at him, though her smile softened the words.

She watched as he positioned it carefully, the top of their snowman now towering over them. For a moment, it wobbled, and both of them reached out instinctively to steady it. Their hands brushed, lingering just a second longer than necessary, and Éléanor felt a tingle travel up her arm.

“Close one,” he said, eyes twinkling as he glanced at her. “We almost lost the snow-monster before it even came to life.”

Éléanor’s eyes met his, their faces just inches apart. For a moment, she was acutely aware of the cold biting at her cheeks and the warmth that radiated from him. She smirked, trying to shake off the butterflies in her stomach. “Teamwork makes the dream work,” she quipped, giving him a nudge with her elbow.

Patrick shook his head, the smile never leaving his face. “You and your sayings,” he said, stepping back to take in their progress. “All right, what’s next? Arms, eyes, nose?”

Éléanor laughed, tilting her head thoughtfully as she scanned the area. “Well, I didn’t exactly pack snowman accessories, but I think we can improvise. Do you have any ideas, or are you just here for moral support?”

Patrick scoffed, feigning offence. “Excuse me, I am the snowman master,” he said, reaching down to pick up two sturdy twigs for arms. He poked them into the middle snowball, positioning them so they jutted out at awkward angles. “See? Artistic genius.”

Éléanor giggled, looking at the lopsided limbs. “Oh, it’s a masterpiece, all right. Picasso would be jealous.”

Patrick pointed to his eyes in an exaggerated gesture, then to Éléanor. “I saw that smirk,” he teased. “But wait, it’s missing something.” He glanced around and spotted a small cluster of smooth stones near the porch, half-buried in the snow. He grabbed them and arranged them in a crooked smile on the snowman’s face, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Now it’s perfect.”

Éléanor stepped back, too, hands on her hips as she surveyed their creation. It was tall, slightly uneven, with a scarf that she’d sacrificed from her own neck wrapped snugly around it. Patrick took off his beanie and placed it on the snowman’s head with a flourish, revealing his tousled hair to the cold air.

“There,” he said, brushing his hands together and giving Éléanor a sidelong glance. “What do you think?”

“I think we’ve created something legendary,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a grin. “But now you’re going to freeze without your hat.”

Patrick shrugged the corners of his mouth lifting. “It’s a fair trade. Besides, I’ve got you to warm me up.”

Éléanor felt her cheeks heat up, and not from the cold. She gave him a light shove. “Smooth, Patrick. Very smooth.”

Before she could step back, Patrick caught her hand, pulling her close as he took a playful step forward. “Is it working?” he whispered, his eyes holding hers.

A shiver ran through Éléanor, but it wasn’t from the chill. “Maybe,” she whispered back, a smile curving her lips.

Patrick chuckled, lowering his forehead until it rested gently against hers. The snow fell around them in quiet, soft flakes, settling in their hair and on their shoulders. “Good enough for me,” he said softly.

He glanced down at her, his face only a few inches from hers now. “Can I tell you a secret?”

Éléanor’s breath caught, and she nodded. “Go on.”

“I’m not really worried about how good our snowman is,” he said, stepping close enough that she could see the tiny flecks of green in his otherwise blue eyes. “I’m more interested in moments like this.”

A smile broke across her face despite the rapid thud of her heart as she felt herself blush.

His arms circled her waist, the chill of his gloves a stark contrast to the warmth of his embrace. He pulled her close, and she rested her head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the layers of his jacket.

When Patrick finally spoke again, his voice was low, vibrating through his chest and into her cheek. “We should go inside before we freeze,” he murmured, though he made no move to let her go.

“Yeah,” she agreed, closing her eyes briefly, committing the feel of his embrace to memory. “We should.”

Patrick’s arm remained wrapped around Éléanor’s waist as they made their way back towards the cabin. Just as they reached the porch, Patrick paused and turned to look at Éléanor, his eyes lighting up with an idea.

“Hold on,” he said, fishing his phone out of his pocket with his free hand. He held it up, eyes flicking between the screen and her. “We need to capture this moment.”

Éléanor laughed softly, brushing snowflakes from her hair. “A picture? Are you sure? I’m probably covered in snow…” she teased, but a smile tugged at her lips.

“That’s exactly why it’s perfect,” Patrick said, nudging her playfully with his shoulder. He lifted his phone, holding it out at arm’s length. “Come here.”

She stepped closer, leaning into his side as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, so the heat from him could seep into her. Éléanor tilted her face up to the camera, feeling a mix of shyness and giddy warmth that made her cheeks flush deeper.

Patrick glanced at her and grinned, the expression so natural and unguarded that it made her heart flutter. “Ready?” he asked, his voice low, the word coloured by the cold.

“Ready,” she whispered.

They both smiled at the lens, and Patrick pressed the button. The click of the camera was followed by a slight pause before he turned the screen towards her. The photo showed them with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, hair dusted with snow, and a slightly lopsided snowman in the background.

Éléanor let out a laugh as she looked at the picture. “I love it,” she admitted, the honesty slipping out before she could think to stop it.

Patrick’s eyes softened as he looked at her, then back at the photo. “Me too,” he said. His gaze lingered on her for a beat longer than the picture. “It’s one for the memory books.”

He saved the photo and slipped the phone back into his pocket, but not before taking one more glance at it. Then, with a playful smirk, he took her hand and led her into the cabin. The warmth from the fire enveloped them as they stepped inside, shutting out the crisp edge of the winter air.

As they shed their layers and hung up their coats, Patrick’s hand found its way back to hers. He squeezed it gently, his blue eyes twinkling with the unspoken understanding they shared. “Hot chocolate?” he suggested.

Éléanor’s smile widened. “Only if we add marshmallows.”

“Deal,” Patrick agreed, pulling her towards the kitchen as they laughed.

He pulled out a pot and began to heat milk on the stove while Éléanor rummaged through the cabinets for the jar of marshmallows. The cosy glow from the fire crackled behind them, casting golden hues across the room as it melted away any lingering chill from outside.

“Found them!” Éléanor said triumphantly, lifting the jar like a prize. She turned to see Patrick watching her, an amused smile playing on his lips.

“Excellent. Can’t have hot chocolate without marshmallows.” He moved to the cupboard and brought out two mismatched mugs, setting them on the counter. The scent of warming milk filled the air, rich and inviting. Patrick grabbed a tin of cocoa and spooned generous amounts into each mug.

Éléanor stepped beside him, adding a handful of marshmallows to each cup. “One for me, one for you, and... two for me,” she said with a giggle, popping one into her mouth. The soft, sweet texture melted on her tongue, and she playfully offered one to Patrick.

He leaned in, taking it from her fingers, his eyes locked on hers as he chewed, a playful gleam in his expression. “Fair trade,” he murmured.

They stood close, shoulders touching as the milk steamed. Patrick poured it carefully, the chocolate swirling and blending, creating a deep, velvety brown. He stirred each mug, handed one to Éléanor, and lifted his in a mock toast. “To snowmen, selfies, and unfairly distributed marshmallows,” he said with a wink.

Éléanor laughed, the sound bright and genuine. “And to mornings like this,” she added, meeting his gaze as they clinked their mugs together.

They carried their drinks over to the couch, sitting close enough that their legs brushed. Éléanor curled her feet up beneath her and sipped her hot chocolate, the warmth seeping through her, spreading outward from her chest.

Patrick took a sip of his own drink, then turned to her, studying her face for a moment. “I didn’t think a day in the snow could be this perfect,” he said softly.

Éléanor’s cheeks warmed at the sincerity in his voice. She glanced out the window where the snow still fell, the world outside muted and peaceful. “Me neither,” she admitted. There was a comfort in the quiet between them, the shared warmth of the fire and the simplicity of being together without needing to fill the space with words.

After a moment, Patrick set his mug down and reached for his phone. “That picture... I’m sending it to you,” he said, a boyish grin breaking across his face. “So you can remember this day.”

Éléanor’s heart skipped a beat as her phone vibrated with the new message. She opened it and smiled at the image—his arm around her, both of them laughing, the snowman crookedly standing guard in the background. It was imperfect and wonderful.

Patrick’s gaze lingered on her, and he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Next time we’re out there, we’ll have to give him a name,” he said, breaking the quiet spell with a soft chuckle.

Éléanor turned to him, her smile matching his. “Next time? Does that mean we’re making this a tradition?”

Patrick’s eyes softened, a mixture of warmth and intent. “Yeah,” he said, leaning in closer until his face was just a breath away from hers. “I think we should.”

Patrick’s gaze held hers for a moment, his eyes reflecting the flickering light from the fire. The world seemed to pause as he closed the distance between them. His lips were soft and warm, tasting faintly of cocoa. The kiss deepened slowly, savouring the moment, as if they had all the time in the world.

Eléanor’s heart thudded in her chest, and she let herself get lost in the feel of him—the way his hands cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, and how he angled his head slightly to fit against her perfectly.

Her fingers found their way to the collar of his flannel shirt, tugging him closer, feeling the solidness of his chest against hers.

When they finally pulled apart, their breaths mingled in the small space between them. Patrick’s blue eyes held a hint of mischief as he traced a thumb across her bottom lip. “You had a little cocoa... right here,” he whispered, a playful smile quirking his lips.

Éléanor laughed, the sound breathless and light. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” she teased, leaning back but keeping their faces close.

He raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Maybe.” His voice dropped to a murmur as he leaned in, pressing another quick kiss to her lips. “Can’t help it. You’re irresistible.”

A soft blush spread across her cheeks, but she grinned and sat back, reaching for her mug again. Outside, the snow continued its steady descent, and a faint glow hinted at the sun attempting to break through the dense clouds.

They sipped their drinks in comfortable silence, the kind where words were unnecessary. Éléanor glanced at Patrick over the rim of her mug, noting how relaxed he seemed, how the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled to himself. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing—that this was the kind of morning they’d remember long after the snow melted and the days grew warmer.

Patrick set down his mug and shifted on the couch, reaching out to tuck her closer against him. “I’m serious about making this a tradition,” he said, his voice low and sincere. He brushed his thumb absentmindedly over her shoulder. “Mornings like this, snowmen with crooked hats...”

Éléanor laughed softly, nestling into his side. “I’m holding you to that. And next time, we’re building the snowman with a carrot as a nose,” she joked, tilting her head to look up at him.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. “Deal.” His eyes softened as he traced the curve of her jaw with his gaze, and he bent down to press a kiss to her temple. “And I’ll make sure we stock up on more marshmallows.”

She smiled, contentment filling her like the warmth from the fire. “I’d like that.”

Patrick reached for his phone again, turning it into selfie mode. “One more photo, for good measure,” He slid an arm around Éléanor’s shoulders, fingers grazing her upper arm as he pulled her closer. She didn’t hesitate, laughing softly as she leaned into him, their bodies pressing together with the easy closeness that only came from shared comfort.

Their cheeks touched, skin warm against skin, and she tilted her head just enough to rest against his. Her hair, tousled and slightly frizzy from the heat, mingled with his still-damp curls, the strands catching tiny sparks of light from the fire.

They smiled—not the stiff, posed kind, but real, radiant grins that made their eyes crinkle at the corners. Their cheeks were flushed, partly from the fire, partly from the hot chocolate, but mostly from the lingering glow of each other.

The camera clicked.

A quiet moment captured forever once again—Patrick’s thumb still brushing the edge of her arm, the firelight dancing in the background, their laughter barely faded from the air.

“Perfect,” he murmured as he lowered the phone, looking down at the screen with a reverence usually reserved for priceless paintings or shooting stars. His voice had that soft, gravelly texture it took on when he wasn’t trying to charm, when it was just them .

Éléanor turned her head slightly, her gaze drifting towards the screen. The photo showed exactly what it felt like: the slow warmth of crackling logs, their windblown hair slightly tangled, the rosy glow in their cheeks and the serenity that came from shared silence. It looked like home.

She reached over and laced her fingers through his, thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “Yeah,” she said quietly, her voice wrapped in something tender. She rested her head more fully on his shoulder, letting her eyes flutter closed for just a second. “It really is.”

For a while, they just sat there, wrapped in a cocoon of firelight and quiet, sipping their hot chocolate. The mugs were still warm in their hands, the rich, velvety scent of cocoa lingering in the air, edged with cinnamon and a hint of the peppermint he’d insisted on adding.

When the mugs were finally empty, and the warmth of the fire had begun to dwindle, Patrick leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of Éléanor’s head. It was unhurried and soft, almost reverent, his lips lingering for a breath before he stood.

“I’m gonna stoke the fire,” he said quietly, giving her hand one last squeeze before letting go.

Éléanor watched him as he knelt by the hearth, his silhouette haloed by firelight. He moved with practised ease, feeding the flames with a few new logs, coaxing the embers back to life. Sparks jumped, swirling upward like fireflies, and a deep orange glow bloomed across the room once more.

She hesitated for a moment, then picked up her phone from where she’d set it on the coffee table. Her thumb hovered over the screen as she stared at the photo— that photo. Her and Patrick, flushed and happy, firelit and genuine. It was intimate without being posed, unguarded and full of something she couldn’t quite name but felt all the way down to her ribs.

She tapped the share icon and sent it to Virginie.

A few seconds passed before the typing bubble appeared. Éléanor leaned against the couch, fingers nervously drumming on the cushion as she waited. Virginie’s response popped up on the screen, and Éléanor’s heart skipped as she read it.

**Virginie:** “OMG, look at you two! That is beyond adorable. Seriously, I can’t even.”

Éléanor let out a surprised laugh, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. A warm, fizzy sense of relief bloomed in her chest. She’d known Virginie would react—but this? This was joy.

Before she could reply, another message popped up.

**Virginie:** “Okay, I have to say it. I was a little worried at first…you know, with the age thing and all. I thought maybe he was a bit too old for you, but... wow. That photo? El, you look so happy. Like, deep in your bones happy. And he looks at you like you’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him. So yeah. I’m sold.”

Éléanor’s cheeks flushed, a small smile tugging at her lips as she reread Virginie’s words. Virginie had never been one to hold back her opinions, and knowing that she genuinely approved made something inside Éléanor unwind. She quickly typed back.

**Éléanor:** “You were worried? Since when do you worry about that kind of thing?”

The reply was almost instantaneous, punctuated by a winking emoji.

**Virginie:** “I worry when it’s about you! But seeing this… ugh, I’m melting. He’s a keeper, isn’t he?”

She looked up, letting her gaze drift to where Patrick knelt, carefully nudging logs into place with the fire poker. His shoulders moved with quiet strength, the firelight outlining the shape of his back beneath his t-shirt. His hair was still damp from earlier, the curls falling in uneven waves across his forehead. He paused for a moment, sensing her gaze, and turned to glance back at her over his shoulder. The smile he gave her—lopsided, boyish, effortless—made something in her chest flip over.

She smiled back, heart aching in the sweetest way, and turned back to her phone.

**Éléanor:** “Yeah, he really is.”

Virginie sent back a string of heart emojis, followed by another message that read: “You deserve this, El. All of it. Don’t get in your head about it, okay? Don’t pick it apart. Just let yourself have this. You’ve earned it. Every messy, beautiful second.”

Éléanor felt tears prickle suddenly behind her eyes, unexpected and sharp. She blinked them away, swallowing past the tightness in her throat. Virginie always knew exactly what to say—to ground her, to lift her, to remind her she didn’t have to apologise for wanting love that felt like more.

She tucked the phone into her pocket gently, like it held something sacred, and stood.

Patrick had just set the poker aside, stretching his arms as he turned to face her. His expression softened when he saw her, eyes sparkling with something curious and warm.

“Everything alright?” he asked, voice low and rumbling with the same gentle cadence that always made her stomach flutter.

Éléanor walked towards him slowly, the fire casting dancing shadows around them. She stopped in front of him and smiled, her voice quiet but steady.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she slid her arms around his waist, resting her cheek lightly against his chest. “Everything’s perfect.”

Patrick’s expression softened, and he reached out, pulling her close and pressing a kiss to her forehead. They stayed like that for a moment, wrapped in the quiet comfort of their cabin, surrounded by the gentle crackle of the fire and the soft patter of snow against the window.

Then, from the depths of the comfortable silence, came a sound.

A low, unmistakable grumble echoed from Patrick’s midsection—a small, comical roar that seemed to vibrate right through him.

Éléanor froze for a beat, then snorted into his shirt, her laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. She pulled back just enough to clap her hands over her mouth, her eyes sparkling with mirth. Patrick’s eyes, a vivid blue with hints of stormy grey, widened in mock surprise as he looked down at his midsection.

“Really, man?” he muttered, patting his abdomen, which only made Éléanor laugh harder.

“Well,” she managed between giggles, “it seems someone’s overdue for lunch. Good thing we’re stocked up.”

Patrick grinned, his smile crinkling the edges of his eyes and softening the rugged angles of his face. The light from the window caught on the flecks of silver in his stubble, casting a warm glow over his jawline.

“Well then,” he said, cocking a brow, his voice laced with playful challenge. “How about that bread-making lesson you promised? I’m ready to learn from the best.”

Éléanor arched an eyebrow and tilted her head with a teasing smile. “Confident, are we? Bread-making isn’t as straightforward as chopping wood, you know.”

“Oh, I can handle it,” Patrick said, the corners of his mouth lifting into a cocky grin that revealed the dimples that she pretended not to notice.

“Alright, then.” She shook her head, smiling as she moved across the room. “Let’s put that confidence to the test, lumberjack.”

She pulled open a tall cupboard door and reached up to grab a sack of flour, the weight of it solid in her arms. Setting it down on the counter with a satisfying thud, she followed it with a small, weathered jar of coarse sea salt.

Patrick stepped closer, watching her with a mix of curiosity and admiration as she rolled up her sleeves. She dusted her hands with flour, her movements instinctive and graceful.

“This,” she said, lifting a wooden mixing bowl with both hands and turning to face him, “isn’t just about feeding your growling stomach.”

Patrick stepped in beside her, his voice teasing and warm. “Is it also about impressing you?”

Éléanor laughed again, softer this time. “That part’s optional,” she said, sliding the bowl into his hands. “But it couldn’t hurt.”

“First step,” she said, looking up at him with a glint in her eye, “is mixing the flour and salt. Go ahead and do the honours.”

Patrick pushed off the counter, his movements lazy but deliberate. As he approached, he rolled his sleeves to the elbows, revealing his muscular forearms that were dusted with fine dark hair. The firelight caught the shift of muscle beneath his skin as he reached for the measuring spoon. Their fingers brushed as she handed it over—just a glancing touch, but enough to slow time for a breath.

“Like this?” he asked, brow raised with mock innocence as he tipped the salt over the flour and gave it a few exaggerated stirs.

“Perfect,” Éléanor replied, a smile dancing on her lips as she observed his expression change from playful to serious. “Now, we’ll add the water and yeast.” She offered him a small bowl filled with warm water, where the yeast had already begun to bloom in gentle brown swirls.

Patrick raised an eyebrow and looked at her. “Is this the magic potion?” he teased, pouring the bowl into the flour mixture.

“Be careful, wizard,” Éléanor laughed, stepping in to assist him in pouring it properly. Patrick’s gaze locked onto hers, and a shared understanding lingered as he started stirring on his own.

Once the dough formed a uniform mass, he started kneading it with his hands.

The dough began to take shape—sticky, rough, uncooperative. It clung to his fingers like wet clay, and he looked up with a sheepish grin, holding out his mess-covered hand. “Alright, I’m officially humbled.”

Éléanor laughed, stepping beside him. “Give me your hand,” she said, her voice soft but sure.

She took his hand in hers and guided it into the bowl, pressing his palm into the dough. “Kneading’s all about rhythm,” she explained, her hands moving with his—folding, pressing, turning. The warmth of his skin through the flour-dusted dough made her pulse skip a beat.

They worked together like that, side by side, their laughter quiet and breathy, their shoulders brushing now and then as the dough began to smooth under their touch. Patrick leaned into the motion, his shirt pulling taut across his back and chest. The scent of him, woodsmoke, pine, and something unmistakably his, mingled with the yeasty aroma rising from the bowl.

At one point, he scratched at his jaw, smearing a streak of flour across his cheek. Éléanor caught the sight and laughed under her breath.

“You’ve got a little…” she said, gesturing to his face.

Patrick shrugged. “Occupational hazard, apparently.”

Éléanor’s fingers were already tucked behind her ear, leaving behind a streak of flour on her own cheek without her noticing.

He spotted it instantly.

“Now, who’s messy?” he murmured, stepping close. His thumb brushed gently along her cheek, wiping away the flour with a touch so careful it made her breath hitch. His gaze stayed on hers, steady and searching.

“That’s enough kneading,” she said softly, taking a small step back—half a breath of space, no more. “Now we let it rest. Let it rise.”

“Just like that?” Patrick’s voice was quiet, but his presence was full. He didn’t step away.

“Yeah,” Éléanor murmured, eyes not leaving his. “Just like that.”

Patrick’s eyes softened, the teasing spark in them replaced by something deeper, quieter—a warmth that curled behind his expression like a secret waiting to be told. He leaned in slightly, his eyes flicking from hers to her lips, the moment hanging on a string. But before it could unfold, his stomach let out a loud, unmistakable growl again.

The spell shattered. Éléanor burst into laughter, the sound light and effortless, slipping out before she could stop it. Patrick groaned dramatically, covering his face with one flour-dusted hand. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Sabotaged by my own body again .”

“Alright, alright,” she said between giggles, patting his chest. “Let’s feed the beast before he causes any more interruptions.”

Patrick chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “The bread might take a while to rise, right? What else can I learn while my metabolism is punishing me?”

Éléanor gave him a sideways glance as she turned to the counter, where a small bundle of carrots and a sack of potatoes sat waiting. “How do you feel about soup-making?”

“Lead the way,” Patrick said, stepping close enough that their arms brushed. “I’m ready for round two.”

Patrick stepped beside her again, close enough that their arms brushed as they worked. She handed him a peeler and a carrot, watching with amusement as he examined the tool like it was some kind of weapon. His first few attempts were clumsy, uneven strips falling to the floor, but he didn’t complain. Instead, he glanced at her with exaggerated seriousness.

“Are you sure this thing isn't broken?”

She laughed, brushing her shoulder against his. “Operator error, I’m afraid.”

His grin widened. “That bad, huh?”

“Not hopeless,” she replied, flicking a carrot peel in his direction. “Just… mildly concerning. Part of me honestly wonders how you survive out there in the wild on your own.”

He clutched his chest in mock offence. “Hey! I can cook,” he said, eyes dancing. “Just not peel. Totally different skill sets.”

She raised a sceptical brow. “Oh really?”

“Absolutely. One day, I’ll make you a steak. Medium rare. With homemade barbecue sauce that’ll ruin you for anything store-bought. But you’ll have to peel your own carrots. That’s where I draw the line.”

She laughed again, shaking her head as she handed him another carrot. “Deal. But I’m watching you. No more casualties, okay?”

He gave her a playful salute, still wielding the peeler like a sword. “For you, I’ll try to keep the kitchen injuries to a minimum.”

They fell into an easy rhythm—peeling, chopping, stealing glances when they thought the other wasn’t looking. The kitchen was filled with the soft percussion of knives against wood and the low hum of shared conversation.

Soon, the cutting board was a mosaic of colours—orange, cream, green. Éléanor swept the vegetables into a large pot, added water, and reached for the seasoning jars, her movements graceful and practised. Patrick leaned against the counter, watching her with open admiration.

The fire behind them crackled softly, casting golden light across the kitchen and catching in Éléanor’s hair. Patrick noticed the way it shimmered at the ends, how the strands curled slightly from the cabin’s dry warmth. When she leaned forward to add a sprig of thyme to the pot, he caught himself staring—not just at her, but at the way she moved through the space like it already belonged to her. Like she belonged there, with him.

“See something interesting?” she asked, her tone teasing but her cheeks flushing with warmth.

Patrick shrugged, trying to play it off, but his eyes betrayed him, holding a tender amusement. “Just trying to memorise the steps,” he said, his voice low and rich, laced with something that made her heart skip a beat.

“Mm-hmm,” she said, glancing at him over her shoulder, her smile teasing and knowing.

As the soup began to simmer, the scent of herbs and root vegetables filled the cabin, blending with the faint woodsmoke in the air. Éléanor wiped her hands on a dish towel and leaned next to him, their shoulders bumping gently.

“Well, Chef,” she said, eyes dancing with amusement, “now we wait again.”

Patrick slung an arm casually around her waist, pulling her into his side. The touch was easy, familiar—but there was an intimacy in the way his thumb began to draw slow, unconscious circles against the small of her back. She rested her head lightly against his shoulder, her heartbeat syncing with the slow, steady rhythm of his.

“Soup on the stove, bread rising…” he said with a sigh. “This sounds like the perfect excuse for a break.”

“You’re suggesting we just stand here?” Éléanor asked, trying to sound casual, though her voice betrayed the flutter in her chest.

Patrick tilted his head, catching her gaze with eyes that had softened into something that hovered between desire and something deeper, harder to name. “Not just stand here,” he said quietly.

His hand tightened on her waist. And then, without warning, he kissed her.

It wasn’t hesitant—it was hungry, almost desperate as if the silence between their breaths had grown too thick to bear. She melted into it, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself to this— to him .

The kiss deepened, his hands exploring the curve of her back, her hips as if he were trying to memorise her shape. Her knees weakened, her heart beating so fiercely she could feel it echoing in her fingertips.

When they finally pulled apart, her lips were bruised and tingling, her breath coming in short, disbelieving bursts. Éléanor looked up at him, dazed, mouth parted. “Perfect,” she breathed, unsure if she meant the kiss, the warmth, the quiet snow spinning outside—or all of it.

Patrick’s gaze was already on her, unreadable for a second. Then he nodded, his voice husky and low. “Yeah. It really is.”

The snow outside continued to fall in lazy spirals, but inside the cabin, everything was warm—safe, golden, and utterly still.

12 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 3 months ago

Text

Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 10 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)

Masterlist Ao3

Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink

Summary

Wordcount: 3429

Later that evening, as the sun sank behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the snow-draped landscape, Éléanor found herself alone in the cabin. The fire crackled softly in the background, its warmth filling the room, while Patrick was in the shower.

It felt like the perfect opportunity to call Virginie and share her big revelation—who Patrick really was. She paced the floor, her heart pounding with excitement and nerves as the call connected.

When Virginie’s lively face popped up on the screen, wearing her usual mischievous grin, Éléanor felt a flutter of relief. Beside her, Enrique lounged casually, offering a small wave.

“Hey, Virginie!” Éléanor greeted, trying to keep her tone light and casual despite the bombshell she was about to drop. “Okay, I’ve got something to tell you—and you're seriously not going to believe it. I finally figured out who Patrick actually is.”

Virginie’s eyes lit up instantly, her smile stretching wide as she leaned toward the camera. “Ooh, this already sounds juicy. Do tell! Who’s the mystery man? And what do you mean by ‘figured out’? Is he an axe murderer or something? Should I be worried?”

Éléanor burst out laughing, the tension easing slightly as she shook her head, pacing a little. “God, no! Though, weirdly, that might’ve been easier to process.”

She hesitated, drew in a deep breath, then blurted it out before she could second-guess herself. “Okay—so, turns out… he’s Patrick Wilson. Yes, that Patrick Wilson. The actor. You know, the hot guy from The Conjuring and Moonfall ?”

Virginie’s jaw dropped in mock disbelief, her eyes going wide as she stared at the screen. “No way. Shut up! Patrick Wilson? As in the guy from all those horror movies? ”

A beat passed before she added, teasingly, “Wait…isn’t he kinda… old?”

Rolling her eyes, Éléanor groaned, already bracing for more teasing as she tried to find the right words. “Rude. First of all. And second—no, he’s not. He’s gorgeous. Seriously, he looks even better in person. Like, stupidly attractive.”

Just then, Enrique leaned into view behind Virginie, phone already in hand. “Hang on, I’m Googling him,” he muttered, tapping away.

Before Éléanor could say anything to stop him, Virginie snatched the phone and turned it toward the camera. “Oh my God!” she cried, wheezing with laughter. “This? This is your mystery man? Girl, his hairline’s fighting for its life in this one!”

Éléanor let out an exaggerated groan, as she buried her face in her hands. “Okay, okay, I know, that’s not a great photo,” she said, her voice muffled. “But I swear he looks so much better in person! That picture is like ten years old or something. He still has plenty of hair, and he’s so much more... I don’t know... handsome in real life!”

Grinning, Virginie tilted her head. “Mhm. If you say so, I’m just saying, next time bring me a warning when you start dating someone famous.”

“You think I knew ?” Éléanor paced the cabin’s narrow living room, one hand tugging nervously at the hem of her sweater, the other clutching her phone. “I found out by accident! Trust me, I was just as shocked.”

Virginie leaned in, eyes glinting with mischief. “Uh-huh. Sure, Éléanor. We’re talking about the same Patrick Wilson, right? As in, old enough to have��memories of the original Star Wars premiere?”

Éléanor groaned, her cheeks turning pink, though the grin on her face was impossible to hide. “He is not that old. He’s in his forties—barely.”

Raising her eyebrows dramatically, Virginie leaned back as if contemplating something. “Mmm... right. Let’s see… oh!” She tapped away at her phone before gasping theatrically. “Oh look! He’s fifty. Exactly fifty! Éléanor, you’re fucking a senior citizen!”

“Shut up,” Éléanor nearly choked on her laughter, holding up a hand as if to stop the onslaught. “He’s not that old! And he doesn’t have that much grey hair!”

“Oh, come on, Éléanor,” Virginie smirked, leaning back with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “I’m just saying, does he, like, need a walker to get around the cabin? Or does he still have a bit of spring in his step?”

“ Virginie! ” Éléanor wheezed with laughter. “He’s in amazing shape! He’s been splitting logs and hauling firewood like it’s nothing.”

Virginie’s eyebrows shot up, her grin widening. “Oh, chopping wood, is that what we’re calling it these days?”

Éléanor's face flushed with a mix of exasperation and laughter as she struggled to respond. “Can we please stop this now? What about you? Enrique can’t be more than, what, 25? Does he even know how to do taxes yet?”

Without missing a beat, Virginie turned the camera toward Enrique, who was lounging next to her on the couch, bare-chested and flexing his muscles like a model in a fitness magazine. “Oh, he’s got plenty of experience,” she said, running a hand playfully across his chest. Enrique smirked and gave a casual wave at the camera, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth.

Just as Virginie’s camera began to dip lower, Éléanor let out a mock-horrified gasp and flung a hand over her eyes. “Oh my God, Virginie, put Enrique’s prepubescent penis away! No one needs a live demo of your thirst. Save it for your OnlyFans—or your diary.”

Virginie burst into laughter, the phone jerking wildly as she nearly dropped it. “Relax, prude. I’m just saying, you’re out here living your winter romance novel with a silver fox, and I fully expect chapter updates.”

Enrique chuckled, raising his eyebrows playfully. “For the record,” he said, tone teasing and cocky, “I’m twenty-nine. Not some clueless teenager. I work in finance, thank you very much.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “But I bet your Patrick has his accountant on speed dial—for his pension plan.”

Virginie gasped dramatically, her eyes wide with pretend astonishment. “Oh my God, yes! Éléanor, does he need his reading glasses just to check his bank balance? He probably still writes checks, doesn’t he?”

Éléanor plopped down on an armchair. “ Enough! And for the record, his reading glasses are only for books, not his finances!”

Virginie leaned toward the screen, her expression positively devilish. “ Reading glasses, huh?” she purred. “So… does he put them on when he’s trying to locate your clit, or what?”

Éléanor’s face turned bright red, and she gasped in mock horror, laughing despite herself. “Oh my God, no! He’s perfectly capable, thank you very much!”

“Uh-huh,” Virginie drawled, clearly savoring every second. “I can just see it. Him looking over the top of those glasses all slow and serious—like, ‘Excuse me, ma’am, looks like you need my... professional assistance.’” She lowered her voice into a sultry baritone, miming a dramatic adjustment of imaginary specs.

Éléanor nearly fell off the armchair, dissolving into breathless, tear-streaming laughter. “I cannot with you! And for the record, he looks stupidly hot in those glasses. Like rugged professor meets mountain lumberjack, it’s a look .”

Virginie waggled her brows. “Rugged professor, huh? Well, as long as he’s not asking you to file his Medicare paperwork, I guess I can give you my blessing.”

Éléanor rolled her eyes, still giggling. “He’s not that old, Virginie! Why are you so obsessed with his age?”

“Because it’s hilarious,” Virginie declared. “Be real—does he need a grab bar to get out of the bathtub? Or one of those little stools to sit on while he showers?”

Éléanor almost dropped her phone, barely catching it as she was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “No! He’s—he’s very mobile , okay? He does yoga and chops wood and carries heavy things with his bare hands. He’s like... rustic Thor!”

Virginie’s grin widened wickedly. “ Rustic Thor , oh my God . You mean Elder God of Thunder .”

Éléanor tried to hold it together, dabbing at her eyes. “Stop it. I swear, if you call him ancient one more time—”

“Okay, okay,” Virginie said, pretending to wave a white flag. “I’ll stop. But riddle me this—does he grunt when he sits down? You know, that little old man grunt?”

Éléanor gasped, her laughter so intense that tears spilled from her eyes. “No, he doesn’t grunt! And for the record, he’s super strong. I’ve seen him lift all kinds of heavy stuff like it’s nothing.”

Virginie’s grin turned devilish again. “Does he call you ‘sweetheart’ in that old-timey way? Like, ‘come here, darling, let me show you how we used to do it back in my day.’”

Éléanor wiped her eyes, barely able to catch her breath through the laughing fit. “Virginie! Oh my God! I hate you so much right now!”

“Oh, I’m not done.” Virginie’s eyes practically sparkled with mischief. “Please don’t tell me he’s got a little glass on the nightstand. You know. For his teeth.”

Éléanor gasped, half-laughing, half-horrified. “He does not have dentures! He has all his teeth—and they are very… nice, thank you.”

“I’m just saying…” Virginie held her hands up in mock surrender, her tone sweet and insufferable. “As long as they don’t start slipping during important activities, then I guess it’s all good.”

Enrique snorted off-screen, and Virginie kept going, fully enjoying herself. “Does he smell like Old Spice and Werther’s Originals? Keep butterscotch candies in his coat pocket for you?”

Éléanor let herself collapse onto the couch, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “He smells amazing, okay? Like pine trees and something rugged and masculine. No candy, no mothballs, just woodsy and him .”

“Uh-huh,” Virginie said, unconvinced. She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “So... be honest. Do you call him Daddy? Or wait— Grandpa?”

Éléanor covered her face with her hands once again, the tips of her ears red. “ Virginie! I swear to God, stop it! You’re the worst! I do not call him either of those things! This conversation is over.”

Laughter erupted on the other end of the call—Virginie doubled over, gasping for breath, while Enrique laughed along like this was the best free show he'd seen all week.

“I’m teasing, I’m teasing,” Virginie finally said, brushing away a tear. “I really am happy for you. He sounds... honestly, kind of great. Even if he is just a tiny bit prehistoric.”

Éléanor rolled her eyes but smiled, the teasing unable to touch the quiet warmth glowing behind her ribcage. Her gaze flicked towards the bathroom, where the sound of the shower still ran steady. “He’s more than just great. He’s kind. Steady. And somehow, all this…” she gestured vaguely to the snow-covered cabin around her. “Feels like something I didn’t know I needed until it showed up.”

Something in Virginie softened then. She leaned back on the couch, her grin mellowing into something genuine. “I know I joke a lot, but if he makes you feel like this, then I’m all in.”

Éléanor nodded, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. “Thanks. It’s just... it’s weird sometimes, you know? He’s famous, but up here, he’s just... Patrick. No cameras, no Hollywood stuff, just him. And I really like him.”

Virginie sighed happily, leaning back with a grin. “Well, I’m glad for you. But don’t think I’m done making fun of you just yet. I’ve got years of senior citizen jokes left in me.”

Éléanor groaned dramatically. “I feared as much.”

“And I swear ,” Virginie said, pointing at her through the screen, “I’m going to start sending you nursing home brochures. Gotta make sure there’s decent Wi-Fi, so he can keep up with his bingo tournaments online.”

“You are the worst, ” Éléanor said, giggling again. “Why are we even friends?”

“Because you love me.” Virginie leaned smugly against Enrique, who was still chuckling. “And let’s be real—he does sound like a good match. Even if he needs reading glasses to check the expiration date on the milk.”

Enrique leaned in, tapping her arm. “Babe, you should cool it. The guy could probably buy this cabin and turn it into a Hallmark movie set.”

Virginie let out a dramatic gasp, clutching her chest. “Oh no. You’re right. Does this mean I can’t make fun of him anymore?” She turned back to the screen, wide-eyed. “Éléanor, would you really ban the jokes? For the sake of love and friendship?”

Éléanor tilted her head, pretending to consider it. “Hmm. It’s tempting…”

Virginie snorted. “Fine, fine. Truce—for now. But next time we talk, I want every juicy detail. Don’t hold out on me.”

“Deal,” Éléanor said, grinning.

Virginie blew a kiss to the screen. “Alright, I’ll let you go before your rugged mountain man finishes his shower and catches you gossiping about his bedtime vitamins.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Éléanor replied with a wicked smirk. “I’m telling him everything. Just to be fair.”

Virginie threw her hands up. “Okay! Truce, I swear! No more jokes… today. ”

Éléanor laughed, warm and real. “I’ll take it. Love you, Virg.”

“Love you more, El. Talk soon!” Virginie’s voice echoed as she reached for the ‘End Call’ button. “And I’m just glad you found someone who isn’t yeast-based!”

The call cut out on her final burst of laughter, leaving Éléanor smiling alone in the glow of the screen, the cabin quiet but for the distant sound of running water.

Éléanor blinked, her smile faltering as Virginie’s words sank in. Her eyes widened in sudden realisation.

“Oh God! ” she gasped, clutching her forehead with both hands. “I forgot Jacques! ”

Panic shot through her like a lightning bolt. She began pacing the small cabin living room, her slippers muffled against the old wooden floorboards. Her breath came fast, visible even indoors thanks to the lingering bite of mountain air that crept in through the logs.

How could she forget him?

Jacques—her precious, temperamental sourdough starter—had been left alone in her cabin, for days . The thought of him sitting there, untended, neglected in his jar like some abandoned science experiment made her stomach twist. What if he was already dead? What if she found him sunken and sour, a flat, lifeless mass of yeast that once had such promise?

She imagined him, poor Jacques, suffering in silence. Slowly deflating. Starving.

Patrick stepped into the room just then, freshly showered and radiating a quiet warmth that seemed completely unaware of the existential baking crisis unfolding. He was barefoot, dressed in a soft, worn t-shirt and grey sweatpants that clung just slightly to the damp skin of his hips.

A towel was draped lazily over one shoulder, and his hair was still wet, curling in unruly waves that made him look unfairly good for someone who’d just stepped out of the shower.

His brows furrowed instantly when he saw her pacing.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, crossing the room in three long strides. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Éléanor turned to him, hands flying out dramatically. “I forgot Jacques at my cabin!”

Patrick blinked, visibly trying to catch up. “Jacques...?”

“My sourdough starter !” she wailed, pacing faster. “He’s probably suffocating in his jar right now, dying a slow, yeast-related death, and it’s my fault!”

Patrick’s expression softened, a grin tugging at his lips as he tried to suppress his amusement. “Wait, hold on—you named your sourdough starter Jacques ?”

“Yes, Patrick, I did! And he’s alive, thank you very much. He’s not just a blob of dough…he’s practically a dependent. And I left him alone in that cold cabin like a monster !”

Patrick ran the towel over his hair, chuckling as he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “Okay, okay. You’re seriously worried about a fermenting blob?”

“It’s not just a blob or dough!” she shot back, chest rising and falling with exasperation. “I’ve been nurturing him for ever. You have to feed him, keep him warm—he’s basically the sourdough equivalent of a houseplant with abandonment issues! Jacques is an essential part of my life! He’s like... a living being! And I can’t just let him die.”

Patrick bit back another laugh, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “Well, then I guess we’re heading back to your cabin to rescue him.”

Éléanor’s eyes lit up, her entire body practically vibrating with urgency. “Now. We have to go now.”

He glanced toward the windows where darkness pressed thick and silent against the glass, moonlight casting silver shadows across the snow. “You want to head out right now? In the dark? Through the snow?”

Éléanor was already pulling on her coat and gloves, not giving him a chance to object. “Yes! Jacques needs me, Patrick. And I won’t be able to sleep knowing I abandoned him.”

Patrick sighed with a good-natured smile, shaking his head as he grabbed his own jacket. “Alright, alright. Let’s go save Jacques.”

The icy wind hit them as soon as they stepped outside, the snow crunching beneath their feet. The darkness of the forest wrapped around them, but the moon hung low and bright, casting a silvery glow across the snowy landscape.

Patrick, with his hands stuffed into his pockets, looked over at Éléanor as she marched ahead, clearly on a mission. He couldn’t help but admire her determination—even if it was for a jar of fermenting dough.

“So,” he called after her, voice carrying in the cold, “how exactly did you end up naming a jar of yeast ‘Jacques’?”

She looked back at him over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed, her scarf slightly askew. “The guy who taught me to bake... his name was Jacques. He was this grumpy Frenchman who lived in the village. Total kitchen tyrant, but brilliant. He passed away a few years ago, and it just felt right—keeping the name going.”

Patrick caught up, bumping her shoulder gently with his. “That’s actually kind of sweet.”

Éléanor grinned as they trudged through the snow, the path to her cabin growing steeper. “So you see, not just any sourdough starter, Patrick.”

“Clearly,” Patrick said, shaking his head with a laugh. “This might be the strangest rescue mission I’ve ever been a part of.”

“Hey, don’t mock me,” Éléanor shot back playfully, her cheeks flushed. “Jacques is important. If he dies, so does my homemade bread! And I remember you liking my bread!”

Patrick raised his hands in playful surrender. “I’m not mocking! I’m just saying, this is a first for me,” he said, reaching for her hand and intertwining his fingers with hers to show he was with her in this.

Eventually, her cabin came into view—quiet and unlit, half-buried in snowdrifts. Éléanor fumbled with the key, her fingers stiff with cold and nerves. The door creaked open, releasing the familiar scent of cedar and cinnamon into the night.

She rushed inside like a woman possessed, stripping off her gloves as she made a beeline for the kitchen. “Please be okay, please be okay…”

There he was. Sitting on the counter. Unmoving.

“ There he is! ” she breathed, scooping up the jar as if it were something precious. She cracked the lid, nose hovering close, eyes narrowing with scientific scrutiny.

Patrick leaned over her shoulder, peering in at the unimpressive blob of slightly bubbly goo. “So... is he... alive?”

Éléanor gave a cautious sniff, then smiled. “A little sluggish. But he’ll recover. He just needs a meal.”

Relief bloomed across her face as she grabbed a measuring cup and began the ritual—equal parts flour and warm water, mixed with quiet reverence. Patrick watched her, leaning against the counter, amused by the way her entire demeanor softened as she stirred.

“You really are something else,” he murmured.

She glanced up at him, her cheeks flushed from the cold and her earlier panic, but now there was a soft, affectionate glint in her eyes. “Well, Jacques is family.”

Patrick shook his head, a smirk playing at his lips. “I’m just glad we didn’t have to break out the defibrillator.”

Éléanor laughed, finally feeling the tension melt away. She closed the jar and set Jacques back in his rightful place on the counter. “Crisis averted.”

“Thank God,” Patrick said, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow. “I don’t think I could’ve handled the emotional toll of losing Jacques.”

Éléanor swatted him playfully, a grin spreading across her face. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously supportive,” he said, catching her hand and pulling her gently toward him. His touch was warm despite the cold, and she melted into it without hesitation. “And yet, here I am, risking frostbite to save a jar of sourdough. Must mean I’m a good guy.”

Éléanor laughed, leaning into him. “Yeah, I think it does.”

Patrick pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his arms wrapping around her as they stood there in the warmth of her cabin, the night’s absurd adventure leaving them both feeling a little lighter, a little closer

10 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 3 months ago

Text

Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 9 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)

Masterlist Ao3

Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink

Summary

Wordcount: 3485

A/N: Well..I'm BACK! The new job was just exhausting, and I had to adjust to the long hours (on the bright side, the canteen food is GOATED) I have a lot of new stories planned, people—but first: Let's finish the story of Pat and Éléanor! I plan on updating once a week again. And as always: I take requests.

The storm finally subsided, leaving behind a serene, snow-covered world that sparkled under the bright winter sun. The crisp air felt refreshingly new, and Éléanor and Patrick had settled into a quiet, easy routine, enjoying the peace in the days that followed the storm.

Patrick, however, had changed—his stubble had grown into something more substantial, now more than just a shadow, and his moustache had filled in.

His once neatly trimmed sideburns had grown out slightly, adding to his rugged mountain look. The flecks of grey now visible in his hair and beard gave him an air of experience and strength.

There was something about how he carried himself now, as if the mountain itself had left its mark on him; he belonged to the land, just as much as it belonged to him.

Éléanor found herself mesmerised every time she glanced at him, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of him now.

One particularly morning, Éléanor suggested they hike to another secluded spot she loved, where the local wildlife often came out in the early hours. Patrick agreed, and they set off, bundled up against the cold, a thermos of hot tea tucked into Éléanor’s bag.

The sky stretched above them in a pure, icy blue, unmarred by clouds, and the cold air felt refreshing, almost invigorating, as they set off. Their boots crunched rhythmically against the snow, the sound the only interruption to the peaceful silence between them. Each of their breaths hung in the air like pale clouds.

The forest around them was still and serene, the thick snow blanketing everything in sight. Patrick’s presence felt warm beside her, despite the chill in the air, and Éléanor found herself glancing at him every so often as if tethered to him by invisible strings.

They reached the spot just as the first rays of sunlight began to crest over the treetops, casting a soft, golden light on the snow. The clearing opened up before them, framed by dense woods, and in the centre was a small pond, frozen over, its surface glistening like glass.

The scene was picture-perfect, the untouched snow shimmering in the early morning light. Éléanor smiled to herself, feeling that familiar peace wash over her.

Sure enough, as they approached quietly, a few deer had already gathered near the pond. They stood cautiously near the water's edge, nibbling at the sparse patches of grass that had managed to peek through the thick snow. Their delicate bodies, covered in thick winter coats, moved with a grace that made the entire scene feel almost magical.

Éléanor slowed her pace, motioning for Patrick to do the same. She could feel his gaze on her, but when she glanced back, she found him looking out at the deer with a soft smile of wonder.

Patrick stood in quiet awe, watching the deer move through the clearing. His breath hung in the cold morning air, visible in soft puffs, while his deep blue eyes followed the animals.

Éléanor, standing beside him, found herself captivated not by the deer but by Patrick. The way he stood—his broad shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets—was a picture-perfect moment.

She quietly pulled out her sketchbook, intent on capturing the scene and the subtle details of him as he concentrated on the wildlife.

She outlined the lines of his profile—the stubbled jaw, the faint lines around his eyes, the curve of his lips that, she realised with a smile, she’d come to know so well.

Each detail was becoming familiar, yet somehow always new to her.

Just as she was finishing the sketch, Patrick turned and caught her in the act.

His eyes twinkled with amusement, the corner of his mouth curling into a slow, playful smile. He took a few casual steps toward her, his gaze shifting from the sketchbook to her face.

“Are you sketching me again?” he asked, his voice low, teasing and crossed the small distance between them with a few slow steps.

Éléanor felt her cheeks flush, but she held up the sketchbook defensively, shrugging playfully. “Maybe,” she admitted, her smile growing. “You’re just... a good subject.”

Patrick chuckled, shaking his head as he stood in front of her. “You’re obsessed,” he teased, but his grin softened as he looked at her, a glint of affection in his eyes.

“Shush,” she replied, giving him a light, playful swat on the arm. “You should be flattered.”

His teasing expression softened, and his voice grew quieter. “I am,” he said, with sincerity lacing his words. “It’s just... I can’t get over how good you are at it.”

The moment was light, but the way he looked at her—with a warmth that made her heart flutter—carried the weight of something deeper. A growing certainty that what they had was more than just a winter fling.

The easy banter, the shared silence, and the stolen glances between them had transformed into something real, something she hadn’t expected but couldn’t deny.

Before she could respond and could put any of it into words, Patrick leaned down and kissed her. His lips were warm, contrasting with the cold nip of the air against her skin, and the kiss was gentle, slow— unhurried .

Éléanor melted into it, feeling the quiet joy of the moment seep into her bones.

_____

They spent the rest of the day nestled together in that secluded spot, sitting side by side on the thick blanket they had spread over the snow.

The crisp winter air carried the scent of pine, and the sunlight, though soft and pale, warmed the clearing just enough to make the cold feel refreshing.

Patrick sipped from the thermos of hot tea, the steam rising in delicate curls as he took a long drink, his blue eyes scanning the landscape with a calm appreciation.

Éléanor quietly sketched, capturing the beauty of the morning—the way the snow sparkled in the sunlight, the soft curves of the frozen pond, and the graceful shapes of the deer that had lingered for a while longer.

Every now and then, she glanced up at Patrick, her pencil moving across the page as she tried to sketch him as well, though she made sure to keep it subtle. She didn’t want him to catch her again , but the temptation was irresistible.

As the day wore on, the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, casting long, soft shadows across the snow.

The pale light turned golden, and the air grew colder, but neither of them seemed in any rush to leave. Finally, they packed up their things, folding the blanket and tucking it away as they began the slow walk back.

As they walked back to the cabin, hands interlocked and conversation flowing easily, Éléanor brought up something that had been on her mind.

“You know,” she started, glancing up at him with a sly smile, “I’ve been meaning to watch this movie. I think it’s called Moonfall. The plot sounds a little... meh. But I heard the main actor is really hot, so I figured, why not?”

Patrick chuckled, the corners of his moustache twitching with amusement. His deep blue eyes sparkled as he looked down at her. “Oh, really? Sounds like you’ve got your priorities straight.”

Éléanor laughed, nudging him lightly with her shoulder. “Don’t judge me! Sometimes, you just watch for the eye candy. I bet you’ve done it too—watched a movie just because there was a pretty woman in it.”

Patrick’s voice rumbled through the crisp air, but he didn’t say much more, the amused look on his face growing as they stepped into the cabin.

The warmth of the fire immediately wrapped around them, a welcome contrast to the biting cold outside.

He moved over to casually lean against the kitchen counter, his sideburns and beard casting soft shadows in the flickering firelight, his expression still one of quiet amusement.

Éléanor, curiosity getting the better of her, pulled out her phone as they settled in and walked over to the couch, stopping right next to it. “I should probably look it up,” she said, her voice light as she tapped away on the screen. “I need to know who this actor is.”

Patrick watched her, arms crossed, his gaze steady but unreadable. But she was too focused on her phone to notice his expression, her fingers tapping quickly as she searched for the movie.

She found the page, her eyes scanning through the cast list. And then—her heart nearly stopped. Right there, clear as day, was a name she never expected to see.

Patrick Wilson.

Her eyes darted to the picture next to the name. The same familiar face—those piercing blue eyes, that sweet smile she’d come to know so well—was staring back at her. She blinked, half-convinced she was imagining things, but there it was, impossible to ignore.

“Patrick Wilson,” she whispered, her voice barely audible as the realisation sank in. She glanced up from the screen, her gaze locking on him. Her face drained of colour, then immediately flushed with embarrassment.

Patrick stood leaning casually against the counter, a soft smile playing on his lips, watching her with an amused glint in his eyes as if waiting for her to piece it together.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Éléanor exclaimed, her voice caught somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “ You’re the actor?”

Patrick shrugged nonchalantly, but the grin stayed on his face, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Guilty as charged,” he said, his voice low and teasing, clearly enjoying her shock.

Éléanor couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling up inside her. “I cannot believe you didn’t say anything! I was talking about how hot you were, and you just—ugh!” She playfully tossed a pillow at him, still laughing as she shook her head, simultaneously wishing the floor would just swallow her up.

“Well,” he said, catching the pillow with ease, “I didn’t want to interrupt you while you were complimenting me.” His voice was soft but teasing, and the playful gleam in his eyes only made Éléanor laugh harder.

Shaking her head, still caught between amusement and disbelief, she grinned at him. “You’re impossible.”

Patrick walked over, his movements slow and confident, and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close, against his broad chest. “Maybe,” he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. “But you can’t deny—I did live up to the hype.”

Éléanor looked up at him, the warmth of the fire and his nearness making her feel flushed. “Okay, fine,” she admitted with a smile. “You’re right. You did.”

“I don’t know, I kind of liked that you didn’t recognise me,” Patrick teased, his blue eyes shining in the firelight. There was a playful lightness to his tone, as if he was genuinely amused by the whole situation. “It’s not like I’m that famous.”

Éléanor, still slightly flustered, shook her head in disbelief. “You’re Patrick Wilson! That’s famous, famous! You’re in movies! Big ones!”

Patrick let out a soft chuckle but shrugged in an almost self-effacing way, clearly trying to downplay it. “Maybe, but here? I’m just Patrick. No cameras, no premieres, no Hollywood. Just a guy spending some time in the mountains.”

She stared at him, still processing it all.

The idea that the man she’d been spending all this time with—the one who had chopped wood for her, shared quiet cups of tea, and kissed her by the fire—was the same person who appeared in major movies. It was surreal, almost absurd.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, a mix of awe and amusement in her voice.

Patrick reached out, placing a warm, reassuring hand on her knee. His touch was gentle, grounding her as he spoke. “Hey, I’m still the same guy who’s been shovelling your driveway and stealing all your bread. I’m just me . Please…don't treat me any different.”

Éléanor shook her head, letting the absurdity of the situation sink in.

She looked at him again, this time really seeing him. The rugged stubble lining his jaw, the thick moustache, and the flecks of silver in his hair—all those familiar details that made him him .

Famous or not, this was still the same man she’d grown so fond of. The one who’d curl around her like a human vice in his sleep, whose laughter had become a comforting sound in her day.

With a soft sigh, she let the tension slip away, sinking against him. “Okay, fine,” she said, her lips curling into a smile. “But seriously, this is wild.”

Patrick’s smile was soft, his eyes filled with a quiet affection as he reached out and tucked a loose strand of hair behind Éléanor’s ear. The gentle brush of his fingers against her skin sent a flutter through her chest. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low and sincere, “it is. But you don’t have to worry—I’m not going anywhere.”

The reassurance in his tone wrapped around her like a blanket, warm and steady. Éléanor let out a breathy laugh, her shoulders relaxing as the weight of her earlier uncertainty slipped away. “I can’t believe it took me this long to figure it out,” she said, half in disbelief, half amused.

Patrick leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a teasing, low murmur. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold it against you. You’re still allowed to sketch me anytime.”

Éléanor rolled her eyes playfully and gave him a light swat on the arm. “Oh, I’m definitely going to keep drawing you. Don’t you worry about that.”

His laugh rumbled softly, filling the cosy quiet of the cabin with warmth. In that moment, with the snow still falling gently outside and the fire casting golden light around them, Éléanor realised the truth—nothing essential had changed. He might be someone the world knew, someone admired from afar, but here, with her, he was simply Patrick. And that was more than enough.

With a soft chuckle, he cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing gently across her skin as if sensing her inner thoughts. “Maybe we should skip watching the movie then,” he teased, his gaze locking with hers, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I don’t particularly enjoy seeing myself on the screen.”

Éléanor’s heart thrummed in her chest, a familiar rush of warmth spreading through her. In moments like this, when he looked at her with such tenderness, she couldn’t help but wonder if he felt the same way she did—if he shared that quiet, growing affection she was starting to feel.

Her smile curled into something mischievous, and her voice dropped into a sultry whisper. “Oh yeah? And what were you thinking we’d do instead?” she asked, lifting a brow with mock innocence. “You wanna go upstairs? You dirty boy…”

Patrick’s eyes widened, and to her surprise, a pink flush crept into his cheeks. He gave a sheepish laugh and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking adorably flustered. The sincerity in his smile made Éléanor’s heart skip a beat. “No—no, not that,” he said quickly, tripping over the words. “I just thought maybe… we could cuddle? Maybe read for a bit?”

Éléanor blinked, surprised by the softness of his suggestion. For an instant, she half-expected him to laugh it off, to turn it into a joke, but the way his expression remained earnest—his gaze warm and inviting—told her otherwise. Her playful teasing melted away, replaced by a quiet affection as she took in the simple sweetness of his offer.

A slow grin tugged at her lips. “Cuddle and read, huh?” she echoed, her voice lighter now, touched with affection. “That’s your big idea for the night?”

He shrugged, his blush deepening as he glanced away, but there was a bashful smile tugging at his lips. “Well, yeah. It’s kind of my idea of a perfect night.”

Éléanor’s heart swelled at his honesty and his words’ gentle vulnerability. There was something so disarming about how he let her see this softer part of him—unguarded and real. Her smile deepened, gentling at the edges as she slipped her arms around his neck, drawing him close until their foreheads touched. “You know what?” she murmured, her voice low and tender. “I think that sounds perfect, too.”

He let out a relieved breath, his arms around her waist tightening. “Yeah?” he asked, his voice hushed, hopeful.

Éléanor nodded, her nose brushing against his, her lips curving into a small, honest smile. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I think I could get used to quiet nights like this… with you .”

He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, the bristle of his stubble and the brush of his mustache sending a warm shiver over her skin. Then, with a reluctant but sweet smile, he let her go and moved toward the side table.

She watched as he opened the drawer and retrieved a slim pair of reading glasses, slipping them on with casual ease. The thin, delicate metal frames immediately added a thoughtful, scholarly touch to his already rugged appearance.

In the dim, flickering firelight, he looked almost distinguished, the subtle grey in his stubble and hair catching the glow, giving him an irresistible, magnetic aura. Éléanor watched him, her earlier embarrassment long gone, replaced by a deep and growing affection.

Patrick settled comfortably into the couch, a book resting on his lap as he glanced and smiled softly, patting the spot next to him.

Without a word, Éléanor slid in next to him, nestling into the curve of his body as his arm came around her shoulders like it belonged there. She let her head rest against him, contentment seeping in with the scent of firewood and the steady sound of his heartbeat.

She glanced up at him, admiring how the firelight danced in the lenses of his glasses, how the angles of his face looked even more striking in the dim warmth.

Noticing her lingering gaze, Patrick blushed faintly, adjusting his glasses with a slightly self-conscious gesture. “Yeah... I know. I only need them for reading,” he mumbled, his voice a bit shy. “I know they make me look old .”

Éléanor shook her head, a smile tugging at her lips. “No, Patrick... I like it. It suits you.”

She leaned in and kissed his shoulder tenderly—slow, deliberate, and full of quiet affection. The gesture was small, but it held weight, a gentle reassurance meant to soothe the flicker of self-consciousness in him.

With a contented hum, Éléanor nestled more closely against his side, her fingers brushing lightly over his arm before she pulled her book into her lap.

“So,” she asked, her voice light, “what’s your book about?”

Patrick glanced down at her, his glasses slipping just slightly on the bridge of his nose as he smiled. “It’s a novel about a man who takes a journey to find himself,” he replied, his voice thoughtful. “Pretty fitting, don’t you think?”

Éléanor chuckled softly, her smile widening and her head resting comfortably against his shoulder. “Is that what you’re doing up here? Finding yourself?”

Patrick met her eyes, his expression shifting from playful to something deeper, though still warm. “Maybe,” he said, the word slow and deliberate. Then his gaze softened. “Or maybe I just came up here to breathe. And I happened to stumble into some very good company.”

A soft blush crept onto Éléanor’s cheeks, a warmth stirring in her chest that she couldn’t ignore. “Well, you’re not the only one enjoying the company,” she admitted, her voice soft but sincere. “I love having you here.”

Patrick set the book aside, gently closing it as he removed his glasses and placed them on the table. “I’m glad,” he said, his voice lowering, more intimate now. “I’ve enjoyed it too. It’s not often I get to just... be.”

Éléanor turned to face him a bit more, intrigued. “What’s it like? Being famous, I mean. When you’re not hiding out in snowy cabins?”

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back. “Busy,” he said simply. “It’s a whirlwind. Travel, interviews, red carpets, cameras in your face all the time. You get used to it… but it wears on you. It’s like being pulled in a dozen directions at once, always performing .”

She watched him closely, the flicker of firelight casting shadows over his face. There was a weariness in his voice that didn’t quite reach his smile.

“But here,” he continued, “it’s quiet. No expectations. No noise. Just… this.” He glanced around the room, then back at her. “It’s the most ‘me’ I’ve felt in a long time.”

Éléanor’s heart softened at his honesty, and she gently squeezed his hand. “I’m really glad you’re here…that we met.”

As they both turned their attention to the pages, the fire crackled softly, casting a warm glow around them. Patrick’s glasses reflected the flickering flames as he read, and Éléanor couldn’t help but steal glances at him, feeling a deep sense of contentment.

15 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 4 months ago

Text

The things I'd let him do to me, I swear. Anyway: new story idea coming up, because I want to imprint these images in my brain omg

Patrick Wilson via IG

#patrick wilson #i am feral for that man #the things i would let him do to me #please just one chance

41 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 4 months ago

Note

Hiii, I noticed you're missing... is everything okay with you?

I know I've asked you for a loottt and I'm sorry to bother you again, but I was wondering if you could write a smut fanfic where Y/n is a successful young woman who has her dream job. Her life was perfect until the company she worked for went bankrupt and merged with a super famous corporation.

Her CEO, Patrick Wilson, was an extremely handsome, hot, irresistible man – and now, her new boss. Which would be wonderful, if he wasn't the most arrogant and asshole man in the world, with a huge ego.

What should have been a dream became your worst nightmare. He was obsessed with work, nothing you did was good enough, he didn't treat you well and he even acted as if you were some kind of personal assistant to him.

Patrick kept you so busy that you had absolutely no time for anything. It seemed like the only thing that made that insufferable man happy and gave you some pleasure was making your life hell.

Nothing was going well and you were already fed up with him. Then, to make matters worse, a rumor reached your ears that Patrick was going to lay off some people due to budget cuts – and you were among them. Feeling completely wronged, your patience reached its limit.

Furious, you storm into his office, determined to take out all the anger he'd been putting on you all this time. After all, you were going to be fired anyway... However, things don't go as expected, since having sex with your boss wasn't in your plans.

With age difference, size difference, angry sex, rough sex, F+M receiving oral sex, fingering, masturbation, blowjob, face fucking, slapping, hair pulling, sucking, orgasm denial, multiple orgasms, compliment kink, name calling, riding, face down on the table, dirty talk, pussy slapping, cum swallowing, face slapping, choking, punishment, domination kink (Patrick dominating) and whatever else you want! Pleaseeee 🙏🙏❤️✨

Because until today I've never seen a fanfic like this with Patrick... And I would love it so much 🥰🥰 (just remembering that you don't need to have all these warnings if you don't want ☝️)

Hi! Yes, I am in fact alive - but the new job and work commute are keeping me on my toes and pretty busy.

BUT I have few OS planned (and almost finished chapters for the Eleanor x PWilz story) so that'll happen soon

And I like your request! So I think I'll write you an one shot for reader X CEO Patrick

(I am in general always taking requests so feel free to ask)

#patrick wilson #patrick wilson smut #patrick wilson x reader #fanfiction

38 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 7 months ago

Text

Surface-Dweller Traditions: New Years (Orm Marius x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

Ocean Eyes Masterlink

Summary

[Orm Marius x Female Reader] [Orm Marius x You] Life with Orm is always a mix of discovery and contrast—his Atlantean heritage often colliding with your everyday human traditions. From decorating trees and trying festive foods to marvelling at fireworks or enduring bustling crowds, Orm’s reserved demeanour softens as he experiences the joy and warmth of human traditions with you. OR: A series of unrelated one-shots and mini-fics about the many types of festivities Orm and you share.

Wordcount: 3803

A/N: Happy New Year, guys. In this one Orm is confronted with another important tradition-New Years Eve XD

The stars shimmered brilliantly, their light scattered across the vast midnight-blue expanse of the sky, each one like a finely cut gem set into an endless velvet tapestry.

A silvery layer of snow blanketed the beach behind your seaside cottage, glittering softly in the moonlight. The waves rolled lazily against the shore. Their edges tinged with ice, the rhythmic sound a soothing undercurrent to the quiet night.

The tree you and Orm had decorated together stood like a centrepiece, its branches adorned with twinkling lights and glittering ornaments that reflected the glow of the roaring fire in the hearth. The colourful lights spilled softly through the frosted window panes, their hues blending with the moonlight and casting gentle patterns on the snow outside.

Inside, the atmosphere was alive with laughter and warmth. Plates of food filled every available surface, a feast for the senses with dishes representing both your world and Orm’s.

Golden-brown roasted vegetables glistened beside soft, buttery rolls, their rich aroma mingling with the briny scent of delicately seared fish. Seaweed-wrapped morsels, intricate and artfully arranged, brought a touch of Orm’s world to the table, their emerald hues a striking contrast against the warm, earthy tones of the other offerings.

Orm stood near the table, and he wore a simple knit sweater, the soft, charcoal-grey fabric hugging his broad shoulders and hinting at his strength. Faded jeans completed the look as they hung low on his hips.

His face, usually clean-shaven and sharp, was softened by a few days' worth of stubble, giving him a rugged, approachable charm. The firelight played across his features, accentuating the familiar intensity in his blue-grey eyes but tempering it with warmth.

His blond hair, slightly mussed as though he'd run a hand through it one too many times, fell naturally into place, making him look effortlessly handsome as if he’d just walked out of the ocean, its salt-kissed waves still clinging to him.

The soft strands, a mix of silvery platinum and sunny gold, framed his face in a way that made him look almost ethereal in the warm glow.

He looked like someone who had finally found a moment to breathe.

Every now and then, his gaze would meet yours, and in those moments, warmth would fill you from within as you felt the pure love he radiated.

Arthur, Orm’s half-brother, lounged comfortably at the dining table, a casual ease about him as he nursed a drink in one hand. His signature smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, his sharp eyes sparkling with amusement as he watched his brother.

“Well, well,” Arthur drawled, lifting his glass in a mock toast toward his older brother. “Who would’ve thought the great Ocean Master himself would be so... domestic?” His grin widened, clearly revelling in the rare chance to tease Orm in such an ordinary setting.

Orm, standing a few feet away, stiffened slightly at the jab but didn’t take the bait. Instead, he cast Arthur a withering glare, his sharp features settling into an expression of icy composure.

Without missing a beat, he returned to help you arrange plates on the table, his movements precise and unbothered.

“I fail to see how assisting my partner equates to domesticity,” he replied, his voice cool and measured, though the faintest edge of irritation crept into his tone.

Arthur’s grin stretched wider, a mischievous glint flickering in his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, clearly enjoying the shift in the conversation. “Partner?” he repeated, his tone dripping with playful sarcasm. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”

You chuckled, stepping in with a lighthearted tone before the teasing could escalate any further. With a playful smile, you raised an eyebrow at Arthur. “Arthur, do you really want to challenge the man who decides if you get food tonight?”

Arthur’s smirk faltered just slightly, and he lifted his glass in a mock gesture of surrender. “Fair point,” he said with a dramatic sigh. “I’ll behave.”

Orm turned to you, his lips curving into a soft, almost imperceptible smile as his deep blue eyes locked with yours. There was a quiet warmth in his gaze, a tenderness that seemed reserved just for you. “Thank you,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble, quiet enough that only you could catch the words.

You met his gaze, a gentle smile playing on your lips as you brushed a hand lightly against his arm, your touch warm and reassuring.

“Always,” you simply replied—and you meant it.

The hours passed in a haze of good food and lively conversation, the three of you slipping into a rhythm that felt surprisingly natural. Arthur, ever the storyteller, regaled you with tales of his adventures, his voice rich with humour and exaggeration.

Even Orm, sitting beside you with his arm casually draped across the back of your chair, couldn’t suppress a few wry comments about his brother’s flair for the dramatic.

His presence was comforting, his strong, broad frame leaning slightly toward you as he spoke, his blond hair catching the light of the candles that flickered on the table. His hand rested just above your shoulder, his fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of your clothing, and the steady warmth of him was a reassurance you didn’t know you needed until you felt it.

When he smiled, it was subtle, a slow curve of his lips that hinted at quiet amusement or fondness rather than the wide, effortless grins that Arthur often wore.

It was a smile that reached his eyes—those deep blue-grey eyes that softened with affection, holding a depth that only you knew intimately.

A smile that made his whole face warm, as though it was something reserved just for you , and in those rare moments, the sharpness that often defined him seemed to melt away, revealing a softer, more human side of him.

He didn’t need to say anything; the way he smiled spoke volumes—gentle, knowing, and undeniably magnetic, conveying how much he enjoyed being here with you.

As the clock neared midnight, you suggested stepping outside to watch the fireworks. Arthur immediately perked up, his grin widening at the thought of the spectacle, but Orm looked slightly sceptical. He raised an eyebrow, his piercing eyes narrowing as if trying to make sense of the idea.

“Fireworks?” he repeated, the unfamiliar word rolling awkwardly off his tongue, his deep voice tinged with confusion. It was clear the concept didn’t quite fit into his world, where beauty was more often found in the stillness of the sea or the power of the waves.

You smiled softly, understanding his hesitation, and reached for his hand. The warmth of his strong fingers intertwined with yours, grounding him as you gently reassured him. “They’re beautiful ,” you promised, your voice calm and encouraging. "You’ll see."

Orm’s gaze softened, the faintest glimmer of curiosity replacing the uncertainty in his eyes. Though he didn’t fully understand what fireworks were, something in your tone seemed to ease his reservations. With a quiet nod, he allowed himself to be led outside, his broad frame casting a shadow as he stepped outside with you.

The night air was crisp and biting against your cheeks, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the cottage behind you. Arthur leaned casually against the railing, his posture relaxed, scanning the dark sky with easy confidence as if the night held no surprises for him.

His eyes were alight with the anticipation of the spectacle, a grin playing at the corners of his mouth as he made idle chatter.

Orm, however, stood close to you, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the dim light. His hand remained firmly clasped in yours, the warmth of his touch grounding you amidst the chill of the evening.

Despite his relaxed stance, the tension in his broad shoulders was subtle but unmistakable. His eyes, usually sharp with focus, were narrowed in quiet wariness as he scanned the horizon; the same alertness that had served him well in countless battles now turned toward an unfamiliar form of potential danger.

It was as if he couldn’t fully relax, his instincts still primed for a threat that didn’t seem to exist here. His eyes, reflecting the faint glow of the porch light, tracked every shadow and movement in the night, his wariness ingrained after years of living on the edge.

“It’s just a celebration,” you said softly, your voice cutting through the quiet tension. You gave his hand a gentle squeeze, your fingers laced firmly with his, hoping to ease the unease that lingered in his posture.

Orm glanced down at you briefly, the guarded look in his blue eyes softening ever so slightly. He nodded once, the motion small but enough to show he trusted your words, even if the concept was still foreign to him.

Yet, even as he acknowledged your reassurance, his gaze returned to the dark expanse of sky, his features still taut with quiet vigilance. The steady rhythm of his breathing and the subtle strength of his hand in yours were the only signs that he was beginning to settle, grounding himself in your presence.

When the first firework shot upward, its trail carving a glowing arc of orange against the inky black sky, Orm stiffened beside you.

His body, usually so composed, became rigid, the muscles in his arms tense as if preparing for battle. The sudden explosion that followed was loud and jarring, a thunderous boom that shattered the stillness of the night. The sky erupted into a cascade of golden sparks, their dazzling light reflecting off the snow-dusted ground and rippling waves, painting the scene in fleeting, brilliant hues.

Arthur let out a low whistle, leaning back against the railing with a murmured comment about the spectacle, but his words barely registered. Your attention was fixed on Orm.

His hand, still clasped in yours, tightened with almost crushing force, his knuckles pale against the knit of his sweater. His gaze was locked on the sky, unblinking and intense, his lips pressed into a thin line as the bursts of light and sound continued.

You could see the flicker of something unfamiliar in his eyes—shock, confusion, perhaps even a trace of unease. For a man who had faced countless battles and commanded armies, this simple display of light and sound seemed to unsettle him in a way you hadn’t expected. It was as if the raw power of the fireworks reminded him of something far more dangerous and unpredictable.

“Orm?” you whispered, your voice barely cutting through the sharp crack of another firework streaking into the sky. This one arced high above, its shimmering blue trail splitting the darkness before erupting into a magnificent burst. The explosion sent cascading tendrils of electric blue, and silver sparks raining down, illuminating the snow, the waves, and Orm’s tense features in a ghostly glow.

He flinched violently as the firework burst with a deafening crack that echoed across the beach, his head snapping toward the sound as though he expected an attack. The brilliance of the explosion reflected in his wide eyes, which darted across the sky, scanning for unseen threats amidst the bursts of light. His breathing quickened, each sharp inhale causing his chest to rise and fall unevenly, the muscles of his broad shoulders coiled with tension.

Another firework soared upward, its fiery tail spiralling as it climbed before detonating into a dazzling explosion of gold and crimson. The burst lit the horizon with a flickering radiance, but to Orm, it seemed less a celebration and more a chaotic display of unpredictable power. His grip on your hand tightened to the point of discomfort, as though anchoring himself to you was the only thing keeping him steady.

“It’s an attack,” he muttered under his breath, his voice tight and edged with barely suppressed panic. His piercing blue-grey eyes were wide unfocused, as though he were seeing something far beyond the fireworks in the sky. His words were low but urgent, filled with the certainty of a man who had faced countless battles. “They’re coming ,” he said again, the tension in his tone a stark contrast to the festive display above.

You recognised the signs immediately—the way his free hand had curled into a white-knuckled fist at his side, the subtle tremor in his frame, and the way his chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths.

Orm wasn’t here anymore; his mind had pulled him back into the depths of his past, to battles fought in the shadowy expanse of the ocean, to the chaos and unrelenting violence he had endured as both warrior and king. The brilliant bursts of light and sound weren’t a celebration to him—they were explosions, signals of an impending assault, echoes of a life defined by conflict.

“ Orm ,” you said firmly, stepping directly into his line of sight. Your voice cut through the tension like a blade, steady and grounding. “Look at me.”

You placed your free hand gently against his chest, feeling the rapid thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm. His gaze wavered for a moment, his eyes darting toward you as though unsure whether to focus on the present or remain trapped in the haunting echoes of his past.

He didn’t respond, his entire body jerking as another firework shot upward, splitting the sky with a deafening boom that sent waves of colour cascading into the night. His expression twisted with raw, unfiltered fear, a vulnerability so unlike him that it took your breath away. His sharp features, usually so composed, were tense with the weight of memories that seemed to drown him.

“Orm,” you repeated, your voice louder now, firm but filled with concern. You tugged on his hand, your grip steady and grounding. “Come inside. You’re safe , but we need to go inside.”

For a moment, it felt as though he didn’t hear you, his mind too clouded by the chaos of the past—the flash of explosions, the roar of battles fought beneath the waves. His chest heaved with uneven breaths, his gaze darting wildly between the horizon and the fireworks that painted the sky with bursts of light and sound.

Then, slowly, your voice seemed to cut through the haze. His eyes flicked down to meet yours, wide and glassy, as if seeing you for the first time since stepping outside. Recognition began to surface in their depths, the storm in his mind momentarily stilling as he focused on you. His grip on your hand slackened slightly, the strength of your presence pulling him back from the brink.

“Please,” you said softly, your voice steady yet imbued with a quiet urgency. Your hand squeezed his gently, grounding him in the present. “Come with me.” The gentleness in your tone was insistent, a lifeline pulling him away from the chaos in his mind.

Orm hesitated, his broad chest still rising and falling in uneven bursts. His gaze flickered between the door and you, uncertainty etched into his features, but he didn’t let go of your hand. You stayed steady, your calm presence anchoring him, refusing to let him slip back into the storm of his memories.

After what felt like an eternity, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod, and you began to lead him toward the warmth and safety of the house. His steps were hesitant at first, his body tense and his shoulders hunched as though bracing for an attack that would never come. But he followed you, his hand gripping yours like a lifeline.

Once inside, you closed the door firmly behind you, the sound of the latch sealing away the cacophony of the outside world. The fireworks continued, their muffled booms now softened by the walls of your home, distant and far less threatening. The warm glow of the living room embraced you both, the hum of safety wrapping around him like a comforting cocoon.

You guided him to the couch, your touch firm but gentle as you eased him down onto the soft cushions. His movements were stiff, almost mechanical, as though his body hadn’t yet caught up with the safety of the moment.

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands trembling as they gripped them tightly. His head hung low, his silver-blond hair falling forward to partially obscure his face, while his uneven breaths filled the quiet space around you. He was fighting—fighting to claw his way back from the memories that held him captive.

“Orm,” you said gently, lowering yourself to your knees in front of him so you could meet his gaze. Your voice was soft but steady, the calm anchor you knew he needed right now. “You’re safe. You’re here with me. No one is attacking.”

His shoulders trembled faintly at your words, the tension in his powerful frame still visible, but he didn’t respond. You reached out, placing a hand over his, which was gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles had gone white, and you were sure that he’d bruise himself with the sheer strength he used to hold on to it. The warmth of your touch seemed to break through the barrier of his fear, drawing his attention.

He glanced up at you then, his eyes still shadowed with the echoes of panic. But there was something else there, too—something searching, desperate for the reassurance your voice and presence were offering. You held his gaze firmly, your touch and words steady, silently willing him to let go of the battle raging inside.

His breath hitched sharply, his chest rising and falling as though he were trying to steady himself, but failing. His head shook almost imperceptibly, as if he were trying to physically dispel the memories clawing at his mind. “The sounds...” he murmured, his voice low and strained, laced with raw vulnerability. “They’re the same . The explosions, the echoes—it’s too much.”

His words trailed off, but the haunted look in his eyes spoke volumes, a silent cry for solace amidst the storm. You didn’t hesitate, gently threading your fingers through his trembling ones. His fingers were ice-cold, his knuckles still rigid from the intensity of his grip, but you held them firmly, grounding him with your touch.

“It’s not the same,” you said softly but with unwavering conviction, your voice cutting through the haze enveloping him. “Look at me, Orm. You’re not there anymore. You’re here, with me.”

Your words hung in the air, a lifeline tethering him to the present. Slowly, his head lifted, and his eyes, still clouded with fear, met yours. The storm in them began to waver, the familiar warmth of your presence pulling him back from the abyss. You gave his hands a reassuring squeeze, leaning in slightly so that your steady gaze was all he could focus on.

“You’re safe,” you whispered. “I promise.”

In his eyes, you saw the shadows of a lifetime’s worth of pain—raw and unhidden. It was the kind of pain that burrowed deep, etched into his very being by years of war, betrayal, and loss. The guarded walls he always kept so carefully in place had crumbled, leaving him exposed in a way few had ever seen. His lips parted, and for a moment, you weren’t sure he would speak, but then he did, his voice low and unsteady.

“I hate this,” he admitted, the words barely above a whisper, but the weight of them was immense. His hands trembled slightly in yours. “I hate feeling like this.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his tone, at the man before you who had endured so much yet still felt trapped by his own mind. You squeezed his hands gently, your thumbs brushing over his knuckles in a soothing rhythm. “I know,” you said softly, your voice steady and full of understanding. “I know how hard this is for you. But you’re not alone. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Your words seemed to pull him back, the storm in his eyes flickering as he focused on you. His breathing, still uneven, began to slow as your presence cut through the fog of fear gripping him. Bit by bit, you watched as the tension in his broad shoulders eased, his body no longer braced for an invisible attack. He let out a shaky breath and closed his eyes briefly as if to steady himself. When he opened them again, there was a clarity there, faint but growing, as he leaned forward.

Orm rested his forehead against yours, the gesture both grounding and intimate. His silver-blond hair, slightly dishevelled, fell forward, brushing lightly against your skin. He exhaled deeply, his voice low and filled with gratitude. “Thank you,” he murmured, the words carrying the weight of his sincerity.

Your hands stayed clasped around his, unwavering. “You don’t have to thank me,” you replied, your tone tender but firm. “I love you, Orm. And I’ll always be here for you.”

Outside, the fireworks began to fade, their brilliant colours dimming until only faint bursts of light painted the horizon. The final echoes of explosions gave way to the gentle hum of the night, the world returning to its quiet, peaceful rhythm.

Inside, the glow of the Christmas tree bathed the room in a soft golden light, its gentle flicker casting dancing shadows across the walls. The warmth of the room wrapped around the two of you, creating a sanctuary against the chaos of the world outside.

Orm let out a long, shuddering breath, his hands remaining tightly clasped around yours, though the tremble had eased. His eyes, still shadowed but calmer now, searched yours as if trying to hold onto the reassurance you offered. “You’re my anchor,” he said softly, his voice carrying a rare vulnerability that made your chest tighten.

You leaned closer, your voice steady as you replied, “And you’re mine.”

The words hung between you, a quiet promise that needed no elaboration. Orm closed his eyes, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of his lips—a sign that he was beginning to let go of the fear that had gripped him. He still held your hands as though afraid to lose the grounding they provided, but his grip softened, his trust in you evident in the way he allowed himself to relax, if only slightly.

For what felt like hours but was only moments, the two of you remained there, wrapped in each other’s presence. The world outside faded, the sounds of the last firework disappearing into the silence of the new year. The steady warmth of the room, the flicker of the tree lights, and the quiet rhythm of his breathing created a cocoon of peace. At that moment, everything else seemed to fall away—no past, no fears, only the love and solace you offered each other as the new year began.

67 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 7 months ago

Text

Surface-Dweller Traditions: Christmas (Orm Marius x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

Ocean Eyes Masterlink

Summary

Wordcount: 3,693

A/N: Merry Christmas y'all! My present for you: Some more of Orm x Marine Biologist Reader, with Orm being overwhelmed with human traditions and slowly learning This will be.. a few OS of traditions and festivities our favourite Atlantean can experience for the first time (feel free to request some lol) Also, this chapter is just pure fluff

Orm Marius, former King of Atlantis, lingered in the doorway of your cosy seaside cottage, framed by the quiet beauty of the snow-laden night. The moonlight glinted off his silvery blonde hair and sharp features, lending him an otherworldly presence that never failed to take your breath away.

Yet, tonight, there was a vulnerability to him that you rarely saw. He stood stiffly, his piercing blue eyes scanning the room, taking in the string lights that draped the walls, the flickering candles on the mantle, and the Christmas tree glowing softly in the corner, its branches adorned with ornaments and garlands in various stages of assembly. His expression was one of wary curiosity—as if he were stepping into enemy territory.

You set down the ornament you were holding and turned to greet him with a smile. “You’re just in time to help me finish decorating,” you said, brushing your hands on your jeans. “How was your walk?”

Orm stepped inside, his heavy boots creaking against the wooden floor, and closed the door behind him. “Cold,” he said bluntly, shaking a few snowflakes from his sweater as he took off his shoes and changed into some cosy slippers you gave him some time ago. He paused, his gaze flickering to the tree. “This… Christmas,” he began, his voice low and deliberate as the tide, “it seems an odd ritual. Are you certain it is not a form of surface-world combat?”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “No battles, I promise,” you said, walking over to him and cupping his cheek, his stubble rough against your palm. “Christmas is a celebration. It’s about family, love, and spending time with the people who matter most.”

His gaze softened slightly, though his brows remained furrowed, your hand seemingly grounding him in the moment. “It seems impractical to centre an entire season around something so intangible,” he said, gesturing toward the decorations with a regal wave of his hand. “In Atlantis, our celebrations honour duty and tradition. They have purpose.”

You brushed your thumb over his sharp cheekbone before reaching down and grabbing his hand, your fingers threading through his. Almost instinctively, Orm’s hand closed around yours, his large palm dwarfing yours and engulfing it completely. A gesture he had done countless times since you entered a relationship. “This has a purpose, too,” you said gently. “It’s about creating memories. About finding joy in the little things.”

“Joy,” Orm echoed, his voice tinged with scepticism. He looked at you as if you were trying to explain some elusive, surface-world concept that defied his understanding. “Joy seems fleeting. Impermanent.”

“Maybe it is,” you admitted, “but that doesn’t make it any less important. And,” you added with a teasing smile, “you’re here now. So…help me decorate. This isn’t just my tradition anymore. It’s ours. If you want it to be.”

His expression shifted, a glimmer of something unspoken flickering in his eyes. “Ours,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word and gently squeezing your hand. Then, with a small incline of his head, he added, “Very well. Show me what must be done.”

You led him to the table where the remaining ornaments were laid out, each one carrying its own little story. Orm’s curiosity was evident as he picked up a delicate glass starfish, turning it over in his hands with reverence. “This is artful,” he said. “Did you create it?”

“No, I found it at a marine biology conference years ago,” you explained. “But now it reminds me of you.”

“Of me?” Orm raised a sceptical brow, turning it over in his hands, his long digits tracing the ornaments’ delicate contours. “A starfish? Do I resemble one?”

“Not literally,” you said, laughing. “But they’re resilient. They survive even when the odds are against them. They regenerate. They’re strong, just like you.”

A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face—surprise, perhaps, or something deeper. Without a word, he stepped toward the tree and carefully placed the ornament on one of the lower branches, adjusting it until it hung just right.

“Is that satisfactory?” he asked, turning to you with a faint smirk.

“Perfect,” you said, beaming, stepping back to admire his work. “You’re a natural.”

“Hardly,” he replied, though there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

As the evening wore on, Orm began to relax, his initial awkwardness giving way to a quiet curiosity. He strung garlands with military precision, muttering about the string getting stuck on the branches, and listened intently as you explained the stories behind each ornament.

“This one,” you said, holding up a small wooden lighthouse, “was carved by my grandfather. He used to say it was a reminder to always find your way home.”

Orm’s expression softened. “A wise sentiment.”

“And this one,” you continued, picking up a tiny dolphin figurine, “was a gift from my mentor after my first successful research dive. I was so nervous, but she told me I had the heart of the sea in me.”

“You do,” Orm said quietly. His words caught you off guard, and you turned to find him watching you, his gaze steady, unguarded and loving.

A faint blush rose to your cheeks. “Thanks,” you murmured, setting the ornament on the tree.

When the tree was nearly complete, you reached for the final touch—the star for the top. Standing on your toes, you tried to stretch high enough to place it, but the branch was just out of reach.

You let out a small huff of frustration. “I might need a chair for this,” you muttered.

“Nonsense,” Orm said, stepping behind you. Before you could protest, his hands settled firmly on your waist. “Allow me.”

His touch was steady, his palms broad and warm even through the fabric of your sweater, the strength in his arms and shoulders evident as he held you aloft. In one smooth motion, he lifted you as though you weighed nothing at all.

You felt the strength in his grip, the muscles in his forearms and shoulders flexing with effortless control. He held you securely, his body solid and grounding beneath you. Yet, there was also a gentleness in the way he supported you, as though he were cradling something precious.

“You didn’t have to—” you began, your voice faltering slightly as you placed the star at the top of the tree, “I could have just gotten a chair.”

“It is my duty,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “If this is to be our tradition, then it must be done properly…and also, why deprive me of the opportunity to touch my girlfriend.”

Blushing, you adjusted the star until it sat perfectly straight. “How’s that?”

“Perfect,” he murmured. His hands lingered on your waist as he slowly set you back down, his touch gentler now. For a moment, you stood there, caught in the warmth of his presence, the faint scent of salt and the sea clinging to him like a memory.

“Thank you,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his.

“It was nothing,” he replied, but there was a flicker of something in his expression—a quiet pride, perhaps, or just the love he felt for you.

Later that evening, the two of you sat down for dinner at the small table by the window. The scent of roasted vegetables, honey glaze, and perfectly grilled fish filled the cosy room.

You had prepared the meal with Orm in mind, knowing of his love for seafood and also reminiscent of how much he missed Atlantis.

Each detail of the setting had been carefully chosen—a small vase of winter flowers at the centre of the table, soft candlelight reflecting on the frosty windowpanes. It was intimate and warm, a sharp contrast to the cold depths Orm once ruled.

“What is this dish called?” Orm asked, his sharp blue eyes scanning his plate with the careful scrutiny of a tactician surveying a battlefield. In the glow of the Christmas tree behind him, his angular features seemed to soften further.

The mild, shifting lights illuminated his hair, and his eyes, bright and blue as a sunlit sea, caught and reflected the warmth of the room. At that moment, he looked both regal and human, a mesmerising contradiction.

“It’s roasted squash and potatoes with a honey glaze,” you explained, pointing to each component, “and grilled fish—caught fresh this morning. I thought you’d appreciate the seafood.”

Orm’s lips curved into a genuine smile, one that lit up his usually serious face and softened the sharp lines of his features. It was a smile he seemed to save just for you, and every time you saw it, your heart swelled.

“You know me well, my love,” he said, his voice warm and steady.

You couldn’t help but smile back, your chest filling with a deep, unshakable affection for the man sitting across from you. In moments like this, you were reminded of just how much you loved him—his strength, his vulnerability, and the quiet, unwavering care he showed you in everything he did.

You tried not to stare as he took his first bite, but your gaze betrayed you. His expression remained inscrutable as he chewed slowly, analysing the flavours as if they might reveal some hidden truth about surface dwellers. Finally, he nodded, placing his fork down with a quiet clink. “It is… satisfactory .”

For a moment, you blinked at him, unsure if he was joking or genuinely serious. Then, laughter bubbled up and spilled out of you, filling the small dining room. “Satisfactory?” you repeated incredulously, trying to keep a straight face. “That’s all you’ve got?”

Orm’s brow lifted in that familiar way, a regal expression that might have been intimidating if it weren’t for the faint curve of his lips. The subtle smile softened his otherwise sharp features, giving him an almost boyish charm. “In Atlantis,” he began in his ever-composed tone, “satisfactory is high praise. It signifies balance—neither excessive nor insufficient. It implies…” He paused, his blue eyes sparkling with quiet amusement, “…perfection.”

You folded your arms and leaned back in your chair, shaking your head with a grin. “Oh, perfection, huh? Well, forgive me for misunderstanding, Your Highness,” you teased. “But next time, I’ll save myself the effort and just grab a greasy burger and fries. You probably wouldn’t notice the difference.”

Grinning, you pointed your fork at him, a mock warning in your tone. “And if you keep being this critical, I might not even bother seasoning it!”

Orm’s eyes widened slightly, and he laughed. It was low and rich, a sound that seemed to rumble up from deep within his chest, warming the room like sunlight breaking through clouds. Raising his hands in mock surrender, he leaned back slightly in his chair, his smile broadening into something more relaxed, more loving.

“Peace, my love,” he said, his voice tinged with gentle humour. “I yield to your culinary expertise. I was merely joking. Your cooking is wonderful, as always.”

The sincerity in his gaze made your heart skip a beat. For all his wit and formality, Orm had a way of softening when he was with you, his smiles and compliments carrying an intimacy that only you were privileged to witness.

“You’re forgiven,” you said, still grinning, though your heart felt full to bursting. “But only because I love you.”

Orm leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he regarded you with that piercing gaze that always made you feel as if you were the only person in the world. “I am most fortunate, then,” he replied, his tone low and intimate.

As the meal continued, the two of you fell into easy conversation. Orm began to share stories of Atlantean celebrations—vivid depictions of grand processions that wound through the glowing coral cities, ceremonies steeped in tradition, and bioluminescent displays that transformed the deep into a kaleidoscope of living light.

“There is a particular festival,” he said, his tone tinged with pride. “The Feast of Tides. It is held to honour the shifting currents that guide us and the sea creatures that sustain our people. The city pulses with song, and even the waters seem to dance.”

Your mind drifted back to the time Orm had taken you to Atlantis—a moment early in your relationship. The vibrant, surreal beauty of the city beneath the waves had been overwhelming: spires of coral that shimmered with an inner light, creatures that glowed in the darkened depths, and the hauntingly beautiful songs that seemed to resonate through the water itself. You had never felt more like an outsider, and yet, Orm’s steady presence at your side had made you feel protected. Made you feel like you belonged.

“It sounds incredible,” you said, leaning forward, captivated by the vivid picture he painted. “It reminds me of when you showed me Atlantis for the first time. Everything was so alive. It felt like stepping into another world.”

Orm’s gaze softened, a flicker of pride and something deeper crossing his features. “You adapted quickly for someone who had never felt the pressure of the deep nor seen the creatures beneath the waves.”

You smiled, a little embarrassed but warmed by his praise. “It helped that I had the former king of Atlantis guiding me.”

His lips twitched before breaking into a smile again, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “A king who now decorates trees and eats roasted squash,” he said dryly, though his tone held no bitterness—only a quiet, soft acceptance of how much his life had changed. “The currents have carried us to strange places.”

“They have,” you agreed. “But they’ve carried us together. And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing great with all the surface-world traditions. Even if you think they’re odd.”

Orm’s expression shifted as his gaze turned thoughtful. “Perhaps. If the currents align, and the surface is kind, there may be more of these… traditions to learn.” His words were wistful, carrying the weight of someone trying to balance two worlds, yet willing to try for you—willing to continue trying for you.

After dinner, the two of you decided to take a walk along the beach behind your cottage. The snow that had lightly dusted the sand earlier was now mostly melted, leaving patches of dampness that sparkled faintly under the silvery moonlight.

You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, glancing over at Orm as the two of you walked along the beach behind your house.

His long coat swayed with his movements, and his posture remained as regal as ever, though there was an ease to his stride that you didn’t often see. He had refused a hat, of course, claiming it unnecessary despite the cold.

The ocean stretched out in its eternal rhythm, its waves gently lapping against the shore in whispers. Each crest caught the moonlight, creating an otherworldly glow that illuminated the vast, dark, endless expanse of water. The air was crisp, carrying the faint briny tang of salt, and the stars above were like scattered diamonds on a velvet canvas.

Orm’s eyes were drawn to the horizon, his expression contemplative as he walked beside you.

The moonlight caught his features, accentuating the chiselled planes of his face and the sheen of his hair that glistened in an almost ethereal silver, the strands shimmering like liquid light. His blue eyes, so striking in daylight, seemed to hold the entire ocean’s depth in their gaze, glowing faintly as if lit from within.

There was a serenity to his expression, but his gaze held an intensity that always set your heart fluttering.

He glanced down at you as you walked, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’ve grown quiet,” he remarked, his deep voice cutting through the gentle sound of the waves.

You turned your face toward him, smiling softly. “I was just thinking about how beautiful this is,” you said, gesturing to the sea and sky around you. “And how lucky I am to be sharing it with you.”

His expression softened, and he reached out, taking your hand in his. His grip was firm but warm, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that sent a pleasant shiver up your spine. “It is beautiful,” he agreed, his tone quieter now, almost reverent. “But the surface world’s beauty is fleeting. It does not endure as the depths do.”

“Maybe that’s why it’s so special,” you countered. “Because it doesn’t last forever. You have to cherish it while it’s here.”

He stopped walking, turning to face you fully.

The moonlight framed him like a painting, casting a silver halo around his tall, imposing figure. His gaze searched yours, as if looking for something he had yet to name. Snowflakes clung to his lashes, and for a moment, he looked as though he belonged more to this world than the one beneath the waves.

“You are... unlike anyone I have ever known,” he said quietly. “You see the world with such hope. Such... resilience. It is both confounding and admirable.”

You smiled, your heart swelling at his words. “And you,” you said, stepping closer, “are far more than the former king who once waged war on the surface. You care deeply, even if you don’t always show it. You’re strong, yes, but you’re also kind.”

For a moment, the only sound was the whisper of the waves and the distant cry of a gull. Orm’s gaze softened, and he raised a hand to gently brush a strand of hair from your face. His touch was featherlight, yet it sent a shiver down your spine.

“Sometimes, I wonder if I deserve you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his words, and you reached up to cup his face, your thumb brushing gently along his cheekbone. “Orm,” you said, your voice firm but filled with affection, “you deserve every bit of happiness and peace. You’ve fought for so long, carried so much. Let yourself have this. Let yourself have us.”

His lips parted as if to say something, but he hesitated, the vulnerability in his expression making your chest ache. Instead of speaking, he stepped closer to you, his hand cupping your cheek. The moonlight reflected in his eyes, turning them into shimmering pools of silver and blue.

“You remind me of the tides,” he said after a moment, his voice low. “Ever-changing, unpredictable. Yet constant in your pull. I can never seem to escape you... nor do I wish to.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you leaned into his touch, your hand resting lightly against his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat, strong and unyielding. His warmth seeped through the fabric of his shirt, grounding you in the moment.

“You don’t have to escape,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the waves. “You’re exactly where you’re meant to be.”

Orm’s expression softened further, a smile gracing his lips—small but genuine. “Here,” he murmured, his fingers tilting your chin up, “with you.”

He leaned down, his movements unhurried, as though savouring the anticipation of the kiss. When his lips met yours, it was with the practised intimacy of lovers who had kissed a thousand times before, yet each time felt new.

His mouth was warm against yours, his kiss deep and deliberate, as if he were trying to pour all the unspoken things he struggled to express into that single moment. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you melted into him, your fingers tangling in the silken strands of his hair.

The sound of the waves and the cool night air faded into the background, leaving only the heat of his embrace and the steady rhythm of his breath against your cheek.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, and his breath mingled with yours in the cold air. Snowflakes continued to fall around you, landing on his lashes and catching in his hair like tiny, fleeting jewels.

“You make me forget everything else,” he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “The weight of my past, the conflict of my worlds—it all fades when I’m with you.”

“I love you,” you whispered, your voice filled with emotion.

His lips curved into a soft smile, his blue eyes shining with a rare vulnerability. “And I love you,” he said, his voice steady and sure. “More than I ever thought myself capable of.”

The look he gave you then was one of pure devotion, his blue eyes gleaming like the ocean at sunrise. He nodded slightly, as though sealing some silent vow, before pulling you into another kiss—this one softer, filled with the kind of quiet reverence that made your heartache in the best way.

“Let’s walk a little further,” you said, taking his hand.

Orm allowed you to guide him, his fingers intertwining with yours as the two of you continued along the snowy shoreline. The quiet was companionable now, filled with the unspoken bond you shared.

As you reached a cluster of rocks near the edge of the beach, you paused, turning to look back at your cottage. The warm glow of the lights spilling from the windows, the soft twinkle of the Christmas tree visible even from here—it was the picture of home.

Orm’s gaze followed yours, and his expression grew thoughtful. “This world,” he said softly, “is not without its beauty. I see now why you cherish it so deeply.”

“And now it’s your world, too,” you said, squeezing his hand. “Our world.”

He turned back to you, his smile returning. “Our world,” he agreed, his voice filled with a quiet reverence.

You laughed softly, a sudden thought striking you. “Merry Christmas, Orm,” you said, your tone light but full of affection.

He looked at you for a moment, his brow furrowing slightly as though testing the words. Then, his smile widened, and he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. “Merry Christmas, my love.”

72 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 7 months ago

Note

Hii I love your writing so much and since you’re accepting requests, I was wondering if you could write about spending the holidays with orm? either christmas or new years (or both). ❤️

Thank you <3 and yes! I have something planned with Ocean Eyes reader and how Orm deals with the human festivities that are Christmas and New Years

#patrick wilson #aquaman #orm marius #aquaman and the lost kingdom #orm marius x reader #orm x reader #dceu #fanfiction #aquaman orm

12 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 7 months ago

Text

Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 8 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)

Masterlist Ao3

Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink

Summary

Wordcount: 4114

A/N: welp, sorry for just not posting anymore...I moved across the country (again) and started a new job (again)... but now I'm back and I vow to update this once a week again. Anyway: merry (early) Christmas and have fun with another very smutty chapter

As Éléanor and Patrick stumbled back into the cabin after their time outside, they were both bundled up in layers, faces flushed from the biting cold. Snow clung to their coats, and their laughter filled the air as they shook it off.

Patrick’s blue eyes sparkled mischievously, and his nose was red from the chill. He grinned, still catching his breath as he watched Éléanor unwrap her scarf, her cheeks glowing from the frosty air.

“Your nose is redder than mine,” Éléanor teased, laughing as she rubbed her hands together, trying to bring warmth back to her stiff fingers.

Patrick chuckled, his smile wide and warm. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got me beat,” he said, stepping closer, his eyes twinkling playfully.

As they hung their coats by the door, the warmth from the fireplace gradually seeped into their bones. Patrick’s gaze lingered on Éléanor, his eyes travelling over her face.

She had barely turned around when, without warning, Patrick closed the distance between them, pinning Éléanor gently but firmly against the wood of the door. His body pressed against hers with an intensity that stole her breath. She looked up, wide-eyed and expectant, her heart racing as his lips hovered dangerously close.

Then, like a dam breaking, his mouth crashed against hers, urgent and hungry. The kiss was electric, igniting something deep inside her, and Éléanor gasped softly into his mouth.

Her back arched against the door, her hands instinctively grabbing onto the front of his sweater as his mouth moved fervently over hers, deep and intense. She moaned softly into the kiss, the coldness of the cabin quickly forgotten as her body ignited in response to his touch.

His hands slid down to her waist, fingers digging into her hips as he pulled her against him.

“Patrick,” she whispered, her voice trembling as his lips left hers, trailing hot kisses down the side of her neck.

He pressed closer, his hard body a solid wall of heat against hers, and she could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath quickened as his desire matched her own.

They stumbled away from the door, still entangled in each other, heading toward the bathroom without a word. The urgency in their movements left them clumsy, their laughter replaced by gasps and soft moans as they tugged at zippers and fumbled with buttons.

The bathroom was small and dimly lit, the steam from the hot water quickly filling the space as Patrick turned on the shower.

As the sound of rushing water filled the space, Éléanor’s focus was solely on Patrick. He was already tugging off his sweater, and as the fabric lifted over his head, she paused, her breath catching in her throat.

Patrick stood before her, shirtless now, his broad chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. His muscles flexed as he discarded his sweater to the side. The soft trail of hair that started at his chest and led down toward the waistband of his jeans drew her gaze like a magnet.

Éléanor watched as he unbuttoned his jeans and slid them down his toned legs, revealing his half-hard cock.

She could see the faint remnants of the cold on his skin, his nose still slightly red, but it only made the sight of him more endearing, more irresistible.

His arms, toned and powerful, were now free to encircle her waist as he pulled her closer, and she couldn’t help but run her hands over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers, the hard planes of muscle under the softness of his touch.

Éléanor’s heart raced as she broke free from his embrace to fumble and pull off her own layers, her thermal shirt and pants quickly joining Patrick’s discarded clothing on the floor.

His eyes were dark with desire as they raked over her now-bare shoulders, his gaze so intense it made her tremble with excitement.

With a fierce, almost primal urgency, Patrick pulled Éléanor back into his arms, his lips finding hers again, but this time slower, deeper, as though savouring every moment.

His hands roamed her back, gripping her firmly, possessively, like he needed to feel every inch of her to believe she was real.

Without breaking their kiss, Patrick tugged her closer, their bodies fully entwined as they stumbled into the shower. The hot water poured over them, a sharp contrast to the cold that had clung to them moments before.

The warmth soaked through her hair and skin with an intensity that radiated from every shared touch, every breath. Patrick’s hands moved across Éléanor’s wet skin, trailing down her back, sliding over her hips as if memorising every curve.

Éléanor moaned softly into the kiss, her body arching into his, craving more. Her hands drifted down from his shoulders, brushing over his chest, fingers grazing across the ridges of muscle, before settling on his hips. She pulled him closer, needing to feel the press of his body against hers, the solidness of him, every hard inch of him burning through the haze of the steaming water.

Patrick groaned low in his throat, the sound reverberating through Éléanor as he pressed her back against the cool tile. The shock of the cold against her skin made her gasp, but Patrick was there, his body shielding her from the chill, his mouth trailing down her neck, kissing and biting gently at her wet skin.

The water rushed around them, but Éléanor could only focus on the feel of his lips, his hands gripping her waist tightly as he ground his hips into hers, letting her feel the full weight of his desire with his cock now completely hard.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured against her skin, his voice low and thick with need.

As the hot water continued to cascade over them, Éléanor’s breath hitched, her body already thrumming with need. She pulled back slightly, her hands sliding down Patrick’s slick chest as her eyes flicked up to meet his. The intensity in his gaze made her stomach flip, desire pooling deep within her.

Without breaking eye contact, Éléanor slowly sank to her knees in front of him, the water streaming over her as she knelt on the shower’s wet floor. Her hands skimmed down his torso, pausing just above his hips, her fingers grazing his skin lightly. Patrick’s breath caught in his throat, his blue eyes darkening with a mix of surprise and hunger as he watched her, completely enthralled.

Éléanor couldn’t help but admire the way he looked in the dim light of the bathroom. The warmth of the steam and the raw intensity of the moment seemed to heighten everything, making her senses buzz.

She looked up at him, biting her lip softly as her hand wrapped around the base of his hard cock, feeling the heat of him in her hand as the water washed over them.

The way he stood over her—his broad shoulders heaving with each breath, the sharpness of his jawline tightening as he held back groans—sent a rush of excitement through her. The water traced the contours of his muscles, highlighting every ridge and valley as if he were carved from stone.

Patrick’s cock twitched in her hand, the heat and weight of him undeniable. Her thumb gently traced the sensitive vein running along his length, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat. She bit her lip, before pressing her mouth to his tip, her tongue flicking out to taste him, feeling the warmth of him against her lips.

Patrick’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening in her wet hair as he inhaled sharply, trying to control the rising tide of pleasure. His voice was low, strained, “Éléanor…”

His hips jerked forward slightly, as though he couldn’t stop himself, and Éléanor took him deeper, her lips parting further as she slid her mouth over him. The warm water mingled with her slow, deliberate movements, adding to the slickness, making everything more intense. She could hear Patrick’s deep groans reverberating above her, feel the way his thighs trembled with the effort of holding himself back.

Her tongue moved expertly, swirling around the head of his cock before she took him in further, her hand working the base in rhythm with her mouth. Patrick groaned again, his whole body shuddering as pleasure surged through him. His other hand braced against the tiled wall, his head dropping back as the sensation overwhelmed him.

“Jesus… Éléanor,” he breathed, his voice rough and low, filled with desire that he was barely keeping in check. His hips pushed forward again, just enough for her to take him deeper, and Éléanor obliged, hollowing her cheeks as she sucked him in.

Éléanor glanced up through the spray of water, catching his gaze—his eyes half-lidded, dark with lust, the muscles in his neck taut. She loved how undone he looked, the usual calm, controlled Patrick completely lost to her, vulnerable in a way she’d never seen him. It sent a rush of heat through her, adding to the sense of power, the intimacy of the moment.

As her lips worked over him, her tongue moving in deliberate strokes, she slowed down, teasing him with gentle sucks and long, languid licks. She could feel him twitch in her mouth, feel the way his thighs tensed beneath her hands as she took her time, savouring each second.

“Fuck…” he groaned, the sound of his voice rough and breathless, filled with raw need. He glanced down at her, his eyes heavy-lidded, full of lust and awe, watching her as she worked him with an expert mix of tenderness and intensity.

She could feel him throbbing in her mouth, his breathing becoming uneven, the way his body jerked slightly, giving away how close he was. But she slowed down, pulling back just enough to tease him, her lips hovering just over the tip as her hand continued to stroke him, keeping him on the edge. She kissed along his length, her tongue flicking out to taste him again, driving him wild.

“Éléanor,” he warned, his voice strained as he teetered on the brink. His fingers tightened in her hair, his hips twitching, desperate for release.

With a wicked smile, she met his gaze, her lips wrapping around him once more, taking him deeper with a renewed intensity. Patrick’s groans deepened, his body trembling with the pleasure coursing through him, barely able to hold himself back any longer.

But just when she could feel him beginning to lose control, she pulled back, her lips leaving him throbbing and desperate. Patrick let out a frustrated groan, his chest heaving as he stared down at her, his body quivering with need.

Before he could protest, Éléanor rose to her feet, their bodies slick and wet from the shower. Patrick’s eyes were dark with desire, his jaw tight, and his cock still hard, aching from the teasing, the head red and weeping. His breathing was ragged as he watched her, a mix of frustration and admiration playing across his features.

Without a word, Éléanor leaned in, pressing her wet body against his, her lips capturing his in a hungry, demanding kiss. The kiss was deep, their tongues tangling, full of the fire that had been building between them.

Patrick’s hands slid down her back, gripping her firmly as he pulled her closer, his need for her evident in the way his body pressed against hers, desperate for more.

His hands roamed her wet skin, trailing down her sides before he grabbed her hips, pulling her flush against him. Éléanor gasped into the kiss, feeling the hardness of him against her thigh, her own desire flaring hotter.

Patrick broke the kiss, panting heavily, his forehead resting against hers as he stared into her eyes. “I need you,” he breathed, his voice rough with longing, his hands gripping her hips tightly as if he was afraid to let her go.

With one swift motion, he reached for the condom sitting on the edge of the shower shelf. Éléanor's heart pounded in anticipation, watching as he tore the foil packet open with his teeth, never breaking eye contact with her. His hands shook slightly, but he was quick and efficient, rolling it over his length with practised ease. The moment felt electric, charged with anticipation as Patrick’s blue eyes, now nearly black with desire, bore into hers.

“Come here,” he growled softly, pulling her closer once again.

He kissed her deeply, his hands sliding down to her hips, lifting her slightly as he shifted them with one fluid motion, pressing Éléanor back against the cool tile of the shower wall, the contrast between the cold surface and his heated skin making her gasp.

His hands slid down her body, fingers grazing the curve of her hips before coming to rest on her thighs. He raised one of her legs, wrapping it around his waist as he pressed his hard cock against her, not quite entering her but letting her feel the full weight of him, the closeness only intensifying the aching need between them.

She moaned, her hips rolling instinctively, trying to draw him in, but he resisted. His lips found her neck again, kissing and nipping along her skin, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. His fingers, once again maddeningly slow, began their descent between her legs, teasing her folds, brushing against her swollen clit with just enough pressure to make her cry out.

“Please,” Éléanor gasped, her voice trembling with raw desperation. “Patrick, please…”

He chuckled softly against her skin, his lips trailing along the curve of her collarbone, pressing warm, teasing kisses as his fingers slid lower.

This time, he didn’t hesitate.

His fingers slipped inside her, filling her with deliberate intent. He curled his fingers, finding that sensitive spot deep inside her with practised precision. Éléanor’s breath hitched, her body arching against him as pleasure surged through her like a jolt of lightning.

It was overwhelming, the heat between them crackling as his thumb brushed over her clit in slow, deliberate circles—just enough pressure to send shivers of want racing through her, but not enough to push her over the edge. The tension in her core tightened unbearably, coiling tighter and tighter, a fuse lit and burning fast.

His breath was hot against her ear, his voice low and teasing, sending another shockwave through her. “You’re so wet… is that just from sucking my cock?” His fingers thrust deeper, harder, the pace relentless now. “You’re such a dirty girl.”

The words sent a fresh wave of heat crashing over her, the sound of his voice, his touch, everything combining into a heady mix that made her pulse race, her skin flush.

Her body was on fire, every nerve tingling as the tension inside her reached a fever pitch, her release so close she could almost taste it. But just as she hovered on the brink, ready to fall, Patrick slowed his movements, dragging them out, keeping her teetering on the edge of ecstasy without letting her tip over.

It was maddening—the control he had over her, the way he kept her there, right at the cusp, her body aching with need, with frustration. She let out a shaky breath, her body trembling with the effort to hold on, to stay in the moment, but he was relentless in his teasing—just as she had been.

He kissed her deeply, his tongue sliding against hers in a slow, sensual dance that matched the rhythm of his fingers, deliberate and unhurried—and yet leaving her utterly breathless.

Every stroke of his fingers, every brush of his thumb, every press of his lips was pushing her closer and closer to the breaking point, but still, he held back, keeping her there, on the edge, desperate for release yet unable to reach it without him.

The warm water cascaded over their bodies, the steam thick around them as Patrick's fingers slowed their movement, leaving Éléanor trembling with frustration, her body alight with desperate need. Her skin was slick with heat and the spray of the shower, her breath ragged as she clung to him, her hips grinding against him, aching for release.

“I want you to feel everything,” he whispered against her lips, his voice low and rough, thick with desire. His breath mingled with hers, the tension between them electric. “I want you to beg for it.”

“I’m already begging,” she gasped, her voice a strained whisper as she pressed her body harder against him, her hips grinding against his hand in a frantic rhythm. “Patrick, please, I can’t—I’m sorry for teasing you…”

But he wasn’t done.

With one final flick of his thumb against her clit, he pulled his fingers away, leaving her teetering on the edge of climax, the heat within her wound so tightly it was nearly unbearable. Éléanor groaned in frustration, her entire body tight, every muscle straining for release that he refused to give.

Patrick chuckled softly, his breath warm against her ear, clearly enjoying the power he held over her, the way her body responded to every teasing touch. “Not yet,” he murmured, his lips brushing hers in a featherlight kiss that left her breathless, wanting more. Needing more. “I want to be inside you when you come.”

Her hands tangled in his wet hair, pulling him closer, her nails digging into his scalp as she pressed her body against his, desperate to close the space between them. The need in her was raw, overwhelming, like nothing she had ever felt before. She could barely form words, her mind spinning with desire, with the aching, burning need for him.

“Patrick…” she moaned, her voice trembling, nearly breaking with want, “please…”

His eyes met hers, dark and intense, the hunger in them matching her own.

Slowly, deliberately, Patrick shifted, his hand sliding down to guide himself to her entrance. The tip of his dick pressed against her, and he paused for just a moment, the anticipation between them stretching, electric, the air heavy with tension.

Éléanor’s breath caught, her heart pounding in her chest, every nerve in her body on high alert, waiting for him, aching for him.

Then, finally— finally —he pushed inside her, filling her completely in one slow, deliberate thrust.

She gasped, her head falling back against the tile as the pleasure of him inside her surged through her. Every sensation was heightened—the warmth of the water, the slick slide of his body against hers, the sound of their ragged breaths mingling with the steady beat of the shower.

The stretch was exquisite, every nerve in her body lighting up with pleasure as he moved deeper, his pace slow and deliberate, letting her feel every inch of him. Éléanor wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate for more, her body aching for the release that seemed just out of reach. She needed him—needed everything he was giving her and more.

Patrick groaned against her neck, his breath hot against her skin as he began to move, each thrust sending waves of hot need coursing through her veins. Éléanor’s breath came in ragged gasps, her body trembling as the pleasure built and built, the tension finally reaching its breaking point. She clung to him, her hips moving in rhythm with his.

Every movement felt electric, every sensation magnified. Éléanor’s nails raked down his back, surly leaving marks in her wake, her head falling back against the wall as her body surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure.

His cock drove deeper inside her, the tightness of her walls clenching around him as he filled her completely. She moaned his name, her voice a mix of need and raw ecstasy, the sound of it driving him harder, faster, deeper. The muscles in his back flexed beneath her fingers as his pace quickened, his groans deepening with every thrust.

“God, Éléanor,” he groaned, his voice thick with need. He could feel her body tightening around him, the tension building inside her. “You’re so—” His words cut off as he thrust deeper, the sensation nearly overwhelming.

Her breath hitched, every nerve in her body on fire, her mind clouded by the pleasure that consumed her. Patrick's lips found her neck again, kissing and biting softly as his hips continued their relentless rhythm. His hands were everywhere, roaming over her body, gripping her hips with bruising intensity as he pulled her even closer, deeper into him.

Éléanor felt herself spiralling, her body trembling as the pleasure reached a fever pitch. She was so close, so close to release, and the anticipation was maddening. Her head fell back against the tile, her lips parting in a breathless moan as Patrick’s hand slipped between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit. He circled it slowly, teasingly, and the shock of pleasure that surged through her nearly unravelled her completely.

“Oh my god—Patrick!” she gasped, her body shaking, her hips rolling against him. She was teetering on the edge now, so close to release she could barely stand it.

He grunted in response, his own breath coming in harsh pants as he felt her tighten around him, her body responding to his every movement. His thumb pressed harder against her clit, moving in perfect time with his thrusts, pushing her closer and closer to the brink.

“Come for me, Éléanor,” he whispered, his voice low and rough in her ear, the words like a command that shattered the last thread of her control. “I want to feel you.”

It sent her over the edge.

With a strangled cry, her body shattered around him, the tension inside her finally snapping. She came hard, her body trembling uncontrollably, every muscle clenching as waves of pleasure crashed over her. Her orgasm was blinding and overwhelming, her vision going white as the sensation ripped through her, leaving her breathless and gasping.

Patrick groaned loudly as he felt her tighten around him, her climax sending him hurling toward his own. His grip on her hips tightened as his thrusts became erratic, desperate. A few more hard thrusts, and then he was there, his body tensing as he came, a low, guttural moan escaping his lips as he filled the condom inside her. The pleasure was almost too much, his body shaking as the intensity of it washed over him.

For a moment, they remained tangled together in the heat of the shower. Their bodies pressed close as they came down from the high. The sound of the water was the only thing that filled the space between them, their ragged breaths slowly evening out.

Patrick rested his forehead against hers, his hands still holding her hips as they relaxed against each other. Éléanor’s body still buzzed with the lingering pleasure, every inch of her sensitive from the overwhelming intensity of what had just passed between them. Her legs were weak, her mind clouded in that blissful fog, but she couldn’t help the smile that curled on her lips.

“That was… incredible,” she whispered, her voice still breathless, barely audible above the sound of the water cascading around them. Her lips were parted slightly, her chest rising and falling as she caught her breath.

Patrick chuckled softly, brushing a wet strand of hair away from her face. “You were incredible… are incredible.”

He leaned down, capturing her lips in a kiss that was slow and tender, nothing like the urgency that had consumed them before. It was soft and sweet, a kiss full of quiet affection and unspoken emotions, grounding them in this shared moment. Éléanor melted into it, her hands still resting lightly on his shoulders, feeling the steady thrum of his pulse beneath her fingertips.

As the water continued to rain down around them, neither of them rushed to move.

Patrick finally broke the kiss, his lips hovering just above hers, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “We should probably get out of here before we turn into prunes,” he teased, his voice warm and affectionate, though he made no immediate move to release her from his embrace.

Éléanor laughed softly, her fingers trailing down his chest before she leaned her forehead against his, closing her eyes and letting the sound of the water and the feel of his arms around her wash over her for just a little longer. She didn’t want to leave the warmth of this moment, the safety of his hold.

“Yeah,” she murmured, though there was no real urgency in her voice. “But not just yet.”

Patrick smiled against her, his arms tightening around her as if in agreement, and they remained there, wrapped up in each other beneath the water.

19 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 7 months ago

Text

welp, I kinda went off grid for like the past few weeks (i moved...again and started a new job) - sorry for not updating, folks. I promise I've got the next chapters for Blizzards and Beef Stew lined up!

And I've also got ideas for something Christmassy 👀 anyway, I've got a few weeks off around the end of December/ start of January so if you have requests... feel free to send them my way and I'll see what I can do!

#patrick wilson x reader #patrick wilson #patrick wilson smut #fanfiction #the conjuring #aquaman and the lost kingdom #insidious #orm marius #ed warren #aquaman #ao3 fanfic #writers on tumblr #ed warren fanfiction #orm x reader #josh lambert x reader

32 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 8 months ago

Text

"our fake marriage lasted longer than many real ones. I adore you" NOBODY TALK TO ME I AM UNWELL 🥲🥹

God, they will be missed...

(also, my grief motivates me to write another Conjuring OS, lol)

#patrick wilson #vera farmiga #the conjuring lates rites #the conjuring #ed warren #lorraine warren #i am unwell #they will be missed #feelings

27 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 8 months ago

Text

Petition for PWilz to be Sexiest Man Alive (because he is)

I agree too, it's about time he was on the cover of this magazine🛐🛐🛐 @peoplemag

(Photos are not mine)

#patrick wilson #insidious #aquaman and the lost kingdom #the conjuring #sexiestmanalive #people #he deserves it

118 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 8 months ago

Text

Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 7 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)

Masterlist Ao3

Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink

Summary

Wordcount: 3523

A few hours full of lazy kisses and warm cuddles later, Patrick went out to collect more firewood as Éléanor’s phone buzzed on the table. Glancing at the screen, she saw Virginie’s name pop up and smiled. She knew what was coming. With a deep breath, she stepped outside into the crisp morning air to take the call.

“Did you fuck him?” Virginie's voice burst through the line before she could even say hello.

Heat rushed to Éléanor’s cheeks, and she immediately glanced around to ensure Patrick was still out of sight, gathering firewood near the forest’s edge.

“Virginie!” she hissed, lowering her voice. “Can you keep it down?”

“That’s a yes!” Virginie practically squealed with delight, her excitement palpable even through the phone. “Oh, ma chérie, I knew it was only a matter of time. Is he any good? Wait, no—how good is he?”

Éléanor sighed, leaning against the porch railing, her breath forming clouds in the cold air. “I am not having this conversation with you.”

“Not having this conversation with me?” Virginie gasped dramatically as if scandalised, “Oh no, no, you are definitely having this conversation with me!”

There was a rustling sound through the phone, and suddenly the call switched to video, Virginie’s face appearing on the screen, her wide grin taking up most of the frame, “Turn the camera around. Let me see the aftermath.”

Éléanor sighed, rolling her eyes as she turned on the front camera, attempting to conceal the blush on her cheeks.

Virginie’s eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint as she leaned closer to the screen, inspecting Éléanor’s face with hawk-like attention. “Oh wow, he did a number on you…” Her voice was laced with amusement, and she didn’t bother to hide the laughter threatening to spill over.

“What?” Éléanor muttered, uncomfortable under her friend’s scrutiny. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Tilting her head, Virginie’s eyes narrowed as she scanned the faint marks on Éléanor’s neck and collarbone. “ Oh my God, are those love bites? Enrique! Come see this,” Virginie called out, practically buzzing with excitement. “She’s covered in them.”

Éléanor’s eyes widened as she caught sight of the man lounging next to Virginie, leaning over just enough to glance at the screen with an easy, half-amused look while taking a sip of his coffee. “Are you seriously calling me with your... boytoy right there?”

Virginie burst into laughter, dismissing Éléanor’s concern with a carefree wave. “Oh, please. Enrique doesn’t mind, do you, darling?”

He shrugged, smirking slightly. “Seen worse.” His tone was light, with just the faintest edge of teasing.

Éléanor groaned, her fingers dragging down her face as she shook her head. “Why do I let you do this to me?”

Virginie cackled, clearly relishing every second of Éléanor’s discomfort. “Because you love me, and you secretly enjoy it.”

Éléanor looked up from her hand, catching her reflection on the screen—marks and all. A sigh escaped her, mingled with laughter she couldn’t quite hold back. “Remind me why we’re friends again?”

“Because I keep your life interesting,” Virginie replied, winking. “And apparently, so does Patrick .”

Éléanor’s cheeks deepened in colour at the teasing. Virginie leaned in, her eyes glinting with mischief. “You owe me some details! How big was his dick?”

“Virginie!” Éléanor’s voice dropped to a frantic whisper as she cast a quick look to the forest edge where Patrick was still chopping wood, muscles taut under his shirt. “He’s right there! I am not answering that.”

Virginie’s laughter rang out again, echoing through the call. “Oh, come on! Give me something. Was it good?”

Rolling her eyes, Éléanor couldn’t keep the grin from spreading across her face. “Yes, it was good. Happy now?”

Virginie clapped her hands, delight dancing in her eyes. “Very. But seriously, you haven’t even sent me a proper picture of him. What are you hiding? Is he that perfect?”

Éléanor glanced back towards the forest, knowing Patrick was out of sight, but still half expecting him to just appear behind her. “I’m not showing you because I’ll not be parading him in front of you like some trophy.”

“Oh, so he’s trophy-worthy ?” Virginie’s smirk widened, leaning closer to the screen with a gleam of triumph. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a crush already!”

Éléanor groaned, resorting to rubbing her forehead in exasperation again. “It’s not like that. We’re just... figuring things out.”

“Uh-huh, sure,” Virginie said with a sly grin. “So, what’s that you’re wearing? Don’t tell me you’re in one of his flannels.”

Éléanor looked down, feeling a twinge of embarrassment as she took in the flannel she was wrapped in. It was, in fact, Patrick’s—oversized and with the sleeves rolled up unevenly. “Shut up,” she said, the words half-laugh, half-groan.

Virginie’s laughter echoed through the phone, clearly enjoying every bit of Éléanor’s discomfort. “Come on, live a little! We’re on video now—you might as well show me the guy!”

“No way,” Éléanor said, shaking her head firmly. She didn’t want to invade Patrick’s privacy like that and she didn’t want to give her friend even more ammunition for teasing her. “I’m not sending you a photo or putting him on camera for you to inspect!”

“Fine, fine,” Virginie replied, raising her hands in mock surrender but still smirking. “But I want all the details later. You owe me, you dirty little thing.”

Éléanor, already feeling the heat creeping back into her cheeks, quickly cut her off. “Look, I’ve got to go. Patrick’s going to come back any minute, and the last thing I need is for him to overhear you grilling me about his... assets.”

Virginie pouted dramatically. “Okay...you’re off the hook. For now. But I expect a full report later. You cannot leave me hanging like this!”

“I’ll think about it,” Éléanor muttered, shaking her head, a mix of amusement and frustration washing over her. After a few more playful exchanges, she finally managed to say her goodbyes, much to Virginie’s disappointment.

With a groan, Éléanor pocketed her phone just as she saw Patrick returning with his arms loaded with firewood. She paused, watching him from the porch as he trudged through the snow. The early morning light cast a glow over him, illuminating the streaks of grey in his hair and the stubble darkening his jawline.

In the few days they’d been out here, the ruggedness that had always been a part of him seemed to have intensified, and the sight of him—so solid, so unpretentious—sent a wave of warmth through her.

It wasn’t just the way he looked that made her stomach flip; it was everything.

The way his jeans hung low on his hips, his sweater clinging to his broad shoulders, and those strong hands of his gripping the rough wood with ease. Each movement was fluid and confident, as if he belonged out here in the wilderness. She found herself staring longer than she should have, completely absorbed in him.

As Patrick got closer, he caught her gaze, a slight smile tugging at his lips—the kind that made her heart stutter in her chest. He set the firewood down with a thud and wiped his hands on his jeans, a casual gesture that somehow drew her attention. “Everything okay?” he asked, his tone warm and low.

Éléanor cleared her throat, trying to snap herself out of her daze. “Yeah,” she managed to say, nodding as she forced a smile. “Just Virginie being... well, Virginie.”

Her mind briefly flashed to the call she’d just had, and her cheeks flushed again at the memory of Virginie’s relentless teasing.

Patrick chuckled, stepping closer, the glint in his eyes shifting when he noticed the flannel shirt she wore—his shirt. A slight darkness passed over his gaze as he took it in. “That looks good on you,” he said, voice dropping an octave. “You should keep wearing my things.”

Éléanor’s heart skipped a beat, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the soft fabric beneath her fingers. She tried to play it off, though the heat in her cheeks betrayed her. “It’s warm,” she murmured, a shy smile tugging at her lips. Then, feeling bold, she added, “And it smells like you.”

His grin widened, amusement mingling with something deeper in his eyes. He closed the distance, the heat of his presence cutting through the chill air. “Not a bad thing, I hope?” he teased, voice velvety.

She shook her head, eyes lifting to meet his. “No,” she whispered. “Not a bad thing at all.”

Turning towards the cabin to escape the intensity of the moment, her heart raced from the sheer magnetism Patrick exuded.

But as she moved to grab the door handle, Patrick stepped up behind her, his arms sliding around her waist. His broad chest pressed gently against her back, and his warmth enveloped her, filling the cool air with a closeness that made her pulse flutter all over again and caused her to shiver.

Patrick lowered his head, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he spoke. “So…are you cold?” he murmured, his voice like a low rumble that vibrated through her body.

“A little,” she admitted, her voice unsteady as she felt his breath fan across her neck, sending a shiver down her spine. She could feel every inch of him—the hardness of his chest, the way his arms tightened protectively around her waist, the warmth that seemed to seep from his body into hers.

It was overwhelming in the best possible way, and she found herself leaning back into him, seeking more of that heat, that closeness.

Patrick chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest and into her back. His hands rested gently on her stomach, his thumbs brushing the fabric of the flannel in slow, lazy circles. For a moment, neither of them moved, just standing there on the porch, wrapped in each other’s warmth as the cold winter air swirled around them.

Éléanor caught their reflection in the cabin’s window—his rugged, stubbled face resting near hers, his blue eyes softened, his lips curved into a small, contented smile that hovered close to her ear. It felt almost surreal, seeing themselves like this, as though they’d slipped into a moment where nothing else existed.

She wasn’t sure how long they stood like that, but time seemed to stretch out, the world narrowing down to just the two of them. Patrick’s hold on her was firm but tender as if he was anchoring her to the moment. The snow fell gently around them, the air crisp but quiet, and for a brief second, Éléanor felt like nothing else existed outside of this—outside of him.

Eventually, Patrick broke the silence, his voice soft and teasing. “Let’s get inside and warm up,” he said, but his arms remained around her, making no move to let go just yet.

Éléanor smiled, feeling her cheeks flush again, though this time it wasn’t from the cold. “Yeah,” she breathed, her voice barely above a whisper. “We should.”

Patrick lingered for another heartbeat, his lips brushing lightly against her temple before he finally loosened his grip and took a small step back. His hands slid down her waist as he moved, and Éléanor felt an odd sense of loss as the warmth of his body left hers.

Together, they stepped into the warmth of the cabin. The familiar scent of wood and smoke greeted her, the fire crackling softly in the furnace. She didn’t need to glance back to know that Patrick was right behind her, his presence steady and comforting.

_____

Later that day, Éléanor led Patrick through the dense, snow-laden woods, their hands intertwined as they navigated the winding trails that she knew by heart. The world around them had fallen into a serene, snow-covered silence, the storm having paused to leave the forest blanketed in a pristine, untouched layer of white.

Each tree branch sagged gently under the weight of the snow, creating a delicate, wintry canopy above them. The air was crisp, cold but clean, and the only sound that broke the stillness was the soft crunch of their boots pressing into the snow. It was a world completely at peace, the kind of solitude Éléanor had always cherished.

“This spot here,” Éléanor said, her voice hushed but excited as she pointed ahead, “this is where I come to sketch sometimes.” Her smile widened as she led him toward a clearing nestled at the edge of the forest, where a large, weathered boulder sat like a silent sentinel overlooking the space. “There’s something about the way the light hits this spot in the afternoon,” she continued, turning to glance up at him. “It’s perfect.”

Patrick followed her gaze, letting his eyes roam over the open expanse. The pale winter sunlight filtered through the skeletal branches of the trees, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the snow, which sparkled like crushed diamonds.

It was the kind of scene that made time feel like it had stopped entirely—just him, her, and the quiet beauty of the woods. His hand tightened slightly around hers, a gentle, wordless affirmation of the moment, and Éléanor’s heart fluttered at the simple intimacy of the gesture. He was seeing it— really seeing it —the way she had always wanted to share this place with someone.

“It’s stunning,” Patrick murmured, his voice quieter than usual, as though he didn’t want to disturb the stillness that hung in the air. “You weren’t kidding when you said you find inspiration here.”

Éléanor smiled softly, her heart warming at his words. She felt understood in a way she hadn’t expected, and it made her love for the place swell even more. Slipping her hand from his, she reached into the worn leather bag slung over her shoulder, pulling out a well-loved sketchbook.

“I’ve been coming here for years,” she said, flipping through the pages and revealing a collection of pencil sketches and watercolours—quick studies of the forest, the clearing, the changing seasons. “This place… it feels like mine. Like it’s a part of me.”

Patrick’s eyes scanned the sketches, lingering on each one with an appreciation that made Éléanor’s chest tighten. His gaze settled on a watercolour of the clearing on a bright winter’s day, vibrant with white grass and animal tracks in the snow, the sky a brilliant blue overhead. “You’re really talented, Éléanor,” he said, his voice full of quiet sincerity. “These are beautiful.”

Éléanor felt a shy smile tug at her lips, her cheeks warming despite the cold air. She quickly closed the sketchbook, tucking it back into her bag with a bashful shrug. “Thanks. It’s just something I do to relax,” she said, her voice quieter now, not quite able to meet his eyes.

But Patrick’s gaze never left her, and when she finally glanced up, his expression was soft, his blue eyes warm and full of something deeper—something unspoken but unmistakable.

He leaned casually against the boulder, crossing his arms as he looked back out over the clearing, taking it all in once more. “I get why you love it here,” he said after a moment, his voice thoughtful. “There’s something about the quiet... it’s grounding. It feels real. So different from the noise of the city.”

As they continued their walk, Éléanor led Patrick along the paths, pointing out little hidden gems along the way.

Her voice would brighten with excitement whenever she introduced him to one of her secret spots—the quiet glade where the trees parted just enough to reveal breathtaking views of the distant mountains or the frozen-over stream, its surface glistening under the pale light of the winter sun.

“There’s something magical about this place when everything’s frozen,” she mused, her breath hanging in the air like a soft cloud. She gestured toward a patch of trees where icicles clung to the branches like delicate glass ornaments. “It’s so quiet, like the whole world is asleep.”

Patrick watched her as she spoke, admiring the way her face lit up as she talked about the land, her connection to it so deep and personal. It was as if she was sharing a part of herself with him, unveiling pieces of her soul in the landscape. He loved how her passion for this place seemed to radiate from her, making even the coldest winter day feel warm.

“Up ahead,” Éléanor said, a touch of excitement creeping into her voice, “there’s this old cabin that’s been abandoned for years. I always think about fixing it up someday. It’s small, but it’s got this charm to it, you know?”

Patrick couldn’t help but smile as she spoke, her enthusiasm contagious. He could tell how much the cabin and this entire place meant to her—how deeply connected she was to the quiet solitude of the woods, the hidden corners that she had claimed as her own.

After a few more minutes of walking, they finally reached the cabin.

It was tucked away between two towering pines, as though nature itself had been trying to shield it from the rest of the world. The roof sagged slightly under the weight of the snow, and the windows were cracked, their frames weathered and beaten from years of neglect.

The wood siding had faded to a dull grey, worn by time and the elements. But despite the decay, there was something undeniably charming about the place—a quiet beauty in its isolation, a sense of hidden potential waiting to be uncovered.

Éléanor stepped forward, her boots crunching through the snow as she approached the cabin’s doorway. She peered inside, her expression softening as her gaze swept over the interior. It was empty and cold, but her eyes gleamed with imagination as though she could already see what it could become.

“Imagine it,” she said softly, her voice taking on a dreamy, almost wistful tone. “A cosy little place, maybe a studio for painting. A place to escape even further. A nice open kitchen with a big wooden table, the crackling of the fire in the living room…” She smiled as she spoke, the idea of transforming the cabin into something new and beautiful clearly bringing her joy.

Patrick moved to stand beside her, his breath forming small clouds in the cold air as he tried to see the vision she had painted with her words. He glanced around, letting his imagination stretch to match hers—the worn wood walls replaced, the windows repaired, a fire flickering warmly inside. It was easy to picture it, easy to see why this place captured her heart.

“You’ve got the vision,” Patrick said, his voice warm with admiration as he shared in her dream for a moment. “I can see it.” He chuckled softly, glancing over at her, the sincerity in his voice clear. She had a way of making him see the potential in things, of finding beauty in places most people wouldn’t even notice.

Éléanor looked up at him, her smile soft but full of warmth.

The look in her eyes was more than just appreciation—it was an invitation, a quiet hope that maybe he could be a part of this dream with her. “I’d love to do that one day,” she said, her voice quiet but filled with longing. “Maybe have someone help me with it.”

Patrick’s eyes flickered with something she couldn’t quite put into words, something she saw in the depths of his gaze. But instead of vocalising it out loud, he simply nodded, his voice low, almost hesitant as he replied. “Maybe.”

He stepped closer, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, his warmth immediately enveloping her. Together, they gazed out over the expanse around the house. His presence felt steady and grounding, and she leaned into him, feeling the calm rise and fall of his breath as he murmured, “It’s perfect. Just like you said.”

Éléanor felt a sense of peace settle over her, a contentment she hadn’t expected. With Patrick here, sharing this place with her, it all felt... right.

Eventually, they made their way back through the woods, the silence between them comfortable and full of unspoken understanding. Their fingers intertwined as they walked, a simple but intimate connection that felt as natural as breathing. Éléanor couldn’t help but smile to herself as she glanced at him from time to time, still half in disbelief that he was here, that this moment—this person—was real.

There was something about showing him these places—her places—that felt like opening a door to a deeper part of herself. And the way Patrick had embraced it, had embraced her, made her heart beat a bit faster.

When they reached the front porch of his cabin, Patrick paused, turning to face her. The snow had started falling again, delicate flakes drifting down from the grey sky, but they hardly noticed. His gaze was soft, his smile sincere, and Éléanor felt the warmth of it settle in her chest.

“Thank you for showing me all that,” Patrick said, his voice quiet but full of meaning.

Éléanor smiled back, her heart swelling with affection as she gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Thank you for letting me,” she replied softly.

20 notes · View notes

doormatty3 · 9 months ago

Text

Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 6 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)

Masterlist Ao3

Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink

Summary

Wordcount: 5581

Éléanor woke up slowly, the soft light of morning filtering through the windows, casting a gentle glow across the room. She blinked, momentarily disoriented, before remembering where she was—Patrick’s couch, wrapped up in his blankets, the memory of last night still fresh in her mind. A mix of emotions stirred within her: contentment from the quiet intimacy they’d shared, a hint of embarrassment from how things had played out, and something deeper that left her feeling warm and a little vulnerable.

The storm still raged outside, the wind howling softly, but it wasn’t as brutal as the night before. Snow had piled up high around the cabin, turning the world outside into a quiet, white wilderness. Éléanor’s gaze drifted to the couch beside her, where Patrick still slept, his broad chest rising and falling with each breath.

For a moment, she let herself look at him—really look.

His shirtless body was sprawled comfortably under the blanket, and her eyes traced the lines of his muscles, now highlighted by the morning light creeping through the window. His chest was broader than she’d really noticed before, the pale skin dusted with a light covering of chest hair, something she hadn’t noticed in the dark last night. It curled softly, catching the flicker of firelight, giving him a rugged, masculine edge that made her pulse quicken.

His face was relaxed and peaceful, a stark contrast to the tension he’d carried last night. His lips were slightly parted, and his dark lashes cast faint shadows against his skin. Watching him like this, she felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the blankets or the fire.

His stubble had grown more noticeable, the coarse hairs along his jawline now thicker, and a shadow of a moustache was forming, giving him an almost roguish appearance. Flecks of grey dotted his sideburns, and as the light hit his face, it gave him a certain maturity that contrasted with his boyish grin.

She found it hard to tear her eyes away—so she didn’t.

Her eyes trailed down his body, taking in his flat, defined stomach and the curve of his hips. His boxers clung to him, riding low on his waist, leaving little to the imagination. The blanket had slipped just enough to reveal the curve of his muscular thighs, and Éléanor’s face flushed as she caught herself staring.

God, he was so attractive.

With a deep breath, she slipped out from under the covers, careful not to disturb him.

The wooden floor was cold under her feet as she padded towards the small kitchen, grabbing his sweater that lay discarded on the floor and pulling it over her head.

She wanted to keep busy, to distract herself from the tangle of emotions still swirling inside her. Pulling Patrick’s pullover tighter around her, she began to rummage through what little they had left, trying to piece together some kind of breakfast. Eggs, a few slices of bread, some cheese—it wasn’t much, but it would do.

As she stood by the counter, cracking the eggs into a bowl and slicing up the bread, her thoughts drifted back to the events of the night before. The way Patrick had panicked, the way they’d calmed each other down afterwards, cuddling in the firelight. She couldn’t help but feel grateful for the way they’d handled it. It could have been awkward—embarrassing even—but instead, it had made her feel closer to him in a way she hadn’t expected.

As she mixed the eggs in a bowl, trying to figure out how to cook it without a stove, she heard a soft shuffle behind her. Before she could turn around, Patrick’s arms slid around her waist, pulling her gently back against his chest.

She melted into him, feeling the solid warmth of his body pressing against her back. His chest hair brushed against the back of her neck as he leaned down, his chin resting on her head and his breath against her.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep, vibrating against her skin. The sound sent a shiver down her spine.

Éléanor smiled, leaning back into him, enjoying the easy warmth between them. “Morning,” she replied softly, turning her head slightly to glance at him. His eyes were still heavy-lidded, his hair tousled from sleep, but there was a soft smile playing at his lips.

He tightened his arms around her just slightly, pulling her closer. “What are you doing?” he asked and stifled a yawn.

“Trying to make breakfast with what little we have,” she said with a soft laugh. “But the stove doesn’t work, and I have no idea how to cook this without it.”

Patrick chuckled, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her shoulder, his touch warm and reassuring. “We’ll figure something out.” His gaze dropped to the bowl in her hands and then flicked back up with a crooked smile. “Or, we could just stick to bread and cheese. A low-maintenance breakfast.”

Éléanor laughed, the sound light and easy, and she felt the tension from the previous night fully dissolve. She caught herself blushing slightly, a bit embarrassed she hadn’t thought of that simple solution first. The eggs were wasted now, a casualty of their morning scramble, but she found she didn’t really mind.

“Honestly, that’s probably the best idea I’ve heard all morning,” she admitted, glancing over at the loaf of crusty bread and the wedge of cheese sitting on the counter. The simplicity of it, the way the fire crackled in the background, made her feel at ease. She let out a small sigh, comforted by the idea that life didn’t have to be perfect to be good.

Patrick’s smile widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling with warmth. “See? It’s the small things,” he said, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so natural, so effortlessly caring, that it sent a tiny flutter through her chest.

She set the bowl down on the counter, the broken eggs an afterthought now, and reached for a knife to slice into the cheese. “Next time, I’m sticking to the basics,” she joked, her voice touched with a playful self-mockery and lingering embarrassment.

Patrick’s deep, warm laugh filled the small kitchen, wrapping around her like a favourite blanket. “No need to overthink it,” he said, his eyes finding hers, their familiar sparkle comforting. “It’s not really about the eggs or anything. It’s about mornings like this.”

A soft pause settled between them, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the occasional pop of a burning log. His gaze drifted down, a playful smirk forming as he tilted his head. “You’re wearing my sweater,” he remarked, his voice low and teasing. The brush of his lips against the side of her neck caused her skin to erupt in goosebumps.

Éléanor felt the warmth rise in her cheeks, and she couldn’t help but grin as she turned just enough to catch his eyes. “You didn’t exactly leave me much choice,” she shot back, the humour in her voice softening the air between them. “You were hogging all the blankets.”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating against her skin as he nuzzled closer. “Fair enough,” he admitted, his breath warm and unwavering. The nearness was intoxicating, a blend of comfort and tension that made her pulse quicken.

For a moment, they simply stood there, wrapped in the golden glow of the morning sun filtering through the window. His hands rested gently on her waist, and fingers splayed as if to anchor them both at that moment. She could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest against her back. It was an odd mix of domesticity and heat, standing there in his oversized pullover while he held her, both of them pretending that the night before hadn’t changed everything.

Reluctantly, Patrick let his arms fall, stepping away with a small sigh as he moved towards the table where he stretched, his body unfolding in a way that drew her eyes once more. His boxers clung to him, highlighting the sculpted muscles of his thighs and the curve of his back in a way that had her biting her lip. She couldn’t help but notice the way they fit snugly over his ass—tight, firm, and perfectly shaped.

His back muscles rippled as he reached for the ceiling, the light catching on the ridges of his shoulders and the faint sheen of sweat that lingered from the warmth of the room.

Éléanor’s pulse quickened as she watched him, a smile tugging at her lips before she turned to grab the simple breakfast supplies. Patrick brought the bread and cheese from the counter and placed them on the small, weathered table. She followed, carrying two mismatched mugs of instant coffee—more than enough given the circumstances of the power outage.

Patrick leaned over to stoke the fire, the crackle growing stronger as new flames licked at the logs. The warm glow cast long, shifting shadows that danced across the cabin walls, contrasting with the cold, pearly light outside. Snowflakes continued to drift steadily down, adding to the thick blanket that muted all sound beyond the walls.

They settled into the nook beside the fire, knees touching beneath the table, sharing the kind of comfortable silence that spoke more than words could. The flickering light played on their faces, illuminating the curve of Patrick’s smile as he passed her a piece of bread. Their fingers brushed, and a warm spark passed between them.

“So... the storm’s still going,” Patrick finally said, glancing out the window, his eyes following the swirling snow that danced in chaotic patterns against the glass—a sea of white that refused to calm. “Looks like it’s not letting up anytime soon,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful.

“Could be worse,” Éléanor said with a teasing grin, her tone light, though her heart beat just a little faster. “We have food, warmth... and decent company.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow, a smirk curving his lips in response. “Decent? That’s all I get?”

“Well,” she said, the blush rising to her cheeks as she held his gaze, her pulse fluttering under his scrutiny. “I didn’t want to inflate your ego too much.”

He laughed softly, the sound low and rich, the kind that made her stomach flip. Leaning back in his chair, he looked relaxed, but there was an unmistakable spark in his eyes, a playful warmth that drew her in. “More than decent,” he corrected, his voice dipping into a tone that was both teasing and sincere.

Éléanor took another sip of coffee, cradling the warm mug in her hands as she glanced out the window at the snow piling higher in an attempt to stop the fluttering in her chest. “You know … This is probably the most basic breakfast I’ve made in years,” Éléanor said, smiling over the rim of her mug as she took a sip of coffee.

Patrick’s eyes didn’t leave her. “Hey, it’s perfect,” he said, the simplicity of the moment not lost on him. “We’ve got everything we need right here.”

The fire’s warmth settled around them, casting a golden glow that made the cabin feel cocooned from the storm. The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable; it was heavy with unsaid things, a shared realisation that the world outside had ceased to matter for now.

“I guess we’re lucky we even have this,” Éléanor said softly, her voice trailing as she looked back at him, their faces close enough to feel the heat radiating between them. “It could’ve been much worse.”

Patrick nodded, but his eyes lingered on her, darkening with an emotion that made the room feel warmer still. “Yeah,” he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “I’m glad it’s you I’m stuck here with. You’re... pretty decent company .” The playful curve of his lips softened, revealing a sincerity that wrapped around her like a blanket.

He leaned forward, the movement deliberate, and brushed his fingers across her hand. The touch sent a spark through her, lingering even as he set her empty mug aside with care. When he turned back to her, his expression had shifted, eyes intense, as if he were trying to memorise every detail.

Patrick’s hand lifted, moving slowly until it cupped her cheek, his thumb grazing the curve of her jaw with a tenderness that left her breathless. Éléanor leaned into his touch, her heartbeat thundering in her chest as their eyes met, the distance between them shrinking with every second.

Neither of them spoke.

Patrick moved first, leaning in and closing the small space between them. When their lips met, it was as if a spark had lit a fuse.

Éléanor’s hand slid up to the back of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer with an unspoken plea. He responded in kind, his arm wrapping around her waist with a sure but tender touch.

In a seamless motion, they rose together, the movement natural and instinctive, their lips never breaking contact. Patrick guided her backwards, steps slow and steady but charged with intent as they made their way towards the couch.

Éléanor’s heart pounded in her chest, her body alive with sensation. Every brush of Patrick’s lips, every touch of his hand on her skin, sent sparks of warmth coursing through her, making her pulse race.

Patrick gently eased her down onto the couch, his body hovering over hers as their kisses grew more urgent, more demanding, more desperate.

The space between them seemed to evaporate as his hands moved over her back, tracing her curves with a mix of tenderness and raw need. His touch was everywhere —gentle but commanding, igniting a fire that blazed hotter with each passing second.

Éléanor’s fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, craving more. She felt like she was burning from the inside, her skin tingling with a fierce energy, like that fuse they had lit had finally exploded.

There was nothing else—just him.

They broke the kiss for just a moment, both of them breathing heavily, their foreheads resting together as they tried to catch their breath. Patrick’s hands were still on her waist, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin, the simple touch sending waves of heat through her, stoking the fire that was already burning inside her.

“Are you sure about this?” His voice was low, husky, each word a quiet rumble that made her heart race. His breath was warm against her lips, his question lingering between them.

Éléanor smiled, her heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and certainty. She reached up, her hand cupping his cheek, her thumb grazing the stubble along his jaw as she looked into his eyes. “Yeah,” she whispered, her voice soft but steady, filled with the surety she felt at that moment. “I’m sure.”

With that, Patrick’s lips were on hers again, the kiss deeper this time, more confident. His hand slid under her sweater, his fingers brushing against her bare skin. Éléanor gasped into his mouth, arching her back as she pressed herself closer to him, her body responding to his every touch.

Patrick slowly began to lift the fabric, his hands warm and steady. Éléanor shifted beneath him, helping him peel it away, her skin instantly exposed to the cool air of the cabin, leaving her in only her panties.

But before she could feel the cold, Patrick was there, his hands on her bare waist, his mouth covering hers in another slow, deep kiss. Before he lowered himself, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone. His lips moved with a deliberate slowness, trailing down the sensitive skin of her neck and over her chest, each kiss drawing a soft gasp from Éléanor.

She let her hands wander across his broad shoulders, feeling the strength in him as he held her close, his body warm against hers. His lips brushed over the swell of her breasts, his breath teasing against her skin before he dipped his head lower, leaving a trail of heated kisses as he moved down her body.

The firelight flickered, casting golden shadows across the room, making the moment feel all the more intimate, as if they were the only two people in the world.

Patrick’s hands traced the curve of her waist, pulling her closer as he kissed just above the waistband of her panties, his breath warm against her skin. Éléanor’s breath hitched as his lips lingered there, his touch sending waves of pleasure through her.

He kissed his way back up, capturing her mouth in a deep, passionate kiss that left her breathless, his hands roaming over her sides. Then, with a smooth, almost teasing motion, he tugged at her underwear again before sliding them down and tossing them aside.

She felt the cold air on her overheated, exposed skin, and her nerves thrummed in arousal.

Éléanor’s hands slid down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin under her palms, her fingers grazing the elastic of his boxers. She felt his hard cock through the thin layer of fabric and was desperate to feel him, to continue what they had started yesterday.

So she pushed his boxers down, leaving them both completely exposed, their bodies pressed together, skin against skin.

Patrick looked down at Éléanor in the soft morning light, his features softened by the glow filtering through the windows. The shadows from the slowly burning fire danced across his sharp jawline, but it was the intensity in his eyes, the way he looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered at that moment, that made Éléanor feel like she was melting beneath him.

His chest, broad and strong, rose and fell with steady breaths, but the tension in his muscles betrayed the restraint he was barely holding onto.

Éléanor’s eyes dropped to his body, taking in the sight of him, her breath catching in her throat. He was perfect—every inch of him strong and toned, his cock hard and thick, standing proudly against his abdomen. She reached out, her hand wrapping around him, her fingers brushing over his length. Patrick let out a low groan, his hips pushing forward slightly into her hand as he closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the sensation.

But he didn’t let her linger there long.

His fingers traced lightly over her skin, starting at her collarbone and slowly moving downward, exploring her curves as if committing every inch of her to memory. Éléanor shivered at the warmth of his touch, her body responding to the slow burn of his attention before her mind could even catch up.

His hands, big and slightly rough, slid over her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples with just enough pressure to make her gasp.

Patrick’s mouth followed, placing soft kisses along her collarbone, then lower, his lips brushing over her chest, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. Éléanor arched into him, her breath coming faster as his lips closed around her nipple, his hand still gently kneading the other breast.

The sensation was overwhelming—his warmth against the cool air of the cabin, the firelight flickering beside them, and the intimacy of his touch sending jolts of pleasure through her.

Éléanor’s fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her body instinctively moving with his as he kissed and touched her with growing intensity. His hands roamed lower, brushing over her stomach and down to her hips, and then, with a firm but gentle grip, he guided her legs apart. The warmth of his fingers, firm but gentle, made her hips lift involuntarily, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Without a word, he slid his hand between her legs, his fingers finding her cunt wet.

He paused for just a second, letting the sensation sink in for both of them. “Éléanor,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire, his fingers brushing over her sex with a soft touch, barely parting the netherlips but enough to feel her wetness.

Patrick’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, and a low groan rumbled from his chest as he watched Éléanor gasping and her body trembling under his touch.

He slipped two of his thick, strong fingers into her cunt, pressing them in deep and curling them just enough to find that sensitive spot within her, the one that made her back arch and her breath catch in her throat.

Éléanor moaned, her hands gripping his shoulders, her body reacting to every movement he made. The way his fingers curled inside her and the steady pressure he applied sent wave after wave of desire through her.

Patrick watched her closely, his gaze locked on her face as he continued to finger her with that perfect rhythm, his thumb now brushing over her clit in slow, firm circles. The pleasure was instantaneous, sharp, her hips instinctively lifting to meet his hand. Éléanor moaned into his mouth, her body trembling as he played her like an instrument he knew too well.

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” Patrick groaned, his voice barely a whisper, full of awe and lust. His thumb pressed against her clit again, his fingers moving in rhythm with the growing tension between them. Éléanor’s body responded instantly, tightening around him, her hands gripping his shoulders tighter, nails digging into his skin as she urged him on.

“Patrick…” she gasped, barely able to form words, her hips grinding against his hand as her body moved in sync with his. His fingers pumped inside her, slow but steady, the high building with each thrust. She felt his cock, hard and hot, pressing against her thigh as his thumb continued its relentless work on her clit, sending her closer and closer to the edge.

He could feel it too—the way her body tensed and quivered beneath him, the growing wetness that coated his fingers as he stroked her deeply, curling his fingers inside her just to hear that sweet gasp leave her lips. The sensation of her slick heat gripping him made his cock ache with need, and the way her body responded to his touch only heightened his arousal.

Éléanor’s hips bucked against his hand, her moans growing louder as she felt herself teetering on the brink. Patrick’s fingers moved faster, his thumb pressing firmly against her clit, sending her spiralling into a frenzy of pleasure. Her breaths came in ragged gasps as she clung to him, her body trembling under the overwhelming sensation.

Éléanor’s hand shot up, tangling in his hair, pulling him down for a kiss that was anything but gentle. Her lips moved urgently against his, her breath hot and uneven as she kissed him deeply, swallowing his groans of pleasure. She was so close, her body strung tight, every nerve on fire as he continued his slow, torturous rhythm.

And then he stopped.

He withdrew his fingers slightly, his thumb easing its pressure, leaving her right at the precipice but holding her there, not letting her fall. Éléanor let out a frustrated gasp, her body aching for release as she looked up at him in confusion.

He cupped her face with his now damp fingers, his thumb brushing over her cheek as he kissed her again, softer this time, more controlled. “Not yet,” he whispered against her lips, his voice thick with desire but laced with restraint. He was holding back, savouring every moment, wanting to prolong the pleasure for as long as possible.

Éléanor’s body throbbed with need, every nerve alight with the desire for more, but as Patrick kissed her again, slower, deeper, she melted into him, letting herself get lost in the heat of the moment.

He started to move his fingers inside her again, slow and teasing.

She needed more, her hips rolling against his hand as she sought relief from the unbearable tension building inside her. But Patrick was in control now, his lips ghosting over her neck, the soft, teasing brush of his mouth making her moan with frustration and desire.

“Patrick, please…” she whispered, her voice barely audible, breathless with need.

He lifted his head, his dark, hungry eyes meeting hers.

A smile played at the corner of his lips, and he kissed her again, this time slower, deeper, letting her feel the heat of him. His free hand traced up her side, his fingers brushing over her bare breast, teasing the sensitive skin. Éléanor gasped into his mouth as his hand cupped her breast, his thumb rolling over her nipple again, making it peak under his touch.

Her body responded to every move he made, a slow, torturous build of pleasure that had her squirming beneath him. Patrick broke the kiss, his lips moving to her jawline, trailing hot kisses down her neck and over her collarbone. He paused at her breast, his tongue flicking over her nipple before he took it into his mouth, sucking gently.

Éléanor cried out, her back arching, her body pressing closer to him as the sensation of his mouth on her breast and his fingers inside her drove her crazy. The combination of his touch, his lips, and the deliberate, slow pace was overwhelming, every nerve in her body alive and burning for him.

Patrick’s fingers curled inside her again, pressing against that spot deep within her, his thumb rubbing slow circles over her clit. Éléanor’s breath hitched, her entire body tensing as the pleasure surged through her in waves. She could feel the edge approaching again, that delicious tightness in her core building, but Patrick kept her on the brink again .

Her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him back up to her lips, and she kissed him with a fierce intensity, her frustration and desire pouring into the kiss. Patrick groaned into her mouth, his own need evident as he pressed his hips against her, his hard cock rubbing against her thigh, spreading precum on her skin.

“Patrick… I need you,” Éléanor murmured, her voice a breathless plea against his lips, her desperation raw and unguarded.

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze, his hand still working her slowly. His eyes darkened at her words, the intensity in them almost too much to bear. He kissed her again, rougher this time, before pulling his hand away, leaving her empty and aching for more.

Patrick’s fingers paused for a moment as he looked into Éléanor’s eyes, his breath hot and heavy against her skin. He pulled back slightly, the desire still strong between them, but his gaze softened, filled with a mix of hunger and care.

“I should grab a condom,” he murmured, his voice low but steady, breaking the tension just enough to pull them both back to reality, and the memory of last night flickered in his eyes.

Éléanor nodded, her chest still rising and falling quickly as she tried to catch her breath. “Yes… please,” she whispered, her body already aching for him to return, the intensity of the moment too much to wait.

Patrick reached for his wallet on the side table, his mouth curving in a small, knowing smile as he pulled out the condom, seemingly having placed it there sometime after last night, perhaps in a mix of preparation and nerves.

Without thinking, she reached out, her fingers brushing his wrist as she spoke softly, “Let me…”

Patrick shook his head gently, his thumb grazing her knuckles as he held her gaze, his expression soft yet resolute. His eyes stayed on hers as he shook his head, his voice low and soothing. “No, it’s fine—I’ll do it. I don’t think I’ll be able to keep it together if you touch my dick now.”

She watched as his fingers deftly tore open the small packet, the tearing sound loud in the quiet room. His fingers brushed her thigh as he rolled the condom over his hard cock. Her heart pounded in her chest, the sight of him making her thighs clench together in anticipation.

Patrick leaned forward again, his body pressing into hers, the warmth of his skin seeping into her. His lips found hers, slow and deliberate. His hand, rough yet gentle, slid down her side, tracing the curve of her waist before his fingers brushed over the sensitive skin between her legs.

Éléanor gasped into his mouth, her hips instinctively arching towards his touch as his fingers explored her wet sex once more. He teased her, his thumb circling her clit with agonising slowness while his fingers slipped inside her, stretching her just enough to remind her of how much she needed him.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he whispered against her lips, his voice rough and low, sending shivers down her spine. Every inch of her body responded to him, the heat between them growing unbearable, her need for him nearly overwhelming.

Patrick could feel it, too, the way her body clenched around his fingers, her slick heat making his head spin. He groaned softly, the sound reverberating between them, as he moved his hand to guide his cock to her entrance.

She moaned into his mouth, her body trembling with need. Patrick’s cock brushed against her again, the condom in place, and this time there was no hesitation—not like last night. His hand gripped her thigh, pulling her leg up to wrap around his waist as he slowly pushed inside her.

Éléanor’s sharp intake of breath echoed in the room as her body responded to the delicious stretch, her nails digging into his back as she pulled him closer. Patrick’s heart raced, his body trembling as he fought to maintain control, the feeling of her slick heat surrounding him inch by inch.

The sensation of him filling her, stretching her slowly, was everything she had been craving and everything she didn’t know she was craving.

“God… you feel incredible,” he breathed, his forehead resting against hers as he pushed deeper, his cock sinking into her with slow, measured thrusts. He could feel every pulse of her body, every tremor as her walls gripped him tighter.

Her body responded instantly, arching up to meet him, desperate for more. But Patrick moved with deliberate care, easing into her slowly. Filling her inch by inch until he was fully inside her. He groaned against her neck, his breath ragged as he held himself still for a moment, letting her adjust to the feeling of him.

Éléanor’s hips rolled instinctively, urging him deeper, her breath coming in shallow gasps. “Patrick, move,” she whispered, her voice laced with need as her legs wrapped around his waist. She was losing herself in the feeling of him, the fullness, the weight, the stretch.

He started slow, his thrusts gentle but deep, each one sending ripples of pleasure through them both. Patrick could feel the way her body responded to him, the soft moans escaping her lips driving him wild.

As his pace quickened, he kissed her again, hard and desperate. His hands roamed over her body, one cupping her breast, kneading gently, while the other slipped between them, his fingers finding her clit again.

Éléanor gasped loudly, her body trembling beneath him as he worked her with expert precision, his cock moving in sync with his fingers. Every thrust, every touch, brought her closer to the edge, and Patrick could feel her body tightening around him, her breath coming faster, her moans louder.

He couldn’t hold back anymore, the pressure inside him building as he lost himself in the moment.

His hips moved with a deep, driving rhythm, each thrust intensifying as his fingers circled her clit with relentless precision. Éléanor’s breath hitched, her gasps quickening as her body arched beneath him, her soft cries filling the room.

“Patrick… I—I’m so close,” she whispered, her voice laced with desperate need, her body tightening around him as she felt the pressure mounting, ready to break.

Patrick groaned in response, his own control fraying as his movements became more urgent, his fingers working her with precision. He kissed her again, his lips crashing against hers as the tension in her body snapped with a particularly rough flick of his finger on her clit.

Éléanor’s orgasm hit her like a tidal wave, her body arching off the couch as her walls clenched around him. She gasped his name, her voice trembling with the intensity of her release, her fingers gripping his shoulders as wave after wave of pleasure washed over her.

Patrick followed her, his thrusts becoming erratic as he chased his own release. With a final deep thrust, he groaned her name, his body shuddering as he came, the condom filling with his cum. His body collapsed against hers, both of them breathless and spent.

For a few moments, neither of them moved. The only sound in the room was their soft, shared breaths and the crackling of the fire nearby. Patrick slowly pulled out, carefully removing the condom and tossing it aside before settling back down beside her.

They lay in a comfortable silence, their bodies entwined as the room slowly settled around them. The soft, golden morning light spilt in through the windows, warming the space as they stayed close, wrapped in each other’s presence. Patrick’s fingers traced gentle, soothing patterns on her arm, and Éléanor let herself sink into the comfort of his steady heartbeat beneath her hand.

She felt like she could stay here forever, wrapped in this quiet, unhurried happiness.

26 notes · View notes