#thérèse raquin x reader

[wndaswife]

genesis, awakening | thérèse raquin & fem!reader

Moving to Paris didn't present Thérèse with the life she initially expected until a young woman visits the haberdashery.

Word count: 12 107

Tags: smut, fluff, masturbation, cunnilingus, face-riding, so much on symbolism and their many thematic components, can you tell i just finished reading a certain hunger, and also, i hope you will enjoy this as much as i do: power bottom!thérèse raquin | MINORS DNI

In her earlier years, Thérèse thought quite a bit about her father. She wondered when he would come back and what he was doing and when he’d send his next letter. She imagined that all she had yet to hear from him were stories he would tell her in a near future when he would come back to collect her as he had promised, away from Madame and Camille and Vernon’s dull French countryside.

Once Thérèse turned fourteen, things began to change for her; Madame gave her more responsibility, more demanding homeschooling, and she, by Madame’s account, was now a blossoming young woman.

Initially, thoughts of Thérèse’s father remained, for she worried that once she grew out of childhood, her relationship with her father would inevitably differ immensely from when he had last seen her. After all, he had only ever known Thérèse as a child, and now that she no longer was, what made her any different from any other passing woman?

When Thérèse was given the letter from Madame notifying the family that her father had passed, it had been a few months at that point since she last thought of her father, and it had only been in briefly passing curiosity. 

Over the years, Thérèse’s responsibilities became plentiful, and she became increasingly preoccupied with the concerns of her day-to-day life with Camille and Madame. She hardly had any time for herself — even her very thoughts became overtaken with the weight dumped onto her shoulders for her, and her only, to carry for the household. 

Her life, initially only indebted towards Camille and Madame for giving her a home, soon became theirs, similar to property.

Last summer, when Thérèse was told that she, Camille, and Madame would be moving to Paris, she imagined countless different paths her life could take from then on, divulging from the monotonous countryside life she’d always been accustomed to. 

In her mind, there were thousands of different ways the move to Paris could have gone for her. For example, she imagined meeting friends and making them on her own, travelling — if the shop’s earnings became bountiful enough — and, in general, feeling like her life was truly her own, and that she didn’t have to spend the rest of her life paying anyone back for the fact that Madame had taken her in when her father could no longer care for her.

But nothing seemed to change aside from the fact that, atop of still being expected to tend to Madame’s every whim and care for Camille as both a wife and a second doting mother, Thérèse was now expected to help run the haberdashery.

Although it was both her and Madame that took part in running it, Madame was often dozing off or partaking in her own interests around their tiny, dingy Parisian home, often only coming down from the arcade when a shop patron had an inquiry or a request that Thérèse wasn’t sure how to approach on her own. But as Thérèse’s experience with running the business became increasingly comprehensive overtime, there was little to no reason for Madame to come and assist her at all.

It wasn’t necessarily that Thérèse needed Madame’s help, but rather that she didn’t want to have to run a business at all. 

In fact, Thérèse didn’t want to live the life she was living to begin with; running a haberdashery in the suffocating little alleyway of Passage du Pont Neuf was never anything she had imagined for herself once plans were made to move to Paris. 

Thérèse wished desperately for someone to blame for the way things had turned out, for if there wasn’t anyone to take the blame for what had happened, then it would become clear that the way things were was the way things were always going to be. If there was no causal reason for the life she was living, then she’d have no choice but to accept the fact that the way her life was playing out was simply its natural course.

Initially, Thérèse had even tried to blame herself for how things were, for it was her endless fantasising and romanticising that led her to be as disappointed as she ended up becoming. But even in blaming herself, there had to be some inevitable form of correction she would’ve had to uptake, and that would mean putting away her fantasies and dreams.

But without even the imagination that things could be better — and in Thérèse’s wildest fantasies, her life would not only be better, but it’d be a life that she truly enjoyed living — then she’d have nothing else but to accept the way things were. She feared that perhaps she’d grow into Madame, or even duller than she, if that were possible.

Thérèse’s life had no defining landmark, no deviating paths but the one she was placed on the moment she began living with Camille and Madame. 

Since last summer, and it was spring now, Thérèse felt entirely trapped; she felt that she didn’t belong to herself, that nothing she did would ever escape the future that was inevitably laid out for her, and that not even her thoughts could wander very far from the reality of her life.

Even the very reaches of language couldn’t very well belong to her either as she wasn’t sure if ‘miserable’ was a way to describe her life, nor ‘dull’ or ‘boring,’ for how could her life be any of those things if it had never been anything different?

She felt no different from a walking corpse, similar to the brief amount of time a chicken has before the rest of its body hits the ground even after its been decapitated, turned into an infinite stretch into the future. 

But she could not even pretend under any veil, no matter how heavy nor opaque, that she wasn’t alive. Perhaps things would’ve been easier on her if she could at least fool herself into believing that everything she did was of another’s will — anyone else’s but her own — but she felt it in the boundless pit in her chest, the weight in her stomach, the gravity pulling at her limbs each time she arose in the morning. She knew she was alive and that she did what she did willingly because she felt it.

It’d be easier, at least, if her actions were not her own; being a coward and a slave to a life she hated was perhaps her heaviest burden.

With the peak of the spring, the normally dingy suffocating Passage du Pont Neuf was especially constricting; the tiny passageway was overcome by the heat of the sun and the humidity from the past rains, the mossy faded rooftop panelings and stone walls shining dull and damp and mean and unappealing. 

Just after lunchtime, when the sun reached its peak and stretched up above the tall buildings of the alley, Thérèse could finally lay her eyes on something worth looking at through the windows of the haberdashery, sitting at the shop’s counter with François endlessly dozing in her lap.

With her chin in the palm of her hands and her fingers gently stroking the soft white fur of the quietly purring cat, Thérèse let herself bask in the warmth of the afternoon sun. She closed her eyes and let her breathing grow steady, with every second resembling more and more the mild-mannered cat sleeping in her lap.

Surrounded by the silence of the still shop and the faint purring from François, it felt as if Thérèse’s body was gently thrumming from the outside in, the stagnant hum of her surroundings blanketing her body with the gentle heat of the sun.

The chime of the bell by the door didn’t wake her from her conscious dozing — it was the approaching steps towards the counter that made Thérèse finally open her eyes. She blinked away the sunlight and quickly repositioned herself so she looked presentable.

Even François stirred awake at her body’s sudden jolt, and he lept from her lap and, with great yawning stretches of his lithe white body, headed off beyond the curtain that divided the shop from the arcade’s staircase. 

“I am sorry to have woken you and your cat,” the customer apologised in a way that seemed genuine. 

Thérèse turned her attention away from the escaping François to the customer in front of her, only for her eyes to meet the most beautiful thing she’d ever had the fortune to lay her eyes on — in fact, perhaps the more beautiful thing that’s ever found itself in Passage Pont du Neuf. 

Her cheeks immediately flushed and she looked down at the counter, initially stuttering before she finally spoke an: “It’s alright. I shouldn’t have been dozing.”

She searched, panicked, for things to say, and when her eyes ran over the small box of multicoloured buttons on the shelf under the counter, Thérèse remembered that she was running a shop — not simply talking with a beautiful stranger she met while doing errands. 

She raised her head and looked down at your arms, avoiding gazing upon your face lest she grow even more distracted, and saw that you were holding a generously-sized box in your arms, your forearms upturned with your fingers wrapped along its front-facing edge.

At the sight of the way Thérèse eyed the box, you carefully placed the case on the counter and pulled up the top to reveal a carefully-folded dress inside. “For a special occasion,” you said, “I want to have some of this dress fixed up since it has been moved around quite a bit since last spring until I stored it away to bring it here.”

Thérèse watched as you took the dress out of the box carefully; your delicate fingers tucked themselves under the folded dress, slowly unfolding it so you could lay it on the counter and display it out flat for her. Her eyes flickered up to your face occasionally, hoping that with each glance of your face, she could slowly build a detailed mental image of what you looked like without having to stare like she desperately wished she could.

She thought you were pretty, and that it was cruel that a face like yours had to suffer the backdrop of Passage Du Pont Neuf that lay beyond the confines of the constricting haberdashery. 

Suddenly Thérèse felt embarrassed, and she wondered if she herself gave off a impression alike to the rest of the old shop and the narrow passageway of damp moss and cracked stone walls and rushing crowds who wanted to do everything but spend another moment along the path they took only as a shortcut to get to where they needed to be — somewhere doubtlessly eternally more fascinating than where Thérèse currently was and would always remain.

“I was curious if I might possibly get a replacement for the lace trim,” you said and ran your finger along the underside of the trim that trailed down the sides of four pale yellow buttons that led down from the dress’ collar.

When you looked up from the dress to look at Thérèse curiously, she realised she had inadvertently begun staring at you in the way that she had kept trying to avoid while you were speaking earlier, though she couldn’t recall exactly when she started staring. She swallowed and adjusted herself then looked down at the dress to examine the lace you had pointed out.

She felt her cheeks begin to flush as her face was in the general direction of where the dress was, and from her inability to meet your eyes, it almost seemed like you were looking directly at her instead of the lace.

Absently, she started playing with the loose strands of her hair that had escaped from its braid in an attempt to both hide some of her face and adjust her appearance.

“If you are looking to maintain the original design, I do not believe we have this exact kind of lace here,” Thérèse thought aloud then leaned to the side to pull out a box of carefully-stored lace trims of different patterns, shades, and material. They were organised so one would be able to see each pattern while they were set down. “The lace on your dress seems Italian in design, and we only have one kind of lace from Italy, but even this looks too far off from what your dress has.” She pointed to the one at the left corner of the box and your eyes followed curiously.

“The only kind we have with a pattern like yours is this one,” Thérèse pointed to the different kind of lace to the right, “though it is far more dense and visibly not as expensive.”

The familiar language of the haberdasher made Thérèse forget for a moment that she was standing in front of you — whomever you were, since she had yet to officially know — until she looked back up for a response and found herself facing you again. She straightened her back and rubbed the pads of her fingers under the smooth underside of the shop’s counter, feeling anxious for a reason she could not explicate even to herself.

There was a girl who used to frequent the Seine one summer when Thérèse was younger. The girl visited the Seine regularly that summer for her father worked as a fisherman somewhere along the river’s currents and was positioned there for the season. 

When they first met, and it had been during one of the many occasions Thérèse took time for herself in the afternoon after Madame’s homeschooling lessons, a young Thérèse understood her fascination for the girl around her age to be due solely because of the girl’s tales about her father — a father she travelled with, a father who was ever present in her life.

Perhaps this might have been true at the time, for it was hours talking about her fisherman father that the two spent meeting up in the afternoons after Thérèse’s lessons and while the other girl’s father was too occupied for the girl to have any business loitering around fish and their fishermen.

But even after Thérèse saw her for the very last time, since her father was working by the Seine only for the summer, it was not her tales of her father that Thérèse thought of. In fact, Thérèse thought frequently about the girl — and the girl only. 

She thought of her hair and how it looked the perfect shade of the fireplace in Madame’s living room when it was set aflame, but only when the fire first leaps from the wood at its initial ignition, for the shade of her hair ignited something similar within Thérèse that could simply not analogise properly should it be compared to a fire that had long been burning. 

She thought of the colour of her eyes similar to the depths of the Seine that Thérèse could only see from the land’s surface and would never find herself coming close enough in order to make out a shade with her own eyes; the Seine, though beautiful, was far too dangerous to approach with proximity at that age. Though after having stared into such a vibrant shade of deep blue for nearly all of that summer, any curiosity she previously had of the Seine's deepest colours were sated and even paled in comparison to the mere recollection of her.

That was the last Thérèse had ever had her thoughts so preoccupied with another in that way until now. There were passing strangers, of course, that Thérèse glanced at more than once when she could and thought of for a few moments afterwards, and even other shop patrons that Thérèse found rather charming.

But she could not stop looking at you, and she felt silly for she did not even know your name, and you likely did not care to know hers.

“Oh,” you said, leaning over the box of lace and taking a closer look. There were some frayed parts of the lace that could not be fixed due to its original intricate stitching, and some parts that had become simply lost through the months of being moved around for space conservation and whatnot; it had to be completely redone with new lace.

Your fingernail grazed against your bottom lip and you confessed, “I am not quite sure which would look the best as a replacement. To be honest, I do not know very much about fabrics and stitching and all such things ladies ought to know.”

That made Thérèse smile, inexplicably. She thought you were endearing, and for some strange reason, your mention that you were put to the same constricting standards of being a lady in Paris as she was developed within Thérèse a certain fondness for you.

“I understand,” she told you with a friendly smile. “I could restitch the new lace for you. This dress seems rather important to you, so I would understand if you rather a stranger didn’t touch it in your place.”

You lit up at the suggestion and questioned, “Truly? I wouldn’t want to tax you with such labour.”

Thérèse promised, “It would truly be no trouble at all.”

“How much more will it cost?” you inquired and began sorting through the francs you brought.

In quick protest, Thérèse reached over the counter and brushed her fingers against your knuckles before leaning back and keeping to herself as quickly as she had reached out to touch you. “It’s alright.”

You looked at her and Thérèse felt panic rise within her, recalling that the two of you were indeed strangers, and she had no reason to do such a favour for you. She didn’t meet your eyes long enough to decipher the way in which you regarded her, for she’d soon die of humiliation if you regarded her as someone strange.

“It calls for a very simple kind of stitching, and we have been trying to gain a reputation as a tailory as well as a haberdashery; the stitching at the moment is included in the price of the lace,” Thérèse explained. “However I completely understand if you would rather a more officiated shop did the stitching for you, or even if you preferred to do it yourself.”

To Thérèse’s relief, you replied, “Ah, I see. In that case, since it isn’t too laborious for you, it would be fine.”

Thérèse was surprised — pleasantly, even — that you were so considerate of her time and effort. 

If all this for a stranger, how much more for your lovers?

The thought made her wobble.

“May I have your name?” Thérèse asked and opened a small notebook in which all the shop’s patrons were sorted and organised by their purchases. When you gave her your name, she found herself overcome with a feeling of euphoria writing each letter of it, asking for the exact spelling, and having your name stored so that you could not stray very far from the shop that you likely wouldn’t ever visit again once she was finished with your dress.

It was painfully unprofessional, what Thérèse did next, telling you that you could pick up your dress next week due to the other tailoring that had to be done before yours, which was to say that there was none, actually, since she had earlier lied about the haberdashery wanting to take up more tailoring orders. She did not want to have to see you for the last time so soon, so she withheld it for another week.

She was in an endless cycle of unprofessionalism, it seemed, for next, she told you that when you picked up your order next week, you ought to ask for Thérèse. There were two reasons she told you that — firstly, because it was unlikely that Madame would be working by the counter, there was no reason for you to need to know her name if it was she herself that was going to tend to you either way, and she wanted desperately for you to know her name as she did yours, and secondly, because if there was a chance that it was Madame out front instead of her, your asking for her would leave no room for Thérèse missing the chance to see you again.

But all her lack of professionalism’s accompanied guilt was soon disregarded when you asked, “You are Thérèse?”

Something crept up Thérèse’s spine when you said her name and made her shiver. She nodded. “Yes.”

“I like that name very much. It’s very pretty,” you told her and smiled politely. “I will remember to ask for you.”

Thérèse could almost faint.

Over the week, Thérèse did her very best carefully restitching the lace trim for you with the kind you chose from the box. She wanted to add something else to the design in the attitude of some form of a gift or something similar, but she had to maintain the dress’ original integrity and she knew when to not cross any boundaries.

After all, she was still a haberdasher, and women’s fashion was seen with high regard in Paris — this she was quick to learn once moving from Vernon to the city — so she knew quite well how to handle clothing.

When she was finished restitching the trim, she held it up by the top of its sleeves so she could see it upright and flat. She imagined you wearing it, and though she didn’t know very much about you, she imagined she got to know a little bit just by looking at the dress and knowing it was the kind and the style you would like to wear for an occasion that was special.

It was a shame you were only a visitor of the shop; she would have enjoyed getting to a woman with such exquisite taste in clothing. She still would have enjoyed getting to know you, frankly, even if you had horrendous taste in clothing. 

A week after you had visited the shop, Thérèse was waiting for your arrival with your dress carefully folded back into the box you had given it to her in. She decided to give you a small extra roll of the lace you chose as a gift in case you wanted to make any more alterations or in case you simply just liked it and wanted it for more of your garments. 

This time, when you arrived, Thérèse was completely awake and could not even think of dozing off, not even if she tried, for she’d been thinking of seeing you since the moment she awoke in the morning. 

After reassuring Madame that she could take the day off to rest, as she would have either way, Thérèse had the whole shop to herself. 

When you entered the shop, you were carrying a small basket concealed by a patterned cloth. Upon approaching Thérèse, you laid the basket onto the counter and greeted her. She was curious about the basket, and even François seemed to be too, for he rose from his place along the wall and sniffed at the basket. 

“François,” Thérèse warned and swatted him away quickly, to which he lept off from the counter and walked off. “I apologise,” she said. 

“It’s quite alright,” you reassured with a smile that Thérèse thought was just painfully charming. You reached over to the basket and uncovered it, revealing a small sealed jar of what looked to be strawberry or cherry jam, freshly sliced bread, and another jar of a medley of different berries. “This is for you — as a thank you for doing the restitching.”

Out of all the ways Thérèse fantasised about this afternoon with you — and she did, quite a bit — this was certainly not one of the ways. “Oh, please, no, it’s okay,” she told you. “Please, don’t. I was glad to do the stitching for you.”

“You are glad to do your own labour,” you slid the basket closer to her, “and I am glad to do mine.”

Thérèse searched your expression for any hint that you might be convinced to change your mind, but you seemed stubborn. She thought this was endearing too. She liked your kind heart and how eager you seemed. 

Then she looked down at the basket and sorted through it with her eyes. “This must have cost you a large sum,” she said, looking back up at you with a shy smile.

“Not at all,” you answered. You thought she looked cute when she was finally accepting your gift, the guise of the shopkeeper now pulled back to reveal the shy young woman behind it. You wondered what she was thinking. “My family owns farmland near Vernon, and I visited this past weekend and thought to bring you some of their jams and berries, but the bread I did get fresh from a bakery this morning.”

“Your family lives near Vernon?” Thérèse asked, her interest piqued. She had always regarded Vernon with such disdain and hoped that she might never have to visit again, but associating such a place with someone like you made her regard it differently. She never imagined that anything but her own resented memories could reside there. “My family and I moved from there in the summer.”

“Do you miss it very much?”

The question was almost comedic, but Thérèse thought it would be impolite to laugh. “Quite the opposite,” she answered. “I was glad to move from Vernon, but honestly, I haven’t had much chance to explore Paris aside from my walks in the mornings.”

“I understand,” you told her sympathetically. Thérèse melted. “I enjoy visiting, but I can hardly sit still in the countryside for more than a weekend.”

Before Thérèse could panic about what to say next to fill any impending silence, you said, “But you are interested in the city? Exploring more of it?”

“Exceedingly.”

“If you have a day off from the shop, I could show you around Paris,” you offered.

Thérèse felt her face flush with warmth. “Sh-Show me around?” she repeated.

The soft pink of Thérèse’s cheeks made you smile. 

You said, “If you don’t mind, then I would love to.”

Straightening and playing with the sleeves of her dress, Thérèse answered, “I wouldn’t mind at all. I would love to accompany you. Thank you.”

A brief moment of silence did indeed end up passing between the two of you, but instead, filled with a kind of warmth that made Thérèse both elated and weak in the knees. She felt that she had made her first friend in Paris, and more importantly, it seemed that you wanted to spend time with her too. 

You were grateful for Thérèse’s restitching and especially grateful for the additional lace she gave you, and you discussed which day the two of you would be able to spend time together.

Thérèse was most flexible to whichever day was best for you, for she knew Madame would be thrilled that she had made a friend — not that she would ever get the chance to meet you for a while, for she wanted you to be privy to only her for as long as possible. 

Next Tuesday was mutually decided upon.

Alike to Thérèse’s fascination with you — although you didn’t yet know how mutual the feeling was, of course — you weren’t quite sure what had come over you when you offered to show her around Paris. Initially, you told yourself it was because she used to be a resident of Vernon, and familial sentimentality led you towards the urge to show her around Paris.

But your thoughts about Thérèse, when you had them, and you often did, were very rarely if ever related to Vernon or any form of familial sentimentality.

Thérèse and how she took form in your mind started with her hair, dark brown and smooth, and immediately after came her skin, seemingly translucent in its delicate shade of porcelain cream and tinted with the pink of her flushing cheeks when you were lucky enough to see her grow bashful at your words. Then came her voice and its girlish elegant placidity, then her eyes and her lips, the slope of her nose and the curve of her chin.

You wondered, especially, how she was beyond the confines of the haberdashery and beyond the walls of Passage du Pont Neuf. Inexplicably, though it could be easily attributed to knowing her no further than within the environment of the shop, it was difficult for you to imagine Thérèse beyond the gloomy shadows of the narrow alleyway or from beyond the counter of the shop.

That was not to say anything about who she was as a person — after all, how could you presently have anything substantial to say about who she was — but rather the kinds of circumstances she was under. In the curious glints of her eyes and the lithe cat-like movements of her elegantly-moving body as if trained to maintain such composure laid something in slumber, larger than the stillness of Passage du Pont Neuf.

Over the week until the upcoming Tuesday, you steadily began to feel guilty for how often you were thinking of Thérèse, for your scrutiny of her made it seem to you that you were subconsciously treating her as a subject of some kind of personal research endeavour — but this could not be further from the truth. Truly, Thérèse interested you, and it was merely your disturbance with your own fascination in her that began manifesting into guilt in order to avoid coming to the realisation that you simply could not stop thinking about her.

One could almost label your thoughts of Thérèse as perverse, and you did not want to be labelled a predator, even by your own moral judgement.

When Tuesday arrived, Madame agreed to run the shop while Thérèse had plans elsewhere, feeling pleased, frankly, that Thérèse had finally made what she described to be a friend. 

Madame knew Thérèse to be gloomy and hollow of passion and vivacity, which was not so much a concern to Madame Raquin and it was an irritant, particularly because her niece’s sombre nature often became much too suffocating for the small confines of the shop. It was only when she scolded Thérèse for her lack of spirit in front of the shop’s patrons that she at least began making efforts towards behaving as typical girls of her age did. At the very least, she was willing to wed Camille and willing to run the haberdashery, albeit because Thérèse had very little personal reservations of her own as to have any opinion about anything at all, or at least, if she did have opinions, they weren’t ever pressing enough to escape the confines of the often critically-judgemental mind that Madame knew laid beyond the line of her motionless pale pink lips.

You had it in your plans, though you did not disclose this to Thérèse in the spirit of keeping it a surprise for her, to visit Jardin des Plantes. It was your personal favourite spot to go when you wrote and when you needed time for yourself, and when you first moved to Paris many years ago, it was also the first place you felt yourself drawn to.

In some ways, taking Thérèse there was both an invitation into how you understood Paris in its essence and an invitation into your own personal world; there was more to your interactions with Thérèse than a tourist to a newcomer, for there was a personal investment too, a personal interest in bringing yourself closer to her.

The two of you walked your way towards the botanical garden, taking the path you normally would to and from your place of work. To you, it was typical, but for Thérèse, it was as if she had only moved from Vernon the day prior. You could not believe how little of Paris she had seen, and selfishly, perhaps, you were glad and proud that it was you who was introducing her to what she had long been missing.

Conversation with Thérèse was endless.

You spoke of your occupation as a writer for a periodical, which Thérèse found fascinating and immediately wanted to know more about — What do you write about? Do you like it? How did you find yourself coming into a career of writing? Were you always a writer? — your childhood in Vernon and the rest of your years in Paris, your tastes in literature, and countless other things that Thérèse’s piqued interest never strayed far from.

You asked about Thérèse too, of course, about her arranged marriage to her cousin Camille, her aunt, her opinions on Paris, her own childhood and years in Vernon before moving away, and most interestingly to you, her ambitions and dreams.

She was an ambitious person, with hopes for herself and her future that stretched far beyond the reaches of her family or Passage du Pont Neuf. Perhaps laid to rest years prior, such hopes seemed to reawaken at the taste of freedom now that she had distance from all that she wished to move onwards from. But where she would go if she had achieved such separation, Thérèse did not know, and so she believed she could only ever dream and never accomplish.

During your walk, you discovered a vividness about Thérèse, a brilliance, an ignition of light that had its sights set far from the shadows of Passage du Pont Neuf and the Raquin family’s haberdashery. But in the gardens, there was fragility and sensitivity, and you found yourself equating her to the flowers she was immediately absorbed by.

Thérèse was gentle with the flowers and plants, careful not to disturb them from their natural paths of growth, even as she walked among them, yet all the while incredibly fascinated and captivated by them. She had never before seen so many different kinds of flowers of such vivid colours and appearances, much less the incredibly long vines that reached up the arches of the bridges over the water and up the brick walls of some buildings and such well-designed shrubs as if carved by hand.

In the Vernon, where Thérèse had seen the most plants, there was no such colour nor plant so alive, so grateful to be in the environment in which it grew.

At a particular plant, Thérèse paused and looked at it, leaning down slightly and surveying it.

“What is this?” she asked you, pointing a hesitant finger at the pink and green plant who, in its centre, was budding and growing healthy white flowers. “This one with the teeth.”

You came to her side and Thérèse straightened. When she did, she brushed your shoulder, and in response, she stepped closer so the length of her arm was pressed against yours. 

To the green and pink plant and its blossoming flowers, you answered, “Dionaea muscipula — the Venus Flytrap.”

The name sounded silly to Thérèse, and she laughed.

“It traps flies?” she asked.

“Yes,” you answered, equally as humoured. With a hand on her lower back, you encouraged her to step forward so you could demonstrate something. Blushing, Thérèse nearly missed your demonstration for how you touched her body and how she stared at your face. You started speaking again, and she forced herself to look at the plant.

Gently as to not bend the plant where it should not be, you laid a steady finger between what Thérèse described as an open mouth with its needle-shaped teeth.

“See how it closes — slowly,” you said. 

“It closes slowly,” Thérèse noted, “yet its prey is still devoured?”

You removed your finger from the plant’s trap and watched as it very steadily returned to its original open-mouthed position. “I believe the pink colour of the trap is appealing for the flies, and that it emits a certain scent that is alike to the nectar the fly seeks for nutrition. The fly believes — perhaps, anyway, I am not sure — that it is eating from the plant. The plant is slow and attractive enough to keep it from straying. The ‘teeth’ prevent its escape once it's closed enough.”

After a silent moment of thought and perhaps of admiration of the fascinating plant, Thérèse asked, “And its name, after that of Venus?”

“If I were to make a guess as to why it was named after Venus, I might be inclined to say that it is due to its appearance,” you supposed. “The pink of the inside and the white flowers, especially. It’s a beautiful plant.”

Beauty, yes — Thérèse conceded. But Venus, in her representation, was not only significant in her symbolic nature of beauty and femininity, but also desire, sex, and prosperity.

And Thérèse could not help but find that the alluring shape of the flytrap represented that of which was particularly vulvar.

When Thérèse arrived back home just before dinner, Madame and Camille were set to leave to celebrate a promotion Camille had just gotten within his place of employment. Their plans involved dinner with several of Camille’s work acquaintances and some of Madame’s friends that often came to Thursday’s dominoes games.

Her presence at this celebration had evidently not been anticipated nor planned, for both Madame and Camille seemed hesitant in what to do once she arrived slightly earlier than either of them anticipated.

Fortunately for them — and for Thérèse, too — she was in no mood to do anything but stay at home, and to this, they graciously permitted without protest.

That evening, Thérèse was restless, but a sort of restlessness that was distinct from what could typically be attributed to night terrors. From the restlessness that derived from night terrors, she would tie herself up in the mess of her bedsheets as she tossed and turned, desperate for slumber to overtake her. In trying to shut her eyes, shadows would become foes and an unsettling fear would dig its way into her stomach, paralysing her. 

But tonight was different — and exceptionally so.

There was restlessness, indeed, and a gnawing in her stomach was surely present, and a paralysis-like possession certainly overcame her, but what made this restless evening different from that of what was haunted by night terrors was that she was not overcome by any sort of fright.

In fact, it was quite the opposite.

There was a thrumming in her stomach, a simmering of the blood in her veins, a greedy possession that overcame her with urgency in the likeness of paralysis, but it was not quite that either — it was not paralysis for Thérèse did not lack any ability to move. Rather, the subtle tension within the base of her stomach and the pumping of her heart and its accompanying adrenaline made Thérèse want to do everything but stay still.

But what was she to do aside from lay still and fall asleep, she did not know.

There was something awakening from a long slumber deep within her, having been so deeply-shrouded that Thérèse herself was little acquainted with it.

By God, what was this urgency that her body kept clawing towards? It was as if her very skin was an obstacle for this awakening beast, and it called for her to act on it, to move in accordance to its will.

In closing her eyes, shutting them tightly, it was not imaginary shadow foes that came to the forefront of her mind, but you. It was your face she imagined; it was your voice; it was your scent; it was your fingers. 

Her body took the form of another, and it was your perfume she smelled in her hair when she lolled her head to the side. It was your hands that pulled her nightgown up to pool around her hips, and your fingers that dipped into the slope beyond that of her smooth lower belly. Her thoughts were comprehended through the sound of your voice, telling her to release, release, release.

The tight wet velvet embrace that greeted Thérèse’s fingers when she entered herself, she understood as her own, but it was your touch that drove her to pleasure. The quickening speed of her fingers and her other hand and its wandering, a soft palm beneath the linen of her nightgown and up the expanse of her stomach, pads of her fingers pressing into the dips of her ribs and further, further until she groped her breast so harsh it made her whimper — it was your doing, and this ferocious beast that had been scratching at her skin from the inside, howling to escape, was you.

When Thérèse reached her peak and laid a sweaty panting mess atop her bed in the bedroom lit dimly by a flittering singular candlelight on the bedside table, she returned to herself. 

In the silence of her bedroom, still feeling the gentle tremors of her harsh, desperate release, Thérèse realised that what she had done was of her own doing. Where else were you but where you currently were, in your own bedroom, perhaps, dreaming and slumbering, apart from her.

There was no one else but her, and it was she who was the awoken, the desperate, the howls for recognition. 

She was this predatory beast, predating on herself.

In spite of having reached her hilt of pleasure, Thérèse felt herself aching for more, and it does no good to cannibalise oneself. 

She needed prey. 

She would take you whole.

In the morning, Thérèse wrote to you through the post you had provided her in the case that she might have wanted to reach you when you could not see each other. During the stroll back to Passage du Pont Neuf, you both expressed an interest in seeing each other again, but unfortunately, you’d be busy with the attendance and planning of your brother’s wedding for several days after that Tuesday. So she wrote in hopes that the two of you could plan the next time you might be able to see one another.

She wrote to you about the Thursday evening games of dominoes and sometimes cards, and that she would like to have you in attendance next week, for she knew you could not attend this week’s upcoming game.

The impatient days tending to the shop and awaiting next week’s evening game were painfully dull and ridden with anxiety-like compulsions. The awakening in Thérèse had arisen much too far from its place of previous resting and could not be put to bed, and it made her pace and pace, nitpick at her clothing, twirl her hair around, organise and reorganise the shop’s inventory. 

Even Madame had realised, though she was assuaged and convinced when Thérèse simply told her that with the upcoming summer and the gradually-warming weather, she had begun to feel a tinge of spryness bubble from within her as if it were out from its hibernation. 

The excuse, Thérèse thought, was rather humorous, for it was not some low bubbling of gently arising energy that had begun to form within her, but a vicious hunger so demanding and starved that it was painful. 

Her beating desire, however, was alleviated for a day or two once she received your correspondence from the post, writing back in your ever so beautiful and delicate handwriting that you would indeed be able to attend next Thursday’s game — and also that you greatly anticipated seeing her again.

Thérèse read over your letter again and again as if taking each word into her mouth and chewing it, running her tongue over every written letter and swing of your ink pen against the coarse page. But it was not enough — it was not you.

So she waited, pacing, organising and reorganising, brooding over her lack of you, until next Thursday came.

When Thursday came, you arrived, and punctually so. 

Coincidentally, you had met with one of Madame’s friends on the way to the game — never mind how you came to realise the two of you were headed to the same place for this was not of pressing concern for Thérèse — and so it was Madame who first greeted you at the door. 

From the kitchen beyond the dining room, Thérèse could hear you introducing yourself to Madame. 

It was a bit of a shame, for Thérèse had wanted to keep you to herself for as long as she could, but if she wanted you within the short span of time in which her dwindling patience would not allow for any further waiting, she had to make some sacrifice. 

As the guests filed into the dining room, Thérèse came forth from the kitchen with a serving platter of a pot of tea and several cups, and your eyes caught onto hers. She could tell that you had been curiously awaiting her arrival, wondering where it was that she had gone while you took a seat at the table. 

Your curiosity remained even as she left once more to fetch another serving plate of danishes and tarts, and remained, still, when she returned; you meant to ask why she was not taking a seat at the table. 

One of the guests had forgotten to stow away their hat along with their light coat at the entry hall, and Thérèse obediently took it for him and left the dining room to the entryway to hang the man’s hat up. 

You excused yourself and followed her. 

“Thérèse,” you called after her, your voice hushed within the silence apart from the busy dining room. 

She hung the hat from the coat hanger and turned to you. “Y/N,” she greeted and smiled. “How was your brother’s wedding?”

“A bore,” you answered immediately. Then you added quickly, “Though, I am happy for him, indeed. Many blessings to the wedded couple.”

Amused by your crassness, Thérèse’s smile widened and she nodded, “Indeed. Blessings.”

“I was hoping you might play alongside me tonight,” you confessed. “I’m no good at dominoes.”

Thérèse told you, “I do not play.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t believe she had an actual answer, frankly. Why didn’t she play? She sat to the side, primarily, by the window at the corner of the dining room, ready to serve food and drinks and open the window when requested. 

At her silence, you did away with your original question and then said instead, “You invited me to play a game in which you are not participating? I wished to spend time with you tonight.”

Your frustration excited Thérèse. She felt her hunger spike. 

“Disappointed?” she asked. 

“Rather.”

Your frustration was not that of which could be compared to critical judgement, but a state of vulnerability, an expression of a lack — a lack of her. 

Thérèse could sympathise with your dissatisfaction.

“I apologise. I invited you with the sole intention of seeing you, and I dearly wanted to, but I did not consider that past seeing you, we could do nothing else.” She stepped closer. “After the game, perhaps we might go for a walk. I’ve yet to see where you live.”

The corners of your lips pulled into a delicate smile and Thérèse swooned. “Then another walk it is,” you affirmed. 

Thérèse was unsure what had been going through her mind when she imagined that her hunger would be sated, or at least partially, once she was finally able to see you again. She sat in the corner of the dining room, sometimes getting up to serve drinks and desserts, passing by you often and meeting your eyes even more frequently. 

But she was driven mad sitting apart from you and doing nothing but watching, nothing but seeing. 

In salivation, the object of nutrition is its trigger, an anticipation that one is soon going to digest what is desired. Of course, there are further, more scientific reasons as to why the salivation begins; the brain takes part, primarily, with its neurotransmitters and its comprehension of hunger and craving. But none of it would occur without a subject in mind — the subject to devour, the subject to prey on.

And while watching you socialise and laugh and look over to her occasionally, watching your lips wrap around the rim of your teacup or swallow a bite of the tart from your plate, Thérèse was nearly drooling. 

Her fingers, unless she was imagining it, were trembling ever so slightly as she helped clean the table once the game was over. She brought the dishes to the kitchen and tucked in the dining room chairs. 

Madame encouraged Thérèse to cut her domestic duties short in order to walk you home for you hadn’t ever crossed through Passage du Pont Neuf so late into the night and knew little of where to go from the shop, and Madame had taken a liking to you and how well-mannered you were. 

“Were you amused in seeing me lose as often as I did?” you asked Thérèse after parting from the rest and down the sidewalks that led to your place. 

“I was far more amused seeing you continue to play in spite of how often you lost,” she answered. 

You laughed. “You are a sadist, I think.”

“You were not pained in losing,” Thérèse lightly contested. “I gathered you might even be less entertained if you were to have won.”

“Yes, perhaps.”

You lived in a building that housed several other residents, each with their own residential units, and yours was at the very top with two windows that stretched up close to the partially-angled ceiling. It was spacious enough to fit both your workspace, your kitchen, and your bedroom. There was little divide between these rooms aside from the floorplan in which one had to turn to get to one room or another, but generally, it was a rather open concept apartment unit.

Clearly, it was space enough for a person who lived alone, and the interior design and small fireplace and expansive windows was evident of your bountiful earnings as a writer for the periodical you worked under.

“Will you leave now?” you asked Thérèse once you were both standing in the middle of your apartment.

“You are asking me to?”

In quick specification, you clarified, “No, I mean if it is in your preference to leave. Are you planning on leaving now?”

“Is it in your preference to have me leave?”

Thérèse’s pressing of you made you slightly unsteady and your cheeks warmed. “No,” you said.

She smiled. “Then, no, I will not leave.”

The two of you talked on the couch of your workspace, as you did when you had been on your walk together several days ago. The conversation foresaw no end, and the comfort of being in a place that was privy only to the two of you only encouraged its seemingly infinite stretch. 

You were sitting across from Thérèse, her legs folded on the couch in front of her as she sat horizontally to face you, her knees pulled up and laying against the couch’s back. She had undone her hair so you could now see it in its length, which was unexpected for the way her hair was always done made it seem that it was much shorter than it really was. 

She was elegant and so ladylike.

The soft light from the fireplace across the room, about four metres from the foot of your bed, illuminated her face in a warm glow.

Suddenly, you felt the need to confess. “In the last few days, ever since I asked you to accompany me through Paris, I must admit that you have been going through my mind an awful lot.”

“This is awful?” Thérèse asked, straightening. She didn’t believe that you had truly meant to say that thinking of her was awful, but it really was amusing to see you stutter.

“N-No, I don’t mean that,” you corrected immediately. “I only meant that-that…” You searched for the words and adjusted yourself on the couch. “I felt guilty — perhaps this is the word — for thinking of you so much. To me, it felt predacious.”

To this, it seemed that Thérèse’s eyes seemed to momentarily flicker with ignition. You thought it merely a lick of the flame from the fireplace, reflecting against her eyes. “Is that so?” she inquired, pressing. “What felt… predacious to you?”

“Only that I couldn’t seem to stop thinking of you,” you explained. You shifted, uncomfortable as you exposed to her thoughts that you had been trying to avoid out of the shame that you had been having them. “But it was more so the kinds of ways I thought about you. I thought of things like your hair and… I’m not sure. Your voice, your lips. Silly things like this.” You began to speak quicker as if trying to rid yourself of the taste of your words from atop your tongue. “It felt scrutinising.”

Thérèse seemed to be contemplating something in deep thought as she looked at you. She took a small breath and spoke a confession of her own. “Y/N, I must also admit that I have been thinking similar things. Though, certainly, I would not equate my thoughts of you to scrutiny.”

“To what, then?” You wondered.

“Consumption,” Thérèse said, and the word captured you. 

Trying to understand her usage of the word, you worked through it. “Your thoughts of me… consumed you?”

The glint in Thérèse’s eyes returned and for a second longer than before, and you looked over to the fireplace, now concerned for its constant leaping, only to find it rather docile.

“You misunderstand,” Thérèse said. When you turned, she was rising from her spot on the opposite side of the couch, hair spilling from behind her shoulders, moving onto the heels of her hands as she advanced towards you. Her other hand found your thigh under your dress and the pressure her fingers applied through your clothing made it seem to you that she meant to dig right through its fabric. “It is not I who was being consumed at the thought of you.”

Your breathing quickened and Thérèse only advanced even further up your body to the point that you had to shift back with your elbow resting on the armrest behind you.

Thérèse’s delicate fingers moved their way up your stomach and your chest that was picking up pace in its rising and falling. Her fingernail hooked itself under one of the buttons of your dress and pushed it to the side. You watched as it was nearly pushed beyond its slit to unbutton itself, but Thérèse let it slip from her fingernail. Her fingers wrapped around the collar of your dress and the tips of her fingers grazed against your neck and over your collarbone, nails raking lightly against the warm skin of your chest.

With a hand placed beyond your head and positioned atop of the armrest behind you, Thérèse gave herself height so she could run her eyes down what limited skin your dress’ collar exposed.

“Thinking of you…” Thérèse’s own breath began to quicken. “It was I who was consuming you. How I’ve hungered for you in the past few days, Y/N, salivated over how the salt of the skin of your neck would taste if I were to run my tongue across it, how your body would intertwine with mine.”

Her eyes finally left your clothed body and she met your gaze. “I want you,” she said simply.

You swallowed. “I’d be most pleased if you would have me.”

Her fingers tightened around your collar and she used the leverage to pull you up, slipping herself off from the couch and having you stand along with her.

She undid the buttons on your dress and began to undress you, while you took just a moment to catch up to the realisation that you also ought to be doing the same for her. 

When your arms were free of your dress, Thérèse pushed it further down and tucked a few fingers beneath your crinoline so she could undo it and have it pool to the floor along with your skirts. 

With skilled hands that only a woman could possess, Thérèse undid your corset with precision. Though the process of completely untying a corset was tedious, there was something so delicate and delicious about the way Thérèse undid yours.

You watched as her fingers weaved through the laces and loosened it slowly, steadily. Once or twice, she even looked at you and met your eyes as she did, her eyes having ignited with something hungry and captivating. 

Once she finished with your corset and let it drop to the floor, allowing you to step out of the pool of your garments, you were now only in your chemise while you were still slowly undoing Thérèse’s corset. 

She was a haberdasher, after all, and though the two of you were both familiar with the doing and undoing of a corset, it was Thérèse who was most skilled with the handling of clothing. 

Her hands laid atop of yours and your fingers ceased their movements. She stepped towards you and laced her fingers through yours as she began to undo her own corset. You watched, down the space of her own chemise that slowly began to loosen as her corset was further untied, the rising and falling of Thérèse’s soft porcelain breasts. 

“You need not be so concerned with being seen as a predator,” she said, her voice not quite a whisper but still rather low, like a gentle hum in the tune of a bedtime story. She stepped out of her own pool of clothing on the floor now that she was in her own chemise. Her hand found your chest and as she advanced forward, she pushed you back steadily so you were forced to walk backwards. 

“Would you much rather prefer being preyed on?” she asked and ran her hands down your shoulders. “That would please me, anyhow.”

You swallowed. You didn’t quite realise how far Thérèse had been pushing you back until you had to quickly jut out your elbow to keep your weight from suddenly shifting onto your back. She raised a knee onto the edge of the bed and you watched as her chemise slid down her thigh. Her hand ran up the path between your breasts and encouraged you to continue moving backwards.

Her fingers reached the hollow base of your throat, the centre of your collarbone, and she pressed down gently, watching her fingers apply pressure to your compliant skin. Then, when your head was laid atop your pillows and her thighs were straddling your hips, Thérèse leaned down and pressed her warm lips to your neck.

“Perhaps what you had felt before was not guilt.” Her bottom lip ran up the expanse of your neck as she moved to kiss the warm space behind the lobe of your ear. “But rather a feeling of inadequacy, knowing that your desire would never take the form of that of a predator. You need not feel this way — not with me. And if not with me, then you need not ever feel it again.”

Her teeth tugged at your earlobe, let go, then pressed her a kiss again to the pulse of your neck, then down, and down further, until she could run her tongue flat against your neck, up further until the tip of her tongue pressed into the hollow space beneath your jaw bone. She bit down on the skin of your jawline then released. “You ought to know your place, and not feel compelled to take another.”

She straightened to look down upon you, fuelled deep within the warmth between her thighs by the look on your face with your flushed cheeks and lips parted to release your warm quickening breaths. 

“Would it not feel better, knowing that it is I who will prey on you?” She spoke while moving further up your body, her knees moving herself upwards and her thighs brushing up your waist, up the sides of your ribs, your breasts. “Better, knowing that you ought to simply let yourself be consumed?”

Your eyes explored the uncovered expanse of Thérèse’s smooth thighs as she sat herself on your chest, your fingers tightening around your bedsheets and repressing the urge to reach up and touch her.

“Y/N.” Thérèse said your name. You looked up and slid her fingers down your cheek, cupping it softly and tipping your head up to meet your eyes. “I will not ever let you be anyone else’s but mine.”

Her words, though possessive and dominating, seemed almost as it were a forewarning as well; Thérèse still seemed to have reservations of this part of herself, and perhaps in a way, she feared what might happen if she were to completely give into it — give into herself. She worried about what she knew were to happen if she progressed any further.

“I have no interest for anyone else but you,” you told her, meeting her eyes tenderly. You released your bedsheets and laid your hands against the sides of her smooth thighs, warm palms leaving goosebumps in their wake as your fingers pressed into the pliable flesh of Thérèse’s ass. 

Her hips buckled and she sighed through her nose, closing her eyes momentarily as she savoured your words and the first feeling of your hands on her body unobstructed by clothing. 

Thérèse, suddenly overcome by certainty and a hunger now driven to what she felt was alike to famine, took your hair into her hand and used it as leverage to move herself further up. She raised from her position on your chest and after one failed attempt at keeping her chemise around her hips, she grew impatient and pulled the garment off altogether, tossing it back to the foot of the bed. 

Finding that she did not want to face the same frustration with her underwear, she did away with that too. 

Your eyes ran over her bare body, her smooth belly and the curves and dips of her waist and her hips, how soft her thighs looked, how perfectly her breasts were shaped, and the pink tint of her hardened nipples. Brown hair cascaded down her arms and chest.

“By God, I have never seen anything so beautiful,” you remarked. Your hands, unable to keep to themselves, ran up the expanse of her stomach, fingers wrapped around her waist as they moved further up. Your hands cupped her breasts, thumbs moving across Thérèse’s nipples. 

She hummed shakily, both satisfied by your hands and words and also pleasured by them. Her hands came to the backs of yours, encouraging you to grope her rougher.

“When you came into the haberdashery,” she spoke, “I felt pity for you, that something so beautiful had to find herself amongst the rotting carcasses of that god-awful place.”

In gentle protest, you reminded her, “But there was you.”

Thérèse smiled down at you. Such consideration you had, and a kind heart. “And so there was.” She let go of one of your hands and stroked your cheek with the backs of her fingers.

She led your hands to her hips, and she wrapped her hand around the headboard of your bed. She moved herself onto her knees and settled them on either side of your head. 

The scent of Thérèse’s sex made you salivate, and your fingers pressed into her hips with anticipation. Delicate pink folds presented themselves to you as she positioned herself above your face, so inviting. 

Her other hand stroked your cheek one once more with her thumb before her fingers delved into your hair and repositioned your head. Then, she lowered herself onto your lips and you immediately opened for her. 

Your tongue ran through smooth silken petals firstly in curiosity, lips wrapped around the warm embrace of her cunt. Her flavour spread into your tongue and your hands pulled her further down against your face. 

Thérèse’s jaw was slack, her arm pressed against the wall in front of her so she could rest her forehead on her forearm. Her body was overcome with pleasure and, initially, she found it hard to do anything but moan and shut her eyes. 

But the moment your tongue became that of a starving mouth rather than a curious one, Thérèse knew she had to start moving.

The pads of her fingers pressed against the back of your head, keeping your mouth against her pussy. She rolled her hips forward and back, nudging her clit against the tip of your nose as your tongue chased her cunt hungrily. Nectar spilled down your cheeks and smeared across your chin. 

“Y/N.” Thérèse breathed your name. She let go of your hair and groped her breast, moaning in jagged rhythm as her rapid breaths meshed with her groans of pleasure. She had never felt such pleasure, and it was entirely sensical that it was you who was the first and only to give it to her. “Keep going, just like that. Don’t stop. You make me feel so good.”

You looked up at Thérèse from beneath her and felt the urge to explore her further. Your tongue dipped into her, into the slippery tang of her sweet nectar, while your one hand let go of her thigh and travelled up the curve of her ass and up her lower back, feeling where it dipped along the contour of her spine.

Her hips continued to roll against your face, thighs tightening around the side of your head as she depended less on the grip of the headboard and further on the stability of your head beneath her. 

Your hand gripped at her waist, thumb pressed into her soft cream skin.

She let out a partially-repressed squeal and let go of the headboard, both hands now gripping your head with her fingers interlaced within your hair. You supported her with your one hand on her waist and your other on the back of her thigh, and Thérèse began grinding down against you with such speed and intensity that you could hardly move your tongue. 

She took charge of her impending release, leaving you to be but an inanimate object she was merely using the tongue of. 

Her fingers pulled your head up, right against her pussy so as to achieve the friction she needed, and you kept your tongue stiff and pliable for her delicate cunt. 

“A-Ah… Y/N.” Thérèse’s voice started to become higher pitched, needier. “I’m…” Her head lolled back and her hair poured down the length of her arched back, her breasts moving in accordance to the rhythm of her hips, her neck becoming exposed. How terribly you wanted to press your lips there, where her skin was warm and smooth and scented of her perfume. 

One of Thérèse’s hands released your hair and suddenly jutted out, her palm meeting the wall as she reached her pleasure’s peak. You could watch from beneath how her eyes squeezed shut and as her head fell forward, jaw slack as she cried out. The sight was almost animalistic in how unrestrained and entirely carnal it was.

In release, she was no longer constrained by the shadowed holds of the shop or Passage du Pont Neuf or even her own personal reservations, but a being so raw in her desire and expression, and entirely without guilt. 

Thérèse’s body suddenly went lax and she leaned backwards, her other arm quick to hold herself up with her palm flat beside your hip. She caught her breath and you finally took your first full one once her cunt parted from your lips. 

In silence and in awe for several moments, you merely watched the rising and falling of her chest as she breathed, deep and drawn-out. 

Carefully so as not to disturb her balance, you arose onto your elbows and allowed Thérèse to adjust herself along your body. She opened her eyes and watched as you moved. She moved along with you so she was soon sitting in the middle of the bed with her knees bent against her chest and her hands behind her, holding herself up. 

You advanced on all fours and parted her legs, kissing up the smooth skin of her inner thighs. She welled with admiration for you as she watched you on your knees in front of her, kissing her hips and her stomach, beneath her breasts, her nipples, her neck. Your kisses became more delicate as they reached her face, one hand cupping her cheek as you kissed up to her temple and then her forehead, and finally, her lips. 

Her elbows buckled when you leaned down beside her and took her with you. She laid herself down beside you so the two of you were laying opposite of the headboard and closest to the fireplace opposite the bed, your eyes meeting tenderly with hers as you stroked her cheekbone with your thumb.

Your other arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her against you so her hips were pressed against yours, legs intertwined as if in their own entangled dance. 

“I am hopelessly captivated by you.” Your hand moved away from her cheek and into the soft waves of her smooth brown hair. “I’d like to never leave such a state in any foreseeable future.”

Thérèse’s tranquil expression tugged into a slight grin and she moved herself closer so her breasts were pressed against your chest. “You needn’t concern yourself with any such future in which you belong to anyone else but me.” Her gaiety tinged with charming arrogance was incredibly endearing to you.

“Every morning since the beginning of time,” you said, “the sun has risen and it has set.” Thérèse listened intently to the gentle hum of your lullaby-like voice. “And yet books upon books have been written by hand of the many poets with hearts of unfettered lovers dedicated solely to the sun’s rising and its setting, and I presume, for as long as poetry and love are to exist, that this human habit of loving even the most inevitable will stretch into the far reaches of the human future. The inevitability in a future in which I am yours and no one else’s could not, and would not, even if it could, ever cease my desire for its occurrence.”

Thérèse kissed your lips. “How lucky am I to have captured such a woman with as much prowess for the written word as she has within her heart, then.” From her grin, you could feel the evenness of her teeth brush against your lips.

“And you,” you said with a tinge of hesitancy, “foresee a future in which you have in your possession more than only me?”

Thérèse moved up onto her elbow and you kissed the top of her breast as she shifted above you. “In the time that I have known you, which, admittedly, I would say is much shorter than I wish I could say — but we have the rest of time to make up for it — I have come to realise and accept truths about myself that I could not have otherwise, and that is to mean I could not have done so without you.” She brushed hair from your forehead with delicate fingers.

“In any interaction,” Thérèse said, “there exists two irrefutable beings, one being interacting with the other in mutuality. Before you, Y/N, I was neither being nor anything truly existent. I had no form, no sense of myself, no identity. For someone who has no established understanding of who they are, it becomes impossible to have anything important, to value anything or have any possession which is truly theirs. Do you understand, or am I speaking with the tongue of a madwoman?”

“I understand,” you said.

Thérèse smiled. She knew you would. “I am only who I have become because of you.” She kissed the bridge of your nose. “I am as much yours as you are mine. Everything I am is yours, and only yours.”

Then she asked, “Are you happy to own me, Y/N?”

You took her into your arms, pulled her down close so you could kiss her while Thérèse tried her best not to laugh too hard as to disturb the way your soft lips were pressed against hers. 

She curled herself up against you and you held her close to your chest, one arm serving as a rest for her head and the other wrapped around her body. 

“I am the happiest I have ever been,” you told her honestly. 

Thérèse smiled against the warm embrace of your body, laying her head against the cushion of your breasts. She, too, was the happiest she’d ever been.

#thérèse raquin #thérèse raquin x you #thérèse raquin x reader #thérèse raquin x y/n #thérèse raquin fanfiction #thérése raquin smut #in secret #in secret fanfiction #elizabeth olsen

[maximilfisms]

draw me like i'm one of your french girls | thérèse raquin x fem!reader

Summary: Thérèse, trapped in her unwanted marriage to Camille, seeks comfort in Y/N, the talented artist who painted her husband's portrait, in the form of an illicit rendezvous. Or a glimpse on one of those nights where Y/N would sneak into Madame Raquin's shop, fulfill Thérèse's needs, and disappear like ghosts in the air.

Word count: 2k+

Tags: 18+, smut, fingering, cheating, semi-public sex? idk, but they almost got caught, bottom!thérèse, top!reader, what's proofreading?, MDNI!

this is my first fic, and i honestly don't even know what i am doing rip

The moonlight shone its faint light to the labyrinthine streets of Paris, where gaslights cast flickering shadows upon the cobblestone alleys, and the whispers of clandestine affairs lingered like the fragrance of aged wine. Thérèse found solace in the hidden corners of a city draped in secrets. The narrow passages, cloaked in the heavy scent of impending rain, and the hushed murmur of distant voices all served as the backdrop for her forbidden love. It was within this maze of dimly lit alleyways, where the echoes of the footsteps of busy Parisians harmonized with the nocturnal symphony of the city, that she navigated the complexities of their entangled destinies.

The bedroom, perched on the second floor of her aunt, Madame Raquin's shop, became their clandestine haven—a sanctuary veiled in heavy drapes, the creaking sighs of weathered floorboards, and the gaslights flickered outside, transforming her marital bedroom into a cocoon where the artistry of their passion unfolded. The ambient glow painted an intimate tapestry upon the walls, revealing the shared vulnerability of two souls seeking refuge in the shadows.

The air itself seemed to hold the whispers of lovers from eras past, a blend of the city's musky perfume and the intoxicating aroma of forbidden desire. Thérèse, adorned in the trappings of societal expectations, stood before her woman with a yearning that mirrored the palpable tension of the quiet night. Y/N, the painter with fingers that could evoke emotion from pigments, gazed at Thérèse as if deciphering the poetry etched upon her soul. The dim light filtered through the bedroom's heavy drapes, casting Thérèse's silhouette in a dance of shadows that accentuated the soft curves of her vulnerability, and Y/N, a connoisseur of emotion, observed with an artist's discerning eye—a voyeur capturing the essence of clandestine passion in each subtle movement.

"Draw me like I'm one of your French girls," Thérèse whispered, her voice a soft plea that echoed in the dimly lit room, where their secret unfolded against the backdrop of Paris's clandestine allure.

Y/N, attuned to the nuances of their surroundings, nodded in silent agreement despite the subtle yet genuine smile that graced her lips. The room, a haven shrouded in the mysteries of the night, bore witness to the illicit dance of two souls—a dance painted with the strokes of desire, vulnerability, and the unspoken language of their love.

Y/N's hands moved with purpose, much like the strokes of a brush in a canvas that became an intimate exploration of Thérèse's essence. Her slender fingers brushed Thérèse's shoulders, sliding off the brunette's dress off of it, watching as the fabric fell onto her feet. Y/N's eyes glimmered with sheer affection for the woman, her point finger tracing Thérèse's prominent collarbones, down to her sternum, where the valley's of her breasts lay, waiting to be worshiped.

“You truly are a work of art, mon amour,” The artist whispered as she leaned in to place chaste kisses on her soft neck, and Y/N's hands palmed the supple flesh of Thérèse's breasts, touch as tender as the stroke of an artist's brush. Each caress of the canvas mirrored the unspoken language that flowed between them—the language of love that dared not speak its name in the harsh light of day.

Yet, the threat of discovery loomed above them like a guillotine, sharp and unforgiving. Camille, Thérèse's unsuspecting husband, engaged in games just outside, unaware of the symphony of passion that played out on the shop's second floor, on their marital bed.

"We must be cautious," Thérèse whispered, her eyes darting towards the creaking floorboards below. "Madame Raquin and Camille must not suspect."

Y/N, whose heart beat in rhythm with Thérèse's, nodded solemnly. "Our love is a secret garden, Thérèse, one that flourishes in the shadows but withers in the harsh light of judgment.” She spoke as her hands went to cradle Thérèse's cheeks. “I promise to be careful.”

The bedroom, once a marital sanctuary for Thérèse and Camille, transformed into the backdrop of an illicit affair. The fear of discovery heightened the intensity of their connection, turning stolen kisses into acts of rebellion against a world that sought to confine them.

Outside, the city's heartbeat continued, oblivious to the symphony of emotions that echoed within the four walls of the bedroom. Thérèse, her heart torn between duty and desire, reached out to Y/N, their fingers entwining in a silent vow that defied the constraints of their reality.

With the air thick of passion, tender affections, and fear, all that had happened went on like a blur. Both women couldn't remember who leaned in first to trap their lips into a fiery but loving embrace, and yet, the flickering candlelight cast an ethereal glow upon their entangled bodies, the shadows playing upon the tapestry of their clandestine love. Y/N dared to speak, to try and use the last of her reason, to attempt at stopping herself despite knowing that she had gone far too deep, but, Thérèse, overcome by the weight of societal expectations, pressed a trembling finger to Y/N's lips, silencing the unspoken fears that lingered between them.

No words were needed as the artist took the initiative and resumed their kiss, her lips brushing against Thérèse's as the bedroom became a cocoon, shielding them from the judgmental eyes of society. The intimacy between them, though a spark in the vast darkness, burned with the intensity of a thousand suns.

Y/N carefully lay the woman beneath her to the plush bed, hands exploring Thérèse's skin like a caveman threading a path in the unfamiliar wilderness. The tips of her fingertips toyed with Thérèse's hardened nipples, eliciting held back whimpers from the woman laying beneath her.

“Y/N…” Thérèse whispered, but she only gave her woman a smile in response, taking the other nipple to her mouth, and sucking on it like a newborn starved. Thérèse closed her eyes shut, body overwhelmed by the sensations of Y/N's worship, only for those brown orbs to flutter open along with her mouth as two fingers eased their way to her core.

A sly smile tugged in the corners of Y/N's pink lips, gazing up at Thérèse whose pupils were blown wide, and mouth covered with one hand, containing the noises that ought to escape her with each thrust of the artist's long and slender fingers in her tight pussy.

Thérèse's labored breathing, accompanied with the wet sloshing sounds created by her dripping entrance and Y/N's fingers, were the only sounds heard in the stillness of the night. That was before a sudden creaking of the weathered floorboards interrupted the women's intimate bubble, sending shivers down Thérèse's spine. Her eyes widened, but Y/N did not pull back even as her breath was caught in the suspense of the moment. Instead, her fingers only went faster, opting to guide the writhing woman below her to the pinnacle of her high, and the contracting of Thérèse's pussy against her fingers only served as an indication that she was on the right track.

Thérèse struggled to finish the sentence as she held back her moans in between, "Our world would crumble." Y/N hummed in approval as she leaned in to Thérèse's clit, using her tongue to stimulate the woman's bundle of nerves that only made it harder for the latter to control her sounds, more so as she came all over Y/N's face and fingers, legs trembling as the artist's fingers slowed down its thrusts, prolonging the release.

"Quiet, amour," Y/N whispered breathily, a twinge of worry in their voice amidst the obvious arousal. "If Madame Raquin or Camille were to hear—"

The bedroom, though once a haven for marital vows, now bore witness to a love that dared to defy the norms of its time. Thérèse and Y/N, in the quiet moments between heartbeats, exchanged vows that resonated with the soulful ache of a love that existed in the shadows. The night wore on, and with each passing moment, the threat of exposure intensified. Thérèse, torn between the intoxication of love and the fear of societal retribution, felt the weight of their clandestine affair like a stone pressing against her chest. The gaslights outside continued to flicker, casting a gentle glow upon the tangled sheets that bore witness to the stolen moments of Thérèse and Y/N's clandestine affair. The night, though silent, echoed with the lingering whispers of a love that dared to exist in the shadows of the city.

In the quiet aftermath of their shared passion, the room held the remnants of their intimate communion. Thérèse, her senses heightened by the mingling scents of jasmine and musk, traced her fingers along Y/N's bare chest—the contours of a lover and confidante. The air, once heavy with fear, now carried the sweet echo of their shared pleasure. Y/N, eyes filled with a tenderness that mirrored Thérèse's, brushed a strand of hair away from her flushed face.

"You don't know what you do to me, Thérèse," Y/N murmured, their voice a soothing melody that hung in the air. "I hear your voice in my dreams, feel the ghosts of your touch on my body, and crave you like I haven't satiated myself in years."

Thérèse, still lost in the aftermath of their intimacy, met Y/N's gaze with a mixture of gratitude and longing. The world outside, with its judgmental eyes and societal expectations, felt distant—a mere whisper in the night.

"Promise me, Y/N," Thérèse pleaded, her voice a fragile whisper. "Promise me that our love will endure, that it will be a persevering flame against the winds of adversity."

Y/N, caressing Thérèse's cheek with a touch that bordered on reverence, responded, "I don't have to promise anything, Thérèse. Like the stars above, I know our hearts will shine even in the darkest nights."

The bedroom, once charged with the tension of secrecy, now cradled the two lovers in a post-coital embrace. Their entangled limbs spoke of a passion that transcended societal norms, a love that flourished in the clandestine corners of their shared existence.

In the silence that followed, Y/N traced circles on Thérèse's skin, each touch a reassurance of their shared vulnerability. The room, steeped in the essence of their intimacy, held the echoes of their whispered promises and the delicate symphony of their love. The shadows, once a cloak for their secret desires, now danced upon the walls like witnesses to a tale written in the language of tender glances and lingering touches.

Thérèse, her senses attuned to the lingering traces of their passion, gazed into Y/N's eyes as if searching for the permanence of their connection. Y/N, the artist who knew how to breathe life into moments, held Thérèse with a gaze that mirrored the profound depth of their shared intimacy.

As the first light of dawn painted the sky in hues of soft pink, Thérèse and Y/N lay intertwined, bodies and souls entwined in a tapestry of shared vulnerability. The air, now tinged with the promise of a new day, carried the remnants of their intimacy—a scent that lingered like a secret between them.

"Promise me you'll come when I call again," Thérèse pleaded, her gaze locking with Y/N's in a silent pact. "When I need you the most, when I feel my cage even more… promise me you'll come running.”

Y/N, brushing a stray strand of hair from Thérèse's face, nodded with a smile etched on her face. "I'll be here before you know it."

As the sun rose, casting its golden rays upon the city of Paris, Thérèse and Y/N knew that the world awaited their departure from the intimate cocoon they had woven together. With a final, lingering kiss, Thérèse and Y/N parted ways, slipping into the daylight as if reentering a world that demanded conformity. The bedroom, now silent and empty, held the memories of their stolen moments—a gallery of passion that defied the limitations of societal norms.

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda maximoff smut #elizabeth olsen #elizabeth olsen x female reader #thérèse raquin #therese raquin #wanda maximoff x female reader #smut #in secret #wlw

[natashaslittlegirl]

Secrets - Thérèse Raquin

DO NOT COPY ANY OF MY WORKS. MINORS DNI +18 ONLY.

Summary: Thérèse, you sister-in-law, always had a crush on you, one night she told you her little secret.

Innocent!Thérèse Raquin x Reader

Smut, top!reader, bottom!Thérèse, masturbation (T), dirty talk, dub-con (kind of?), vaginal fingering (both), thigh riding (T), finger sucking (both), praise kink, oral sex (T to R), overstimulation, squirting (T).

Words Count: 2400+

Wattpad Masterlist Elizabeth Olsen's Masterlist

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You were in your room reading a book placidly, drinking herbal tea while you enjoyed your husband's trip out of town, you had never liked him anyway, rather, his sister. Your sister-in-law was the one you liked, but they would burned alive knowing that you liked a woman, for everyone it was a sin, for you the purest thing in the world, but those are just opinions.

Someone knocked on your door, so you put down the poetry book and got up to open it, cursing the dress you had to wear, why so many layers of clothes? it was very uncomfortable.

"Coming" you said before opening, "Oh, Thérèse, come in." the brunette entered, she looked beautiful today, with her white dress with brown details and her loose wavy hair.

"Hi, I wanted to know if you, if you wanted..." she bit her lip, nervous at your presence.

"If I want what, darling?" You gave her a warm look, you loved how nervous she got, you enjoyed it a lot.

"If you wanted us to drink my brother's whiskey tonight, taking advantage of the fact that he's gone for a few days and you know we're not allowed to drink, it's to take advantage of the fact that the men aren't here and I-" you silenced her babbling by putting your index finger on his soft pink lips.

"Of course, dear, come here at eleven, when everyone else is sleeping." She looked at you from below, being taller than her, what made you think of how frustrated you always left her.

"Okay, I'll see you later." Just like that, she walked out the door and you kept drinking your tea, thinking of all the ways you wanted to take Thérèse.

It was about to show eleven on the clock when two knocks resounded on the door, without asking you let the brunette in, who slipped in with a candle and a giant bottle of whiskey in her hands.

"Oh" she pant, "I thought someone would see me." she said as she took a deep breath, touching her chest with one hand.

"Don't be silly, Thérèse, they've all slept since seven." you giggled, taking the bottle from her hand to sit on the bed, inviting her to do the same.

The brunette walked slowly to sit on the bed next to you, settling down a few inches from you. This was one of the times that she got so nervous spending time with you, it's not like you didn't know each other or anything, you already spent several afternoons together, cooking, sewing, washing and doing all the housewife things. But this time is different, because she came with the idea of telling you her secret, one that she kept for months and you were involved.

"Mhm this is delicious." you said purring after taking a drink of the yellowish liquid, feeling how it burned your throat but at the same time you loved it.

You passed the bottle to Thérèse, imitating you, she let the liquor down her throat, grunting at the burn.

"Oh, you're right, it burns though." she said shyly but your smile made her feel welcome.

You continued to drink, until you reached half the bottle, both now were tipsy, laughing not too loud so that the others wouldn't wake up. You had adjusted your dress, revealing your perfectly shaped legs, which your sister-in-law could not take her eyes off.

"Oh, that was a good anecdote indeed!" She said laughing while you drank another bit of the alcohol.

"Yes, one of the best," you licked your lips, feeling a drop trickle down your chin.

"Let me," she moved closer to you, her thumb catching the drop and bringing it to her own lips, moaning at the taste.

"Tell me a secret." You told her, your look was serious, but only because the simple act of her sucking her finger had turned you on.

"I have a really good one," Thérèse was no longer nervous, the alcohol had vanished her inhibitions, "do you remember that day you went out to hang your clothes on the ropes, that later you told me that in the heat you had taken off your dress because it was it wet?"

You looked at her with furrowed eyebrows, you didn't understand what she meant by that day, what could there be about that day? Oh.

"Huh? And what happened that day?" you played innocent.

"Well, I was in the bushes, looking at some flowers and well, you've always seemed so beautiful to me, like no man has and like no other woman." your eyes wide "And I started to feel a tingling in my lower abdomen, the one we're supposed to feel when we're with men."

Thérèse told you this without a drop of shyness, which you appreciated since she was very inhibited, you waited for this for a long time.

"So I lowered my hips and squeezed my thighs, then I started to moved against the ground, and then my hand and,"

"Thérèse..." you sighed.

"I did that thinking of you." she said, blushing a little, her dark eyes shining with the firelight, "Actually, I had this same dress on."

"Oh yeah?" she nodded, "okay, show me, cause I can't understand you with words, darling" her eyes widened, she didn't expect this.

"S-show you w-what?" she said in a whisper, a little blush appeared in her cheeks again.

"How you touched yourself for me." you moved closer to her to bring your hands behind her, unbuttoning her piece of clothing to remove it.

Thérèse obediently lifted her arms, leaving her alone in her white nightgown. She had taken her shoes off to get on the bed.

"Lean your back against the wall," she did as you told her "now, bend your legs and spread them."

"Like that?" she said in a whisper again, showing you her position as she grabs the hem of her nightgown to lift it up and leave it and coiled on her hips.

You watched as she slowly exposed her legs, to then realize that she was not wearing panties, her arousal glistening between her thighs.

"Yes, like that, darling." you bit the inside of your cheek "now show me." Thérèse slowly moved her hips as she lowered her hand to her clit, brushing lightly against it and shuddering at the contact.

She ran her fingers freely over her wet core, as if she knew the path by heart. She e started to rub her clit a little faster your eyes couldn't take off her fingers.

"Don't oppress the sweet sounds you make, I want to hear you, dear." you had to fight the urge to rail her right there.

Thérèse let out little moans from hers lips, almost inaudible, but you would get more of it out of her later. One finger entered her and a growl tore from her throat, you had to clench your thighs, because this was all too exciting.

"You like that? You like to think that it's me who's touching you and not just your silly little fingers?" your husky voice resounded in her ears.

"Yes," she moaned as she thrust another finger inside.

"Do you want me to touch you like that, darling?" you lean over her, your face was just centimeters apart, you could feel her hot breath crashing you.

"We can't."

"Oh but we can, no one has to know," you brushed against her lips as you looked down at her body "It'll be our little secret." she looked at you with pleading eyes.

"What if someone finds out?" She was doubting, you couldn't stand it. You pressed her lower lip with your thumb.

"No one is gonna find out if you don't open that little pretty mouth of yours." you pressed your knee to her wet cunt, making her moan.

"I'm not gonna tell anyone, I promise." you pressed harder.

"Good girl, I know you were  going to be such a good girl, aren't you?" she nod desperately. "Are you gonna let me help you?"

"Yes please." she breath out as you keep pressing your knee on her.

"Move your hips to me, baby."

She began to rock her hips, grinding on your thigh and you felt her wetness from her soaking you. You know she was close, she was so worked up before you could even touch her.

"Let me know when you're close, darling." you wanted to frustrate her, to make her beg you to touch her.

"I- I'm close." she whispered in your ear.

"We're gonna do this my way, okay?" she nodded eagerly, she did not care, she wanted her release.

You moved your knee from her, leaving her rocking to nothing and before she could protest you pushed two fingers inside her mouth from her.

"Do you want to touch me too, don't you darling?" she nod, "you're gonna be good for me and make me feel good so I can make you feel good later."

You took your fingers out of her mouth covered in saliva and sat by her side with your back to the wall, you lifted your dress leaving it coiled on your hips just like her.

"Come here," you pointed in front of you as Thérèse positioned herself kneeled between your legs "I'm gonna tell you what you have to do okay?" she nod "Now put your head between my thighs."

She did as you told, leaning over you wet cunt, that was already dripping.

"You're so wet." Her hot breath crashed with your sensitive skin, sending a shiver through your spine.

"It's all for you, not even your brother can wet me like that, just you, darling." you confessed her, it was the truth, you never wanted her brother, you always wanted her.

"What do I have to do?" she looked at you, so thirsty and hungrily.

"Lick me." you lips were part as you sighd for air.

Thérèse stick out her tongue to lick the entire length of your pussy, her inexperienced turned you one, now she can be your little fucktoy, to teach her the way you like to be fuck, how and when, she's all you ever wanted.

"Now suck there," you pointed your clit, "Mhm yes, just like that, darling." you praised her and saw how she shiver at that.

She sucked and licked you with such devotion, making you weter. Your hand went to her hair, gently pulling it to you, her nose rubbing your clit as her tongue was circling your entrance.

"Yes baby, so good, now put two fingers inside, just like you did with you, okay?" you were desperate at this point, she was pretty slow to your like, but you know she would learn fast.

Thérèse enter two fingers inside you shyly, asking herself if that was okay, but she kept going in and out of you.

"Is this good?" she finally asked you, looking at you with her mouth covered in your juices, making her prettier if that was possible.

"Yes, dear, so good, your brother couldn't do that to me, not even me." she smirked proudly going faster because of her confidence.

Your head fell back, hitting the wall letting out a groan at the hit. You rock you hips at her hand, reaching another sweet spot inside you.

"Oh fuck, Thérèse?" you looked back at her.

"Yes?"

"Curl them." she furrowed her eyebrows and you make the movement with your own fingers, "fucking god, yes, like that, keep going."

You felt your walls clenching around her, you were so close, she was pretty good to be the first time she touched a women.

"I'm gonna cum, darling, suck as you did before." you told her and she went directly to your clit.

You couldn't take it the pressure on your lower stomach anymore and cummed all over her fingers, she took them out and move her head to rest it on your thigh. You were recovering, panting for air with your lips part letting out little whimpers.

"You did so good, Thérèse," you hand caresses her cheek, "give me your hand."

You hold her wrist, taking the wet fingers to your lips, licking them clean, sucking and swirling your tongue between them, she moaned at the sensation.

"Now come here," you pat your lap for her to straddle it, she was now sitting on top of you. "I'm gonna make you feel good, is that okay?"

"Yes, please, Y/N," she practically begged you.

""Mhm are you frustrated?" your hand was running her thigh, noticing the goosebumps in her skin.

"Yes,"

"And you want me to touch you like you did?" you cupped her pussy, feeling her wetness.

"Please," she grind on your hand, searching for some friction.

You shove two fingers inside her, but not moving them, watching her growing desperate.

"Ride them." you bit your lip as Thérèse began to move against your hand, her clit was rubbing with your palm.

You had to put your hand on her mouth because of her loud moans. You curled your fingers and she rolled her eyes, she'd never felt thay kind of pleasure.

You started to meet her thrust, going harder on her, looking at the tears forming in the corner of her eyes. She was so overwhelmed. Her walls clenched around your fingers, knowing that she's gonna cum in any time. She looked at you with pleading eyes and you nod, giving her permission to cum.

She explode in your hand, feeling more wetness dripping onto your thighs, squirting all over you as you kept working through her climax. She opened her eyes wide as you still move your fingers.

You took your hand out of her mouth to claim her lips, a rough yet passionte kiss started, she kissed you a little sloppy because of her fuzzy state of mind. Pushing her to another orgasm, she was trembling on top of you, squeezing her thighs as you rub her clit with your thumb. Separating for the lack of air, she felt on you tired, she never felt this and now she wanted more.

"You did so good, darling." you take your fingers out of her, liking them again.

"I like our secret." she giggled.

"I do too." you were stroking her hair, "You know, I saw you that day, that's why I stay there, for you to see me." She opened her eyes wide.

"Y-you saw m-me?" she tried to cover herself.

"Yes, and I loved every second."

#therese raquin #therese raquin smut #wanda maximoff #elizabeth olsen #elizabeth olsen smut #wanda maximoff smut #lizzie olsen #in secret #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen x female reader #elizabeth olsen gifs #elizabeth olsen imagine

[ceridescent]

what started in beautiful rooms — r., thérèse

thérèse raquin x female!reader

summary: you never really knew what’s behind those twinkling, green eyes.

warning/s: pure angst & adultery.

word count: 1, 229

author’s note: been fermenting in my drafts since november of 2022 i think it’s finally time it sees the light of day. i hope you like gay angst. ♡

masterlist | navigation

“you are all i could think about.”

she cannot even bear to look you in the eye, and yet, in this decadent condition, you took courage professing the revelation clogging your throat so surreal you had denied speaking. terrified to the point of refusal to eat, alive at most with your lips clipped together, barricading the words only for her to hear. 

dismissive her jaded eyes are, lingering in the vastness of the forest, indulging herself in the rejuvenating lush of greenery — she’d let her eyes get plucked by it, you suppose, with how wide-eyed she stares at anywhere but you. 

“what am i supposed to do with that?” her impertinence tips you to the brink of falling apart, although not quite, because she is just as nervous as you are. clamping her lower lip with her pearly white teeth, and now darting her gaze haphazard. she turns at you, “what do you wish me to say, y/n?” just as lost as you are. 

is she though?

lest you forget, she engineered all of this. 

you crawl closer to her, just enough to pretend that her husband is not resting on top of her legs, dozed and unaware of your conversation. 

you’ve only known thérèse for a while, and whilst you strain making sense of her hoaxes, you wish you had never gone into her aunt’s shop, enthusiastic and amicable to accept her dinner invitation with a shake of a hand. 

a tattooed smile lingered on your face basking into both you and thérèse’s interests, unintentionally disregarding the mother and son dining with you in the background. 

your eyelashes fluttering with a gaze so intense thérèse repeatedly stuttered with a blush on her pale face, admiration coating your orbs with your chin on top of your palm, tilting your head sideward as she talked about her wonderment at the glistening river near her aunt’s old abode from vermont; the lone thing she dearly missed. 

unseen was thérèse’s eye roll when her husband held and squeezed her hand, gladly speaking on behalf of his wife — she wouldn’t miss anything else from vermont, because the whole family is together. you were more than a stranger now that you had sparked an interest with thérèse but nonetheless a stranger — unaware of the faux laughter coming from her, indulged only in the crinkled smiles of the couple. 

that single, lovely dinner erected into visits, almost daily, thérèse knocking on the wood of your family’s abode during afternoons, when your parents have scattered be with their jobs, invited over for embroidery lessons. 

“press it lightly with just enough pressure, that’s right. good! don’t be too hard on the needle,” you whispered close thérèse’s ear, guiding her fingers with your own into weaving the needle into the fabric. 

you were crouched over the back of her frame whilst she sat on a padded stool, patiently waiting for your commands and evaluations. she was a diligent student who had a keen eye for details, yet at that moment she was sloppy. 

eyebrows knitted, confused with thérèse’s sudden burst of swiftness in movement, you reflexively pressed your hands around hers, locking them in (picked from your usual habit of teaching your younger sister), getting a good look at her up close. you caught sweat sliding down her forehead, the red burning on her pale cheeks, and the quiver of her plump mouth. 

“take a deep breath, thérèse-“ 

she did so, taking three breaths per second, alarming you further. “slower, thérèse. slow and steady for me,” you raspsed unintentionally, squeezing her tensed shoulders, the view of her apprehension catalyzing your body to warm without an appropriate reason you failed to explain. 

“you want me to go slow on you?”

it wasn’t a true question, you realized after she tossed the embroidery hoop to the ground, rising from the chair abruptly that unexpectedly your lips were clamped in between her own, slightly nipped and slightly licked, pinning you to the sofa. 

a muffled noise bubbled out of your swelling lips for the first time. it was ardently luscious that you wished she’d urge you to do it once more, grappling the nape of her neck, burrowing your fingers in ‘till you have nested yourself within her. 

lost in the moment you became pliable ditto clay, your blouse hastily unbuttoned, kneaded were your breasts by thérèse’s svelte hands, along with whispered salacious fantasies in your ear, her wedding band glistening due to the gleam of the sun. 

clandestine meetings brewed from that moment on. hidden in their quarters, basked in the rays of sunlight, the huge duvet that fit three people, thérèse’s warm hold. 

“how do i satiate myself of you?” she would whisper in your ear, breathy as she could be, empty and sore from a hushed sin veiled away by her incessant ‘migraines’ when asked her conditions from her aunt. 

you would chuckle, wrap your cramped arm around her tender frame, and give her forehead a kiss. 

drifting your thoughts direct toward the days you have not encountered the twinkle in her eyes — the playful smirk on her pink lips — the laugh so angelic you had worshiped it. 

“just-“ a leap of air alleviates from your lips, clawing out the whirling emotions permeating in your system. 

you stare at her for eons you have imagined her a statue. what a divine being to admire without being hurt, without the desire to touch. a stiff sculpture that appears dainty it would invoke jealousy within you. a material lifeless, at ease at its tense. a material not to long for. 

“y-you left me…”

unfathomable are the shake in your words, unaccepting of the feelings you have laced with it. “you do not- no…you refuse to care!”

“y/n!” thérèse’s half-scream bolts you from your senses, two drops of tears threatening to fall down in the law of gravity. you are stupefied by the sound of your name thrown from her lips — ginger, lipid, ashamed. thérèse used to lace it with vampishness, gentleness, and blitheness. 

you only cared. 

“y/n, please, let’s not- don’t do this, please.” her eyes watered, either of anxiety or spite you cannot determine. however, once you observed the trail she had left, of her gazing jade orbs — at your polished eyes and chapped lips, and soon the sleeping body of her husband. 

“then please, thérèse,” you sob her name, pleading for her. “tell me we mean something! this is more than hiding us away…”

“you are all i can think about, thérèse. please say something.” you wish to reach her hand, but enough of the touching. nor the staring. this is the riskiest attainment you have taken — asking for permanence from a woman whose hands are bound by another’s, nonchalant of your wisdom cracking away. 

thérèse observes her husband’s face for a long time, caressing his curls away from his face, ignoring your presence. a passerby would assume you are a maiden awaiting orders from her masters. a relationship between maiden and master cordial that she is treated as equal, sitting down against the warm grass, conversing over domestic activities or of scorching gossip. 

“we’re leaving paris, y/n. we’re going back to vermont.”

thérèse remains a statue. however, this time, she has become a blur. 

you weep in silence whilst she watches you, stiff in her shoulders, loose with her hands caressing her man.

#therese raquin x reader #therese raquin #wlw yearning #lesbian #elizabeth olsen

[hoedamn-eron]

hi guys!

Thought it was about time that I actually introduce myself properly, since the last time I posted a photo of me was in November 2022 😂

My name is Shannon, and I’m 29 years old from the UK (specifically, the NW) 😊 I am engaged to my wonderful partner, Dom, and we have a 5 year old son, and a cat named Luigi.

My favourite colour is lavender, my favourite place to be is London (or Paris, honestly I just thrive in cities in general!), my favourite book is Thérèse Raquin (which, fair, I discovered because of Oscar, but as it turns out, it's an amazing book and quickly became a favourite), and my favourite film is The Sound of Music. My favourite food is sushi, and I have a Bachelor’s Degree in English Literature & Creative Writing ☺️

I’m also a huge fan of antique shopping! Always up for a good bargain in the antique shops! 😂

I’ve been on tumblr since 2012/2013, when I was in college! I never really posted anything, it was all reblogs (I still have that account, I just spend most of my time here now!).

This isn’t my first fandom blog, I tried having one back in 2014, but it quickly fizzled out (and good thing too because the fandom I was a part of is now dead 😂).

I joined the Oscar Isaac Fan Club™ in 2022, after watching Moon Knight. I'd seen him in other things before, like Star Wars and W.E. and X-Men, but I'd truly fallen in love with Steven Grant and then it just escalated from there.

Now I'm obsessed (sorry, Dom).

I've always been interested in writing from a young age, I'm an avid reader, and I discovered fanfiction when I was around 12 on fanfiction.net. Over the years, I've posted many a fic that always ended up unfinished and deleted, or self indulgent to never see the light of day, until I started this blog! It's motivated me to write more and gain my confidence back since the past 8 years have been rough.

I’ve really enjoyed posting my fics and gaining feedback, I just love it when someone enjoys my writing! I hope I can continue to write and post as much as I can! 😊

#meet the writer #always nervous to post my face online #and to talk about myself in general

[yelenasdiary]

Sending a Request

Before sending a request, please take a look at who I write for & what I am comfort and not comfortable writing. This is important and if I feel you've send a request totally ignoring something I am not comfortable with, I will delete your request.

*Sending a request doesn’t guarantee it will be written!!*

When sending a request, please state if you want Reader to be fem or GN! If you want Reader to have a penis in the fic, please mention if you want them to be Fem, GN or AFAB/AMAB.

Sorry this post is kind of long.

What I'm Comfortable Writing:

Dark Angst such as, gore, murder, kidnapping, mentions of SA, drugs, blood, childhood trauma, PTSD topics etc.

Fluff, anything and everything fluffy!!

Platonic and/or family based fics (Reader as a sibling or child).

I am comfortable writing Reader with a disability BUT, please know, I can only write what I've researched and I can never, ever, understand the struggles or what it is truly like to have *said* disability. Please take that into account if you are wanting to request Reader with a certain disability 💖

Age Regression - I'm happy to write it, if it is requested. I am not a regressor so, again, I can only write what I've researched.

Smut - Daddy/Mommy kinks, Con Non Con, Character x Character, Character x Reader, Breeding Kink, Voyeurism, Desperation, Toys, Bondage, Double Penetration, Lactation Kink, Somnophilia, Exhibitionism. FAB! Reader with a penis and/or Character with a penis.

Alpha x Omega AU - I sometimes get this requested and it's fine! I'm not confident with it as I'm not a big reader on that fantasy but I love the challenge.

What I'm NOT Comfortable Writing:

Details of SA & r@pe. Like I mentioned above, I am fine with mentions but not detailing the event.

Detailed racism, I'm okay with mentions such as "So and so was racist"

Smut - Scat, incest, pedophilia, Character x Men Reader, Body Shaming, R@pe, Hate in General. 

I do not write Men x Character. I'm sorry x

Who I Write For

If somebody isn't listed here it doesn't necessarily mean I won't write for them. I am open to writing for others, these are just the main people I enjoy writing for.

Fictional Characters -

Marvel -

Yelena Belova

Wanda Maximoff // The Scarlet Witch

Natasha Romanoff

Bucky Barnes

Kate Bishop

Agatha Harkness

Melina Vostokoff

Carol Danvers

+ more, just ask!

Criminal Minds -

Emily Prentiss

Grey's Anatomy -

Amelia Shepherd

Jackson Avery

Addison Montgomery

Jo Wilson

Arizona Robbins

Eliza Minnick

Carina DeLuca

Characters from Movies // Mini Series -

Amy March (Little Women, 2019)

Charlie Ross (The Little Drummer Girl, 2018)

Annie Braddock (The Nanny Diaries, 2007)

Kelly Foster (We Brought a Zoo, 2011)

Jane Banner (Wind River, 2017)

Leigh Shaw (Sorry For You Loss, 2018)

Alice Chambers (Don't Worry Darling, 2022)

Allison (A Good Person, 2023)

Lib Write (The Wonder, 2022)

Dani Ardor (Midsommar, 2019)

Katherine Lester (Lady MacBeth, 2016)

Thérèse Raquin (In Secret, 2013)

Taylor Sloane (Ingrid Goes West, 2019)

Celebrities -

Florence Pugh

Elizabeth Olsen

Scarlett Johansson

+ More

Variants of characters are always welcome! 💖

#fanfiction #fanfic #florence pugh #scarlett johansson #elizabeth olsen #yelena belova #natasha romanoff #wanda maximoff #marvel #greys anatomy

[therunawaykind]

Elizabeth Olsen Character's Masterlist

| Who I write for | Requests |

| Pronouns: I try my best to not use pronouns in my stories so they are inclusive for everyone. Though from time to time I may mess up. So if there are any specific stories that include she/her or he/him I'll include [F] for female pronouns or [M] for male pronouns.

Leigh Shaw

Oneshots

Series

Zooey Kern

Oneshots

Series

Jane Banner

Oneshots

Series

Taylor Sloane

Oneshots

Series

Gerri Fields

Oneshots

Series

Thérèse Raquin

Oneshots

Series

Elle Brody

Oneshots

Series

Zibby

Oneshots

Series

Elizabeth Olsen

Oneshots

#elizabeth olsen x reader #taylor sloane x reader #Elle brody x reader #Gerri Fields x reader #Zibby x Reader #zooey kern x reader #Jane Banner x Reader #leigh shaw x reader #Thérèse Raquin x Reader

[mviswidow]

what if we did?

Thérèse Raquin x Reader

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: slightly suggestive, but otherwise, just fluff

Summary: After having to make excuses to spend time alone together for far too long, Thérèse proposes that she and R run away together.

A/N: i loved writing this so much omg, thérèse is def one of my top 3 fav lizzie characters and she’s so sweet. if you haven’t see in secret, i highly recommend it. i also tagged wanda in this for exposure because the movie isn’t very well known but the lizzie/wanda stans might enjoy this (i also write for wanda, a few other lizzie characters, and like a bunch more people btw). i also couldn’t find a gif for this, so i just used a photo <3

“Madame?” Thérèse calls out after pulling away from your lips when she hears footsteps on the metal spiral stairs.

“I’m bringing tea up for you ladies, it should help with your migraine Thérèse,” She replied, and continued walking up the stairs.

Simultaneously, Thérèse’s eyes and yours widened. You backed away from her after she pecked your lips again, whimpering quietly, and pulled her towards the vanity, ushering her onto the chair and starting to rub her neck.

When the door to the bedroom opened, you and Thérèse both gave Madame Raquin innocent smiles. She conversed with Thérèse for a short while as you took the tea from her and set it on the surface of the vanity, putting sugar in yours.

“I think I might take a nap, Madame, my migraine is getting worse,” Thérèse said, which caught your attention.

“And Y/n? Are you going home?” She asked, now talking to you.

“I, uh-” You shot Thérèse a look before blinking a few times, trying to formulate a response, but coming up with no excuse to stay. “I suppose I should if there’s no reason-”

“No,” Thérèse interrupted suddenly, and you had half the mind to groan at how obvious you felt you were being, but you knew the last thing Madame would ever think was that her ‘dear Thérèse’ was a lesbian.

Madame raised her eyebrows, urging Thérèse to say something.

“I mean, it’s silly to send Y/n all the way home when she’ll have to return tonight for dominos with us. She can borrow a book and read- or she could nap with me? It’s that time of the month for you, isn’t it Y/n? You were complaining about your cramps earlier, weren’t you?” Thérèse gave a look, and you stopped yourself from smirking. She lies so easily.

You nodded in agreement, “Yes, Madame, my stomach has been feeling terrible today.”

She sighed and shook her head, “If it’ll have you both feeling better for tonight, I suppose there’s no harm in a nap. I’ll be back in two hours if you haven’t already woken up, we don’t want you sleeping for too long, you both have to be appropriately dressed when Camille and Laurent arrive early.”

You looked over at Thérèse and watched her bite back a smile as she nodded.

Your heart raced a little as Madame looked around the room halfheartedly, hoping she wouldn’t think too much of the state the bedsheets of Camille and Thérèse’s marriage bed were in already. She took her leave after telling Thérèse to drink the tea before she napped and closed the door behind her. 

Thérèse immediately let out a breath, resting her head on her hand, “It’s getting harder to keep coming up with excuses, Y/n.”

“I know,” You nodded and kneeled beside her, resting your head in her lap the same way you had done earlier that morning and she unpinned your hair from its bun before threading her fingers through your locks gently. “We got lucky this time though, remember what you said to me? ‘I want to fall asleep in your arms, I want to touch your body while you sleep, I want to wake up with your tongue inside-’” You quoted, before she giggled and nudged you.

“Yes, yes, of course I remember.”

“Well we can do two of those things now,” You lifted your head from her lap and smiled softly up at her.

She bit her lip and nodded, “I would love that.”

She looked so beautiful. “I could attempt the third but I would actually like to take a nap, too.”

Thérèse rolled her eyes playfully and put sugar in her tea, stirred it, and started to drink it before speaking, “If you don’t drink your tea Madame will be annoyed when she comes back up here.”

You groaned and stood from where you were kneeling, “I’ll have it, just let me get my torturous skirts off.”

Thérèse chuckled, you always complained about your skirts. At least thrice a week. “You know,” she started, watching you undress to your undergarments. “Considering how many times we’ve almost been caught, we’re quite lucky. And now we’ve been presented with this amazing opportunity to have an excuse to not be in clothes together, but we’re sleeping.”

“Did I do so good earlier that you need me again already?” You teased with a raised brow. “Besides, it isn’t like we can be naked-”

“Yes but we have the timeee,” She interrupted.

Your smirk fell a little and you sighed, running your fingers back through your hair, you thought she’d be excited at the opportunity to actually be able sleep beside you.

Thérèse wasn’t stupid though, and she could read you well, so she took your hands into hers and pulled you to sit on her lap, resting her chin on your shoulder, “I’m sorry, my love. I do want to sleep next to you, we can go again another time. I just feel like we barely get to do anything and now we have so much time. I just want to enjoy it with you.”

You nodded and kissed her nose, “I know, darling, it’s okay. Sometimes I wish we could just-”

“Run away?” She asked, and you noticed the gleam in her eye as she said it.

“Yes, exactly.”

“What if.. What if we did?”

You wanted to scoff because you didn’t think you’d be able to pull it off, but you saw the hopeful look in her eyes and you knew in that moment you would do whatever it took to give her the world.

Thérèse smiled when you didn’t reject her idea immediately, “I know, it would take a lot of planning and preparation, but I’ve been thinking about it.”

“I could ask Laurent to buy us train tickets,” You suggested.

She started to shake her head, “He would know where we’re going then, I don’t want him to tell Camille or Madame, we’d be done for if they found out.”

“My brother wouldn’t tell. He’s already asked about us, I didn’t confirm or deny anything, but he said he’s glad to see us both happy.”

Thérèse bit her lip and sighed softly, “If you trust him-”

“I do.”

She nodded and smiled. You felt your heart flutter and you leaned forward to kiss her tenderly before speaking against her lips, yours brushing hers as you spoke, “We could go somewhere quiet, buy a house or an apartment, it would have to be small-”

“I’d live in a shoebox if it meant I could be with you forever.”

“Then it’s settled?” You asked, pulling back to look her in the eyes.

Thérèse nodded her head eagerly and her eyes got watery, “Yes.”

#thérèse raquin #therese raquin #therese pls marry me #i love her so much #thérèse raquin x reader #therese raquin x reader #thérèse raquin oneshot #therese raquin oneshot #wlw imagines #sapphic #wanda maximoff #elizabeth olsen #in secret #lizzie olsen #wanda maximoff x reader #female x female #period piece #victorian era lesbians

[wndaswife]

do i own you?

「 Thérèse Raquin x gn!Reader 」

Tags: smut, fluff, jealousy, possessiveness, loss of virginity, cunnilingus, tribbing, praise, sub!thérèse raquin, dom!afab!reader. MINORS DNI.

Word count: 6563

Summary: As Madame Raquin searches for suitors for her niece, you claim Thérèse as your own before she is paired with another.

The sun beamed down on Passage du Pont Neuf and blanketed the narrow passageway in a dense humidity. 

You walked through the almost-bustling flow of people, eyes darting around at the small shops on either side of the stony path. It’s been three years since Thérèse moved away from the countryside, away from Vernon and into the city.

Fortunately, you didn’t live very far from Madame’s haberdashery, which was also the Raquin family’s new place of residence, meaning that you didn’t have to stop visiting Thérèse as often as you did when they lived in the country. You helped them unpack their things and go shopping for supplies, went on walks with Thérèse and explored much of Paris together.

You felt that perhaps you’d gotten even closer with her since they moved, if that was possible given that you’d known her family since childhood, because there was so much more freedom in Paris. 

When visiting, which was every day of the week besides Tuesday when you worked overtime, you’d arrive just after work in the late afternoon and take strolls with Thérèse every evening before you left. On your days off from work, you’d arrive just before the haberdashery opened and stayed until the moment after Thérèse fell asleep, listening to you read to her cuddled up by your side in her bed. 

It was always a great pain to part from her, especially when you brought her blankets up to her chin once she fell asleep and kissed her forehead on those days off, but you took solace in the fact that you’d always see her the next day, whereas if it was Monday you’d see her in two days, which was even more agonising.

Upon entry to the shop, Madame promptly led you to the kitchen where she sat you down across Thérèse and filled your plate with fruit and bread with marmalade. You looked up at Thérèse, who seemed particularly irritated. Your lips parted to whisper over to her before Madame interjected.

“Y/N, you’re rather involved in your place of work,” she began. “Are there any… worthy suitors you know of? They could come to our Thursday games, have them introduced to our dear Thérèse.”

Thérèse huffed in vexation, “Madame, do not involve Y/N, please.”

The older woman only laughed, seeing in her young niece’s expression that she was only bashful when she was instead rather exasperated. She was an innocent girl in her eyes, after all, virginal-pure and timid. 

“I am only looking out for you, Thérèse,” she teased. “Besides, you’ve come of marriageable age and you mustn’t wait even another year to find a proper suitor; a man’s attraction for women tends to decline once they become older than twenty-one, and I want to ensure a good life for my niece.”

Your childhood friend looked up at you from her half-eaten toast. A faint humoured grin formed on her lips as you exchanged an unamused look between each other. She took the last bite of her food then stood up from the table. 

“I think I ought to discuss this with Y/N in private,” she said and rounded the table to you. She looped an arm around yours and lifted you from your seat. 

Madame protested, encouraging you to finish your food before you left, but Thérèse whisked you away and up the stairs, finally locking the two of you in her bedroom.

She sighed out and immediately began dressing down to her corset and petticoat. Her constrictive clothes dropped to the floor and she fell forward onto her bed. 

“Do you have any suitors in mind?” she asked, looking over at you and grinning playfully. She laid onto her back, stretching her arms back and rolling onto her side to look at you. 

She got up and crawled over to you as you stood at the opposite edge of the bed. She got onto her knees, straightening so she could kneel in front of you and face you. She tugged at the collar of your blouse.

“I’m a young woman, Y/N, my womb is ready to bring forth an abundance of fruit, my hips are of an appropriate child-bearing width,” she continued to tease. “You must help me find a fine man to cultivate my youth.”

Finally you gave in despite the weariness you felt about Madame selling Thérèse off into marriage. “I shall search for one with urgent haste, my lady,” you jested, “for your beauty should melt away the very moment you turn twenty-two.”

Thérèse giggled and she pulled you down onto her. You fell forward onto her bed, Thérèse laughing against your chest as she forced you to lay down. Your legs hung off the bed and you laid on your back beside her. She held her head up with her cheek in her palm, knees brought up so they pressed against your thigh. 

Her long brown hair spilled down her arms, her soft skin dusted lightly in freckles and beauty marks. Her cheeks were flushed a soft pink, her full lips pulled into a spirited grin. Eyes the shade of moss and moldavites and sparkling with girlish innocence looked down at you.

“What do you think I should do?” she asked more seriously. 

You shrugged. “I can’t imagine you married.”

She laid down, her head resting on your chest. “I can,” she said.

Your hand came up to her hair and you ran your fingers through it softly. “Truly?” 

“But not the way Madame envisions it,” she elaborated. “It’d be something different, with someone I desire to be with.”

“Do you think such a marriage is possible?” you inquired.

Thérèse rose from your body, arms laid against your chest. She laid her head back down, her cheek squished against her hand. “I think love and intimacy are always much closer than they appear,” she answered. 

The next day, a Thursday, you head to the evening game at the Raquin household with your coworker Laurent, who was also a mutual friend of Camille.

Earlier, you’d accidentally mentioned that a woman you knew was in pursuit of a suitor for her niece. It was mid-conversation and a minor detail brought up only to prove a greater point, but Laurent, ever the gluttonous woman-thirsty animal, hooked onto the mention of Thérèse.

That was how you found yourself standing in front of Madame’s haberdashery, responding to a dimwitted Laurent’s questions about Thérèse with disinterested sighs and nods. 

“You’ve been friends with the young woman for an amount of time,” said Laurent. He turned to you, hands in his pocket and looking like an ill-mannered hound. “Would you say she knows well how to pleasure a man?”

You nearly knocked him and his lopsided smile off the stone steps had it not been for Thérèse’s cousin opening the front door for the both of you. 

“Laurent!” he cheered, completely disregarding you at the sight of his friend as a man with a childlike mental capacity would. “Come in.”

You liked Camille enough to be civil, you truly did, but he had a habit of embracing horrid men like Laurent, patting them on the back and introducing them to his mother and such. He was like that, and though an underdeveloped child even in mentality, you couldn’t help but despise him, especially as you watched him help the dark-haired dunce with his jacket.

Camille wrapped an arm around the wretched man and escorted him inside. He was introduced to Madame while you took your coat off.

Thérèse looked through the huddle of people at you, smiling excitedly at your arrival. Then Camille ushered Laurent forward and a shadow of uncertainty and timidity was cast over her face.

There was an exchange between them that you did not listen to. Thérèse was led into the dining room with his hand on her lower back though she was the one who resided in the shop while he did not, and Madame thanked you for bringing home such a lovely man.

She didn’t often play dominoes with the rest of the guests, often sitting to the side and playing the role of the silent host serving tea and biscuits, opening and closing the window at the guests’ word, but tonight Thérèse played alongside Laurent. 

It was a ghastly sight, seeing her behave as his delicate wife who sat beside him, giggling at his jokes and sitting compliantly while he touched her and bathed her in compliments. 

She always beat you at the games the two of you played — chess, poker, dominoes, any game the two of you could get your hands on in the cherished privacy of her bedroom, she’d beaten you in.

That goddamned Laurent didn’t know a single thing about how she advanced her knights first and bishops last or about how she maintained a terrifyingly impeccable poker face during card games.

No one but you had ever seen her play until now and even her best gameplay of the evening was seen as complementary to Laurent’s, who praised her as if she was a child with beginner’s luck. 

You felt like storming out of the dining room each time you were subjected to the sound of his patronising.

‘Well done, Thérèse!’ he’d say. ‘What a clever little woman you are.’

Then he’d squeeze her shoulder, rub his thumb against her sleeve and Thérèse would laugh, seemingly delighted by his superficial praise.  

By the time the game had progressed nearly an hour into the evening, you could no longer tell if Thérèse’s reaction to the painfully tragic man was an act to appease her aunt. It all seemed rather convincing.

You were bitter throughout the rest of the night, feeling unconcerned with whether or not you won any of the games and refusing to laugh at any of the jokes told around the table, especially Laurent’s, whose jokes you found extraordinarily unamusing.

Caught up in the debilitating clutches of jealousy, you hadn’t noticed how Thérèse watched you from across the table. At one point she bumped her foot against your ankle, hoping to get your attention and have you meet her eyes. But you continued with the game without even so much as a glance in her direction and Thérèse felt that you were ignoring her.

Finally, the night came to an end.

It felt overdue, the same joke being told every other minute, the same boisterous laugh from Laurent and the same flattered smile from Thérèse throughout the evening.

You were preparing to leave when she ducked out of the dining room. She approached you from behind, hands rounding your head to cover your eyes with her palms. 

In a gruff voice meant to resemble a particular man, she said, “Thank you kindly for inviting me, Y/N. I would adore it if you would see me out.”

She uncovered your eyes and stepped beside you.

“Not a satisfactory impression?” she asked at the sight of your unimpressed face. “I thought it to be rather exact.”

When you only glared at her as you continued to pack your things, Thérèse straightened, a more serious expression forming on her features. “Did something happen?”

“No,” you answered.

“You seemed upset during the game,” she told you. “There is no point to be so upset over losing, Y/N. I’ve bested you countless times before.” 

Her continued teasing made you twitch. 

You looked behind your shoulder at the busy huddle of guests in the dining room, still cleaning the sprawl of dominoes and cups of tea on the table. 

Then you wrapped your arm around Thérèse’s forearm, fingernails digging through her sleeve and into her skin, making her wince. She stuttered, perhaps choosing between expressing concern or hissing something argumentative. Her eyes darted over to the dining room as you dragged her towards the metal staircase and chose to do neither.

You pushed her into her bedroom and she massaged her sore forearm as you shut the door behind you.

“What has gotten into you?” she bit.

Stepping in front of her, you snapped, “You were trying to vex me.”

Thérèse’s face contorted into sheer confusion. “What are you going on about?” she questioned. “How might’ve I angered you?”

“Do not pretend that you cannot recall the way you giggled like a schoolgirl at Laurent and his horrid jests — some of which were at your expense,” you reminded her. “Were they really so hilarious?”

You scoffed and paced around her bedroom, arms crossed in front of your chest. “Oh, touching you as if he meant to undress you right there at the dining table, how I watched the way you rejected his touch not even once.”

Thérèse watched you as you treaded the wooden floors of her bedroom, fingers tapping against your upper arm as you went mad with your recollections of Laurent. “I was expected to predispose his attraction to me and conciliate Madame’s hopes for his future as my suitor,” she explained.

“When have you ever concerned yourself with what she wants for you to do or not do?” 

“Whose instruction shall I obey then, if not Madame’s?” she inquired rhetorically. “My own?”

You turned and stopped your pacing in front of her, your faces mere inches apart. “Mine,” you answered sternly.

She looked up at you and you caught a dim hint of defiance daring herself to oppose you in her eyes. “And if that were to be plausible, what would your first instruction be, Y/N?” she asked, though her inquiry seemed more of a mockery than sincere curiosity.

For a moment it was only the sound of your heartbeat that filled your ears and the faint wavering of Thérèse’s breath. But you didn’t give yourself enough time to hear if her breath was indeed catching in her throat, for you raised your hand to her face and wrapped your fingers around her jaw, eliciting a sharp gasp from her.

You shoved her backwards, fingernails prodding painfully into her skin. Then you met your lips with her own. It was a frenzied kiss; teeth knocking against each other, bottom lips nipped on, lips crashing against each other, mouths were warmed with each other’s breaths as you both panted out in desperation for more contact.

She made haste in unbuttoning her dress, nearly ripping three right out from their stitching as she tore her blouse open. You dove down into her breasts, kissing the soft swells as you undid her corset and freed her from her confines of her garments.

Your fingers looped around the collar of her slip underneath her corset while Thérèse quickly slid her arms out of her dress. She pushed her undone corset down her hips and walked forward into you, stepping out of her skirts. 

Her slip came off next, pulled over her head and snagging on the ribbon that tied her hair up. Long brown curls spilled down her arms and you wrapped your hands around her waist, squeezing her and pushing her backwards. 

A hand was placed on her shoulder and you pushed her down onto her bed. She crawled backwards and her arms buckled a handful of times as she became racked with the desperation to lay under you. The maddened kiss ceased not even for a moment as you climbed on top of her until she was sprawled vertically amongst the mess of her bed sheets.

She was bare aside from her underwear and you trailed kisses up the valley of her breasts, kneading one in your hand with your other arm looped around her waist, arching her body up against yours. 

Thérèse moaned, quiet and soft as she succumbed easily to your touch, her head lolled back onto her pillow. 

The very sound of her pleasure drove you mad.

Your every sense was filled with Thérèse, your boundless desire made your veins pulse for her, your every instinct lit aflame with her scent, the feel of her soft skin, the sound of her moans, the sight of her parted lips and the pink of her tongue.

Thérèse.

The body you’d embraced and decorated with kisses, the voice you’d favoured since childhood, the eyes you’d adored, the long hair you’ve braided and tucked flowers into, the soft ivory skin you loved to accidentally brush your knuckles against. 

Thérèse.

She gasped and her eyes fluttered open when your lips found her neck and sucked at her pulse, your greed surging when she began undressing you with clumsy hands.

Your body moved in accordance with the way Thérèse tugged your clothes off. She pushed your bottoms off your legs with her feet and kicked them onto the floor before pulling your blouse over your head.

Immediately after she tossed your blouse onto her bedroom floor, you cupped her cheek with your hand and kissed the side of her head, your face buried in her sweet-smelling hair. You pressed kisses against her temple, her forehead, her cheek, the corner of her full lips. Your kisses lowered along the slope of her jaw, nipping at her skin and making Thérèse sigh.

She wrapped her arms around your waist and ran her hands up your back. She felt with her fingers the way your shoulder blades moved with your shifting weight as you held yourself above her.

“I want to touch you,” you said, raising your head and meeting her eyes. 

“Indulging in the pleasures of the flesh outside of marriage,” she whispered. “It is selfish.”

Years ago in Vernon when the both of you were only children, Madame would tutor Thérèse at home. She would teach her of the way proper girls were expected to behave, the expectations her niece was meant to fulfil while living under her roof. 

There were times even after completing your afternoon chores and travelling from your own home to theirs on foot that Thérèse still wouldn’t have finished with her lessons. 

You’d sit by their front door, listening to the chirps of cicadas and the distant call of the Seine’s currents which were perhaps only in your head for the river was always so still it seemed stagnant. But the longer you listened to Thérèse’s dutiful repetition of her aunt’s teachings and heard the turning pages of the book in her hand, the more animated those sunny afternoons became.

Your thrumming desire to have Thérèse finally step out of that sluggish little living room and pull you up by your hand to finally join you under the beaming Parisian sun only grew as you watched the swaying of the trees and listened to the sounds of the summer from the tomato garden under her living room window.

Sometimes you had nothing else to do but listen to Madame’s teachings.

‘Keep quiet — don’t make a sound,’ she’d instruct, for obedient girls were demure and without passion, free of any temptation that averted their focus from household chores and self-discipline.

After Thérèse reached her twelfth birthday, Madame began to reiterate one teaching remarkably more than she did the others though at the time the words held very little significance: It is selfish to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh outside of marriage.

When she finally finished with her lessons she’d come forth from the shadows of her home and reach down to take your hand as she always would. She’d lift you from the grass and the two of you would run towards the Seine, not because either of you were in any particular rush, and there were many times where you’d only walked with her to the river, but some days you ran.

It always sent her into a fit of giggles when you’d crash down into any grassy meadow by the water together, limbs sprawled out every which way, entangling your bodies together in a wild embrace within the gently-swaying flowers of the summer pastures.

Thérèse was the green of the grass and the beaming rays of the yellow-white sun, she was the rays of sunshine that warmed your feet and fingertips when you outstretched your arms and legs, she was the gentle summer breeze.

“You can be selfish with me, Thérèse,” you told her. “I will give you all that you need, even your most selfish desires. I will offer myself to you, my time and my life. Be selfish with me. Take me for your pleasure, for your entertainment. I am all yours.”

Then you added, “In any case, marriage is the conjoining of hearts and souls. Is this, not in every way, marriage?”

When you leaned down to kiss Thérèse’s temple, she cupped your cheek and had you meet her eyes again. Her focus on you was undivided and deliberate. “I don’t want to be with anyone but you, Y/N,” she confessed. 

She kissed your lips without haste or desperation, but with sincere affection, an act of love.

“I have always held you close to my heart,” she said when she pulled away, your forehead pressed against yours and her eyes still pinned on your parted lips. “You are the most important person in my life. I do not know how to tell you with enough words the way you make me feel, the future I want with you.”

Her head laid back down onto her pillow and she looked into your eyes, either anticipating or searching for an answer from you.

“We need not utter even a word, my Thérèse,” you whispered and kissed her forehead.

Madame had always instilled it into her niece to be a soundless girl, raising her into a life of restriction. She intended to shape a virtuous woman who was a pristine image of submission and purity that way, but succeeded only in showing Thérèse another way of love.

Love had been planted and grown its roots between you and her though the two of you could not often find the words to express how dearly you meant to one another nor you in telling Thérèse all those years ago how you would wait hours if needed in front of the Raquin household in the sweltering heat simply to be with her after her lessons instead of the mere several minutes she’d supposed you been there waiting.

In the warm embraces of love, you stayed with Thérèse nearly every night until she fell asleep and parted with a kiss to her sleeping face. She shared with you secrets and passions that were reserved for your ears only, dreams of living far away and hopes for a different life. 

Though it was the first time words of devout affection had ever been exchanged, it was certainly not the first time either of you had confessed your love.

You sat up from Thérèse’s body, looking down at the way she was sprawled out below you, delicate and vulnerable and completely bare. 

Gentle hands ran up and squeezed her sides. Your thumbs flicked at her nipples until they hardened and Thérèse whimpered. She held your wrists while you ran your hands back down to her hips. 

Her breath hitched when your fingers looped around the band of her underwear.

You met her eyes and she looked back at you with confidence, a familiar boldness that made her green eyes glisten when she was poking fun at you or only a card or two away from beating you in poker. She squeezed your wrist then let go of you, fingers delving into the mess of the bed sheets below her. 

A kiss was pressed to her lower stomach and you looked up at her from between her hips. Wasting no time due to both your desperation to touch her and desire to bring her pleasure, you pulled her underwear down her thighs and unhooked it from her ankles. 

Thérèse reached a hand down and cupped your cheek, her fingers lacing into your hair. You parted her legs with your palms against her inner thighs and revealed her wet cunt. 

She seemed particularly nervous at this point, her bottom lip taken between her teeth and her fingers trembling against the side of your head.

You looked at her, regarding her anxiety with a supportive smile. Then you moved forward and pressed a kiss to her pussy. Her hips jerked and she exhaled sharply through her nose. Your tongue darted out from beyond your lips to lick her juices from your mouth.

She watched while you ducked your head down and raised your hand to her pussy. Two fingers parted her folds to reveal her glistening hole and Thérèse’s head lolled to the side, a breathy moan escaping her. She squeezed around nothing, her back arching and her hips bucking irregularly. 

The two fingers that were nestled within her sticky folds travelled upwards, further until the curve between your middle and index finger came into contact with her clit. Your wrist pushed forward and your palm pressed up against her pussy. 

“Oh my,” Thérèse gasped, eyes squeezing shut.

Delicate folds squelched against your hand and her fingers tightened around your hair as she moaned shakily. You closed the space between your two digits and squeezed her clit gently. The heel of your hand ground against her while you kept in mind not to apply too much pressure.

Your hand parted from her, sticky strings of her slick connecting to your hand and fingers. With a squeeze to her thigh, you brought her eyes back down to you and made her watch as you lapped up her juices, moaning at her flavour and keeping your eyes on hers.

“You taste incredible,” you told her. She blushed and hid her face from you momentarily with the back of her hand, pretending that she was pushing her hair back.

When you cleaned your hand of her cum with a gluttony that made Thérèse shiver, you ran your tongue up her cunt and she let out a long moan, her stomach tightening and her body arching from the bed. She grasped at the bed sheets with one hand and your hair with the other.

You wrapped your lips around her clit and with the pads of three fingers, rubbed circles against her pussy.

Thérèse placed both her hands on your shoulders, squeezing encouragingly. “I like that,” she sighed. You looked up at her face from between her thighs and darted your tongue into her opening. Your nose nudged at her clit while you ran your tongue through her walls.

She scratched at your shoulders and nodded rapidly. “There, there, there!” she blabbered. “Goodness, that feels…”

You reached one hand up and groped at her breast, massaging the soft swell and releasing periodically to tug at her nipple or switch to the other. With your hand no longer holding both of her thighs apart, Thérèse closed her thighs around your head, constricting your arms’ range. But you didn’t need very much as long as you could reach her tits.

Hooking your thumb around her and pulling her outer fold back, you exposed more of her to you and spread her opening apart further. Your tongue reached greater depth and you were ravenous. With a gluttony in eating her out that Thérèse only found herself becoming slicker while simply watching, you brought her orgasm.

She cried out and her other leg’s sheer strength did not allow you to keep her thighs apart any longer. She closed both around your head and you gave one of her nipples a particularly harsh tug as she came. You jerked your head to the side and flicked at her clit with the tip of your nose. You continued to thrust in and out of her with your tongue until Thérèse’s back made contact with her bed again and she released your head from the grip of her thighs.

You climbed up her body and kissed her parted lips, sliding your tongue into her mouth and spreading her flavour across her tongue. 

“Are you feeling alright?” you asked when you lifted your head to look down at her.

She nodded in response and pecked your lips. “I feel amazing,” she answered.

Then you pulled away and sat up onto your knees, moving back down her body. 

Thérèse watched you wordlessly as you parted her thighs again. You pulled one of her legs over your thigh and nestled your other one underneath hers so her ass rested against your leg and her hips were angled upwards.

“What are you doing?” she asked you.

You simply kissed your fingers then reached across her body to press them against Thérèse’s lips in response now that you couldn’t bend far enough to reach her.

When you brought your hand back, you spread Thérèse’s cunt apart, your thumb delving into her delicate petal-like folds. You ran your eyes down the beautifully flushed pussy and her sweet nectar, feeling a tight formation develop in your lower stomach.

“You’re so pretty, Thérèse,” you told her.

She replied, “So are you.” 

You looked up at her and were met with her soft smile. You melted at the sight. 

You held Thérèse’s thigh that rested on top of yours with your hand and looped your leg around the other securely. She reached down and her fingers ran along the back of your hand. You took her hand in yours and interlaced your fingers, both of your palms flat against her thigh. You straightened your back and lowered your hips before pressing your cunt down against hers. 

“Oh!” she gasped and squeezed her eyes shut. 

“Show me how you like it, Thérèse,” you panted. “Show me.”

You experimented, watching her expression intently as you used a variety of patterns of your hips to grind down against her. You tried lifting yourself up and separating yourself from her to move back down against her, then rapidly rolling your hips forward and back without parting from Thérèse’s pussy once which she seemed to like particularly. 

She squeezed your fingers, her head lolled to the side with her chin against her shoulder. 

You slid two of your fingers into the shared slick heat of your pleasures and you spread her folds apart, allowing you to roll your own clit against the sensitive bud and exposing more of her cunt for you to hump. When she was spread enough you slid your fingers out and reached your arm out.

Thérèse’s eyes opened and she looked at your outstretched arm, two of your glistening fingers mere inches from her face. Shakily, she got onto her elbows and craned her head forward, wrapping her lips around your fingers and cleaning off the juices from both you and her with her tongue.

The feeling of Thérèse’s pussy was incredible.

Your head was hung forward as you closed your eyes and focused on the immense pleasure you received from her pussy against your own. You felt her swollen cuntlips and her slick folds with every roll of your hips, the throbbing of your clits mutual as you felt her pulsate against you should you slow down enough to feel it.

She moaned around your fingers and her lips loosened from around your digits when she began to pant, her warm breath blowing down to your wrist.

You watched as Thérèse’s breasts bounced with every roll of your hips and you removed your fingers from her mouth and rubbed your wet fingers against one of her stiff nipples. Her own saliva cooled her pink bud. You groped her breast, using your grip as leverage to lean forward slightly.

You groaned her name and you met her eyes. In the exchanged wordless stare, she knew you were nearing your unravelling. The desperation you saw in the way she stared back told you that she was nearing her second orgasm.

“You feel so good, my perfect Thérèse,” you told her, releasing her breast and cupping her cheek. She looked up at you adoringly, her forehead beading with sweat and her lips parted for her melodic moans and whimpers.“Your pussy feels amazing.”

You swore you’d never seen a more beautiful sight.

Thérèse began to thrust her hips up which brought you immense pleasure despite how weakly she did it. The wet sounds of your sticky pussies humping against each other was enough to get you off.

You smiled at how receptive she was to your praise.

Goodness, how you loved her.

“That’s right, baby, just like that,” you encouraged. “You’re doing so good. So good.”

You stroked her cheek with your thumb and Thérèse leaned into your touch.

“Y/N…” she mumbled.

“For years I’ve fantasised about having you as my own in this way, about being yours,” you admitted. “I’d imagined how gorgeous you’d look completely bare, how your breasts looked uncovered. I imagined in the dark of my room how you’d look between my thighs, running your tongue up my pussy and looking up at me with your pretty green eyes.

“My desperation became too much at times. I touched myself the moment I got home. I delved my fingers into my cunt thinking of the way you had bent over earlier in the day and exposed your breasts to me, the feeling of your lips against my cheek when you whispered into my ear.”

Thérèse was impassioned by your words and her breathing quickened exponentially, her hips staggering as she attempted to continue bucking her hips upwards. “Oh, Y/N,” she trembled out. “I too… I’ve hiked my skirts up my thighs… in this very bed after our outings. I’ve… Oh, I’ve tucked my fingers beyond my clothes and felt… felt how wet I was. My fingers sliding across my cunt, my trembling hand hardly delivering enough friction.”

She moaned out and turned her head to kiss your palm. “But now… O-Oh, Y/N…”

You watched her struggle with her words until she jerked her hips up harshly into you as she came. She released with a warm gush and you felt every constriction of her pussy as you rolled against her in staggering thrusts, the harsh bucking of her hips from earlier having pushed you over your own edge. 

Shared cries and shaky moans mingled, each of you listening to the way they brought pleasure to the other, your shared orgasm nothing less than sacred and holy.

You moved Thérèse’s thigh off from your leg and you released her other. You parted from her pussy and you missed the feeling the moment it happened. But any more contact would’ve been too much for the both of you. 

You laid back down beside Thérèse and wrapped your arms around her shoulders, pulling her against your chest. You laid together in silence as you caught your breaths, bathing in what you had just done together, what you had just done to each other. The realisation that you were now connected in the way you were was glorious. 

“I can’t stand being without you during the day when you’re off at work,” Thérèse mumbled against your shoulder when she was finally able to speak without taking a breath between words, “doing all that you do away from me.”

She looked up and the flash of her green eyes made you look down at her. She only stared at you for a few moments before she whispered, “What do you do when you’re away?”

“Work,” you answered. “Sleep.”

She tipped her head against the pillow inquisitively. “Friends?” she asked.

Then after a moment she asked, “Women?”

You smiled knowingly and Thérèse hid her face against your upper arm, finding that her attempts at subtlety were uncovered.

“Friends,” you affirmed finally and brushed her hair out of her face. “Women, no. I’ve always felt… otherwise preoccupied with thoughts of someone in particular.”

She rolled onto her stomach and folded her arms on top of the pillow so she could look at you. 

Moving onto your side and meeting her eyes, you had to look up at her from the angle your head was laying against her pillow. She was perched up onto her elbows, her tangled brown hair spilling down her arms. 

She moved her weight onto one elbow and raised her hand to tuck your hair behind your ear. “Am I only property for you to claim?” she then whispered.

White sheets wrapped her body loosely. It pooled around her waist, dipping along her hips and allowing your eyes to trail down her side all the way down to her legs left uncovered. Her back was bare aside from stray locks of hair that laid against it. Her breasts pressed against her forearm and were shrouded by her dark hair.

“No,” you answered. “Truly, Thérèse, if you did make the decision to wed another, I would find it in me to respect your choice.”

Simply imagining a future in which she did choose another over you caused you a great deal of pain. It shot through your chest and seized the base of your throat. 

She looked away from you momentarily, seemingly disappointed by your response and feeling as if though it mattered little to you if she did decide to marry another. But you spoke again and her eyes flashed up from the pillow between the two of you.

“I would love you no less if I was not yours, though the longing would make it seem to me that my anguish would have perhaps grown tenfold with each morning you woke in a set of arms that were not mine.”

“Love?” she repeated, her voice a small whisper.

“To love or have loved, that is enough. Ask nothing further.”

Something awoke in her at your reference to a quote from her favourite novelist, something sincere and touched. She whispered and tipped her head down as if to survey the validity of your reference, “Victor Hugo.”

“I do indeed pay attention when I read to you,” you told her, “though you almost always doze off no more than eight pages into the evening.”

Thérèse cupped your cheek before leaning down and kissing you. “I love you,” she said suddenly.

Words have never been the strong suit of either of you. There were other languages of love you’d mastered alongside Thérèse — the meaning of touch and longing stares, the devotion of time, secrets reserved for and exchanged only between the two of you.

“I love you too, Thérèse,” you replied without a moment’s hesitation. You wrapped your arms around her body and brought her down to you, pulling her bed sheets up to her shoulders. She moved up your body so her head was tucked under your chin and she could hug you around your chest.

Though she was always one to fall asleep within minutes simply listening to you read to her, Thérèse didn’t fall asleep for some time after you laid her on top of you. She closed her eyes, feeling the rising and falling of your chest against her cheek, and your exhales against the side of her head.

You hadn’t shared a bed with her since childhood when you slept over once in her bedroom. You still felt a childish joy sleeping with Thérèse, having your arms wrapped around your closest friend’s delicate body while she did nothing but bask in the feeling of your intimacy in comfortable silence.

You figured you’d start to place more value in saying ‘I love you’ with your words from that evening forth.

It felt damn good to finally say it.

──────── ⋆⋅✧⋅⋆ ────────

#thérèse raquin #thérèse raquin x you #thérèse raquin x reader #thérèse raquin x y/n #thérèse raquin fanfiction #in secret fanfiction #in secret #elizabeth olsen

[wndaswife]

every waking moment

「 thérèse raquin & fem!reader 」

tags: smut, fingering, angst, cheating, brief implication of homophobia. MINORS DNI.

word count: 4700

summary: Unbeknownst to Thérèse that you've learned about her affair with Laurent, she begins to suspect you have a lover. She spends her every moment with you henceforth, determined to make you hers again.

a/n: i attempted to write from a naturalist perspective :> which was thrilling and equally as difficult

gif credit to creator.

“I’m leaving!” Thérèse had called back to you as you rummaged through the shelfs, dividing nylon thread from polyester ones and storing them separately. Within the last fortnight, she was away from the shop more often than not. “I’ll be back late tonight with the ribbon we need,” she said.

Thérèse returned later that evening, as she promised. 

But you had tired of seeing her by then, even when she peppered your cheeks with kisses and brought back with her four handfuls of the spools of the required ribbon.

You were not able to see her undressing at the end of the night in your shared bedroom, stepping out of her crinoline and unlacing her corset, without envisioning the handsome dark-haired Laurent and his wandering hands nor the intimate sights he might have seen of your maiden. 

It was not the idea that someone else had shared in the experience of bestowing their eyes onto Thérèse’s fair skin and bare body that ate at you, but instead that partnership was meant to mean exclusivity. At least, that was what Thérèse had always preached into your ear and in the tight embrace of her arms.

Hours ago, you had followed her discreetly to the Seine and saw her sprawled out by the riverbank, tranquil and happy as she laid in the cool shadow of a great oak tree. A man was perched on his elbow laying beside her, his fingers running down the side of her face delicately, then to her chin where his thumb brushed across her bottom lip.

You did know of Laurent; the childhood friend of Thérèse’s cousin Camille, who you had not seen since he and his mother moved away once you and Thérèse started overseeing the haberdashery together. 

Laurent was a dashing man, or so you assumed from the meaningful stares he would exchange with any woman he came within fifteen feet of. 

Before you left your previous occupation to work with Thérèse at the haberdashery, you’d worked with Laurent. You would have never considered him to be anything more than an acquaintance, for the truth was that he irritated you, and sometimes you despised him. He was an arrogant lazy oaf, and should he ever come into any deal of money, no matter how small, you knew he would have never come into work. 

He lazed around and did just enough to impress the superiors, getting around by flashing a few smiles and discussing his creative history with beautiful naked models for his beautifully understated pieces of art. You could not remember what kind of artist he was, if one could ever stomach calling him such, but it was not significant to you as you continued to watch him interact with Thérèse.

In an instinctual jerk of your body as if reacting to a sudden noise, you turned your head when the man lowered his face to hers. Their lips met tenderly. Despite yourself, you peeked over, beyond the grand oak tree, to find Laurent looking deeply into your maiden’s eyes. He lifted himself up so their lips could part and he could look down at her while Thérèse grinned, her chest fluttering with her soft giggles.

Dozens of hushed secrets were exchanged within that silent stare and you abhorred yourself for wanting to know them. 

Presently, Thérèse embraces you from behind, unbuttoning the collar of your dress. She hushes you when your shoulders tense, uttering a quiet, “Shh-shh-shh.” 

You look ahead at the wardrobe you’re facing, your body stiff as Thérèse’s hands work nimbly at undressing you.

A dim candle flickers on top of a table in the corner of the bedroom, enveloping the entire room in a warm shade of orange. From the nightstand beside the bed at the other side of the bedroom, an off-white light gleams and casts Thérèse’s shadow against your back and the top of her head over your shoulder and against the wardrobe.

When your corset is undone and is placed atop of your skirts on the floor, Thérèse pushes your crinoline down your legs and you step out of it, moving to the side and finally slipping out of her arms. 

The both of you stand in the silent shadowed room in your chemises and undone hair.

Before you met her, Thérèse was a sombre, serious woman, so still and silent that one might have believed she was slumbering when she was sitting in the chair behind the shop’s counter or tending to the Thursday evening guests in her seat beside the window and away from the night’s events had it not been for the way her eyes fluttered ever so slightly at any rupture of noise and the hypnotic curling of her pale fingers as she stroked the Raquin family’s cat, François, in her lap.

Though it was nearly a year since you’d first met Thérèse and now several months since you’d known her romantically, you often felt you knew her just as much as you did that first night Camille dragged you to his mother’s shop for a game of dominoes alongside Laurent.

She reaches out to take your hand, pulling it close to her, and your arm lifts loosely. 

You turn towards her and walk towards the bed because you have little else to do. 

Thérèse wraps an arm around you, hugging you and burying her face against the side of your breast. Her arm drops when you lean forward and get into bed. She follows, moving close against your side until her breasts press against your upper arm. 

With her fingers wrapped around the side of your neck and the corner of your jaw, she turns your head to her. Thérèse kisses you, eyebrows pushing together and exhaling a soft hum in excited relief. Her arm wraps around your waist and her free hand rounds to the back of your neck, guiding you to move on top of her.

Feeling beside yourself and with little control, you let Thérèse move your body until you’re laying on top of her, knees on either side of her thighs. Her hand moves up to the back of your head, playing with your hair and leading your face down to her neck. She moans when your lips make contact with her and you begin kissing your way to her pulse.

You no longer wanted to control yourself nor anything else, and certainly not Thérèse. You no longer wanted to take, and Therese knew of nothing but how to give.

“Please,” she huffs. “I want your fingers inside of me.”

You oblige without knowing why. Perhaps you do it out of instinct; not knowing what else you would’ve done if you had declined. You push her nightgown up her thighs and she rubs her knee against your side.

Thérèse is the only woman you’ve ever known intimately. Her long dark-brown hair fans out against the pillow her head lays on. The lamp from the nightstand illuminates her face with a warm radiance, creating the illusion that the pale shade of her skin is glowing. The curves of her figure are delicate and smooth, and for a moment you entertain being the only one to know such paths of her body.

You never imagined being with any other woman, let alone ever loving anyone but Thérèse. The thought that you may have always been right disturbs you all the more. 

When your fingers find her place of pleasure and slip through her tight walls, causing Thérèse to moan out and arch up against you, you damn yourself for knowing her body so well. 

You curve your fingers inside her and lean down to bury your face in her breasts, kissing up the soft swells and parting your lips to leave trails of saliva up her skin. With your free hand, you pull the collar of her slip down and wrap your lips around her nipple, then the other. You watch as her eyes screw shut and her soft pink lips part to release her whines into the bedroom.

Your insides churn as you knew she took Laurent’s cock in the same way, a sensual ritual you also knew she loved more than your fingers. 

How could you ever compare to a man?

Yet she tightens her thighs around your hips and pants into your ear when you raise yourself to kiss her neck again as if she craves you more, as if she receives more pleasure from you than him. It disgusts you and you find Thérèse to be a repulsive animal who knows only of its own survival and carnal instincts. You feel you would’ve much rather she hated you.

You bring Thérèse to orgasm then climb down from her and lay back down onto your side of the bed, fingers weakly thrusting into her as she trembles and whimpers beside you. 

When your fingers exit from inside her, Thérèse wraps a hand around your wrist and brings your coated fingers to her lips. She stares at you intently, a soft grin forming as she takes your fingers into her mouth, cleaning it with her tongue. Then she kisses you and places your hand on your chest.

“Shall I read to you?” she asks, mounting herself on her elbow and looking at you with a smile evident of growing excitement.

You turn over to your side, away from your partner.

The smile falls from her face and she frowns. She moves closer to you, wrapping her arm around your chest and leaning up to kiss your neck. 

“Are you upset with me?” she questions, though despite her concern you can hear a twinge of lightheartedness in her tone. 

Thérèse looked incredibly bored at times, dull and near dozing off, then in the next moment, taking very little seriously and laughing at every childish jest she told.

You bury your face in your pillow, increasingly discouraged as you continue to think over the discrepancies in your understanding of her. It is of no consolation to you that after seeing your maiden with a lover, you’re now beginning to realise how much you do not know about her.

Her arm around your upper body shakes you around playfully and she urges you, lips pressed against your cheek, “Tell me. Must I ask François what happened while I was away?”

Opening your eyes and pushing your pillow away from your face, you inquire, “Who accompanied you when you went out this afternoon and until the late evening? Were you alone all day?”

“Of course not,” Thérèse replies, twisting the collar of your chemise around her finger. “I was with Laurent for a bit of the day, then some of my student friends from the university he attended. But he couldn’t join us.”

“What did you do with him?” you ask, your agitation getting the better of you.

With a reply that makes you twitch in a way that surprises you when Thérèse doesn’t notice, she responds witlessly, “Why do you ask that?”

“I’m certain people see you as a couple more frequently than they do us while we live together and show every hint of being involved,” you retort, the sudden reveal of the hidden insecurity confounding even you.

Thérèse seems incredibly amused by this and she moves her leg over your hips. With her hand flat on the bed and the other on your shoulder, she hoists herself up to straddle your lower stomach while pushing you down onto your back and making you look up at her. “Laurent is only a friend,” she says then lowers herself to trail quick pecks down the incline of your jaw, “don’t be so sensitive.”

You pull the blankets over your head, feeling finished with the conversation and fooling yourself into believing you’d end it this way.

She tugs the blankets back down to uncover your face with a strength you often forget Thérèse has. She asks as if with the intention to provoke, “What if he was my lover? Would you be jealous?” 

“No,” you answer plainly, lying.

“Why not?” she presses, unsatisfied with your response.

‘You’ve always fancied him,’ you want to say, and, ‘Because it would be your choice in doing so.”

But you say neither. 

What good would it do? 

Even if it would have been favourable to simply get your bitterness out into the open, you don’t have enough confidence nor strength to even entertain doing it.

Fortunately for you, she sleeps with her back to you that night, seemingly perturbed by your answer to her question earlier; any contact with her while you fell asleep might have conjured night terrors. 

You awaken in the morning with Thérèse’s arm around your midriff anyways, perhaps having chosen to forgive you during the night or as result of a habitual act, rejecting the troubled feelings she felt even as she was asleep. 

She stays asleep while you slip out from under her arm and stand from the bed. 

Hours you’ve spent staring at Thérèse’s sleeping face since you ravished her body intimately that first time you spent the night together. You listened intently to every soft breath she took, watched the faint fluttering of her eyelids as she dreamt, smiled at the quiet noises she would sometimes make in her sleep.

You swore your heart truly did do several somersaults when you heard her mutter out your name in her sleep once. That entire day was spent smiling giddily while Thérèse pressed you to tell her what had gotten you so joyful, to which you only responded each time she asked with kisses that made her giggle and declarations of your love that made her swoon. 

But this morning you avoid looking at her. 

How many times had Laurent seen the same sight, loved her as you do? Where do his hands travel as he watches the rising and falling of her partially uncovered breasts and the vulnerability of her soft lips? Did Thérèse like how he woke her up more than how you did, which was often with a soft kiss to her forehead or not at all?

Such thoughts ate at you from the inside, and because you were dignified, you chose to look away from Thérèse when you could. 

The shop needs to be tended to and Thérèse, despite everything, cannot run it herself for the entirety of the day, so leaving until the evening is out of the question. 

You heat water in a steel pitcher in the fireplace. You cut a few slices of bread, lather it in jelly, and place bits of cheese on top of it evenly. 

As you sit in the kitchen, fingernails running down the lines in the wooden table, eating your bread and sipping your tea, you silently question how you’d approach today. 

If Thérèse left again as she has been for the last few weeks, you’d let her without question. The time away from her would be rejuvenating, in many senses. Perhaps you’d clear your mind, think up a plan. But a plan for what, you did not know.

Thérèse descends the arcade and you feel yourself bristle, damning yourself for not having finished your breakfast in time to leave the kitchen before she arrived.

Seeing the hot water still in the kettle by the fireplace, Thérèse takes it with her and places it in front of you on the table. She rounds the chairs and lowers herself to you, a hand coming to place itself on your furthest cheek before kissing your temple. “I apologise for antagonising you last night,” she says. 

Her thumb runs across your chin and when her hand removes itself from your cheek, her fingers move down your cheek, caressing you tenderly. She pined for you the moment she woke up to find you weren’t in bed, reconsidering for several moments what she had said to you the evening prior.

She doesn’t badger you any further when you don’t respond, only making herself tea and spreading jelly onto one of the bread slices you cut earlier. She takes a seat beside you, adjacently, as you’re sitting at the end of the table.

Not a word is shared between the two of you, with Thérèse giving you time to become less irritated and you delighting in every moment you did not have to partake in conversation with her, until you both leave the kitchen after breakfast to open the shop together.

For the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, Thérèse sits behind the counter with François in her lap, petting him idly. You sit behind the counter, near her, fidgeting with various kinds of beads and thread and ribbon. The bubbling agitation she knows is brewing within you drives Thérèse slightly mad as she’s forced to watch you for hours.

Eventually, when the peak of the afternoon plateaus and working men and errand-running women finish dropping by the haberdashery during their lunchtimes, Thérèse reaches her limit in being patient with you. 

François leaps off from her lap when her thighs shift under her skirts. Thérèse stands from her seat and wraps an arm around your shoulders. She rounds you and swings a leg over your knees before sitting herself down in your lap. She wraps her other arm around your neck and pulls herself close to you.

Thérèse lifts her hand to your forehead, pushing your hair back and placing a kiss there. “I wish to pleasure you,” she says and kisses your lips. “What shall I do?” 

“I wish for nothing.”

“I want for you what you give to me.”

At the sound of the word, you perk up and look up at Thérèse, who is looking down at you with a warm smile you’d thought for months was only for you. Unbeknownst to you, Thérèse has never looked at Laurent like she looks at you, for she doesn't love him at all. She holds no sentiment for him. 

But again, you look away from her and stubbornly reply, “I am comfortable with the arrangement we have now.”

Therese’s smile falls and she follows your redirected gaze with her eyes, her lips parting as something grave settles within her. 

For the first time, Thérèse suspects you have a lover. 

She begins to see Laurent infrequently, if at all. She spends every waking moment with you, finding every way to service you and ravish you with her kisses and gentle touches. How could you possibly adore anyone more than her if she never took her eyes off you for a moment? It never crosses her that there are many ways for you to detest her for that very reason, and they come to you at every touch of her hand and every contact her soft lips have with your skin. 

Thérèse takes pride in the time she spends with you while you dread every hour with her. She hardly ever leaves your side.

Initially, you detested the way Thérèse slipped out of the shop, waving you a sweet goodbye before disappearing into the busy crowds of Rue de Seine. But now you’d count the days until she leaves you next.

An evening comes when Thérèse is overtaken with passion. Something gnaws at her and makes her unbearably anxious, the banal days in the shop having worsened her natural habit of becoming taken with nervous thoughts. She cannot keep herself away from you, roaming her hands anywhere they could reach along your body, her breath trembling with anticipation or nerves- neither she or you could tell.

She undresses you while the two of you stand in the bedroom, kissing down the valley of your breasts through your chemise as you look up at the ceiling aimlessly.

Thérèse looks up at you to see the pleasure stricken across your face as she kneads your breast in one hand, and feels dejection come over her heavily when she is met only with disinterest. 

Now desperate, she takes your wrists into either one of her hands and sits you down onto the chair by the fireplace. She climbs onto your lap and kisses your lips, then each of your fingers and your chin.

Then Thérèse’s chest flares with a sharp inhale, her breaths quickening as her anxiety further blankets her, soon to completely engulf her in doubts and terrors.

A week had passed of Thérèse’s care and concern without any notable progress. How have you been communicating with your lover? Did you truly still think of them when she was pleasuring you with her tongue or making you meals, kissing you to sleep as to banish your night terrors and taking up extra responsibilities in the shop for you? She herself forgets about Laurent most days.

“Do you think I don’t know about your lover?” she snaps suddenly, straightening herself and looking down at you. Her expression is riddled with more fright than fury, even as the red-orange light from the fireplace casts angry flames onto her face.

Like the inginiting flicker of a match, you burst up from your seat, forcing Thérèse off of your lap and nearly sending her tumbling to the floor had it not been for the quick reflex of her left foot. Your sudden passionate burst of emotion soothes Thérèse’s anxieties momentarily, but they return when you begin shouting at her.

“I have a lover?” you repeat, eyes wide and wild with wrath. At the sound of your voice and having never heard you so angry before, Thérèse stays silent, now unsure of her previous resolve. “Jest about it as much as you wish, but I know about Laurent and the relations you have with him behind my back.”

Thérèse wants to sink into herself.

“You selfish bitch, never thinking even once of me and only of yourself,” you jeer.

Her shoulders raise as she bristles. “You are correct about my affair with Laurent, but you could not be more wrong saying that I am selfish,” she opposes.

“Enlighten me, Thérèse.”

“I’ve spent this entire week tending to you, doing everything for you to abandon this imaginary mistress and become mine once more,” she argues. Her lips part to argue again but you scoff and interrupt her.

“Heaven forbid you pay any mind to your partner,” you say.

Thérèse’s anxiety returns when she silently questions if any of her gestures ever warmed your heart as she had intended for them to, and if you were involved with other people, she wouldn’t have won you over with any of the attempts she made anyways.

“Why did you begin seeing Laurent?” you question, your expression calm once more and only adding to the young woman’s nerves.

To Thérèse, her affair with Laurent is as necessary as sleep is to any creature, and being with you is as necessary as the rest of the waking day is. Could she not love being awake more? Did she damn the waking hours if she should fall asleep in the evening? To her, the answer is simple. Her reasoning is simple. 

But you did not see it that way.

There is curiosity and the exploration of another, a man, especially, as the centre of her affair. What harm could it have done if Thérèse continued to love you all the same, if not more every day? Your response to her affair contrasts her very values, the foundation in which she ever began the affair with Laurent. It confounds her more than anything, and she pleads for your forgiveness because she wouldn’t be able to bear the consequences of what she’d done, particularly if they meant you would leave her. 

She takes your hands into hers and squeezes them.

“Please, I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I’ve stopped seeing him. You’ve noticed, haven’t you? I haven’t spent even an afternoon without you, and I don’t think of him at all. I’ve enjoyed caring for you, I’ll show you. Whatever you need, I will provide for you. I love you.”

Simply, you ask, “Why did you avoid answering my question that evening when I asked you what you did with him?” 

When Thérèse struggles to answer, you take your hands from her and leave, choosing to sleep in the spare room that used to be Madame’s.

You force Thérèse to sign off on a cheque that gives you half of your rightful claim to the rest of the money Madame left the two of you after she settled with Camille someplace else. It will be enough to move away and find a job, especially now that you have several years’ worth of experience in accounting and a few months in the haberdashery business. 

Thérèse writes to you often, and to many of her letters you never reply or even bother opening. She seals it with wax dyed with your favourite colour and prints your name and mailing post in the most delicate way on the envelope. In many ways, the letter on its own is every kiss and embrace she wishes to give you, and you sometimes cannot even give her the pleasure of doing anything more than taking it from the mailbox and tossing it into the fireplace. 

You’ve never told her your address, only the post to which she could send her letters to. 

Never forgetting to miss a week, a letter comes to you from Thérèse every Monday. 

When you do decide to open them, you do so because of curiosity- not out of concern or the feeling of obligation. Every week, Thérèse never fails to send you a letter, which you can feel with your fingers through the envelope filled with several sheets of paper. 

What could she be writing so much about every week when she often got no more than a letter back every three fortnights? 

She sometimes discusses the shop’s patrons with you, asking whether you believe red or black thread would work with a certain sleeve, or a front or back stitch on a certain hemming. Such things you often used to discusse with Thérèse when you worked together. It was a pleasure to work with someone you loved, being close to them and sharing creative ideas back and forth as you stitched and ironed together. There was little chance you could get back to her by the time the order needed to be finished, so you never understood why she kept writing about silly details like that. 

Paragraphs, and sometimes an entire page, would be dedicated to asking you questions, inquiring if you were at the very least living by the Seine or if you enjoyed your job and have finally settled into your new place, and if you’d ever consider visiting Passage du Pont-Neuf, even if only for a week in the summer. 

She ensures in every letter that you know she would welcome you back if you ever find yourself without anywhere else to go or if you were only visiting. If she ever thinks about you coming back to stay with her again, which she very often does, she never writes about it for the fear you’d never write back to her. 

Though she has implied her curiosity many times, you never tell her whether you have begun a relationship with anyone. She did not deserve to know even that. 

When you choose to take the time to do so, you write back with nearly the same answers, but Thérèse is no less thrilled each time she opens the mailbox and sees your envelope. You get a letter back twice as quickly when you send one out to her, while she still never forgets to send you another that weekend so as to ensure it arrives by Monday.

You never plan to visit Thérèse, and somewhere within her endless questions and offers for you to stay in the extra room during the summer, she finds herself knowing it too.

A year has passed since you left the young woman, and a year since you’ve seen the haberdashery or Rue de Seine.

You finish reading the stack of papers in your hands- your letter for the week.

Your eyes then run across the delicate handwriting in the lower corner of the page that reads: ‘Yours always, Thérèse Raquin.’

#thérèse raquin #thérèse raquin x you #thérèse raquin x reader #thérèse raquin x y/n #thérèse raquin fanfiction #in secret fanfiction #in secret #elizabeth olsen

[wndaswife]

I really enjoy the character Thérèse Raquin and there isn’t enough fics of her here so I wanted to request a fluff fic with the prompts 19 30 and 56 from the Fluff list! Just Reader and Thérèse being shy together

thérèse raquin & gn!reader

tags: fluff, some angst, mentions of camille and that very tragic engagement lmfao

word count: 1350

An afternoon had come where you set off with Thérèse and Camille to the markets to fetch ceramic buttons for Madame Raquin.

Thérèse walked by your side while Camille ran ahead. He beckons the both of you over occasionally, a layer of glistening sweat on his forehead as he hastened his speed under the summer sun.

You listen to Thérèse’s soft pants as she walks by your side through the country fields. It was a shortcut Madame had instructed you to take. The journey might have been shorter, but it was excruciatingly hot, not a spot of shade in your eyeline as the three of you travelled through a dirt path lined with grass that reached your knees.

With a hand on Thérèse’s hip, you round her and walk along her other side, allowing her to stand in your cool shadow. Perhaps indicative of contentment, Thérèse steps into your side and her shoulder bumps against your arm softly. A soft smile is exchanged between the two of you before Camille runs back to the two of you and takes Thérèse’s hand.

“You’ve ought to speed up, Thérèse. It’s terrible for one’s health to be so stagnant,” he advises. You don’t see her face, for you look away when he steps between the two of you.

When you arrive at the markets, either side of your body is pressed against bustling flows of people, pushing up and down either way, then horizontally. An arm is wrapped around Thérèse’s shoulders and she moves into your body. She is tempted to bury her face into your chest, but she looks ahead and averts her eyes when Camille takes her own hand again.

Finally, the three of you reach a tailoring booth, which is flocked with much less people.

“How dirty Paris is,” Camille scoffs from the security of the merchant tent, hands on his hips as he surveys the crowds of people.

But neither Thérèse nor you are listening as she stays pressed up against your side. Her eyes dart between the collections of thread and precious stones and then to your face as you lean over the table.

You lift a pendant up between your thumb and forefinger, then bring it up to your face. Your eyes meet Thérèse’s. “It brings out your eyes,” you say.

She rests her head on your chest, her cheek pressed up against your waistcoat. “I would like to wear it on the day of my wedding, Y/N,” she responds.

“It will not fit with the rest of your dress design.” 

“Make it fit.” 

Your eyes venture through hers for a moment more before you turn and place the pendant on the merchant’s table. “I will take this, please,” you tell the woman. Your eyes rake across the table as you search for Madame’s ceramic buttons. You take a handful of them and place it beside Thérèse’s emerald pendant.

While the merchant makes change of your payment, your hand raises to entangle with Thérèse’s dark hair, rubbing your fingers against the back of her head. Carefully, you press a kiss to her forehead. Satisfiedly, she hums and buries her face into your chest again.

The trip to the markets was brief, for the rest of the afternoon was filled with Camille’s complaints and wheezing coughs. Eventually, the three of you leave the same way you had come, pushing through crowds of people with your arm around Thérèse’s shoulders protectively.

Once in the summer fields, your arm slips from around her. Camille runs forward as he did before, perhaps from anticipation of getting home or his perpetual infantine way of thinking. 

You ask, looking down to Thérèse, “Can I hold your hand?” Thérèse looks over at you curiously, her eyes meeting yours as if to question your sincerity. You stare back, silently, and Thérèse lifts her hand up from her hip. You take it, and without a word uttered, you walk together hand-in-hand the rest of the way.

The moment the three of you got home, Thérèse was ordered by Madame Raquin to catalogue the buttons you bought at the market in the shop’s books, then to work on stitching up the next few orders that came during the afternoon she was out.

It was midnight by the time Thérèse finishes, and she forces herself upstairs to hers and Camille’s shared bedroom after closing up the shop. Camille is with Madame tonight as they make up for his time away from her this afternoon. As she undoes her hair and closes the bedroom door behind her quietly, Thérèse turns to find you standing in the bedroom by the closet.

A smile graces her tired face and she walks to you. “What are you doing here?” she asks.

You tell her, “I finished your wedding dress.” The closet is closed behind you as you’ve hung her finished dress up carefully behind it.

“And the pendant from the market?”

“I’ve redesigned it. It’ll look lovely on you.”

Thérèse’s face flushes and she looks down to the floor, dim shadows flickering against it from a gentle candlelight on the dresser. Now that you were finished with your design, having completed the job Madame had firstly hired you for, there was no reason for you to stay with her. There was no reason for the two of you to spend your days together. No more fittings or silent hours spent testing different fabrics against her bodice.

She looks up at you and you speak when her lips part, “I want to read to you.”

Her mouth closes and she simply nods.

Thérèse knows how to read. Madame Raquin knows enough to get by, and Camille never learned. With Thérèse’s household duties, you imagine it was necessary for her to learn to read to assist her aunt and cousin. 

You had heard her once, reading softly to Camille one of his favourite tales, when you waited in their shop late to wait for your shipment of cerulean thread from England. 

Thérèse had stepped out of her room once he had fallen asleep, and while you sat at the shop’s entrance for your night shipment, she snuck down the staircase quietly. 

‘Oh, are you still here?’ she spoke up meekly as she rounded the staircase to you. 

‘Indeed. Waiting for a delivery of English thread.’ 

She seemed to have found that comedic, and she giggled, ‘For your sake, I pray it comes as soon as possible.’ 

You wrap an arm around Thérèse’s shoulders, and hers lift around your waist. You take a seat on the armchair in the corner of the dimly-lit room and you pull Thérèse onto your lap. She giggles into your neck as her legs drape over your thighs. One hand is placed on her hip, pulling her against you. Her arms are wrapped around your neck, her head resting atop of yours.

About forty minutes is spent with Thérèse sitting on your lap, arms wrapped around you as she listens to you read from the book on her nightstand. It wasn’t a book she had been reading to a sickly Camille, but in her own time, of a forbidden love in an olden time period, and now she was reading with you.

For the first time in all her life, Thérèse is being read to, and as if a small child, she dozes off as she’s hugged against your body. When her breath slows and steadies, the hold around your body loosening, you lay the book down in your lap and look up at her.

“One more chapter, Y/N. Please,” she whispers out, her voice a quiet and fatigued murmur. 

You know she is half-asleep, and that you’ll have to carry her to bed by the end of the chapter. You angle your head up and kiss her soft lips, then lift her legs up further so they drape across the couch’s armrest and Thérèse can rest her head on your chest. Slipping your hand under her dress, you run your hand up and down her bare leg soothingly, and read the next three chapters until she has fallen asleep.

#thérèse raquin #thérèse raquin fanfiction #in secret #in secret fanfiction #elizabeth olsen #thérèse raquin x reader #thérèse raquin imagine #1k celebration ♪( ´▽｀)

[wndaswife]

🥺 please make a drabble 🥺 about Therese 🥺 Raquin x reader 🥺 where Therese is jealous 🥺on the girls that keeps flirting Reader to haberdashery 🥺 and tries to be dominant in bed when she's nothing but a bottom cockwhore lady 🥺🥺🥺

thérèse raquin & gn!reader

tags: smut, fluff, jealousy, possessiveness, degradation, praise, reader has a penis, sub!thérèse raquin, dom!reader. MINORS DNI.

summary: Thérèse is a wild card by nature, but there are some things about her that just can't be changed.

Thérèse peeks over her armful of green satin fabric rolls as she steps down from the staircase, observing the conversation between you and the small flock of girls gathered in front of the counter. She represses a roll of her eyes as she listens to them giggle behind their hands and exchange whispers about you though they’re standing right in front of you.

She wonders if they sincerely intend for their incessant pestering to be charming.

“My mother always told me to bed a tailor,” one of the girls giggle out.

You straighten the sleeve of the silk robe on the table, making quick work of stitching up the loose threads of the hemming. 

“Is that so?” you ask, sounding at least partially-interested.

As Thérèse climbs onto a stepstool and slides the rolls of fabric into the wooden shelf behind you, she listens to the conversation with her back turned.

The girl hums in affirmation. 

“Nimble fingers,” she elaborates.

Heat rises up Thérèse’s neck to her cheeks and she feels hot fury bubbling up in her. She turns her head and looks down at the group of girls in front of the shop’s counter. She comes down from the stepstool and looks over your shoulder to see you finishing up the customer’s sleeve. 

Quickly, Thérèse lays out a paper wrap. She pushes your hands out of the way. She closes up the stitching before cutting the thread and putting the needle and thread to the side. 

“Y/N can do the work on their own, miss,” a girl protests.

Thérèse looks up from the dress and glares at her. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” she says. “Either way, I wouldn’t want to strain my partner’s pretty fingers.” 

Both you and Thérèse weren’t overt with your relationship, thus the usage of ‘partner’ was ambiguous and applied to professional partnerships while still certainly implying romance, if not a relationship that was at the very least explicitly carnal with the way her eyes darted over to you.

She folds the dress up carefully then tucks it away in the paper wrap. She tapes it closed then ties it all together with twine. With her eyes still flickering over the girls, each one looking contrite as they lost the opportunity to have you serve them instead of her, Thérèse slides over the packaged dress. 

She reminds, “Formal clothing is meant to be dropped off in the afternoon and picked up at a later time.”

When the girls exchange a look, Thérèse speaks up again. “It’s policy,” she adds sternly. “To be fair to our other customers.” She slides the dress further up the counter and one of the girls finally takes it.

“Good day,” Thérèse dismisses contemptuously.

You’re taking your rings off in front of the vanity mirror when Thérèse steps into the bedroom and closes the door behind her. “Is the shop locked up?” you ask. You look back at her through the mirror and smile at her as she meets your eyes and begins unbuttoning her dress. 

She nods in response then hangs up her crinoline on the hook beside the vanity. Then she steps beside you and leans down to kiss your neck. 

Before you can even begin to take pleasure in her soft kisses, Thérèse whispers, “I did not enjoy seeing you fraternise with our guests earlier, Y/N.”

You turn your head to look at her and she straightens to look down at you. 

“What are you on about?” you inquire and your eyebrows push together.

“I’d bet you stiffened at the sight of them,” she says. She leans down and cups your sex. “Show me how you did.” Her hand tightens around you, fingers pressing through the fabric of your undergarments.

“Thérèse, what has gotten into you?”

She takes your chin in her hand and angles your face up to her.

“Show me,” she insists. “Or it is only other girls that get you stimulated?” Thérèse lifts you from the seat and moves you towards the bed. She sits you down and begins stripping her final layer of clothing until she’s bare whilst you do the same.

You move backwards on the bed, trying to repress your amused grin as Thérèse climbs onto your lap and takes your cock into her hand. Her tongue peeks out from her mouth as she runs its tip across her upper lip at the feeling of how hard you are. 

Thérèse moves onto her knees and lowers herself carefully. Your hands wrap around her waist then rub up and down her back, feeling the gentle slope of her spine with your fingertips. She lowers herself until she can run the tip of your cock through her folds. She shudders and her resolve begins to fracture.

Her fingers squeeze around you gently and her hand pumps you shakily as her hips begin to roll forward, craving more friction. You feel her push you upwards through her folds until she nudges you against the hood of her clit. Her eyes shut and she leans against you, her breasts pressed up against your chest with her cheek against yours.

When she dips you in and out of her opening, finally eliciting trembling whimpers from her, she moves her hips down to lower herself onto your dick. 

You wrap your hands around her waist and push her back up. She attempts to conceal her disappointment at your action but a frustrated exhale through her nose slips out anyways. She reaches to her side and takes hold of your hand to try and swat it away, but you tighten your grip around her waist and Thérèse lifts her head to look at you.

“Beg,” you say simply.

“No,” she answers, shooting you a defiant look. “Just let me—”

You keep her body held upwards, her cunt just inches away from the tip of your cock. “I’m going to bed if you don’t beg,” you tell her.

Her gaze darts up at you, searching your eyes for any sort of hint that you were teasing her. Unfortunately for her, she finds nothing but sincerity. Her lips twitch and she nearly scowls before she comes to her senses and realises that she has a lesser chance of receiving your mercy if she gave you attitude.

With an inquisitive tip of your head, you prompt her further.

“F-Fine,” she forces out. “Fine. P… Please fuck me. Please. I want your cock.”

“I can’t understand you when you mutter, Thérèse.”

“I said, please fuck my pussy,” she begs. “I’m begging. Please, Y/N.”

In the silent stare exchanged between the two of you, Thérèse admits to being nothing but your pathetic pet, a desperate whore ready to take your cock whenever you should feel like fucking her. And in the way you bend her over with her face pressed against the pillow while she drools and moans out like a braindead slut, you reassure her that you could want no other but her. 

You have her say she belongs to you and that her cunt is yours, how wet her pussy gets just thinking of taking your dick into her holes, of having your head between her thighs while you eat her out. You tell her how pretty she looks, how proud you are to own her, and most importantly, how no other could ever take her place as your special girl.

She falls asleep in your arms reassured and confident in the reciprocity of her love for you. Thérèse dozes off with a small smile on her lips for she knows that no one on Earth, let alone in all of France, could ever have you the way she does. You are Thérèse’s as much as she is yours, and that brings her a great amount of pride.

#thérése raquin #thérése raquin smut #thérése raquin x reader #thérése raquin fanfiction #in secret fanfiction #elizabeth olsen #in secret

[ceridescent]

my fan-fic posting schedule 4 july!

(it’s been a long time coming （๑✧∀✧๑）)

⇝ caribbean summer heat (wanda maximoff x female!reader) july 24

⇝ jealous freak (female!ghostface x female!reader) july 26

⇝ what started in beautiful rooms (thérèse raquin x female!reader) july 28

#FLEX #wanda maximoff x reader #ghostface x reader #scream #therese raquin #therese raquin x reader #wlw smut #masterlist? updated

[wndaswife]

Is 🥺 there 🥺 a chance 🥺 that 🥺 you 🥺 will 🥺 write 🥺 another 🥺 Therese🥺 Raquin 🥺 x 🥺 Reader 🥺 again? 🥺🥺🥺🥺

there is a chance 🤭 that i will write another 🤭 thérèse & reader fic 🤭🤭🤭 i have a few fics coming out next week so i am kiiiinda busy writing some things at the moment but yes i love writing for her and i will make another one as soon as i can!!!

my tail starts wagging whenever anyone mentions a thérèse fic

#rae responds #anon