BY : poorlittlerichgirl91
Category: S through Z > Titanic
Dragon prints: 664
Disclaimer: I do not own Titanic and I make no profit from the story.


Rose walked into the studio she shared with her husband, carefully treading a path in-between the ceramic pots and vases, canvases, and easels to reach the pottery wheel at the edge of the room. His work took up a good deal of the space – portraits of her, mostly – in various mediums and stages of completion, waiting to either be shown or sold. Despite this, he'd insisted on bringing her desk and typewriter to reside in there – as well as her ceramic tools, too – emphasising the importance of having her own place in which to create, as opposed to their cramped living room.

Jack had saved up to buy the pottery wheel on their third anniversary and, five years later, its novelty had still not worn off. Rose loved the transformative process: creating something out of nothing with her bare hands. She had never considered herself an artist before she met him; but then again, she had never considered a lot of things before she met him. They had bonded over their mutual appreciation of art––but making art itself was his territory; he was a bohemian drifter who had spent time in Giverny and Montmartre advocating for his brand of authentic realism against the growing presence of abstract cubism. Jack was an artist who relied on truth; he captured what he saw, and he saw people: he saw her. In a confined world that suppressed and stifled her every thought, feeling and desire, Jack had fed the flames and ignited in her a fire that was both insatiable and inextinguishable. They had fallen deeply and irrevocably in love; married barely a week after first meeting with only a local minister and his wife as witnesses.

Their first year together, spent in a garret-turned-studio with nothing but blankets for a bed, is where he'd started incorporating her into his work; creating pieces of her, creating pieces with her, as well as encouraging her to explore and express her own artistic tendencies. As Jack's art began to gain popularity within their local Greenwich Village art circle, so did interest in her: the ethereal subject of his paintings; the red-headed siren whose seductive beauty was not displayed for a male viewer's pleasure but entirely for her own. The reviews labelled her his 'muse' – something that felt to Jack like a dismissal; a vacuous observation; a shallow presumption with sordid insinuations: an objectification of his wife.


"Really, Jack. I should be honoured to be considered an artist's muse," Rose fought the urge to giggle, knowing how important it was to keep her face relaxed while he was at work.

Jack trained his eyes on her as he followed the outline of her frame; attempting to emulate the splendour of her beauty, his pencil tracing lightly along the paper. His gaze was intoxicating and palpable; where his eyes focused, she felt his callused hands caress. As their eyes met across the candlelit room, she fought the urge to shiver.

"I just resent the implication, that's all. Like I'm only drawing you 'cause I'm fucking you or something. It's not like that. It's never been like that."

He dropped his pencil in frustration as he heard his own words, letting out an exasperated sigh whilst running both hands through his blond hair. His mind raced with concerns. None about their relationship – still as strong as it had ever been – and similarly, none that involved himself; Jack had thick skin, he'd had to develop such resilience travelling and living on the streets. No, people's judgements and opinions about himself did not usually bother him. Jack only had one weakness. Anxiously, he wondered whether he was doing a disservice to the woman he loved. Was he threatening her integrity by showcasing some such intimate portraits of her?

Rose frowned at his obvious strain. Still, even after a year, she found it astounding she was blessed to have such an attentive husband; to be loved by a man so selflessly concerned with her thoughts and feelings. Jack was the most considerate person she had ever known. She felt a rush of love fill her being, keeping her eyes trained on him as she reached to the floor to slip on her kimono.

Jack was so lost in thought he didn't notice Rose slide from the chaise-lounge, nor did he hear her light footsteps make their way across the room to behind where he was sat. He jumped in his seat slightly as he felt her hands firmly on his shoulders, adding pressure as she kneaded his muscles affectionately. She leant over, kissing down the column of his neck, nuzzling into his skin, breathing him in.

"You're so much more than just my muse." He whispered as he pulled her onto his lap, slipping the kimono off her shoulders, showering the exposed part of her décolletage in tender kisses. "You know that, right?" He gripped her hips. "You're a part of me. You create these drawings with me."

Rose rolled up the sleeves of his shirt she was wearing, pausing to inhale his faint musk of honey and vanilla that still lingered. Wearing his clothes was both comfortable and comforting; a tradition she'd adopted whilst he was drafted to the European front lines during the Great War. 1918 had held some of the darkest days of her life; not only had she been apart from Jack for ten agonising months, she had also suffered a miscarriage twelve weeks into his leave. It had been utterly devastating; pining for a husband who may not return from war whilst grieving the only living product of their love she had to remember him by. That's when Rose truly found the solace and catharsis of creating art. In Jack's absence, she had reached for the typewriter, the pottery wheel, the paintbrush; she had become her own artist.

It had now been two years since the end of The War, and those days felt like a distant echo from some former life. Jack had been allowed back to her and, despite the ache of losing their child, she wanted to waste no time in moving forward with life and making each day count. They took off travelling extensively, living out of suitcases, earning money by collecting the art of undiscovered talent everywhere from Paris to New Delhi. Rose hadn't wanted to get pregnant again – at least not yet. She wanted to be selfish with her time; with Jack. She felt grateful just to have him. If it was only ever her and Jack, she would still be just as grateful.

She gently pressed her foot onto the heavy iron pedal, the pottery wheel in front of her beginning to rotate in a steady motion. She dipped her hands into the water, shaking off any excess, before cupping her hands around the lump of clay. As it began to gradually change composition, she felt the dense substance sink in-between her fingers, becoming slick and pliant.

At that moment, Jack appeared at the door. His boyish face lit up as he silently leant his head against the doorframe, content with simply watching her. She was dressed in one of his white open-collared shirts, her preferred garment for wearing casually around the house. Her voluptuous curves filled it out differently, making his heart race, but it was still noticeably too large; the hem resting along the tops of her thighs. He glanced further down, the unmarked porcelain skin of her bare legs teasing him. His eyes travelled back up to her face, illuminated by the warm glow of the studio gas lighting. He watched as she bit her bottom lip in concentration, brushing some stray curls out of her face using her forearm, her hands covered in and occupied with wet clay. She was so effortlessly beautiful. Even now, eight years into their relationship – had it really been that long already? – the sight of her still took his breath away. He saw the effect she had on people, other artists in their social circle; everyone that came into contact with her was captivated by her exquisite beauty and poised elegance. She was enchanting; every man's poetic dream. How had he gotten so lucky? It was a question he asked himself constantly.

She began to hum a familiar tune, her soft voice filling the silence of the room and echoing off the finished ceramics like silver bells, before she paused; feeling the familiar, intense weight of his eyes on her. It was almost as though the warmth and love Jack exuded had a magnetic pull, ever drawing her in. She looked towards the door; sensing him there, unable to hide the rush of love from spreading throughout her body.

As their eyes met from across the room, the adoring smile on his face spread into the trademark lop-sided grin she loved so much. Wordlessly, he made his way over to where she was. Her eyes sparkled with delight as she heard him swivel a spare chair from the next table and sit himself behind her.

"Hey, you." He smiled as his arms instinctively enveloped her, wrapping around her waist. He rested his head on her shoulder, pressing lazy kisses to her hair and neck, breathing in the soothing scent of her Guerlain perfume.

She responded with a content sigh and a hum as she sunk back into his embrace, leaning against his torso. She had always been taught that men were rigid and cold – in body and in mind; yet Jack was the warmest, softest man she had ever known. His caress was comfort; his hold was home.

"How long were you spying on me?" She asked with a smile.

He chuckled, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. "Spying? Would I do that?" He spoke in a low voice. "Can a guy not admire his wife?" He smiled when he heard her laughter. "Actually, I wanted to let you know dinner's gonna be around half an hour."

She gasped softly, glancing toward the windows at the late afternoon sky. "What time is it?"

"Almost six. It's okay." He smiled at her preoccupation – knowing all too well what it was like to get carried away by creativity – he loved that she had let herself; that she was given the freedom and the space to. "Leftover pasta with mascarpone alright?"

"The traditional Dawson recipe?" Rose's dimples appeared. "My favourite." She turned her head and pressed her lips to his cheek. "Thank you."

He smiled at her, before turning his head towards the pottery wheel. "Whatcha makin'?"

"I thought I'd try a vase this time. I've gotten somewhat carried away with plates and bowls." She laughed sheepishly, nodding her head towards the pile of spare ceramic pottery lining the shelves. "No doubt I'll have the other side filled with too many vases soon."

Jack kissed her cheek again, cherishing the softness of her skin against his lips. "Just more reason to bring you flowers home, huh?"

She sighed happily, revelling in his affection; no woman had ever felt more loved, worshipped or adored, she was certain. Rose had heard the tales of marriages losing their passion once the honeymoon was over; the women who likened their relationships to more of a volatile, constant uphill struggle rather than the playful adventure and intimacy that she felt – still – after almost eight years with Jack. He was her best friend; her most trusted confidant and biggest supporter. They had their differences, of course, but even while arguing or debating, there was an overarching common theme of respect within their relationship. Jack never condescended to her or exercised any control over her; he valued her thoughts and opinions, loved her ideas and her mind. They shared the burden of household chores; he had taught her how to cook, clean, live off the land, and even fix things with her own two hands. Every day she woke up next to him, she was filled with blissful gratitude. Life could have been so different had she followed the trajectory her mother had planned for her – and she was constantly aware of it; never taking the one she'd chosen instead for granted.

She felt his lips on her shoulder as she leant closer to inspect her work-in-progress, watching with pride as the clay softened and rounded with every spin of the pottery wheel.

"Jack, look."

She added a slight pressure as her hands closed around the edges until there began to vaguely resemble a lip for the would-be vase. She craned her head in concentration – coming to a crucial part of the process – and dipped her hand into the water, which she carefully trickled onto her forming creation, adding bit by bit at steady intervals as the forming vase continued to rotate in motion.

Jack pressed his cheek back to hers, his eyelashes tickling her skin as he watched the slick grey substance forming a sleek cylinder underneath the movements of her delicate hands. He stole a glance back towards her eyes, captivated by the focused look glazed over in them. He loved watching Rose like this; loved that she was able to create art for herself. Before they met, she had floated through life spectating and observing without really participating or living, and he never wanted her to feel like that again. In some ways, he spoilt her more than her upbringing had; they may have provided her with everything a person could want – materialistically – but he had been able to nourish her soul and her spirit and give her everything she needed – emotionally, mentally, physically…

She felt his hands drift from her broad hips to run along the curve of her frame, finding the cinch of her petite waist in the oversized shirt, before running them back down again and returning to caress the flattering protrusion of her hips. Suddenly all she could focus on were his hands – rough calluses, large palms, long fingers – the way they touched her with such intent; hands that were capable of such beautiful things: the art they could create; the pleasure they could bring…

Rose shifted where she was sat, trying to keep her concentration on the task in front of her rather than on what his hands were doing. She bit her lip as she felt his fingers brush the bare skin of her hips, hitching the shirt up over her thighs. She gasped quietly, very nearly losing her grip on the crudely shaped vase that was now rotating off-balance.

"You're distracting me, go away." She whispered fondly at a shared memory between the two. His chuckle was warm and low against her ear.

After a beat, he whispered. "I can't."

She shivered as she felt him sweep her hair aside and press his lips against her skin. He peppered kisses up and down the graceful column of her neck, his teeth grazing lightly. She uttered the faintest of moans as his rough fingertips ghosted over the tops of her bare, alabaster thighs.

Jack grinned, watching her eyelashes flutter as she visibly tried to fight the very physical effect his touch had on her. His eyes drank her in slowly, admiring the way her pale complexion contrasted tantalisingly against the flame-coloured curls of her hair. God, she was so beautiful.

Rose felt his palms massaging her open thighs, easily accessible in the position she was sat. She felt a pang of pleasure spread throughout her body as his fingers edged ever closer to the centre of her building ache. She sighed audibly, her eyelashes fluttering as he ran a finger along the underside of her inner thigh, faintly brushing her womanhood.

"Jack." She warned weakly; eyes closed, hands limp, the vase temporarily forgotten about.

His grin widened triumphantly against her cheek. He knew he had won.

Too preoccupied by the ministrations of his hands and his lips, she missed a beat on the pedal of the pottery wheel. It was only when she felt the vase toppling to one side that she gasped loudly and jerked forward, her hands moving to cradle the base and force it upright. A moment too late, her shoulders slumped in defeat when her creation crumpled, collapsing under its own weight.

"Oh no!" Jack's warm laughter filled the room then, the sound causing a hopeless smile to tug on Rose's lips. "Oh baby, I'm sorry—" He laughed in-between kisses, prompting Rose to break into her own laughter as she observed the warped mound of clay at her fingertips.

"You're lucky it wasn't a masterpiece."

She took her foot off the pedal, the hum of the pottery wheel in the background coming to a stop as their laughter died down; a knowing silence and growing tension filling the room. She craned her neck backwards against his chest, leaning backwards to face him, their lips inches apart. She felt her heart rate increase as he grinned at her – one of his devastating smiles that filled her with desire, that promised her undoing.

Her eyes flickered to his lips expectantly. Without needing another word, he closed the space between them with a slow, attentive kiss. Her body melted against him, beckoning him to deepen it. Jack's kisses were dominant but never domineering; forceful but never forcing. She leant back, pressing herself tighter against his torso, tugging his arms closer around her. Not able to get quite close enough — never able to get quite close enough. Impatiently, Rose spun around on the stool, raising her bare legs up to wrap around his waist. He swiped his tongue along her bottom lip before she granted him entrance to the honeyed depths of her mouth.

"Is this what you wanted?" She whispered, pulling away to catch her breath.

He grinned charmingly, teasing her with a few soft pecks. "It's a start."

She kissed him hungrily then, bringing her clay-stained hands up to hold his face, leaving a smear of the clay on either side of his cheeks. Jack chuckled, feeling the wet residue on his skin, and shrugged against her as he captured her lips in another searing kiss. She felt his large hands caressing the back of her thighs, securing her legs tighter around him. They groaned into each other's mouths as their lower bodies connected.

"Jack..." She whispered; her voice full of urgency.

With his hands on either side of her waist, he lifted her; a surprised yelp escaping her ruby lips as he placed her on the worktable top. Stepping in between her legs, he rested his hands on her thighs where the hem of the shirt had ridden up even further. Her fingers thread through his silky hair, slicking his golden strands back and staining them with the clay on her hands, holding him so tightly against her that her body bowed under his weight.

Rose leant back as he undressed her, her back against the table for support, the ends of her hair spilling into the leftover wet clay which lay abandoned on the pottery wheel. She sighed in pleasure, watching his eyes darken with desire. The way he looked at her – the focused appreciation and devotional concentration – the same expression he wore when he was drawing.

Jack removed the shirt she was wearing, slipping it off her frame almost effortlessly. He tossed it to the floor before glancing down and seeing her body in her tiny silk slip, silently admiring how the material clung to her voluptuous curves. He groaned hungrily, tugging the slip up around her waist; pulling it up over her head, brushing her nipples with his thumbs. A quiet moan escaped her lips as he pressed open mouthed kisses down her neck, kneading her breasts in his hands, her ample bosom spilling from between his fingers. "Oh Rose." He sighed, taking her soft flesh in his mouth, teeth grazing gently. "My sweet, perfect girl."

"I want you," She inhaled sharply, pulling his face up to capture his lips with her own. Her arms went to his broad shoulders, snaking up around his neck, wanting him closer; needing him closer. Her clay-soaked fingers now fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, staining the garment as she slipped it off his frame. His kisses forceful now, his hands on her body exuding a touch full of intent and care and purpose. She lifted her delicate hands to caress the golden-tan of his bare chest, leaning down to press lazy, adoring kisses over his rippling muscles.

She tugged on his waistband, before sliding her hand down to palm him, feeling his hardness under the material. "Take them off," She whispered impatiently.

"Oh no," he grinned his response, placing open-mouthed kisses over her neck and collarbone. The hum of her throat vibrated under his lips as she moaned, beckoning him to continue. "Oh no, no, no." He slowly sunk to his knees in front of her, before hooking his arms under her thighs and pulling her body closer to him. "We aren't done here yet, Miss."

She stifled a knowing smirk, feeling a rush of love for him; he was such a giver. When they made love, he refused to let her even touch him before seeing to it that she was satisfied first.

"Rose." He whispered, cherishing her. His kisses were slow and indulgent, leaving her skin glistening underneath. "You're so beautiful." He muttered against her abdomen, her muscles tensing beneath his ministrations.

"Touch me?" she muttered; a shattered whisper, the ache between her legs burning deliciously. "Please?"

"Since you asked so politely." He slowly traced circles up her thighs. She met his intense gaze, watching as he pushed her legs forcefully aside, opening her to him; his eyes trained on her, heavy and seductive. Her smile faded as she swallowed in longing and anticipation.

Jack groaned in wonder as he looked at her. "So perfect." He lightly rubbed his fingertips over her centre, caressing her velvet folds. "You're a flower, baby," he whispered. "The softest… the most delicious flower." His thumb brushed over her sensitive bud. She gasped his name, arching her back. He nuzzled her inner thighs, teasing her with closing proximity. Her eyelashes fluttered as – finally - she felt his mouth on her; his tongue masterfully stirring such heavenly sensations – familiar by now, but somehow different every time; too much, but never enough. She sighed blissfully, throwing her head back, his ministrations instantly satisfying her ache whilst simultaneously, somehow, making it worse.

As the pleasure continued to build, Rose's eyes rolled back as she felt herself give in, spreading her legs further in surrender and allowing him complete access. She felt his callused thumbs caressing the soft skin of her thighs as he pulled her closer, lifting her legs to drape over his shoulders, holding her in position.

Rose let out a passionate moan, reaching to grasp at his hair urgently. "Jack," She breathed, loving the sound; the taste of his name rolling off her lips. "Jack…"

Jack felt a shiver run up his spine as he heard the way she called his name; it still felt surreal to him that this woman – this goddess amongst mere mortals – was his; so eager for his touch, so keen for his affections. His eyes flickered upwards to watch her writhe and moan, groaning against her and smirking to himself, loving the fact he was able to render her so powerlessly overcome with pleasure from a few swipes of his tongue; he knew her body better than she knew herself.

"Jack." She breathed. She felt her body tensing in pleasure as he found the rhythm he always did; each time a revelation. How did pleasure like this exist? Why had no one ever told her? "Don't stop—"

Jack watched her mouth fall open; her brows furrowed in bliss. She was growing breathless now, begging him to not stop –– as if he could ever?

"Never, baby." His whisper was attentive as he devoured her. She tasted like honeysuckle; her flesh as soft and silky as fresh rose petals against his tongue; nectar like the finest wine – she was intoxicating; sweet and heady; he was drunk on her – he had been for years. He glanced upwards again, the look of utter desperation on her face stirring something within him; an almost primal need to see and feel and hear and taste her coming undone beneath his mouth.

Rose's head craned to one side as she shuddered, feeling the knot in her stomach tighten, the pressure building. She felt him slip a finger inside her, then another, moving them in a curling motion. She cried out breathlessly, small ripples of pleasure accompanying her climb as his artist fingers worked in tandem with his tongue.

Her knuckles turned white as she clawed at the table beneath her, gripping its wooden edges in desperation – grabbing onto something, anything, to keep her body grounded while the wonderful sensations ascended. Jack's hands and mouth never wavered as he took her higher; higher still, before stars decimated in her mind and suddenly she was floating; writhing beneath him as white-hot ecstasy engulfed her body in waves of endless pleasure. She exhaled hard, coming up for air as another wave wracked through her.

Through gritted teeth, she sharply gasped the only word she could consciously form; the sound of her shrill moans echoing off the walls of the room.

"Jack." She cried breathlessly. "Jack. Jack."

He held her hip with his free hand while she trembled beneath him, kissing her flesh until she couldn't take anymore, which she let him know by clamping her thighs shut. He kissed her legs, caressing her softly as he glanced upwards, watching her recover; breathless, chest heaving, sighing his name in disbelief. She opened her eyes to meet his, a small blush giving way to a knowing smile. He grinned up at her triumphantly, his lips glistening with her. As she shivered in post-orgasmic bliss, he took the time to slowly kiss his way back up over her body. Her moans quietened as she regained her breath, watching him kiss upwards over the valley of her breasts, his face almost level with hers. When he looked into her eyes, she felt overwhelmed; his sudden closeness becoming almost too much to bear – even after all this time, there were still moments when she felt shy around him. Shrinking against the intensity of the very physical demonstration of his love for her, she blushed again, until she caught sight of the clay markings on his face and hair and laughed soberingly.

"God, I love you…" She sighed blissfully, snaking her arms around his neck.

He grabbed her hand, tugging her from off the worktable, chuckling at how one kiss had turned into an apparent impromptu lovemaking session in the studio. It hadn't been the first time, of course; their relationship had sort of set a precedent for making love in unconventional places.

He knelt on the protective dust sheets covering the studio floor, pulling her down onto his lap. She giggled against his lips, straddling his hips, her laughter fading when she felt him press against her thigh. With an assertive smile and decisive hands, she unfastened the buttons on his corduroy trousers. His hair fell in his piercing eyes as he looked up into hers, darkening with desire-induced haze.

She sank down onto him slowly, her mouth falling open at how perfectly he fills her; warm and thick and full. The tips of their noses pressed together as they sigh loudly into each other's mouths; hungry breathless kisses saying everything that mere words could not. He slowed, watching her reaction; revelling in the way her lashes fluttered, and her mouth fell open with a sharp gasp. There was nothing quite like it for either; the physical proximity and the emotional closeness. Their love so all-consuming and devotional it bordered on worship.

She threw her arms around his neck, her brows furrowed in deep, agonising bliss. Her curls tickled his face as he kissed her scorched lips.

"Oh. Jack."

For Jack, seeing her from this angle; her body moving on top of his, the way her full, pert breasts bounced at his eye level. His large hands cupped them eagerly, feeling the peaks harden under his touch. He kneaded her soft flesh, his mouth never far behind. Again, she felt her climax furiously erupt; pleasure enveloping every inch of her body. How many times had this happened now? Still, he kept going; taking her higher and higher. She tore away from his lips, crying out his name breathlessly as she threw her head back in unspeakable ecstasy. Jack growled under his breath at the sensation of her walls tighten around him, verging him closer to his own release.

"Yes—" She panted against his mouth. "Jack." Her eyelids squinted shut as another wave broke. "I can see the stars—" She gasped in a shattered whisper; phosphenes spiralling in the blackness.

Her walls began to pulsate and constrict around him, she was everywhere; she was everything. He buried his head in the crook of her neck, licking the beads of her sweat trickling down.

"You're the stars..." He whispered through gritted teeth as his own pleasure peaked. He lost control of his movements then, groaning desperately. "Rose." He buried his head in the crook of her neck, showering her in frenzied kisses. He held her firmly as her body shook violently, aftershocks jolting through her, abdomen jerking powerfully against his own. She was still gasping his name in euphoric wonder. He grinned at her when their movements slowed, cupping her face and kissing her gently, as sated and satisfied chirps of pleasure escaped her lips.

They lay there in each other's arms, skin damp with sweat against the cloth dust sheets covering the studio floor, basking in the glow of post-coital elation. Their panting slowed, giving way to affectionate kisses. Jack held her to him tightly, inhaling the scent of her strawberry hair. Rose noticed her clay stained hands, completely dried. She laughed as she looked at Jack; splodges covering his face, neck and hands; the hardened, brown strands of his usually silky golden hair. It was only now that the lustful haze had started to dissipate, did she notice how messy they'd gotten.

"We need a bath, darling." She ran a hand through his hair.

"After dinner please." He groaned against her shoulder. "I need to regain my strength, Miss." He showered kisses over her décolletage, nuzzling her breasts.

"Jack." She giggled. "Jack."

With her free hand, she reached for the discarded shirt of his she'd been wearing, slipping it on. Jack rose to his feet, pulling her up with him into his arms.

"You hungry?"

She pressed her lips to his as she took his hand. "Famished."

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