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mimicmimikyuwrites · 2 months

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Who You Belong To - Jonathan Crane (Scarecrow) x Fem!Reader SMUT

Summary: You and your professor share what could barely be called a relationship, but what's there is tricky and difficult to put a positive label on. When a fellow classmate successfully asks you on a date, Dr. Crane decides to make one thing clear: who you belong to.

Contents/Possible Warnings: Age Gap (Reader is in her early 20's, Crane's in his mid 30's), inclusion of original male character, student-professor relationship, unprotected sex, P in V sex, toxic relationship (?), creampie, semi-clothed sex, mentions of masturbation, degradation, semi-public sex (they fuck in an office), SMUT, MDNI

Other Notes: You can read part two here.

Some people say there's over four hundred estimated phobias, others say that number can be even higher at five hundred; no matter the number, you were sure Dr. Jonathan Crane knew every single one of them by heart. Your slightly off-putting psychology professor with a passion for fear and its workings shared a relationship with you that had breeched its professional expectations long ago. You couldn't tell what he was to you, exactly, but it certainly wasn't just your professor, not when he had been inside of you more times than either of you could count.

It wasn't uncommon for him to ask you to stay after class, leading into an invitation to his office before you found yourself bent over an expensive, wooden desk that had already been cleared off in expectation of you being pressed to it while you took him. Sometimes if he wanted to strike a bit of fear of getting caught into you, he'd fuck you right in the lecture hall, always letting you know how terrifying the consequences would be if someone else did something as simple as come back for a forgotten pen.

You may have been his favorite teacher's pet, but you were sure there were others. Jonathan was an attractive man who taught an already difficult class, it'd be no surprise to you if he had other women lined up for a chance to recieve a better grade from him in exchange for a little "extra- credit" assignment, as much as you hated to admit it to yourself. He was never yours to begin with.

"Care to tell me why you're staring down at your closed text book instead of listening to my lesson?" Your professor questioned, breaking you out of your thoughts. Shit, how had you gotten so immersed in your little daydream that you had forgotten you were in class? You could feel the sympathetic stares of your peers burning into you as Crane loomed over you, a gleam of mischievous satisfaction in his blue eyes. You didn't respond.

"Stay after class," He said plainly, heading back to the front of the room. He'd still ask you to stay back regardless of how things went, the little show he had made out of you was his way of toying with you in just the way he liked. It was more of a tease at this point, you weren't scared, not of him. Still, you shrunk back into your seat in faux embarrassment to entertain him.

"To those who were paying attention, unlike a certain someone," he paused, gaze drifting over to you as he quickly took in the sight of what you were wearing.

While it was nothing out of the ordinary for you, you did choose to wear a skirt today, a favorite of his to see on you. How easy would it be for him to pull it up, bunching the fabric over your hips so be could get acess to what he was really after? He also took note of your gloss-covered lips, mind drifting onto how great they'd look wrapped around his cock or wide open as you moaned for him. He shifted, moving to be further behind his desk as he felt his pants tighten. He would wreck you after everyone was gone.

"You have a test on the topic of agoraphobia this upcoming Monday; today is Friday, which means you have the weekend to review the notes, which I hope you've been taking, for your own sake." He continued. "You're all free to go, except who I've already asked to stay." He really wouldn't stop rubbing that in, would he? Maybe he was trying to rile you up to make your usual "meeting" more exciting today.

As your classmates rose, you stayed seated, putting your stuff into your bag as you did. It was all routine, except for the man who had approached you before making his way out. He stood over you with a friendly smile, one that you had to admit made him look handsome. He didn't look too different from Dr. Crane in terms of basic features; dark hair and cornflower blue eyes. He was your type on the level of looks.

"Hey, I'm Ryan," He introduced himself, friendly smile remaining on his face. "I heard that you're pretty good in this class, making straight A's. I was wondering if you could help me study this weekend if you're free? Maybe we could grab a cup of coffee, too?" You looked over to where Dr. Crane was standing, the man in question observing your interaction from his desk, making it subtle by acting like he was sorting through papers.

You and your professor weren't exclusive, and if he had others lined up and waiting for him, then you could, too; it'd only be fair. Your classmate wanted to study and get coffee? He'd get what he wanted and more. "Sure! I'm free tommorrow at twelve if that works out for you," You finally replied, smiling up at Ryan. You had just met the guy and he was already doing something that Crane never did: asking you out on a date.

Ryan grinned, grabbing a notebook out of his bag and ripping out a piece of paper, writing his number on it before handing it to you. "I'll see you then!" He exclaimed happily before waving goodbye and leaving. After he had left, you stood up, pulling your bag over your shoulder before you made your way to where Jonathan was at the front of the lecture hall. He did ask you to stay after class.

"Throw it away," Crane stated plainly, moving the small, paper-filled trashcan that was under his desk to be in front of you. You looked down, not realizing you still had the slip of paper with Ryan's number on it in your hand.

"Do you even know what it is?" You retorted, shoving the paper into your bag.

"He gave you his number. You don't need the number of someone you turned down," He responded, moving the trashcan even closer to you. "Throw it away." He repeated.

"Except I didn't turn him down." You replied, watching his brows furrow in a mix of confusion, and then annoyance once your words sunk in. "We're not exclusive, you and I, are we?" Part of you hoped he'd prove you wrong, telling you that he was yours and you were his, while another part of you wanted to tell him 'fuck you" to his face. How many simultaneously lucky and unlucky women did he have waiting for him? Many, you were sure of it.

"I'm sure you have someone else in another one of your classes that you can spend your evening with, Dr. Crane." You smiled, trying to ignore the growing pain in your heart. "If you can have others, then it's only fair that I can as well."

"What makes you think that I have others?" He inquired, looking up at you with curious, blue eyes. "Do you think I'm the type of man to give out straight A's in my class in exchange for a fling or two? I don't even up your grades, darling." He chuckled lightly.

You rolled your eyes. He had to be lying to you... right? Were you really the only one and he just didn't see you as more than someone to have sex with? You didn't know what idea hurt you more, but the end result was the same: you meant little to him, and your body was all he wanted.

"I'll see you on Monday, professor." You mumbled out, feeling defeated. You already knew why he had asked you to stay after class, but the thought of him touching you while he wanted nothing more than just sex sickened you. What did you expect? That's all things had ever been. You shouldn't have caught feelings.

He watched you leave, letting out a long sigh once you were gone. You had always been a pain in his ass, but not one he'd ever get rid of.

Saturday at Twelve left just as quickly as it had come, and before you knew it, not only had you had your date, but you were also back in your Psychology class on Monday, a test on agoraphobia in front of you. Being nearly sixty questions long, it was intimidating to look at, even more so when the majority of questions were statistic-based. You were far from worried, however, having studied the topic extensively over the past few weeks.

Any confidence you had left you once you received your score later that same class period. You had failed by a large margin, the bright red ink in the corner shamefully exclaiming '34%' seeming to mock you as you stared back at it. You had yet to fail any assignment in your Psychology course, let alone one on such a common fear as agoraphobia. Your professor did this on purpose.

"Yes? Can I help you?" Crane asked, not bothering to look up as he shuffled through a stack of papers on his desk. You placed your failed test in front of the man, an angry frown on your face as you did so.

"Did you intentionally fail me because I went out on a date this weekend, you prick?!" He finally glanced up at you, his neutral expression not faltering a bit despite your obvious discontent. Then, he stood up, making his way over to his office door in the corner of the room.

"Come on, let's take this to my office so you can shout at me without embarrassing yourself as easily." The condescension in his voice only served to upset you further, much to his sadistic delight. You were the first one inside, Jonathan making sure to lock the door behind you. Before you could even open up your mouth to yell at him once more, he spoke.

"Did it feel good?" He asked nonchalantly, catching you off guard.

"What? What are you—"

"Did it feel good when he fucked you?" He finished, watching calmly as your eyes widened in shock. "You have a hickey on your neck under all that makeup you used to try and hide it. You've done the same to the ones I've given you in the past. It's just barely noticeable."

He stepped forward, closing in on you like a hungry animal would their prey, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. "Did it feel good? Did he manage to fuck you better than I ever could?" His arm wrapped around you, a hand placing itself on the small of your back as he leaned into you. "Or did he leave you wanting more? Did you go home and grab that vibrator of yours, just wishing it was me that had been the one with you while you were forced to make yourself cum, because he couldn't?"

He moved, lifting you up so he could sit you on the desk. Of course, like always, it was cleared off ahead of time in anticipation of your visit.

"Maybe I need to show you who you belong to, hmm?" His hands moved down under your skirt, one resting on your inner thigh while the other gave an experimental touch to your clothed sex. You were already wet, your arousal felt through the thin cotton of your panties. "Soaking already, my dear? He must've left you worse off than I imagined." Jonathan purred.

"H-He barely touched me," You stuttered out, feeling Crane tug your underwear to the side, his deft fingers finding your clit. "All we did was make out." You let out a soft moan as he began slowly rubbing at the sensitive bud.

"I don't believe you." His hands left you, beginning to undo his belt. The prominent tent in his black slacks let you know just what was in store for you; he was starving for you. "Not when you admitted you let him touch what's mine." He continued, motioning for you to take your soaked panties off.

"What's yours?" You breathed out, slipping off the clothing in question, letting it fall to the ground below.

"You need to know who you belong to." He stated, pulling his cock out; hard and leaking pre-cum at the tip. Your pussy grew even wetter at the sight. You spread your legs on instinct as he came in closer, putting himself in between them, a hand resting on your hip while the other lined himself up with your eager cunt, the head of his cock teasing your entrance.

"Who do you belong to?" He asked staring into your eyes with his half-lidded, sultry ones swimming with lust and need. "Answer me correctly and I'll be nice and give you what you want."

"You. I belong to you. Dr. Jonathan Cra— oh, fuck!" You gasped out, feeling him thrust into you without warning. He set a quick, almost animalistic pace, wasting no time; not when he needed you so much. Every drag of his thick cock inside of your desperate cunt sent pleasure coursing through you.

"I bet he didn't fuck you as good as this," he groaned, a tight grip on your hips as he slammed into you, the lewd sounds of your shared pleasure filling the small space of his office. It had only been a few days since he had last fucked you, but with the way you were already trembling beneath him it felt like it had been months.

"You're the best I've —Oh!— ever had!" You managed to get out between your moans. It was true, too. Out of every man you'd ever been with, no man had made you feel as good as Jonathan did. "Harder– baby, please!" You begged, gripping the edge of the desk like your life depended on it.

"Look at you, begging like a slut," He growled, pounding into you even harder. "That's okay, darling. You're my little slut. Mine to fuck. Mine to ruin." He let out a loud groan as your pussy clamped down on him at the sound of his words. "Oh? Does that turn you on? The thought of me ruining you? Trust me, you're not going to want a single person other than me after I'm done with you, darling." You pulled him down, dragging him into a messy, open-mouthed kiss. Your tongue moved against his, just like you were made for each other.

"I love you," you whimpered out, feeling him nip at your neck. "Please— I want to be all yours. Only yours." You pleaded, your mind too clouded with the intense pleasure rocking through your body to fully process the potential impact of what you had just confessed.

"You already are." He responded, hips snapping against yours as he lost his rhythm. "I love you, too. I don't care what trouble I'll get into for what we've done. I don't care if I lose my job, as long as you're with me at the end of it all."

That sent you over the edge, along with the tip of his cock grazing your sweet spot. You came around him, your orgasm crashing over you as your legs shook with the force of it all. He spilled into you not long after, thick, warm cum shooting deep inside you and leaking out to drip down your thighs as he let out a long, loud groan of ecstasy.

You slumped back against the desk, feeling the cold wood against your warm, hot skin. Jonathan buried his head into the crook of your neck, pressing soft, chaste kisses to it as you both came down from your orgasmic highs. You stayed like that for a long moment until both of you calmed down, a blissful exhaustion filling you.

"There's a new restaurant that opened up in the town center," he smiled, caressing your cheek. "I hear it has some of the best Chicken Alfredo the city has to offer. Good wine, too."

You chuckled tiredly, not catching on to his offer. "You fucked me silly just so you could tell me about some Italian place?"

"I'm sure it's a better first date than whatever that guy got you," He said, letting out a chuckle of his own. "I'm free later tonight if that's not too short notice."

Your eyes shot open as the realization set in. "Wait— You're asking me out? What if someone from the University sees us, Jonathan? You could get—" He cut you off with a short, sweet kiss.

"Arkham always needs new doctors, darling. There's never a shortage of the need for psychiatrists. I'm tired of grading papers, anyway." He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck. "You heard what I said earlier, didn't you? I love you. You belong to me."

You had finally learned who you belonged to, and you couldn't have been happier.

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weirdworldofwinnie · 11 months

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A Safe Way Out

Jonathan Breech x Female Reader (NSFW 18+ only)

Summary: You're a very shy patient at the psychiatric hospital and the newest inpatient part of the therapy group has to be the cutest man you've ever seen, and he takes an interest in you, but he's not quite as innocent as he looks.

Word Count: ~3,384

Warnings: Smut (unprotected sex), loss of virginity/innocent reader, cum squirting, oral (fem receiving), mental illness, past trauma, talk of depression and suicide, some angst, language

Disclaimer: This just fantasy/fiction, I do not own anything from the 2001 Irish film On the Edge starring Cillian Murphy.

Breech, Jonathan.

He was surely the prettiest person you'd ever witnessed admitted to this institution that he could make both men and even women jealous, even though his pajamas were ill-fittingly too short and he had a cocky attitude that didn't go unnoticed by the staff and other patients, but he wasn't a total asshole... at least you hoped.

At the couple of group therapy sessions he attended he was rebellious, giving the always tired (but very patient) Dr. Figure grief through ample sarcasm that made you stifle smirks, but as usual you never spoke much, being selectively mute unless you were forced to answer a question from Dr. Figure. They didn't give any drugs to dope up; the doctor didn't think you nor the small group you were part of needed them, but sometimes you wished they would so you didn't have to participate in these stupid sessions that went in half-spun circles and could just conk out in your room or outside.

You had been submitted here by your estranged parents after a series of concerning events that you had tried to mentally block out, including attempting to take your own life because of bullying and abuse; you were not able to ever acclimate fully to society because of it, which led you to being stuck in this place, mentally spinning wheels while growing more and more wary of the outside world everyday. Jonathan was the opposite; he had a spark of defiance and a fire you didn't have enough oxygen for to nourish for yourself. He clearly didn't think he really belonged here and in a way, you sort of admired him even if he was a bit strange and potentially dangerous... He was certainly an exciting refresher in such a dull, day-to-day drudgery.

One day after walking out of yet another mildly frustrating therapy session, he stepped in front of you in the hall as you were making your way back to your room alone, a curious light in his stunningly blue excuses for eyeballs.

"Hey, you mind if I join ya in your room?" he asked suddenly and you froze, uncertain of how to react. You only ever minimally interacted one-on-one with people you trusted... Fellow patient Nick kept saying Jonathan wasn't to be trusted, but Nick was also kind of a paranoid weirdo that always was listening to his headphones, so what did he know?

Jonathan seemed to sense your hesitation and he grinned, trying to put you at ease or maybe he was just messing with you. Either way, you had to hide your intrigue in case he was pulling your leg.

"Don't look spooked out, I'm just so fucking bored at this place and you're pretty cute, but you never really talk... I just wanna get to know ya better," he explained sincerely, but you still felt wary.

"Can I see your room at least?" he asked innocently and you finally gave him a shy nod, causing him to smile in broad relief that reminded you of the last rays of sunlight splashing upon the cliffs.

He walked along beside you, swinging his arms back and forth a bit as if he was winding himself up, all the way to your room and past an orderly who gave him a suspicious glance, but you gave the man a thumbs up to let him know it was fine. Security here was surprisingly not as strict as one would imagine for a psychiatric hospital and the younger patients tended to sneak out once a week to the city with minimal repercussions. They always came back anyway.

You reached your designated room and opened the door slowly, and Jonathan strolled in after you, sighing loudly.

"Oh, would'ja look at that - they gave you the fanciest room they've got," he commented sarcastically as you sat down on the small bed, tucking your knees up to your chest and he stood, surveying you and scene for a second and then joining to sit, copying your posture. He fiddled with his slippers for a minute and then turned to you curiously.

"So lemme get this right: You only talk when or if you have ta?"

"Yeah," you mumbled and he nodded sagely.

"That's an interesting way to deal with people. Don't blame ya, lot of wanks out there not worth being spoken to. What's your name - I mean, I know it from the meeting, but can you say it?" he asked, however unlike any doctor, it wasn't clinical or judgmental. He truly seemed interested and so you whispered your first name aloud to the floor.

"It's a nice name. How old are you?" You could hear the smile in his deep voice.

"T-Twenty two," you responded with a slight stutter, too fluttery to be able to meet his gaze.

"Fuck, that's older than me... I'm nineteen, but you know already know that. You ever been anywhere outside of Dublin?"

You looked away, not answering. If you ever had, you'd been too small to remember.

"How long you've been here?" he asked curiously and you splayed your hand, palm up towards him.

"Five weeks or five years?"

"Years," you whispered and he was silent for a few minutes, picking at the hem of his baby blue pajama pants.

"So much for the road to recovery, eh?" he scoffed and you just shrugged.

He put his legs down, feet flat on the floor and crossing his arms tight to his chest, wearing that oversized silly orange patterned sweater of his. He sniffed and bit his lip, glancing up at the bare ceiling as if he would find the answers to existence there.

"Something happened to you, I know. Shit, something happened to us all here. It's okay if you don't wanna or can't talk 'bout it. But I can't figure out if you have the same thoughts me and the others have? You know, what the doc locks us up for... suicidal? Like there's no fucking point to this blip of existence? And they think we're nuts, but we just seein' the truth."

You slowly pulled up your sleeve, exposing the faint scars etched into your left wrist, remnants of cutting attempts to escape life before you had been dumped off in this place indefinitely. You had never tried it since and were now an adult and could seek the means to leave if you truly wanted to, but there was nothing out there in the world for you.

"See this pinky finger?" Jonathan asked suddenly, poking up his baby finger and you nodded, interested.

"I was just trying to get rid of what was left of me old Da and the damn car didn't do the job right. Could've broken neck but all I broke was me baby finger. Least you've got the scars there to prove survivin'." He sighed heavily, almost disappointed, and you spoke the first sentence you had in days, your voice hushed from disuse.

"Why do ya wanna die?"

He blinked, giving you a meaningful glance and his full lips stretched into a tight ironic smile.

"I don't want to die; I don't want to be alive. I'm just a fucking living ghost, we all are... Doesn't that realization scare the wits outta ya?"

He looked away at the wall, blinking as the drippy tears escaped and his mouth quivered in quiet anguish, his dewy face scrunching up. You reached over and touched his cheek, catching a tear rolling down his smooth pallid skin and wiping it off tenderly. He sniffled, embarrassed, and gently took your wrist and whispered emphatically.

"I like you, Y/N. You don't freak out or talk down to me or bitch about your own problems. You're unique, but I'm thinking ya too cute to be truly crazy."

"Cute?" you repeated and he grinned at hearing your high breathy voice.

"Don't be so afraid to talk, you got a pretty voice. Bet nobody be calling ya cute in a long time, right?"

You shrugged sheepishly and he tilted your chin up with his fingers, tracing the outline of your face fondly and you blushed, not used to being touched by anyone like that. It was... comforting, a feeling you had been very numb to for some time. His pinkish lips parted and he tilted his head slightly, mouth gaping in anticipation for a kiss but you froze, unsure and not wanting to take the lead.

"I want a kiss," he murmured and the way he said it made you draw closer, trusting the process. He closed his eyes and blindly groped your lips, sucking, and then his tongue dove in with a surprising force, swirling around your mouth and he gripped the sides of your head in a vice, cutting off any resistance... Not that you were repulsed in any way once the initial shock wore off.

He broke away after several seconds, gasping and licking his lips hungrily.

"Mm, didja like that?"

Your cheeks became pink and he glanced over your head at the windowpanes being pattered with a steady rain and it was growing dimmer outside, evening approaching with a cloaking storm, and it reflected in the dull colors of the room that was becoming muted of natural light.

"Can I show you something?" he asked huskily, shifting on the bed restlessly.

You ducked your chin in affirmative, heart fluttering in uncertainty as he reached to yank his sweater and pajama shirt over his head, leaving him with a bare chest. You stared, fascinated in his anatomy; it had been so long since you'd seen anyone without some clothing on. He grinned, pointing awkwardly to your own chest.

"So, uh, now this... this'll be the part where you remove your garment," he instructed and cautiously, you unbuttoned your pj's and you never wore a bra, so soon he was facing your naked breasts with your nipples hardening from the airy exposure.

"Really cute," he breathed, gently putting a finger to your right nipple and pressing lightly, stroking around the center and then drawing a line to the other breast, doing the same to that one and you shivered, feeling a strange pull in your stomach that was borderline butterflies. He leaned back, bouncing up slightly on the bed and kicking his slippers off to the floor.

"But hold on, there's more to see," he said with a verging mischievous excitement. You'd never seen him look so genuinely joyful and as he tugged down his pj bottoms, you blinked, faced with a protruding bugle in his white underwear.

After a beat, he removed his boxers, springing forth a stiff appendage that you'd never in the flesh on a man, well, in its erect state at least.

"Want to touch it? It doesn't bite," Jonathan joked with a lazy grin and you cautiously extended a hand and put your fingers on the glistening tip. It was definitely moist and firmly solid, and he shuddered through a breath of arousal.

"Wet," you observed and he laughed, scooting closer so his penis was resting in your hands.

"I like it when you touch me there, don't stop," he begged and you felt him up, amused at his reaction.

He twitched in your palms as you ran careful fingers up his fleshy length and to his balls, lightly petting the coarse dark hair nesting around them, and he shivered pleasurably, resisting the urge to already ejaculate.

"Feelin' good?" you asked fondly, seeing his mouth agape and eyes nearly rolling back.

"Too fuckin' good, need to stop before I cum too quick. Wanna enjoy this... Lemme have at that pussy of yours now instead of using me dick, m'kay?"

You could tell it wasn't a question, but you weren't sure what he meant entirely. You eased off his genitalia, cock dripping slightly, and sat back, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Here," Jonathan murmured and his hands went to your waist, teasing down the waistband of your pj's and pushing the pants down your legs, letting you wiggle out and kick them to the floor, along with your slippers. He stared for a full ten seconds at your womanhood, biting his lip and swirling his tongue around his mouth, before he bent down and spread your legs apart. You tried to ask him what was going to happen, but he dove in already, tongue flicking at your delicate folds with attempted precision. You gasped audibly at the new sensation and he clamped hands down on your thighs, clinging on as he maneuvered his thick tongue faster and you grabbed at a fistful of his hair, shaking from the unfamiliarity and equal anticipation as your body seemed to take control of natural instincts and budding arousal grew stronger.

He just wanted to warm you up though, and he withdrew his tongue soon, lips glistening with a tiny smear of discharge. Your bare chest rose and fell in rhythm as he surveyed the fresh terrain, just aching for more. You very well might be a complete virgin and that prospect tantalized him yet also privately frightened him of messing up. Of course he'd been with girls before, but they weren't this sheltered and sweet. He may corrupt you and alter the course of this extremely new friendship, which in his mind was always meant to become more of a relationship; the moment he saw you he knew he needed to get in your pants.

"Eh, give it a go," Jonathan told himself forcibly and his finger jerked onto your entrance, worming in needily and making you squeak in surprise. He shushed you, zipping his lips with his free hand, giving you a clear message that it wasn't wise to make unusual noises. Even though it wasn't like there was cameras in the rooms, one couldn't be too careful. If Dr. Figure found out his newest unstable patient, the same one that pledged not to kill himself before New Year's Eve, was somewhat taking advantage of a virgin he just met in her own room, the doc would be most displeased.

Nevertheless, whimpers escaped from your throat as he pressed further to your clit and moved another finger to join the first, uncomfortably stretching into your walls. Despite the stinging pain, you felt an decent amount of wetness pooling from your vagina, almost like peeing, and clenched reflexively, hitting his knuckles.

"Oh, I'm thinking it's ready," he whispered impatiently, wriggling his digits away with a squelch and wiping your light drizzle of cum on his cock.

Before you could react, he adjusted position and slid on top of you, pressing his body down onto your bare one and rubbing his full cock in-between your thighs.

You gasped when he began to shove in rather roughly, squirming into your tight unbroken hole and you looked up at his face, watching his hair askew slightly and you noticed a scar above his eyebrow you hadn't noticed before. You wrapped your arms around his neck, afraid to get pinned underneath him, and tried to buck and roll with the motion, but it was getting painful.

"Hurts," you whimpered into his ear as he thrusted further.

"Not gonna hurt in a minute, baby," he whispered, too in heat to stop and consider much else and he clapped a hand over your mouth to stifle any more alarming noises.

"C-Can't go-go all the way in," he panted, his skin slapping yours and rocking the whole small bed.

Sure enough, the pain became more bearable though the more he worked you and pleasure eventually overturned it altogether, the bursting bloom of an orgasm that was very likely the best feeling that had ever happened to you. You sank your mouth on his shoulder to stifle a cry, careful to not bite too deeply, and then mewled into his neck, panting heavily along with him and digging your fingers into his brown scrubby sideburns and floppy hair.

"Mm, fuc-fucking good, ya likin' it, eh?" Jonathan choked out in a whisper and you couldn't respond, too taken by this incredible euphoria and the way his cock flexed inside close at your cervix. You weren't sure how long he could stay in without it becoming too uncomfortable, but he lifted up slightly, grunting softly at his own arousal and effort.

He pulled out just in time, finishing outside by squirting hot ropes of milky cum all over your vagina, stomach, and legs. The bedsheets took a few splatters as well and he heaved in relief as you laid there, utterly stunned at his sexual performance. You had squirted a little bit too and it had intermixed with his juices that you couldn't tell which was from whom. It was so intimate and gross and a big part of you absolutely loved it, having never been in such a situation before... It was exciting and playful.

He swiped two fingers through the fluids and spread it on your thighs further, encouraging you to feel it as well and you giggled at him taking your own fingers and guiding them up to his face, dotting his chin with cum.

Jonathan then sat back on his haunches and admired you, catching his breath and listening to the steady patter of rain. You rolled over onto your side and your eyes widened at a couple spots of blood on the sheets and he looked down in causal observance.

"Ah, that'd be normal, don't worry," he assured with a chuckle.

"Though, uh, maybe we'd better try to hide it case they come collect the sheets tomorrow," he realized on second thought.

"I say I been bleeding, on my cycle," you offered as an explanation.

"Yeah, that'd be good cover," he agreed and climbed off, picking up his clothing and shimmying back into the pajamas and sweater.

"Look, I'll get us some towels or somethin' from the bathroom," he said, walking quietly to the door and opening it with a peering glance out, but the coast was clear. Most patients should be in their rooms by now anyhow.

You relaxed in a post-orgasmic trance while he was gone, listening to the dripping weather outside and wondering how you'd be able to be normal around him tomorrow.

The door squeaked open softly a couple minutes later and Jonathan came back inside with a bundle of torn sheets of toilet paper clutched in his hand.

"Couldn't get towels, so I took some shit paper that'll have ta do instead," he announced with dry amusement and he used it to wipe you clean of the wet mess and you thanked him quietly, grateful to be dry again for it had become rather cold and tingly on your skin. You automatically flinched a fraction when he wiped at your folds, as you were raw and sore, but he was fairly gentle. When he finished, Jonathan moved in very close as if for a kiss, but only whispered near to your ear, tickling your earlobe with his warm breath.

"Don't tell anyone about what we did... just a little secret, m'kay? Though I guess you wouldn't be blabbin' to anyone else anyway," he chuckled darkly, but it wasn't mean.

"Maybe we can see each other again?" he proposed as he balled up the soiled toilet paper and retreated back towards the door.

"Okay, Jonathan," you whispered in reply and he flushed at the sound of his name on your lips.

"I think you'll be my new therapy, better than anything that wanker of a Freud psychiatrist can offer." He paused, shuffling his feet and then glanced up daringly, determination in his blue orbs.

"We'll find a way out soon, a safe way out, me and you and Rachel and Toby... and I'll show you how to have a good time at the pub, eh? Like the sound of that?"

You only smiled as he turned to exit, but then abruptly paused and bit his lip as he looked back at you with a yearning, like what the two of you had just done still wasn't enough.

"Abair do phaidreacha agus codhladh sámh," he spoke in Gaelic and you translated back softly with a meaningful smile.

"Say your prayers and sleep well."

With a dip of his head and smug, yet almost childlike smile, Jonathan ducked out the door and was gone for the night.

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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 1 year

Text

IT’S YOU, HAPPY ALL THE TIME ─── jonathan breech ✧☾𖦹

ೃ⁀➷ “I ask Jessica what drowning feels like and she says not everything feels like something else." — ‘Jessica gives me a chill pill’, Angie Sijun Lou.

pairing. jonathan breech x reader

summary. you’ve bared your heart to your bestfriend, jonathan, more times than you can count, whilst knowing practically nothing at all about him. what is friendship if it is not equal… what is love if it is not returned? can your relationship survive such one-sidedness?

warnings. swearing, TW mention & description of suicide/attempts & depression, very introspective/kind of a character study???, alcohol & drug use, pining, ANGST!!!!, crying, fluff, smut with feelings, p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex (f), SMUT UNDER THE CUT!

word count. 10k (WTF??!?!!??)

a/n. the title is from “she won’t go away” by faye webster:) btw this is… rly angsty (and SO long omg im still in shock) so beware🫡 ALSO IM SO SORRY FOR NOT POSTING IN WHILE!! SCHOOL IS KICKING MY BUTT & THIS FIC WAS AN ABSOLUTE MONSTER TO WRITE LMAO

There are very few words in your vocabulary you can use to accurately describe Jonathan Breech.

The boy is an enigma, a matryoshka doll that never ends: he is witty and lighthearted and sarcastic, but you’ll always catch that edge, the air of malaise he carries around himself, the unspoken elephant in the room that screams WHO ARE YOU REALLY?

He had always been more of a figure, a landscape; something to witness, observe-- experience without letting it do the same to you. You don’t know if that’s something you want, either: there’s an imbalance in his hilarity, and he always takes things a step too far. Jonathan lights matches and lets them burn all the way down to his fingertips; he shaves and lets the blade leave stinging little nicks, rivulets of blood running down his neck; he chainsmokes cigarettes in his room and only opens the window when he feels his heart hammering in his chest, desperate for air.

You meet him — or, first experience him in a similar fashion: he had been in the university library, standing on top of a creaky, old bookshelf, shouting something you couldn’t understand over the music blasting through your headphones. You could certainly see him though, gesturing animatedly, dressed eccentrically in his signature winter trapper hat and a velvet blazer. That thin, effeminate figure of his was making winding, marionette-ish steps along the wood, an action that had everyone readying themselves to catch his inevitable fall.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere and catching you completely off guard, you caught his eye. He began stepping from one shaky shelf to the next, a complete miracle none of them toppled over, before stopping on one close enough for you to read his lips.

“Hi,” he mouthed, shifting uneasily on his left foot before regaining a steady balance, “you’re in my class, right?”

You nodded, hesitantly— yes, truthfully, you’d seen him in your Introduction to Literary Studies course a couple of weeks ago, sporting the same outfit as he did now, but you thought nothing of him. He’d been generally well-behaved then, asking slightly odd but in-tune questions that more or less answered all your inquiries, so you didn’t think the guy would have a penchant for, well… book-shelf hopping.

He grinned, about to say something else, before something — or someone, made him flinch. A professor, probably, considering the unintelligibly muffled, booming voice behind you. However, Jonathan made quick work of the situation, sneakily climbing down and escaping out the door.

The next time you see him, he’s sidled up beside you in your shared class. “Mind if I sit here?” a familiar voice had asked, to which you murmured a non-committal knock y’self out, before realizing with wide eyes. His presence had caught you off-guard, as he so often did, and you sensed a pattern blooming.

Jonathan certainly made for an odd desk-partner; his personality warped the environment around you, and it was suddenly so much easier to tear your eyes away from the lecture and land on Jonathan’s own. It’s something you never thought you’d ever do, because you adore the material being taught.

At the end of class, he asks you out for a drink: he’s just found the best Irish stout in the entire city, and what better way to make it known than to take anyone and everyone he knows there?

Rejection is written on your face clear as day— you have class tomorrow, an essay that needs to be finished, and honestly, pubs just aren’t really your scene.

But in the end… you still bite. You can’t help it: he’s disarming and warm and looks like he should smell like a bonfire. Somehow, that just does it for your brain; it’s here you learn of the charm that is Jonathan Breech.

That night goes everything and nothing like you expected: you expected not to be able to predict his actions, and that’s exactly what happens. When you meet Jonathan at the aforementioned pub, it’s not actually the one he’s meaning to take you to— it’s just the closest public place to the on-campus dorm, which is where he says he’s rooming.

“‘ve got a neighbor m’pretty sure is trying to sleep with me,” he says absently, ushering you onto the back of his bike, which had been leaning against a NO PARKING sign. “He’s always toget’er wit’ our dorm advisor, so I should l reject him before I get kicked out, if y’get what I mean.”

Now, you honestly should’ve expected this from a guy who jumped from six-foot book shelves, but Jonathan’s biking is all swift turns and jilted stops, mere milliseconds from repeatedly running red lights. You want to ask if he just learned how to ride the thing yesterday, but can’t, not with how utterly reckless and shameless he is about it, his terrible steering making you instinctively wrap your arms around his chest.

You clutch him tightly, making him hum in approval, and you feel your ears burn flusteredly. You would’ve pulled away, but then he cut from the right lane to the left in one swift move, barely missing several cars, and you practically shrieked instead. “Oh my god!”

“Sorry,” he apologizes quickly. You can’t see his face, having shut your eyes in fear, but after hearing the blatant cheekiness in his tone, you can imagine clear as day how gleefully it contorts. You want to slap him somewhere, anywhere, but that’d defeat the point of being mad at his recklessness, so you squeeze him tighter instead, and he chokes on his breath. “Jesus-- m’sorry, really!”

When the two of you make it to the pub — alive and uninjured! — annoyingly all the way across town, your first few steps off his bike are stuttered, dizzy: “We are-- not going by bike next time,” you gasp, leaning against a random brick wall.

“Next time, eh?” He grins, and this time you really do slap him— just on the arm, bless your self-control and niceties not to beat this oddly comfortable-to-be-around near-stranger to death.

The pub, with its forgettable name and dingy stools, has a minimal, lackluster crowd. A kitschy neon sign flickers and dies as you walk in, making you raise a brow, but Jonathan merely drags you by the arm to a cozy corner table, then disappearing deeper within the venue before returning moments later with two pints of black beer in tow.

“Go on, then,” he gestures, setting the tall glass on the table, sitting down in the chair in front of you and taking a hearty sip of his own drink.

You let out a little hesitant sigh at his words, before relenting and taking in a long gulp of the liquid. “…Huh,” you remark, impressed. Jonathan smiled knowingly behind his glass, letting out a smug little ah, you see?

“Worth the long ride?” he inquired innocently, as if that was the only thing wrong with the night.

“Worth the ride, but not worth almost dying for,” you rolled your eyes goodheartedly, knocking back the rest of the bitter drink and making him whistle.

The rest of the night goes like this: Jonathan orders two more rounds of the quality Irish stout before the two’ve you are stumbling out of the pub, exploring all the nightlife there is to offer, like the crowd surrounding an out-door live comedy group performing down the street that has you and Jonathan giggling for hours after, or the underground speakeasy you accidentally find yourselves shoved into, a nasally guitarist singing on a smoky stage, several more drinks finding themselves in your system despite how nauseous you already feel.

“You-- d’you fancy him?” Jonathan slurs behind you, steadying himself by pressing his hands to your waist.

“F-fancy who?” you blink blearily, leaning into his warm touch.

“Who else m’I talkin’ about, girl? The singer!”

You shake your head no numbly, practically collapsing into his arms now, your head lulling on his chest. You’re so close you can smell the distinct scent of his skin, that unique musk everyone has, and it’s strangely familiar, like those smells that evoke old, nostalgic memories. It’s like how sunscreen summons the smell of the sun after a childhood beach day, or how vanilla extract takes you back to the smell of your mother’s baked goods on a specific winter evening.

“Reckoned you wouldn’t,” he assumes, hands coming away from your waist to wrap his arms around your shoulders, swaying to the music slightly in the crowded club, “looks like a -- right bleedin’ dope… wit’ that mop of hair.”

You giggle, alcohol riddled beyond belief, unable to formulate a response with the conflicting blurry thoughts in your head: it’s telling you Jonathan Breech isn’t the crowd you want, that you need to go home and work, that you let loose too easily— but it also tells you that you can see yourself becoming friends with him very, very quickly.

It’s there, in that club, Jonathan Breech moves into your life and fills a gaping hole you didn’t know existed, like a hole in your stockings you only notice when you get home. You have friends, certainly, more than you can count on both hands, but they never get as close as Jonathan does. After that night, an unknown force pulls the two of you together, making you run into him everywhere, and a tight friendship blooms like a lilypad in a raging storm; beauty within the chaos. In the multitude of close friendships you’ve harbored, he is the first to see so many sides of you. The last thing that did was your mother; it had only ever been your mother.

He is an endearing, amazing friend, both the intent listener and the charismatic speaker all at once; he knows his friends like the back of his hand, can recount their life like he can count the number of moles on his face-- but you, and everyone else, know absolutely nothing about him.

At least, close to nothing-- you know he likes ice cream and hanging out and going to the pub; you know he likes biking and doing drugs and women; you know he hates the sea and his brother and his father, but you don’t know him. All you’ve ever seen him do is smile or laugh or shout in mock anger; there is a carefully glued mask on his face he takes meticulous caution in preserving-- he is terrified to let go, despite the blasé persona he lets on.

Or maybe the mysterious matter of your bestfriend is tripping you up for no reason; maybe you’re psychoanalyzing something that doesn’t need to be psychoanalyzed, reading between lines that don’t exist. But if you were asked to answer honestly, there’s just something about Jonathan you don’t get. There is a split seam in the tapestry of his life, missing pieces in the story he pretends to tell with utmost accuracy. There are things that he never talks about, that he recoils when asked like you’ve poked a tender wound.

“So, what were you doing before… all this?” You ask him once, laying on his messy bed in his dorm-room and scanning the water-damage constellations dotted along his popcorn ceiling. By all this you mean going to university, being the resident party boy, aimlessly pursuing a degree you’re 99% sure he picked blindfolded (culinary science) and standing here, with you, snorting a line of something on his creaky wooden desk.

Jonathan freezes, still hunched over. “What d’you-- what d’you mean?” he says, tone breezy but, uncharacteristically tense… jilted and preoccupied. You could’ve brushed it off as him being seriously focussed on his drugs, but the way he shifts, how his shoulders curl in like he wants to disappear, tells you otherwise.

“I mean, before going to school here… y’know, what were you like as a dumb teenager?”

You two’re twenty, barely not-teenagers, but it still makes a world of a difference: you’re living away from home, doing what you want, experiencing (a juvenile, naive version of) freedom and adulthood.

“I dunno… kind of a tool, that's f’sure,” he chuckled, rubbing his nose roughly. He’s being funny on purpose, a jester’s distraction: he doesn’t want you to realize his answers’ not really one at all.

You shifted on his bed, now leaning against his headboard. His answer strikes you as odd and uncharacteristic despite his attempts to evade suspicion: usually, Jonathan pounces at the chance to yap on and on. “What, the great Jonathan Breech doesn’t have any wild stories to tell? No bones broken, girls dumped, houses trashed?”

He snorted at that, like some inside joke you weren’t privy to was brought up in your words, and he descended back down on a carefully partitioned line of white. “I broke my baby finger once,” he relented vaguely when he finished, dusting off the table and licking the remains off his hand. “I cried and I cried and I cried.”

“Did it hurt that much?” you grinned, mind trailing off to imagine a baby-faced Jonathan Breech, a juvenile highschool boy, doing something silly to break that finger. Maybe he accidentally flung off his bike, broke it because of a dare, or maybe it happened just by slipping and falling.

“It - uh… didn’t hurt enough,” Jonathan smiled, tight-lipped and paltry. All at once the air in the room had changed, like someone attached a vacuum to the window and sucked everything out.

Your grin fell, and you watched him carefully: perhaps, had you not been as close to him as you were, he’d have let something show. A twitch in the smile, a break in the facade. But you were, and his face stayed the same, and your thoughts ran circles around themselves. This was… something else, something belonging to the part of his life he didn’t talk about.

The atmosphere had grown tense, taut, a rubber band twisted ‘round and round, threatening to burst, so you leave the matter of his injury alone; of his life alone. You go back to staring at his ceiling, he goes back to his drugs; Jonathan collapses within himself, and you don’t notice how badly he suffocates… how suffering in silence is also accompanied by the overwhelming desire to be found.

ii.

Sometimes, despite his self-imposed distance, Jonathan lets someone look inside his head.

You are both the sometimes and the someone; you don’t know why it’s always you, but you chalk it up to the fact that beneath his unpredictable demeanor, the murky and unreadable feelings he holds for others, is this uncharacteristic constant: he holds a softness for you. It’s what lets you know there’s something haunted lurking beneath his happy-go-lucky surface.

You don’t know where this softness comes from, either. But you know you see it, in lingering touches, tender duchenne smiles unlike the devilish tilt his lips usually hold, how he clasps his hand around yours after a night at the pub and walks you home because he knows you get paranoid. You see it in how he comes over to your apartment when you don’t answer anyone's calls during exam season, how he remembers what your mother’s name is and what your childhood pet was and what your favorite flowers are. How his lips brush past your cheek when he pulls away from hugs, his hands shuddering around your shoulders, like he’s afraid he’ll crush you.

You only wish you could do the same. You want to sit by his side and mend his heart, lend an ear to his most mundane fears, you want to take his hand into your own and kiss it softly, return all that he has done for you, take the same as you have given to him: what is friendship if it is not equal, what is love if it is not returned? It is something broken, unable; split halves of one heart, an imbalance in the scale, Bonnie without her Clyde, a fish out of water.

Jonathan pours his heart into your own, filling holes you know you don’t have, and you think he may be overcompensating for something else, seeing things in you that really belong to him. It is maddening, and you just want to beg and plead he lets you in.

But you settle for the gentle pokes, the prodding, and try to decipher the vague answers he gives you. Most days, you can’t really make sense of it.

“Sorry,” you apologize, about to leave the outing you planned with Jonathan — studying, or, trying to study, at an intimate coffeebar the two of you frequented — “my dad’s gotten drunk with his lads and my mum needs help dragging him home.”

“Hey, hey, don’t worry. I get it: my dad used to do that all the time,” he waves your words off casually, but you don’t miss how jilted he says used to and the pain in his tone at all the time.

“Oh, surely she was fit to go to the madhouse?” you laughed once, responding to Jonathan’s complaints about an eccentric classmate in his agricultural studies. He laughs back, he always does, but this one is hollow, forced; barely stopping a grimace from coloring his tone.

You notice these things like it’s a shadow following someone in the sun. He is lying, hiding; about something you don’t know but it is happening. It is happening, and you are so very curious: you pick up on the littlest tendrils of him, fed wholly on any information you can squeeze out. He is a mystery you want to delve within completely; answer that question of WHO ARE YOU REALLY? and leave no room for error.

You’d give yourself to him the very same if he merely asked; you’d whisper childhood fears and tell the origin stories of faded scars on your knees and why you check under your bed before sleeping. You’d detail your entire life from sunset birth to starry night end if he even made a passing comment about knowing; you would trust your love, your heart, your entire life in his beautiful, shaky hands. This is the relationship you have built around yourselves, and it is beginning to feel terribly one-sided.

Alas, your curiosity overwhelms him, and you take it too far, just once. Only once.

“Where’d this come from?” you murmur, brushing your fingers over a scar above his eyebrow. It’s something you see only now, his hair mussed and wild from the various blankets and pillows on your dinky couch.

He’s crashing at your apartment tonight, an invited event, because you often miss him like you miss home; the boy is sneaky— he slinks away like a street cat and only comes back for food. It’s only fair he lets you wrangle him back like this, making him stay by your side at least once a week.

Your words make him freeze, like he often does; it reminds you of hikers, who freeze when they see mountain lions— he thinks if he stops and stares and pretends to disappear you’ll look the other way, drop the question, forget him completely.

But you don’t. You don’t know what’s affecting him -- not that he wants you to -- so you just stare back into his cornflower blue eyes. You stop and stare and see right through him; you hold the question like a knife to his neck, and commit him to memory.

“The scar?” Jonathan pales, shuddering despite it having long since been healed over. The aftershocks of an earthquake.

You simply nod, fingers pulling away. You’re still closer than ever though, the two of you being the only things in your cramped concrete apartment, the chosen movie on your telly still running and long forgotten.

Your attention remains on him, brandished into something dangerous, like you’ll carve the answer out of him if you have to— but the moment passes. He doesn’t say anything and you accept that as the answer. Gone is your razor-sharp focus, and there is nothing more to the matter.

But Jonathan doesn’t register this, no, he’s thinking, gears in his head turning and creaking. His tongue grazes against the backs of his teeth, jaw chattering like it was as cold as it was when… as cold as it was back then, and he doesn’t want to tell anyone— but it’s you. You’re not just anyone.

You’re the one he holds a certain softness for. The one he equally bares his heart to and holds the most secrets from. The one he’s most terrified to know. The only one he wants to know.

So, he decides to tell a partial truth— something digestible. People adore that which can easily slide down the gullet: news headlines don’t detail the goriness of a murder, they give the “insider” scoop of the scared neighbor. To be able to digest information is what makes the world go round, and he does not think you could digest the full truth-- he does not think he wants you to.

He feels ill at the thought of anything between you changing— oh, how ruined he’d feel if you began treating him like fucking glass.

This abhorrent social pressure is what makes Jonathan grit this sentence through his teeth: “I got into a car accident,” he gulps dry, “when I was nineteen. Was drunk… went fer a spin. I skidded off a -- um, an empty highway. The tall sorts; high up, y’know. Fell.”

His voice makes you look back up at him, and your eyes are beautiful and tense— it breaks his heart. He knows you’re probably thinking it was in-character, how expected that is of Jonathan Breech, how you’ll easily take this partial truth, how you’ll never know the full one until it comes in a letter under your door and he’s long gone.

“Tell me,” you ask him, lips falling into a near-frown instead of laughing or grinning wider. It’s hushed, whispered like a secret, “What did it feel like? Falling, I mean.”

Jonathan licks his lips, bores his shaking gaze into your own, and tells you not everything feels like something else. That the word connotes all you need to know. Falling meant he was falling; his arms raised and the air took him and that was it.

It makes your brows twist and your lips press into a thin line: his nonchalance is worrying, no more his signature characteristic— there is something wrong about this apathy toward injury, toward the potential death.

“Is that how you broke your finger?” You murmur, and it startles him. How you pieced the two things together, how you weaved a web from what little you knew about him; how futile his attempts to hide could be.

“What?” he responds, hoarse. There is a lurking shadow in his bones telling him he’ll taint you, telling him to be ashamed, telling him how badly you will never be his. It is such a damning reality, that no matter how much he may yearn for you, he is too incomplete to meet your needs; he is too hurt not to hurt you too.

“The car accident. Is that how you broke your pinkie?” you repeat, and you gripped his hand resting at your side, bringing it up to present the finger to him like he forgot where his pinkie was.

Jonathan’s gaze darts from you to the finger, and he feels his insides quiver; so badly does he want to spill his entire soul to you. But that internal reminder -- hurt people hurt people hurt people -- makes him settle for nodding, parted lips locking closed.

Nothing special happens that night, no shocking revelation or bombarded confession; Jonathan nods, keeps his lips sealed, and gets up from the couch, figure dreary and fatigued. He murmurs an incomplete excuse, something half-baked and blatantly unconvincing that he has to leave, and you let him go. You think you’re imagining the shudder in his shoulders, the shake in his voice as he says goodbye, and you let him go.

It’s there, like that club so long ago, you discover another thing about Jonathan Breech: push too far and he shuts down, closes shop and puts up his guard forever. It’s the mere fact of how attentive you are to his words; you remember how he broke his finger, and he realizes he cannot hide from you any longer.

You’re reaching a point in your friendship -- your relationship, no matter platonic or romantic for all lines have been crossed; nobody is so raw to one another with love not involved -- where you’ll bare your hearts on your sleeves, share your every thought and dream and fear. But Jonathan won’t be able to reciprocate, and the very thought of rejecting you, betraying you, makes his stomach twist in knots. That crestfallen face of yours would haunt him for all time, your every melancholy feature burning into his memory like the scars left by cigarettes on skin.

So he leaves, hurt people hurt people hurt people echoes in his ears all the way home; he turns into an alleyway shortcut and prays death swoops down and takes him right there. He leaves his consciousness curled lovingly in your arms; his shell walks home and prays you’re none the wiser. But you’ve already reached that point in your relationship; you already know.

When people die, or friendships do, sometimes they end with just a goodbye, a mild, casual goodbye because you think there’ll be dozens, hundreds more-- but there won’t be. Suddenly, alone in that cramped apartment, the buzzing from the tv filling your ears, your couch still warm from someone long gone, you know.

You know you startled him, that he’s left your apartment and he’ll never come back. Your heart cools, and she whispers that you took it too far, that you crossed a line you were never made aware of, that when you see him in class tomorrow he might not sit next to you, he might not talk to you, that you might lose him forever because he is too stubborn to open up and you are too stubborn to let him go.

Well, you were too stubborn to let him go.

It’s three weeks before you speak to Jonathan again. Three long, dragging weeks, moments in time where he avoided your gaze, evaded your presence, slipped past you before you got too close. You certainly try, of course— you seek him out every chance you get, trying to get an I’m sorry, please talk to me out before he runs off, but it’s virtually impossible.

Once, after class, you’d caught him in the middle of a flurry of exiting students by the velvet blazer, your hands curled around the lapel. “Jonathan,” you panted, trying to drag him off to the side to escape the bustling activity around you, “please, we need to talk--“

But then Jonathan had faced you, eyes widened and spooked like he’d seen a ghost, a never-before-seen-by-you fear covering his gracefully cut features, before he tugged off the black blazer and escaped into the crowd. He had seen you, widened his eyes, left. Such a simple action tore your heart in two; it had confirmed your suspicions— you’d gone too far, he was never coming back, and you were all alone. There you stood, fingers wrapped around one of his favorite articles of clothing starkly without its beloved owner, completely alone.

In three measly weeks, he has put up a biting winter of distance between you two.

Your feelings are unable to comprehend themselves— they fight and sob and run circles around your mind, they make you doubt, crumble, devour yourself from the inside out; they make you ask yourself what you can do to salvage this, what can you do to fix this? What is there to make of him, of his behavior; what do you do with yourself and this guilt?

If you could imagine time was a construct, you were certain you could convince yourself this stretch of time was nothing… propel yourself into a present where Jonathan does not afflict your mind, take over your every thought— does not ruin you like so. If only you could do that, you could close your eyes and reopen them when you’ve let go. But you were always too stubborn to let him go, weren’t you?

It’s three weeks to the day before you speak to Jonathan again, and it happens through the crack of his dorm door, your arm wedged through it because you know he is not cruel; he will let you in without a doubt.

“Please,” you plead to Jonathan, “just— I just want to talk. Please?”

He stares at you straight, expression cold and reserved, before he breaks and pulls away; bites his lip, lets you in his room, doesn’t look you in the eye. Looking around, you sense something in his dorm has changed; it had gained a bereft quality, like it was attuned to Jonathan’s state of mind and felt depressed beyond your comprehension. There was a cold air to the place, an utmost frigid demeanor to a room incredibly warm just weeks prior. In your absence, the dorm had been neglected, gutted, abandoned.

“I’m sorry,” are the first words that tumble out of your mouth. “I- I know you don’t like… talking about -- about your life before here, and I’m sorry. But please, Jonathan, just talk to me. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”

He sits down on the edge of his weak bedframe, pulling his knees up and pressing his face into them. “You don’t need to-- don’t… don’t apologize. You don’t need t’make it better, either. All’s grand.” he promises, words muffled and shaky. It’s a weeping kind of tone; you could just as easily imagine him sobbing with that voice.

Your brows knit. Your emotions are wavering, treading brutally between disbelief, despair and rancor. “Then -- then why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you avoid me? Why did you - why did we spend these last three weeks playing cat and mouse, if you weren’t mad at me? Is this your sick idea of a joke?”

“No! I-- jesus christ,” Jonathan looked up from his hands before immediately pressing two fingers between his eyes, “I wasn’t … avoiding you.”

“I haven’t seen you in weeks!” you point out painfully, exasperated. “You know, you’ve been avoiding me for longer than this. You— you push me away any chance you get. You’re afraid. I don’t know of what, but you’re- so fucking secretive, and it’s tearing me apart.”

“I’m not - afraid of anything. I’m just a private person— you know this. Would you, if I ‘pushed you away?!’”

At his denying deflection, something within you snaps: “Why won’t you - fucking let me in? I’ve — I’ve bared my soul to you; you know me from the inside out. I trust you with my life— why, why can’t you do the same?”

“I didn’t ask you to do that! And I didn’t — I didn’t mean t’get so close to you, okay?!” He bursts, and you flinch. His hands shakily come up to his face once more; he wipes roughly but it’s no use— you’ve already seen his delicate tears threatening to spill, and it burns more holes in your heart than you thought his suffering would.

“What are you talking about?” you pry, now without any cautious reservations about his demeanor.

“I didn’t mean to get so fucking attached, because - ‘cause I…” Jonathan’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, “fuck.”

“What?” you repeat, but it’s softer, concerned; how quickly his body language shifted from irritated to terrified has you scrambling to support him. “Talk to me,” you ask, taking nervous steps closer, like you were approaching a wounded animal.

He sucks in a sharp breath, and holds it, like he did cigarette smoke, before exhaling heavily. “Okay- okay. When I was - nineteen, I drove a car… I drove off a cliff and tried t’kill myself. I was-- admitted to a psychiatric hospital for a year, and when I got out I moved here f’school. I- I… promised m’self I wouldn’t let anyone get too close.”

The confession hangs in the air, a lonely little thing; it’s a bleeding piece of his own heart he’s plucked and placed in your palms. He shudders, and you want to nurture it like nothing else. This is a culmination of a year’s worth of evasion coming to a close; you’re seeing him completely, rawly, for the first time.

“But- but why? You don’t have to— Jonathan, you don’t need to do that just because you - you… y’know.”

“I’m- I know that,” he starts brashly, defensively. “It’s b’cause I am very, very aware of my - of m’own self destructiveness…” His words taper off into something of grief; the Sisyphean struggle of wanting to live, while that depressive boulder pushes him back, colors him completely. “I just… I didn’t want to - t’hurt anyone in case I -- in case next time I succeeded.”

“Next time?” you repeat, and your voice broke in a way you wish was less vulnerable, less blatantly miserable.

“This is why I didn’t want to—“ Jonathan sighs, deflates, “I’m not telling you this because I want you to - t’fucking save me, okay? I’m telling you this because you wanted to know, and I couldn’t hide from you anymore. Because you asked.”

“You didn’t need t’hide it in the first place!” you exclaimed, coming closer to him. “You’ve never had to hide a fucking ‘ting from me.”

“You wouldn’t have understood!” He said back, volume nearing a shout. “You’ll treat me differently now, you see, you’ll look at me fuckin’ different—“

It made your heart sink-- how sure his words were, how certain he was of your rejection. How little trust did he have in you?

(You remember he wanted to sink, too-- lose himself in the baby blue sea; let it swallow him whole and never be seen again.)

“You - you really think I’ll treat y’differently because of this? You know my every crevice, my every thought-- I have never once doubted that you’ll accept me.”

“I-I… why should I - expect any of this to stay the same?”

Suddenly, you took his face into your hands. “Because I-- I fucking love you, okay? And it’s not just friendly, or romantic, even if it’s both— I’m… I love you like nothing I’ve ever loved before. I accept and adore your every skill and flaw and antic; you wormed your way into my heart and I want to worm my way into yours.”

“That doesn’t mean—“ Jonathan tried to interject, a noise all utter disbelief. You cut him off, though, continuing your sudden confession; you hadn’t been privy to these own romantic feelings of yours till moments prior, but everything being said just felt right.

“Jonathan, I don’t care if you drove a car off a cliff or cyanide-poisoned our professor or blew something up, because I love you. You, with all your problems and great, big, beautiful life. All I want is for you to want that life; I want you to want me in it. I feel it in my bones that I’m meant to love you; you are meant to be my home, you are everything I am supposed to know. It won’t fix you or fix anything at all but I just need you to know-- I need you to know the why to my every action. It’s because I love you.”

He looked up at you, wide-eyed, head resting in your gentle hold. “I - don’t know what to say… are you - for real?”

“As real as can be,” you smiled back at him, tracing circles along his smooth skin; you could’ve drank in that attentive stare of his for hours upon hours. “I love you, and nothing and no-one, not even you, can change that.” An aching grip had clenched around your heart at his words, that blatant disbelief: are you for real? God, had you ever been-- had you ever fucking been.

Jonathan’s mouth opened to speak, but instead, he let out an agonizing sort of cry; an exclamation of utter surprise at the loving acceptance. Then, he hesitantly leaned into your touch, as if he’d never hugged before, wrapping his arms around your waist to snatch you as close to him as possible. He held you tighter and tighter as the seconds went by, like this was all a mocking dream his yearning mind had made up; that if he closed his eyes now he’d wake up desolate, alone, without you for eternity. His worst nightmare.

“…God, I’m so - fucking stupid,” he grumbled, sounding angry, but you could feel vulnerable, hot tears soaking into the fabric of your shirt. “To assume you, of all people, would act that way… you of all people.” He said that tenderly; you of all people certainly meant miles more things you weren’t explicitly aware of, but you still felt the sentiment. “I’m not -- poetic or anything like that… but I love you, too.”

You chuckled a beautiful, wet laugh. “You don’t hafta’ say anything sweet or special. You’re everything to me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, before wrapping his fingers around your wrist and pulling you onto the mattress with him. He flipped you beneath him, and held himself up by the forearms laying on either side of your head. “Fuck, I love you. I love you.” Jonathan repeated the words several more times, strange and foreign but right at home being said to you. Like his mouth was made to only ever say I love you to you.

Suddenly, you pressed your lips to his, shutting him up momentarily. You could still feel the vibrations of I love you rumbling in his throat as you kissed him. Your tongues danced along one another, an all consuming waltz; you wanted to know everything about him, down to the taste of his tongue, memorize how sweet his mouth felt on yours. Oh, how you longed for this moment; how could you ever think about love again, and yearn for it, without thinking of Jonathan?

You reckoned that’s what this had been the whole time; your love started as a little flame, something under the guise of friendship, but the two of you had fanned it, nurtured it-- all of a sudden the miniature warmth of platonic love burst into a raging, adoring fire. You’d fed this flame with tenderness, and it responded in kind; you could never again look at Jonathan without a certain intimate reverie. Perhaps that’d been why Jonathan found it so hard to cut off this relationship as he had dozens others: something primal and unconscious within him had begged him not to let you go— some higher being knew his home was only ever in your arms.

Jonathan deepened the kiss hungrily, pressing his weight onto you and pushing you into the mattress. Your head was spinning from the lack of air, and one of your hands had to sneak beneath his hat and tug at his hair to get him to stop. “Hey,” you panted, looking worriedly into his eyes, “what’s up?”

“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly, hanging his head lowly for a moment before meeting your gaze once more, batting his long lashes. “Jus’ missed you. Thas’ all.”

“Missed y’too,” you murmured, pulling him back down to kiss you again. Your hands left the crown of his head and trailed down his backside, tracing over the curves and bumps of his frumpy yellow v-neck sweater.

That touch of yours seemed to spur him on even more, and his kisses began to travel; along your jaw, to your pulse, down the long ravine of your neck, tongue darting out to lick the hollow of your collarbone, making you squeal. He chuckled against your skin, a genuine amusement rather than the mocking one you two so frequently practiced, and it all went downhill from there. His hands skillfully tugged off your tank top, knee between your clenched thighs, more teasing kisses being planted along your now bare -- save for your bra -- chest.

You didn’t mean to come over, profess your love and suddenly jump into a steamy, yearning makeout session (which, you were pretty sure was venturing off into sex…) but you supposed that apologizing— arguing, whatever —meant your relationship went back on track to wherever it was heading… which may have been set to end with an ardor romance anyway. This love of yours would’ve bursted at the seams of friendship; it could not be confined by such mere things as labels.

“Fuck,” you groaned, arching into his teasing kisses along the peaks of your breasts, his hands ghosting around your clothed chest but never touching. “Please, Jon.”

You could feel his cheeky grin on your skin, “Tell me what you want, love.”

“…Take this off,” you demanded gently, referring to Jonathan’s sweater.

“Your wish is my command.” he snickered, obliging and removing the yellow knit-- as well as his white undershirt and pajama bottoms. He was left in a pair of boxer-shorts and that silly, silly winter-trapper hat, his fingers sneaking up to your supple thighs and tickling the edges of your jean-shorts; a silent plea.

“Eager,” you mumbled, noticing his over-compliance in completely stripping, smiling and guiding his hands to the waistband of your shorts to tug the tight article off.

When he did so, you shivered, both at the feeling of being only in your underwear, as well as Jonathan’s sharp, attentive gaze. “You’re so beautiful,” he panted, eyes exploring your every sweet feature.

He was enamored with your bare body, not in a sexual way despite the blatantly sexual situation, but rather in a worshiping, religiously devoted way. It may’ve been blasphemous to think so, but Jonathan’s sudden chaste kisses along the curve of waist only seemed to prove you right; his mouth on you was gentle, like he’d held you before, except now without any guilt or hesitation. It was a holy way of loving you; something all-consuming, becoming the epicenter of a life, becoming the purpose, motivation, and belief all at once.

That familiar broiling in your gut occurred as he made his way closer to the pulsing, lace-covered place between your legs; your hands were gripping the sheets tightly in pure anticipation, his hot breath on your sensitive skin. “Don’t be such a tease,” you pouted, legs fumbling for purchase along his body, trying to pull him closer to you.

“We’ve got all the time in the world,” he hummed, but his fingers still curled into the band of your baby-blue panties and dragged them down in one desperate go, “but I do wanna taste you….”

Jonathan’s veiny hands pried your quivering thighs apart, murmuring an offhand already stole y’panties, don’t get all shy on me now when you whimpered flusteredly, before he descended on your dripping lips, licking a flat-tongued stripe up to your clit.

You gasped at the sudden action, but it quickly morphed into a choked moan when he pressed himself further and parted your lips, nose to your pelvic bone; he made quick work of you, artfully curling his long tongue into your hole and slurping your slick.

“So sweet,” he praised, the vibrations of his voice making your thighs clench around his head. He hummed in amusement at your reaction, lapping you up quicker; he kitten-licked and slobbered, feeding on your sticky cunt, tongue darting in every direction, feeling your walls and prying deeper into your hot hole, which ached for the cock straining against the mattress now. The bottom half of Jonathan’s face was now positively soaked, glistening with his own drool and your needy wetness, all of it mixing dirtily and sliding down the length of his neck.

“Jon!” you mewled, hands tearing off his trapper hat and flinging it elsewhere before curling your hands into his mousy brown hair and pushing his face deeper into your pussy, desperate to come. You were riding his face now — or, attempting to, more accurately bucking up into him — adoring his unceasing ministrations. He was basically fucking you with his tongue, overstimulating your clit with teasing licks then pulling away, feeling along the ridges of your walls.

“Pick m’hat up later, love,” he tutted, pulling away slightly to see where you’d haphazardly thrown it, and your desperate whine neared a sob. He breathed in sharply, taking in how quickly he’d undone you: in a matter of minutes, your expression had grown wanton, eyes blown out, drooling, hair askew, bra riding up your tits and revealing your sweet, puffy nipples.

Jonathan quickly forgot about the state of his beloved hat, and went back down on you, mouth devouring in full force once again. You rolled your hips forward, and when he pulled his tongue out of your wet hole to suckle softly on your fleshy nub, your eyes rolled back into your head and your legs shook around his face, toes curling tightly. A choked moan left you alongside the sudden climax, sounding a hundred percent pornographic and all for him.

You panted, silent and unmoving for a moment, and Jonathan began moving to get up and let you take a breather before continuing, absolutely terrified to push you too far or do anything you didn’t want to do— he was the spontaneous one, and you were the responsible one, but that didn’t mean he ever wanted to force anything upon you. His simultaneous decisions were made mostly in part with your interests in mind; he made the decisions you were too nervous and over-thinking to choose quicker.

However, you took a long breath, then trailed your hand over the painfully noticeable bulge within his soft boxers. “Wan’… make you feel good,” you murmured, flattening your hand against his erection.

Jonathan inhaled sharply, pitifully affected by the minor touch but holding back with an incredible amount of self restraint. “I can wait,” he offered sweetly, one of his hands coming up to your flattened hand’s forearm to rub the skin.

You shook your head foggily, cupping him through the fabric, slowly adding friction by sliding your hand up and down.

“S-shit,” he bit his lip, “you want this now, baby?”

You nodded vehemently with a whimper, and to make more of a point, you reached behind and unclasped your bra, tossing it elsewhere on his dirty dorm floor, before beginning to slip off his underwear.

The hand on your arm stopped you, though, in favor of doing it himself and pressing his weight further onto you, your chests flush with one another. You were only able to take in thin breaths, making your head spin, but it also amplified the arousal blooming in your cunt when Jonathan slotted himself at your soaking entrance, collecting his saliva and your slick on his tip.

Before he pushed in, however, his head dipped into the hollow of your neck, plush lips brushing past the shell of your ear. “Is this okay?” he murmured, pressing a wet kiss to your temple.

“Please,” you whined, hands pushing flat on his back to bring him closer to you.

With that, Jonathan slowly buried his length within your cunt, making your breath hitch. “I love you,” he groaned, entering you inch by inch, relishing how your warmth swallowed him whole. “Fuck, I love you so much.”

Your hole was stuffed beyond belief, but Jonathan was gentle with you, caressing your waist with the rough pads of his fingers and massaging you, trying to ease his entrance into something painless. Obviously, with that length and thickness it couldn’t be painless at all, but his attempts helped your mind drift off elsewhere and take some of the attention off the stinging stretch.

After a long moment of ragged breathing, Jonathan cooing words of praise into your neck as he kissed you without moving, you dug your fingers into the skin of his back: “More,” you choked out, the fullness in your cunt now feeling delicious rather than cringeworthy.

He smirked against your skin, “Looks like you’re t’eager one now.”

“Oh, get on with it,” you rasped and he let out a low chuckle, sliding out of your hole before thrusting back in. That first movement already made your hips jerk up into him, back arching. It was like all the warmth in your body had collected in your cunt, leaving you freezing from the tips of your toes to the top of your head, but still with a needy, burning fire in your insides.

Jonathan’s pace was affectionate and rhythmic: you could feel the tenderness in his each and every gentle roll of the hips. It made you feel like the sun, how attentive he was, but he was also so fucking slow. If anything, that had your walls clenching onto him harder than if he hammered into you— that slow build-up of friction was dizzying. You squirmed, cunt clenching and contracting around his smooth thrusts— you wanted to take him within you completely, cause more friction for you were going stir-crazy with this lazy speed.

“F-fuck! Faster, please,” you cried out, unable to take his sensual movements any longer. Your legs were twitching with his patient movements, and you could’ve sworn you saw a cheeky grin on his lips. The bastard— even in sex was he teasing you, wanting to torture you until you gave in to the pleasure and begged him to ruin you.

Sure, this was your first time together, and was going extremely pleasantly and sweetly, but you were actually pretty fond of the idea of letting him pound into you like there was no tomorrow…

At the lewd thought, your walls pulsed around his cock, making him buck up unintentionally, hitting that sweet spot within you. He grunted at the feeling of your tightened cunt, while you cried out his name, pleasure running like a current through your body. Your face was on fire, reminiscent of a raging fever, and your insides were coiling— god, how did his cock just feel so perfect within you?

“Oh,” he grinned in a pant, “found y’spot, didn’t I?”

Jonathan didn’t give you a chance to speak before he pulled out so far his tip was the only thing in your hole, before slamming back in and making your eyes roll to the back of your head. Props to him-- he hit your g-spot with utmost accuracy, and you let out a long, stuttered mewl, scratching at his freckled back, legs twitching. Your wail was almost catatonic, loud and cock-drunk, dripping unabashed, filthy pleasure.

“Makin’ such sweet noises f’me,” he praised huskily, hair sticking to the sweat on his forehead, “fuck, ‘ve gotta hear that again.”

He must’ve noticed your neediness earlier, when he was slow and languid, for the new speed he set was double- no, triple that: his hips were snapping against yours, balls smacking filthily against your lips, left hand pinning your hips down and letting him sink into you faster. Shocks of pleasure tore through you at the sudden increase in speed- he’d inured you so well to the torturously slow pace from earlier that this new frenzied one felt like getting hit by a bullet train. You were overstimulated and needing more of him all at once, practically vibrating with need under his touch.

“I’ve- hnngh- wanted this…” you gasped between moans, “f-for so long…”

“Wanted m’cock?” Jonathan questioned in a hiss, feeling with his every inch how your walls absolutely soaked him. His tone was, obviously, sarcastic, but it still made you feel incredibly lewd.

You shook your head numbly, “Wanted you… I love you, Jon!”

“So fuckin’ beautiful,” he purred, fucking you faster and making you writhe beneath him, “love you s’much.”

Jonathan targeted the spongy, swollen spot deep within your cunt, suddenly filled with a renewed vigor and motivation to make you come as quickly as possible, and he pounded into that one, specific spot, watching how you twitched and squirmed, heavy moans exiting you. He was relentless, hands reaching to hook under your knees and spread you wider.

At the new angle, his cock penetrated you even deeper, fuller, which you thought wasn’t possible with how goddamn full you already felt, but when his thick cockhead brushed up against your cervix you thought you were going to burst. Then, one of his hands came up to your tits to knead the flesh, and you squeaked when he tweaked your soft nipples. He was pawing at your sweet tits, fondling you in a needy, boyish way, like yours were the first pair of boobs he’d ever felt.

“M’close!” you gasped, mind going fuzzy with pure ecstacy. Your skin prickled with goosebumps, cold sweat running down your spine, a terribly stark in contrast feeling to the warmth buzzing under your skin.

“C-can’t last much longer either,” he choked, still pumping in and out of your sticky hole and savoring the feeling of your tight warmness on his long length. He looked absolutely exquisite above you, and you lost yourself in the ethereal picture. Maybe you were in love, or maybe he really was just an empyrean beauty; you took in the sight of his focussed iceberg blue eyes, the cute flush spreading along his pale cheeks and bare chest, how he bit his pink lips to muffle his needy grunts and moans.

Then, you mewled and convulsed around him, your walls spasming and contracting as you came undone, reaching the precipice of your pleasure. That made him fall off the edge— you had tensed all over- all over, and Jonathan couldn’t help how his hips stuttered, knees buckled, cock twitched; he only gave one last, powerful thrust into you before spilling himself inside of you. He painted your soft walls white, and you felt that familiar heat spreading within you; you welcomed it completely, and wanted such warmth to be there forever.

You milked him for every last drop, cunt like a vice grip, and Jonathan gave you another wet kiss, this time on your lips, and your hands wrapped around his neck, allowing you to kiss him back. Your brows knitted at the sour taste of yourself on his lips, but it just made everything feel so real— Jonathan and you had “made love”. It was a phrase you always wrinkled your nose at, feeling uncomfortable and juvenile at the intimacy it entailed, but now you understood it completely.

“I love you,” you repeated for what felt like the hundredth time, unable to say anything else that conveyed what you felt for him.

Honestly, you weren’t sure anything could accurately do so— you felt infinitely about him, your love touching all edges of your mind, heart and soul, filling you completely. You supposed you felt about Jonathan how the sun felt about the moon— without one, there could not be the other.

“I love you-- too,” he responded, pausing in the middle at the aftershocks of your orgasm, which had caused you to tighten around his softening, sensitive cock for a second.

You peered deep into his baby-blue eyes, watching the utter love that coloured them; it was like submerging yourself in a great blue ocean, except you didn’t want to come out, because you knew you wouldn’t drown in those eyes. No, you knew Jonathan would always be there to pull you out.

Speaking of pulling out… Jonathan slipped himself out of you softly, careful not to agitate that first stretch any more than necessary, before collapsing back into your arms. The two of you tangled yourselves in a messy flurry of limbs on his cushy mattress, sweaty and breathy, something that should’ve been terribly uncomfortable but just wasn’t— you swore you could fall asleep anywhere, no matter your own state or the circumstance, as long as you were with him.

Blearily, both your eyes began to droop, until you gave into the familiar presence of deep, dark sleep. It was a dreamless sleep for you, but you had an ever present comfort at his weight on yours, something you could feel even in unconsciousness.

Hours later, in a brisk, shuddering early-morning that you felt all over due to Jonathan’s unruly habit of opening his window at the peak of the day’s hottest weather and forgetting to close it before cold nightfall fell, you awoke to Jonathan watching you carefully, so close you could feel his warm exhales of breath on your cheek.

There was no goodmorning or anything like that, just pure, uninhibited being, reveling in the space you two occupied together. Like you two were the only things left in the world.

When Jonathan noticed you woke up, he shifted, presumably to extract himself from your grip. You stopped him, though, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and bringing him closer to you.

“What did it feel like?” you asked instead, for the last time. You brushed your fingers over his scar, and, knowing exactly what you were asking, this time Jonathan doesn’t flinch away. This time, he leans into your touch: it doesn’t burn, not anymore, and he wants your tenderness to swallow him whole.

You didn’t mean what it actually felt like, of course. You meant, what were you thinking? What have you done, and what will you do to yourself? You meant, I love you.

“It felt like,” falling; not everything feels like something else; I raised my arms and the air took me and that was it-- “it felt like… giving in. Letting my desperation find its purpose. It felt like I’d reached a point of peace… gained clarity after a long stretching, wounded moment came to an end. It felt like becoming something only meant to be talked about in past tense.”

You don’t say anything to that; you know he doesn’t want you to. There’s no need for you to hush or plead or make better, you just need to listen, and love him. He knows you accept him for everything he is, all his flaws and his strengths; he knows your love is all accepting- it veers on saintly.

At your silence, he melts into your arms and you can finally relax; there is an admission in the action, a release, an acknowledgement -- is suffering in silence not also accompanied by the overwhelming desire to be found? -- you have found him, at last, and you will never, ever let go.

You take it too far, just once. Only once. And you let him go just once, only once; never again.

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy smut #jonathan breech #on the edge #jonathan breech x reader #jonathan breech x reader smut #jonathan breech smut #cillian murphy x reader smut

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feasibilities · 6 months

Text

Psychosomatic | Jonathan Breech x Inpatient!Reader

Warnings: Public Sex, Dub-Con, Pet Names, Cockwarming, Mutual Masturbation, etc.

Author's Note: Just a refurbished idea I wanted to share. Jonathan Breech is a skank, obviously. Enjoy!

“You’re a pretty one, yeah?” Jonathan said, staring at you from the driver’s side of his stolen convertible. He managed to find an empty parking lot behind a pub. The air was brisk. Your heart was beating out of your chest and his words nearly stopped it. You two just broke out of a mental institution—it was Jonathan’s idea completely. The consequences included solitary confinement and a lifetime membership at the institute. You were happy to see the outside, but you were deathly afraid of being caught.

Sensing your anxiety, he put his hand on your thigh and kneaded it gently. His palm was soft and warm. Jonathan dreamt of caressing your smooth legs every time you wore your pajama shorts. It was hard to ignore his piercing gaze when you removed that frumpy sweater once in a blue moon. You were away from prying eyes. He had you all to himself. To him, this was kismet.

Leaning in closer, he kissed your jawline. You whimpered and turned away. You were attracted to him, but all you could think about was that traumatic incident that landed you in the institution in the first place.

“What’s wrong, love?” Jonathan inquired.

“I can’t do this. I’m sorry for leading you on. I’m not meant for this sort of thing.” You admitted, tearing up.

“We don’t have to fuck if you don’t want to. I just wanted to feel you up a bit, “s all.” He explained.

You remembered that you only went to 3rd base with a guy in Year 5. He was not experienced at all and he was the only one who got to finish. You swore you were getting a pap smear. Would it really hurt to try again with a guy who seemed like he cared?

“Fine. Touching and kissing only, Jon.” You relented.

“Fine with me, doll.” He agreed.

This time, he kissed your lips tenderly. They were as soft as you imagined. You kissed him back hesitantly while he moved his hand to buttons of your pajama shirt. He undid each one without looking as if he planned this. With no bra underneath, the cool air made your nipples harden. His warm hands found one of your breasts. His kissing became more impassioned as his thumb flicked the delicate sprout. You moaned sweetly and touched his crotch. You were stunned to feel a throbbing hard-on. Pulling away, Jonathan stared at you with carnal eyes.

“See what you’ve done to me, darlin’? ” He agonized, rutting against your hand.

You shyly slid your hand in his pants and wrapped your fingers around his shaft. Growing impatient, he pulled his pants down slightly and began moving your hand up and down.

“C’mon, we don’t have all day, love.” Jonathan urged.

You moved his hand and pumped slowly. You made sure to squeeze a bit tighter when you would meet the tip. You saw his plump lips part as an enchanting moan left his throat. You felt wetness gather in between your legs. Feeling a bit courageous, you spit in your hand and continued your movements. His piercing blue eyes fluttered closed.

“Fuck…I’m already close.” Jonathan hissed. You kissed him to hush him up. This time, you nipped at his bottom lip and slipped your tongue in his mouth. Jonathan whimpered in response. Pumping faster, you began nibbling on his earlobe. His hand found your breast once more. You slid your hand into your shorts and began rubbing your clit. He suddenly snatched your hand away and stared at you with dark eyes.

“I’m sick of waitin’, yeah? Get in the back.” He demanded, slapping your thigh lightly. You went to follow his orders and laid on the backseat. Following behind you, he removed what was left of your clothing. You shivered at the cool autumn air. Seemingly unaffected, he teased the tip of his dick against your entrance before sliding in. You moaned loudly and arched your back. Pressing his forehead against yours, he thrusted harshly and held the back of your head. His gorgeous bore into yours.

“I…I can’t take it.” You whimpered.

“Yeah?” He teased, thrusting deeper. The burn from the unfamiliar feeling started to subside. He fucked any remaining defiance out of you.

“I’m all yours, Jon.” You moaned, tears welling up in your eyes.

He kissed you sweetly and dug his fingernails into your hips. Shockwaves of bliss were sent through your body with each movement. Your moans became screams as Jonathan rutted into you desperately. You cycled through countless orgasms before he flipped you over. Entering you once more, he pressed your face into the seat.

“Fuck, stay just like that.” He panted. You cried out at his merciless actions. You suspected he was using you as a way to release his anger. His thrusts staggered as finished inside of you. A loud groan left his throat. His eyes rolled back and his entire body shook. Lying down with you, he pulled you close and held you tightly. He kissed your shoulder lovingly.

#on the edge #jonathan breech #cillian murphy #2000s movies #jonathan breech x reader #psych ward #cillian murphy smut #my writing

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mysaintkitten · 1 year

Text

Staying Quiet | Jonathan Breech x fem!reader

prompt: night time quickie with jonathan (NSFW, no minors)

WARNINGS: brief mentions of alcohol, praise, unprotected sex (p in v), … nothing else really just sex …

word count: 1.2k

you had been in the same ward as jonathan for a few weeks now. though you had maybe suspected that you both felt mutual attraction to each other- nothing was confirmed until tonight. less than twelve hours prior, the two of you had maybe exchanged 20 words total. but somehow. jonathan had snuck into your room, booze in hand, and the two of you drank and talked until eventually the conversation began to fizzle out and your hands began to feel around each others bodies.

now, as the rest of the ward sleeps, he’s in your bed, snuggled up close to you, in between your legs, while kissing your neck. you’re both in your underwear, but you’re wearing an oversized pyjama shirt for some decency.

the kisses start off innocent enough, you allow yourself to enjoy the small bit of affection that you had been denied the entirety of you being here.

you hum quietly, closing your eyes and running your fingers through his hair. he lets out a small moan, his lips still connected to your neck. you feel his hand sneak in under your shirt, while simultaneously feeling him begin to suck gently on your neck. you whine, “jon, don’t, people can’t know that we did this.”

he lets out a small sound of disapproval, briefly detaching his lips to mutter, “people won’t know..” before placing his tongue flat against the area he had just sucked on. then, much to your surprise, you feel a cold hand graze your bare chest, making you let out a small involuntary gasp.

“jon.. come on..” you whine, “we can’t..”

he just groans again, moving his lips up to your jawline, continuing to place wet kisses. you feel yourself getting chills from his touches. it’s at this point that you start to feel more aware of the pressure of his body on top of yours, and the growing heat between both of his and your legs. he adjusts his position, guiding one of your legs to bend a bit as he runs his rough hands against your bare thigh

because of his new position, you can feel his semi through his boxers. you feel him grazing your thigh, you aren’t sure if it’s intentional, but when you hear him moan softly after lightly grinding against your crotch- you realize he’s fully doing it on purpose. he brings his hand out from under your shirt and quickly sneaks it into your underwear, barely giving you time to process before he’s cupping you, groaning at your warm and dampening centre. you moan a bit louder than anticipated, due to a mixture of shock and enjoyment. you knew this was wrong, patients weren’t allowed to sneak into each others rooms and grip and suck and touch on each other. but here he was. doing all of the above.

his finger toys with your folds, exhaling deeply at the sensation, “it’s been so long since i’ve had some good cunt.. hand can only do so much, y’know..” his sentences are barely coherent. he’s having a hard time talking knowing you’re just soaked and malleable in his hands. “jonathan..” you whine again, but you don’t know exactly what you’re whining for. do you want him to stop? no, not at all. is this wrong? yes, very much so. so you’re a bit conflicted.

“give in, baby. let me make you feel good.” he purrs, pulling his head up from your neck to place small kisses on your cheeks, making his way to your lips. once there, he slides a finger inside you. making you suck in a quick, sharp breath. he hums in approval.

“god.. you’re clenching around my finger.. you haven’t gotten properly fucked in so long, have you?” his voice is gravely, lower than his normal speaking voice. unable to verbalize a response, you shake your head no. he likes knowing he’s rendered you speechless.

“don’t worry, baby, i’ll take the lead.” he vowed, slipping his finger out of you before hooking that same finger around your waistband, swiftly sliding your panties down.

once your panties are off, you close your legs, feeling slightly embarrassed at the sudden exposure.

“nuh uh .. apart ..” he groans, sliding his hand between your knees and nudging them apart. you hesitantly oblige, opening your legs back up for him. he grins slightly at the view, palming himself before gently dipping his fingers back into you to collect your wetness before bringing that slick up to your clit, circling the nub softly, his other hand still rubbing himself through his boxers.

after releasing a low moan, he removes his own boxers, his pale body and flushed cock are illuminated by the moonlight peaking into your room. he lines himself up and without much warning begins to fuck into you at a quick pace,

“w-wait!” you whine, shock, pain, and pleasure, all evident in your voice, “jonathan! slow, please!”

“sh sh, baby ..” he purrs, gripping your thigh with one hand and placing his other between your legs, using his thumb to rub your clit, “you wanted a proper fucking, yeah? well you’re getting it, love ..” he groans

you place your hand over your mouth to stifle your own moans, sinking your teeth into the skin lightly as you feel your senses become flooded with jonathan and his movements.

“good girl .. stay quiet ..” he praises, glancing down at himself thrusting in and out of you, using his thumb to pull your hood back gently, “taking me so so well ..” he murmurs before resuming to rub on your clit

it’s been quite some time since either of you had sex, so you weren’t expecting this to last very long.

jonathan’s thrusts, touches, and praises, brought you incredibly close to your orgasm embarrassingly fast. you grip around him involuntarily.

he lets out a shaky breath, his jaw hanging slightly slack, “that’s it .. just like that ..” he moans. he begins to pick up his pace, making you gasp loudly through your hand, “jon! god, fuck!”

“gonna come for me, huh? drench my cock, baby.” he grunts, his nails digging further into your thigh, after a few more rough and deep thrusts, you’re coming on him, your legs shaking slightly. you bite harder into your hand to prevent any moans, but you huff loudly. just loud enough for jonathan to hear.

“fuck .. good job, baby ..” he whines, chasing his own orgasm soon after. he wants to grip your body close and pour his load directly inside of you, but he’s a gentleman, in some twisted way, so he pulls out and shoots hot ropes onto your pyjama top. he groans, fucking into his hand while kneeling over top of you. once hes ridden out his orgasm and begins to go soft, he grabs his clothes and begins to get dressed. you remain in bed, feeling tired and used, but not in a bad way, you feel more than satisfied. he stands to his feet and makes his way towards the door

“i’ll see you around, love. sleep well.” he says to you before leaving. you wonder if this’ll be a consistent thing, if maybe it’ll become something more. but, for now, you are too opposed to the idea of being just simple fuck-buddies with jonathan.

—-

it’s late and i’m up thinking about jonathan. as one does.

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian x fem!reader #on the edge #jonathan breech #jonathan breech x reader #thinking about him heavily #hope y’all like this #:)

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ceirinen · 8 months

Text

January 2024

I'm so glad that 2023 ended... I hope this year is so much better for everyone.

I didn't expect last month's list to be well received. I just wanted to show my admiration and gratitude to all those incredible writers. So there was no need to thank me for being included in the list, since recommending your stories is the least I can do as a reader.

Your writing is wonderful. Some of the things I've read this month have left me speechless, I didn't expect to find in a fic the quality of something that should be published instead.

Thank you for sharing your stories, for dedicating your time to writing, and for offering readers (for free) these masterpieces.

You can find the previous list here.

(If you are in this list and don't want to be in it let me know, please).

Like a good neighbor... | Cillian Murphy x fem!Reader by @cillianmesoftlyyy Cut the shit-delusion, sweetheart | Cillian Murphy x fem!Reader by @cillianmesoftlyyy Shut if off! | Cillian Murphy x Reader by @darlingsfandom No fucking way | Cillian Murphy x Reader by @cillspropertea A welcome surprise | Cillian Murphy x Reader by @garrison-girl-08

THOMAS SHELBY

Calling him pretty | Thomas Shelby x Reader by @darlingsfandom Not a virgin anymore | Tommy Shelby x Reader by @your-nanas-house Curses, spirits and other things nor to believe in | Thomas Shelby x OC by @dearshelby What really makes a family | Thomas Shelby x Reader by @dearshelby Nice face | Thomas Shelby x Reader by @dearshelby Missing | Thomas Shelby x Reader by @fallatyourfeet Winter light | Tommy Shelby x Reader by @fallatyourfeet Of bending and breaking | Tommy Shelby x Reader by @call-sign-shark He wouldn't dance with me | Tommy Shelby x Reader by @acewritesfics Fireflies | Tommy Shelby x Reader by @acewritesfics Always with me | modern!Tommy Shelby x Reader by @look-at-the-soul Twelfth night | Tommy Shelby x OC by @evita-shelby

ALFIE SOLOMONS

Reddish marks | Alfie Solomons x Reader by @dearshelby Fuckin' irreplaceable | Alfie Solomons x Reader by @fallatyourfeet It's bloody three o'clock in the mornin' | Alfie Solomons x Reader by @fallatyourfeet How I met my dad (Cyril) by @raincoffeeandfandoms Afraid of everyone | Alfie Solomons x Reader by @pacifymebby

ARTHUR SHELBY

Thunder storms | Arthur Shelby x Reader by @pacifymebby People like us | Arthur Shelby x fem!Reader by @red-riding-wood Ruined | Arthur Shelby x fem!Reader by @red-riding-wood

Christmas together | Patricia "Kitten" Braden x fem!Reader by @your-nanas-house Truly smitten | Patricia "Kitten" Braden x shy!fem!Reader by @your-nanas-house I'll be your girl | Kitten Braden x Reader by @wutheringcaterpillar

The ward | Jonathan Breech x fem!Reader by @cillianmesoftlyyy

Miracle | Robert Capa x physicist!fem!Reader by @aurorag98

Little spy | Leonard "Lenny" Miller x fem!Reader by @aurorag98 Love of his life | Lenny Miller x younger!Reader by @aphroditeslover11

Just a little kiss | Emmett x Reader by @beastofburdenxo Quiet | Emmett x fem!Reader by @cillmequick

Hiding here inside a dream | Robert Fischer x OC by @emotionalcadaver

#fic rec #monthly reads #fic recommendation #alfie solomons x reader #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby x reader #kitten braden x reader #cillian murphy x reader #arthur shelby x reader #jonathan breech x reader #robert capa x reader #lenny miller x reader #robert fischer x reader #emmett x reader #ceirinen recommends

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cillianmesoftlyyy · 9 months

Text

The Ward Pt. 1 | Jonathan Breech x fem!character

Summary: Jonathan Breech is sentenced to three months in a Dublin psych ward after trying to take his life. He meets a girl and thinks he's fallen in love... but is this just a product of opportunity and loneliness or could it be more?

Warnings: Based heavily on One the Edge (2001) so there is already a lot of mental-health specific discussions. More specifically- mentions of suicide, self-harm, death, depression, anxiety, feeling helpless and alone, medication, vomiting, pregnancy. There is nothing explicitly sexual in pt. 1 so there are no warnings for that here. Please don't read if you think any of the previously mentioned topics could be triggering! Some of this is taken from my personal experience with mental-health issues so read with care.

word count: 3098k

1979- The Smashing Pumpkins 🎶

Up the Junction- Squeeze 🎵

note- I named the female character because I personally don't love using "y/n." It can take away from the story that I'm trying to tell sometimes but the character is supposed to be general enough to be whomever you wish.

additional note (sry)- One the Edge is free on Internet Archive...

Please read the warnings before continuing, thanks!

Jonathan made his way through the hospital corridors, glancing briefly into each room they passed.

“This is a pretty shitty hotel, eh? What do you charge per night? Whatever it is, I’m not fucking paying it,” he stumbled around behind one of the nurses and laughed lightly. They stopped in front of a room.

“This is you. You’re expected in group therapy at 4.” The nurse deadpanned and unlocked the yellow steel door for him. Jonathan poked his head inside the door and whistled low.

“Mhm, yep. Just what I was expecting,” he leaned out again and yelled after the nurse, “would it kill yeh to add some fucking color to this room? Fucking depressing.” He shook his head and wandered inside. He sat down on the mattress, the metal springs popped below and it sagged below his weight. He looked around at the drab gray room, the one window covered by rusted bars, and the bare bedside table. Jonathan emptied his pockets on the bed beside him and moved the carton of cigarettes to the table. A clock on the opposite wall ticked quietly and he watched it with his bright blue eyes, blinking every so often to the rhythm.

A second nurse came by and handed him some clothes, pajamas.

“What are these for?” Jonathan frowned, “I don’t need pajamas.”

“You have to wear them during the day,” the nurse responded.

“Why the hell would I do that when I have my normal clothes?”

“Its policy, it distinguishes you from guests and day patients. In-patients have to wear these.” The nurse pointed to the pile of neatly folded clothes in Jonathan’s arms. “Put them on.”

Jonathan sighed and kicked off his shoes.

“You’re not gonna watch are yeh?” He sneered at the nurse when he didn’t leave immediately. The nurse turned and left, closing the door without another word. Jonathan stripped down to his underwear and examined the clothes that he was given. It was a matching pajama set in an icy blue color with smaller blue designs across the fabric. The sleeves were too short and ended at his forearm and the pants around his midcalf. He pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed under his breath. He put on his shoes and the cardigan he had brought with him, a yellow wool cardigan that still smelled like home.

…

Around 4 o'clock Jonathan left his room and wandered aimlessly through the psychiatric ward, looking for the group therapy room. He walked until he spotted Dr. Figure walking into a small room and called out to him.

“Heya, Dr. Figure. I’m here for my group therapy!” He said with a flare of dramatic excitement. Dr. Figure looked tired and responded with a strained smile.

“Hello, Jonathan. Please come in.” They walked inside the room and Jonathan took a seat in a chair beside a boy around his age wearing a dark blue bathrobe. His light brown hair was messy and long and he wore round wire-framed glasses over his eyes. Dr. Figure sat opposite of him across the circle and cleared his throat as he arranged a stack of papers. Another boy and a girl sat at the circle too though neither of them looked up when Jonathan sat down.

“Good afternoon everyone, thank you for coming today.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice,” Jonathan shrugged and pulled one of his knees up to his chest in the chair and rested his chin on his knee.

“Yes, thank you Jonathan for coming anyway.” Dr. Figure sighed and gestured towards him, “this is Jonathan, everyone. He’s new and he’ll be joining us in group therapy. Why don’t we all introduce ourselves? I’ll start. I’m Dr. Figure and I’m the head psychiatrist here.”

“I’m Toby.” The boy next to Jonathan nodded his head and Jonathan smiled at him. It passed across Jonathan to the girl on his otherside. She glanced up briefly to introduce herself with a small smile.

“I’m Margaret.” She said softly and looked down at her hands again as the last boy introduced himself. He had headphones around his neck and a walkman clipped inside the pocket of his robe. Jonathan looked back at the girl, studying her. She looked as though she hadn’t slept in a while with the dark circles shading her downcast eyes. She was wearing a vintage nightgown, he realized, one with long sleeves and a modest neckline even though the dress was shorter than her knees. On her legs she had long brown socks tucked into a pair of duck boots. Her hair was brushed away from her face and fell straight down her back but he couldn’t see how long it actually was. She had a busted lip, he could tell from the bruising around her bottom lip and a scab that looked as if it was still bleeding. She played with the hem of her nightgown and glanced up again, catching him as he stared at her but he didn’t look away, she did. She flushed and stared at the tan tile around her chair.

“Now I’d like to pass this around and I want you all to add any recent fears or anxieties that may have come up in the last few days that we haven’t talked about yet,” Dr. Figure handed the clipboard to the boy next to Margaret. Toby raised his hand.

“Yes?”

“What if we’re scared of filling out paperwork?” Toby asked and Jonathan laughed. Dr. Figure seemed to genuinely ponder the question before Toby added, “that was a joke,” and Jonathan laughed again.

“Why don’t you tell us what you’re afraid of, doctor?” Jonathan smiled and Dr. Figure exhaled.

“It’s not important.”

“I think you’re deflecting, doctor.”

“Jonathan, if you’d like to discuss my fears then I would be happy to do so at a later time in my office,” Dr. Figure answered calmly.

“Oh, I see. You can analyze us as much as you want but as soon as someone asks the same question of you, you can’t answer, eh?” Jonathan crossed his arms across his chest.

“It’s just not something that I do with my patients during group therapy. This is your time to get better, it isn’t about me.”

“You know what would make me better, doctor?”

“What’s that, Jonathan?” Dr. Figure rubbed his eyes and waited for Jonathan to answer.

“I want clothes that actually fit. These are too short, I look ridiculous! And why do we have to wear fucking pajamas? How am I supposed to feel good about myself walking around in these, eh? And no one told me that girls were gonna be here too! Jesus, it's embarrassing.” Jonathan huffed and complained loudly, leaning forward in his seat sometimes to emphasize his point. He looked over at Margaret who was turning red.

“I understand that you’re upset about the clothes but they shouldn’t matter. You’re here to get better, Jonathan.” Dr. Figure crossed his legs and clasped his hands together.

“Now, if we could, please continue.” He gestured to Margaret to take the clipboard from the boy next to her. As she did so, Jonathan stood up and walked towards the door.

“Thanks, doc. That’s it for today.” He waved his hand and left the room, letting the door close behind him. He went straight to his room and sat down on his bed. Gray light filtered in through the window and he looked out at the rainy streets.

…

That evening he found the rec room and sat down by a window, bracing himself against a heater. Toby was sitting by the window as well and looked up at him when Jonathan approached.

“Hey,” Toby nodded.

“Hey.” Jonathan replied and opened the window but it caught after a few inches.

“It doesn’t open all the way,” Toby smiled, “they don’t want us to jump out.”

“Damnit, that was going to be my plan A,” Jonathan shook his head.

“What’s your plan B?”

“Wait out the next four months,” Jonathan chuckled darkly and reached into his breast pocket for a cigarette.

“They won’t let you smoke that in here,” Toby advised and glanced over at the female nurses speaking quietly near the door.

“I wouldn’t mind getting in trouble with them, eh?” He smirked at Toby who laughed. “Toby, right?”

“Yeah,” Toby nodded and pushed his glasses up his nose.

“Jonathan,” he patted his chest for a second and changed the subject, “By the way, what’s that girl’s story, the one from group.”

“Margaret?” Toby asked and Jonathan nodded. “She’s been here for a week or two. I think we came in around the same time. I don’t know a lot about her because she doesn’t say much in group. It must be hard being the only girl around our age here.” Toby shrugged and continued, “She’s had that busted lip for a while but I’m not sure exactly how she got it. I’ve talked to her a little and she’s nice.”

“And cute,” Jonathan added with a laugh and Toby nodded.

“Yeah, that too. I think she’s been through some shit.”

“Haven’t we all?” Jonathan muttered and Toby nodded knowingly. They sat in silence for a moment before Toby spoke again.

“You know I’ve been sneaking out of here a few times a week at night. I could take you if you wanted.”

“No shit,” Jonathan whispered with a smirk, “really?”

“Yeah. Wanna go tomorrow night?”

“Of course.”

“Ok,” Toby smiled.

“Ok.” Jonathan affirmed and hopped up. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See yah,” Toby waved and went back to looking out the window.

Jonathan left the rec room and wandered further down the hallways, passing the women’s ward. There was one men’s bathroom in the women’s ward and he went in. The opposite end of the bathroom had a short tiled wall that ended in a ledge below a row of barred windows. There were three sinks on his left and two stalls on his right, one a handicapped stall. A single urinal stood against the wall. Sitting on the ledge and leaning against one of the walls of the handicapped stall was Margaret, reading a book. The dying light from the window shone through her nightgown, showing the dark silhouette of her body underneath. She looked up quickly and jumped at seeing her.

“Shit sorry, I thought this was the men’s room.”

“It is, sorry.” Margaret closed her book and hopped down from the ledge, wincing as her feet hit the ground. “I like to read in here.”

“In the men’s room?” Jonathan raised his dark eyebrow, his pink lips pursed.

“No one uses this bathroom in the women’s ward.”

“The male nurses?”

“They aren’t allowed to work in the ward… legal reasons.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and held the book against her chest. He looked at the cover of the book.

“What are you reading?”

“Jane Eyre.”

“That’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it?” Jonathan laughed and she smiled.

“Maybe but I love it. I love anything by the Brönte sisters.” She fingered one of the pages on the book and met his eyes. She had a heart-shaped face with messy unkempt eyebrows and she was short, barely 5”3.

“Did someone have you locked up in their attic?” He joked.

“No, though it would have made my life more interesting.” She smiled at him, her cheeks pressed up into her eyes and flushed slightly from the conversation.

“You’re cute,” Jonathan broke the momentary silence and her eyes widened slightly.

“You don’t know me,” she laughed breathlessly and brushed past him to the door. He spun around and followed her.

“I don’t have to know you to know that you’re cute.” He protested and smiled as she took the door handle in her hand.

“Don’t be stupid,” She frowned and he threw up his hands in surrender.

“Personally, I thought that was pretty smart but hey- wait! Don’t go, I wasn’t actually coming in here to use the bathroom, I just wanted some space.”

She looked at him for a moment and rolled her eyes, “word of advice? Don’t call girls cute, it's demeaning.” She cocked her head at him and left the bathroom. He left after her and watched as she walked down the corridor to her room. She looked back at him and smiled to herself as she went inside and closed the door.

…

Jonathan woke up early the next morning for his private appointment with Dr. Figure. His room was cold and he’d slept in a t-shirt on top of his covers like a child. He was shivering when he finally woke up and quickly changed into his warmer pajamas, gritting his teeth as he remembered how short they were on him. He pulled on a jumper and laced his roughed up sneakers. Stepping out into the corridor, he rubbed his shoulders for warmth and hopped down the stairs two at a time. He pushed open the door to the garden and followed the cement sidewalk through a row of tall hedges. The morning was cold but the sun was already in the sky and shining on the hospital’s grounds. As Jonathan passed through the first set of hedges he looked to the side. Sitting on a small wooden bench was Margaret, still reading Jane Eyre. She had on a pair of men’s blue checkered pajama pants and a dark green jumper, also still wearing her duck boots. She sat with her legs crossed beneath her and her hair billowed in the short rushes of wind. He caught himself looking at her crotch and snapped out of it. He stuck his hands beneath his armpits and walked over, smiling wide when she looked up.

“How was your first night?” She dog-eared the page in her book and squinted up at him.

“Not bad, but I woke up fucking freezing.”

“The heaters don’t work in the rooms. That’s why I go into the bathrooms to read.”

“Or outside,” he pointed at her book. She smiled and looked down for a moment.

“It’s part of my treatment. I spend an hour outside everyday, for the fresh air and sun. It’s supposed to make me happier.”

“You know they have drugs that do the same thing.” Jonathan smiled and rocked back and forth on his feet.

“I don’t take them… I haven’t for a few weeks.”

“Oh?” Jonathan sniffed, his nose already running in the cold air. She thought about telling him why she wasn’t on her meds but changed her mind. Jonathan noticed her change in body language and cleared his throat.

“Look, I’m supposed to have a meeting with the doc. Could you show me where his office is?” He cocked his head to the side, twisting his lips into a smile.

“You think you’re real smooth, don’t you?” She shook her head, laughing.

“Don’t know, it depends on whether or not you say yes doesn’t it?”

“And what if I have something I’d rather be doing?” She smirked slightly and brought her knees up to her chest, balancing her heels on the edge of the bench.

“Do yah?” Jonathan asked.

“Of course.”

“And what is that?” He brought his head back upright and continued to smile, “what would you rather be doing than walking with me?”

“Eating real food at a restaurant with warm bread at the table, or going to a library where I actually have a valid library card, or buying expensive ice cream that I can’t eat because it's freezing outside…” she listed off the items, taping her lips with her index finger. Her cheeks were pink from the cold and Jonathan imagined how soft and cold they would be against his fingers.

“What if in exchange for showing me where the old man’s office is, I buy you an ice cream when we get out of this shithole?” He shuffled his feet in the brown grass and Margaret smiled softly.

“You think we’re getting out of this place?” She shook her head, almost sad but still smiling.

“Why don’t we just pretend we are, for the sake of today?” He shrugged and twisted his torso side to side. She watched him for a second, trailing her eyes over his lanky body stuffed into clothing that was made for someone much younger. She had to admit that he was pretty but there was a reason that they were all in there, and Jonathan wasn’t exempted from that. She nodded and put her feet back on the ground and stood. Holding Jane Eyre in her arms she led Jonathan back to the path in the direction of the smaller house near the border wall.

“So, what ice cream do you like?” Jonathan asked. His sneakers gripped the pavement and sent small pebbles bouncing across the pavement.

“German chocolate,” she answered after a moment of serious deliberation.

“You know, I’ve noticed something.”

“What?” She looked at him as they walked.

“I don’t recognize your accent. You aren’t Irish.”

“No,” she shook her head, “are you disappointed?”

He smiled and put his head back, “No, no. I’m just surprised. You don’t sound British either…” He bit his lip, trying to place her accent.

“I’m American,” she answered for him and pulled her hair to the side of her shoulder.

“American? What are you doing here?” He laughed lightly and she blushed.

“I’m studying here for a semester.”

“Where?”

“Trinity,” she glanced at him, “for Literature.”

“Fuck, no wonder you’re depressed. Why would you come to Ireland for college?” He laughed and she blushed further.

“I just wanted to get away from my family and Ireland seemed like the farthest place from home… and you have a good Literature program here.”

“Ah, all the Irish poets and writers…”

“And Sinead O’conner.” She added and Jonathan laughed loudly.

“You’re funny.”

“And cute, apparently.” She shrugged, “you still haven’t apologized.”

“For what?” He played dumb.

“For calling me cute.”

“I’m not apologizing for pointing out something that’s true.” He argued and she looked up at the sky, pretending to study the clouds.

“I think you’re an asshole, Jonathan.” She looked up at him and he nodded slowly, a small smile stuck to his lips.

“So do I.”

They walked in silence to the house and Margaret left him at the door. He walked in through the door, strips of paint curled and fell onto the doormat.

“Don’t forget that you owe me an ice cream,” she called quietly before the door closed and he gave a little salute before the door snapped shut.

...

end of pt. 1 :)

Thank you so much for all of the support. This community means the world to me and I feel very supported by everyone on this niche community. I love writing these silly little fanfics and I'm flattered that people like them. I read all of your comments and reblogs- lots of love!

#cillian murphy #cillian x reader #cillian x fem!reader #fanfiction #young cillian murphy #cillian fluff #cillian murphy x reader #jonathan breech #on the edge 2001 #fem!reader #imagine #multi chap fic #jonathan crane

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loverhymeswith · 1 year

Text

Vampires Will Never Hurt You

Day Three of the October Dreams 1K Follower Event

Pairing: Vampire!Jonathan Breech x F!Reader

Summary: Jonathan gives you his venom and you give him your blood.

Word Count: 1.5K

Warnings: 18+ only, P in V sex, fingering, references to suicide and self harm, scars, blood, pain, addiction, vampires

A/N: Please heed the warnings as this is much darker than my usual work. Thank you to @a-reader-and-a-writer for encouraging me to pursue this idea.

Except for the sound of your laboured breathing, the cramped Dublin apartment is silent. Once upon a time, this would have been a rare occurrence given that Jonathan is here in the bedroom with you. But lately you’ve discovered that a sure-fire way to get him to stop talking is to keep his face buried between your legs.

“Oh fuck, Jonathan. Yes,” you cry as he ceases the endless teasing, finally sinking his teeth into the flesh of your inner thigh. A heady mixture of pleasure and pain dulls your other senses as his sharp fangs break your already-scarred skin. "Don't stop. Please, don't stop."

You shudder as his tongue darts out, licking over the fresh wound and lapping at the crimson beads of your blood blooming beneath his mouth, the satisfying result of his ministrations. Jonathan hums in contentment, the sound a soft vibration against your sensitive skin as his wicked fingers continue their exploration, slipping between your slick folds.

This is exactly how he likes you, spread bare on the bed before him, your body laid out like a veritable feast.

It’s a relationship of convenience. Not that you’d go so far as to call what you and Jonathan share a relationship, per se. It's more of an agreement. A mutually beneficial arrangement. He gives you his venom and you give him your blood.

You’d met him in a nightclub almost a year ago. A dark and seedy place on the edge of town. Knowing Jonathan as you do now, it made sense. He seemed to have a knack for seeking out trouble and that night was no exception. Some creep had been bothering you at the bar - nothing new there - until a mysterious and handsome young man had swooped in like a knight-in-argyle armour, whispering something vaguely threatening that had turned the older man’s face a deathly shade of pale.

That would have - and should have - been the end of the story, had you not stumbled upon the same young man much later that night in the dark alleyway behind the bar. He hadn’t been alone and at first you’d assumed he was locked in a lover’s embrace, but as you found yourself staring, rooted to the spot, you realised his teeth were sunk deep into the neck of your earlier harasser.

If you’d had any sense of self-preservation left at that point in your life, perhaps you would have dropped your cigarette and ran. Instead, you’d waited patiently until the young man turned his pale gaze upon you, releasing his victim to crumple to the ground in a heap.

“Ah fuck, you weren’t s’posed to see that.”

His pleasantly lilting accent told you he was a Dublin native and despite the oddness of the situation, you’d taken a step closer, your fight or flight response having abandoned you long ago. Even in the dimly lit alleyway, you were able to see the blood staining his plump lips, a stark contrast to his pale and angular face.

An angel of death.

“I won’t say anything,” you’d told him without hesitation. After all, who was going to believe you? You weren’t even sure exactly what it was you had witnessed.

Stepping over the lifeless body on the ground, the young man approached you cautiously, pulling out something that looked suspiciously like a wooden spike from his dark jacket.

"Just put me outta my misery, would ya?" he'd all but begged, offering you the stake.

There was a wildness in his otherworldly blue eyes that spoke of recklessness and desperation. Of a desire to end his suffering - something which you recognised all too well. Later on, he would tell you that he’d been carrying around that stake for years, waiting for the day when someone would finally drive it into his heart.

You’d spared a cursory glance at the chiselled length of wood but had neglected to reach for it, far too beguiled by the beautiful man himself. “Why would I want to do that?”

He’d cocked his dark brow, surprise evident in his fine features as if he was equally as intrigued by your reaction. “Because I’m sick to death of bein’ a fuckin’ vampire, alright?”

Vampire.

His admission had been so casual and you’d allowed the word to settle in your mind for a beat, narrowing your gaze at the young man. You’d never given much thought to the supernatural before, and under normal circumstances you would have been sceptical. But this was far from normal. You had just witnessed him rip out a man’s throat.

“Are you going to hurt me?” you’d asked him without a trace of fear.

“No.”

“What if I want you to?”

The rest, as they say, was history. To this day, you can’t remember whose idea it had been, only that the fateful encounter had proved fortuitous for both parties. In you, Jonathan found a companion and a willing victim, someone to soothe the centuries of loneliness. Someone he could feed from without the fear of them fighting back.

In Jonathan, you found release. The tiny hurts he inflicted were far more effective than anything you could achieve by your own hand.

"So beautiful," the vampire murmurs now, finding the strength to tear himself away from between your legs. His piercing blue gaze sweeps over the canvas of your body in admiration, his slender fingers tracing over the new bruises and bite marks he has left in his wake.

He had warned you right from that first night that the side effects of a vampire’s kiss would be addictive. That the venom in his saliva didn't just result in oblivion, but that it was an aphrodisiac, too. Apathetic and worn down by years of misery, you hadn’t really believed him. Ushering him back to your one-bed apartment, you’d told him to bring it on.

But in the end, Jonathan had been right. You couldn’t get enough of him - had practically begged for him to fuck you within seconds of him plunging his teeth into your delicate wrist. He’d obliged, although not immediately. For a two hundred-year-old vampire, he could be infuriatingly chivalrous when it suited him.

"Gonna make love to you now," he grins, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Your blood stains his alabaster skin.

Still riding the high of his venom as it works its way into your bloodstream, you nod blissfully, relishing the comforting weight of Jonathan’s lithe body as he lowers himself onto you. Over the last few months, he’s turned this into an artform, taking the time to break you apart piece by bloody piece as his mouth marks the soft skin of your stomach, your breasts and thighs. And now, as his warm tongue trails a crimson path along the curve of your throat, just before his razor-sharp white teeth puncture your most vital artery, he enters you in a single thrust.

You cry out his name again, lost in the storm of sensation laying waste to your body; the pressure of his thick cock stretching your walls, the piercing bite of his fangs as he drinks from you, the searing heat of his venom filling your veins. It’s too much and yet not enough. You need to be closer. Your fingernails dig into his shoulders and with every drag of his length through your slick channel, you clench around him until your vision is filled with stars.

As he drinks his fill, his thrusts become sloppy and you know he’s close to the edge. Lightheaded from the lovemaking and the blood loss, so are you. With another moan of pleasure, you submit to him willingly and entirely, trusting him intimately. You know he’ll never take too much. Just enough.

Finally, you feel his canines retract and his tongue flicks over the raw wound, the gesture sending a current of electric pleasure through your already wrecked body. When he pulls his mouth away from your neck and smooths his knuckle along your cheek, you open your eyes to find his lust-filled gaze has turned reverent.

When he speaks again, his voice is rough and soothing. “That’s my girl. Now come with me.”

You don’t need to be told twice, his praise encouraging you to shatter around him as wave after wave of ecstasy fills the empty space in your veins.

You told him from the offset that you didn’t want him to turn you. Life is hard enough with an expiry date. But sometimes the thought of an eternity of this - of Jonathan - is awfully tempting.

October Dreams Taglist: @a-reader-and-a-writer @zablife

#jonathan breech #cillian murphy #on the edge #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy fanfic #cillian murphy x reader #vampires #kinktober

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red-riding-wood · 8 months

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Hello! If you didn't come here from my masterlist, here is where you can read my other works!

I'm open to writing pretty much everything -- angst, smut, fluff, etc. I specialise in dark!fics and nothing is too wild here (though I reserve the right to decline requests if I don't feel comfortable writing it) but will try my best with all requests and welcome a variety.

(But I'll love you more if you send me the most twisted, filthiest shit.)

I will add or remove characters to those I write for as I feel up to it, and will cross out those who I am not currently open to receiving requests for. **(Currently only feeling inspired for writing Cill characters.)**

If you send on anon and do not hear back from me about your request in a day or two, this means I have accepted your request.

Currently only accepting MxF requests, will likely do x reader, 2nd person POV if not specified, but I can happily write from third or first person POV as well! If you'd like it specifically from one character's perspective, or whatnot, please let me know that, too.

CILLIAN MURPHY

Tommy Shelby

Jonathan Crane

Jackson Rippner

Robert Capa

Neil Lewis

Raymond Leon

Tom Buckley

Emmett (A Quiet Place)

Jim (28 Days)

Jonathan Breech

Robert Fischer

Jim (The Delinquent Season)

Lenny Miller

Will add more as I watch and rewatch more of his films! If you have a character to request who's not on this list, send it in anyway and I'll watch what I need to for it.

PEAKY BLINDERS

Tommy Shelby

Arthur Shelby

Luca Changretta

Aberama Gold

Alfie Solomons

John Shelby

GAME OF THRONES

currently closed

EDITS/GIFS

If you'd like to request a GIF set, I'm also open to requests but know that I don't do these very often! Here is my masterlist for edits.

Cill characters

Peaky Blinders

Game of Thrones

← MAIN MASTERLIST

#requests #cillian murphy #tommy shelby #jonathan crane #jackson rippner #robert capa #neil lewis #raymond leon #emmett a quiet place #jim 28 days #will add more characters #fics #fanfic #fanfiction #fic requests

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pinguwrites · 1 year

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Kinktober 2023 — Masterlist

A/N — With October coming up, it's time for filth, so here's a masterlist of Cillian Murphy goodness. The list will be updated as the days of the month pass. I hope you guys enjoy!

Read the warnings before continuing. I do not condone, defend, support, romanticize, or encourage the illegal actions of any of the characters throughout the story, these stories are purely written for entertainment purposes. 18+ only.

WEEK ONE

Day 1. William Killick + dub-con

Day 2. Cillian Murphy + spanking, authority kink

Day 3. Raymond Leon + car sex

Day 4. Neil Lewis + grinding, semi-public

Day 5. Thomas Shelby + overstimulation, bondage

Day 6. Jonathan Crane + impact play

Day 7. Robert Oppenheimer + praise kink, dd/lg

WEEK TWO

Day 8. Thomas Shelby + omegaverse, omega!tommy

Day 9. Robert Fischer + facefucking, office sex

Day 10. William Killick + uniform kink, dirty talk

Day 11. Tom Buckley + body worship, overstimulation

Day 12. Neil Lewis + cockwarming

Day 13. Cillian Murphy + somnophilia, dd/lg

Day 14. Jackson Rippner + CNC, roleplay

WEEK THREE

Day 15. Jonathan Crane + sex pollen

Day 16. William Killick + face riding

Day 17. Jonathan Breech + making a video

Day 18. Raymond Leon + forced proximity, outercourse

Day 19. Thomas Shelby + fingering, hold the moan

Day 20. Darren/Pig + vanilla, riding

Day 21. Robert Fischer + mirror sex, toys

WEEK FOUR

Day 22. Jackson Rippner + choking, anal sex

Day 23. Tom Buckley + vanilla, creampie

Day 24. Jonathan Crane + humiliation, pegging

Day 25. Robert Fischer + wet dream, sleepy sex

Day 26. Neil Lewis + shower sex

Day 27. Raymond Leon + anal sex, brat taming

Day 28. Jonathan Breech + fluffy, semi-public

WEEK FIVE

Day 29. Cillian Murphy + overstimulation, f!receiving oral sex

Day 30. Darren/Pig + mutual masturbation

Day 31. Jackson Rippner + ghostface!reader

#pinguwrites #fanfiction #neil lewis x reader #cillian murphy #thomas shelby x reader #tom buckley x reader #jonathan breech x reader #darren pig x reader #robert oppenheimer x you #robert oppenheimer x reader #raymond leon x reader #william killick x reader #robert fischer x reader #Jonathan Crane x reader #kinktober #kinktober 2023 #smut #kinktober masterlist

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nightmarefuele · 11 months

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~10 Fandoms/ ~10 Characters/ ~10 Tags

much like my space opera sidekick, i am. not part of half so many 'fandoms.' i will do my best~

i. Batman/Gotham (also the city, a.k.a., also not the show)

Joker (oh, really?)

Dr. Jonathan Crane / Scarecrow (oh. really.)

James "Jim" W. Gordon

Batman (*Balebat + Battinson)

Red Hood (~j-teeee)

ii. Blade Runner 2049

Officer K / Joe

Sapper Morton

Luv

iii. Star Wars

Kylo Ren (solely the 7th movie. after which, nothing exists.)

Second Sister Inquisitor Trilla Suduri

Kino Loy

Luthen Rael

Lt. Dedra Meero

Anakin Skywalker / Darth Vader

iv. Avatar: The Last Airbender

AZULA

Zuko

Mai

Suki

Piandao

Wan Shi Tong

Avatar Roku

Iroh (obligatory.)

Hakoda

v. Miscellaneous (*Fandom / Characters)

Dune books / Paul Atreides

Arcane / Jinx, Silco, Viktor

Heat / Lt. Vincent Hanna

The King / Henry V

Silence of the Lambs / Clarice Starling, Dr. Hannibal Lecter

On the Edge / Jonathan Breech

William Gibson books / Rydell, Laney, Rei Toei, Case

V for Vendetta / V, Evey, Deitrich

tagged by: @kylo-wrecked; alias, 'space opera sidekick'; @brooklynislandgirl tagging: @miercolaes (because i want your recs.) @chaoticjoke (because i want yours too!~) @grimmusings, @jynxd, @hahaheehooha, @jesterscurse, @blackxskyx, @silverjetsystm, @trashcollected, @arkhampsych, @edxmunson, @soleiltm, @spirit-x-ing, @barbielandy, and you.

#. in jest {ooc}#mun quiz #queue d'état

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weirdworldofwinnie · 1 year

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* Welcome *

I'm Winnie (she/her) and this is my main blog where all my original posts and likes will be, more all-encompassing for reflecting all of my interests (art, photography, science, space, nature, animals, etc.) along with fandoms and actors, especially Cillian Murphy.

Side blogs (inactive):

Stranger Things @ Hey Kiddo (tumblr.com)

Cillian Murphy @ Cilly-Oppie (tumblr.com)

*Fanfiction Masterlist*

Cillian Murphy as J. Robert Oppenheimer x reader:

Heat of the Moment - One Night Passion

A Darling Distraction

Oasis in a Desperate Land of Dark Desire (ongoing series on pause)

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Dr. Jonathan Crane/Scarecrow x reader (Batman)

Face Me (oneshot)

Jonathan Breech x reader (On the Edge, 2001)

A Safe Way Out (oneshot)

*Important Note: All of my fics are strictly intended for 18+ (minors do not interact) and female readers only! I also try to keep the fem!reader character as general in physical description as possible; I will never specify a certain skin color or body type (unless it's absolutely crucial to the story) because I do not want to exclude anyone and I want you to imagine yourself as much as possible! And lastly, my fics are not completely historically accurate or 100% reflective of any real people (including actors), living or dead. For entertainment purposes only*

I also won't write about Cillian personally as himself out of respect for his privacy and family (and he is a currently living person). And I don't take currently requests and please know I do not allow anonymous asks.

Thank you for stopping by and reading! 😊

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burnyouwithacigarettelighter · 1 year

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its that time around again: i dont know what to write so,,,, you guys can choose for me!

#burnyouwithacigarettelighter #cillian murphy x reader

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adotblog · 7 years

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Brave New World-Chapter 1-Baptism of fire.

Pairing: LMM x Reader

Warnings: Alcohol, discussion of a crappy relationship.

Notes: Alright, here it is-the follow-up to the Brave series. I’m basically going for a Sliding Doors kinda thing here-the same characters from Brave meet in the same way but take different actions and we see how their relationship would’ve progressed on this different path. I’m thinking it’ll be 5/6 parts and I’ll aim to publish every Friday. Since they’re the same characters, there will be callbacks to Brave-similar phrases used, backstory elaboration, that kind of thing. You know I crave feedback so please let me know what you think-use anonymous ask if you’re shy :)

There’s a sort of West Wing reference (when isn’t there?)

Words: 3005. I’ll never change.

It’s your second week at the theatre and you’ve already settled in pretty well. Most of your working hours are spent with your colleague Clare who is chatty and loves to sing and boogie her way through prep, which was a welcome surprise. Everyone you’ve met so far has been sweet and the work is varied. Overall quite the good start. You’ve yet to meet Lin-Manuel Miranda, the composer and lead actor, as he’s been on vacation. But Jonathan (another new friend) says he’s funny and lovely. Today you’ve brought in a ton of doughnuts for everyone-two-show days are long and you figure people might need a pick-me-up.

You’re surrounded by stage crew as soon as you come through the door and they immediately take one box off your hands. You head through to the common area with the others and go to place them on the table. You see that there are a couple of people in the office and since the door is open, you decide to take the plunge and go in with the final box.

As you near the door you see that Jonathan is one of the people in there and he beckons you to come straight in. Chris is also there-you’ve met him once already-and as you go through the door you realise the other person is Lin-Manuel Miranda. You nearly freeze on the spot as he flashes you a big smile.

You’re dimly aware that Jon is introducing you and saying something complimentary. There’s a hand stuck out in front of you and you juggle doughnuts in order to shake it. “Please, just call me Lin”. Lin. Ok. Well, Lin is an absolute dream.

He has long dark hair, pulled back in a scruffy bun. His skin is a rich olive and so smooth-looking that it really makes you want to stroke some part of him. Uhoh. His smile is broad and beaming, his voice warm and so New York it almost hurts. Oh boy, new crush. Absolutely no escaping this one. Shit.

You pull yourself away from your reverie and start offering out doughnuts as the guys continue their conversation. “And so I was thinking of changing that line up and putting in another Shakespeare quote”, says Lin. Chris plays eenie meanie minie mo to choose a flavour as Lin elaborates “so Eliza will refer to New York as a ‘Brave New World’”.

“Oh, I wouldn’t”, you say before your brain connects to your mouth. Jonathan freezes, hand hovering over a doughnut. He catches your eye and manages to convey with a single look “What are you doing correcting the boss the very first time you meet him?!”. You panic. This is not a good career move. “Why wouldn’t you?”, prompts Lin, an amused smile on his lips.

You look briefly to Jon for help but he just makes a “go ahead” gesture. Fuck it. You turn to face Lin and try to keep your voice even as you say “Well, Shakespeare was poking fun-Miranda refers to the place as a ‘brave new world’ because she’s seen some hot dude. Brave means ‘handsome’ and the subtext is that it’s handsome but lacking any character or depth. So you’d be suggesting that New York hasn’t got anything under the pretty. Also, Miranda was sappy and pathetic-Eliza’s too badass for her words.”. You finish by extending the box of doughnuts in Lin’s direction, as if they’ll protect you from any backlash.

Lin reaches out and takes one “Alright then, no brave new world!”, he says with a smile. Oh thank god, he’s not mad. You smile back and begin to retreat out of the room, saying you’ll leave the box by the coffee maker. “Hey Y/N?”, Lin calls after you. You stick your head back around the door and he says “Don’t write off all Mirandas, Ok?” and winks at you.

*****************************************

Over the next week or so, you get to know Lin and the rest of the cast and crew a little better. Whenever Jonathan is around he introduces you to new people and tells you what everyone’s role is, which really helps you feel more at home. Jonathan is hilarious and warm, you clicked right away and he’s a lot of fun to hang out with. The only downside is that he has an adjoining dressing room to Lin’s, so you’ve also seen a lot of him. That means your inappropriate-attraction-to-the-boss situation has not got any better. It doesn’t help that Lin is charming, sweet, honest and welcoming. You’ve a burgeoning crush and it makes you nervous as hell.

It’s the break between shows and you are alone in the wings getting everything back in place for the evening. You’re blasting some tunes from your Spotify when a head pops around the scenery-a beautiful head. It’s Jasmine, a principal cast member you’ve spoken to a couple of times. “I was just wondering where the music was coming from!”, she says with a grin. “Oh, sorry-do you want me to turn it down?”, you ask nervously. “Hell no! I came to dance!”, she answers as she comes into the wings. You laugh and the track changes to Superstition by Stevie Wonder, causing Jasmine to holler “I looooove this song!”. She grabs your hands and spins you round and round, insisting that you dance with her.

Jasmine’s enthusiasm is infectious and you’re giggling as you both slip out onto the stage, dancing all the while. When the song ends, shuffle picks out something soft and instrumental, eliciting a boo from Jasmine. She stands, hands on hips. “This is not dancing music”, she disparages. “Pssh, you’ve no imagination!”, says a voice from the wings. Lin’s voice.

Jasmine rolls her eyes as Lin steps out onto the stage. He heads straight over to you, takes your right hand in his, puts your left hand on his shoulder and grabs your waist. He leads you in some kind of haphazard salsa all over the stage. It’s totally unsuited to the music and you’re laughing uncontrollably while Lin keeps a mock-serious face. Jasmine declares you both crazy and heads back to her dressing room. Lin continues to spin you around the stage until the song ends. When the music shuffles to a Biffy Clyro song he holds up his hands in defeat. “I’m out!”, he laughs. He pulls you to the front of the stage to take a bow and then drops your hand to take his leave. “Welcome to the company”, he says with a smile as he heads away.

*****************************************

Three weeks in and you’ve essentially committed yourself as chief two-show day snack-bringer. You’ve met everyone now and are thrilled to be working with such a lovely group. You place a box of cookies in the green room and take a handful upstairs to the dressing rooms. You drop a few off with Oak and Anthony and then knock on Lin’s dressing room door.

“Come in!”, he yells. He’s only half-dressed when you walk in. Breeches are on but he’s naked from the waist up. Oh god. He looks good. He really looks good. “Oh sorry, I thought you were costumes!”, he apologises “I have a shirt emergency” he holds up a torn shirt sleeve as evidence. You drag your gaze from his torso, his smooth, kissable torso, to his face. “No problem.”, you say. This is a lie. This is *entirely* problematic. You won’t be able to shake this image for days. He pulls on his torn shirt and asks what you need.

Oh yeah, there was an actual reason you came here. “Cookies…I brought cookies”, you say. “Thanks!”, he says, taking one and moaning as he bites into it. This is really not helping. “Ok I gotta go!”, you say abruptly. “Uhh, more deliveries!”. You wave the cookies as you make a quick exit.

You pause with your back to his door for a second or so to recover your senses. There is no denying now that you have a full-scale, ridiculously school-girl crush on Lin. This is a recipe for disaster.

You knock on Jasmine’s dressing room door and enter. You’ve been spending most of your breaks with her, becoming fast friends incredibly easily. You toss her a cookie and squish into the chair in the corner of the room. “I just added you to the WhatsApp group”, she says as she throws her phone in her bag. “Group?”, you ask. “Yeah a bunch of us go out or have dinner semi-regularly so we have a group chat, and since you’re my new bestie you’re automatically required to come with me.”, she says matter-of-factedly. “I’m your new bestie?”, you ask with a hand clutched to your heart-you’re only partly joking, you’re quite touched. “Duh!”, she says and adds a wink. “It’s the snacks, isn’t it?”, you joke. “Aww man, you’ll never know…”, she answers and you both dissolve into giggles.

*****************************************

Chris: Ray’s bar, 8. Who’s in?

Lin: I’m there.

Jasmine: Me and Y/N are in.

Jonathan: Of course.

Lin: Woah, Newbie’s first #Hamilouting

Jonathan: Lin that’s a terrible hashtag.

Y/N: Uhh, Apparently I’m in…

Lin: We’ll ease you in gently, don’t worry.

Chris: Naw, baptism of fire, I say!

Y/N: Oh shit.

*****************************************

Nothing fancy, Jasmine said. Jeans and a nice top, she said. Nothing you have is any good. Staring at your wardrobe, you may as well be looking at racks of cloth sacks-nothing is jumping out at you. In desperation you text Jasmine.

HELP. I have nothing to wear. I know people always say that but it’s actually true.

Jasmine: Just a nice top will do, honey.

NOTHING, Jas.

Jasmine: You wanna come over? You can borrow something?

Please. Now?

Jasmine: see you in a bit.

Jasmine’s place is a subway ride away from yours, so you grab your makeup and put on your best jeans and head straight out. When you arrive, Jasmine instantly approves of your jeans and shoes. She has laid out a few tops for you to try on, and perches on the bed while you turn this way and that in front of the mirror. Ten minutes later, she’s bored. “The purple one was fine, Y/N”, she says. You make a dissatisfied noise. “It was! Why are you so bent out of shape about tonight, anyway?”, she asks. “I just want to make a good impression”, you say. “Mmhmm”, she sounds skeptical but doesn’t push it further.

When you arrive, Lin and Chris wave you over to a booth they’ve saved. “You’re both looking lovely”, Lin says. “She always looks amazing”, you say as you sit down next to him and Jas goes to the bar with Chris. Lin gives you a look. “What?”, you ask. “Just, that’s a funny way of taking a compliment.”, he jokes. “Oh, yeah no I don’t do that well”, you admit. “And why’s that?”, he asks outright. “Well Dr,”, you tease “low self-esteem, shitty ex destroying my confidence-you know the drill”. Lin nods slowly. “Well, we gotta do something about that.”, he says. “What do you mean?”. “Well I’ll just have to keep giving you compliments until you believe them”, he shrugs. Well, you don’t quite know what to do with that.

Thankfully Jonathan turns up at that moment and wraps you both in hugs, complaining about the weather and enthusing about the cocktails. On cue, Jasmine and Chris return from the bar with a tray of drinks. Whiskey for Chris and Lin, Cosmo for Jasmine. “And I got you two an Old Fashioned each”, she says. “I love you”, you and Jon say in unison and then collapse into each other in a fit of giggles. “Oh boy, they’re off!”, calls Chris.

*****************************************

Four Old Fashioneds in and you’re a teeny bit tipsy and having a whale of a time. You’ve danced with Jasmine until your feet are too sore and now you’re nestled safely in your booth between Lin and Jon, shoes off and feet tucked under you. “I’m so ladylike”, you groan, indicating your crossed legs. “Look at Jazzy, all class and grace-how d’ya get like that?”, you question. Lin does a double take “I’m wearing sneakers and a hoodie, don’t ask me!”, he says. You both turn to Jon. “Darling, you either have it or you don’t.”, he says dramatically. You and Lin roll your eyes at each other as Jon laughs at his own joke. He downs the rest of his drink and after checking his watch, announces that he’s got to go. He tracks down Jasmine and Chris and hugs them goodbye before running out to hail a cab. Jasmine tried to drag you up for another couple of dances but you protest about your feet. Chris has reached his limit too and she’s just about to work on Lin when she gets a text message from Anthony. He wants her to join him and his friends at a club a few blocks away. Chris offers to walk her their on his way home. You and Lin both jokingly boo them for skipping out before midnight, but it’s all kisses and hugs as you part.

And then it’s just the two of you squished into the booth. You settle back with your legs crossed again, facing Lin and sipping another Old Fashioned. “So the shitty ex”, he begins. “Ugh, yes?”, you reply. “How long ago was he?”, Lin asks. “Couple of years ago, he moved away when we broke up-he never liked New York and resented me for moving here”, you say. “Well, another reason to hate him”, says Lin. You nod. “He just. I always felt like he was ashamed of me, you know? He would go out with his friends but never take me, he just used to put me down all the time and our sex-life was just fucking DEAD”, you exclaim. “Oh god. Why did I tell you that?”, you say, rubbing your temple. Lin laughs to try and break the tension “Because you’re on your fifth Old Fashioned?”, he suggests.

You shake your head. “I’m not drunk. Merry, maybe.”, you admit. “I’ve not told anyone any of that before. I mean, with everything else I’m a pretty open book but not…this”. Lin takes a drink, and then takes your hand. “I’m glad you told me.”, he says. “He sounds like an idiot, though”. “I thought I loved him. I did, once. I don’t know if he ever loved me though. That bugs me, makes me doubt my instincts.”, you admit. Why are you telling him all this?! He’s just so inviting-those warm eyes, the way he makes you feel like he’s really listening. The odds are really stacking against you ever being able to resist this ill-fated crush.

“Don’t doubt yourself. You strike me as pretty bright, pretty observant…just generally pretty too”, he says with a grin to lighten the mood. You give him a light punch on the arm, unsure whether he was serious and clueless as to how you should react.

“Now, how we gonna get you home?”, he asks, looking at your feet. “Barefoot, baby!”, you laugh. “Umm, no. No, no. Your feet’ll be in shreds. We gotta get a cab to your apartment.”, he insists. “Is it on your way?”, you ask when you’ve told him your address. “Sure”.

You spend the cab ride talking about the last movie you both saw, and the time passes very quickly. When you reach your building, you’re so busy wincing at your shoes as you get out that you don’t notice Lin has also got out and has paid for the cab. “Lin is this really on your way home?”, you ask as he offers you his arm. “Good lord, no!”, he laughs. “Lin!”, you protest. “I promised Jas I’d get you home safe-I’m under strict instructions to walk you to your door”, he says.

You wonder for a second if Jas has caught on to your crush on Lin, and this is a set up on her part. But then you’re at your door and there’s no time left to wonder about that. Lin stands awkwardly as you search for your keys. “Do you want to come in for some coffee?”, you ask as you pull the keys out of your bag. Even though you know you can’t sleep with the boss, a little rebel part of your brain hopes he’ll come in and is daydreaming about how that would go. “I can’t, but thanks.”, Lin says. “How was your first Hamilouting?”, he asks with a grin. “So much fun”, you smile. “And hey, sorry if I unloaded on you back there-I’m kinda sober now and regretting revealing all my insecurities…”, you say, trying to laugh it off. Lin moves closer, standing right in front of you now. “Not at all.”, he says. “I just wish that no one had ever made you feel anything less than strong and beautiful”. He reaches out and moves your hair behind your ear as you feel your own breath hitch.

In the next few seconds, your mind races: is he making a move? Isn’t he technically your boss? This can’t be a good idea.

Then he strokes his thumb across your cheek bone and brings his lips to yours and oh but it’s the best fucking idea. You lift your hand to his neck and close any remaining distance between you by pressing your body up against his.

The kiss is pretty much perfect-gentle but firm, sweet but insistent. It makes you want to pull him through your door and keep kissing him until your lips are bruised.

But soon he stops. He is looking for a sign from you that this is ok. You reach up to give him a peck on the cheek and softly say “Goodnight, Lin.”. “Goodnight, Y/N”, he says, and you smile before turning to open your door. “I’ll see you tomorrow “, he calls as he heads for the stairs, flashing you a smile as he goes.

“Tomorrow”.

#lmm x reader #lin manuel x reader #lin manuel imagine #lin x reader #rpf #hamilton rpf #hamilcast x reader #hamilcast imagine

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jamesgraybooksellerworld · 5 years

Text

Author INDEX

J.B. 346J

Mary Barber 377J

Madam De Bellefont 572G

Susanna Centlivre 347J

Susanna Centlivre 357J

Jeanne Marie Bouvier de La Motte Guyon 348J

[Martha Hatfield].362J

Mary De La Riviere Manley 122F

Katherine Philips 103G

Mary Pix 376J

Madam Scuddery 296J

Madeleine Vigneron 323

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346J J.B. Gent.

The young lovers guide,

or, The unsuccessful amours of Philabius, a country lover; set forth in several kind epistles, writ by him to his beautious-unkind mistress. Teaching lover s how to comport themselves with resignation in their love-disasters. With The answer of Helena to Paris, by a country shepherdess. As also, The sixth Æneid and fourth eclogue of Virgil, both newly translated by J.B. Gent. (?)

London : Printed and are to be Sold by the Booksellers of London, 1699. $3,500

Octavo, A4, B-G8,H6 I2( lacking 3&’4) (A1, frontispiece Present; I3&’4, advertisements lacking ) inches [8], 116, [4] p. : The frontispiece is signed: M· Vander Gucht. scul:. 1660-1725,

This copy is bound in original paneled sheep with spine cracking but cords holding Strong.

A very rare slyly misogynistic “guide’ for what turns out be emotional turmoil and Love-Disasters

Writ by Philabius to Venus, his Planetary Ascendant.

Dear Mother Venus!

I must style you so.

From you descended, tho’ unhappy Beau.

You are my Astral Mother; at my birth

Your pow’rful Influence bore the sway on Earth

From my Ascendent: being sprung from you,

I hop’d Success where-ever I should woo.

Your Pow’r in Heav’n and Earth prevails, shall I,

A Son of yours, by you forsaken die?

Twenty long Months now I have lov’d a Fair,

And all my Courtship’s ending in Despair.

All Earthly Beauties, scatter’d here and there,

From you, their Source, derive the Charms they bear.

Wing (2nd ed.), B131; Arber’s Term cat.; III 142

Copies – Brit.Isles : British Library

Cambridge University St. John’s College

Oxford University, Bodleian Library

Copies – N.America : Folger Shakespeare

Harvard Houghton Library

Henry E. Huntington

Newberry

UCLA, Clark Memorial Library

University of Illinois

Engraved frontispiece of the Mistress holding a fan,”Bold Poets and rash Painters may aspire With pen and pencill to describe my Faire, Alas; their arts in the performance fayle, And reach not that divine Original, Some Shadd’wy glimpse they may present to view, And this is all poore humane art Can doe▪” title within double rule border, 4-pages of publisher`s advertisements at the end Contemporary calf (worn). . FIRST EDITION. . The author remains unknown.

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An early Irish female author

2) 377[ BARBER, Mary].1685-1755≠

A true tale To be added to Mr. Gay’s fables.

Dublin. Printed by S. Powell, for George Ewing, at the Angel and Bible in Dame’-street, 1727.

First edition, variant imprint..[Dublin : printed by S.[i.e. Sarah] Harding, next door to the sign of the Crown in Copper-Alley, [ca. 1727-1728] 7pp, [1]. Not in ESTC or Foxon; c/f N491542 and N13607. $4,500

[Bound after:]

John GAY

Fables. Invented for the Amusement of His Highness William Duke of Cumberland.

London Printed, and Dublin Reprinted for G. Risk, G. Ewing, and W. Smith, in Dame’s-street, 1727.

First Irish edition. [8], 109pp, [3]. With three terminal pages of advertisements. ESTC T13819, Foxon p.295.

8vo in 4s and 8s. Contemporary speckled calf, contrasting red morocco lettering- piece, gilt. Rubbed to extremities, some chipping to head and foot of spine and cracking to joints, bumping to corners. Occasional marking, some closed tears. Early ink inscription of ‘William Crose, Clithero’ to FEP, further inked-over inscription to head of title.

Mary Barber (1685-1755) claimed that she wrote “chiefly to form the Minds of my Children,” but her often satirical and comic verses suggest that she sought an adult audience as well. The wife of a clothier and mother of four children, she lived in Dublin and enjoyed the patronage of Jonathan Swift. While marriage, motherhood, friendship, education, and other domestic issues are her central themes, they frequently lead her to broader, biting social commentary.

Bound behind this copy of the first edition of the first series of English poet John Gay’s (1685-1732) famed Fables, composed for the youngest son of George II, six-year-old Prince William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, is Irish poet Mary Barber’s (c.1685-c.1755) rare verse appeal to secure a Royal pension for Gay, who had lost his fortune in bursting of the South Sea Bubble.

Barber, the wife of a Dublin woollen draper, was an untutored poet whom Jonathan Swift sponsored, publicly applauded, and cultivated as part of his ‘triumfeminate’ of bluestockings. She wrote initially to educate the children in her large family. Indeed this poem, the fifth of her published works, features imagined dialogue of a son to his mother, designed to encourage, specifically, the patronage of Queen Caroline:

‘Mamma, if you were Queen, says he, And such a Book were writ for me; I find, ’tis so much to your Taste, That Gay wou’d keep his Coach at least’

And of a mother to her son:

‘My Child, What you suppose is true: I see its Excellence in You. Poets, who write to mend the Mind, A Royal Recompence shou’d find.’

ESTC locates two variant Dublin editions, both rare, but neither matching this copy: a first with the title and pagination as here, but with the undated imprint of S. Harding (represented by a single copy at Harvard), and a second with the imprint as here, but with a different title, A tale being an addition to Mr. Gay’s fables, and a pagination of 8pp (represented by copies at the NLI, Oxford, Harvard and Yale). This would appear to be a second variant, and we can find no copies in any of the usual databases.

Mary Barber was an Irish poet who mostly focussed on domestic themes such as marriage and children although the messages in some of her poems suggested a widening of her interests, often making cynical comments on social injustice. She was a member of fellow Irish poet Jonathan Swift’s favoured circle of writers, known as his “triumfeminate”, a select group that also included Mrs E Sican and Constantia Grierson.

She was born sometime around the year 1685 in Dublin but nothing much is known about her education or upbringing. She married a much younger man by the name of Rupert Barber and they had nine children together, although only four survived childhood. She was writing poetry initially for the benefit and education of her children but, by 1725, she had The Widow’s Address published and this was seen as an appeal on behalf of an Army officer’s widow against the social and financial difficulties that such women were facing all the time. Rather than being a simple tale for younger readers here was a biting piece of social commentary, aimed at a seemingly uncaring government.

During the 18th and early 19th centuries it was uncommon for women to become famous writers and yet Barber seemed to possess a “natural genius” where poetry was concerned which was all the more remarkable since she had no formal literary tuition to fall back on. The famous writer Jonathan Swift offered her patronage, recognising a special talent instantly. Indeed, he called her “the best Poetess of both Kingdoms” although his enthusiasm was not necessarily shared by literary critics of the time. It most certainly benefitted her having the support of fellow writers such as Elizabeth Rowe and Mary Delany, and Swift encouraged her to publish a collection in 1734 called Poems on several occasions. The book sold well, mostly by subscription to eminent persons in society and government. The quality of the writing astonished many who wondered how such a simple, sometimes “ailing Irish housewife” could have produced such work.

It took some time for Barber to attain financial stability though and her patron Swift was very much involved in her success. She could have lost his support though because, in a desperate attempt to achieve wider recognition, she wrote letters to many important people, including royalty, with Swift’s signature forged at the end. When he found out about this indiscretion he was not best pleased but he forgave her anyway.

Unfortunately poor health prevented much more coming from her pen during her later years. For over twenty years she suffered from gout and, in fact, wrote poems about the subject for a publication called the Gentleman’s Magazine. It is worth including here an extract from her poem Written for my son, at his first putting on of breeches. It is, in some ways, an apology and an explanation to a child enduring the putting on of an uncomfortable garment for the first time. She suggests in fact that many men have suffered from gout because of the requirement to wear breeches. The first verse of the poem is reproduced here:

Many of her poems were in the form of letters written to distinguished people, such as To The Right Honourable The Lady Sarah Cowper and To The Right Honourable The Lady Elizabeth Boyle On Her Birthday. These, and many more, were published in her 1755 collection Poems by Eminent Ladies. History sees her, unfortunately, as a mother writing to support her children rather than a great poet, and little lasting value has been attributed to her work.

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3). 572G Léonore Gigault de,; O.S.B. Bellefont (Bouhours)

Les OEuvres spirituelles de Madame De Bellefont, religieuse, fondatrice & superieure du convent de Nôtre-Dame des Anges, de l’Ordre de Saint Benoist, à Roüen.Dediées à Madame La Dauphine.

A Paris : Chez Helie Josset, ruë S. Jacques, au coin de la ruë de la Parcheminerie, à la fleur de lys d’or, 1688 $2200

Octavo 6.25 x 3.6 in. a4, e8, i8, o2, A-Z8; Aa-Qq8 ; *8, **4. This copy is very clean and crisp it is bound in contemporary calf with ornately gilt spine. La vie de Madame de Bellefont”, on unnumbered pages preceding numbered text./ “Table des chapitres . . .” and “Stances” and “Paraphrases” in verse on final 24 numbered pages./ In the “Avant propos” this work is ascribed to “feüe madame Lêonore Gigault de Bellefont”, but most authorities credit Laurence Gigault de Bellefont with authorship See Sommervogel I 1908 #25

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4) 374J [ Susanna CENTLIVRE,]. 1667-1723

The gamester: A Comedy…

London. Printed for William Turner, 1705. $4,000

Quarto. [6], 70pp, [2]. First edition.Without half-title. Later half-vellum, marbled boards, contrasting black morocco lettering-piece. Extremities lightly rubbed and discoloured. Browned, some marginal worming, occasional shaving to running titles.

The first edition of playwright and actress Susanna Centlivre’s (bap. 1667?, d. 1723) convoluted gambling comedy, adapted from French dramatist Jean Francois Regnard’s (1655-1709) Le Jouer (1696). The Gamester met with tremendous success and firmly established Centlivre as a part the pantheon of celebrated seventeenth-century playwrights, yet the professional life of the female dramatist remained complicated, with many of her works, as here, being published anonymously and accompanied by a prologue implying a male author.

CENTLIVRE, English dramatic writer and actress, was born about 1667, probably in Ireland, where her father, a Lincolnshire gentleman named Freeman, had been forced to flee at the Restoration on account of his political sympathies. When sixteen she married the nephew of Sir Stephen Fox, and on his death within a year she married an officer named Carroll, who was killed in a duel. Left in poverty, she began to support herself, writing for the stage, and some of her early plays are signed S. Carroll. In 1706 she married Joseph Centlivre, chief cook to Queen Anne, who survived her.

ESTC T26860.

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An early Irish female author

4) 374J. Sussana Centlivre 1667-1723

The Gamester

CENTLIVRE, SUSANNA (c. 1667-1723), English dramatic writer and actress, was born about 1667, probably in Ireland, where her father, a Lincolnshire gentleman named Freeman, had been forced to flee at the Restoration on account of his political sympathies. When sixteen she married the nephew of Sir Stephen Fox, and on his death within a year she married an officer named Carroll, who was killed in a duel. Left in poverty, she began to support herself, writing for the stage, and some of her early plays are signed S. Carroll. In 1706 she married Joseph Centlivre, chief cook to Queen Anne, who survived her. Her first play was a tragedy, The Perjured Husband (1700), and she herself appeared for the first time as Bath in her comedy Love at a Venture (1706). Among her most successful comedies are– The Gamester (1705); The Busy Body(1709); A Bold Stroke for a Wife (1718); The Basset-table (1706); and The Wonder! a Woman keeps a Secret (1714), in which, as the jealous husband, Garrick found one of his best parts. Her plots, verging on the farcical, were always ingenious and amusing, though coarse after the fashion of the time, and the dialogue fluent. She never seems to have acted in London, but she was a friend of Rowe, Farquhar and Steele. Mrs. Centlivre died on the 1st of December 1723. Her dramatic works were published, with a biography, in 1761.

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Political satire by An early Irish female author

4) 375J. Sussana Centlivre

The Gotham Election, A farce.

(London 🙂 printed and sold by S. Keimer,1715. $ 3,900

The Gotham Election, one of the first satires to tackle electioneering and bribery in eighteenth century British politics. It proved to be so controversial that, despite Centlivre’s popularity as a playwright, it was supressed from being performed during the turbulent year of 1715. Centlivre was renowned as one of the greatest female playwrights of her day, and her plays, predominately comedies, were responsible for the development of the careers of actors such as David Garrick. However, despite her popularity, she also made enemies in the literary world of the early-eighteenth century. Most notably Alexander Pope, who, in his Dunciad, referred to her as a ‘slip-shod Muse’, possibly in reference to her participation in the work The Nine Muses, which was published in 1700 to commemorate the death of John Dryden.

English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT26854

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A collection of Poems and Letters by Christian mystic and prolific writer, Jeanne-Marie Guyon published in Dublin.

348J François de Salignac de la Mothe-Fénelon 1651-1715 & Josiah Martin 1683-1747 & Jeanne Marie Bouvier de La Motte Guyon 1648-1717

A dissertation on pure love, by the Arch-Bishop of Cambray. With an account of the life and writings of the Lady, for whose sake The Archbishop was banish’d from Court: And the grievous Persecution she suffer’d in France for her Religion. Also Two Letters in French and English, written by one of the Lady’s Maids, during her Confinement in the Castle of Vincennes, where she was Prisoner Eight Years. One of the Letters was writ with a Bit of Stick instead of a Pen, and Soot instead of Ink, to her Brother; the other to a Clergyman. Together with an apologetic preface. Containing divers letters of the Archbishop of Cambray, to the Duke of Burgundy, the present French King’s Father, and other Persons of Distinction. And divers letters of the lady to Persons of Quality, relating to her Religious Principles

Dublin : printed by Isaac Jackson, in Meath-Street, [1739]. $ 4,000

Octavo 7 3/4 x 5 inches First and only English edition. Bound in Original sheep, with a quite primitive repair to the front board.

Fenélon’s text appears to consist largely of extracts from ’Les oeuvres spirituelles’. The preface, account of Jeanne Marie Guyon etc. is compiled by Josiah Martin. The text of the letters, and poems, is in French and English. This is an Astonishing collection of letters and poems.

“JOSIAH MARTIN, (1683–1747), quaker, was born near London in 1683. He became a good classical scholar, and is spoken of by Gough, the translator of Madame Guyon’s Life, 1772, as a man whose memory is esteemed for ‘learning, humility, and fervent piety.’ He died unmarried, 18 Dec. 1747, in the parish of St. Andrew’s, Holborn, and was buried in the Friends’ burial-ground, Bunhill Fields. He left the proceeds of his library of four thousand volumes to be divided among nephews and nieces. Joseph Besse [q. v.] was his executor.

Martin’s name is best known in connection with ‘A Letter from one of the People called Quakers to Francis de Voltaire, occasioned by his Remarks on that People in his Letters concerning the English Nation,’ London, 1741. It was twice reprinted, London and Dublin, and translated into French. It is a temperate and scholarly treatise, and was in much favour at the time.

Of his other works the chief are: 1. ‘A Vindication of Women’s Preaching, as well from Holy Scripture and Antient Writings as from the Paraphrase and Notes of the Judicious John Locke, wherein the Observations of B[enjamin] C[oole] on the said Paraphrase . . . and the Arguments in his Book entitled “Reflections,” &c, are fullv considered,’ London, 1717. 2. ‘The Great Case of Tithes truly stated … by Anthony Pearson [q. v.] . . . to which is added a Defence of some other Principles held by the People call’d Quakers . . .,’ London, 1730. 3. ‘A Letter concerning the Origin, Reason, and Foundation of the Law of Tithes in England,’ 1732. He also edited, with an ‘Apologetic Preface,’ comprising more than half the book, and containing many additional letters from Fénelon and Madame Guyon, ‘The Archbishop of Cambray’s Dissertation on Pure Love, with an Account of the Life and Writings of the Lady for whose sake he was banish’d from Court,’ London, 1735.

[Joseph Smith’s Catalogue of Friends’ Books; works quoted above; Life of Madame Guyon, Bristol, 1772, pt. i. errata; registers at Devonshire House; will P.C.C. 58 Strahan, at Somerset House.]

C. F. S.

Fénelon was nominated in February, 1696, Fénelon was consecrated in August of the same year by Bossuet in the chapel of Saint-Cyr. The future of the young prelate looked brilliant, when he fell into deep disgrace.

The cause of Fénelon’s trouble was his connection with Madame Guyon, whom he had met in the society of his friends, the Beauvilliers and the Chevreuses. She was a native of Orléans, which she left when about twenty-eight years old, a widowed mother of three children, to carry on a sort of apostolate of mysticism, under the direction of Père Lacombe, a Barnabite. After many journeys to Geneva, and through Provence and Italy, she set forth her ideas in two works, “Le moyen court et facile de faire oraison” and “Les torrents spirituels”. In exaggerated language characteristic of her visionary mind, she presented a system too evidently founded on the Quietism of Molinos, that had just been condemned by Innocent XI in 1687. There were, however, great divergencies between the two systems. Whereas Molinos made man’s earthly perfection consist in a state of uninterrupted contemplation and love, which would dispense the soul from all active virtue and reduce it to absolute inaction, Madame Guyon rejected with horror the dangerous conclusions of Molinos as to the cessation of the necessity of offering positive resistance to temptation. Indeed, in all her relations with Père Lacombe, as well as with Fénelon, her virtuous life was never called in doubt. Soon after her arrival in Paris she became acquainted with many pious persons of the court and in the city, among them Madame de Maintenon and the Ducs de Beauvilliers and Chevreuse, who introduced her to Fénelon. In turn, he was attracted by her piety, her lofty spirituality, the charm of her personality, and of her books. It was not long, however, before the Bishop of Chartres, in whose diocese Saint-Cyr was, began to unsettle the mind of Madame de Maintenon by questioning the orthodoxy of Madame Guyon’s theories. The latter, thereupon, begged to have her works submitted to an ecclesiastical commission composed of Bossuet, de Noailles, who was then Bishop of Châlons, later Archbishop of Paris, and M. Tronson; superior of-Saint-Sulpice. After an examination which lasted six months, the commission delivered its verdict in thirty-four articles known as the “Articles d’ Issy”, from the place near Paris where the commission sat. These articles, which were signed by Fénelon and the Bishop of Chartres, also by the members of the commission, condemned very briefly Madame Guyon’s ideas, and gave a short exposition of the Catholic teaching on prayer. Madame Guyon submitted to the condemnation, but her teaching spread in England, and Protestants, who have had her books reprinted have always expressed sympathy with her views. Cowper translated some of her hymns into English verse; and her autobiography was translated into English by Thomas Digby (London, 1805) and Thomas Upam (New York, 1848). Her books have been long forgotten in France.

Jeanne Marie Guyon

b. 1648, Montargis, France; d. 1717, Blois, France

A Christian mystic and prolific writer, Jeanne-Marie Guyon advocated a form of spirituality that led to conflict with authorities and incarceration. She was raised in a convent, then married off to a wealthy older man at the age of sixteen. When her husband died in 1676, she embarked on an evangelical mission to convert Protestants to her brand of spirituality, a mild form of quietism, which propounded the notion that through complete passivity (quiet) of the soul, one could become an agent of the divine. Guyon traveled to Geneva, Turin, and Grenoble with her mentor, Friar François Lacombe, at the same time producing several manuscripts: Les torrents spirituels (Spiritual Torrents); an 8,000-page commentary on the Bible; and her most important work, the Moyen court et très facile de faire oraison (The Short and Very Easy Method of Prayer, 1685). Her activities aroused suspicion; she was arrested in 1688 and committed to the convent of the Visitation in Paris, where she began writing an autobiography. Released within a few months, she continued proselytizing, meanwhile attracting several male disciples. In 1695, the Catholic church declared quietism heretical, and Guyon was locked up in the Bastille until 1703. Upon her release, she retired to her son’s estate in Blois. Her writings were published in forty-five volumes from 1712 to 1720.

Her writings began to be published in Holland in 1704, and brought her new admirers. Englishmen and Germans–among them Wettstein and Lord Forbes–visited her at Blois. Through them Madame Guyon’s doctrines became known among Protestants and in that soil took vigorous root. But she did not live to see this unlooked-for diffusion of her writings. She passed away at Blois, at the age of sixty-eight, protesting in her will that she died submissive to the Catholic Church, from which she had never had any intention of separating herself. Her doctrines, like her life, have nevertheless given rise to the widest divergences of opinion. Her published works (the “Moyen court” and the “Règles des assocées à l’Enfance de Jésus”) having been placed on the Index in 1688, and Fénelon’s “Maximes des saints” branded with the condemnation of both the pope and the bishops of France, the Church has thus plainly reprobated Madame Guyon’s doctrines, a reprobation which the extravagance of her language would in itself sufficiently justify. Her strange conduct brought upon her severe censures, in which she could see only manifestations of spite. Evidently, she too often fell short of due reserve and prudence; but after all that can be said in this sense, it must be acknowledged that her morality appears to have given no grounds for serious reproach. Bossuet, who was never indulgent in her regard, could say before the full assembly of the French clergy: “As to the abominations which have been held to be the result of her principles, there was never any question of the horror she testified for them.” It is remarkable, too, that her disciples at the Court of Louis XIV were always persons of great piety and of exemplary life.

On the other hand, Madame Guyon’s warmest partisans after her death were to be found among the Protestants. It was a Dutch Protestant, the pastor Poiret, who began the publication of her works; a Vaudois pietist pastor, Duthoit-Mambrini, continued it. Her “Life” was translated into English and German, and her ideas, long since forgotten in France, have for generations been in favour in Germany, Switzerland, England, and among Methodists in America. ”

P.144 misnumbered 134. Price from imprint: price a British Half-Crown. Dissertain 16p and Directions for a holy life 5p. DNB includes this in Martin’s works

Copies – Brit.Isles. : British Library, Dublin City Library, National Library of Ireland Trinity College Library

Copies – N.America. : Bates College, Harvard University, Haverford Col , Library Company of Philadelphia, Newberry, Pittsburgh Theological Princeton University, University of Illinois University of Toronto, Library

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362J James FISHER and [Martha HATFIELD].

The wise virgin: or, A wonderfull narration of the various dispensations of God towards a childe of eleven years of age; wherein as his severity hath appeared in afflicting, so also his goodness both in enabling her (when stricken dumb, deaf, and blind, through the prevalency of her disease) at several times to utter many glorious truths concerning Christ, faith, and other subjects; and also in recovering her without the use of any external means, lest the glory should be given to any other. To the wonderment of many that came far and neer to see and hear her. With some observations in the fourth year since her recovery. She is the daughter of Mr. Anthony Hatfield gentleman, in Laughton in York-shire; her name is Martha Hatfield. The third edition enlarged, with some passages of her gracious conversation now in the time of health. By James Fisher, servant of Christ, and minister of the Gospel in Sheffield.

LONDON: Printed for John Rothwell, at the Fountain, in Cheap-side. 1656 $3,300 Octavo, 143 x 97 x 23 mm (binding), 139 x 94 x 18 mm (text block). A-M8, N3. Lacks A1, blank or portrait? [26], 170 pp. Bound in contemporary calf, upper board reattached, somewhat later marbled and blank ends. Leather rubbed with minor loss to extremities. Interior: Title stained, leaves soiled, gathering N browned, long vertical tear to E2 without loss, tail fore-corner of F8 torn away, with loss of a letter, side notes of B2v trimmed. This is a remarkable survival of the third edition of the popular interregnum account of Sheffield Presbyterian minister James Fisher’s 11-year-old niece Martha Hatfield’s prophetic dialogues following her recovery from a devastating catalepsy that had left her “dumb, deaf, and blind.” Mar tha’s disease, which defies modern retro-diagnostics, was at the time characterized as “spleenwinde,” a term even the Oxford English Dictionary has overlooked. Her sufferings were as variable as they were extraordinary the young girl at one point endured a 17-day fugue state during which her eyes remained open and fixed and she gnashed her teeth to the breaking point. In counterpoise to the horrors of her infirmity, her utterances in periods of remission and upon recovery were of great purity and sweetness; it is this stark contrast that was, and is, the persistent allure of this little book. The Wise Virgin appeared five times between 1653 and 1665; some editions have a portrait frontispiece, and it is entirely possible that the present third edition should have one at A1v, though the copy scanned by Early English Books Online does not. Copies located at Yale, and at Oxford (from which the EEBO copy was made). ONLY Wing F1006.

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376J Mary Pix 1666-1720

The conquest of Spain: a tragedy. As it is Acted by Her Majesty’s Servants at the Queen’s Theatre In the Hay-Market

London : printed for Richard Wellington, at the Dolphin and Crown in St. Paul’s Church-Yard, 1705. $4,500

Quarto [A]-K4. First Edition . (Anonymous. By Mary Pix. Adapted from “All’s lost by lust”, by William Rowley)

Inspired by Aphra Behn, Mary Pix was among the most popular playwrights on the 17th-century theatre circuit, but fell out of fashion.

“It is so rare to find a play from that period that’s powered by a funny female protagonist. I was immensely surprised by the brilliance of the writing. It is witty and forthright. Pix was writing plays that not only had more women in the cast than men but women who were managing their destinies.”

Pix was born in 1666, the year of the Great Fire of London, and grew up in the culturally rich time of Charles II. With the prolific Aphra Behn (1640-1689) as her role model, Pix burst on to the London theatre and literary scene in 1696 with two plays – one a tragedy: Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperor of the Turks, the other a farce – The Spanish Wives. Pix also wrote a novel – The Inhuman Cardinal.

Her subsequent plays, mostly comedies, became a staple in the repertory of Thomas Betterton’s company Duke’s at Lincoln’s Inn Fields and later at the Queen’s Theatre. She wrote primarily for particular actors, such as Elizabeth Barry and Anne Bracegirdle, who were hugely popular and encouraged a whole generation of women writers.

In a patriarchal world dominated by self-important men, making a mark as a woman was an uphill struggle. “There was resistance to all achieving women in the 18th century, a lot of huffing and puffing by overbearing male chauvinists,” says Bush-Bailey.

“Luckily for Pix and the other women playwrights of that time, the leading actresses were powerful and influential. I think it was they who mentored people such as Pix and Congreve.”

Davies believes the women playwrights of the 1700s – Susanna Centlivre, Catherine Trotter Cockburn, Delarivier Manley and Hannah Cowley – “unquestionably” held their own against the men who would put them down. “What’s difficult is that they were attacked for daring to write plays at all,” she says.

One of the most blatant examples of male hostility came in the form of an anonymously written parody entitled The Female Wits in 1696, in which Mary Pix was caricatured as “Mrs Wellfed, a fat female author, a sociable, well-natur’d companion that will not suffer martyrdom rather than take off three bumpers [alcoholic drinks] in a hand”.

While Pix’s sociability and taste for good food and wine was common knowledge, she was known to be a universally popular member of the London literary and theatrical circuit.

“The Female Wits was probably written, with malice, by George Powell of the Drury Lane Company,” says Bush-Bailey. “It was a cheap, satirical jibe at the successful women playwrights of the time, making out they were all bitching behind each others’ backs. So far as one can tell, it was just spiteful and scurrilous.”

Mary Pix (1666 – 17 May 1709) was an English novelist and playwright. As an admirer of Aphra Behn and colleague of Susanna Centlivre, Pix has been called “a link between women writers of the Restoration and Augustan periods”.

The Dramatis personae from a 1699 edition of Pix’s The False Friend.

Mary Griffith Pix was born in 1666, the daughter of a rector, musician and Headmaster of the Royal Latin School, Buckingham, Buckinghamshire; her father, Roger Griffith, died when she was very young, but Mary and her mother continued to live in the schoolhouse after his death. She was courted by her father’s successor Thomas Dalby, but he left with the outbreak of smallpox in town, just one year after the mysterious fire that burned the schoolhouse. Rumour had it that Mary and Dalby had been making love rather energetically and overturned a candle which set fire to the bedroom.

In 1684, at the age of 18, Mary Griffith married George Pix (a merchant tailor from Hawkhurst, Kent). The couple moved to his country estate in Kent. Her first son, George (b. 1689), died very young in 1690.[3] The next year the couple moved to London and she gave birth to another son, William (b. 1691).

In 1696, when Pix was thirty years old, she first emerged as a professional writer, publishing The Inhumane Cardinal; or, Innocence Betrayed, her first and only novel, as well as two plays, Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperour of the Turks and The Spanish Wives.

Though from quite different backgrounds, Pix quickly became associated with two other playwrights who emerged in the same year: Delariviere Manley and Catherine Trotter. The three female playwrights attained enough public success that they were criticised in the form of an anonymous satirical play The Female Wits (1696). Mary Pix appears as “Mrs. Wellfed one that represents a fat, female author. A good rather sociable, well-matured companion that would not suffer martyrdom rather than take off three bumpers in a hand”.[4] She is depicted as an ignorant woman, though amiable and unpretentious. Pix is summarised as “foolish and openhearted”.

Her first play was put on stage in 1696 at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, near her house in London but when that same theatrical company performed The Female Wits, she moved to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. They said of her that “she has boldly given us an essay of her talent … and not without success, though with little profit to herself”. (Morgan, 1991: xii).

In the season of 1697–1698, Pix became involved in a plagiarism scandal with George Powell. Powell was a rival playwright and the manager of the Drury Lane theatrical company. Pix sent her play, The Deceiver Deceived to Powell’s company, as a possible drama for them to perform. Powell rejected the play but kept the manuscript and then proceeded to write and perform a play called The Imposture Defeated, which had a plot and main character taken directly from The Deceiver Deceived. In the following public backlash, Pix accused Powell of stealing her work and Powell claimed that instead he and Pix had both drawn their plays from the same source material, an unnamed novel. In 1698, an anonymous writer, now believed to be Powell, published a letter called “To the Ingenious Mr. _____.” which attacked Pix and her fellow female playwright Trotter. The letter attempted to malign Pix on various issues, such as her spelling and presumption in publishing her writing. Though Pix’s public reputation was not damaged and she continued writing after the plagiarism scandal, she stopped putting her name on her work and after 1699 she only included her name on one play, in spite of the fact that she is believed to have written at least seven more. Scholars still discuss the attribution of plays to Pix, notably whether or not she wrote Zelmane; or, The Corinthian Queen (1705).

In May 1707 Pix published A Poem, Humbly Inscrib’d to the Lords Commissioners for the Union of the Two Kingdoms. This would be her final appearance in print. She died two years later.

Few of the female playwrights of Mary Pix’s time came from a theatrical background and none came from the aristocracy: within a century, most successful actresses and female authors came from a familiar tradition of literature and theatre but Mary Pix and her contemporaries were from outside this world and had little in common with one another apart from a love for literature and a middle-class background.

At the time of Mary Pix, “The ideal of the one-breadwinner family had not yet become dominant”, whereas in 18th-century families it was normal for the woman to stay at home taking care of the children, house and servants, in Restoration England husband and wife worked together in familiar enterprises that sustained them both and female playwrights earned the same wage as their male counterparts.

Morgan also points out that “till the close of the period, authorship was not generally advertised on playbills, nor always proclaimed when plays were printed”, which made it easier for female authors to hide their identity so as to be more easily accepted among the most conservative audiences.

As Morgan states, “plays were valued according to how they performed and not by who wrote them. When authorship ―female or otherwise― remained a matter of passing interest, female playwrights were in an open and equal market with their male colleagues”.

Pix’s plays were very successful among contemporary audiences. Each play ran for at least four to five nights and some were even brought back for additional shows years later.[10] Her tragedies were quite popular, because she managed to mix extreme action with melting love scenes. Many critics believed that Pix’s best pieces were her comedies. Pix’s comedic work was lively and full of double plots, intrigue, confusion, songs, dances and humorous disguise. An Encyclopaedia of British Women Writers (1998) points out that

Forced or unhappy marriages appear frequently and prominently in the comedies. Pix is not, however, writing polemics against the forced marriage but using it as a plot device and sentimentalizing the unhappily married person, who is sometimes rescued and married more satisfactorily.”(Schlueter & Schlueter, 1998: 513)

Although some contemporary women writers, like Aphra Behn, have been rediscovered, even the most specialised scholars have little knowledge of works by writers such as Catherine Trotter, Delarivier Manley or Mary Pix, despite the fact that plays like The Beau Defeated (1700), present with a wider range of female characters than plays written by men at the time. Pix’s plays generally had eight or nine female roles, while plays by male writers only had two or three.[

A production of The Fantastic Follies of Mrs Rich (or The Beau Defeated) played as part of the 2018 season at the Royal Shakespeare Company.

Pix produced one novel and seven plays. There are four other plays that were published anonymously, that are generally attributed to her.

Melinda Finberg notes that “a frequent motif in all her works is sexual violence and female victimization” – be that rape or murder (in the tragedies) or forcible confinement or the threat of rape (in the comedies).

^ Kramer, Annette (June 1994). “Mary Pix’s Nebulous Relationship to Zelmane”. Notes and Queries. 41 (2): 186–187. doi:10.1093/nq/41-2-186

PIX, Mrs. MARY (1666–1720?), dramatist, born in 1666 at Nettlebed in Oxfordshire, was daughter of the Rev. Roger Griffith, vicar of that place. Her mother, whose maiden name was Lucy Berriman, claimed descent from the ‘very considerable family of the Wallis’s.’ In the dedication of ‘The Spanish Wives’ Mrs. Pix speaks of meeting Colonel Tipping ‘at Soundess,’ or Soundness. This house, which was close to Nettlebed, was the property of John Wallis, eldest son of the mathematician. Mary Griffith’s father died before 1684, and on 24 July in that year she married in London, at St. Saviour’s, Benetfink, George Pix (b. 1660), a merchant tailor of St. Augustine’s parish. His family was connected with Hawkhurst, Kent. By him she had one child, who was buried at Hawkhurst in 1690.

It was in 1696, in which year Colley Cibber, Mrs. Manley, Catharine Cockburn (Mrs. Trotter), and Lord Lansdowne also made their débuts, that Mrs. Pix first came into public notice. She produced at Dorset Garden, and then printed, a blank-verse tragedy of ‘Ibrahim, the Thirteenth Emperor of the Turks.’ When it was too late, she discovered that she should have written ‘Ibrahim the Twelfth.’ This play she dedicated to the Hon. Richard Minchall of Bourton, a neighbour of her country days. In the same year (1696) Mary Pix published a novel, ‘The Inhuman Cardinal,’ and a farce, ‘The Spanish Wives,’ which had enjoyed a very considerable success at Dorset Garden.

From this point she devoted herself to dramatic authorship with more activity than had been shown before her time by any woman except Mrs. Afra Behn [q. v.] In 1697 she produced at Little Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and then published, a comedy of ‘The Innocent Mistress.’ This play, which was very successful, shows the influence of Congreve upon the author, and is the most readable of her productions. The prologue and epilogue were written by Peter Anthony Motteux [q. v.] It was followed the next year by ‘The Deceiver Deceived,’ a comedy which failed, and which involved the poetess in a quarrel. She accused George Powell [q. v.], the actor, of having seen the manuscript of her play, and of having stolen from it in his ‘Imposture Defeated.’ On 8 Sept. 1698 an anonymous ‘Letter to Mr. Congreve’ was published in the interests of Powell, from which it would seem that Congreve had by this time taken Mary Pix under his protection, with Mrs. Trotter, and was to be seen ‘very gravely with his hat over his eyes … together with the two she-things called Poetesses’ (see GOSSE, Life of Congreve, pp. 123–5). Her next play was a tragedy of ‘Queen Catharine,’ brought out at Lincoln’s Inn, and published in 1698. Mrs. Trotter wrote the epilogue. In her own prologue Mary Pix pays a warm tribute to Shakespeare. ‘The False Friend’ followed, at the same house, in 1699; the title of this comedy was borrowed three years later by Vanbrugh.

Hitherto Mary Pix had been careful to put her name on her title-pages or dedications; but the comedy of ‘The Beau Defeated’—undated, but published in 1700—though anonymous, is certainly hers. In 1701 she produced a tragedy of ‘The Double Distress.’ Two more plays have been attributed to Mary Pix by Downes. One of these is ‘The Conquest of Spain,’ an adaptation from Rowley’s ‘All’s lost by Lust,’ which was brought out at the Queen’s theatre in the Haymarket, ran for six nights, and was printed anonymously in 1705 (DOWNE, Roscius Anglicanus, p. 48). Finally, the comedy of the ‘Adventures in Madrid’ was acted at the same house with Mrs. Bracegirdle in the cast, and printed anonymously and without date. It has been attributed by the historians of the drama to 1709; but a copy in the possession of the present writer has a manuscript note of date of publication ‘10 August 1706.’

Nearly all our personal impression of Mary Pix is obtained from a dramatic satire entitled ‘The Female Wits; or, the Triumvirate of Poets.’ This was acted at Drury Lane Theatre about 1697, but apparently not printed until 1704, after the death of the author, Mr. W. M. It was directed at the three women who had just come forward as competitors for dramatic honours—Mrs. Pix, Mrs. Manley, and Mrs. Trotter [see Cockburn, Catharine]. Mrs. Pix, who is described as ‘a fat Female Author, a good, sociable, well-natur’d Companion, that will not suffer Martyrdom rather than take off three Bumpers in a Hand,’ was travestied by Mrs. Powell under the name of ‘Mrs. Wellfed.’

The style of Mrs. Pix confirms the statements of her contemporaries that though, as she says in the dedication of the ‘Spanish Wives,’ she had had an inclination to poetry from childhood, she was without learning of any sort. She is described as ‘foolish and open-hearted,’ and as being ‘big enough to be the Mother of the Muses.’ Her fatness and her love of good wine were matters of notoriety. Her comedies, though coarse, are far more decent than those of Mrs. Behn, and her comic bustle of dialogue is sometimes entertaining. Her tragedies are intolerable. She had not the most superficial idea of the way in which blank verse should be written, pompous prose, broken irregularly into lengths, being her ideal of versification.

The writings of Mary Pix were not collected in her own age, nor have they been reprinted since. Several of them have become exceedingly rare. An anonymous tragedy, ‘The Czar of Muscovy,’ published in 1702, a week after her play of ‘The Double Distress,’ has found its way into lists of her writings, but there is no evidence identifying it with her in any way. She was, however, the author of ‘Violenta, or the Rewards of Virtue, turn’d from Bocacce into Verse,’ 1704.

[Miscellanea Genealogica et Heraldica, 2nd ser. v. 110–3; Vicar-General’s Marriage Licences (Harl. Soc.), 1679–87, p. 173; Baker’s Biogr. Dramatica; Doran’s Annals of the English Stage, i. 243; Mrs. Pix’s works; Genest’s Hist. Account of the Stage.].

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296J Mademoiselle Madeleine de Scudéri (1607-1701) A triumphant arch erected and consecrated to the glory of the feminine sexe: by Monsieur de Scudery: Englished by I.B. gent.London : printed for William Hope, and Henry Herringman, at the blew Anchor behind the Old Exchange, and at the blew Anchor in the lower walk in the New Exchange, 1656. $1,300Octavo A4 (lacking a1&a4) B-P8 Q3 (A1 blank?). Title in red and black; title vignette (motto: “Dum spiro spero”) First edition,Authorship ascribed to Madeleine de Scudéry by Brunet; according to other authorities the work was written by both Georges de Scudéry and his sister. This copy is lacking A1 &a4 index f., titled holed, browned and with marginal repairs (without loss), stained, lightly browned, corners worn, rubbed, contemporary sheep, rebacked,Very rare on the market the last copy I could find at auction was in 1967 ($420)Scudéry was the most popular novelist in her time, read in French in volume installments all over Europe and translated into English, German, Italian, and even Arabic. But she was also a charismatic figure in French salon culture, a woman who supported herself through her writing and defended women’s education .Scudéry’s role as a model for women writers and for women’s education has also been an important topic of recent criticism. Critics including Jane Donaworth and Patricia Hannon have discussed her as an important influence on later women authors and even as a proto-feminist. Helen Osterman Borowitz has attempted to draw direct connections between Scudéry and the great French novelist Germaine de Staël. Critics have long acknowledged, however, that Scudéry was not only an influence on women novelists. Some have suggested that she also opened up new political possibilities. For example, Leonard Hinds has claimed that the collaborative model of authorship that existed in the salons was also a model for an alternative to absolutism, while Joan DeJean has suggested that her work can be seen as a response to political events of her age.In 1641 Madeleine published her first novel, Ibrahim ou l’illustre Bassa, under her brother’s name. This practice of using the name of her brother as her pseudonymous signature was one that she continued for most of her prolific career as a writer, despite the fact that her own authorship was openly acknowledged in the gazettes, memoirs, and letters of the time. Although the precise nature of his contributions is uncertain, Georges did clearly collaborate to some extent with his sister in the writing of her novels, and he wrote the prefaces to several of her books.

She won the first prize for eloquence awarded by the Académie Française (1671), but was barred from membership. Several academicians had attempted to lift the ban against women so that she could join their ranks, to no avail. Although her own authorship was widely acknowledged at the time, she used the name of her brother, Georges de Scudéry, as a pseudonymous signature throughout her career (Dejean)

Wing (2nd ed.), S2163 ,Thomason, E.1604[4]

Scudéry, Madeleine de. Selected Letters, Orations and Rhetorical Dialogues. Ed. and trans. Jane Donawerth and Julie Strongson. The Other Voice in Early Modern Europe (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 8.

John Conley, “Madeleine de Scudéry,” The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Summer 2011 Edition), Edward N. Zalta (ed.), http://plato.stanford.edu/archives/sum2011/entries/madeleine-scudery/.

Joan Dejean. Scudéry, Madeleine de (1608-1701). The New Oxford Companion to Literature in French (Oxford University Press 1995, 2005).

“Scudéry, Madeleine De (1607–1701).” Europe, 1450 to 1789: Encyclopedia of the Early Modern World. . Encyclopedia.com. 11 Apr. 2019

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12) 323J Madeleine Vigneron (1628-1667)

La vie et la conduite spirituelle de Mademoiselle M. Vigneron. Suivant les mémoires qu’elle en a laissez par l’ordre de son directeur (M. Bourdin). [Arranged and edited by him.].

Paris: Chez Pierre de Launay, 1689. $3,200

Octavo 7 x 4 3/4 inches ã8 e8 A-2R8 (2R8 blank). Second and preferred edition first published in 1679. This copy is bound in contemporary brown calf, five raised bands on spine, gilt floral tools in the compartments, second compartment titled in gilt; corners and spine extremities worn; three old joint repairs; on the front binder’s blank is an early ownership four-line inscription in French dated 1704, of

Sister Monique Vanden Heuvel, at the priory of Sion de Vilvoorde (Belgium).

Overall a fine copy.

This is the stirring journal that Madeleine Vigneron , member of the Third Order of the Minims of St. Francis of Paola, she began to keep it in 1653 and continued until her premature death, (1667) It was first published in 1679 and again in the present second, and final, edition which is more complete than the first. Added are Madeleine’s series of 78 letters representing her spiritual correspondence.IMG_1410

In these autobiographical writings, which were collected and published by her Director, the Minim Matthieu Bourdin, Madeleine speaks of the illnesses that plagued her since childhood and greatly handicapped her throughout a life that she dedicated to God by caring for the poor. She received admirable lights on the divinity and humanity of Jesus Christ, on the mysteries of the spiritual life. The hagiographers have remarked her austerity, her patience, her insatiable desire to suffer for God. Those who knew her perceived in her a virtuous life that impressed them.

This is a very rare book: the combined resources of NUC and OCLC locate only one copy in America, at the University of Dayton which also holds the only American copy of the 1679 edition.

§ Cioranescu 66466 (the 1679 edition).

checklist of early modern writings by nuns

Carr, Thomas M., “A Checklist of Published Writings in French by Early Modern Nuns” (2007). French Language and Literature Papers. 52.

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A Dozen Early Modern Books by Women Author INDEX J.B. 346J Mary Barber 377J Madam De Bellefont 572G Susanna Centlivre 347J Susanna Centlivre 357J…

#female wits #Irish women #Nuns

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