Title: Silk to Rein a Vulcan
(Engelsk versjon av Vulkan i silketøyler.)
Terrific beta and Victorian Smut Consultant: Colonel Bastard.
Genre: Slash fanfiction, “between-the-scenes”.
Length: Ca 950 words
Fandom: Jane Eyre, novel by Charlotte Brontë.
Pairing: Mrs. Rochester/Mr. Rochester
Tags: Adult/NC-17. Manipulation, hetslash, sex, language.
Spoilers: Absolutely. This happens somewhere in the time-line of the very last chapter.
AN: This fic was originally written in English as an answer to the following anonymous prompt: “Jane Eyre – Jane/Edward, power play/exchange, bringing out the beasts in each other!” – My take here is fairly mild, but I hope you at least get a glimpse of the fearless creature inside Jane as she tackles her melancholic Vulcan Edward. I felt I couldn’t force them too hard, the poor Victorians. ;P
“Jane, is that you?” He hears skirts rustle and laughs at the sound. “Jane?”
Something soft and chilled is pulled past his face. He barely recognizes a fringed scarf before uncontrollable shudders run through him and he claws desperately at it. The silken touch is gone as soon as it came, but the smell lingers: a whiff of musky perfume and burning bedsheets.
The soft female chuckle makes him ask again: “Jane, is that you? Please, Jane, tell me it’s you.”
Illusions haunts him in his emasculated state: makes him tremble, makes him unable to stand up to unveil and reveal the source of the cruel taunts. He didn’t even know that scarf still existed.
“Bertha.” The word forms on his tongue of its own accord and slips soundlessly from his mouth. The low laugh again, closer this time and the feel of a lip quickly brushing the rim of his ear.
“Do not do this, Jane, it is too cruel.” He still waits, unable to stop this – game – or whatever this is.
He almost jumps from the feel of a hand against his groin. Not the familiar touch of Jane’s slight fingers, not her shy and soft ministrations, which he seldom responds to anyway these days. He blames his injuries – his well deserved physical and emotional scars – for that. No, this hand is forceful, demanding: it cups him almost violently. Another hand reaches for the bindings of his trousers, pulls them open, and is suddenly skin-to-skin with his private parts.
A sudden weight on his knees wakens his dread as much as his arousal and he doesn’t dare to reach for it. Will he find Jane’s soft, pliable strands or Bertha’s wild curls in his lap?
The forceful fingers have his member out in the open now: he feels the skin twitch, anticipating, as breath blows over the sensitive head. They both stay motionless for a few unending seconds and then, shockingly, he feels soft, wet warmth closing around him. A dexterous tongue wiggles along his length and he jerks up, fingers tight against the armrests of his chair, as he moans, almost howls out his flooding emotions. She keeps the firm grip on his cock with one hand, curls the other round his balls and keeps on mouthing his flesh, inexperienced but with wondrous enthusiasm. He finally lets the armrests go then, exclaiming: “Jane!” and pulls at her head before he abruptly shoves her away again and spurts over her hands, his vest; he even leaves a few specks on his cravat.
Relief floods his mind when her voice calls him back and he blinks at her, regardless of sightless eyes. He pulls her up in his lap and lays his arms around her in the tightest hug, rests his forehead to hers and clears his throat: “I don’t know what possessed you to do that, and even though I love you and what you did immensely, I still don’t want you to try something like that ever again, my sweet, living Jane.”
She pauses, thinking, before replying: “I know how you dreaded her company back then and I know that you are truly relieved to be with me now. But you were never overcome by gloom then, like you are now, and never resigned to your feeling of guilt. The many obstacles to your happiness spurred you on, made you take chances and do the most romantic and irrational things to get my affection, and it worked.”
Her voice is tinged with desperation as she continues: “I am here with you still, so live with me now, today, please. Let her go, Edward dear, forgive yourself. If you don’t, I will use all and any means at my disposal to jolt you out of your dark moods. You owe me a few tries after what you put me through. Besides, you can not deny that my little charade brought you fast out of the spell of impotence your depression has brought upon us lately.”
She adds as an afterthought: “It was actually Mary’s suggestion. She often helps the midwife and is quite knowledgeable in matters like these, both the physics and what goes on in a man’s mind.”
Before Mr. Rochester can question Mary’s, and perhaps Jane’s intolerable forwardness, Jane speaks again, broad smile evident in her voice now: “She didn’t suggest these literal actions, of course. I found the scarf in a crate brought from Thornfield and the idea struck me that a surprise visit from the ghost who haunts you might force you from your gloom. And I must say, I found my method both effective and surprisingly appealing. If you really do not want me to do anything like this again, I will comply, but please, think about it for a day or two before you decide.”
She sounds so pleased with herself that he can feel a reciprocal smile tug at the corners of his mouth and he knows there is nothing to forgive after all, just her unwavering good will towards him, as from the very beginning, as always. And Mr. Rochester will never know of the little cheap-looking and much handled book Mrs. Rochester got snuck into her hands from dear, practical Mary at the very day of her wedding. There is no use in it for him anyway, as the book’s message is largely expressed through its extremely crude, but very informative and stimulating illustrations. Reading has always been a joy to Jane and sharing with Edward is the most gratifying fealty for her–an indulgence, even.