Sanctuary FanFic: Awakening the Night Flower (Part 1)
TItle: Awakening the Night Flower (Part 1)
Author: NoCleverSig
Pairing: Helen/John
Rating: Adult
Genre: Angst/whump/romance
Summary: He was going to kill her. She was going to die. Yet all she could think of in that moment, as tears began to run helplessly down her cheeks, was how much she loved him. (Final installment of the "Seasons" series, but can stand alone.)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything of Sanctuary or its characters. I just play with them.
Note: This is the fourth and final installment of my "Seasons" series, exploring how Helen and John's relationship originally might have been. This is the darkest of the series, as John becomes the Ripper. It stands alone just fine, however. Please review and tell me what you think. Thanks as always to the world's best beta, MajorSam. Peace. NCS
Seasons: Fall
Awakening the Night Flower (Part 1 of 2)
(Copyright 2011, NoCleverSig)
The blood slid down Helen Magnus' brow like a trickle of thick, warm sweat. The setting sun seeped in through the ivory lace curtains, bouncing off the chestnut colored floor and hitting Helen's blue eyes like shards of orange glass. She shut them tight in defense, but it was pointless. The pain seared through her forehead, traveling across her temples to the back of her head making the room spin in darkness and her stomach lurch in response. It took a moment for her to recall where she was and how she had gotten there, prone on the hard, cold floor, her dress hiked high above her waist, her head and body aching from the blows.
A quick flash of light blinded her, and she winced, squeezing her eyelids tight. She could feel the weight of his body on top of her. The soft, warm wisps of breath beside her cheek, the terrifying coolness of the thin metal blade pressed against her neck. She shivered. When she finally opened her eyes, he was inches from her lips, his blue eyes meeting hers and smiling.
He was going to kill her. She was going to die. Yet all she could think of in that moment, as tears began to run helplessly down her cheeks, was how much she loved him.
James Watson handed the slide to Helen Magnus who carefully placed it under the microscope and began her perusal. Her pink, lace dress hung loosely on her shoulders. She'd lost weight in recent weeks, Watson noted, weight she couldn't afford to lose. Her skin was sunken, her cheeks sallow, and dark circles draped her usually bright eyes. Even Tesla, self-absorbed as he was, had commented on it and had urged Watson to intervene. James eventually had, surreptitiously watching Helen before finally inquiring directly as to her health, probing her for details on what may be causing her obvious lack of sleep and worrisome loss of appetite.
She'd evaded him, waving her hand in dismissal, dropping her eyes, and ignoring his concerns as "misplaced overprotective masculinity" in the wake of her father's recent absence. But as the days passed and her condition worsened, Watson finally breached the subject he was most timid to touch; not only because it involved his best friend, but because it came perilously close to his own, unresolved emotions for that friend's fiancé.
"Helen, is there something amiss between you and John?"
She visibly stiffened at the question.
"Why would you think such a thing, James?" she responded haltingly, her eyes not leaving the microscope though her thoughts were obviously elsewhere.
James stepped forward, placing one hand on her shoulder. "Because try as I might, I cannot discern anything physically wrong with you, my dear. That leaves…something else," he trailed off.
Helen stood up and turned toward him, glancing at the hand still pressed against her shoulder. Her expression softened. She looked weak, vulnerable even, her eyes red and moist. She opened her mouth to speak, then just as quickly closed it and turned away, walking toward the open window that lifted the noise from the busy streets of Chelsea up into Watson's home.
There was a growing darkness in John. She could sense it, feel it. Ever since that horrible dinner party at Oscar Wilde's house, a stone's throw away from Watson's, John had changed. To the rest of the five he seemed his normal, clever, quick-witted self, sharing a Brandy, a cigar, and a good-natured bumping of intellects with Nikola and James. But when they were alone….The memories made Helen shiver. Even their lovemaking had grown dark. Together they had performed acts so despicable, so degrading she felt…unclean.
"Let's play a game," John had whispered one night.
They had spent the day together. The late summer rain had ruined their planned picnic in Regent's Park, but neither Helen nor John cared. They took their lunch inside, laying a blanket in Helen's parlor. When the food and wine had run out and another hunger took precedence, they moved their festivities upstairs. The two servants in the house remained below, by now used to the omnipresence of Montague John Druitt in the Magnus home. If they thought it scandalous, sinful, they didn't say. It wasn't their place.
"Let's play a game," John whispered again, his hot breath blowing onto Helen's snow white breasts making her nipples tight. They lay naked in her bed, their bodies slick with sweat from hours of lovemaking. There was an almost supernatural energy to John as of late. In their first months together, they would make love once, maybe twice, and then fall blissfully asleep in one another's arms. It was passionate, but pure, Helen reminisced. Beautiful in its simple eloquence. But in the weeks since the night of the dinner party, sex between them had changed. It was frenzied, wild, and at times so rough it hurt. John seemed to revel in it. What bothered Helen the most, however, was that she did too, far more than a decent woman ought it seemed.
Her eyes were closed, exhausted by their most recent coupling. Her hand lazily toyed with John's hair as he laid across her belly, occasionally kissing her stomach, her breasts, teasing her nipples with his tongue and teeth. Her thighs were sore, divinely so. He had taken her from behind, prying her legs apart as wide as her body would allow and driving into her so hard she had felt his cock banging against her womb. He used to be gentle, kind, always whispering words of encouragement and tenderness. But those words had disappeared, replaced instead by grunts and curses and phrases that would make a Christian woman blush.
"What kind of game?" she indulged him, still stroking his fine brown hair with her fingers.
He turned his cheek toward her, his face pressed against her belly, his blue eyes shining with desire and what she mistook as adoration.
"A child's game really. A game of pretend."
Helen narrowed her eyes at him and grinned.
"John Druitt, you are many things but a child isn't one of them."
He laughed, the vibrations shaking the bed and echoing through her abdomen.
"Do you trust me?"
Helen stared at him. He was her first. Her first love, her first lover. They were to be married in eight months, binding their lives together forever. She trusted him completely; mind, body, even soul, if such a thing existed.
"Of course, John," she answered honestly.
He smiled again and stood up, suddenly leaving her cold from his absence. He walked toward her wardrobe and opened the cherry wood chest, sifting through the various gowns hanging there.
"What are you doing?" Helen asked curiously, sitting up and automatically pulling at the sheet to cover her nakedness.
He took a moment to answer, intent on his surveillance. "Looking for just the right…" He stopped, fingering a deep crimson gown Helen had bought on a whim and rarely wore. It was tight, bawdy even, and far too revealing to be considered decent.
"This one," Druitt said, pulling it out of the closet and gently running his fingers over the dark, velvet material. "Put this one on."
Helen looked at him, puzzled. "Are we going out?"
John laughed, the vibration accentuating his taut, thin muscles and making his balls and penis shake. Helen shuddered at the sight, wetness drenching her already swollen thighs. Would he always do this to her? Would the mere sight of him bring her to the verge of hysteria time and time again?
"What are you up to Mr. Druitt?" she asked coyly, beginning to sense where this was leading. She was a neophyte to love and sex. Everything she knew she had learned from him, and she understood now, with a heady sense of excitement and dread, that she was about to receive a new lesson.
"We're going to play a game, my love. Just a harmless distraction. Put on the dress. You can leave your underthings off," he added when she glanced at the bloomers and corset lying on the floor. "I put on my clothes, leave for a moment, and then knock at your door. You open it, and the game begins."
"And what is the name of this amusement, Mr. Druitt?"
He laid the dress carefully across the bed, then bent over and kissed Helen deeply, his warm tongue digging into her mouth. He pulled abruptly away, leaving her breathless.
"I shall call it… Awakening the Night Flower."
Helen knew the term. It wasn't one used by gentlemen, not in public anyway, and certainly not in mixed company. She shook her head, realization beginning to dawn. Surely he wasn't suggesting what she thought he was suggesting?
"I don't understand, John. What is it we're doing? What is it you want me to do?"
He smiled and took her hand. "You play a girl named Mary, and I'll play," he hesitated. "I'll play a man named Jack. I come to you for certain…services. And you, well…you provide them to me…for a price."
Helen drew in a shaky breath. A sudden rush of fear shot through her, and she trembled. John reached out his hands and rubbed her arms gently.
"Are you cold my dear? Is everything all right?" A look of concern spread across his pale face.
She swallowed hard. "I…I don't know, John. I don't know about this. You want me to play…a prostitute. Is that it?"
John eyed her calmly, still stroking her naked arms. "Yes, Helen. Just for a bit of fun, just as a lark. But if it makes you feel uncomfortable, my dear, we don't have to." He drew back, dropping the warmth of his hands from her arms and glancing quite obviously at the mantle clock above the fireplace.
"It's getting late anyway. Perhaps I should leave…" he suggested.
Helen looked at the time piece. It was only 7 o'clock. John never left this early and more often than not since her father was away spent the night. Was her reluctance chasing him away? And where would he go when he left her? She was no expert on sex or the desires of men, but she knew enough to know what took place every night around her. The streets of London were filled with prostitutes, fallen women trying to earn enough money to live and so called "gentlemen," who frequented brothels and the cobblestone alleys, quenching desires that their wives and mistresses could not. If she didn't meet his needs, would John find someone else who could? Had he before? He was no virgin when they had met. He knew his way around a woman and had taught her how to please a man as well as herself. Suddenly self-doubt overwhelmed her.
"Wait!" she called out as he finished buttoning his shirt to leave. "It's fine. I'll play."
John's trousers hung loose on his hips. He buttoned the fly then pulled his suspenders up and over his shoulders. He walked back toward Helen slowly, his face full of concern, his white shirt wrinkled but spotless.
"Are you sure my love?" he asked, lightly stroking her cheek with his fingers. "You know I would never force you to do anything against your will." He smiled.
For the first time that she could recall, something in his expression, his voice, frightened her. If she didn't know him, she would think him a liar.
"No, it's fine," she heard herself say, tamping down the sudden swell of fear. "What do I do?" She felt vulnerable and exposed, as though she were walking into a deep, dark forest, so black she couldn't see what lay just outside her path.
He took her hand and kissed it. When he looked back up at her, he was himself again, and she sighed, dismissing the sudden, irrational fear that had overcome her. This was just another lesson in love. A new and interesting twist in their relationship designed to enhance their bond, not break it. All that he had taught her, all that they had done, in the end, had accomplished just that. This lesson would as well.
"All right then," he continued. "I'll wait outside in the hallway for a few moments. You put on the dress. Tighten the laces as best you can. After a bit I'll knock on the door, you answer it, and…we'll take it from there."
Helen nodded. John left, and she slipped into the red, crimson gown. It was tight in the hips and bodice and low cut. She had worn it only once, to a party, but never again. It exacerbated every curve. She'd felt like a harlot. Wearing it now, she knew precisely why John had selected it.
A moment later, she heard the knock. She opened the door, and John stood there, his waistcoat and jacket on.
"May I come in?"
"Certainly, sir," Helen replied.
John nodded and whispered, "Good." Apparently her lack of calling his name pleased him.
She had no idea what to say next. She wasn't a prostitute. Knew none. Associated with none, although she had on one occasion assisted a beaten woman she'd found on the streets of London. Maggie had been her name.
"How much for the lady's company tonight?" he asked, his eyes drifting up and down her blood red dress. Helen's breath was fast, full of anxiety, her chest heaving. John leered at her breasts, his eyes almost black.
"Five shillings?" she answered tentatively, holding the bed post tight with one arm. She had no idea what the going rate for prostitution was.
Druitt threw his head back and laughed. "Five shillings? For a dollymop like you? What? Fancy yourself a toffer? The duchess of Windsor maybe?" His voice had changed. The way he talked, the filthy words he used. Even his accent was different. "I'll give you sixpence for a three-penny-upright and be done with you. They're a hundred more in the Chapel just like you, although I'll admit you're a pretty one." He reached out his hands and toyed with her long, blond curls. "Sixpence or I move on to the next night flower. What do you say?"
Helen had no idea what to say, so she nodded. She started to move toward the bed when Druitt grabbed her upper arm and jerked her toward him.
"I said a three-penny-upright you bloody haybag!" He reached into his pocket, pulled out a half-schilling coin, and tossed it onto the floor. "You can pick it up while you're doing your job down below. And you best not be a roller, stealing my money when I'm up your cock alley, or I'll beat you within an inch of your life! Do you hear?"
He had his hands firmly wrapped around both of Helen's wrists now, so tight her eyes watered from the pain. Her eyes were staring wide into his. Then he winked at her and smiled. This was just a game. They were playing parts. He the client, her the harlot. This was John, her John. There was nothing to fear here. She smiled weakly back.
"Fine. Whatever you want governor," she said with a cockney accent that made Druitt break into a full grin.
"Excellent," he said, sounding like himself again. "Up against the wall with you, blowsy!"
He whipped Helen around the bed post and slammed her against the bedroom wall. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that her head snapped back, bouncing off the hard surface and making her cry out in pain.
"Helen!" he cried, falling back into John again. "I'm so sorry! Are you all right? Did I hurt you, my love? I didn't mean…"
"I'm fine, governor. Now unbutton your pants. I don't have all night."
John smiled at her again, pleased at her playacting. He did as she asked, pulling his cock out of his fly. It was rock hard.
She reached out to kiss him, but he turned away instead reaching his hands to the top of her gown and pulling it down, freeing her ample breasts.
"I don't want your cock lips. I want your dairies."
He moved his hands to her hips to pin her against the wall while he sunk his teeth into her breasts, biting and sucking her nipples so hard she was sure he'd drawn blood. After a few moments he moved his hands up, pressed her shoulders against the wall, and whispered into her ear.
"Hike up your dress."
She did as he asked and without preamble, he grabbed his cock and drove it into her so hard and so deep she gasped out loud. She'd become dry, wasn't ready; the playacting, the whole evening throwing her mind and her body off. A part of her was shocked, terrified at what they were doing, at what he was doing to her. Another, darker part was so aroused she was shaking with need.
He pounded her into the wall, the paintings vibrating and finally crashing to the floor. The thumping was so loud Helen knew the servants could hear it downstairs, maybe even out on the street. She didn't care. He was driving so deep into her all she could do was feel and hang on, her nails tearing through his white shirt leaving splotches of blood that slowly oozed to the surface.
With one final thrust he plunged into her, pinning her against the wall, causing her legs to shudder around him, her muscles wrapping tight around his penis. He spilled himself into her, muttering obscenities as he did so, never kissing her, never caressing her, holding her roughly so she couldn't move, couldn't break free.
"John," Helen whispered, holding her arms tight around his neck now, trying to bring them both back to reality. His limp muscle eased out of her. She could feel his semen dripping down her leg, onto her red dress, down to the floor.
"Call me Jack," he whispered back. "When we do it like this, call me Jack."
END PART 1