notes: the only warning i can really offer is that isaac is deranged and i have no idea what tag to use other than heart kink/play lmfaoo. also i know this fandom is slowly dying bcs season 2 is over but please comment + reblog anyway 🙏🏽 nervous about this fic because i only just finished s2
preview: "You can touch it," he offers, and there's a shrewd glint in his eyes that evinces that he can tell that you already want to.
[ masterlist. ]
The contraption emits its metronomic proclamation: tick, tick, tick; each mechanical hiccup slicing through the oppressive nocturnal silence like a blade announcing the presence of something that should not exist yet stubbornly insists upon it. Isaac Night's engineered precision, the clockwork heart he crafted to extend his own failing lifespan sits exposed beneath his crumpled dress shirt. Against your better judgement, your traitorous appendage reaches out and pulls one side of the shirt aside to reveal the open chest cavity like some antiquated music box.
You can't tell if your mind is playing tricks on you when you hear the device pulse a little faster, as though Isaac's mechanical heart has developed the inconvenient habit of responding to your rapacious gaze.
When you look up at his face, he's keenly scrutinizing you with the clinical interest of a scientist observing a particularly fascinating specimen's reaction to his life's work made flesh, waiting to catalogue exactly how you process the sight of his heart. Then, when he feels sufficiently assured of your fascination rather than revulsion, his hand reaches into his chest with the casual intimacy of someone adjusting a pocket watch, carefully opening the metal latticework structured around each meticulously placed component like a jeweler displaying his finest work.
"You can touch it," he offers, and there's a shrewd glint in his eyes that evinces that he can tell that you already want to.
It's the only thing you need to hear. No need for any more sanctions, no further elaborate negotiations with propriety or the tedious social choreography that typically governs these moments. When you trail your finger over a thin gear, that delicate metallic component no thicker than a wafer yet infinitely more essential to Isaac's continued existence, it's with the temerity of someone who has been contemplating exactly this touch since the moment his shirt fell open. The gear yields beneath your fingertip with the surprising warmth of metal that has been conducting the heat of manufactured life, each microscopic tooth designed with the kind of precision that makes watchmakers weep. Your pulse pounds against your temples.
Isaac’s mouth parts at the touch and his breath hitches. Your pupils eclipse the rest of your eyes. He looks from one to the other, then lets his gaze fall to your lips.
“Fuck,” you breathe and you feel him stir to life beneath you, “how long were you waiting for this?”
His tongue darts out to wet the corner of his mouth and all he can provide is an open-mouthed smirk. He presses himself forward into your ministrations, that had started off so tentative and full of painstaking deliberation. Your fingers, which had moved with such assured precision moments before, suddenly slip. You jostle one of the cogs when your fingers disrupt it and your eyes widen in a brief panic but Isaac’s lashes give an avian-flutter and the grin that spreads across his face contains multitudes. Half blissful contentment, as if some long-jammed piece has finally clicked into place, and half pure hubris, the satisfaction of someone who has just proven that he is, in fact, more resilient than he originally thought.
The heat in your lower body intensifies and your pretty lips curl into a sneer. “You couldn’t just ask?”
His eyes gleam with lust-addled mirth, knowing fully well that you would have him beg before you allow him to come. "Now… where’s the fun in that?"
You roll your eyes and then shift back only to feel his hardness against you. “God, you’re such a freak.”
He appears unfazed by the remark. “You’re dripping, making a mess all over me so what does that make you?”
You narrow your eyes and then with a calculating intent that rivals his own and then you add another finger to his heart, and the effect is immediate: one of the mechanisms halts completely — not with the gradual winding-down of something running out of power, but with the firm stop of something deliberately interrupted. Isaac’s eyes roll to the back of his head, he messily grinds against your cunt before his movements culminate with a violent stutter and jerk of his hips, grunting while his hot, thick cum spurts out, dripping down your thighs and pussy.
Your disposition sours, mood curdling. “Already?” you bite out. “Jesus, you’re useless. Whatever, I’m gonna come on your dick either way. It’s only fair I make a mess out of you, too.”
Your other hand slips lower, greedy and deliberate. The one already braced around the rim of his open chest stays hooked there, fingers brushing dangerously close to the humming latticework. But your free hand is all ravenous hunger, sliding down between your thighs, you circle your clit, letting him watch as slick gathers across your hand.
The sight alone makes his cock twitch against you, a helpless spasm that betrays just how wrung-out he is.
“Didn’t even have to fuck you yet and you’ve already given up.” You roll your thumb harder against your clit, the moan that spills from your throat a cruel exhibition of pleasure made only to remind him what he isn’t giving you.
The combination of your words and your touch rouses him. A patchworked hand shoots out, gripping your wrist. His chest still heaves, his body still shakes, but there’s a spark of defiance in his hold. “Didn’t you know?” he starts, voice raw but imbued with pride. “The refractory period is a little… different when it comes to me.”
He shifts under you, angling his hips until the flared head of his cock presses insistently at your soaked entrance. You can feel the way he trembles with the effort. The moan that rips out of him as he pushes against you cracks into a strangled choke, his bravado immediately undercut by the sheer intensity of how your body greets him with an ease he had premeditated, but no amount of preparation would have helped against your hot, wet pulsating cunt.
Isaac’s face is covered with a veneer of sweat, chin tilted up and a frown marring his cadaver-like features, his nails bite into the soft, gentle swell of your hips before they lift you up. There’s a brief flicker of perspiration, of arousal, of need. There’s something intoxicating about watching his body betray the controlled precision of his mind. His Adam’s apple bobs, as he recalls the words back to him like a severed limb. “Which means,” he rasps, the words fractured by strain, “that I can fill you up as much as you want, my insatiable girl.” His voice vibrates against your skin like the low hum of the machinery inside him, each syllable a tremor that makes your chest ache. The promise is the only warning you get before his body jolts to life beneath you. His hips rise, hard and sudden, and the impact drives him impossibly deep, setting the gears in his chest to a violent staccato.
Tickticktick — too fast, too uneven, as though the device can’t decide whether to keep time with his body or with yours.
He doesn’t release your hand. His grip is fever-hot, his knuckles bone-white with the force of holding on. The other anchors you by the hip, nails biting crescents into your flesh as if he needs proof that you’re real, that you’re not some hallucination conjured by fever and obsession. Each upward thrust rattles through his frame: the clockwork inside him quivers, plates shifting against one another with a whisper of metal on metal, and you realize that every ravening movement risks unraveling the very mechanism that keeps him alive. The knowledge should alarm you. Instead it twists through your gut, sharp and intoxicating, until your breath catches on a half-strangled moan.
“Isaac!” Your hands scrabble at his chest, your throat feels ragged from gasping and crying out his litany of a name.
Only briefly does he still. It’s not the languid pause of a man in control but the jagged, involuntary falter of something fraying at the edges. His hips hang suspended, trembling with the effort of restraint, staving off his orgasm, and in that frozen instant you notice everything else: the way his thighs quiver under you, muscles jerking like misfiring wires; the sheen of sweat streaking down his chest to mingle with the faint shimmer of oil at the edge of his open cavity; the twitch in his jaw as though he’s biting down on a cry he refuses to give voice to.
He turns his head aside, as if looking at you directly would unmake him completely. His Adam’s apple bobbing with the violence of each swallowed breath, cords straining like stretched-out wires at the effort of denial. The machine inside him answers with its own faltering music, off-kilter and desperate.
Your hand is still caught in his, and suddenly you feel every tremor of his disseminated into you.
The realization sends a sharp pulse down your spine. Your clit throbs with a feverish thought that grips you: he could come undone just by looking at you.
Your lips unfurl into an amused smile.
Slowly, deliberately, you allow one hand to trail down the slope of your stomach, every inch a performance meant as much for him as for yourself. Your fingers slip lower, brushing against the swollen lips of your cunt, and the wet heat there is undeniable. You part your folds, fingers glistening obscenely with the mingled fluids of both of your bodies. “Isaac, open your mouth.”
It’s instant the way he hearkens to your command, he’s too fucked-out to even realize what’s happening, tongue out in an obscene exhibition. You bring your fingers to his mouth and he closes his mouth around them, eyes sliding shut.
“There you go,” you croon, “oh, that’s good.”
The sound that reverberates from him is a strangled moan, vibrating against your fingers, buzzing through your bones until it hits your clit like a live wire. You clench around him hard, and his whole body jerks beneath you.
Then he comes apart. His mouth falls open around your fingers, drool spilling from the corner, slicking your hand along with everything else. His hips snap upward wildly, no rhythm, no precision left, just raw need driving him into you over and over. His breath stutters against your palm, hot and broken, and then he’s spilling inside you again: sudden, violent, a rush of heat that has you gasping and grinding down to take every drop.
It’s messy. His cum leaks out around him almost as soon as he gives it to you, dripping down his cock, down your thighs, smeared into the sweat already covering both of you.
Your breathy exhale is one of relief and you allow him a brief moment of reprieve, angling your face to brush your lips against his. He parts his lips with a shaky tremble and you lick into his open mouth before your saliva-slick fingers brush against the sphere lodged in the center of his inorganic organ. It’s hot now, fevered with exertion, damp with a gloss of condensation. It’s ruinous, the effect in which Isaac’s whole body jerks like he’s been electrocuted, his mouth tears open beneath yours and he lets out an unrestrained whimper. He keens into your body which in turn causes your cunt to clench around him and he wails when he realizes he’s unbearably sensitive.
He thrashes against the overstimulation, hips bucking weakly into you even as every muscle in him trembles with exhaustion. His hand quakes in yours, clutching desperately, while the other claws at your waist as though he could anchor himself against the onslaught. The sound keeps coming, fractured and desperate, each note spilling out of him without his permission.
You hold him through it, breath hitching at the sheer sensitivity vibrating through his body, through the machine that flutters erratically under your touch.
The noise that emanates from him has your core aching, dripping with want and his spend. “Shh,” you whisper against the corner of his mouth, “as much as I want, remember?”
INCAPABLE OF MAKIN' ALRIGHT DECISIONS, AND HAVIN' BAD IDEAS.
synopsis You’ve heard the tales of the infamous Isaac Night that resides in that ancient, dark house on that ancient, dark hill. The man who exhales terror like tobacco, whose home is unforgiving to its rare guests that seemingly vanish whenever they venture too close. But you were in need of a job, and he in need of a fresh meal.
contains alternate universe. smut. kinda sub!isaac. nevermore not mentioned. normie!reader. mentions of illness. parent death. cursing. cumming in pants / premature ejaculation. maybe dubcon. kinda slow burn. dryhumping. themes of stalking / abuse. choking. heart kink if you squint. typical zombie shenanigans. dark content. kissing with blood (yours and someone he ate lol). boss/employee dynamic. hes lowkey sadistic. virgin!isaac intended. isaac and reader are both freaks.
aria speaks!! for @isaacnights, my dear aleena, who placed the idea of writing an isaac fic into my mind, and who deserves all the credit for inspiring a heart kink!!! i couldn’t not, just look at him!!!! also im a sucker for aus, so enjoy!! also this is loooooooong, lots of buildup so hope you guys like that!!! PS idk if i’ve written isaac a little ooc but i had to get this out of my brain-also considering a p2, feel like a lot has been left unexplored in this one and i feel this may be a little turdish cause i’m sick and sleep deprived but oh well (not rlly proofread)
Your father passed away a month ago. A process that was prolonged, exhaustive, and until the bitter end, tedious. Taken by a mysterious, incurable illness that rotted his body like he was already a corpse. Smothered the light from his eyes slow, like a plant decaying. His form thinned, skin becoming ghostly pale and sinking into his skeleton like a sigh. His hearty laughs faded into gasps for breath, wise mind hushed into a slumber.
Your father passed a month ago. He died three years ago.
You’d made your peace with it long before, watching him wither in that bed tore all the grief your pathetic soul could muster. By the end, you didn’t even consider him the man you once knew—he just became another piece of furniture you’d had to throw out.
When he first contracted his disease, you were thrust into a sealed box of fury, helplessness, and despair. The doctors would come with their briefcases, examine him carefully like they didn’t already know the outcome, and then, with pursed lips, would inform you that he couldn’t be saved. There was just no cure.
Then they’d demanded all the money you had in your pockets.
For a year or so, you’d been desperate. Prayed to God every night, or any divine authority, to save him. To miraculously cure him. It was when he’d only gotten worse that you’d grown bitter, unable to breathe in your father’s direction without bubbling with resentment. For not fighting harder. Leaving you to fend for yourself. Abandoning you, even when he were still alive.
Then, indifference. Cold and dismissive. You cleaned him, fed him, and clothed him. But you’d stopped being his daughter a while ago. You became his carer instead, a nurse. He became your patient.
His funeral was expensive, almost as much as his life was. Old friends visited, whispering their condolences to you as they left, forcing saddened looks onto their face before stuffing themselves with all the chicken they could at the wake. You’d shed a tear for him, just one, but it was one more than you had in a long time.
You were left alone then, in your house. Silent. No machines beeping or humming, no strangled coughs emitting from the room you won’t dare glance at.
Maybe you weren’t as indifferent as you’d hoped.
You were left alone, without your father, and without money.
Jericho was practically barren in that area. You’d applied everywhere, desperately looking your best at interviews and offering your skills in hopes one of them may take a chance on you. Just one. You would’ve blown their fucking socks off if they’d given you just a chance.
Without any past experience and hardly any good education stats (due to your final exams happening simultaneously with the grand kickoff of your father’s condition), you were left with nothing.
For a while, the government issued you benefits for your father—barely enough for the two of you to scrape by every month. Now they’ve ceased too. You felt hopeless, and cornered. You’d tried everything.
Except you hadn’t. Not really.
There was one last place to try your luck, despite your reluctance. There was a reason you’d tried to ignore this job in the past.
Isaac Night. His name was a whisper in the town almost constantly, as if he was an urban legend, mythological—something you’d seriously consider to be true if not for the flyer in the Weathervane.
Maid wanted, live-in, Monday-Saturday, $50/hour.
It was a heck of a deal. You’d be a fool to not try. But you’ve heard things of that house. Past takers have gone and allegedly never been seen again, their faded pictures on ‘Missing’ flyers all over town. Night hasn’t been seen around in almost a decade, not counting the tales the children tell their mothers of seeing him from their windows at midnight. You’d see the house as you walked around the town square, high on that hill like he was silently declaring his superiority over you all. The sight of it gave you chills. Being inside? Living there? You can’t even imagine.
Fifty bucks an hour.
What do you have to lose?
You’ve never felt regret like you do in this moment.
It didn’t take more than two days for the man to get back to your application letter—no interview, no questions, just a simple ‘Monday, 8 AM’. Short, to the point, you can appreciate that, and hey, you’re employed now.
But come Monday morning, you feel a crippling sense of dread wash over you like a monsoon. You can’t take another step. Not yet. Your eyes are fixated on the house before you, old and uncared for bricks that have chipped away, the porch which has become sunken with time and weight, and the door that looks like it knows something you don’t. It’s ominous, and you’ve half a mind to turn back and abort the entire plan.
Instead, you persevere. A step forward. Then another. The gravel cracks under your weight, sounding final and grave. The earth beneath you is greener than you’d expected, the path that you presume was once here overgrown by grass and weeds. Still, stones click beneath your worn boots as you approach the steps in front of the door.
As you crept, you noted more things about the house. Vines crawled up the sides like veins, wrapping around the build as if it wanted to choke it, whilst simultaneously looking like they were keeping the whole structure together, like stitches.
The porch creaked dangerously beneath you. Your eyes darted from the door to the hollow window a little ways beside it, as if the legend himself would be waiting for you. You know he is. Where else would he be?
Then, you’d crossed the Rubicon. Your feet ceased their steps as you settled on a faded mat right by the door. No ‘welcome’ or witty joke on it, just an old piece of fabric that groaned dust once you’d put your weight on it. Like it’s never felt footsteps in years. Maybe it hasn’t.
You raise your hand tentatively, heart rate spiking. They’re just make believe, you assure yourself, swallowing dryly. Nothing to be afraid of.
And with that, you knock.
The reverberating sound itself seems to resound in your soul, like you’ve just made a decision that’ll change fate. You lower your hand and clench your fist tighter, feeling the flesh grow clammy with nerves. You waited a few moments, with nothing but eerie birdsong and your own sharp breathing to accompany you.
Nothing.
You could see the town from up here, more insignificant than it ever felt before. Your eyes glance sideways to the dirt path you’d trekked up to get here. You could go. Forget this entire thing. Let his flyer stay up in the Weathervane, ignored and decaying.
But something roots you to the spot. Like leaving isn’t an option, not even in your imagination. You bite the inside of your lip anxiously, your brain screeching curses as you shakily reach out to the doorknob. You twist, and push. You damn near fall in with the pressure you handled, half expecting it to be locked. Your right foot settles on the wooden planks, old and loud. With a wince, you step in fully, dragging your suitcase with you.
Your eyes never remain in one place for more than a second, gaze flying around the foyer as you examine the details of the house you’d only ever heard tales of. The walls were white, weathered down to the colour of bone with a sickly tint. The staircase is to your right, lined with the same wood you’re standing on, railing splintered like a cracked spine. Along the stairs, paintings line the wall. You’re too far to properly see them.
Ahead of you is a doorway, the inside of the next room so dark it looks like a blot that was forgotten to be filled in. Even with the sun almost fully risen and casting the remnants of its early golden veil through the windows, you couldn’t catch a glimpse. To your left, another doorway—inside, you can see a grand, mahogany piano that looks so dusty it’s almost an insult. You consider taking a step towards that room when a voice, almost silent, pierces the silence in the softest of ways.
“Don’t linger at the door.” Your eyes snap to the arch in the wall, the dark, enticing room ahead now blocked by a figure leaning on the doorway. “I might think you plan on leaving.”
Isaac Night. Your heart skips a beat. This is him. The man that everyone in Jericho fears, the very one who’s name is never whispered thrice in worry that he’ll magically appear and lay waste to the town. The man who lives in that old Victorian farmhouse on the hill that has a room designated for dead bodies that he feasts on when he’s bored, the corpses serving as reminders of past people foolish enough to take this job.
You’re a little underwhelmed.
He doesn’t have sharp teeth or haunting red eyes like the children cry, nor claws or a forked tongue like a snake. He’s just a man. Admittedly, an extremely handsome one. The kind you’d never see casually, both alluring and dangerous in the most mysterious way. He’s tall, very tall, easily over 6 foot. A lean, thin frame that’s pale and sheltered. His face is slim, freckles gracing his chin and cheekbones. A mop of dark, curly hair rests on his head—slightly astray, from what, you’ve no clue. And you can’t really tell from here, but his eyes look equally as dark, enchanting and almost seductive in the way they’re trained on you.
Snap out of it.
“Oh, I…” You stammer, your voice a nervous breath. You glance back at the open door, and stagger further inside with your suitcase so you can shut it. Your movements are stiff and awkward, fingernails digging into your palm as you try to avoid direct eye contact at all costs. “I’m sorry for barging in like this, Mr. Night, it’s just… well, I knocked, you see, but there was no answer, and the door was unlocked, and I thought well, I basically live here now, so I thought I’d just…”
You trail off when he puts a hand up, effectively silencing you instantaneously. Your mouth remains open, then closes, then opens again like a fish out of water. Eventually, you purse your lips and watch with wide eyes as he takes a few slow, agonisingly slow steps forward. There’s an amused tilt to his lips, but an impatient glint in his eyes.
“Don’t bother yourself with formalities. Isaac.” His voice is clipped, measured and articulated in a rehearsed kind of way. Not his first time saying these words. “I trust you know you will be living here full-time. I have no patience for tardiness, so it’s preferable you’re here.” His lips curl in a polite, yet forced, smile. “As said on the flyer.”
You stare at him for a few moments, before nodding dumbly. “Yes.. yes, yes I’m aware.” You glance at your suitcase briefly, practically empty save for clothes and other essentials—you didn’t think you’d be here long, and if you were, you didn’t think.. Isaac would have a certain penchant for your trinkets. Not that you had much. Couldn’t afford any since your father got sick.
He offered one curt nod, sending you one last inspecting look before turning and making for the stairs. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your room.” He didn’t wait for you. Your brows raised, and you wasted no time in grabbing the handle of your suitcase and quickly trailing after him.
He climbed the steps with a certain practised elegance, whereas you were all two-left-feet as you tried to balance your luggage and keep up with him at the same time. He didn’t glance back or offer any help. He just continued speaking.
“You can have majority of today with no responsibilities whilst you settle in. I have work to tend to. My bedroom, office, and laboratory are located on the third floor. You’re strictly prohibited from entering any of them without my explicit permission.” His voice sounds almost bored, and you almost slip as you quickly turn to go continue up the stairs that turn. He glances at you in his peripheral. How humiliating. “Everywhere else, be my guest. Don’t go rummaging around past sundown, don’t distract me from my work during the day, don’t bother attempting to go into rooms with locked doors, and don’t bother cooking for me.”
You raise your brow at that last part. Fifty dollars an hour, just for cleaning? The house is big, sure, but surely you were expected to cook as well. You’d actually prefer the extra work to waste away the hours of the day in this place. You don’t say anything.
As you reach the top of the stairs, you slow your steps a little to look around. More stairs continue to the third floor, and past them is a hallway. A singular door at the end, the window on the wall facing you situated so that the morning sun shines directly through and almost blinds you. You turn, watching as Isaac makes his way to the other end of the hall. You bite your cheek, adjusting your grip on the suitcase and trailing after him.
He stops at the end, where two doors are situated on opposite ends to each other. He searches the pocket of his dark trench coat (who wears those inside, at the crack of dawn?) and pulls out an ancient looking key. Whilst he twists the rusted lock, your eyes scan the walls. They’re chipped and worn like the ones downstairs, but bare. You forgot to inspect the paintings lining the stairs in your chase after Isaac. Oh well, you’ll certainly have lots of free time to later.
There’s a soft click as the door finally unlocks. He stands straight, and you back up a little, almost forgetting how tall he is in those few moments. Without waiting or sparing you a look, he steps inside the room, floorboards creaking with strain. You stifle a sigh as you follow him in, immediately looking around your new bedroom. It wasn’t all that big—but surprisingly, it was cleaner than the rest of the house. The walls were coloured a fresh oyster, not dirtied like the others. On the right wall, a bay window, unlike the other hollow panes that look like they’ve forgotten to blink for decades that decorate the rest of the house. There’s a single canopy bed in the left corner of the room, a vintage wooden dresser beside it with a singular lamp on it—soft whites and cream. There’s even a rug—worn, and slightly discoloured from what it used to be, but the floor isn’t bare like the other rooms.
It’s nice. Surprisingly nice. Not as modern as you’re used to, but infinitely better than you were expecting.
You’re almost breathless with gratitude. He lives alone, from what you’d gathered, so he must’ve cleaned it up nice for you. You blink, turning to face him, readying yourself to thank him—no matter how awkward you find it to speak to him. Your heart jumps when he’s already looking at you, as if studying your reaction. His gaze is clinical, like that of a scientist studying a chemical reaction.
You briefly swallow, feeling the need to fix your posture under his unwavering stare. “Thank you for… well, it’s really beautiful.”
His lips twitch with amusement, his brow furrowing almost incredulously. “It’s a bedroom.” Is all he dignifies you with, keeping his eyes trained on you as he reaches behind him and places the bedroom key on a small table beside your door. He inhales after a moment, giving the room and you one last look over, before turning and moving to step out. “Lock the door at night.” Is the last thing he grumbles, before leaving you to yourself.
You hear the stairs creak as he climbs to the third floor, and you turn to look around your new space once more. You glance from your made bed, to your suitcase, then back to the bed. Then out the window to where the sun has risen.
You shut the door, and abandon your suitcase, beelining for the bed. You kick your shoes off, letting them clutter on the wood below as you sit on the edge of the bed. It sinks beneath your weight, surprisingly soft and comfortable.
You’ve not been used to getting up so early, and well, no responsibilities for today. Might as well relish in one last nap before the real work starts.
The piano is out of tune.
The key groans beneath your finger, vibrating sluggishly. It’s not been played in a while, if at all, you muse. You trail your fingertips across the keyboard, dust sticking to you like a stain. You sigh as you look at the thing, lamenting its antique grandness going to waste. Forgotten, like everything else in this house.
The bookcase beside the piano is the same. The shelves looking more chestnut with the early evening glow, highlighting the sheer amount of classic literature lining them—novels that you’re practically born knowing the name of. All left to rot.
You’re bored.
You’d actually prefer some work. Having slept the morning away, and spending the afternoon in your room doing nothing, you’ve began to wander. Exploring the spaces you couldn’t before. You’ve come to realise there’s no food in the house, and by the time you make it to town all grocery stores will be closed. So much for cooking for yourself.
The house is eerily quiet. You hear the odd creak of the floorboards and a quiet tap in the walls, but those are just common whispers of houses old as this one—especially when it’s so unkept. You can’t hear anything from the third floor. You’d gathered Night was a scientist, from his ‘laboratory’ and old science books lining the shelves to go with the fiction. You suppose he does look like the cliché ‘mad scientist’, with his hair, clothing, and even that restless glint in his eyes. You almost laugh aloud at that. But it’s confusing, that there’s no whirring, clinking of test tubes, or, well, any noise at all coming from up there.
With a sigh, you walk out of the room and back into the main hall of sorts, looking around with boredom. Then, you remember, the paintings. One of the only things that decorate the plain walls of this godforsaken house.
You swiftly turn, making your way to the staircase and rushing up the first few steps, eyes immediately settling on the first.
It’s a family portrait. You furrow your brows as your attention instantly focuses on Isaac. He’s young in it. He looks impossibly paler and sickly, lips curled into a shaky-looking smile that looks like it’d drain all his energy. The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. No, his eyes appear somewhat more tense than he’s trying to come across as—you wonder if it’s with frustration, nerves, or just teenage awkwardness. His hair is slicked back, and he’s wearing extremely old fashioned clothes.
The rest of the family is similar. There’s a girl beside Isaac, dark locks of brown hair wrapped in two delicate pigtails that rest upon her shoulders. Her smile is more timid, a barely there upward curve of the painter’s brush. She has pale skin to match her brother’s, you assume, but her cheeks are far more flushed than his could ever be. Her eyes look sad. You briefly wonder what her name is.
A woman stands behind the girl, wearing a white lace dress. It’s an old thing, with frills and lacy cuffs, but it suits her. She looks just like the girl. The front of her hair is pinned back, locks of matching chestnut waves framing her face. She has more colour to her. Her smile is one that holds class, and name. The kind that’s worth something. Her hand is settled on the girl’s shoulder, and your eyes flicker to the wedding ring that surely costs more than your entire life.
The father, you like a lot less. He doesn’t attempt to smile for the painter, his face neutral and hardened. His eyes expel no emotion like the others do. His posture is upright and rigid, one hand settled on the back of his wife, the other on his son, Isaac’s, shoulder. His grip is tight. So tight that it’s noticeable through a painting. You see where the shoulder pads of Isaac’s blazer scrunch between his father’s fingers. You don’t enjoy looking at him for long. It doesn’t take rocket science to guess what sort of man he was.
Your eyes linger on Isaac a moment more, your employer that seems so clinical and cold, smiling. Albeit a fake one. You’re tempted to smile back. Instead, you step forward, looking to the next.
Another family portrait. This one is different. Isaac and his sister are older, surely early teenage years. Isaac is sat straight on a wooden chair, feet firmly planted on the floor and his hands scrunched in his lap. His skin is paper white, and his expression is uncomfortable. He looks more like his father in this one, not bothering to smile for the painting, rather staring blankly at you. His hair is still slicked back, curls more prominent at the back of his neck, longer. His sister is stood up, behind the chair with her hands settled on the top of it, right behind Isaac’s head. Her smile is the same as the last. Her hair is still in pigtails, longer now and perhaps darker. She wears a similar dress to the last.
The mother isn’t in the portrait. The father stands beside the girl, hands behind his back and he’s wearing that same cold, intimidating glare. His dark hair is shorter. From stress, perhaps, or maybe he had just gotten it cut and you’re reading too much into it.
Your eyes dart down to check for inscription on the bottom of the frame. Context, names, a year perhaps. There’s a blotched rectangular outline, like it has been ripped off. You don’t let it keep your attention for long. Your eyes trail to the next. This is the last one.
The girl from the others, Isaac’s presumed sister. It’s not a painting. It’s a photograph. You step closer, eyes widening with renewed interest at the clearer quality of her face. She’s older, surely late teenage years in this one. Her hair is pulled into those same old pigtails, and she’s wearing the biggest grin you’ve seen on her yet. It’s a candid photo, looks like someone took it right as she was writing something. You glance down at the book. The cover is black, and the book is thick judging from how many pages. You briefly wonder if you saw it on the bookshelf earlier. Then at the surroundings. She looks like she’s in this house, behind her is a doorway into a room with a clean, mahogany piano. She’s in room you’ve not seen yet.
Your gaze travels back up to her face. What happened to you? To this house?
You have questions, curiosity swirling behind your eyes like an elixir. You don’t hear the footsteps descending the stairs.
“Francoise.”
You yelp. Your body jolts, and you stagger back a step, then another. You almost stumble and trip down the stairs, reaching behind and gripping the cracked railing with a surprised gasp. You look up to where Isaac is stood, watching you with furrowed brows. Your cheeks burn and your chest heaves as you try to calm your heart.
“What?” You ask, your voice coming out more of a snap in your sharp breaths. Your brows furrow in confusion, and anxiousness at having him speak to you directly.
He doesn’t move, or stop looking at you, as he gestures with his chin to the portraits. “My sister. Her name is Francoise.”
It’s as if he read your mind. You glance between him and his sister, slowly straightening yourself up, removing your hand from the railing. It gives a creaking sound as you let go. “Oh.”
You swallow nervously, looking back up at him. He’s still looking at you, as unreadable as ever. “What happened to her?” Curiosity did kill the cat.
His expression doesn’t shift. “She died a long time ago.”
Your face softens, looking back over to the portraits. At her little smile and braids. “Oh… I’m— I’m sorry.”
His head tilts for a moment, and he hums as he follows your gaze to her youthful face.
You look at him tentatively. “Can I ask how?”
He lingers on her for a moment before slowly looking back at you. There’s silence for a moment. Then he shakes his head softly. “No.”
Your lashes flutter in surprise. But you can’t say you really expected different. He gifts you a drop, you ask for an ocean. You won’t get it. You nod once, looking away and pursing your lips.
Isaac eyes you for a few more awkward seconds, before his gaze moves past you. Behind you. Your head turns and you follow his eyes, furrowing your brows when you see nothing out of the ordinary.
“I think it’s time you retire to bed.” He speaks, voice clipped and monotone. “It’s getting dark.”
You glance over, then back behind you to the windows by the door. The sun sets quicker now as autumn is creeping in. There’s a few rays of the soft, ambient glow of the sun as it shines its final residue.
“Yes, you’re… probably right.” You breathe, looking down and brushing down the creases of your shirt. You move to walk by him without looking.
You brush shoulders with him on the somewhat narrow staircase, and you feel him tense. You say nothing. You carry on up, but stop in your tracks when he says something else.
“Lock your door tonight.” He muttered, leaving no room for argument. Like he was almost warning you. “Don’t come out until morning.”
You turn to face him halfway, eyes trained on the back of his head. You let the words sit in the air a moment as you process them. He’d already told you this—but not like he just did. He seems a lot more serious about it than you thought. You nod, even though he can’t see you. “I will.” With that, you go to continue up the stairs. You take a step, then pause. You tilt your body slightly, hesitation inhibiting your movements. After a moment, “Goodnight.”
His head shifts slightly, as if he was going to look at you but decided against it. You can just make out the curve of his sharp jawline. He doesn’t reply. You don’t know if you wanted him to. You carry on upstairs.
Sleep doesn’t come easy that night.
You find that the house isn’t all that boring, nor as unsettling, when you’re actually doing things. And there was a lot to be done.
You’d found a duster in a broom closet, by some miracle, and had spent a total of nearly two hours just clearing the first floor and the stairs. Seriously, how can anyone live like this? You’re lucky that Isaac hadn’t stormed downstairs from his lab to scold you for your relentless sneezing.
You’re out of breath and practically sweating profusely by noon, despite the gloomy weather outside—rain has been pattering softly at the old wooden walls all day. You consider taking a break to cool off, leave the next two floors for the future you. But knowing that you’ll have to deal with it later, topping it up to the total tasks you have: grocery shopping, shopping for a vacuum and other essentials that just aren’t here, mopping, wiping the windows, and cooking for yourself? You simply can’t win against yourself. So with a sigh and a dramatic groan, you bend down to pick the duster up from where you’d tossed it in frustration. You drag yourself up the rest of the stairs, gaze catching on Francoise’s face as you pass.
Her smile mocks you.
The air seems impossibly thicker on the second floor, leaving your face damp. Another sneeze ambushes you and makes you stumble back from the sheer force of it. With a grumble on a certain someone’s probable hygiene in these conditions, you get to work.
As you clean, you think of your new boss. You think of his unwavering nonchalance in every aspect, even when talking about his dead sister. His mystique, how he’s alluring and confusing all at the same time. You think of how he repeatedly told you to lock your door at night, as if someone may come in. But as far as you know, nobody else lives here save you and him. And he certainly seems like he’d like to avoid you at all costs.
You think of his mannerisms as you swipe the duster song the corner of the floor where wood meets drywall. The way his eyes narrow at you when you embarrass yourself. How he keeps them on you when he wants to see your reaction to certain things. Your chest flutters as you recall those dark orbs, gleaming with exhaustion and melancholy. Asking you, begging you, to notice. You have. You’re not sure he has.
You loathe how enticing he is. You met him yesterday morning, and you’re already making him your problem. You must be insane. Or you’ve just gone far too long without a proper, human interaction in the place you live. You need help, you think.
You bite the inside of your cheek as your eyes dry from the dust. He’s baffling to the core, one big contradiction. You think of how he’s not been seen in a decade, and has had this house for a lot longer than that, yet he doesn’t look older than 25 at most. You assume that he lived here with his family, but they’ve never been mentioned in all the rumours circulating in Jericho. Never. You think of how he can even survive up here, no food in the kitchen, telling you to not cook for him. Does he have a fridge in his lab, or something? And why is there no WiFi or TV or any modern technology? It’s like you’ve travelled to the past. And how come the house has gotten this bad? Does he just stay up there constantly, and only ever comes down once to greet his maids their first day, then retire back up there? Who is he?
Is he the man you’ve mentally built up in your head? The monster you suspect? Expect? Or is it all wrong, and you’re really the crazy one.
Caught up with these thoughts, you don’t realise you’ve climbed the second set of stairs as you were dusting them. Your eyes raise as you snap back to your senses, examining the floor you’ve not seen yet. He didn’t say you couldn’t come up here. You just couldn’t go into any of the rooms.
This floor isn’t long like the one below it, but you don’t notice that. You don’t notice anything save for how spotless it is. You stand up straight slowly, standing up the last step that doesn’t even creak below you. You peer around curiously. The walls aren’t chipped or withered—they look similar to the ones in your room. The wooden floor is polished and smooth, a long, grey rug with intricate patterns lining the centre all the way down. It feels like you’ve travelled to an alternate dimension. You glance downstairs, then back to what’s before you. Surely your eyes deceive you? How can this be so clean and kept whilst the rest of the house looks practically abandoned? Maybe you weren’t crazy, and he really did just live up here.
Then you hear it. A ticking? No, a clicking… Is it coming from his lab? You take a tentative step forward, eyes narrowing as you look at one of the doors (you don’t even know what room his lab is). What’s he doing in there? The sound of metal twisting becomes louder. Your heart rate spikes, a sense of anxiety cloaking you like a blanket.
Then, from the door completely opposite from the one you were looking at, the noise climaxes.
He was just unlocking and opening the door, you idiot.
Your eyes snap to his as he steps out, and you tense very clearly. He pauses, not exhibiting any surprise or anger in his expression, but you see him hesitate to walk further. His hand is frozen on the doorknob.
You blink at each other for a few awkward seconds that feel more like hours, your eyes never leaving the other’s, yours wide and his narrowed.
You purse your lips. You want the earth to swallow you whole and just rock you to a sleep in which you never wake from.
Then finally, finally, he steps back into the room he came out of and shutting the door. It slams loudly. It snaps you back to reality, and your cheeks heat up so hot you worry your face is actually on fire. You grab your duster and rush down the stairs.
You find that you much prefer being bored.
Your cheeks don’t cool for the rest of the day. Not even relentless cleaning can distract you, nor the trek down and back up those uneven, slippery stone steps leading up the hill with grocery bags, nor even cooking the food.
It’s getting late now. You sigh, twisting your now cold meal with your fork, chin in your palm. You don’t have much of an appetite since that awkward encounter. Had you breached some kind of rule? You don’t remember him saying you couldn’t go up there, so you don’t think you did. Are you fired? Your movements freeze at that last thought. If you couldn’t hold this job, you’d be literally done for. You’ve tried everywhere else.
Then you began to panic. You’re such a screw up, always self-sabotaging yourself just because you can’t understand boundaries. Now you’re struggling to actually remember whether he told you to not go up there or not. You stand, abandoning your plate, the chair scraping behind you. You are not losing this job. You’ve left your childhood home for it, left the place your father died, left the town despite your better judgement. If this fails, you fail, and you can’t have that.
You can’t think about it, or you’ll back out because of nerves. You have to ignore how scary it is to interact with your boss for now. You’re walking through the foyer, making for the stairs with anxiously clenched fists when you look up seeing him already walking down. Same time he was yesterday. Another thing for you to wonder about.
You stop, and so does he. You can’t hesitate. “Mr. Night,” You close your eyes for a second. “Isaac, I just wanted to apologise for, uh— coming to the third floor when I’m not supposed to and intruding. I didn’t mean to distract you or anything, or seem nosey, I was just dusting and I didn’t notice I came up.”
He furrows his brows, glancing around, his mouth opening as if he wanted to speak, but you didn’t give him the chance. “Please don’t fire me because of it. It won’t happen again, I swear. I just..” You swallow nervously, voice becoming slower and quieter as you process what you’re actually doing. You dig your nails into your palm. “I really need this job.”
He keeps his eyes on you a moment, eyes flickering between yours. With what? Bewilderment? Amusement? Second hand embarrassment? Your face is hot, and your heart is in your throat. This is it, he’s going to mock you and throw you out. Leave you to fend for yourself in the middle of the night.
But the worst never comes. He doesn’t even acknowledge anything else you said. He just questions, “Why are you down here?”
Your brows twitch, before you frown completely in confusion. You glance behind you. You’ve been on the first floor about a thousand times since yesterday already. “Uh.. I’m sorry, sir, I don’t understand.”
His gaze hardens, voice agitated. “Why are you down here when it’s dark? I gave you explicit instructions to not be wandering around the house after sundown.”
You stammer, checking behind you and seeing that the sun had in fact set. The sky was a twilight blue, hushing the first floor into a growing darkness. You look back to him when you hear him begin to walk down the stairs.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realise- I’ll go to my room now, but I just- I have to know, am I fired?” Your words are desperate, mentally praying that he decides to keep you. Your eyes are wide as you look at him pleadingly. He just stares at you as he reaches you.
He says nothing for a minute, keeping his cold gaze on your anticipated one. Your breath hitches. Finally, “You’re not fired.”
You visibly deflate with relief, eyes closing and mouth curling up into a smile. “Oh. Thank you, sir, really, I won’t-”
You’re cut off when he reaches up swiftly, gripping your upper hand to steady your relieved swaying. His hand is cold, and you gasp, looking from his tight hold to his eyes. His face hasn’t changed. He managed to hold you in place effortlessly. Your chest flutters and your stomach drops simultaneously.
When he speaks next, his voice is grave, goosebumps raising on your arms. “Get to bed.”
You stare at him a second as you replay his words in your head. The look in his eyes is enough nightmare fuel for a lifetime. They’re slightly wide and he looks almost furious. But why? Because you’re up past your bedtime?
You just nod wordlessly. He maintains eye contact with you another moment, the only sounds being your shallow breaths and the floor creaking as he shifts his weight. He lets you go, and you nearly stumble. Your arm throbs where his fingers dug into you. He doesn’t look away. You do. You rush past him, and up the stairs, feeling him watch you as you go.
A thousand things are rushing through your brain. You feel uncomfortable and you’re unable to suppress the swirling feelings of anxiety, and confusion—the worst part is you find you didn’t hate him touching you, even in such a way. But hey. You’re not fired.
You only remember that you didn’t lock the door the next morning. Then you remember that nothing even happened.
The next few days pass without incident. You get up early, have a shower in the bathroom opposite your room (in which you always take forever, trying to figure out the buttons), then clean. Go to town when you need to stock up on food or get more appliances. Clean some more. Eat alone. Be in bed before sunset.
You haven’t had any more run-ins with Isaac since that night. It’s like the lightbulb of interest has finally clicked off in your mind. You’re his maid, and he’s your employer. You shouldn’t be trying to speak with him, shouldn’t be snooping around his portraits, you should just be dusting them. Shouldn’t be going up to the third floor, because clearly, your services aren’t needed up there judging by how clean it is. Follow his instructions like a good employee. Keep the job.
Except, you don’t follow all his instructions. The act of locking your door, and unlocking it, is tedious. The lock is rusted and old, and you have to twist the key so hard that there’s deep indents left in your fingers afterwards. And after finding out that there’s no point to it, you stopped. Must be some humiliation ritual. Nothing happens. The key collects dust on that little table.
You know a thing or two about being detached and indifferent. So that’s what you become.
You even gain a little comfortable routine. You feel as if you live alone in this big house, and instead of being a maid, you fantasise that you’re a rich, classy woman living here and that you’re cleaning your own property. You avoid Francoise’s smiling face at all costs when you dust the portraits. But your eyes seem to always drift over to Isaac. Not his expressionless face that you’ve become accustomed to, but rather where he’s forcing a weak smile. You wonder what his real smile looks like.
You even forget that he lives here too sometimes. Never any sounds coming from up there, never comes down. The only reminder you get is when each morning, you open your door to see an envelope on the floor, containing all the cash you need. He always seems to know how many hours you’d worked that day.
Cash is a little annoying, but you doubt he even has a phone. No service up here, and he seems to think far too high of himself to have a bank card. It’s money. You can’t complain.
But you do get lonely sometimes. Back when your father was alive, whenever you’d feel completely isolated, you’d go and sit with him. Wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t cry, wouldn’t even hold his cold hand like you used to. You’d just sit in the chair beside his bed, and watch him struggle to breathe properly with his illness. You wouldn’t admit it aloud, but you’d mentally tell yourself you’re not alone yet. He’s not dead yet.
You can’t exactly go and sit with anyone here. Your only human interactions are a brief smile and a ‘thank you’ with people behind tills whenever you pay for whatever. You think you’ll probably go insane the longer you’re here. Would probably make you fit in better.
You realise being here has made you a lot more cynical. There are some positives. Like now. The highlight of your day is probably getting ready for bed. The sun shining through your bay window, where you’ll sometimes sit with a book you’d taken from downstairs, or just look out at the rolling hills beyond Jericho. Remind yourself that there’s more to life than this myopic hell.
Your eyes trace where the sun hides behind the horizon, its last rays swirling with the decaying green of the trees. Trees that sway gently with the growing wind, a hint at the colder months that are fast approaching. The sky above is a shade that can’t be replicated, a mix of violets and soft blues as night creeps in. You sigh, and stand. Your knees click softly as you do so, and you mentally scold yourself for always sitting so still for so long, even though you’ll do the same tomorrow.
You shuffle over to your bed, exhaustion from the days activities catching up to you. You’d finally gotten a vacuum. Then remembered there’s no sockets in the house. So you had to take that back to town, refund it, and then buy a wireless one. Vacuuming the entire first floor and second took more effort than you’d care to admit.
And another thing about living in basically the wilderness, is dust settles quick. So with your new companion, the duster, you’d wasted away another hour. Then you’d mopped the floors with the new mop you’d bought a day prior, which isn’t as good as the ads make it out to be.
Your arms ache, and your legs. Without hesitation, you clamber under the sheets as darkness begins to infiltrate your room. Fatigue pulls at your eyelids, and you pull the sheets up to your chin. You fall asleep almost instantly.
You don’t know what time it is when you wake up. Opening your eyes is too difficult a feat, but you’re awake. You turn over, trying to get comfortable and go back to sleep. But something tugs at you, urging you to get up. Something’s off.
You begrudgingly open your eyes, hands reaching to rub them harshly in your frustration. You sit up, your bed frame creaking. You squint your eyes as you scan the room. It’s pitch black outside, and you can hear rain lashing harshly at the window. You sniffle tiredly. Nothing is wrong—
Then you see it. Your door is wide open. Your eyes open fully, and you sit a little straighter. It was closed when you went to sleep, you’re sure of it. Fear curls in your stomach as your legs shakily move from beneath your sheets. The floor is so cold on your feet that it practically numbs them instantly.
You take slow steps towards the door. Your hand grabs the doorknob, and you reluctantly peer your head out to look down the hall. The sight is haunting, the hall is empty as usual, but seems longer at night. The window at the opposite end shines with moonlight and raindrops, casting shadows along the length of the floor. But there’s nothing out of the ordinary. You straighten up, swinging the door shut, fully intending to just go back to bed.
You turn, swiftly beelining for your bed. Just as you grab the corner of the sheet to pull it back, there’s a booming slam from downstairs. You jump so hard that you accidentally pull the sheets halfway from your mattress. Your wide eyes look back over to your now closed door.
“Shit.” You whisper to yourself, voice shaky with fear. You reach down to grab the candle thats on your dresser beside the lamp that doesn’t even work, frantically fumbling with a lighter to light it. It takes a few attempts with your quivering fingers, and you sigh with relief at seeing the flame gently grow. You grasp the handle, turning and looking at the door with heavy breaths. You’re the one who takes care of this house. It’s your responsibility to go investigate the noise. “Shit, shit, shit… ohhhhmygod.” You close your eyes and inhale sharply, before walking with reckless abandon, swinging the door open and stepping out into the hall.
The shadows that lined the floor are flushed away with the candlelight. It reassures you slightly. Only slightly. You slowly pad your way down to the stairs, goosebumps raising on your entire body. It’s cold out here.
You hold the candle in front of you as you take one step down. It’s just an old house making noise, you tell yourself, or if it is an intruder, it’s just some curious kids. You’ll yell at them and tell them to get lost. Another step. Maybe you left a window open and the draft from outside caused a door to slam shut. Yes, that’s probably it, you’ve not heard anything since.
Another few steps. You inhale sharply as you turn the corner to the last few steps. The part of the main hall you can see is empty. No one is here. No one would dare to come, what with the fear circulating this house. You pause, holding the candle far before you to look further, bending slightly. Still seeing nothing, you continue down the stairs with a little more confidence.
You finish the last step, eyes looking around the room. No sounds coming from the room with the piano, and nothing coming from the connecting kitchen. You swallow as you look to the last room down here. The one that seems to always be engulfed in darkness. The door is shut.
Your breath hitches, and you look behind you. No windows are open. Your heart skips a beat.
You decide you want to go back to bed.
There’s been no sounds since, so it’s all okay. Probably. You take a step back, then turn on your heels and moving back towards the stairs. The floorboards squeak loudly beneath you.
And just as your hand grasps the railing, and you spin to step up the first step, you hear the damned door creak open.
You freeze.
You slowly tilt your body to look through the gaps of the railing, squinting through the darkness, but the light of your candle prohibits you seeing very far. With reluctance, you tremble as you bring the candle close. Quietly as you can, you blow it out. The room is immediately smothered in darkness.
You blink rapidly as your eyes adjust to the darkness, and you look back through the gaps of splintered wood. The door is definitely open. You tense and hold your breath as you shift your face closer.
Your shoulders deflate in relief as Isaac steps out. Of course. No one would come here, never here. What else were you expecting? He’s always downstairs at this time. You’re about to stand straight and just go back to bed, but something roots you to the spot. You watch closely, as he walks out of the room and the silvery light moon reflects on his face.
Your heart stops.
Blood. Lots of it. All around his mouth like when a child finds chocolate. It dots his neck, beneath his eyes and cheeks.
You tell yourself you’re crazy. You must be seeing things. You’re tired, or it’s so dark that your mind is playing tricks on you. This house is making you mad.
But he reaches up with a gloved hand to wipe at his mouth, smearing crimson along his chin, and you know you’re not hallucinating or making this up.
Is your boss a fucking cannibal?
Your breath hitches on a gasp. He freezes. You slap your hand over your mouth. His head snaps in your direction, and his spine straightens.
You stare at each other for a moment, not unlike the way you did a few days prior. Your eyes begin to water as you begin to completely register the sheer amount of blood on his face. Your hands tremble violently. You drop the candle.
It smashes on the wood, the resounding clap seemingly breaking you both out of your trances. The step he immediately takes in your direction makes your heart drop to your feet.
You won’t be able to reach the door. Not with him already making his way to you, looking furious. No, murderous. So you do the next best thing. You spring into action, nearly tripping over your own feet as you sprint as fast as you can up the stairs. So hard that your toes bash into the end of the step multiple times. You don’t register the pain through the adrenaline, only growing as you hear the stairs creak dangerously behind you—he’s chasing you, and he’s fast.
You reach the second floor, and you waste no time in beelining for your room. You bolt down the hallway that seems impossibly long, ears straining as you hear the staircase railing rattle as he grabs it, turning rapidly to keep up with you. You don’t look back. You’ve seen too many horror movies.
You’ve felt fear before. When bullies in the sixth grade would send you notes in class that you were getting beat up after schools out. When you read a question in an important exam on a topic you didn’t study. When the doctors first told you that your father’s illness was terminal. You’re no stranger to the feeling of anxiety curling around your stomach and choking the breath from your lungs. But you’ve never experienced it quite like now.
You reach your door, springing inside and slamming it shut so roughly the window rattles. You push against the doorknob to keep it closed as you reach for the key. Just as you’re about to jam it in, Isaac slams himself against the door so hard that it hits your head as it swings open. The key clatters to the floor and the door hinges squeak in protest as the door hits the wall with great force. You stumble back, one hand on your temple where the door hit you, the other settling on the wall behind you as you back up against it. Your heart is beating so fast that it might as well jump right out of your body.
He wastes no time. He walks towards you with such rage in his darkened eyes that it’s the most intense emotion you’ve ever seen on him. On anyone.
You attempt to sprint past him, but he tuts and grabs your throat with his right hand tightly, his left gripping your elbow as he slams you back against the wall. The back of your head smacks it hard, and you cry out as pain buzzes in the backs of your eyes. The force causes the lamp on your dresser to go tumbling to the floor, the pretty glass smashing loudly, shards flying across the wood.
His heavy breaths are all you can hear. You can’t hear the rain, or the wind, or the squeaks of the walls. Just him. Your glossed over eyes narrow with pain and frustration as you look up at him, cold fear taking root in your stomach as you make eye contact. He’s staring at you with wide, frenzied eyes. Dried blood is still coating his face.
“What did I say?” He spits, his voice shaking with fury. His hand tightens on your throat, his glove scratching at your skin as your breath becomes shallow. “Hm? Don’t come out after dark. Are you so incompetent that you can’t follow simple rules?”
You squirm in his grip, one hand reaching to grip his wrist tightly. He just rags you forward before slamming you against the wall again, his chest to yours as he pins you back against it. His harsh breath fans your face. “Now look what you’ve done. You just had to go and ruin it, didn’t you?”
Your temple throbs. You tilt your head up, trying to find some leverage against his grip for air. You choke on a breath as you squeeze out, “Ruin what?”
At that, he scoffs, the corner of his lips twitching as if he were going to smirk but couldn’t find it in himself. He shakes his head softly. His words are quieter, but not calmer. “I was going to kill you.”
You muffle out a cry, fighting against him harder, but he just tightens his grip as he leans against you harder, his weight knocking the air from your lungs. He shushes you quietly, the hand thats wrapped around your elbow tightening.
“I was going to kill you,” he continues, lips curling into a sick smile. “I still could.”
You snarl at him. “Then why don’t you?” Your voice is scratchy and fraying at the edges.
He sighs through his nostrils. “I’ve been watching you. I always play with my food, but I’ve found that playing with you is more exhilarating than it would be to just eat you and be done with it.”
You furrow your brows, coughing in your throat. You attempt to shake your head in disbelief, but his grip just tightens. His thumb reaches up to rub your jawline softly. “No one’s ever lasted this long.”
He must see the confusion in your eyes, because he just smiles smugly and tilts his head. “They always get too curious. Look where they shouldn’t.” Irritation bubbles beneath the surface. “The last snuck into my lab. She was dead before dawn,” You tremble. He doesn’t blink. “Before her, the maid read the portrait inscriptions. She recognised me for what I am, and she tried to leave.” He shakes his head. “But I knew she would. I stopped her. Her, and all the ones before her that refused to follow a couple simple rules.”
You swallow dryly, straightening your spine in the little space you have. Your eyes dart around his face—the blood, the crazed look in his eyes, curls spilling over them. Your breath hitches. “What are you?”
At that, his smile fades. There’s a pause, an almost imperceptible reluctance in him, but then he does the one thing you expected last. He releases you.
You double over, slumping against the wall as you heave air into your lungs and cough so hard you nearly choke. One hand wraps around your neck, where his was, and you wince at the pain that flashes behind your eyes. You lean your weight against the wall as you straighten up, eyes trailing the mess on the floor—glass shards glinting with the moonlight. You can vaguely hear the rain rattling the window over the ringing in your ears. Your wet lashes are cold on your brows as your eyes meet his, and you tense in preparation, expecting another attack. You can’t go for the door. You know it. You just watch him, waiting.
Your heart drops as you see his gloved hand reach for the first button of his shirt. Your gaze is fixated on his movements, and you whimper fearfully through your pants. He doesn’t react. He just unbuttons the next, and the next. Your brows knit together, but you don’t move—you can’t, your body is weak and you feel like you could pass out with the dizziness swirling around your brain.
But what you fear doesn’t come. But you do think you’ve gone mad.
You blink once, twice, thrice for good measure. Your eyes are fixed on the left region of his chest, or, where his chest should be. There’s a jagged outline where his skin has been cut, and in the darkness, you make out a blot on his chest where his heart should be—a black hole in his flesh. Whatever is in there glints as he steps closer. You don’t notice his movements, unable to concentrate on anything else but the impossible contraption before you.
As he takes another step, you’re able to see more. It’s some sort of machine—a regular ticking emitting from the metal like a heartbeat. Exactly like one.
You briefly look up at him to see he’s already looking at you, studying your reaction like he had when you’d both first came into this room. You look back down, numbing anxiety mixing with some sort of sick fascination, brows furrowing as you shake your head.
Your voice is hoarse and no louder than a whisper. “What is it?”
His lips curl up. “My old heart was a failing one. A frail, human thing.” His eyes flicker down, fingers gently taking his shirt and pulling further, so that it’s clearer to you. “I invented this clockwork heart so I could live on.” He licks his lips, eyes darting around your face. “For Francoise.”
You look back to him at that, remembering. Her soft smile, her pigtails. Remembering how she’d died young. “Your sister.”
He nods once, not looking away from you, not for a moment. “She was sick. Sick with a thing that had no cure. Those in the past with her… condition would die young.” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t let her. So I stayed, in this damned world, to try and cure her.”
Your skin crawls, but a sense of intrigue curls in your chest. You relate, no matter how much you wish not to. Except, you weren’t some kind of genius scientist. You couldn’t invent a cure just because you wanted to. You swallow, and your throat burns. “What happened?”
He doesn’t hesitate in his answer. “I died.”
Your brows twitch. He doesn’t seem the type to jest, ever. You search his eyes for any sort of amusement, or dishonesty—you only find sincerity.
He nods once, cementing his words and seemingly reading your mind. “I died forty years ago. But I was brought back.” One hand reaches up, his fingertips brushing your shoulder, as if willing you to believe him. “For ten years, I’ve been living impossibly. Walking the earth as- as an undead. An embodiment of science.”
Your brows knit. You find yourself not shrugging him away. “How?”
He breathes heavier, simple talk of science igniting his deep-rooted passion. “Electricity.” His hand settles on your shoulder. Not squeezing or gripping, just holding. With his other hand, he gently takes your wrist, guiding your hand to his chest. You both watch his movement. “Twice, I should’ve been dead. And twice, I’ve surpassed the laws of life by all accounts.”
You hesitate, your hand still shaking with adrenaline and fatigue. Your fingers twitch, and the fingertip of your middle finger brushes against it. His clockwork heart. His breath hitches, and his hand around your waist tightens momentarily.
You’re breathless with disbelief. “You built this yourself?”
He nods.
“Then why couldn’t you create a cure? For your sister?”
You half expect him to grow angry like before, or for his expression to shift. It doesn’t. He maintains his composure, doesn’t display any change in emotions. You suppose he must be numb to it by now. “Science is trial and error.”
He says nothing more. You don’t think you want him to. You bring your hand away from his heart, feeling yourself become dangerously fascinated—becoming deluded in your hallucinating that tension is crackling between the two of you. He lets you.
You divert as you feel his gaze burn into yours, buzzing through your nerves and furling in your abdomen as desire. “If she died, what are you doing in your lab all day?”
He sighs through his nose, his head tilting slightly, almost in pity. His next words knock the wind out of you. “I wish you came to me sooner. Perhaps your father would still be alive.”
Your eyes widen. He doesn’t budge. “I told you, I’ve been watching you.” The hand thats on your shoulder slides to the side of your neck, his thumb rubbing the skin there, almost reverently. “Their conditions weren’t the same. Only the end to their pursuit. Trying to find a cure for your father gave me a scientific purpose I’ve not felt in a long time.” He pauses. “But I failed.”
Your brain is scrambled—you are crazy. Because all you’re hearing is not that he’s been stalking you for God knows how long, or he’s a fucking zombie, but that he was trying to find a cure. A cure that would’ve saved your father. You hear that he silently cared for you when you felt the like the most isolated person in the world. That he cared when no one else did, not even yourself.
You don’t feel the dull throb in your temple as a bruise starts to form, or the pain in the back of your skull. Just the feeling of his hand on your neck, not gripping, but holding, his thumb rubbing your bruises that he caused so delicately that you don’t half deserve it.
You don’t see the glass on the floor, or the slightly crooked door from where the hinges have loosened, but just his dark eyes. Softer and more vulnerable than you’ve ever seen on anyone. His machine heart, ticking regularly and rhythmically as yours skips a few beats.
His hand shifts, holding the entirety of the back of your neck now with his large hand, looking down at you through his criminally long lashes. The air becomes electric, snapping with every intake of breath shared between you. Thunder rumbles in the distance.
“I could kill you.” He murmurs, his words lacking incentive. “I was going to.”
The anxiety and desire that have made themselves comfortable in your chest beat at the danger of it all. “You won’t.”
He exhales quietly. He doesn’t say anything else. He just leans in, ducking his head down low as he presses his lips to yours in the softest of kisses. His lashes tickle your cheek as his eyes flutter closed, yours following.
His lips are dry but unexpectedly soft, moving against yours with all the reluctance of a man inexperienced, all the patience of a scientist. You can smell the coppery blood on his face. You’re weirdly unbothered by it now.
One of your hands tentatively moves upward, gingerly settling on his cheek. He pulls away, looking down at you with a typical unreadable expression—confusion, desire? It’s hard to tell. You guess it’s the latter when he ducks back down, lips connecting with yours. His hand thats on your neck pulls you in closer, his other hand settling on the curve of your back as he presses himself against you reverently.
Your other hand moves to his arm, holding him as you reciprocate. You don’t know why you do. You’ll think about it later, you tell yourself as you move your lips against his with growing fervour.
You don’t register the iron taste as the kiss intensifies, as your tongue mingles with his in a way that’s not languid, but rather desperate and needy. Your fingers slide through his curls, softer than you’d fantasised when you grew bored around the house.
You feel him growing more frenzied, lips almost violent against yours—it should deter you. It should, but it doesn’t. You only become more enticed, your morals becoming warped and blurred with every wet brush of his tongue against yours. The hand holding the back of your neck tightens, nails leaving crescents even through his gloves. You find you don’t mind it.
When he pulls away, he takes your bottom lip between his teeth—biting so hard that blood spills, crimson drooling into his mouth. He groans low at the taste, keeping his eyes on you as you wince. Your stomach flips. Your own blood drips slowly from the surprisingly deep indents, tricking down your chin like a stream. You nearly moan outright when his tongue flicks out to lap it up, his approving hum vibrating against you as he licks back up to your lips, connecting them with his in a way so sloppy its almost beneath him. A man so composed and indifferent humiliating yourself for a drop of your blood, and he doesn’t seem to care. Your cunt drools.
His hand moves from your back to your waist, and it’s like he’s pawing at you. His lips leave yours, and you heave for air. He doesn’t. He just kisses along your jawline, down to your neck where he bites hard. You gasp a pained yelp, and he moans, rocking forward, his hips catching yours as you sway with him. Your hand tightens in his hair that tickles your chin, feeling him pressing hard against you.
“You have no idea,” He sighs, his voice hoarse and whiny as he rocks against you again, unable to stop himself. “The things I want to do to you.”
Your mouth gapes as your stomach curls at his words, need blooming in your abdomen like a late flower. “Tell me,” You breathe, brows knitting when his nose nudges your cheek.
He reaches down swiftly, his movements choppy and desperate, gripping your thigh tight enough to bruise. He positions it right between his long legs. He lets out a gruff whimper when his clothed cock rubs against it in just the right way.
“I’ll eat it for hours,” He blurts out, the words coming out breathy as his hips push up against you quicker, he’s choking on his breath. “The thought of tasting you tears at my mind, and I cannot find reprieve. Not while you’re under this roof.” He bites at your neck again, like he can’t stand any skin bare of his teeth. “I’d hold you, keep you down. Or let you sit and ride.”
His words kindle the fire thats already roaring in your core, and you can’t help but sigh out a moan of his name.
His hips stutter in their rhythm, and he huffs against the crook of your neck. You shift your thigh to press against him, and the noise he lets out is borderline orgasm-inducing. He continues, “Since I saw you, I knew I’d do it- anything you asked, and it’s unlike me. But I can’t hate it when it’s you undoing me. I’d do it all—bring you the whole town just for a breath of it.”
He’s rutting against you like he’ll do something wicked.
He’s panting against you like how the neighbours dog would in the summer heat, a sound that would normally drive you to retire inside—but now, you’d trade the world for more of it. His chest is heaving up and down against yours so hard that you’re forced up against the wall again. And his thrusts are growing sloppy, fingers digging into you so rough it’s numbing, and he’s choking on a moan—
You feel it. Warmth spreading along the front of his dark pants, seeping into your thin nightgown like honey. And he’s punching out a grunt, grabbing at you, pulling you impossibly close- “Oh, that’s— I’m sorry, sweet girl— I’m sorry, fuck..”
His voice is shredded, used up. He’s ruined and he’ll thank you for it. Rutting against you and allowing himself to cum in his pants like a schoolboy. Like hes never known dignity, or pride. The inside of your thighs feel sticky with want.
You let him ride through it, his hips pushing shallow against you in a way that’s so pathetic you can’t help but let your need for him grow to a visceral level. His hips tremble. So do yours.
“Isaac,” You whisper, breaking the intimate silence of rain and his uneven breaths. He doesn’t reply, but his nose drags along your neck as he breathes you in. “Get on the bed.”
And he looks at you with hesitation, as if he didn’t just cum in his pants from a little friction. But it’s inevitable. When he steps over the broken glass as he makes for your bed, you swear you hear his heart skip a tick.
And in this moment, he isn’t civilised. He isn’t undead. Just yours. And just as crazy as you are.
master list part 1(you're here) part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5 part 6 part 7 part 8 part 9 part 10 part 11 part 12 part 13 part 14 part 15 part 16 part 17 part 18 part 19 part 20 part 21 part 22 ...
A/N: I got tired of waiting for Issac Night fanfics to just appear in my lap, so I am making this story to indulge myself and hopefully other simps out there. I hope you all enjoy this story! Also, just to preface, this is a female reader, so I’m sorry if anyone was looking for something gender–neutral. This is my first x reader, so I am not used to being general with a protagonist. I'll go back to edit any mistakes or do refinements when necessary. I plan to make this a series, since all I see with him rn are smuts (no shade, I just crave plot), this story will also be leading into dark romance because duh he's a bad person
Please leave a like, follow, and comment if you like my story! Interactions will keep my depression from abandoning this series, I'm also starting a tag list so lmk if you want me to include you in that
Obviously, spoiler warnings to those who have yet to finish the second season of Wednesday.
warnings: morbid talk of death, Isaac being lowkey a freak (not in a fun way), animal death, somewhat graphic descriptions, nothing too bad its just the first part lol
word count: 3.1 K
Nevermore days had a particular gloom to them. The sun shrouded by groups of stormy-looking clouds, architecture straight out of a brooding poet’s dream, and spindling woodlands that called for students to create urban legends about. Picturesque, if you enjoyed the company of melancholia. I’d been here long enough to stop counting the years–days blurred into nights, nights back into days, a watercolor washed in grey. Charming, really.
Skipping class? Pointless. I had given that kind of rebellion a shot before; since there was always something going on at Nevermore, with a school full of cryptids and what felt like magic, which was considered unbelievable, and slowly had become unremarkable. You can only “discover” the same cursed corridors and whispering statues so many times before even secret societies can cause you to roll your eyes.
So, class it was. Again. Pretending as though the routine hadn’t calcified into monotony decades ago.
I slipped into the back of the classroom, umbrella in hand, notebook in the others. The spot I had chosen was a patch of gloom by the window where the light gave up just before reaching me. Perfect. Settling in, I smoothed out the journal’s worn pages, tapped my pen, and let myself do what I do best: observe and judge.
Nevermore was practically a zoo of cryptids, creeps, and misfits, which meant people-watching never went entirely stale. One might think wolves were the only ones to travel in packs, but no, gossip was traded like contraband, secrets dripping from its stone walls. It was mindless, yes, but where you’ve outlived fads and eras, gossip became the closest thing to sport.
Samuel Holt, for instance, was flexing to his fellow lycans, booming about the escape he one day planned to make to Hollywood. Puffing his chest out like a golden retriever convinced he was a lion. Naive, yes. But I could not help myself in quietly rooting for the boy; he was good-natured from what I had seen, and the world could use a little more naivete.
Then there was Kathryn Parks, a girl with a longstanding fixation on teeth. I wish I were kidding. She spent a good ten minutes wasting my time ranting about how my fangs were a centimeter longer than most vampires. Weird girl. She was animatedly describing a nightmare where a creature chased her through a dark tunnel– an octopus named Stewart. Stewart. I tuned out after that, but the name stuck. If eldritch horrors existed, they deserved hilariously plain names; the simple stupidity of it was entertaining.
Larissa Weems, who was sitting in front of me, was applying ruby lipstick in her compact mirror, blissfully unaware that her reflection gave me an unobstructed view of her. Curiously, the platinum blonde-haired girl chose the spot just behind Gomez Addams and Morticia Frump. Shape-shifters and their identity crises–textbook material. Shame, the girl was venomous underneath her natural class she did seem rather lovely, regardless of whatever one-sided rivalry she had created with Frump. The girl trapped in a cliché, jealousy is the oldest story in the book
Useless little dramas. Still, they were mine. Without them, eternity stretched out duller than old parchment.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound pulled my ears forward, faint at first, but steady. Mechanical. Not the condemned clock tower. Something smaller, portable. Moving closer
That’s when he walked in– a peculiar, measured way he moved inside. I watched through the reflection of the compact as the mystery boy carried himself like he wanted to fold into the wallpaper, except the steady tick of whatever contraption he carried with him announced him to me like a drumroll. It sounded faint, muffled; most wouldn’t hear it, but the thump of it almost commanded me to listen in.
But before I could investigate with the safety net of the mirror, Weems snapped her compact shut. Damn it. It was the perfect cover, too, since it’s not as if I had a reflection someone could accidentally make eye contact with.
And then he sat down. Right beside me.
From what I could see from the corner of my eye, he moved with a peculiar brand of self-consciousness…no, it was purposeful. The type of shifty movement someone makes when they want to disappear into the floorboards. The problem? He was impossible to ignore.
Turning my attention to the journal in front of me. I began to mindlessly draw on it as I waited for a brief moment, waiting for just the right moment before I glanced up and to the side to get a good look at this mysterious boy.
Pale skin, a face sharpened into angles, dark eyes sunk beneath tired circles, and black hair combed back just enough to look like he hadn’t tried at all. Ringlets falling around his haunted face, a single mole artfully placed on his chin. Handsome in that cursed, tragic-portrait kind of way. Naturally, my traitorous, unbeating heart fluttered. Typical. Who doesn’t have a weakness for the tortured, pretty ones? It was unfair, really. I hardly stood a chance.
When he set down his journal, I couldn’t help but take a peek. Blueprints of intricate machinery, equations that were accompanied by obsessive notes, and a sketch of a mechanical heart. And suddenly it clicked who this boy was.
Isaac Night. A DaVinci boy, Nevermore’s golden prodigy. Genius, recluse, miracle-worker. The type of mind that was born perhaps once every generation. Even someone who has lived as long as me has to admit if the rumors are true, then I would be the first to confirm I had yet to see a mind as bright as his in my decades. Believe it or not, he had already given Professor Orloff a new body like it was just another Tuesday. Around campus, his name carried less personality and more reverence, as if he weren’t even a student and already some sort of walking legend.
It was strange how there wasn’t much about him that did not have to do with his ambition that went around the school. All people talked about was that he was a genius, and he was dedicated. Reclusive, but even then, one would assume a pretty boy like him would have more gossip surrounding him than simply being defined by his inventions. Strange, but it also could be telling.
But maybe that was only my inquisitive nature talking; I have always had a bad habit of being rather nosy.
That's when the sound of Professor Orloff wheeling in with his bubbling contraption, droning through the syllabus already as he walked down the aisle of tables.
“Settle down, students settle down.” His voice had begun to silence the classmates all around as he moved to the front of the class. Standing in front of his desk, everyone waited patiently as his contraption took a moment to let the man turn around to face them all, “As you all know, I am Professor Orlaff, here to teach you all the wonders of science. Specifically, advanced biology in this course…”
I could not care to listen to the rest of his introduction, not because I have no respect for the man, but only that I had just lived through many of his classes since he was prevalent in the science department here at Nevermore. I’d heard it all before: anatomy, astronomy, even dark psychology– you’d name it, I’ve suffered through it. And if not from him, then I heard it from Stonehearst.
I just continued with what I had been drawing, sketches of various flowers I had been studying in last year's botanical science, from nightshades to black delilahs. Just anything to keep myself busy, the whimsies of a girl who’d lived too long.
The sound of graphite scratching against paper beside me caused a momentary pause; I couldn’t help but let my eyes trail across the table to look at how Isaac had seemingly continued onto a page that contained what looked like processors and circuits. A contrast of the functional and what I just considered beautiful.
When my eyes traveled up to sneak another glance at the boy beside me, his eyes snapped up– straight into mine.
For one absurd second, my chest tightened, from both shock and perhaps the more girlish part of me that relished in the moment.
But such simple feelings were fleeting, unlike in the books I had wasted hours away reading. This would be a part where I could say I felt a spark of some kind, maybe even a twinkle in his eyes, but no, his gaze was empty. Polished stone. A void. For all of his haunted beauty, there wasn’t a single flicker of light I could find. Even my inner hopeless romanticism couldn’t conjure anything. The twist in my stomach was not butterflies. It was a warning.
I had looked away automatically; always better to pretend you hadn’t noticed the landmine you’d almost walked into. Also, just wanting to avoid any awkwardness on the first day. But I could not hide the hint of unease I felt. Many students passed through the halls of Nevermore, and I had experienced all shades of people. Something wasn’t right about this boy. It was hard to place, but years of watching students come and go from this academy meant I knew a thing or two about the strange and peculiar, this? This was almost scary.
And yet, infuriatingly, he was beautiful.
“We shall be reviewing some basics today, taking this first week or so to familiarize ourselves with the fundamentals so we may push ourselves towards advancements.” I had tuned back into what the professor was saying once I had realized he was giving instructions. “All notes and homework shall be done independently, though the lab activities shall be done with your table partner as well as other assignments throughout your term.”
Fantastic. Great. My options were suddenly limited to (a) endure whatever unnerving creature this boy was, or (b) fail the class.
The activity today was on neurophysiology. The classic biology experiment where students stimulate a dead frog's nervous system into having muscle contractions, even Normies did this. The project was less about actually documenting your findings and more about familiarizing us all with the nature of the class and hopefully creating some excitement around the subject. Nothing sparks joy in teenagers like watching dead frogs twitch, I guess.
Waiting amongst the line of students who were grabbing a tray each with their own deceased amphibians, I could tell my classmates could barely contain their rowdy nature. Subjecting myself to immature laughs mixed with the giggles of students who squemishly chattered about the gross frogs. I had wordlessly volunteered myself to grab the tray, meaning I just stood up and walked away because I couldn’t help but feel a touch uncomfortable from earlier accidental eye contact. I was quickly getting over it, but still, it was hard not to feel a touch unnerved.
Grabbing the sterile metal, I couldn’t fight the scowl on my face as I watched the creature’s unmoving body wriggle with every step I took back to the table. Pitiful, really, I was not looking forward to this.
“Are you afraid?”
The voice startled me. Isaac, of course.
“Of frogs, I mean.” He chuckled; it was rather boyish, though bias told me it was hollow. He was hardly smirking; he was just…watching. Expectant.
“Hardly. Cold-blooded creatures are just…unappetizing.” Which was true– as a creature whose biological preference was what was warm-blooded, frogs were rather unappealing. “Slippery little carcasses. Practically an insult to the senses.”
The corner of his mouth twitched upward, not quite a smile, but he let out a short laugh, “I can’t think of many who disagree…”
After Isaac spoke, I looked around the classroom again. Most students moved through the project immaturely, and Gomez even seemed to be zapping away at the frog, making it do a flop-like movement across its tray that mocked a dance. Morticia delightfully gave a small applause while stringing along words of praise. I hadn’t noticed how Isaac had leaned in closer, tilting his head closer to my own as he observed the boy with me.
“Interesting,” Isaac murmured beside me.
I glanced over. He wasn’t watching the frog. He wasn’t watching me. His eyes were fixed on Gomez, sharp and unreadable.
“What’s interesting?” I asked before I could stop myself.
“People like him.” Isaac’s voice was soft, almost contemplative. “So loud, so burning with life. They don’t realize the fire consumes itself. They burn faster. Shorter.” He tapped his pen once against the desk, in rhythm with that clockwork tick I kept hearing. “You can see it already. His kind never lasts.”
A chill prickled down my arms. The way he said it — not cruel, not mocking. Just… factual. Like a scientist describing the inevitable collapse of a star. Was Gomez not his friend? She could have sworn she heard somewhere that the two were roommates.
“Morbid observation,” I muttered, forcing a wry smile.
His mouth curved faintly. “Only honest. Entropy favors the vibrant. The quiet ones endure.” His gaze flicked to me then, brief but cutting. “You’d know.”
I froze, pulse kicking up. Was it a compliment? An accusation? Both?
Before I could form a reply, his eyes lowered to the frog. Like, he didn’t drop some sort of weird prophecy mid-conversation. “The project Professor Orlaff gave us is rather charming, wouldn’t you say?”
“Charming?” I say as he picked up the scalpel like he’d been born holding it. I was still mentally recovering from the earlier callout, but I tried not to make it known, “That’s the word for playing god with a dead amphibian. Interesting, yes, but personally, I’d go for grotesque.”
“Ah.” He murmured, sliding the blade down the frog’s abdomen with a clean precision, other tools lifting around him to pull back the skin with the sterile metal, his right hand flicking as he continued. “Grotesque is merely the first cousin of the sublime.”
Could he sound any more like an evil scientist?
That earned a side eye. He caught it, and this time, he smiled fully. It was soft, yes, but the context made it all wrong. Inappropriate, yet aware of that and still pleased. In any other instance, I would have thought he looked handsome, but he looked frightening.
“While yes, the experiment is elementary,” He went on, a smile still stretched across his face, “there’s beauty in its simplicity. A spark forcing flesh to remember movement. That boundary between what is gone and what might return–” he flicked his wrist, he commanded the floating tools seemed to bolt open the frog’s cavity and that’s when he turned back to me. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I’d say Hollywood already wrung out every drop of drama out of the undead decades ago.” Leaning my chin against my palm, my tone was flat, but my pulse wasn’t. Who wouldn’t be anxious watching a boy three feet from you flay open an animal carcass like it was nothing? “The concept is a tad overrated.”
“You sound as if you lack imagination.”He looked at me from under his lashes, voice silk-edged with iron. “Though perhaps imagination dulls after a century or two. You would know better than I.”
My throat tightened. Blunt. Morbid. But it didn’t make it any less true.
“Funny,” I spoke dryly, passing him the electrodes, but I couldn’t fight back the way I naturally shifted myself at an angle that faced away from him. I didn’t enjoy my immortality being pointed out like that. “You certainly know how to flatter a girl.”
He chuckled, low, like I’d told him a joke. What an asshole. His gloved fingers brushed mine when he took the clamps. I wouldn’t put it past this guy to have done so deliberately.
Then he connected the wires. Turned the voltage up.
The frog twitched, limbs jerking in graceless spasms. I only hummed slightly in approval, not realizing that the boy beside me would take it as an invitation to take it further.
Smoke rose, faint at first, then acrid. Isaac’s eyes didn’t even so much as flicker, even when I had begun to move to get him to stop, realizing he was turning the power up past what the instructions on the board told us to do.
When the body suddenly lurched upright with a sick thump against the tray, Larissa, who had been startled by the sudden noise, shrieked. The class all whipped their heads around and erupted into laughter while I recoiled instinctively.
Isaac only muttered, almost to himself, “Not enough power.” He removed the clamps delicately, looking down at the frog like he was disappointed personally for it failing him.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding, before folding my arms, “Or perhaps you have too much hubris. Hard to tell the difference.”
This time, he looked at me. Like, really looked. He even began to lean in, which caused me to pull back, but he still got close enough that his breath tickled my cheek. His words were low, like a secret meant only for me.
“You stare a lot.”
My pulse jumped. Deflection of the century, yet I fell for it headfirst. “I do not!”
One brow arched up, his head tilting as he smirked. Mischievous, like he had caught me in a trap, his chuckle was real this time. “Am I the first to say it out loud?”
Heat crawled up my neck, his laugh unsettled me, curling like smoke up my spine as he pulled away, but not before letting out a small “Interesting.”
I was quick to busy myself with wires, jars, anything that meant avoiding that gaze. But even with my head down, I felt it– the weight of his attention. Too calm. Too intent. Yet his eyes burned at the back of my skull.
In all honesty, there was nothing actually wrong with anything he did. He said all the right things to make the conversation dance around ambiguously, laughed the appropriate amount of time in between conversations, and overall was polite. It was the little things that I could not get out of my head. I was usually one who was irritated easily, but putting me on edge was something else. It made me squirm in my seat, but also left me hoping his impression of me did not stand out for the wrong reasons.
When the project ended, I packed quickly, wishing that the world would just swallow me whole rather than let me spend another moment with this man. I was eager to vanish before he could speak again.
Of course, he did.
“I never did catch your name.”
I froze just at the door; unfortunately, it was not far from our table, so it was not as if I could feign not hearing him. Glancing back, he was smiling, politely, gently, it tugged something at the edges of unease.
“...(Y/N) (L/N).”
His smile deepened, like he had been given exactly what he wanted. And I hated how much I wanted to know what he’d do with it.
I chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six | chapter seven | chapter eight | chapter nine | chapter ten | chapter eleven | chapter twelve | chapter thirteen | chapter fourteen | chapter fifteen | chapter sixteen | chapter seventeen | chapter eighteen (you’re here!) | chapter nineteen (coming soon) |
Series Summary: The year is 1467, and you, the princess of Transylvania, fall in love with a lord; a clever, handsome young man. Your love was great and your bond unbreakable, but fate demands tragedy, and the love of your life gets killed before your very eyes. Devastated and driven by rage, you search for your beloved for five hundred years. At Nevermore Academy in Jericho, you are to find him and his name— Isaac Night.
Pairing: Isaac Night x vampire!Reader
Word count: 14k
Series warnings: fem!Reader, no descriptions of the Reader, fluff, falling in love, romance, angst, violence, tragedy, a bit of religious themes (only up to chapter four), fic starts in the Middle Ages, ooc Isaac at first, major character death, an animal getting hurt, brief allusions to intimacy, blood, murder, background original characters (platonic), humor, yearning, slow burn, minor character death, consuming blood, grief, description of wounds, Gomez playing matchmaker, smut, loss of virginity, gentle sex, piv sex, loosely inspired by Dracula A Love Tale, no mentions of Y/N
Notes: I have no excuse why this took so long, but it’s 14k words long and there’s smut FINALLY so I think it makes up for it 🤧 English isn’t my first language.
Chapter Eighteen: A Night Beneath The Stars
Traveling by plane wasn't an option. Isaac didn't know how the pressure would affect his mechanical heart, as he had never flown before. His family had apparently taken a vacation to Europe when he was a small child— back when Francoise was barely two years old— but he couldn't remember it, and at that time, he’d still had his normal heart of flesh and blood. Neither you nor any of the others had argued when he voiced his concerns. Furthermore, airport security checks posed too great a risk. If Stonehearst was actively hunting them, he would surely have alerted the authorities, and they would certainly be stopped if they tried to leave the continent. No, flying was out of the question.
You settled on the only other option left: the ocean. Fortunately, Hester Frump owned not only a fleet of vintage cars but also— according to Morticia— a decent enough sailing yacht that was sitting idle in Nova Scotia. Hester rarely used it these days, especially now that the summer winds had shifted and autumn had set in, bringing rougher seas. Morticia would arrange for the boat, while Larissa returned to school, Fester stayed put to avoid causing another disaster, and the rest of you waited. Gomez also headed back to the dense woods surrounding Nevermore to retrieve Aleo’s body, which the police most likely hadn't taken away yet. You didn't want to leave him behind. America hadn't been his home, and he deserved to be laid to rest in the place he had called home.
It took Gomez and Morticia less than two hours. Morticia managed to bribe the man responsible for looking after her mother's boat by claiming that she and her friends wanted to take a short trip across the North Atlantic during the break. Aleo’s body remained in the car’s trunk until they reached the harbor and after that... well, he’d likely end up in a crate so they could ship him across.
Some horribly modern song blared from the front speakers of the car Gomez was driving. Morticia sat beside him, her head resting on his shoulder as she painted her fingernails blood-red. Francoise and Isaac sat side-by-side in the back of Hester’s limousine, while you lay on the leather-upholstered seats opposite them. You stared up at the ceiling, hands resting on your stomach and eyes closed, listening to the siblings plan the route. The figures were ridiculously high, but that was simply the price you had to pay if you wanted to cross the Atlantic by boat.
A large map, which Gomez had swiped from the geography classroom before driving back to meet you, lay on Isaac’s lap, while Francoise held a small tin of pins in her slender hands. The painkillers were clouding your mind a bit, yet you had still managed to follow most of the route planning so far. If they drove straight through, it would take about a day and a half to reach Nova Scotia, but that was by far the easiest part of the journey. Things would only get difficult once you boarded the sailboat and cast off from the dock.
The Atlantic crossing would take between 40 and 60 days, though you leaned toward the 60-day estimate, given that none of you was an experienced sailor. You had been on ships before, but always as a passenger, never as captain. In any case, Night had strictly forbidden you from engaging in any strenuous activity, fearing your stitches might tear. You would likely be in charge of the binoculars. Gomez was dead set on playing the captain, and while Isaac didn't say it in so many words, you could hear the nervousness in his voice. Just a few weeks ago, he would barely set foot in the waters of the lake surrounding Nevermore, since even a little water in his mechanisms could kill him. Now, he was facing an ocean voyage— and not during the best season for it— that would take nearly two months. A single storm could mean his death.
"I’d schedule our final stop in Athens," you heard Isaac mutter. "It won't save us any time, but it cuts down on the sea travel. From there, we can cover the last leg by train or car."
Francoise grabbed another pin and stuck it into the map at Athens. “Sounds like a lovely vacation.”
Isaac immediately shook his head, letting out a sharp huff. He leaned his head back against the seat while his leg bounced tensely up and down. "It’s going to be anything but lovely, Francoise. Just think of the risks. You could transform. What do we do then? Push you overboard? Never.”
“You packed the sedatives, right? Nothing’s going to happen,” she tried to reassure her older brother, but he didn’t even look at her.
“You don’t know that. If a storm hits— just one— it could be the death of me. If things go to shit, it could mean death for all of you. Just imagine the boat capsizing and you ending up in the open ocean in the middle of the night. It wouldn’t just be hypothermia that killed you, but the rough seas would do it, too. You would drown, she would drown, and Gomez and Morticia wouldn’t be spared either.”
“Correction: I won’t drown,” you said, opening one eye so you could look at them from your reclining position. It was the first time you’d spoken in the last hour. “I’m not much of a swimmer, that much is true, but I won’t drown. Though I’d have to cross the ocean alone, swimming, and I’d have lost all of you. I would probably just impale myself then.”
Isaac ran his dominant hand through his hair as another deep sigh escaped his throat. “The whole thing is a terrible idea. We are heading straight toward our deaths, and no one but me seems to realize it.”
“There are still groups of sirens in the ocean, aren't there?” Fran suggested tentatively, shrugging her shoulders.
“Oh, you think Ariel the Little Mermaid is going to save us?” Sarcasm dripped from Isaac’s voice and his sister looked down at her lap in shame, trying to escape his critical gaze, while you carefully rolled onto your side to get a better look at both of them.
“Isaac, please.” His name fell gently from your lips, yet with a touch of emphasis. “There’s no guarantee that anything will happen. There’s also a chance we’ll all arrive in Europe safe and sound. It’s good that you’re worried, but I think you’re being a bit too pessimistic right now.”
“No, I think the two of you are being too optimistic,” he countered without hesitation, his eyes meeting yours. “We should have taken the plane. At least that wouldn’t have been a guarantee of death. This, however, is a guarantee, but apparently, you don’t want to understand that.”
Wincing with pain and feeling a sharp ache in your midsection, you sat up, your gaze locking with his fiery one. A look of concern crossed his face at your movement, but you raised an arm and tapped Gomez on the shoulder. He turned his head toward you inquiringly.
“Stop.” Your command was curt and serious.
“What? Why? We’re in the middle of the road!” Addams complained immediately, but Morticia pressed her knee against his to signal that he should do as you said.
“Pull over to the side, please,” you repeated firmly. He complied, steering to the shoulder and hitting the brakes. You pressed down the door handle and stepped out of the car, your boots sinking into the damp grass by the roadside. There was hardly any traffic, so stopping for five minutes shouldn't be a problem. “Come here, Isaac. We should talk.”
You heard him let out a deep sigh but didn't comment on it. Finally, he handed the map to Francoise and stepped out of the car, closing the door behind him. Gravel crunched under his shoes as he approached you. His height meant you had to look up at him and his deep, dark brown eyes were filled with nervousness, even though he likely wouldn't admit it. The Isaac you once knew wore his emotions openly, as if they were written right across his face. This Isaac was different. He bottled his emotions up, hiding them from the world and letting no one glimpse his inner self. Yet you saw right through him. You saw the fear in his eyes— fear he would never admit to feeling.
"You’re afraid." It wasn’t a question. You didn’t need to ask. It was a statement based on what was so clearly visible on his face, as if etched into his pale skin with ink and quill.
But instead of denying his fear, shaking his head, or blaming it on something else, he did something surprising: "Do you blame me? Of course I’m afraid. This boat could mean not just my death, but that of Francoise, Gomez, and Frump, too. Do you think I want that? And what about you? You’d be swallowed by the waves, dragged to the ocean floor, and likely stay there for ages! You’d be damned to drown over and over again, with no hope of rescue. I care, Princess. About you, my sister, about all of them."
Your expression softened, becoming as gentle as love itself, for the truth in his eyes undid you fully. You took a hesitant step toward him to see if he would pull away, but when he didn’t, you seized the moment. Slowly and with all the gentleness you could muster, you wrapped your arms around him and held him close. At first, he was as stiff as a tree. His hands remained motionless at his sides, while yours moved up and down his back. It wouldn’t change the situation, but perhaps it would give him the calm he needed to board that sailboat with you. Something deep inside told you that you would make it. The air smelled of neither rain nor storm. If you were lucky, the crossing would go smoothly.
His shoulders slumped, and suddenly he wrapped his arms around your waist, as if he had been waiting days— no, months— to do so. You could feel his lips against your neck as he buried his face in the crook of it, seeking your warmth, even though your body held none. The rough fabric of his coat chafed against your injured midsection, but thanks to the woolen sweater Fester had given you as a farewell gift and apology, you barely felt the friction. That might also have been due to the painkillers he had given you before the drive.
"Death isn't coming for us. Not yet. Something tells me we’re going to make it," you murmured against his curly hair. A shaky breath escaped him in response to your words, yet he didn't let go. Your eyes closed of their own accord, savoring the contact you had longed for every day, every minute, and every second.
"I want to believe you," he whispered, adding your name at the end as if it were something sacred. "But you aren't a Dove."
An idea made your eyes light up in an instant, and you quickly pulled away from him. Isaac’s eyes followed you in confusion, but when you rapped quickly on the passenger-side window, it dawned on him. There was a Dove in your group who could tell you exactly whether you would live or die if you undertook this venture. Morticia rolled down the window and looked at you both with a knowing gaze and a smile playing on her red lips. The sparkle in her eyes told you she had been watching you both like a hawk and had likely overheard most of your conversation.
"Yes, dear?" she asked, prompting you to simply roll your eyes, even though you loved her like a sister, while Isaac ran a hand over his face.
"Would you be so kind as to use your ability to look into the future and tell us whether we will live or die if we embark on this journey?" you asked with exaggerated politeness, flashing her your most charming smile. Why hadn't you thought of that sooner? You had a clairvoyant with you who could peer into the future at any time, yet it had slipped your mind. Then again, her powers relied on a delicate bond. It wasn't to be tainted or, under any circumstances, abused. Otherwise, the bond would shatter, and one’s strength and power would drain away. In some cases— especially if the individual possessed particularly potent power— it could even lead to death.
"It might take a little while, sweetheart, but for you two lovebirds, I’m happy to do it." Frump winked at you. Her boyfriend chuckled beside her, and suddenly, Isaac reached out from behind to take your hand. You looked back at him with wide eyes, but he offered no explanation. While Morticia closed her eyes and waited for a vision, Isaac pulled you back toward the edge of the woods.
You looked up at him, your eyes wide with questioning. He didn't let go of your hand. In fact, his thumb gently traced circles back and forth across the back of your hand. A question seemed to be weighing on his mind. "Yes? What is it, Isaac?"
"If I were to die—"
"You won't. None of us will—"
"No, please, listen to me now," he interrupted, placing two fingers of his other hand against your lips. It was the same tactic you had used on him in the bathroom when he was examining your wounds. He was certainly a quick learner. "It’s not a question of if. Be honest, what would you do?"
"If you died?" you asked, even though it was obvious. You blinked in confusion. Why would he want to know something like that? You didn't even want to consider the possibility of what might happen if he were taken from you again.
"Yes, what would you do then?" His eyes never left yours for a second and he didn't even blink. The fingers of his left hand were now resting on your jaw, making it hard for you to focus on an answer. He wouldn't like it anyway. After all, you didn't like it either, but you were going to tell the truth.
"I... I don't think I’d wait another five hundred years. Not because my feelings aren't strong enough, because they certainly are, but because I couldn't bear it a second time. I’ve found you again, and I won't let you be taken from me a second time. I forbid you to die, Isaac Night. Because if you go, I’m going with you this time."
The expression on his face was one you couldn't quite place. His lips were slightly parted, his eyes wide, and the sound of his heartbeat that was audible over the wind was faster than it had been just moments before. He blinked slowly, once, then a second time. His fingers traced slowly up the side of your face until they gently caught a strand of your hair and tucked it behind your ear. Heat crept up your neck and spread to your cheeks. Something he would likely notice.
A sudden idea prompted you to lean down and quickly pick up a thick stick, no longer than a forearm. You held it out to him with a smile, but he didn't take it immediately.
"Here, take it. Think of it as a sign of my unwavering trust in you. You’ll have plenty of time during this drive to sharpen the stick and turn it into a proper stake. If we do run into a storm out at sea, you have my permission to use it on me," you explained, offering him an affectionate smile. You would rather meet your end at his hands than at the mercy of the sea or someone like Stonehearst. No, you never wanted to see that man again. You hoped he had learned his lesson and wouldn't come looking for you. He let out a huff, yet his fingers still curled around the stick.
“That is the most macabre gift anyone has ever given me.”
A grin spread across your face as you walked past him back to the car door. Morticia seemed to be in a trance, and Gomez likely wouldn't drive any further while she was in such a delicate state. Of course, you didn't want to die. You loved life. You loved learning new things, watching the world change, and seeing how Outcast culture evolved across the eras. That stake was nothing more than a last resort, though you didn’t expect him to ever actually use it against you.
You yanked open the door to the rear seating area and waved at Francoise, who was dutifully still sitting in her seat. However, the state of the leather seat next to her revealed that she had just been crouching by the window like a spy, watching your every move. You couldn't blame her. You settled back into your seat, having two of them to yourself. Isaac had insisted you lie down to put less strain on the wound. Naturally, you hadn't wanted to argue with him, so you’d done as he said.
"Why did you give my brother a stick?" she giggled curiously, grabbing her seatbelt and quickly buckling up before her big brother got back in.
"It gives him something to keep him occupied," you lied with a grin, though it wasn't entirely a lie. Carving the wood would distract him, taking his mind off the ocean and focusing it solely on the task at hand. You had done the same thing yourself, back before you’d learned of his existence. Whenever you didn't know what to do with yourself, you would either drink wine until you passed out, work on your manuscripts, or paint. Sometimes you would go to the stables and ride out, or simply count the birds in the sky as they flew past the towers of your castle.
To your surprise, when Isaac rejoined you in the car, which didn't belong to any of you, he didn't sit next to Fran, but in the seat beside you. He tossed the future stake onto the leather upholstery next to Francoise at which she looked down at it as if it were a curiosity she didn't quite understand yet. The DaVinci reached for the seatbelt and fastened it tightly before suddenly patting his hand against his thigh. He looked at you. You stared back, not quite grasping what he wanted from you.
"I told you, lying down would be better for your wound than sitting stiffly the whole time. Lie down." He tapped his legs again. Francoise’s eyes darted from you to him and back to you. She, too, couldn't believe what her brother was offering you. She wasn't used to such casual intimacy from him. Actually, she found it a bit unsettling. What had you done to him to turn him into such a romantic all of a sudden? She wondered if the two of you had already kissed in secret or done even more... after all, you had spent quite a long time in that bathroom at Fester’s apartment.
"I don't necessarily have to lie down. I can sit, too! It’s all good," you said quickly, a lump forming in your throat. It would be almost as intimate as what had happened a few hours earlier, when you’d been allowed to taste his blood and he’d licked the traces from the corner of your mouth. The difference was that, back then, you had been alone behind a closed door. Here, his sister was sitting right across from you, and the happy couple wasn't far away in the driver’s and front passenger’s seats.
"Don't be silly," he scoffed, before making a swift movement with his right hand, and suddenly, your head landed right in his lap. A surprised squeak escaped you, yet you didn’t move an inch. His thighs were warm against your cheek, and the fingers stroking your hair made your undead heart beat faster. He was doing this on purpose. He had to be. You had no other explanation for why he suddenly wanted to be so close to you, even though you weren't alone. "Get comfortable, dove."
Even though Fran was watching you and his new nickname for you made your cheeks flush, you nuzzled your cheek against the fabric of his black trousers. You curled your legs slightly, as if settling into the fetal position, and tucked your arms beneath his knees. Your eyes closed, and you couldn't help but hum, since the moment made you feel so peaceful. It was as if there were no problems, no ocean to cross, no destination, no world around you. As if there were only the two of you and the pleasant autumn wind brushing against the tinted windows.
"Speaking of Dove," you heard Morticia say from the front. You felt Isaac’s upper body turn slightly to look at the dark-haired girl, yet his fingers worked a stray lock of hair back into place, and he made no move to banish you from his lap. In fact, the position was incredibly cozy and you were certain you could easily fall asleep right there. "My vision showed me a sunny sky, a calm, clear sea, a very happy vampire princess, and a bridge leading to a castle. I take that to mean we won't go down. Just as I thought. You see, Night? Your worry was for nothing."
"Let's hope so," he grumbled, prompting you to snuggle even closer to him, which immediately drew his attention back to you. His finger wound a strand of your hair around itself over and over before he leaned his head against the backrest and closed his eyes. He simply had to trust your gut feeling and Morticia’s vision. Everything would turn out fine. Even if the odds didn't look good.
"Scurch!" Morticia cried out joyfully, flinging open the car door and running toward the pale-looking butler. Given that he looked exactly like the Frump family’s other butler, you assumed he had to be his twin brother. The girl threw her arms around him, but the man who looked more like a zombie than a human merely grunted softly and turned toward the sailboat, which was still moored to the dock by ropes. Seagulls squawked noisily as they flew overhead. Normies strolled along the harbor; some wore sun hats and shorts, while others already had thick jackets wrapped around their shoulders. Not far away, a man in a sailor suit was selling ice cream. The stand was naturally being swarmed by seagulls hoping to snatch a cone.
"I have a bad feeling about this," sighed Isaac, glaring at the sailboat as if it were a personal insult. It was larger than he had expected, featuring a tall mast with white sails, a spacious deck with brown cedar planking, a ship's wheel straight out of a pirate story, and a door leading to the level below. At the stern, there was an emergency motor just in case a sail tore or the sea grew too rough.
"How about you stop sulking and help us carry these crates below deck instead?" Francoise retorted, playfully jabbing her elbow into his stomach. The blow made him cough as the air was forced from his lungs.
"What’s even in them?" he asked, using his telekinetic powers to levitate one of the heavy crates through the air toward the lower deck. After parking the car and walking along the dock, you had immediately spotted a wall of crates standing next to Scurch, who looked exactly like the butler who was always hovering around Hester. Isaac had seen the old hag only once, but that had been enough to last a lifetime. She was surly, eccentric, unfriendly, and selfish. He could tell just by the way she strutted through Nevermore as if she owned the place; chin always held high, lips twisted into a grimace as though repulsed by the students' friendly faces.
"Food and drink to keep us alive for the next two months, plus a supply of spare clothes and hygiene products so no diseases break out on board," Morticia replied, leaning against the other butler. He was someone she had probably known since childhood. "I didn't even have to order him to do it. He took care of it all on his own. Do we need anything else?"
Morticia glanced around at the group, which consisted only of Isaac, herself, Gomez, and Francoise. Gomez chuckled softly and leaned toward his girlfriend’s ear to whisper something. Isaac watched as a rosy flush slowly spread across her ghostly pale cheeks. Whatever he had said to her was meant for her ears alone.
"Why, what a lovely idea, darling. Why don’t you go and get some?" she replied with a charming smile. Gomez sighed, looking utterly besotted, before walking past Isaac and strutting down the wooden pier. Isaac raised an eyebrow at Frump, but she merely shrugged and grabbed one of the crates that still needed to be stowed away. At that exact moment, you poked your head out the doorway leading into the sailboat’s interior. A smile graced your lips, and a few strands of hair fell across your face.
Isaac had to fight the urge to gently brush them back so they wouldn’t bother you. Your eyes held a sparkle he hadn’t seen since before Aleo’s death, and you wiped your hands on the fabric of your shorts— the very same pair you’d been given back at the apartment. He still felt they didn’t quite suit you, even though he didn’t mind seeing so much of your bare legs. He wondered if the skin there would be as soft as your stomach, whose skin he’d been allowed to touch just hours earlier. That reminded him that he should probably give you some more pain medication soon.
“Aleo is safely stowed away and hidden below deck. We have a cabin serving as the master bedroom with a large bed and plenty of space. There’s another hammock hanging right next to a small window, amidst all the crates, so whoever wants to look outside at night can stay there. Right next to Aleo, there’s a small fold-out bed where someone can sleep, too. And we have one more hammock that can be hung up out here.”
You walked a few steps across the deck and pointed toward the mast and sail. “We’d have to get a bit creative, but we could hang one up here. Otherwise, we’ll have to put the hammock on the floor and get some pillows and a blanket.”
“Who’s sleeping where?” Fran asked the group tentatively. Gomez wasn’t around to weigh in, of course, but it was obvious which room he and his beloved Tish would prefer.
“Well, Gomez and I would take the bedroom,” Morticia suggested. Isaac wasn’t particularly surprised. He crossed his arms over his chest and let his gaze drift skyward. A few seagulls were circling the boat. They could smell the food, or the corpse, or perhaps all the perfume and sachets you’d packed into the crate alongside him. Even though you’d assured everyone that vampiric corpses didn’t decompose, you’d wanted to play it safe anyway. According to you, his body would eventually just crumble into dust. So, what was the point of bringing him along? He was just taking up valuable space.
“Isaac, you’d be best off sleeping below deck,” his little sister advised, pointing toward his chest. He wished he hadn’t already packed your “emergency stake” into a crate, because otherwise, he could have stabbed himself with it right then and there. The prospect certainly appealed to him now.
“I shall take the hammock down by the window,” he muttered under his breath, though still loudly enough for the others to hear. He had no experience with hammocks, boats, or the ocean. It was a fact that, for probably the tenth time that day, made a single thought shoot through his mind: he had a really bad feeling about this odyssey.
“I think I should better sleep out here.” Your voice made Isaac’s head snap toward you, one eyebrow raised in question. Before he could ask for an explanation, however, you offered it yourself: “It will probably get very cold at night, and I’m already dead. Vampires don’t mind the cold. We feel it, but it can’t hurt us. Waves or water won’t do anything to me, either. I’ll sleep out here. That means, Francoise, you have to—”
“Sleep next to Aleo… yeah, I know,” she finished the sentence for you. The older of the two Night siblings didn’t like the idea of her sleeping so close to Cervantes’s corpse, but there wasn’t really an alternative. He just didn’t want the memory of his murder to trigger her Hyde. If Fran transformed while on the boat in the middle of the ocean, there wasn’t much you two could do. He hated the thought of sedating his sister as if she were insane, but in an emergency, the drugs would help. She just couldn’t take too many. He would keep a close eye on that.
You took a slow step toward her and carefully reached out your hand. When she didn’t pull away, he watched as your hand settled gently on her shoulder. Your fingers gave a soft squeeze, and his sister smiled gently in response. His mechanical heart slowed a little as a sense of calm washed over him. You would look out for her, too. You two were friends, even after everything that had happened. He would almost consider it a miracle, if he didn’t know that miracles didn’t exist. But then again, he hadn’t always believed in reincarnation either, and now he was presumably the only living proof of it. So, what was there left to believe in these days?
A thought suddenly struck him, making him roll his eyes, and he turned toward Fran, who was just about to scurry below deck like a swift spider. “Morticia, now that we’re all stuck together like this, I certainly hope you and Gomez will keep it down at night, right?”
“For the next two months? Oh, you really don’t know us at all,” she replied with a smirk that made his blood boil. Not only would he be in constant mortal danger for the foreseeable future, but he’d also be sleep-deprived if Gomez and Morticia were fucking night after night.
“You can’t be serious,” he said, but Morticia merely shook her head and promptly vanished down the small set of stairs into the shadows that led inside her terrible mother’s sailboat.
“And you two aren’t going to say anything?” he asked, turning to you and Fran, who were still standing side by side, having listened to the exchange with amusement. When no answer came, he just scoffed, expelling all the air he’d been holding in his lungs. “If I jump off the boat myself in a few weeks, you’ll know why.”
Gomez returned ten minutes later carrying a white bag, its contents unidentifiable to you. However, judging by what Isaac had said and what Morticia had hinted at, Addams had most likely stocked up on enough condoms to last the next two months at sea. You chuckled softly to yourself and shook your head. You knew this behavior all too well. You and Isaac had been exactly the same way back then. Every day, every night, in bed, on the sofa, against the wall, in the garden, everywhere. That had been five hundred years ago, though, and you were now more than ready to become a nun, given that your sexual needs had gone unsatisfied for that entire span of time. After all, the love of your life hadn't been there to fulfill them.
Every crate was stowed below deck, Gomez was back, and you had everything needed for survival, which Scurch seemed to realize as well. The Frump family’s second butler grabbed the ropes securing the boat to the dock amidst the others and cast them off. Morticia waved to him, calling out a warning not to tell her mother anything. Francoise leaned against the railing, wide-eyed as the boat’s hull cut through the water, and Isaac was nowhere to be found on deck. Limping slightly, one hand pressed against your aching midsection— you were in dire need of another dose of the medicine Night had given you hours earlier— you made your way to the bow. The wind caught your hair and made your eyes water. It had been so long since you were last on a ship.
The last time was nearly a century ago on a vessel far larger than this one and it had nearly sunk. You didn't believe in God anymore, yet for the first time in ages, your gaze drifted upward to the sky, and you found yourself thinking: Please, God, please let us make it through this. I haven’t asked you for anything in years, but I beg this one thing of you. Let us survive this.
A soft melody drifting from the portable radio was carried across the deck by the wind as you made your way below. It hab been Francoise’s idea to bring it for warding off boredom. The other three were up by the helm, which Gomez was steering dramatically, as if he were the captain of a 17th-century ship sailing for home. It was dark below deck. A little daylight streamed through the three round portholes spaced along the wooden walls, but otherwise, it was dim. While laughter, music, and birdsong lightened the mood above, down here it was as quiet as a graveyard. Your shoes made soft sounds against the wooden floorboards as you walked, your eyes searching the darkness for the object of your desire.
The sound of a knife scraping against wood brought a small grin to your face. You found Isaac Night lying in his black hammock, which swayed gently from side to side with the motion of the waves. His coat and boots lay on the floor beneath him. He was dressed only in his cozy wool sweater and trousers. His curls framed his face, and a look of concentration was set upon his features. He looked strikingly beautiful like this, relaxed and calm.
"Sharpening your weapon, I see?" you said softly. He didn't startle when your voice suddenly emerged from the darkness beside him, which meant he must have heard you coming. You had thought you were being quiet enough, but apparently, nothing escaped Isaac’s notice.
"More like passing the time until evening," he replied. He wasn't holding the stick you’d picked up from the roadside between his slender fingers. Instead, it hovered in the air before him, while the knife also moved up and down as if by magic. His right hand was raised lazily, and only his index finger moved slowly up and down in sync with the knife.
"But wouldn't it be smarter to sleep now, while Morticia and Gomez are still up on deck? You could get some rest now and you will have to take the helm later anyway, while Tish and he... well, you know, spend the night together?" Your suggestion was gentle and sincere. Of course, you would be up on deck with him later, too, so if he did fall asleep, you would take over the task for him.
"Then again, perhaps I’d like to spend the night with someone, too?" The words escaped him without a hint of shame, and he cast a lingering sideways glance at you that made you swallow hard. Did he mean...? No, he wouldn't initiate something like that right now. Or would he? Was he shameless enough to hint that he might give his heart to you tonight? You could hardly believe it. No, he probably meant something completely harmless instead.
"Oh, do you want to watch them in the act?" you replied with a playful grin, which spread across your whole face and lit up your features. It felt good to joke with him and see him being so open with you. You could still clearly remember a time not so long ago, when he had pushed you away time and time again and, presumably, hated you. Now, however, here you were.
“Don’t even joke about that, dear princess. Even though I’m sure it would be incredibly exciting, I’d rather spend my evening in peace and quiet,” he said, as the stick dropped onto the fabric of the hammock beside him. He folded the knife shut and slipped it into his right trouser pocket. Where he’d gotten it, why he carried a knife, and how long he’d had it were, frankly, a mystery to you. In fact, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him with a knife before. A Da Vinci’s abilities were weapon enough in your opinion.
His dark, chocolate-brown eyes roamed over your figure for a moment before he propped himself up slightly on his elbows to get a better look at you. Isaac tilted his head, causing a ringlet of hair to fall right over his left eye. He tried to blow it away in annoyance, but it immediately fell back into place, continuing to bother him and partially block his view. He looked absolutely mouthwatering right now.
“Why did you come here? I thought you might prefer the view of the vast horizon,” Night asked with a hint of curiosity in his velvety voice that held a slight, raspy edge.
“I have spent many nights staring out at the horizon, but back then, I had a reason to. Why should I do it now, when the horizon is so close that I only need to reach out my hand and touch him? If I am looking at him right now with my own eyes?”
The corner of his mouth twitched upward at your words, and he shook his head. Yet, there was nothing annoyed or angry in the gesture. Quite the opposite, he actually seemed amused. Had it not been so dark, you might have glimpsed the flush of red spreading across his pale cheeks. “You’re a hopeless romantic.”
“I have succumbed to the longing for love, certainly, but tell me... is my yearning truly hopeless?”
His eyes met yours, and in that instant, you felt the bond between you pull even tighter than before. It felt like pulling the wrong end of a ribbon: instead of it coming undone, it cinched into a knot, firm and nearly impossible to untie. Your throat tightened at the dark expression in his eyes, which usually held a speck of golden honey at their center. Now they seemed almost black, even though daylight still streamed through the small, round windows.
“I don’t think so,” he answered you, making a movement with his right hand that drew you a few centimeters closer to the hammock. Heat rushed to your cheeks, causing your pupils to dilate and your mouth to go dry. Your fingers gripped the edge of his bed— a movement he watched intently. The rhythmic ticking of his clockwork heart suddenly seemed deafeningly loud in the shrinking space between you. Though this Isaac and your Isaac were fundamentally different yet the same, this one possessed a talent you had never anticipated. Your late lover had certainly been charming, but the man whose eyes you were now gazing into made your blood boil, awakening a desire to surrender yourself completely, to give him your life, and at the same time to cut out your own heart so you might offer it to him as proof of your undying love.
"So, do you think there’s still a chance I might find myself back in my lover’s arms? That I’ll feel his lips caressing mine? That it won’t just be loneliness and the chill of the coming winter haunting my home?" You whispered the words with a sense of hope you hadn't felt in a long time. You remembered Versailles and the hope you’d held that you would find Isaac there. In the end, you had been disappointed. Would you be disappointed this time, too?
"That chance grows with every moment you spend in my presence," he replied, and your heart leapt in your chest as the dark brown of his eyes settled on your lips.
You blinked, shaken from your trance as his hand unexpectedly moved to his trouser pocket and fished out a small box of pills. He held it out to you as if you had told him from the start that you’d come to him because of your pain, even though you hadn't said a word about it.
"Come on, don't look at me like that. I heard you limping the moment you came down here. You’d best take two. That should see you through the night," he advised honestly, extending the box further toward you as if it were the answer to all your problems— admittedly, right then it was the answer to some of your problems, though certainly not all of them.
You carefully took the package and slid out the plastic blister pack containing the individually embedded pills. Slowly, you pressed two of them out and balanced them on your palm while neatly closing the package again. The two pills were about the size of peas, so you likely wouldn't have any trouble swallowing them whole. In truth, you hadn't quite warmed up to the idea of pills yet. You came from a time when such things didn't exist and when you either swallowed medicinal herbs or simply had to endure the pain. But since they seemed to help, you didn't want to refuse them.
You were just about to raise them to your mouth when, out of the corner of your eye, you saw Isaac extending his left arm toward you. His sleeve was already rolled up, and the blue-purple veins beneath his pale skin stood out temptingly. "In case you need something to drink."
A slow blink was followed by an honest smile that spread across your face like sunshine, before you placed the pills in the center of your tongue and swallowed them down in one go. You could feel them sliding down your esophagus, hoping they would soon take effect in your stomach. "Perhaps later? I certainly wouldn't say no to a midnight snack."
He just smirked back, prompting you to playfully raise your eyebrows only to lower them again the very next second. You turned and disappeared toward the back of the boat to rummage through the crates for something useful. Night remained in his hammock. Yet, while his right hand reached for his pocketknife again, his left hand brushed over the front of his trousers, hoping to conceal what was actually glaringly obvious— he was hard.
The day's final rays of sunlight illuminated the deck as the sun slowly slipped beneath the seemingly endless horizon, making way for its companion, the moon. A melody now drifted from the stern of the sailing ship, sung by a highly charismatic female voice that pleaded, over and over, for someone to call her any day and night. You found yourself swaying your shoulders and tapping your foot to the rhythm of the tune. At times, you even hummed along while trying to memorize the lyrics. Before this song, a male voice on the radio had announced that the weather forecast was surprisingly good for the season, with neither rain nor storms expected anytime soon.
"Call me, my love, call me, call me any, anytime," you sang softly along as you watched the sun go down. The sun’s lower edge kissed the mirror-like surface of the blue ocean, and for a moment, it looked as though the entire sea were bathed in liquid gold. You gazed at nature’s beauty with sparkling eyes until, after a few seconds, the sun vanished and the deep blue of the twilight sky mirrored the blue of the sea.
You rested your elbows on the railing and sighed softly as a new song began to play on the radio. In the background, you could hear Francoise moving quietly across the deck, lighting the scattered lamps placed here and there on the floorboards. One hung from the mast while another stood beside the helm; yet for Gomez, the view of the ocean mattered less than the view of Morticia, who was reading a book while leaning against the woodwork, a sun hat pulled low over her pale face. It all seemed like a vacation to them— though you suspected they had certainly earned it. Nevermore’s curriculum was demanding: Morticia was taking a fencing class on the side, Isaac was busy with his own experiments and the Nevermore Science Club, Francoise was trying her hand at dancing, and Gomez… was Gomez. You, so far, had shown little interest in joining a club that was meant to be nothing more than a hobby. Your mind was already occupied, you had no time for another hobby, and in all likelihood, you would never return to Nevermore anyway. Not after everything that had happened over the course of that single school year.
"Do you need help hanging up your hammock?" Fran asked kindly, holding the white fabric in her arms as if cradling an infant against her chest.
You gave her a grateful smile and nodded gently. "That would be very kind of you, thanks."
You spent the next ten minutes rigging up the sheet, wrapping one end around the railing and securing the other to the ship’s mast. You climbed in to test it and while it wasn't exactly the most comfortable setup, it held your weight. Francoise took a turn next, and even after rolling around a few times, she didn't manage to undo the knots you’d tied. But then, something unexpected happened. She tapped you on the shoulder and said, "You're it."
You didn't understand at first until she suddenly sprinted away as if struck by lightning. The boat wasn't very big, and she looked back at you with a grin. That was when it clicked. A smile spread across your face, too, and you took off running. She managed to dodge you at first and circled the mast, but you cut across to the other side, forcing her to scramble up the three-step staircase toward the stern. You leapt up the three steps on the other side in a single bound. You nearly lost your balance but managed to steady yourself at the last moment. Gomez gasped in surprise and instinctively pressed himself against the helm, while Morticia looked up over the edge of her book, her eyes wide and the corners of her red mouth curling into an amused smile. It was the first day at sea, and you had already lost your minds.
Francoise tried to turn around, but you had already grabbed her arm. She laughed and high-fived you. Still grinning broadly— though slightly out of breath— you jumped back down the steps, trying to escape the Hyde girl who was now chasing you. Your plan had been to run forward, outmaneuver her, and then disappear into the hold below. However, it didn't come to that. Morticia came running toward you from the other side, and both girls tackled you to the ground at once.
The three of you lay laughing in a heap on the wooden floorboards, but even the creaking couldn't drown out your laughter. Nearby, Gomez clapped his hands to cheer on his beloved, and Isaac poked his head out of the shadow-shrouded corridor, looking visibly confused.
He looked concerned. You laughed the loudest.
Silence wrapped around you like a warm blanket as you sat alone on the deck of the Eulalie, which was now the name of the boat you had chosen together, inspired by one of Edgar Allan Poe’s famous poems. The deck beneath your bare legs was cool, though not unpleasantly so. The hammock swayed gently behind you in the light breeze, while candlelight made shadows dance across your surroundings and the soft flickering felt like a melody you were all too happy to listen to. Resting your chin on your knee, you gazed up at the sky. It had long been no secret that you were captivated by the stars.
What you couldn't see were the two faces watching you from the companionway leading to the lower deck. Gomez Addams and Isaac Night were hiding in the shadows, though only one of them had a clear plan. Gomez had found a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses in the small refrigerator in his and Morticia’s bedroom. He had already uncorked the bottle and was now quietly pouring the wine into both glasses. A sweet aroma drifted on the wind across the length of the sailboat, causing Isaac to wrinkle his nose.
"I don't usually drink alcohol, and you know that," he whispered to his best friend, who merely rolled his eyes and pressed the two filled glasses into Isaac's hands.
"You can allow yourself one evening, can't you, amigo? It’ll help you loosen up, and that’ll make your plan a whole lot easier. Trust me," he replied, draping a cherry-red blanket over Isaac's arm as well. When Isaac looked at him with a questioning, raised eyebrow, he simply groaned. “The wine will loosen things up, and you can drape the blanket over her shoulders to keep her warm.”
“She’s a vampire, you moron,” Night hissed, but Gomez responded by zapping him with a small, harmless electric shock from his finger, making him flinch. He shot his roommate a dark look, which the other countered with a slight grin.
“Trust me, she’ll love it. Wine, a blanket, candlelight, some alone time, and nothing but the stars above as your witnesses. Sounds terribly romantic, doesn’t it?” Addams teased. Isaac felt the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose— a difficult feat, given that he was holding two glasses and balancing a blanket on his left arm.
“It sounds like something out of a cheesy romance novel,” he complained, prompting a chuckle from the other boy.
“That’s exactly how it’s supposed to feel!” He gave Isaac a pat on the back, causing the wine in the glasses to slosh dangerously close to the rim at which Isaac’s eyes widened in silent panic. Before he could move toward you, he felt Addams slip something into his trouser pocket. But before he could ask what it was, Addams gave him a push in your direction. “You’re going to need this. Go on. Get your girl.”
Isaac took a deep breath to steady his nerves as his heart was racing, before slowly approaching you. He was dressed casually in just socks, comfortable trousers, and a white T-shirt that was a size too big. His hair was uncombed, falling messily across his forehead. You, too, were dressed in comfortable loungewear. You were sitting barefoot on the floor in front of your makeshift bed, wearing a simple white nightgown that fell just above your knees, gazing up at the sky. Your hair hung loose, allowing the breeze to play gently with the strands— something he, too, longed to do.
He cleared his throat a short distance behind you, causing your head to whip around toward him with owl-like speed. The look of surprise on your face softened instantly, however, when you saw he had brought gifts. The candle that was encased in glass with wax steadily trickling down the side cast a golden glow across his profile that made your palms grow sweaty.
"You’ve been sitting here alone for quite a while," he began, though he mentally kicked himself for his poor choice of words. He should have started with something more romantic or seductive. Stupid.
"I’m enjoying the quiet and the atmosphere," you told him with a smile, a remark that gave him a lump in his throat. Though you certainly weren't one, you looked angelic in the soft light of the night.
"Do I have your permission to enjoy it with you?"
You nodded, and Isaac moved to your side, careful not to spill the wine. He handed you the glasses before sitting down on the floor next to you and turning his gaze toward the sky. His lips parted slightly and he stared bewildered, seeing for the first time that evening just how incredibly clear the night sky over the ocean was. A thousand tiny stars were scattered across the darkness like freckles, their reflections shimmering on the surface of the water through which your boat was gliding. After a few moments, he composed himself and took the blanket from his arm, gently draping it around your shoulders.
"You could use that more than I could, Isaac. I’m already dead," you reminded him with a smile, though the gesture deeply touched you. Neither heat nor cold could harm you, even though you could still feel them. You were far more accustomed to the cold than to the summer heat, given that your castle lay in the heart of the Carpathians, where endless winter snows would wrap the world in a blanket of white. Such winters were beautiful in your homeland. Back then, you hadn't been able to share that beauty with Isaac, but now— if fate was kind— you would be arriving in Transylvania just as winter set in.
"Here, look, this works too," he said, wrapping an arm around your back; using his telekinesis, he guided the right side of the blanket over his own shoulders so that you were sharing it.
"The wine was Gomez’s idea, wasn’t it? I heard him whispering earlier," you asked with a knowing glint in your eyes. He could lie now, but what would be the point?
"Yes, he gave it to me. I don’t usually drink alcohol because my father... he was fond of the bottle. It was never a pleasant situation for us." His admission was quiet but honest. He no longer had any reason to hide parts of his past from you, given how openly you had shared yours with him, allowing him glimpses of it, even though it stretched back hundreds of years. It wasn't just time and experience that lay between you, but a history he barely knew. You knew every word, every second, every tiny anecdote. He knew your face. He wanted more.
"We don't have to drink if you don't want to. I- I was actually addicted at one point."
Isaac blinked in surprise, but before he could reply, you continued: "There was a point when I was so lonely and simply didn't know what to do with my time, so I started drowning it. I drank day and night. The wine was mixed with blood, which was Aleo’s idea. He’d brought it back from Italy. I was repulsive back then, disgusting. The worst part is, it wasn't even that long ago. It wasn't until I found out you were back that I became myself again. I didn't want to numb myself anymore. I wanted to feel. I yearned for every single emotion be it joy, longing, or pain. I was so incredibly happy to learn you had returned."
The boy beside you instinctively leaned closer and made a small movement with his ring finger to wrap the blanket tighter around your shoulders. This time, however, it wasn't to ward off the cold, but the sorrow that so often plagued you. He had never taken the time to consider what it must have been like for you all those years. There had been a time when a single year felt like an eternity to him. He could hardly imagine what five hundred must have felt like. After all, you could never have known for certain if he would ever actually come back. "And then you came to the Nevermore to be reunited with your lover... and I didn’t recognize you," he concluded, a deep sigh escaping him. Had he been in your shoes, he would have grabbed you by the shoulders at that first meeting and demanded that you remember. You had done nothing of the sort. You had waited. You never forced yourself on him. There could be no greater proof of your love for him.
"It's all right," you whispered softly. "I mean, we are here now. I'd say the situation has changed a bit. I mean, you're bringing me wine and a blanket. You got on this boat. You tended to my injuries when Fester did it wrong."
A silence settled between you for a few moments, but it was one that was anything but uncomfortable. Slowly, you rested your head on his shoulder and he stroked your arm up and down. His gaze drifted slowly back up to the expanse of the sky. "Why the stars?"
"Hm?" you asked softly, confused by the sudden change of subject.
"I’ve been watching you. You’ve been sitting here for two hours, staring at the sky as if it could give you answers. Sometimes, at night, I have seen you alone from the window of my tower, wandering into the woods. You spent hours out there. What is so special about them?" His voice was barely a whisper, yet filled with such curiosity that the thought of lying didn't even cross your mind.
"I’ve always loved them. Even when I was just a young girl. I used to spend my nights staring out the window of my chambers, counting the constellations. I even liked to invent my own. It was known throughout the court that I was obsessed with the night sky. That’s why a certain young lord I met piqued my interest. He built me a telescope. It was the first gift he ever gave me, and of them all, it was probably the one I loved the most." A melancholic smile played at the corners of your mouth as you recounted this old story. It had been so long, yet you could remember that summer day as if it were yesterday. The look on his face when you stepped through the swaying willow leaves, curious as a newborn fawn… you’d never forget it.
You set the two glasses of wine on the ground in front of you before reaching a hand up toward the crescent moon, which had taken the sun's place. Your fingers danced as you traced the invisible lines from star to star. Isaac’s eyes followed your fingers, captivated. He simply watched for a few seconds before gently enclosing your digits within his own. You looked at him with surprise, and he offered you a smile that was neither playful nor unkind, but honest and tender.
Your fingers carefully interlaced with his, and you gave his hand a small squeeze, just to test whether you were dreaming this moment. For a fleeting second, you had feared you might have fallen asleep while stargazing, but the sensation of his lukewarm fingers against your cold ones proved otherwise.
"At least I was able to give you the stars back then," he whispered, his warm breath brushing against your face. "Right now, there is nothing I could give you."
"Yes, there is," you said without hesitation. "There is something."
"Tell me," he urged gently. He lowered your joined hands slightly, holding them between your bodies.
Instead of answering with words, you slowly moved your free hand toward him. His chocolate-brown gaze followed the movement intently, his breath hitching as your fingers came to rest on his chest, right over the spot where his clockwork heart was embedded in his flesh. Even though a thin layer of white fabric lay between your fingers and that delicate mechanism, no one else had ever come this close to his heart. He wouldn't have let anyone else.
"You can give me your heart. Just as I would give you mine." You released his hand and guided it to your own chest instead, pressing his palm ever so lightly against your heart. Even though you were undead, he could still feel a heartbeat beneath your ribs.
"It’s yours," your voice was barely more than a breath. "It has always been yours."
Logic no longer mattered to Isaac. His brilliant mind refused to cooperate, and his non-existent heart took the reins. So, he did the only right thing that came to mind in that moment: he kissed you.
For a moment, everything around you fell silent. You couldn't move, you couldn't breathe, you couldn't think. It had taken five hundred years— half a millennium— that had nearly driven you mad, and now here you were, aboard a small ship in the middle of the ocean, and Isaac was kissing you as if not a single day had passed. As if you were still sitting in the grass beneath the Willow Tree, sheltered by the darkness with only the stars as your witnesses. Two of those things held true, except that you were now in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, with waves instead of trees as your backdrop.
Your eyes closed, and your hands found the fabric of his shirt, holding it gently between your fingers. The kiss was nothing but gentleness and tenderness, which you returned with the slow movements of your mouth against his. Eventually, it was Isaac who pressed his lips more firmly against yours, as if silently asking for permission. You parted your lips for him and let his tongue slip inside. Its tip met yours with an air of inexperience. Even though you had a bit more experience, after all, you still remembered all the evenings you had shared, that had been an eternity ago, and you, too, had to relearn intimacy. His cool hands found your cheeks, cupping them as lovingly as if you were a precious vase rather than the girl he loved.
A thin thread of saliva still connected your mouth to his when, after a few seconds, he finally leaned back, breathing heavily. His hands didn't move an inch from your face, and his dark eyes searched every inch of your features for a sign that what he had just done was welcome. His breath came in quick gasps, and his eyes darted about as you simply looked at him. He wanted words. He needed confirmation, validation, something.
"Took you long enough," you finally whispered, prompting a wolfish grin to break out across his handsome face. His cheeks and nose were slightly flushed from the night air and, likely, from the emotions stirring within his clockwork heart.
His lips met yours again. Then again, again and again. "I’ve wanted to do that since the moment you first walked into Iago Tower. Since you challenged me in class. Fucking hell… maybe even from the first time I saw you sitting at that table in the courtyard. In your pretty coat with your two stupid suitcases... fuck, I’ve wanted you."
Your hands wandered into his hair as he sought out your mouth again after every word. His curls were as soft as you remembered, and you couldn't help but wind them around your fingers as he slowly pressed you down onto the floor, hovering over you. His brown eyes met yours, and the tip of his nose brushed gently against your own. Your left elbow nudged one of the wine glasses slightly aside, yet you had no fear of it tipping over. In that very moment, you were afraid of absolutely nothing in the world.
"Do you have any idea just how completely you’ve wrapped me around your finger?" You shook your head, and he lowered his face to find a home against your neck, promptly sinking his teeth into your delicate skin. "You must be an enchantress... for ever since you came into my life, I dream of nothing but you. I close my eyes, and even in my dreams you haunt me— bewitching and seducing me— and I wake in the morning with the shame of that dream clinging to my thighs."
A sharp moan escaped you as Isaac actually sank his teeth into the spot where your neck met your shoulder. His tongue flicked out instantly to soothe any pain he might have caused, before he leaned back in and sucked hard on your reddened skin. Your fingers tugged at his hair, a move he answered with a deep grunt. Your mind was far from clear or sharp, yet you didn't need to be a genius to feel the growing erection pressing against your hip. Your gaze caught the crescent moon above you, and you couldn't help but smile.
“Even Gomez noticed, you know? He isn’t even there most nights, but whenever he was, he had to confess to me in the morning how I’d supposedly writhed and moaned like a damsel in distress. All. Your. Fault.” His hand curled around your throat, and you could swear you had never felt as hot as you did in that moment in time.
“Tell me I haunted you, too. That you dreamed of this as well.” Isaac leaned up to meet your gaze, and what you saw stole your breath away. His lips were slightly swollen from the kisses, his look manic.
“I…” It took a moment for you to find your voice again. “I didn’t need to dream about it. I’d already lived it.”
A huff left him, his thumb moving back and forth over your Adam’s apple before he pressed just a little harder. Your hips instinctively bucked up against his, which he rewarded with a moan of his own. “I knew it. Those little moments I keep seeing whenever you got too close to me, they were probably the same thing as those dreams: memories. You were sending me memories.”
“I did no such thing,” you replied honestly, while skillfully winding one leg around his hip like a snake to pull him even closer. “You can blame fate for it.”
“I think it’s right beneath me, looking up at me with big, beautiful eyes,” he murmured before planting another trail of kisses along your jawline, the sensations making your eyes roll back and stole the breath from your lungs. “So I thank you. Thank you, my love. Thank you for tormenting me so.”
“Isaac!” You gasped his name, your fingers sinking into his scalp and the heel of your foot pressing harder against his lower back.
He quickly pressed his mouth against yours again to stifle the sweet sounds escaping you because of his touch. Even though he would love to hear them over and over again he worried you might get too loud. The same went for him. He was already hard and you were both still fully clothed. Where was this leading?
“Shhh, Princess. As much as I want to hear you and as much as I want to shout my own approval, I don’t want the wrong ears to hear.”
“Oh, I doubt Gomez and Morticia would mind. I’m sure they’re probably having a lot of fun right now and… and...”
His fingers, slowly wandering from your neck down across your collarbone, threw you off track, and you lost the thread of what you were about to say. He was so gentle in every touch that the mere sensation was incredibly erotic to you. It took no force, no roughness, to make your back arch for him like a cat and your sweet song reach his ears like a siren’s call. His thumb slid just far enough beneath the fabric of your nightgown for his thumbnail to graze your skin, eliciting a whimper from your throat.
“I’m not worried about them right now. They wouldn’t hear it anyway, over the sounds of their own animalistic trysts. I just don’t want my sister finding out about our nocturnal activities.” His voice was even softer than his touch as he whispered into your ear, his thumb still toying with the fabric of the only garment covering your body. "Can you do that? Can you be quiet for me?"
"I’ll do my best. But will you be able to?" you replied playfully, fluttering your eyelashes, the gesture making him lick his lips.
"What do I get from you if I manage it?" Night asked in return, burying his nose in your hair, which smelled of sea salt and a hint of flowers. He found himself wondering what your favorite flowers might be.
"I’ve already given you my heart, so only my body is left," you answered with a grin. "Do you accept?"
"Only a fool would say no to that. Of course I accept," he murmured back before slowly moving downward, pressing his cheek gently against the softness of your breast. Your skin was as soft as flower petals. His own fingers were rough from working on machines and tinkering with small parts to bring his creations to life.
He slid one arm beneath your hips to pull you even closer, even though you offered him no physical warmth. Something deep within him cried out for closeness, for union. He wanted you so close that you would merge with him, your bodies becoming one. Every fiber of his being craved you, wanted you.
He spoke your name with such reverence that a shiver ran down your spine and goosebumps rose on your shoulders. "I need you. May I have you? Please?"
Even before he had finished his request, you were already nodding encouragingly. Candles flickered around you; the wine in the glasses sat untouched and forgotten, while the warm blanket lay half beneath you on the floor and the rest beside you. The swell of the waves was calm and steady, the sky clear and cloudless. It was as if this night belonged solely to the two of you.
"Please," you whispered. "I want you too, Isaac. I always have. I always will. I... I love you."
He blinked in surprise and his lips parted, before he nodded. Isaac licked his lips as he slowly moved the sleeve of your nightgown down your arm. Every centimeter felt like an eternity, his breath felt incredibly hot against your skin, and your heart hammered faster than ever within your chest. He then moved to the other side and began gently sliding the sheer sleeve down as well, until the fabric settled at the crooks of your elbows. The nightgown now hung low across your chest, revealing the soft curves of your breasts, which he slowly traced with his mouth. Your eyes closed instinctively, and you had to stifle your whimpers by biting your cheek as Isaac mouthed at one of your hardened nipples through the fabric. His saliva made the thin material turn almost transparent. You could feel him growing even harder as he slowly grinding his hips against yours in search of friction.
"You’re so soft," he whispered, finally pulling the fabric completely away from your chest and arms, leaving you covered only from the hips down. For a moment, he leaned back on his hands to admire the work of art lying beneath him— vulnerable, trusting, more beautiful than a midsummer night's dream, and all his.
Even though heat rose in your cheeks and you felt the urge to press your arms across your chest, you held his gaze and did nothing of the sort.
"You are beautiful," he whispered breathlessly, and the way he looked at you told you he meant it with all his heart. You were likely the most beautiful being he had ever seen and not simply because you were the first woman he had ever seen naked. You were simply perfect. The shape of your body, the curve of your hips, the fullness of your breasts, and everything else besides. He saw no flaw in you. If he were working on a scientific thesis about beauty, you would be his model, his example, and his proof all rolled into one.
"Just like you, my darling," you said without hesitation, placing a hand against his cheek at which he immediately leaned into your touch. He would never dream of turning away your affection again.
Your hands slid beneath the fabric of his shirt, making him visibly shudder. You inched the fabric higher and higher until he willingly raised his arms, allowing you to pull the shirt over his head. Without caring where it might land, you tossed it aside before wrapping your arms around his neck like vines, pulling him close against you. His skin felt slightly warm against your own, and you bit your lip with your sharp fangs as his hand wandered to his waistband. His mouth returned to your chest, his teeth sinking gently into your aroused nipple.
Isaac struggled to undo his belt with one hand, but his fingers were skilled. He pulled the leather free and laid it on the planks beside your ethereal form. His cock ached with the intensity of his need for you. He had never been so aroused or desperate for anyone, yet as always you brought out the worst in him. Because of you, he was a murderer, and now, he was desperate as hell and in need to fuck.
After fumbling for several seconds, he managed to undo the buttons of his simple black trousers and pull them down far enough to free his cock. It was hard, long, and fully aroused, with beads of pearlescent pre-cum forming at the tip. You tilted your head to look past his own head and see the object of your desire down below, where your bodies nearly met. Even though your memory wasn't perfect in every detail, you were certain that his manhood hadn't changed a bit. He was gorgeous.
He gave himself a few quick, desperate strokes with his fist before grabbing the hem of your nightgown to pull it up. A hand on his forearm stopped him, and he looked at you with confused eyes, blinking questioningly. "Have you changed your mind?"
"No, no, it’s fine, my love. I just want to see all of you. Every part of you," you whispered breathlessly. Night nodded so vigorously that, for a moment, you worried he might give himself whiplash.
"Not all of me is pretty, you know?" he murmured as he slid his trousers and boxers down his long, slender legs. You followed suit, slipping off your nightgown and panties. You didn’t need to look to know you were wet. You could feel the dampness between your thighs, and your clit was already throbbing, craving friction. You were tempted to reach down and flick yourself, but that would spoil the fun. You wanted him to make you come on his fingers or his cock— both options sounded like heaven right then.
"I don't see a single flaw," you said honestly. "I love everything about you."
He quickly leaned over you again, pressing another deep kiss to your lips before taking one of your legs and wrapping it around his hip. Your eyes rolled back briefly and you let out a gasp as the head of his cock slid into your wet cunt. "So wet for me… You’re going to be the death of me. But you know that, don’t you?"
"Just as you are going to be mine," you gasped out. You had completely forgotten the pain caused by your new scars, yet he still seemed mindful of them. He made no attempt to shift his full weight onto you or touch the tender areas on your stomach in any way. It had been an eternity since the last time you’d done this.
And now, you couldn't wait any longer. You moved your hips to meet his, but he just grinned at you, enjoying the sight of your desperation. He still couldn’t believe that this was all for him. That your body was lying beneath his like an altar, though he intended to do very sinful things to you. Perhaps not all of them tonight, but there was nothing holy about this union.
When he finally pushed inside you, you couldn't help but let a high-pitched sound escape the confines of your throat, your mouth forming his name. Your hands dug into his pale shoulders as he rested his forehead against yours. Isaac’s breathing came in heavy, ragged gasps, and you could feel how hard he was fighting to hold back from simply taking what his body craved. The silky walls of your cunt fluttered and pulsed around him, making his cock throb inside you in response. You could clearly feel every subtle vein along the side of his base. You were both so lost in the moment, so captivated, that Isaac had completely forgotten the condom Gomez had slipped into his pocket earlier. The boy had been right about where this night would lead.
"Move, Isaac, please," you pleaded breathily. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and began to carefully move his hips against yours. You were wrapped tight and hot around him, nearly causing him to lose control at once. He had never slept with a girl before, so it was incredibly difficult for him to keep his composure and not finish too quickly. After all, he didn't want to disappoint you.
"You- agh!-you feel heavenly," Isaac groaned against your neck, gradually picking up the pace. A fine sheen of sweat formed on his forehead, and he couldn't help but bite into your flesh to keep himself from losing it.
"Don’t stop!" you gasped close to his ear, meeting his thrusts with your own hips as best you could. The movement caused him to suddenly drive even deeper, striking a particularly sensitive spot inside you that made your back arch and your toes curl. "Isaac!"
Isaac forgot the rule he had voiced just moments before— be quiet— because he could no longer control himself. His groans spilled out of him like water from a spring, and he couldn't help but chase the climax you both craved so desperately. One of his hands cupped your breast again, squeezing and massaging the soft flesh, while his fingers flicked against the hard nub. In response, you wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, your slender fingers tangling in his soft hair and tugging at his curls, as if you could pull him even deeper inside you.
His clockwork heart raced in his chest, and had he not known better, he would have feared he was about to faint. But, oh, he wouldn't even be angry to die right here, pushed snugly inside your cunt, with your fingers grasping at the strands of his hair as if they’d personally wronged you, and your bodies entwined in a sinful dance.
"I’ve missed this… Oh, I don’t know how I’ve managed so long without this. Without you!" you managed to say, even though your breathing was rapid and your mind was filled with nothing but the sensation of him moving inside you. His thrusts grew sloppier by the second, losing their rhythm. He was close. You couldn't blame him because you too were so close to the hot cord that had been tightening in your stomach bursting open and you would be overwhelmed with ecstasy. All you needed was a little push to fall over the edge.
“Fuck, princess, me neither,” he moaned, burying his head in the valley between your breasts again, while his hands now settled at your hips to somehow push you even closer against him. Your bodies had felt close before, but now it was truly as if you were one. As if your bodies and your soul had merged. It was a feeling you hoped would never find its conclusion. "Don't know why I've been so stubborn. I should've let you do this weeks ago."
“I love you,” you repeated breathlessly. “I love you, I love you, I—”
Isaac cried out your name brokenly, his hips stuttering inside you, while hot ropes of cum spurted inside your clenching pussy. He was moaning your name over and over again and he kept moving against you, even as his dick was softening and he felt the exhaustion settling deep over himself. The moment his cum flooded your walls, your eyes rolled into the back of your head and a sound that was half cry and half whimper left you as your cunt clenched around him and the very stars you held so dearly exploded right on front of your eyelids.
At first moment everything was still. The world around you ceased to exist. There was only you, your body trembling like a leaf in the wind, and Isaac, lying on top of you like a weighted blanket. You both breathed heavily, your hearts beating in unison, struggling to find their rhythm again. Your legs slowly detached from his hips, but your arms remained wrapped around his neck. You could feel something warm and sticky coating your thighs and slowly dripping onto the floor below. Your fingers traced a slow, tender path down his back, and he shuddered in your arms.
"Don't move," he murmured quietly against your skin, which for the first time in a long time held a warmth within it. "I want to stay inside you a little longer. You're so warm."
"I'm not going anywhere," you whispered in response, before a small smile crept onto your lips. "But wouldn't the hammock be more comfortable?"
Isaac shook his head, his lovely curly hair tickling your chin, making you giggle. The sound, so careless and free, drew him back up to you. His deep brown eyes were wet, his pupils so dilated they almost filled the brown. He looked like a painting, one you would never tire of looking at.
"Someone needs to watch the boat and make sure we don't run aground or go off course."
"And you'll do that, Captain Night?" you teased playfully. He rolled his eyes, then kissed you as if you were the most important thing in the world to him. As if you were a treasure belonging only to him that he would never share or neglect.
"That, or fill you up for a while longer, my dear princess," he whispered against your mouth, and you lightly slapped his shoulder. His cock twitched inside you.
“I could go all night, love,” you whispered back, before your mouth captured his again in a passionate kiss.
While the sea around you was calm, the night sky clear, and the world around you seemed to have paused, you lay entwined on the thin red blanket on the ship's deck. You gently shifted positions so that Isaac lay beneath you and you sat enthroned on his lap, your hips moving in slow circles that left him gasping for air.
| chapter one | chapter two | chapter three | chapter four | chapter five | chapter six | chapter seven | chapter eight | chapter nine | chapter ten | chapter eleven | chapter twelve | chapter thirteen | chapter fourteen | chapter fifteen | chapter sixteen | chapter seventeen (you’re here!) | chapter eighteen (coming soon) |
Series Summary: The year is 1467, and you, the princess of Transylvania, fall in love with a lord; a clever, handsome young man. Your love was great and your bond unbreakable, but fate demands tragedy, and the love of your life gets killed before your very eyes. Devastated and driven by rage, you search for your beloved for five hundred years. At Nevermore Academy in Jericho, you are to find him and his name- Isaac Night.
Pairing: Isaac Night x vampire!Reader
Word count: 10K
Series warnings: fem!Reader, no descriptions of the Reader, fluff, falling in love, romance, angst, violence, tragedy, a bit of religious themes (only up to chapter four), fic starts in the Middle Ages, ooc Isaac at first, major character death, an animal getting hurt, brief allusions to intimacy, blood, murder, background original characters (platonic), humor, yearning, slow burn, minor character death, consuming blood, grief, description of wounds, inspired by Dracula A Love Tale, no mentions of Y/N
Notes: Another long chapter for yall! I’ll add the links to the previous chapters tomorrow 🖤 English isn’t my first language.
Chapter Seventeen: A Touch Of Fate
Isaac didn’t wake up peacefully. His head was throbbing, he could hear voices around him that was like a jumble of people talking over one another, and feel someone clasping his hand. He didn’t need to ask who it was, since he recognized those slender fingers and the warmth they radiated. Clearly, his sister was watching over him while the others were caught up in some sort of heated discussion— one he wasn't part of. He didn’t hear your voice among them.
His eyelashes fluttered as gently as a coastal breeze, and he slowly opened his dark, ever-watchful eyes. At first, his surroundings were a blur. He saw only glaringly bright walls with a pattern he couldn't quite make out, until finally, someone leaned over him. Strands of brown hair that were always wavy, almost never straight, fell across his face, tickling his cheek. He groaned and turned his head slightly to the side to escape the sensation.
“He’s awake!” his sister cried excitedly, glancing toward the others who had been standing nearby. “Oh, Isaac, we were so worried!”
He blinked again, strands of his own dark hair falling over his forehead, as he slowly sat up. Francoise placed a hand on his back to steady him, ever the caring soul. His clockwork heart was ticking at a normal pace again, and he no longer felt like he was on the verge of collapsing at any moment. His neck felt stiff and his throat was dry, but only one thought occupied the forefront of his mind: Where were you?
Your name escaped his lips, and he looked to Francoise, his gaze questioning. Her deep brown eyes had always mirrored his own, but while his were cold, hers were filled with such warmth that they made his clockwork heart beat more gently. Only one other person could elicit that reaction from him. Someone who had become very dear to him, someone he couldn't quite fathom. A beauty he knew well, yet who remained a mystery to him. The most frustrating girl he had ever met.
“Where is she?” Isaac asked, his gaze wandering to the rest of the room. He appeared to be lying on a couch with a thick, springy cushion that supported his head, and his shirt had been unbuttoned beneath his brown coat to check his heart and ensure it was still functioning. His pale chest was exposed, though he cared little about that. He hadn't been the one shot after throwing himself in the line of fire to prove his love. No, you had been the idiot. Yet, in doing so, you had saved his life. That was something he would never forget.
Morticia and Larissa stood beside the sofa, whispering to each other. The male voices he had heard earlier had evidently left the room. Larissa had also helped them steal Hester Frump’s car to get to Willow Hill by shapeshifting into Hester to order the butler to bring the car out of the garage and pull it up front. She had stayed behind to distract the butler, allowing them to drive off in the limousine. But where were they now? The walls were striped in white and blue, the sofa was yellow, which was clashing completely with the rest of the decor, and the furniture in general looked as though it had never been intended for this setting. Had it been stolen? Wherever they were, it certainly wasn't Nevermore. His gaze darted quickly between the black-haired girl and the white-haired one, and he sat up even further. “Where is she? Tell me.”
Finally, Morticia looked at him with those deep, dark eyes of hers and her long, raven-black hair framing her pale face, and for a moment, Night felt the ground vanish from beneath him. What if you were dead? If you died for him? No, that couldn't be. Based on his research and a bit of common sense he knew a vampire couldn't be killed by an ordinary bullet. Yet his mentor’s weapon had looked very old, and the man himself was incredibly clever. A man who always had a plan and who obviously hated you for what you represented. You were a distraction, a breath of fresh air, the promise of a gentleness awaiting him once his project was complete. You were the gift that awaited him when his plan bore fruit.
And that was precisely why you couldn't be dead now. He wouldn't allow it.
“She's alive.” Frump's answer lifted a weight from his shoulders, and he released a breath he hadn't realized he’d been holding in his lungs. So he had one more chance to thank you, and then, hopefully, you would finally reveal the truth about your secret— the cure you knew about. “She’s still unconscious, but she’s alive.”
“Did you get the bullet out? Were you able to stitch her up?” Isaac asked immediately, wiping a hand across his face. The blood that had smeared his cheek back in the parking lot had evidently been washed off, which had been done likely by Fran while his body was still recovering from exhaustion. If his weakened body hadn't betrayed him and, if he hadn't lost consciousness, he would have patched you up himself, probably right there in the car. After all, only he possessed the expertise and talent for such a task. Which naturally raised the question... if not him, then who had treated you?
Morticia raised her hands in a calming gesture and nodded, while Larissa stared fixedly at the floor. He didn't like the look of that. What was she hiding?
“The bullet— or whatever you want to call it— is out, yes. She doesn't seem to have any internal bleeding, but the flesh looked quite burned from the inside. That’s why we poured some water on it, disinfected the area, and then had it stitched up.”
He blinked in confusion. A normal bullet couldn't burn a person from the inside out. That would have required a completely different method of wound healing, and you would be in severe pain for weeks to come as the damaged tissue healed from within. He didn't even know what time it was or how much time had passed. When had you been stitched up? Perhaps he could still inspect the damage and salvage the situation somehow, sparing you from too much pain when you finally woke up.
“Then who took care of her? Francoise can’t stitch like that, neither can you, and Gomez is a klutz. The man is all thumbs. He can’t do it,” he replied as he sat up straight. His sister sat beside him on the sofa, keeping her hand on his back just in case he felt dizzy again. That wasn’t going to happen, since his body had only given out due to sheer exhaustion, but he was calm now. Well, almost calm.
“It wasn’t me, either,” Larissa murmured, scratching her head because she didn’t know what to say. Her hair was pulled back into a severe bun, and she was wearing her long, snow-white coat. This didn’t look like her house, nor was it the Addams family estate or the Frumps’ place. Isaac had been invited to Gomez’s home during the break last spring and had stayed there for a few days. He hadn’t wanted to go, since it meant leaving Francoise home alone, but fortunately, their father had been away on a business trip at the time. That was the only reason he’d felt able to accompany his roommate home. He hadn’t seen a room like this one there.
“Then who was it?” Isaac’s voice turned cold as ice and hard as steel, and his expression hardened, too. He didn’t trust anyone else, and he couldn’t imagine they’d called a doctor who wouldn’t ask questions. After all, there was no such doctor in Jericho, and he could hardly picture Frump paying someone for their silence.
Laughter from two men echoed from the next room that had a curtain instead of a door. The curtain, draped across the doorway, was black and patterned with small storm clouds and yellow lightning bolts, which made a sinking feeling slowly begin to spread in the pit of his stomach. Gomez was a klutz, but his older brother was possibly even worse than that. Oh, please no, please, please—
“We… we only had Fester left as a last resort.”
Isaac sprang up from the sofa without hesitation; within seconds, he rushed past the girls and ran to the curtain. A simple wave of his right hand was all it took for the curtain to fly aside, revealing the room beyond, which had previously been hidden from view, and bringing him face-to-face with Gomez Addams and his older, pale, bald brother, Fester Addams.
“Mi amigo!” Gomez exclaimed with a broad grin before immediately pulling him into a bear hug that made him gasp for air. “You’re finally awake. It took hours. We thought our Sleeping Beauty here would wake up sooner than you.”
He didn't push Gomez away, but his angry glare was fixed entirely on Fester, who was standing beside the bed where they had laid you down. The older boy was also wearing a wide grin, which only made Isaac angrier. He knew from his friend that the older brother was not only a bizarre character but also a prime candidate for a long stint in the loony bin.
While Gomez still held him in his embrace, Isaac’s gaze drifted to you. You were lying peacefully on the bed, your head propped up by two soft pillows, and your chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm which was a sight that softened his stern expression somewhat. Someone had cleaned you up and changed your clothes and he fervently hoped it had been one of the girls and not Fester, of all people. Even so, the clothes didn't suit you or match your style at all. You were elegant, beautiful, and refined, yet the white T-shirt with the cherry pattern and the denim shorts definitely didn't fit your look. He cringed at the thought that Fester might have been the one to dress you in that.
When Gomez finally let him go— had he actually thought Isaac was done for? He had always been too sentimental— he finally turned to the Spark’s older brother. The other boy was taller, despite being younger, forcing the bald-headed man to look up at him.
“What did you do?” he asked in a harsh voice, devoid of any empathy. You looked peaceful enough, but he couldn't see the scar beneath your shirt. He certainly hadn't stitched you up properly.
“What do you mean, Tin Man?” Fester asked in return, shaking his head sharply and pursing his lips.
“The girl. She was shot, as I’m sure you know. What did you do to her?” The question came without hesitation, and he took a step closer to appear even more menacing. Had it been any other girl from his year— Francoise excepted— he wouldn't have cared in the slightest. Romances were pointless and uninteresting; Isaac had always been a man of science. Matters of the heart and the urges of the body during puberty had never held much appeal for him. You were the exception. The one variable in his equation that threw everything into disarray.
Fester glanced toward his little brother, who bore him no resemblance, as if seeking help. Yet Fester’s eyes were full of life and sparkling brightly as he took two steps toward you and, to make matters worse, grabbed the hem of your shirt and slowly lifted it, revealing your midriff to Isaac. He took a deep breath, trying for a moment to ignore how soft and inviting your skin looked, and focused instead on the wound.
Night’s brown eyes widened in shock, and for several seconds, he simply stared at what Addams had done. Normally, the goal was to suture a wound as tightly as possible so that, once the stitches were removed, the resulting scar would be small and subtle. This was anything but subtle. It had been a single gunshot wound, yet he had treated it as if you’d been stabbed eighteen times. The entry wound was in the center of your abdomen, just below the sternum— a spot Isaac could have handled perfectly with his own skills— but now he was staring at a massive heart made of stitches right there on your belly. A tattoo would have been more subtle than that. Instead of simply closing the wound, he had extended the stitching, driving the needle through your soft skin to create a huge heart, a mark destined to remain as a scar on your body forever. Forever in the literal sense, given that vampires lived eternally. Isaac saw red.
Without a second thought, he grabbed the collar of Fester’s shirt and slammed him against the wall by your bed, his eyes wild and his teeth bared like a wild animal’s.
“She had a gunshot wound! Just one! You turned it into a massive gash, as if she’d been mauled by a bear!” Isaac shouted right in his face, to which Fester merely shook his head with a laugh. He didn't seem to grasp the gravity of the situation or the implications of what he had done.
“Gomez said she did it for love, and I thought it would be nice if she—”
“Gomez?!” Isaac whipped his head toward the other boy standing in the room, demanding an answer. Locks of his wild, dark hair fell across his face from the sudden movement, shrouding him in shadow. It made him look even more manic. The girls had rushed into the room by now, too. Francoise gently pulled your shirt back down, hiding the scar so no one had to stare at your exposed skin. Morticia, naturally, had slunk back to her lover’s side and was clinging to him like a cat that couldn't bear to be away from its owner. Larissa, on the other hand, stood leaning against the doorframe, looking as though she wasn't quite sure what she’d stumbled into.
“Well, I- I assumed she saved you out of love, and Fester said he wanted to remind her of that heroic act,” Addams explained, stammering. “He only had good intentions, I assure you!”
“Good intentions?” Night repeated, incredulous. “He turned a tiny wound, one that would have barely been noticeable, into a massive scar! He sullied her!”
“So, you think that makes her ugly?” Morticia asked, gesturing with one hand toward your still-sleeping body. Her voice was hard, ready to defend you like a lioness should he answer in the affirmative.
“No,” he said without hesitation, his teeth clenched. “She will always be beautiful, but just think about how she is going to react. She is elegant, graceful, and enchanting, and you go and stick a needle into her skin and put her in a T-shirt and shorts? Have you lost your mind, Fester?”
Fester’s expression shifted from amusement to the quiet realization that what he’d done, even though he’d meant well, hadn’t been the best idea. His mouth formed a silent ‘O’ and he looked down at the floor. Slowly, Isaac let go of him and walked back to your sleeping form, his hand gently brushing over your hair.
“Who cleaned her up and removed the bullet?” Night asked the room, his dark, almost onyx-colored eyes resting on your peaceful face. In sleep, you looked even more enchanting than when you were awake. Your features were relaxed, the tiny lines between your brows had vanished, and your lips were parted slightly. Even though he didn’t like the fact that you had to bear the heart symbol on your stomach, you were still exactly that symbol to him— a heart full of emotion, beating strongly and holding so much feeling that he could barely put it into words.
“I cleaned off all the blood,” his little sister replied, raising her hand as if she were about to answer a professor in class. “I was gentle, I promise. I used a wet cloth, and Tish helped me change her clothes. Don’t worry, the boys didn’t look. We forbade them from doing so.”
A sense of pride swelled within him. Even though he hadn’t been there, his sister had done exactly the right thing and cared for you in his place. He was grateful that your friendship had mended over the past few weeks, even after the accident in the woods. You mattered to her. He could see that, because otherwise, she would never have cared for you like this or thought of all those little details.
“I removed the bullet,” Morticia said afterwards, gesturing toward the wooden dresser beside the bed, a piece of furniture that had clearly been cobbled together haphazardly. “I have the steadiest hand, so I extracted it with tweezers.”
“Good,” Isaac replied with a nod. He stepped toward the dresser and looked down at a white plate. It was marked with dried blood— your blood— and its surface was webbed with fine, lightning-bolt-like cracks. Resting in the center was an object about six centimeters long. At first glance, it looked like a bullet, but it was certainly no ordinary one. It wasn't made of metal, copper, or iron, but rather of wood. The tip had even been sharpened like a pencil point to pierce the target more quickly. Tiny splinters had broken off the sides and were presumably still embedded in your flesh. It was a miniature version of the ancient stake used to kill vampires.
“He knew what she would do…”
“Que?” Gomez asked him, confused, crossing the room in three quick strides. Even though Isaac had always been certain he wouldn’t need friends and that his intellect alone would suffice, he deeply valued Gomez’s loyalty. He would never admit it aloud, but the dark-haired Addams boy was arguably the best friend he had. After all, Gomez hadn’t hesitated when Isaac asked for help, when he’d come to him with the reckless plan to free her from Willow Hill. He had agreed immediately, and the others had followed suit.
“The bullet is made of wood. A standard round would be far more effective against a human, but not against a vampire. He aimed at me, but he knew what she would do. He wanted to kill her by using me as bait.” Isaac’s voice was low as the realization crashed over him like a wave, threatening to crush him under its weight.
“Asshole,” Francoise grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest as a pout formed on her face. Whatever sympathy she might have felt for the old man was gone for good now.
“Did you kill him?” Larissa asked, nervously scratching the side of her neck. It was obvious she didn’t condone these actions or approve of them. Of everyone in the room, she was the one least interested in running afoul of the law. She wanted to be good, to avoid a black mark on her record that could ruin her future career.
Isaac turned slightly toward the tall girl and sighed heavily, wiping a hand across his face. “No, I didn’t. Not him. She killed two guards and I killed one in self-defense. I broke Stonehearst’s arm so he couldn’t fire his weapon anymore. I wish I’d broken his neck instead.”
“Why didn’t you?” Fester asked him then. So far, he had largely stayed out of the conversation until now to avoid provoking the other’s anger again. But this question interested him. “The problem would have been solved then.”
Night didn’t know exactly what to say. Why hadn’t he killed Stonehearst? He could have done it in a millisecond with the flick of his wrist, yet he had only knocked him unconscious. The answer was clear to him, even if he didn’t want to voice it. He had never really had a father figure in his life, someone who genuinely valued him and was proud of him. His own father had been a violent drunkard who spent his days boozing, screaming at his wife, and beating his children. He had never told him his inventions were good or that he would grow up to be a great scientist. Then, however, Isaac had come to Nevermore and met Professor Stonehearst, who immediately took him under his wing. The Normie showed interest in his experiments, providing him not just with equipment, lab coats, and Bunsen burners, but with an entire laboratory and a free hand. He regularly told him how smart he was and that he was proud of him. Over the years, Isaac had learned that many of those words were lies and manipulation, yet the boy inside him still yearned for the father figure he had been denied. He hadn’t killed Stonehearst because of his own weakness. Sentimentality had saved the professor’s life.
“Let’s just say that concern for the princess’s life weighed more heavily on me in that moment than the life of my physics professor,” he lied skillfully, his voice cold and his tone smooth as silk. No one would be able to tell he wasn't telling the truth. He was too good at it, and besides—
“Bullshit. You’ve just got a father complex.”
“Gomez!” Morticia quickly admonished him, gently nudging her boyfriend in the ribs with her elbow. He couldn't just go around saying someone had a father complex, even if it was painfully obvious in Night’s case.
“What? Cara mia, please. I’m right, aren't I?” Addams insisted, glancing back and forth between his girlfriend and his best friend. His roommate could lie and act cold-hearted all he wanted, but he had seen the real Isaac Night. He had often had to stop him from sharing his genius with people who only wanted to exploit him. Or he had watched him patch up someone who had broken a bone or scraped a knee or elbow in a fall. Nevermore didn’t have an on-campus doctor. He had seen it all, yet never commented on it. Night could put on whatever act he pleased, but he wasn't cold-hearted.
Isaac rolled his eyes and scoffed before turning back to you. You were still sleeping peacefully, but it was slowly becoming time to wake you up and discuss the next steps. You were both murderers, though you even more so than him. People would be looking for you, and Stonehearst would likely want to lock you up again for his little project, which he had admittedly never told him much about. All he knew was that his former mentor needed one person from each Outcast class for the project. You were the vampire he needed.
Francoise gently brushed a strand of hair from your face. She was standing on the opposite side of the bed and then looked back up at him with a strange glint in her eyes. He could hardly describe it, but it looked almost amused, as if she wanted to tease him.
“Do you want to wake her with a kiss? Like a prince in a fairy tale?” his sister asked, wiggling her eyebrows. She was clearly trying to hide a grin that was threatening to spread across her face. He had hated fairy tales as a child. Their mother used to read Disney stories to them and show them the movies when they were little. Francoise had loved them; Isaac had hated them. Yet, throughout their childhood— whenever he wasn't in the hospital due to his heart condition— he had loved playing the knight who saved her from monsters. In the make-believe games they often played, he had been the brave hero who slew the dragon to save her life.
“Don't be silly, Francoise. I can't just kiss her. She isn't... We aren't...” He sighed deeply. “It’s not the right time.”
“Come on, she threw herself in the path of a bullet for you and nearly lost her life because of you! If not now, then when?” Weems asked, throwing her arms up in frustration. She was still standing in the doorway beside the curtain, which fluttered gently aside from the movement of her arms.
“There are too many people in the room. That’s not a problem for Gomez, but I have standards and no desire for public humiliation,” he replied, running a pale hand through his hair, causing it to fall across his forehead in a tangle of messy curls. It was the truth, though not the whole truth. The whole truth was simple: he didn't want to waste his first kiss this way.
Morticia giggled, causing his head to snap instantly in her direction only for him to see her reach for Gomez’s hand and pull him along with her. Gomez grabbed Fester’s sleeve and pulled him along too, while Larissa held the curtain open so they could all disappear into the adjoining room. His best friend shot him a wink before the curtain fell shut again. Only Francoise remained in the room with him, though she, too, took a few steps backwards.
“I’m not going to kiss her,” he said, but she shook her head.
“Just imagine it’s the only way to save her. Or do you not want to kiss her?”
“I do! I mean…” He groaned in annoyance and clicked his tongue. It was a slip-up he shouldn't have allowed himself, but what could he do now? She had heard it and the others probably had too, given that the walls weren't exactly thick and there was no door. Of course he wanted to kiss you. He’d likely wanted to do so ever since you broke into his lab months ago and he caught you snooping around. That was back before he even knew what you thought of him, before you confessed that you’d been searching for him for nearly a millennium. That revelation had only fueled his fascination with you, like tossing large logs onto an already roaring fireplace.
“Go join the others.”
His sister squealed with excitement before quickly running out of the room to give him some privacy. He watched the curtain sway from left to right for several seconds before it finally settled. Shadows huddled close together were visible on the floor and the sound of whispering drifted in. They were keeping their voices down on purpose, wanting to hear the moment his lips met yours, even though they likely wouldn't actually catch it. It would be nothing more than a gentle touch. His lips brushing against yours. Plain and simple. Of course, there was no scientific reason for this act, since you would presumably wake up in a few minutes even without a kiss. However, your friends wanted to romanticize the moment, and he couldn't get out of the situation now. After all, ‘No’ didn't count with those five vultures.
He looked down at your sleeping face. Your features were gentle, your cheeks looked soft, and you were completely still. The sound of your breathing was audible whenever your chest rose and fell and you drew the air you needed to live through your nostrils. He knew your friends were listening. They were standing in the next room, pretending not to hear anything, even though they actually understood a great deal.
Your scent reached his nostrils and he inhaled it. Even though the perfume from the night of the Rave’N Ball had long since faded, and he could smell more blood, sweat, and tears on your skin rather than sweetness, there was still something about you that made his heart tick faster. The tiny gears in his mechanical heart turned more rapidly, the ticking sped up just a little, but enough for him to notice. The tip of his nose brushed against your hair as he leaned over you. His right hand found your cheek, his thumb stroking the dark area beneath your eye. Your hair smelled faintly of the soap Francoise and Morticia had likely used to wash the blood from you. It smelled of lavender and blueberries, which was not the best combination perhaps, but likely a result of Fester’s peculiar taste.
His lips grazed the shell of your ear before he whispered softly: “They want me to kiss you, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to rob us of this moment. You’ve waited centuries for this and I want it too, but I’m waiting for you to wake up. So, do it. Wake up, princess.”
Isaac pressed a gentle kiss just at the very edge of your mouth before resting his forehead against yours. Though he dreaded your reaction to the scars that would now be with you forever, he wanted even more to feel your watchful eyes upon him. From the very beginning, even the moment you met in the Nevermore courtyard, your gaze, whenever it fell upon him, had been filled with admiration, desire, and longing. He wanted to feel those eyes tracing his face once more.
“Wake up, give me the cure, and I am all yours. I’ll give you my everything. Just open those pretty eyes, please. Open them.” By the end, his voice had shifted from a gentle whisper to a desperate plea. If not for your sake, then for his sister’s. If you wouldn't wake up for yourself, you had to do it for Francoise, so he could save her life. He still had time, but it was slipping away with every day, every minute, every second. He couldn't bear to live in a world where there was no longer a place for his sister. His hand cupped your cheek, and he squeezed his eyes shut, waiting. Waiting for a sign, a movement, or even the slightest change in your breathing. If his pleas didn't work, there was always the Addamses' electricity or a bucket of water to drag you back to the land of the living.
“Wake up.”
A gentle voice reached your ears as you lay in the grass outside your castle late in the evening. It sounded so familiar, so charming, as delicate as a butterfly’s wings and yet it was merely a phantom, nothing more than a fragment of memory. Stars studded the dark blue night sky, while the moon waned steadily. It was now just a half-crescent slipping behind the swaying leaves of the willow tree that stood firmly in your garden, not far away. Your hair hung loose, and though your robe was silk, it was nothing fancy; you had set your shoes aside so your toes could touch the cool, dew-kissed grass. Beside you stood a telescope. It was a brand new one, a proud invention of nineteenth-century scientists. It was meant to bring you happiness, yet no smile lit up your features.
Approaching footsteps and the rustle of a coat made you look up, prompting nothing but a sigh. Aleo was walking toward you. In his left hand, he held a bottle of wine, and in his right, a plate bearing something that smelled dangerously like cake. You loved cake, especially the recipes you knew from your mother, though refined so they still tasted good in modern times. Aleo wore a light blue suit beneath a navy coat that shielded him from the cool autumn air. At least he always knew how to cheer you up somehow.
“Care for some cake, birthday girl?” he asked cheerfully, smiling down at you. The angle from which he viewed you was surely far from flattering, but that was the last thing on your mind. He was your best friend. He had found you asleep in the stables or retching in the cellar before or crying your eyes out and claw at the dirt, when your emotions got the better of you again.
“I’m not hungry, but thanks,” you replied, a hint of a smile playing on your lips and a sparkle in your eyes.
He clicked his tongue and dropped inelegantly onto the grass beside you. You could hear the wine sloshing inside the bottle, but fortunately, he hadn't pulled the cork yet, so the drink remained safely sealed— for the moment.
“Oh, come on, it’s your birthday! Marge baked this especially for you. It’s got those little lemon slices you like so much.” He tried to persuade you with his good-natured manner, holding the fragrant pastry right under your nose that was far more sensitive than those of ordinary folk anyway. You had smelled the cake the moment the blond man stepped onto the meadow.
“It’s my four-hundred-and-forty-first birthday, Aleo,” you sighed in response. “I’ve celebrated enough.”
“Oh, nonsense!” His laugh was loud and infectious. “You can never celebrate enough. You eat your cake, I’ll open the bottle, and you can tell me about those little stars you love so much.”
He set the plate on your flat stomach before pulling a corkscrew from his trouser pocket. You recognized the rust on the handle, so he must have swiped it from the kitchen when Margaret wasn't looking.
“It’s the patterns they form that interest me, really. The constellations. I want to know how they change, and they remind me of better times,” you explained patiently, picking up the end of the dry pastry. Although he was an aristocrat himself, he seemed to have forgotten his manners, having failed to bring along a cake fork for you. So, you would have to eat with your fingers.
“Of more romantic times, yes, I know. Because you’ve been waiting for four hundred years and your sweetheart still hasn’t reappeared. But you’re certain of it because a small, powerful witch once promised you so, blah, blah, blah.” He pulled the cork out with a loud pop as he rambled, tossing both it and the corkscrew into the dew beside him.
You took a bite of the cake, scattering a few crumbs across your chin and neck. It was soft and dry, yet rich with the flavors of lemon and vanilla, which made it impossible for you to stay angry with him. Even after all these years, your birthday cake was still delicious. “She was a dove.”
“One doesn't speak with one's mouth full,” he chided, though his grin gave him away. He didn't care in the least whether you spoke with a mouthful of food like a commoner or dabbed your lips with a silk napkin like a lady. To put it bluntly, he didn't give a shit about it.
“Look who's talking!” you laughed, covering your mouth with your hand to avoid accidentally spitting on him. “You can be such a jerk sometimes. I don’t know how you’ll ever find a partner.”
“Oh, I use the same tactic you do.”
You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to explain what he meant.
“I wait out my thousand years, and eventually, I’ll find the right person— someone who suits me. Maybe a pretty farmer’s daughter, a wild beauty from the city, or a lovely, slightly shy lady I happen to meet by chance. If fate wills it, I will find my other half.” His voice sounded strangely serious, even though his words had started out as a lighthearted joke. You wondered if there was some truth to it, given that he had never actually entered into a long-term relationship. He deserved one, though. You wanted all your friends to be happy, because, after all, you were the one who had turned them and gave them their new life as vampire. They would be walking the earth forever because of you. They deserved to find love, at the very least.
“It will happen. I believe in you,” you told him sincerely, nodding your head. A few small crumbs fell into the hollow of your throat, but you didn’t bother brushing them away. The ants would surely enjoy them more than you, but you were selfish and wanted these crumbs for yourself.
His amused grin softened into a friendly smile before he lifted the bottle and held it up toward the sky. “I’ll drink to that. To fate, and to the love that’s still waiting for us.”
He took a deep swig and then handed the bottle to you. Only then did you sit up slightly, balancing the plate on your lap, and mirror his gesture. The glass neck of the bottle drew closer to the heavens for a moment, and you, too, offered a toast: “To fate, to the years that fly by like leaves in the autumn wind, and to true love that shall find us one day.”
The wine’s fruity, iron-tinged aroma hit your tongue and warmed you from the inside out as it made its way down to your stomach. You licked the last traces from your lips before handing the bottle back to him. Above you, the stars shone brightly, yet they still seemed so distant. Back when you had lain in the grass with your lover— right there, not far away beneath the willow tree— the stars had felt incredibly close, almost within reach. As if you had only needed to stretch out your hand, and Isaac would have placed the star of your choice right in your palm. The Moth constellation, which he had named, hung in the sky to your right, and the Tree, which had been your contribution, was right beside it. It looked almost as though the Moth were seeking refuge in one of the Tree’s branches, or simply looking for a place to rest.
He took the bottle from your hand, but instead of raising it to his lips again, he lifted it toward the canopy of the heavens; the night sky was faintly reflected in the dark glass. Then he did something you hadn't expected, something he had no reason to do. Why would he pay tribute to a dead person he had never even met?
“To Isaac Night.” To your surprise, there was no casual grin on his lips, but instead, he looked genuinely sincere. You tilted your head curiously much like a newborn bird seeing a butterfly for the very first time. “He must have been one hell of a handsome bastard to make you fall for him like that.”
He paused briefly before adding with a nod, “I really hope he comes back, so I can tell him he’d better stick by your side. If he breaks your heart, I’ll bring you his so you can devour it.”
You reached for the neck of the bottle and raised it even higher toward the sky: “To the love of my life. May he never break my heart or the devil will come hunting him.”
You both burst into laughter that carried like a song through the silence of the night. The wine was finished, the cake devoured, and then you set out to find a suitable midnight snack in the nearby village. Your companion took the lead in sneaking along, while you followed a fair distance behind, the hood of your coat pulled so low over your face that the rest was shrouded in shadow, unrecognizable in the night. You had just turned into a narrow alley when you suddenly heard a voice right by your ear. It was the same one as before. You froze.
“Wake up.”
A gasp escaped your dry lips just before your eyes suddenly flew open. For a moment, you saw nothing but a brown mass, until you realized that the mass was soft and curly, belonging to the person whose forehead was pressed against yours. His eyes, deep brown and filled with warmth, met yours; the smile spreading across his features warmed you inside and out, as if he were the sun shining down upon you. For a brief moment, you thought you had actually died from the bullet and arrived in heaven, but that wasn't the truth. How could it be? You hadn't been a good person. A place was likely reserved for you in the deepest depths of hell, where God sent his unwanted creations. But didn't that make all Outcasts creatures of the Devil? That same logic had once been used to almost completely erase Outcasts from history, though fortunately that hadn't happened.
“I... Isaac?” you asked in a low voice, raspy from hours of sleep. You didn't know how much time had passed or what had happened, but you knew you were still alive and that your DaVinci’s fingers were tracing gentle circles over your cheekbones.
“There you are.” The corners of his thin lips turned down into a frown, yet his eyes betrayed his happiness. He was glad to see you.
Before you could say anything else, or comment on the fact that his hands were lingering on your face and his body was leaning over yours as you lay in a bed you didn't recognize, you suddenly heard the sound of multiple footsteps entering the room.
“Did it work?!” Francoise’s voice rang loud in your ears, and you immediately sat bolt upright, which caused your vision to blur for a moment, while Isaac wrapped an arm around your midsection to steady you.
“She’s awake, as you could clearly see if you’d use your eyes,” remarked the older of the two Night siblings. His hand rested across your hip like a protective shield.
“¡Oh, gracias a Dios! Pensé que nunca sería capaz de hacerlo,” you heard Gomez say, Morticia being snuggled up against him as always. Your Spanish was a bit rusty, since Alejandro hadn’t been a very good teacher, but you still understood that he was grateful you were alive. The rest of your friends stood beside Gomez and Morticia, instantly bringing a happy smile to your face. There was one person, however, whom you didn’t know and had never seen before.
“What happened while I was unconscious? Who is our new friend?” you asked after clearing your throat gently. The bald man gazed at you with wide, fascinated eyes, as if you were a precious painting being put on display for the very first time. It made you feel uneasy.
“Him?” Gomez gave the other man— who was even paler than Isaac— a firm pat on the shoulder, causing him to merely giggle. “This is my older brother, Fester. He patched you up while Isaac was also passed out.”
“Yeah, and he did it wrong,” Isaac snapped back immediately, while his fingers dug protectively into the flesh of your hip. You had to grit your teeth to keep a pitiful sound from escaping your lips. Your midsection was pulling and aching, but not like during your monthly bleeding, but with a stronger, deeper pain. It felt as though a knife were stuck in the middle of your torso, being slowly twisted over and over again.
“I just wanted to make it look pretty,” Fester grumbled, scratching his bare head sheepishly.
You blinked in confusion and placed a hand over the center of your stomach, where the pain burned the fiercest. “What does he mean, Isaac? What did he want to make look pretty?”
All five pairs of eyes standing by the non-existent doorway slowly turned toward the floor, and you looked up at Isaac for answers, although he was staring at the other five with eyes of steel. You gently nudged his shoulder with yours, causing his gaze to meet your own, and in less than a millisecond that icy coldness transformed into the comforting warmth of a fireplace.
“Come, I'll show you. Can you stand up?” His question was gentle, and he extended his free hand to you in a gentlemanly gesture. A nod was your only response before your palm met his and he interlaced his cold fingers with yours. During the escape from Willow Hill, the contact had been a matter of course— something you hadn't paid much mind to— but now it was different. Now, your entire focus was on him, rather than on dodging bullets or being attacked by guards. Now, your focus was entirely on the sensation his fingers stirred up inside you when he gently pulled you off the bed. His left arm was still wrapped around your waist and you doubted he would be moving it anytime soon.
A hiss escaped your lips as your feet hit the floor, the pain shooting through your side being unlike anything you’d felt before. It felt as though a fire were burning beneath your skin, melting you from the inside out. Your hand tightened around his, but he held firm, betraying no reaction.
“It burns,” you managed to say through gritted teeth. Slowly and patiently, he guided you past the bed and toward the bathroom that happened to be a small room adjoining the bedroom, but one that at least had a door. A look of disgust crossed your face as your gaze swept over the furnishings. Nothing here matched at all.
“Try to take a deep breath,” Larissa advised from the side. It was surely well-intentioned advice, but this time she caught you on the wrong foot, and your eyes narrowed sharply.
“I’m not brainless, Weems! I’ve endured worse than a little gunshot wound, but I’ve never experienced anything that feels like it’s burning me alive,” you snapped back, causing Francoise to flinch and Larissa’s eyes to widen in shock. They had never seen you like this before. Normally, you kept your angry side more in check, but the pain was drawing it out more than you wanted.
“Come on,” Night whispered against your hairline, continuing to pull you gently along— though not before one last question reached your ears.
“What was the worst thing? That- that you endured, I mean," Francoise’s voice held a note of curiosity, and her eyes were both wary and inquisitive.
“Uncertainty,” you replied without hesitation, a strain in your voice. “The years slip by and people who matter to you and their children come and go. You are eternal, yet you are alone. You wait and wait, and your hope fades, and in the end, you can never be sure if what your soul yearns for will ever return to you.”
Silence was the only answer you received as Night slowly guided you by the hand and hip into the bathroom, closing the brown wooden door behind you. This bathroom— in an apartment whose owner remained a mystery to you still— was small and stuffy. A round window, the size of a picture frame, let the bright morning sunlight stream in, the shower was tucked into the corner, lacking a curtain, with just two products sitting beside the drain. The sink pressed gently against your hip. Its white porcelain was cracked at the side, and the faucet showed faint traces of rust on its once-silver neck.
It was the mirror that commanded your full attention. There was nothing remarkable about it, as it was roughly the size of a large frying pan and devoid of any ornamentation, yet one detail held your gaze fast. You could see nothing in it. Nothing but the furniture or the large silhouette of Isaac Night standing beside you. It shouldn't have surprised or affected you. After all, you had been trapped in this state for far too long, but perhaps that was precisely the source of your disappointment. Even a bullet from an ancient weapon, fired by a madman intent on killing the person you loved most, had changed nothing about your situation. Perhaps, for a brief moment, you had wished that the burning deep within you meant you were mortal again, but that was not the case. You were still a creature of the night.
“I don’t know why they gave you that ridiculous shirt and those shorts. They don’t suit you.” His breath tickled your cheek and his voice was as sweet as golden honey.
“What would you have dressed me in?” you asked curiously, turning your face just a few centimeters to the side so that his warm breath kissed your lips instead.
“A dress.” His answer was brief and to the point. But you wanted more.
“Describe it to me.”
“I saw you in it when you revealed the truth to me in my laboratory. It was lilac with a flared skirt that ended at your calves. The fabric was silk, I think. I have to admit that dresses are not really my area of expertise, so I can’t say for sure. A brooch adorned your décolletage and a string of pearls graced your hair.” With every word he spoke, your features softened, and your heart melted within your chest. For a moment, the burning pain was forgotten, and you focused solely on the look in his eyes as they gently traced your face, as if searching for something. Like he was searching for a spark of recognition, a small sign that he hadn't just imagined it all.
“I know that dress,” you whispered softly. His shoulders slumped beneath the thick brown coat, the same one he had worn when he rescued you, as if in relief. “I own it. It remains back home tugged away in a closet in Transylvania. I never wore it because I had no reason to. Mayhaps I will wear it for you.”
“I liked the color on you,” he whispered as the fingers of his left hand were toying with the hem of your shirt, sending a pleasant shiver down your spine.
“I know,” you smiled tenderly. “You met me in purple, and the last time you saw me was in it, too.”
“I want to see you in it again.” His fingers slid beneath the fabric, carefully tracing the curve of your side. His fingertips were cold and rough, yet you leaned into his touch as if it were the very cure your wound craved.
“You will,” you breathed, your gaze settling on his lips— lips that had never looked more inviting than they did in that moment.
He breathed your name so softly it might have been nothing more than a gust of wind. His right hand, still holding yours, pressed it against his chest so you could feel the vibration of his heart. It was ticking faster than a normal clock’s ticking.
As his fingers explored, they grazed the edge of your wound, drawing a whimper from your lips. You had to squeeze your eyes shut to hold back the tears that instantly welled up. You looked down as he slowly pushed the fabric up, allowing you to see for yourself the havoc Gomez’s idiotic brother had wreaked upon your body. The skin around the stitches was red and swollen; the sutures themselves were unsightly, and their shape served as a cruel reminder of why you bore this wound in the first place: because of love.
“It’s… larger than I expected,” you remarked simply, quickly swallowing back the bile that had risen in your throat.
“The entry wound is here,” Isaac explained, pointing to the area over the stitched heart where the two lines met at the top. It could have been so small, but instead, it was the size of a palm, situated right between your navel and breast. “If I hadn't lost consciousness, I could have stitched you up and I would have done it right, too.”
“It’s not your fault,” you tried to explain gently, for you didn't blame him at all. Fester was to blame and maybe even Gomez, who had likely egged him on. He was your friend, but clearly not quite right in the head. Even though he’d meant well, this was a scar that shouldn't have happened.
“Yes, it is! If my body hadn't let me down again, then—“
You silenced him by pressing a finger against his lips. His eyes crossed comically as he looked down at your index finger, coaxing a smile from you despite the pain. “I don't blame you, Isaac. Maybe you can still fix it?”
He planted a fleeting kiss on your finger before gently pushing it aside with his ability alone. His hands found your waist, and he slowly sank to his knees in front of you to examine the damage more closely. Your heart skipped a beat, and you quickly looked away to hide the flush that was undoubtedly coloring your face. His breath was hot against the sensitive skin of your stomach, and your hands instinctively found his shoulders, your fingers digging into the rough fabric of his coat.
“I don't want to pull the stitches out right now. The damage is already done and there’s nothing I can do about it. Unless you know an Outcast who can heal, I cannot do anything," he said. Every word he spoke sent a shiver through you, and at the same time, you felt your knees go weak. You didn't even consider the possibility that it might be due to blood loss or the fact that you hadn't consumed a drop of blood since yesterday, despite having lost so much of your own.
“The last Caladrius was wiped out about two hundred years ago. As far as I know, there aren't any left,” you answered honestly. He was still kneeling before you, and this time, your eyes met. His hands moved to your lower back, pressing your body slightly forward so that his chin, cheek, and the tip of his nose brushed against your flesh, dangerously close to your raw wound.
“I am not familiar with that species,” he replied, his interest piqued as he briefly nuzzled his cheek against your flesh.
“Oh, they were ethereal. Snow-white hair, flawless skin, silver eyes, and white feathers covering their shoulders. They had the power to take away pain and sickness, absorb it into themselves, and then heal. You’d think humanity would protect such a power, but they didn’t.” You had nothing more to add to your explanation. Yetis, sphinxes, cyclopes… the world had once been far more magical. It was thanks to the Normies that this magic vanished.
He scoffed and pressed his forehead against your wound. It stung for a moment, but you bit your lip and closed your eyes. Your hands found his hair and buried themselves in its depths. His curls were softer than a feather pillow, though your nails grazing his scalp made him hiss.
“That alone is reason enough to loathe Normies,” he grumbled. Without asking, your fingers slid through his soft hair, slow and affectionate.
“I was a Normie once myself. So I cannot hate them, though I don't understand them either. Still, I'm grateful to be an Outcast, even if it is both a blessing and a curse,” you replied in a soft voice filled with nothing but gentleness. Isaac’s lips brushed against the center of your stomach, now framed by stitches that were both white and red in color.
“You were probably always destined to be an Outcast.” His words were muffled against your skin, yet they still reached your ears. You continued to comb through his hair, which seemed to calm him immensely, for the ticking of his clockwork heart was rhythmic and peaceful.
“But you loved me even when I wasn't one yet. In fact, you died without knowing what I would eventually become,” you confessed honestly. You no longer cared that you were standing in the small bathroom of some stranger’s apartment, or that people were likely waiting for you. You focused only on him and the sensation of his warm breath against your bare skin.
“And now? Do I love you now? What do you think?” He looked up at you again and, as your eyes met, you saw that the question hadn't been mischievous or teasing. No, it was the opposite. He truly wanted your answer.
“Yes… Yes, I think you might,” you whispered, your fingers pausing in your hair. Slowly, he rose from the hard floor and came to stand before you. Your lower back pressed against the edge of the porcelain sink as Isaac stood right in front of you, looking down with those endlessly dark eyes. His answer didn't come in words, but rather through an unexpected gesture: he extended his right arm toward you and rolled up the sleeve a few inches, letting the fabric rest just above his elbow.
“Here, you need to drink. You lost blood yesterday, and I’d hate for you to lose consciousness again anytime soon.” Isaac’s voice wrapped around you like a blanket on a cold winter day. His honesty and willingness to do this took you by surprise. Your pupils dilated as you gazed at the fine veins in his arm that seemed to draw you in closer and closer, almost against your will. Your tongue darted out to wet your lips.
“But I don’t want to hurt you,” you argued weakly, yet he simply held his arm even closer to your face— a gesture that felt like both a confession and a choice.
“Think of it as an apology. Quid pro quo.” He turned his pale wrist toward you; the blue and faint green veins seemed to call out your name.
“But you need your blood?” you questioned, shaking your head.
“Take it,” he insisted.
“What if I can’t stop? I could turn you by accident.” Your concern outweighed your hunger, for the last thing you wanted was to condemn him to an eternity he hadn’t asked for.
“I don’t care. Take it.”
Your sharp fangs sank into the delicate flesh of his wrist, and you couldn't suppress the moan that escaped you the moment his blood touched your tongue. He tasted delicious. You pressed your face even closer to his arm and sank your teeth deeper into his skin. He groaned deeply and let his head fall back against the white-tiled wall behind him. His eyes closed, and suddenly the world blurred before his vision. He saw towers, though they weren't the ones at Nevermore Academy. Instead, these were made of solid brick with red roofs, and they lacked the central clock face displaying the time. He heard the murmur of a stream in the distance, the swaying of leafy branches in the wind, and the clanging of metal against metal that occasionally broke the peaceful silence. A girl’s laughter was carried on the breeze, the rustling of cloth, buttons hastily undone, and the creaking of wood. A pair of eyes appeared before him. Eyes that had become terribly familiar to Isaac over the past few months.
His other hand found its place at the back of your head while you took what you needed from him. You drank with neither patience nor restraint, but with all the more reverence. Every now and then, your tongue slid over the two small puncture marks to soothe him, before your fangs sank back into his flesh to taste the blood flowing through his veins.
Your delighted moans, whines for more, and little whimpers clouded his rational mind, making it impossible for Isaac to think clearly. He pressed you closer against him, biting the inside of his cheek to stifle the sounds he might otherwise make. Yet the beating of his heart betrayed just how captivated he was by the sight before him.
He couldn't explain it, but for a moment, the tiles behind his back felt like the trunk of an ancient tree; instead of soap, he smelled something floral in the air, as if suddenly surrounded by nature; and you were more beautiful than any experiment he had ever conducted.
It was another one of those visions from the past. He had no other name for them, though he was deeply interested in them— both scientifically and personally. Certainly not just because the sight of you with his blood on your lips turned him on more than anything else in the world.
Only when a wave of dizziness washed over him did he give your hair a gentle tug: “That’s enough for today, Princess.”
A wide grin lit up your face as you leaned back and looked up at him. His chest heaved deeply, as if he had just run a marathon, and your breathing was rapid, too. Your tongue darted out, sweeping across the corner of your mouth and the upper half of your chin so as not to waste a single drop. You had already had more than enough of him, yet you craved more. Now that you’d had a taste, it would be hard to hold back in the future, especially when he was always as close as he was right now.
“You missed a spot,” he remarked. But before you could ask where— intending to wipe it away with your finger— he suddenly leaned down and licked away the remaining blood smeared on your chin. It took two flicks of his tongue before he leaned back with a confident smile, swallowing the traces of his own blood and the taste of your skin.
Your mouth fell open, your throat went dry, and your stomach did a funny little flip. You were certain you had never felt such heat coursing through your body before.
A sudden, loud knocking stopped you from making a very spontaneous, very wild decision, and something you’d likely be grateful for later. Or maybe not.
“Are you two done in there yet? We need to get going!” Gomez shouted through the wooden door, leaving you blinking in confusion.
"Uh, yeah! Yes, we’re done. Where are we going?" you asked Addams, quickly pulling your shirt back down so the wound could heal undisturbed. The fabric felt foreign on your skin.
“Home.” Gomez’s answer was brief and told you little. Your confusion remained.
“Home? You mean Nevermore? I don't know if that is such a smart idea. After all, we've just—“
“Not our home,” Isaac interrupted, calmly pulling his sleeve down to cover the bite mark you’d left on him. “Your home. Am I right, Gomez?”
“Precisely!” his roommate exclaimed, clapping his hands once. “I’ve always wanted to go to Romania. I can’t imagine a better way to spend the holidays.”
You looked up at Isaac. He merely shrugged.
It seemed you would be traveling home not only with your beloved but also with new friends, new problems, and an old longing that would never fade for the very man, whose blood you just consumed.
summary: You’ve always thought getting high with Andrew was harmless. Then tonight happens, and you realize you’ve been testing the limits of his self-control all along. andrew ‘pope’ cody x f!reader / cw: needy!pope my fav, smoking, weed, subbish!pope barely, he’s so nerdy in this i love it, ocd tendencies, SMUT!! (dubconish, protected piv, fem oral receiving, fingering), cute ending, lmk if im missing some. word count: 5.1k amalia’s love note: shoutout to @wench-hunter-gatherer for this amazing idea, i hope i did it justice <3
The joint passed between your fingers and Pope's, the ember glowing orange against the deepening purple of the sky. The ocean stretched out before you, endless and dark, waves rolling in with that rhythmic crash that made everything else fade away. You were perched on Pope's lap on the old wicker chair on your balcony, his chest warm against your back, and the weed was hitting just right, that floaty, melty feeling where your body felt both heavy and weightless at once.
The air was thick with salt and humidity, that particular heaviness that came with coastal evenings. Your skin felt sticky, and where your bare thighs pressed against Pope's jeans, you could feel the heat radiating between you. The sun had dipped below the horizon maybe twenty minutes ago, leaving behind streaks of pink and orange that were slowly fading to deep purple. A few early stars were beginning to prick through the darkening sky.
“This is perfect,” Pope murmured, his voice rumbling through his chest into your spine. His breath tickled your ear, warm and smelling faintly of weed and the mint gum he'd been chewing earlier. You felt him shift slightly beneath you, adjusting his position, and you became acutely aware of the solid warmth of his thighs, the way his body cradled yours.
“Mm-hmm.” You took another hit, held it, watching the smoke curl from your lips and dissipate into the salt air. Everything felt heightened, the sound of the waves was almost musical, each crash and retreat a perfect rhythm. The wicker chair creaked slightly as you both breathed, and you could hear the distant sound of someone's music playing down the beach, just a faint bass line carrying on the wind.
Pope's hands rested on the arms of the chair, his fingers drumming slightly to some internal beat. You noticed he was being very careful not to touch you, even though you were literally sitting in his lap. It was so Pope, respectful to the point of awkwardness, even in an intimate situation. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he was holding himself carefully still.
The weed was making you hyperaware of every sensation. The cotton of your tank top felt soft against your skin, and you weren't wearing a bra, hadn't bothered when Pope texted saying he was coming over. You could feel your nipples hardening slightly in the cooling evening air, and you wondered if he'd noticed. The thin fabric didn't hide much.
Your shorts were denim cutoffs, frayed at the edges, and they'd ridden up slightly when you'd settled into his lap. You could feel the rough texture of his jeans against the backs of your thighs, and the contrast between that roughness and the smooth warmth of his hands, even though he wasn't touching you, made you shiver slightly.
“You cold?” Pope asked immediately, his voice concerned.
“No,” you said, and your voice came out lower than you'd intended, almost husky. “Just... feeling good.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, and you felt him relax slightly behind you. “This is nice. I needed this. Been a crazy week.”
You hummed in agreement, taking another hit before passing the joint back to him. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, and even that small contact sent a little spark through you. The weed was definitely making you sensitive, making every touch feel more significant.
The ocean continued its endless rhythm, and you found yourself swaying slightly to it, your body moving in small circles. It was unconscious at first, just responding to the sound and the feeling of being high and relaxed. But then you became aware of it, aware of the way your ass was pressing against Pope's lap, the way the movement was creating friction between your bodies.
Pope's breath hitched slightly, and his hands tightened on the chair arms. You felt a little thrill run through you, he'd definitely noticed. You did it again, a little more deliberately this time, rolling your hips in a slow circle.
“You, uh...” Pope's voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat. “You good?”
“I'm great,” you said, and you let your head fall back against his shoulder, exposing the line of your throat. The movement pressed your body more firmly against his, and you felt him tense. “Really, really great.”
You could feel his heart beating faster against your back, could hear the slight change in his breathing. The joint had burned down to almost nothing, and he stubbed it out in the ashtray on the small table beside the chair. His hands returned immediately to the chair arms, gripping them like they were the only thing keeping him grounded.
You wiggled again, this time more obviously, grinding down slightly. The friction sent a pleasant tingle through your body, and you realized with a lazy, weed-hazed smile that you were getting turned on. The sensation was building slowly, a warm pressure between your legs that was becoming harder to ignore.
“Jesus,” Pope breathed, and you felt him shift beneath you, trying to adjust himself. That's when you felt it, the unmistakable hardness pressing against your ass. He was getting hard, and he was clearly embarrassed about it, trying to shift away without being obvious.
But there was nowhere for him to go, and every time he moved, it just created more friction, more awareness of his growing erection. You bit your lip, feeling a surge of arousal mixed with affection. He was trying so hard to be respectful, even as his body betrayed exactly what he was feeling.
“Andy.,” you said softly, turning your head so your lips were close to his ear. You could see his profile in the dim light, the strong line of his jaw, the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard. “It's okay.”
“What's okay?” he asked, his voice strained. “I'm not-I mean, I'm just-“
You wiggled again, deliberately this time, grinding down against the hardness you could feel pressing against you. He made a choked sound, somewhere between a gasp and a groan, and his hands finally left the chair arms, hovering uncertainly near your hips before returning to their safe position.
“You're so hard,” you murmured, and you felt him shudder. “I can feel you.”
“I'm sorry,” he said quickly. “I didn't mean to-you're just sitting there and you're so-and I can't help-fuck, I'm sorry.”
“Don't be sorry,” you said, and you pressed your nose against the side of his neck, inhaling the scent of him. He smelled like weed and ocean air and something distinctly Pope clean sweat and that expensive body wash he used, something woodsy and masculine. You let your lips brush against his skin, just barely, and felt him suck in a sharp breath.
His pulse was racing beneath your lips, and you could feel the heat of his skin. You kissed him again, a little more firmly this time, your lips pressing against the spot where his neck met his shoulder. His skin was slightly salty, and you let your tongue dart out, tasting him.
“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice rough and strained.
“Kissing you,” you said simply, doing it again. You dragged your lips up the column of his throat, feeling the vibration as he groaned. Your hands came up to rest on his thighs, and you felt the muscles tense beneath your palms.
“We're-we're high,” he said, like he was trying to convince himself of something. “And we're friends, and I don't want to-I don't want to take advantage or-“
“Andrew,” you interrupted, turning in his lap so you were straddling him, your knees on either side of his hips. The movement pressed your core directly against his erection, and you both gasped at the contact. His eyes were wide, pupils blown dark, and his lips were parted. He looked wrecked already, and you'd barely done anything. “I want this. Do you want this?”
“I-fuck-yes,” he admitted, his hands finally, finally coming to rest on your hips. His grip was tentative at first, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he held on too tight. “I've wanted this for so long, but I didn't think-I didn't know if you-“
You cut him off by rolling your hips against him, grinding down deliberately. The friction was delicious, the seam of your shorts pressing against your clit through your underwear, and you could feel how hard he was through his jeans. The layers of fabric between you were frustrating and arousing at the same time.
“Oh god,” Pope groaned, his head falling back against the chair. His hands tightened on your hips, and you could see him struggling with himself, wanting to pull you closer, wanting to maintain control. His neck was exposed, the tendons standing out, and you leaned forward to kiss along his throat.
You worked your way up to his jaw, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses, occasionally letting your teeth graze his skin. He was making these small sounds, almost whimpers, and each one sent a bolt of arousal straight through you. Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the warmth of him through his thin t-shirt, and you could feel his heart racing.
“You're killing me,” he breathed, and his hips jerked up involuntarily, seeking more friction. “You're actually killing me.”
“Good,” you murmured against his ear, then caught his earlobe between your teeth, tugging gently. He made a strangled sound, and his hands slid from your hips to your ass, gripping firmly. The touch sent electricity through you, and you ground down harder against him.
You could feel how wet you were getting, your underwear already damp, and the knowledge that he could probably feel it too through the layers of clothing made you even more aroused. You wanted him to know what he was doing to you, wanted him to feel how much you wanted this.
Your hands tangled in his hair, and you tugged slightly, angling his head so you could kiss along his jaw. He had a day or two of stubble, and the scratch of it against your lips was intoxicating. You kissed the corner of his mouth, teasing, and felt him turn his head, trying to capture your lips properly.
But you pulled back, smiling, and kissed down his neck instead. His hands were kneading your ass now, pulling you against him in a rhythm that matched the rolling of your hips. The friction was building, that pressure between your legs intensifying, and you knew if you kept this up you could probably come just from grinding against him.
“Please,” Pope groaned, and you weren't sure what he was begging for. “Please, I need-“
You kissed back up his neck, along his jaw, and finally pressed your lips to his. The kiss was immediately intense, all the pent-up tension exploding between you. His lips were soft and eager, if a little clumsy at first, but then he was kissing you back with increasing confidence, his tongue sliding against yours.
You moaned into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, one hand coming up to cup the back of your head, holding you to him. The kiss was deep and hungry, all teeth and tongue and breathless gasps. You could taste the weed on his tongue, and underneath that, something distinctly him.
Your hips were still moving, grinding against him in a steady rhythm, and you could feel him getting harder, if that was even possible. His jeans had to be painfully tight, and part of you wanted to reach down and free him, to feel him properly. But another part of you was enjoying this, the teasing, the building tension, the way he was completely losing control.
You broke the kiss to gasp for air, and immediately started kissing down his neck again. This time you didn't hold back, sucking hard enough to leave marks, wanting to see evidence of this tomorrow. He groaned, his hips bucking up hard, and you felt a surge of power at the response.
“Fuck, that feels so good,” he panted, his hands sliding under the hem of your tank top, finally touching bare skin. His palms were warm and slightly rough, and the touch sent shivers through you. He explored cautiously at first, his fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then growing bolder, sliding up your ribcage.
When his thumbs brushed the undersides of your breasts, you both froze for a moment. You weren't wearing a bra, and he clearly just realized it. His hands stilled, and you could practically hear him thinking, trying to decide if he should continue.
You made the decision for him, arching your back and pressing your breasts more firmly into his hands. “Touch me,” you breathed against his neck. “Please, Andy, touch me.”
His hands cupped your breasts, and you both moaned at the contact. His thumbs found your nipples, already hard and sensitive, and when he brushed over them, you gasped, your hips jerking against him. The dual sensation, his hands on your breasts, the friction against your clit, was almost overwhelming.
“You feel so good,” he murmured, his voice rough with arousal. “So fucking good. I can't believe-I've thought about this so many times, but I never-“
“What did you think about?” you asked, genuinely curious. You rolled your hips in a particularly deliberate circle, and he groaned.
“This,” he said, his thumbs circling your nipples. “Touching you. Kissing you. I thought about, fuck, I thought about what you'd taste like, what sounds you'd make. I thought about making you come.”
His words sent a bolt of heat through you, and you kissed him again, hard and desperate. Your hands slid under his shirt, needing to feel his skin, and he helped you pull it up slightly.
His chest was muscular and tanned, muscles defined from physical work, and you ran your hands over him appreciatively. His skin was warm and smooth, and you could feel his heart racing beneath your palm. You dragged your nails lightly down his chest, and he shuddered, his hips bucking up hard.
“Inside,” you gasped against his mouth, the need becoming urgent. “We need to-bedroom-“
“Yeah, yeah okay,” he panted, and then you were both standing, stumbling, still kissing frantically. His hands were everywhere now, your waist, your ass, sliding up under your shirt to touch bare skin. You knocked into the doorframe, then the couch, giggling between kisses, drunk on him and the weed and the overwhelming need.
The journey to your bedroom felt like it took forever and no time at all. You were vaguely aware of moving through your apartment, of Pope's hands on you, of the way he kept stopping to press you against walls and kiss you deeper. At one point he lifted you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, grinding against him as he carried you.
“Fuck, you're so hot,” he groaned against your neck, his hands gripping your ass to support you. “I can feel how wet you are, even through your shorts. Are you wet for me?”
“Yes,” you gasped, the dirty talk sending another surge of arousal through you. “So wet. I've been wet since I started grinding on you outside.”
He made a sound that was almost a growl, and then he was moving faster, carrying you the rest of the way to your bedroom. When you finally reached it, he set you down, and you started to pull away, intending to fall back onto the bed. But his hands tightened on your hips, stopping you.
“No, no, wait,” he said, slightly breathless, his lips swollen from kissing. “Don't-don't lay on the bed with those clothes.”
You blinked at him, confused and aroused and impatient. “What?”
“They smell like weed,” he explained, and his hands were already moving to the hem of your tank top, his fingers brushing against your skin. “Gonna get your bedsheets all dirty and smoky, and then you'll have to wash them, and-“
He pulled your shirt up and over your head, dropping it on the floor, still talking in that earnest, practical way that was so quintessentially Pope. Your breasts were exposed now, and you saw his eyes drop to them, his words faltering for a moment before he continued.
“-and that's a pain in the ass, you know? Better to just-“ His hands went to the button of your shorts, and you realized with a thrill that he was undressing you without even seeming to realize what he was doing. He was so focused on his explanation, on the logic of it, that he didn't notice the way your breath had quickened, the way you were watching him with heavy-lidded eyes.
“-take them off now, and then the sheets stay clean, and-“ He popped the button and slowly dragged down the zipper, his knuckles brushing against your lower belly. The touch made you shiver, and you saw him swallow hard, his throat working. “-you won't have to do laundry tomorrow, which is good because laundry sucks, and-“
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your shorts and started pulling them down, kneeling as he did so. The position put his face level with your hips, and you saw his eyes darken as more of your skin was revealed. You were wearing simple cotton underwear, nothing fancy, but they were damp with arousal, and you knew he could see it.
“-the detergent you use is expensive, I've seen it in your bathroom, so it's better to not waste it on sheets that don't really need washing, and-“ Your shorts hit the floor, and his hands skimmed up your thighs, thumbs brushing the edge of your underwear. His face was inches from your core, and you could feel his breath, warm against your skin.
He finally seemed to register what he was doing, his eyes traveling up your body, taking in your underwear, your bare breasts, the expanse of skin he'd just exposed. His hands were still on your thighs, and you could feel them trembling slightly.
“Oh,” he said, his voice rough and low. “Fuck.”
You reached behind you and hooked your thumbs into your underwear, slowly sliding them down. His eyes were locked on the movement, watching as you revealed yourself to him completely. When you stepped out of them, kicking them aside, you were completely naked, and he was still kneeling in front of you, fully dressed, staring at you like you were something holy.
“You were saying something about keeping the sheets clean?” you asked, your voice teasing.
His eyes snapped up to yours, and the heat in them made your breath catch. “I, uh... I forgot.”
“Andrew,” you said, reaching down to cup his face, your thumb brushing over his lower lip. “Your clothes smell like weed too.”
“That's-yeah, that's a good point,” he managed, and then you were pulling at his shirt, and he was helping you, yanking it over his head. You'd already seen his chest, but seeing it again in the better light of your bedroom made you appreciate it more, the muscle, the tan skin, the way his stomach tensed as you ran your hands over it.
You made quick work of his jeans, unbuttoning them and pushing them down along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, hard and flushed, and you wrapped your hand around it, stroking slowly. He made a choked sound, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, and his hands came up to grip your shoulders for balance.
He was hot and hard in your hand, and you could feel him throbbing, could see the bead of precum at the tip. You swiped your thumb over it, spreading it, and he groaned, his head falling forward to rest against your stomach.
“Fuck, that feels good,” he panted against your skin. “But if you keep doing that, I'm gonna come way too fast, and I want-I need to-“
“What do you need?” you asked, still stroking him slowly.
“I need to taste you,” he said, his voice muffled against your stomach. “I've thought about it so many times. Please, can I-“
“Yes,” you said immediately, and then he was guiding you backward to the bed, his hands on your hips. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, you sat, then lay back, and he followed you down, settling between your legs.
For a moment, he just looked at you, his eyes roaming over your body with an intensity that made you feel exposed and desired at the same time. Then he leaned down and kissed your inner thigh, his lips soft and warm against your skin.
“You're so beautiful,” he murmured, kissing higher. “So fucking beautiful. I can't believe I get to do this.”
He kissed his way up your thigh, taking his time, and the anticipation was almost unbearable. When he finally reached your core, he paused, his breath hot against your wet flesh, and then he licked a long, slow stripe up your slit.
You gasped, your hips jerking, and he made a sound of satisfaction, his hands gripping your thighs to hold you in place. He licked again, more firmly this time, and then his tongue found your clit, circling it slowly.
“Oh god,” you moaned, your hands tangling in his hair. “Andy, that's-fuck-“
He was enthusiastic if a little inexperienced, but what he lacked in technique he made up for in eagerness. He experimented, paying attention to your reactions, learning what made you gasp and moan. When he sucked your clit into his mouth, your back arched off the bed, and he did it again, harder this time.
“Yes, like that,” you panted, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Just like that, don't stop-“
He didn't stop. He worked your clit with his mouth, alternating between sucking and licking, and then you felt his finger at your entrance, pressing in slowly. The stretch was delicious, and you moaned, your hips rolling against his face.
He added a second finger, curling them inside you, searching for that spot that would make you see stars. When he found it, you cried out, your whole body tensing, and he focused there, his fingers moving in a steady rhythm while his mouth continued its assault on your clit.
The pleasure built quickly, that familiar tension coiling in your lower belly. You were making sounds you'd be embarrassed about later, but right now you didn't care. All you cared about was the feeling of his mouth on you, his fingers inside you, the way he was completely focused on your pleasure.
“I'm close,” you gasped, and you felt him double his efforts, his fingers moving faster, his mouth more insistent. “Andy, I'm gonna-oh fuck, I'm-“
Your orgasm hit you like a wave, pleasure washing through you in pulses. Your inner walls clenched around his fingers, and you heard him groan against you, the vibration prolonging your climax. He worked you through it, only slowing when you started to squirm from oversensitivity.
When you could breathe again, you looked down at him. His face was flushed, his lips wet and swollen, and he looked at you with such satisfaction and desire that it made you want him all over again.
“Come here,” you said, pulling him up for a kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips, and it made you want him even more. “I need you inside me.”
“Condom,” he said, pulling back slightly. “Do you have-“
“Nightstand,” you gestured, and he reached over, fumbling in the drawer until he found one. You watched as he rolled it on, his hands slightly shaky, and then he was positioning himself between your legs, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance.
“Ready?” he asked, and you loved that he checked, even now, even when you were both desperate for it.
“Yes, fuck, yes-“
He pushed in slowly, and the stretch was perfect, filling you completely. You both groaned at the sensation, and he paused when he was fully seated inside you, his forehead dropping to yours. His arms were shaking slightly with the effort of holding still, and you could see the tension in his jaw.
“You feel so fucking good,” he breathed, his voice strained. “So tight and wet and perfect. I need a second or I'm gonna come right now.”
You clenched around him deliberately, and he made a choked sound, his hips jerking. “Don't-fuck-don't do that, I'm trying to-“
“Move,” you urged, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Andy, please move, I need-“
He pulled almost all the way out, then slid back in, and the friction was delicious. He started a slow rhythm, deep strokes that had you gasping, your nails digging into his shoulders. Each thrust hit something deep inside you, and you could feel the pleasure building again already.
“Harder,” you urged, and he obliged, his hips snapping forward with more force. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room along with your moans and his grunts. He shifted the angle slightly, and suddenly he was hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust.
“Oh god, right there, don't stop-“ You were babbling now, incoherent with pleasure, and he maintained that perfect angle, that perfect rhythm, driving you higher and higher.
“You feel so good,” he groaned, his face buried in your neck. “So fucking good. I've wanted this for so long. Wanted you for so long.”
His words sent a surge of emotion through you, mixing with the physical pleasure, and you pulled him down for a kiss. It was messy and desperate, all tongue and teeth, and you could feel him getting close, his rhythm starting to falter.
“Wait,” you said, pushing at his chest. “I want-can we-“
He pulled out, looking concerned. “What's wrong?”
“Nothing,” you assured him quickly. “I just want to be on top.”
His eyes darkened, and he rolled onto his back, pulling you with him. You straddled him, positioning yourself over his cock, and slowly sank down. From this angle, he went even deeper, and you both moaned at the sensation.
You started to move, rolling your hips in a slow grind, and his hands came up to grip your waist. From this position, he had a perfect view of your body, and you could see his eyes roaming over you, your breasts, your stomach, the place where your bodies were joined.
“Fuck, you're so hot,” he groaned, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts. “I love watching you ride me. I love seeing you take what you need.”
You increased your pace, bouncing on him now, and the pleasure was intense. You could feel him so deep, hitting all the right spots, and the friction against your clit was perfect. One of your hands came down to touch yourself, your fingers finding your clit, and Pope's eyes locked on the movement.
“That's so hot,” he panted, his hips thrusting up to meet yours. “Touch yourself. Make yourself come on my cock.”
The dirty talk was unexpected and incredibly arousing, and you rubbed your clit faster, chasing your orgasm. Pope's hands were on your hips now, helping you move, and you could feel him getting close, his cock throbbing inside you.
“I'm gonna come,” you gasped, your movements becoming erratic. “Andy, I'm-“
“Come for me,” he urged, his voice rough. “I want to feel you come. Want to feel you squeeze my cock.”
Your orgasm hit you hard, your whole body tensing, inner walls clenching around him rhythmically. The sensation triggered his own release, and he thrust up hard, groaning your name as he came. You could feel him pulsing inside you, and it prolonged your own pleasure, waves of sensation washing over you.
You collapsed forward onto his chest, both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat. His arms came around you, holding you close, and you could feel his heart racing against your cheek.
For a long moment, you both just lay there, catching your breath, enjoying the afterglow. Then Pope carefully lifted you off him, disposing of the condom before pulling you back against his chest.
“That was...” he started, then trailed off, like he couldn't find the words.
“Yeah,” you agreed, pressing a kiss to his chest. “It really was.”
“I meant what I said,” he murmured, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. “About wanting you. This wasn't just... I mean, I really like you. Have for a while.”
You lifted your head to look at him, seeing the vulnerability in his eyes. “I really like you too,” you said softly. “This wasn't just a high hookup for me either.”
He smiled, that genuine, slightly awkward Pope smile that you loved, and pulled you in for a kiss. This one was slower, sweeter, full of promise.
“Stay,” you said when you broke apart. “Tonight. Stay with me.”
“Yeah,” he said, his arms tightening around you. “I'd like that.”
Outside, the ocean continued its endless rhythm, and inside, wrapped in Pope's arms, you felt perfectly, completely content. The high was starting to fade, but the feeling of rightness, of finally being where you were supposed to be, only grew stronger.
You dozed for a while, comfortable in the silence, but eventually you felt Pope stir beneath you. “Hey,” he said softly. “You awake?”
“Mmm,” you hummed, not quite ready to move.
“I was thinking...” he started, his hand sliding down your back to cup your ass. “We should probably shower. Get the weed smell off properly.”
You lifted your head, seeing the mischief in his eyes, and grinned. “Is that right?”
“Yeah,” he said, his hand squeezing gently. “Wouldn't want to smell like weed tomorrow. Very irresponsible.”
“So responsible of you,” you teased, sitting up. His eyes immediately dropped to your breasts, and you saw his cock twitch with interest. “Think you can go again?”
“With you?” he said, pulling you down for a kiss. “Definitely.”
The shower was long and steamy, full of soapy hands and slippery skin and Pope pressing you against the tile wall as he fucked you from behind, his hand over your mouth to muffle your moans. The water cascaded over you both, and when you came, it was with his name on your lips and his teeth on your shoulder.
Afterward, you dried off and climbed into bed properly, your sheets still clean just like Pope had wanted. He pulled you against him, your back to his chest, and you felt his lips press against your shoulder.
“This is perfect,” he murmured, echoing his words from earlier on the balcony.
you don’t know why you thought simon would be a cocky fuck.
maybe it was how cool and collected he always was. that hot, quiet confidence.
if only you knew when you’d finally got him into bed. ready for him to be rough, to be a little mean, not that you’d mind.
in reality, he was whining into your neck as he pumped into you at a primal speed. whispering and mumbling half words into your throat as he groped you anywhere he could. his eyes were rolled and he was drooling on your collarbone.
“o-oh.. oh, fuck- nghhhuhh… yyeah?.. awww… my baby.. gonna fill y-you… mhm…”
sweet little brain-numb nothings falling of the tongue of the smartest, coldest man you know.
and you could’ve cum just from the sight when he lifted his head and started actually panting and pathetically stuttering his hips against yours like a mutt.
Summary: corporate humiliation (noun): when you ask the woman in the conference room to fetch your coffee and she turns out to be the billionaire about to buy your entire team. Charles Leclerc’s guide to career suicide includes mistaking your future boss for an intern, begging on your knees not to be sent to Alpine, and surviving a six-year-old’s birthday party as penance. The worst part? He’s pretty sure he’s falling for you
The air in Maranello always tastes different.
It’s a flavor Charles knows better than the back of his own hand. It’s a metallic, hopeful tang of hot engines and curing carbon fiber, layered over the sweet, earthy scent of balsamic vinegar and parmesan that drifts from the town. It is the taste of ambition. The taste of home.
Today, it tastes like ash in his mouth.
The summons was vague, delivered via a clipped, formal email from Fred Vasseur’s personal assistant. Meeting. 15:00. Main Conference Room, Gestione Sportiva. Mr. Elkann will be present.
That was it. No agenda. No context. And that, in the world of Scuderia Ferrari, is never, ever a good thing.
His heart hammers against his ribs in a frantic, unsteady rhythm that has nothing to do with athletic exertion. He walks the hallowed, clinically white halls, his PUMA sneakers squeaking softly on the polished floor. Every gleaming trophy in its glass case seems to mock him. Every larger-than-life photo of a past champion feels like a judgment.
He’s replayed the last few races in his mind a thousand times on the short drive over. Did he say something wrong in a debrief? Was there a clause in his contract he’d forgotten about? The car isn’t where it needs to be, but that’s not his fault. He’s been driving the absolute wheels off it, wringing performance from it that has no business existing. It has to be something else.
The door to the main conference room is slightly ajar. He pushes it open, the heavy wood swinging silently on its hinges.
And the room is not empty.
Seated at the far end of the impossibly long, gleaming mahogany table is a woman. No, not a woman. A girl, maybe? You look young. He can’t see your face properly, it’s angled down, illuminated by the soft glow of a tablet propped in front of you. Sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows catches in your hair, turning the strands into a halo of spun gold. You’re wearing a simple, cream-colored silk blouse and dark trousers. Elegant, but understated. Not the severe, high-fashion power suit of the usual corporate types who haunt these rooms.
He clears his throat.
You look up, and for a second, the air leaves his lungs. It’s not a dramatic, cinematic moment. It’s quieter, more profound. It’s the simple, jarring realization that he has never seen a face quite like yours before. It’s a composition of soft lines and sharp intelligence, your eyes — a deep, unreadable shade — holding his for a beat longer than is socially acceptable.
He blinks, recovering himself. New intern. Must be. Or maybe a junior marketing assistant, brought in to take notes. They’re always hiring bright young things from Bocconi University.
“Hello,” he says, his voice a little rougher than he intends. He strides into the room, dropping his phone and keys onto the table with a clatter. The sound echoes in the cavernous space.
“Hi,” you reply. Your voice is low, smooth. It holds a hint of an accent he can’t quite place, a musicality that makes the simple word sound like a melody.
He gestures vaguely towards the gleaming, state-of-the-art espresso machine in the corner of the room, a chrome beast that costs more than a decent road car. “Do you know how to work that thing?”
You follow his gaze. A small, almost imperceptible smile touches your lips. It’s not a mocking smile. It’s … amused. Curious. “I think I can figure it out.”
“Great.” He pulls out a chair, scraping it against the floor, and sinks into it. The anxiety is making him antsy, irritable. “An espresso, please. Doppio. No sugar.”
He doesn’t mean for it to sound like an order. Not really. It just comes out that way. He’s a man who lives his life in tenths of a second, a life of commands and instant responses. ‘Box, Charles, box.’ ‘Push now, push now.’ His request is just another line of code in a life run on efficient instructions.
From your perspective, the situation is almost comical. You’ve spent the last seventy-two hours in brutal, back-to-back meetings with lawyers and accountants, dissecting financial statements that could choke a supercomputer. You’ve been up since four this morning, preparing. The weight of your family’s legacy, a global empire built over four generations, rests squarely on your shoulders. You are here to negotiate the potential acquisition of one of the most iconic brands in human history.
And this man, this beautiful, anxious, impossibly famous man, thinks you’re here to fetch his coffee.
You could correct him. You could flash a sharp, cutting smile and introduce yourself, watch the dawning horror spread across his face. It would be easy. It might even be satisfying.
But where’s the fun in that?
Besides, there’s something about the raw tension radiating from him that intrigues you. He’s not just being arrogant. He’s terrified. You can see it in the way his jaw is clenched, the way his famous green-blue eyes keep darting towards the door. He’s a bundle of frayed nerves stuffed into a designer team-issue polo shirt.
So, you stand up. The silk of your blouse whispers against the leather of the chair. “Doppio, no sugar. Got it.”
Charles just nods, already lost in his phone, scrolling through motorsport news sites as if they might hold the answer to his impending doom. He doesn’t watch you walk to the machine. He doesn’t notice the quiet competence with which you operate it, the practiced movements that suggest you’ve made your own coffee a thousand times before. He just hears the comforting gurgle and hiss of the machine, the clink of ceramic.
You place the small, white cup and saucer on the polished table beside his elbow. The rich, dark aroma of the coffee wafts up, a stark contrast to the sterile air of the room.
“Thanks,” he mutters, not looking up. He picks up the cup, his long, artistic fingers — fingers that can tame a 1000-horsepower monster at 300 kilometers per hour — wrapping around the delicate handle. He takes a sip, the bitter liquid a familiar jolt to his system.
He risks a glance at you. You’ve returned to your seat at the head of the table, your attention back on your tablet. You look completely unbothered, as if serving coffee to distracted Formula 1 drivers is a perfectly normal part of your day.
The silence stretches. It’s awkward. He feels a prickle of something — maybe guilt? He was a little rude.
“Sorry,” he says, clearing his throat again. “I’m just … it’s been a long day.”
You finally look up from the tablet, your full attention on him. And when you do, he feels pinned in place. Your eyes are astonishingly perceptive. It feels like you can see right through the bravado, right to the frantic, panicked hamster running on a wheel in his brain.
“It’s not over yet,” you say softly.
The words hang in the air, cryptic and heavy. Before he can try to decipher them, the door swings open again.
John Elkann walks in, followed closely by Fred Vasseur. The shift in the room’s atmosphere is instantaneous. The air crackles with authority. John, with his patrician bearing and impeccably tailored suit, is the embodiment of quiet, immense power. Fred, by contrast, is a study in controlled chaos, his usual rumpled energy sharpened to a point.
Charles scrambles to his feet. “John. Fred.”
John gives him a curt, polite nod, but his focus, his entire attention, is on you. A warm, genuine smile spreads across his face, a sight so rare it’s like witnessing a solar eclipse.
“Y/N,” he says, his voice rich with Italian warmth. He bypasses Charles completely, walking to the head of the table where you are now rising gracefully from your chair. He takes your hand, bowing his head slightly to press a light kiss to your knuckles in a classic, courtly gesture. “It is a true pleasure to see you again. I trust your journey was comfortable?”
You smile back, a radiant, easy expression that transforms your entire face. “Perfectly, John. Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice.”
Fred is next, shaking your hand firmly. “Ms. Y/L/N. Welcome to Maranello. We are all very pleased you could make it.”
Charles stands frozen in place, a statue of dawning comprehension. The espresso cup feels slick in his suddenly sweaty palm. The gears in his brain are grinding, trying to connect the dots, but they’re moving through thick, syrupy dread. Y/N Y/L/N. The name sounds vaguely familiar, but he can’t place it. A sponsor? A new board member?
John finally turns to him, his expression now coolly professional. The warmth he showed you has vanished completely.
“Charles,” he says, his tone leaving no room for pleasantries. “Thank you for joining us. I believe you haven’t been formally introduced.”
Charles’s mouth is dry. He feels like a schoolboy called to the principal’s office.
John gestures from you to him. “Charles Leclerc, this is Y/N Y/L/N.”
There’s a beat of silence. Charles manages a tight, strangled nod. He still doesn’t get it. Who are you?
Fred decides to rip the bandage off.
“Ms. Y/L/N,” Fred says, his French accent thick, “is the CEO and Chairwoman of Y/L/N Holdings.”
The name clicks. Not from the business section of a newspaper, but from the high-octane world of finance and power that occasionally intersects with his own. Y/L/N Holdings. They aren’t just a company, they’re a modern dynasty. A colossal, family-run conglomerate with controlling stakes in everything from technology and pharmaceuticals to luxury fashion and green energy. They are spoken of in the same hushed, reverent tones as Berkshire Hathaway or LVMH. They don’t sponsor teams. They buy them. They buy the leagues the teams compete in.
Charles feels the blood drain from his face. Every drop. He feels light-headed, dizzy, as if he’s just stepped out of the cockpit after a 70-lap race in Singapore.
He looks at you. You, the woman he just ordered to get him an espresso. You, the head of one of the most powerful and influential private corporations on the planet.
And you are looking right back at him. Your expression is perfectly, maddeningly neutral, but he sees it. Deep in your eyes, there’s a flicker. A tiny, dancing spark of pure amusement.
He is so, so screwed.
“We are here today,” John continues, his voice a low drumbeat of doom, “to enter into preliminary discussions with Ms. Y/L/N about the future of Ferrari. All of it. The road cars, the brand, and, of course, Scuderia Ferrari.”
The room tilts on its axis. Charles physically grips the back of his chair to steady himself. Buy Ferrari? The idea is sacrilege. It’s unthinkable. Ferrari isn’t just a company; it’s a national treasure, an Italian institution. And this woman … this girl … she’s here to put a price tag on it.
His brain, which can process thousands of data points a minute during a race, is now stuck in a horrifying loop.
I told the potential new owner of the team to get me a coffee.
I told the woman who could soon be signing my paychecks to fetch me an espresso.
I treated her like an intern.
His career flashes before his eyes. The karting championships. The hard-won F2 title. The dream-come-true moment of signing with Ferrari. All of it, spiraling down the drain because he was too arrogant and too anxious to have a single shred of basic courtesy.
He’s going to be fired. No, worse. She won’t just fire him. She’ll make an example of him. He’ll be bought out of his contract and publicly humiliated. He’ll be forced to sign with Alpine. The thought is so horrifying it’s almost paralyzing. He can already picture the depressing blue and pink car, the endless midfield battles, the sheer, soul-crushing mediocrity of it all.
“Please, everyone, sit,” you say, your voice cutting smoothly through his internal spiral of terror.
John and Fred take their seats. Charles moves stiffly, mechanically, lowering himself back into his chair. He feels like a condemned man taking his place at his own trial. He risks another look at you. You’re arranging your tablet, your movements fluid and confident. You are completely in your element. You own this room. You might soon own him.
“Charles,” you say, your tone casual, as if the last five minutes haven’t just shattered his entire world.
He flinches, his head snapping up. “Yes?” The word comes out as a squeak.
You gesture towards the small white cup still sitting next to his hand. “How’s the espresso?”
The question is a stiletto, slid expertly between his ribs. It’s not an accusation. It’s a gentle, devastating reminder of his monumental blunder. John raises an eyebrow, a silent question passing between him and Fred. They have no idea what you’re talking about, but they can feel the sudden, specific tension radiating from their star driver.
Charles can’t breathe. His mind is a static-filled television screen. What is he supposed to say? ‘It’s great, thank you for your excellent service, Ms. Y/L/N, my potential future boss whom I have insulted beyond all repair’?
He looks at you, his eyes wide with a desperate, silent plea. Please don’t. Please don’t tell them.
A slow, secret smile finally breaks through your composure. It’s a breathtaking thing, a flash of warmth and mischief that lights up your face. You give him a tiny, almost imperceptible wink.
It’s not a reprieve. It’s a promise. I own you now.
“It’s … perfect,” Charles chokes out, his voice hoarse. “Thank you.”
You just nod, your smile vanishing as you turn your attention to John. “John, my team has reviewed the preliminary financials you sent over. I have some questions regarding the projected Q4 earnings for the automotive division before we move on to the Gestione Sportiva …”
The meeting begins. The words flow around Charles, a meaningless soup of financial jargon and corporate strategy. EBITDA, amortization, market capitalization, synergy. He hears none of it. All he can hear is the frantic thumping of his own heart and your voice, calm and authoritative, as you dissect the company he has dedicated his life to, piece by piece.
He sits there, trapped at the table, a ghost at the feast. He has to project an air of calm confidence, of being the franchise driver, the cornerstone of the team, while inside, he is screaming.
Every so often, your eyes drift from the financial reports and land on him. You don’t say a word to him. You don’t have to. The message is clear. He made a fatal error in judgment. He mistook the person with all the power in the room for the person with none.
And now, his future is in the hands of the woman he sent to get his coffee.
***
The drive back to his apartment is a twenty-minute exercise in controlled dissociation. Charles operates the vehicle on pure muscle memory, his mind a million miles away, replaying the meeting on a torturous, high-definition loop. The polite smile on John’s face. The concerned frown on Fred’s. And your eyes. Always, it comes back to your eyes, holding that glint of knowing amusement. That terrifying, brilliant spark that told him you saw everything.
He barely registers parking his car in the underground garage or taking the elevator up to his penthouse. The door to his apartment clicks shut behind him, and the sound reverberates in the sudden, oppressive silence.
His apartment is his sanctuary. A cool, minimalist space of clean lines, polished concrete floors, and vast windows that look out over the rolling hills of Emilia-Romagna. It’s a place of quiet and order, designed to soothe his perpetually overstimulated mind. A grand piano, a glossy black Yamaha, sits in the main living area, the only object that hints at the passion beneath his controlled exterior.
Today, the silence doesn’t soothe. It suffocates.
He doesn’t take off his shoes. He doesn’t put his keys in the bowl by the door. He paces. Back and forth, back and forth across the expensive rug, his phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. His mind is a high-speed collision of worst-case scenarios.
He sees himself in a Haas, fighting for P17 with the kind of grim determination reserved for men whose dreams have died. He sees the pitying looks from his former colleagues, the triumphant smirks from his rivals. He sees the headlines: ‘LECLERC’S FERRARI DREAM ENDS IN MYSTERIOUS SPLIT.’
The wink. That tiny, devastating wink you gave him. It wasn’t a gesture of solidarity. It was a death sentence delivered with a smile. It said, ‘I know what you did, and I am going to enjoy this.’
He can’t take it anymore. He stabs at his phone screen, his fingers clumsy with panic. He starts a video conference, adding two numbers. Two faces pop onto the screen, one after the other.
First is Lorenzo. His face, a slightly softer, warmer version of Charles’s own, is etched with immediate concern. He’s clearly at home, a collage of photos held on by magnets visible on the refrigerator behind him. “Charles? What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Before he can answer, the second face appears. Nicolas Todt. His manager. His face is framed by the sterile white of an office, his expression sharp, analytical. He’s a man who deals in facts and contracts, not emotions. “Charles. This is unexpected. Is everything alright?”
Charles stops pacing and stares into the phone, his eyes wide and haunted. He runs a hand through his already messy hair.
“No, Nicolas. Everything is not alright,” he says, his voice tight and strained. “I need you to do something for me. Both of you.”
Lorenzo leans closer to his camera. “Anything, Charlou. What’s happened?”
Charles takes a deep, shaky breath, as if preparing to jump from a great height.
“I need you to start calling other teams,” he says, the words rushing out in a torrent. “Call Ayao Komatsu. Call James Vowles. Call anyone. I don’t care. Just find me a seat for next year. Any seat. I will drive a tractor if I have to, but my time at Ferrari is over.”
Silence.
Lorenzo and Nicolas exchange a bewildered look across the digital divide.
Lorenzo is the first to speak, his voice gentle, coaxing. “Okay, Charles, just … slow down. Breathe. What in God’s name are you talking about? You have a contract. A multi-year contract.”
“Contracts can be broken!” Charles almost yells, his voice cracking. He starts pacing again, the phone held out in front of him like a scanner sweeping a disaster zone. “There are clauses. Performance clauses, conduct clauses, clauses for bringing the brand into disrepute! I have probably violated all of them in the space of ten minutes!”
Nicolas’s eyes narrow. His professional calm is absolute, but Charles knows him well enough to see the flicker of genuine alarm. Nicolas deals with problems. For him to be alarmed, the problem must be monumental.
“Charles,” Nicolas says, his tone clipped and serious. “Stop talking about tractors and tell us exactly what happened. From the beginning.”
And so, he tells them. He recounts the cryptic email, the anxiety, walking into the empty conference room. He describes you. And then, he gets to the fatal moment.
“… so I asked her to get me an espresso.”
He says it flatly, the words tasting like poison.
Lorenzo’s mouth falls open. For a second, he looks like he might laugh, then he sees the sheer, unadulterated terror on his brother’s face, and the humor dies in his throat. “You … you asked her for a coffee? Charles, who is she?”
“She is Y/N Y/L/N,” Charles says, the name feeling like a curse. “She is the CEO of Y/L/N Holdings.”
Nicolas goes rigid. He says nothing. He doesn’t have to. The complete and utter stillness that comes over him is more terrifying than any outburst. He brings a hand to his mouth, his gaze distant. He is processing. Calculating. Running scenarios.
“Y/L/N Holdings,” Lorenzo repeats slowly, the name dawning on him. “The ones who just bought that biotech firm? And the fashion house? That Y/L/N Holdings?”
“The very same,” Charles says, his voice hollow. “And they are not here to buy a biotech firm, Lorenzo. They are here to buy Ferrari. The whole thing. John Elkann said it himself.”
A heavy, profound silence descends upon the call. Lorenzo just stares, speechless. Nicolas’s mind is clearly working at a thousand miles an hour.
“Mon Dieu,” Lorenzo finally breathes, summing up the situation with perfect, horrified simplicity.
“You see?” Charles cries, his voice rising with hysteria. “You see why it’s over? I didn’t just insult a sponsor. I insulted the potential new owner of the entire company! I treated her like a servant. And she knows it. When Elkann introduced us, she looked at me … and she winked. She is going to fire me. She will take one look at my contract and tear it into a million pieces. It will be her first act as owner. ‘Get the arrogant little Monegasque driver out of my sight.’ I can hear it already!”
Nicolas finally speaks, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Stop. Panicking.”
Charles stops, breathing heavily.
“First,” Nicolas says, holding up a finger. “You are not calling Haas. You are not calling Williams. You are the lead driver for Scuderia Ferrari, and we will not project that level of weakness and desperation. Is that clear?”
Charles nods mutely.
“Second,” Nicolas continues, his gaze intense. “Catastrophizing is a waste of energy. We have a situation. A … deeply unfortunate and incredibly stupid situation, but a situation nonetheless. And we will manage it.”
“How?” Charles demands. “How do you manage this? Do I send her a gift basket? What’s the protocol for offending a billionaire who is about to own you? Should the fruit be domestic or exotic?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Nicolas snaps, the first crack in his professional veneer. “This is not about gift baskets. This is about damage control and strategy.”
Lorenzo, recovering from his shock, shifts into his role as the practical older brother. “Okay. Okay. Nicolas is right. Panicking isn’t a plan. What did she do when you asked for the coffee?”
“She got it for me,” Charles whispers, the absurdity of it hitting him all over again.
“She just … said okay and made you an espresso?” Lorenzo asks, incredulous.
“Yes! No argument, no comment. She just did it. That’s what makes it so much worse! She was playing with me! It was a test, and I failed spectacularly.”
“Or,” Nicolas interjects, his mind piecing things together, “she has a sense of humor. Or she was amused by the absurdity of it. We have no data on her personality. We are operating blind.”
“So what do we do?” Charles asks, his voice small. He feels like a child again, looking to his older brother and his manager to fix a mess he’s made.
“We need to formulate an apology,” Nicolas states. “A direct, sincere, and immediate apology. This cannot wait. Every hour that passes makes you look more arrogant and unconcerned.”
“How?” Charles asks. “I don’t have her number. I can’t exactly send her a message on Instagram.”
“No,” Nicolas agrees. “This needs a more delicate touch. A formal letter is too cold. An email could be missed or feel impersonal. You need to do it in person.”
Charles recoils. “In person? No. No way. I can’t face her. She will just look at me with those eyes and I will simply … combust.”
“You will not combust,” Lorenzo says firmly. “You will act like a man and you will apologize. But Nicolas is right, it has to be handled carefully. You can’t just ambush her at her hotel. That’s stalker behavior.”
“We need to find out everything we can about her,” Nicolas says, already typing furiously on his computer, his eyes scanning a different screen. “I am looking at her professional profile now. Y/L/N Holdings is a private entity, famously secretive. But she has given a few interviews. Forbes, Wall Street Journal …”
“What do they say?” Charles asks, desperate for any insight.
“They say she is brilliant,” Nicolas reads, his tone grim. “A prodigy. Took over the family business at twenty-five after her father retired. Quadrupled its value in six years. Known for … ah. Here we go. ‘An unconventional but ruthless negotiation style.’ And here, another one calls her ‘the iron butterfly.’”
“The iron butterfly?” Lorenzo scoffs. “What does that even mean?”
“It means she is beautiful and delicate on the outside, but underneath she is made of steel,” Charles says miserably. “It means I am dead.”
“It means she is a serious businessperson who likely does not have time for the bruised ego of a racing driver,” Nicolas corrects him sharply. “Which could work for or against us. She might dismiss this as a trivial matter, or she might see you as an unprofessional liability.”
“So, what is the plan?” Lorenzo presses, bringing them back on track. “We need a concrete plan, right now.”
Nicolas leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. The strategist has taken over. “Okay. Here is what we do. Step one: Charles, you are going to write an apology. Not an email. A letter. On proper stationery. You will write it by hand.”
“By hand?” Charles balks. “My handwriting is terrible.”
“I don’t care if you have to write it in crayon,” Nicolas says. “It needs to be personal. It needs to show effort. You will take responsibility. You will not make excuses about being stressed or anxious. You will state that your behavior was unacceptable, and you are extremely sorry. Nothing more. No groveling. Just a clean, sincere apology.”
Lorenzo nods in agreement. “He’s right. It has to be genuine.”
“Step two,” Nicolas continues. “I will reach out to my contacts. I will find out where she is staying. Not to ambush her, but to have the letter delivered by a professional courier tomorrow morning. It will be the first thing she sees. It shows initiative.”
“And step three?” Charles asks, a tiny, fragile sliver of hope beginning to form amidst the wreckage of his panic.
“Step three is the most difficult,” Nicolas says, his eyes locking with Charles’s through the screen. “You need to find a way to speak with her. Face to face. The letter opens the door. You have to walk through it.”
“But how? When?”
“Fred,” Lorenzo suggests. “You could go through Fred. Ask him to set up a brief, five-minute meeting. Say you want to properly welcome her to the team.”
Nicolas considers this. “It’s a possibility. But it also signals to Fred that something is wrong. He will ask questions.”
“It’s better than the alternative, which is Charles hiding in his apartment until he is formally dismissed via courier,” Lorenzo argues.
“I hate this,” Charles groans, sinking onto his sofa and burying his face in his hands. “I feel like I’m in a nightmare.”
“You are not in a nightmare. You are in a crisis of your own making, and you will deal with it,” Nicolas says, his voice hard but not unkind. “Now, listen to me, Charles. This woman, this ‘iron butterfly,’ she did not get to where she is by being petty. People have likely made far worse mistakes around her than assuming she was an intern. Your saving grace here might be the sheer absurdity of the situation.”
“And the wink?” Charles asks, his voice muffled by his hands. “What about the wink?”
“The wink is a data point we cannot yet interpret,” Nicolas says. “It could be mockery. It could be amusement. It could be her telling you she knows she has you at a disadvantage. It doesn’t matter. Your course of action remains the same. Humility. Sincerity. Professionalism. You must show her that the man who asked for the coffee is not the real Charles Leclerc.”
The call continues for another hour. They debate the exact wording of the letter. They discuss potential scenarios for a face-to-face meeting. Lorenzo provides emotional support, reminding Charles of every other time he’s faced adversity and come out stronger. Nicolas provides the cold, hard strategy, a road map out of the disaster.
By the time they hang up, Charles feels … not good, but fractionally less terrified. The panic has receded from a tidal wave to a manageable, if still treacherous, current. He has a plan. A fragile, desperate plan, but a plan nonetheless.
He is left alone once more in the echoing silence of his apartment. The setting sun casts long, dramatic shadows across the room, painting the walls in hues of orange and blood red.
He walks over to a sleek, modern desk and pulls out a sheet of thick, cream-colored paper and a fountain pen. It feels archaic, like preparing for a duel. He stares at the blank page for a long, long time.
How do you apologize for an insult that was rooted in such a misjudgment of a person’s entire being? How do you write a letter to a woman who holds your entire future in the palm of her hand?
He uncaps the pen, the nib scratching softly as he begins to write.
Dear Ms. Y/L/N,
He stops. It feels too formal, too cold. He crumples up the paper, the sound aggressively loud in the quiet room. He takes another sheet.
Dear Y/N,
Too familiar. A fresh wave of anxiety washes over him. He feels completely and utterly out of his depth. He is a man who understands braking points, tire degradation, and the delicate art of a qualifying lap. He does not understand this.
He gets up from the desk and walks over to the grand piano. He sits on the bench, his fingers hovering over the keys. He begins to play. A sad, melancholic Chopin nocturne. The notes fill the room, a language he is fluent in, a way to express the complex, swirling storm of regret and fear inside him.
He plays for her, the unseen, unknown woman who single-handedly overturned his world. The iron butterfly. He plays, and wonders if you can be reasoned with. He plays, and wonders if you have any idea of the chaos you’ve unleashed.
He plays, and he hopes, with a desperation he has not felt since his very first race, that you are a person who knows how to forgive.
***
It takes him three nights and seventeen crumpled sheets of paper to write the letter.
Each failed attempt is a monument to his anxiety. One draft is too groveling, another too stiff and formal. One sounds like it was written by a lawyer, the next like a panicked text message. He is trying to distill the entire, complex storm of his regret and terror onto a single page, and the task feels impossible.
In the end, exhaustion wins. On the third night, sometime after 2 AM, with the melancholic echo of another Chopin nocturne still hanging in the air from his piano, he gives up on trying to be strategic. He just writes.
The final version is short, brutally honest, and devoid of excuses. He writes that his behavior was unprofessional and inexcusable. He writes that he was deeply embarrassed by his own arrogance. He writes, simply, that he was sorry. He signs it, ‘Charles Leclerc,’ his signature a barely legible scrawl.
The next morning, a professional courier in a crisp, unmarked uniform picks up the envelope. Charles watches from his window as the courier’s scooter disappears down the winding Maranello roads, carrying his fragile paper-and-ink peace offering.
And then, the waiting begins.
It is a unique form of torture. For the next seventy-two hours, his phone becomes a source of constant, tormenting hope and crushing disappointment. Every buzz, every notification, sends a jolt of pure adrenaline through his system. He checks his email every five minutes. He has tense, circular conversations with Nicolas and Lorenzo, who can offer nothing but strategic patience, a concept entirely foreign to a man who lives his life in milliseconds.
“Any news?” Lorenzo asks, for the tenth time, on Wednesday afternoon.
“Nothing,” Charles says, pacing a well-worn path in his living room rug. “Silence. Maybe she never got it. Maybe her assistant threw it away. Maybe she read it, laughed, and set it on fire.”
“Or,” Nicolas cuts in, his voice a dry, calming presence over the speakerphone, “she is an extremely busy woman negotiating a multi-billion-dollar corporate acquisition and has not had a spare moment to deal with a contrite racing driver. The silence is not necessarily a bad sign, Charles. A swift rejection would have been worse.”
The logic is sound, but it offers little comfort. The silence is a vacuum, and his anxiety rushes in to fill it with horrifying possibilities.
Finally, on Wednesday evening, an email appears. It is not from you. The sender is ‘Office of the CEO, Y/L/N Holdings.’ The subject line is simple: ‘Meeting: Y/N Y/L/N & C. Leclerc.’
His heart stops. His hands tremble as he opens it.
The body of the message is brutally efficient.
Mr. Leclerc,
Ms. Y/L/N can see you tomorrow, Thursday, at 4 PM.
Location: The Terrazza, Fiorano Circuit.
Please be prompt.
That’s it. No pleasantries. No acknowledgement of his letter. Just a time and a place.
“The Terrazza?” Lorenzo says when Charles reads it aloud to him and Nicolas. “What is that?”
“It’s the rooftop hospitality suite at the test track,” Charles explains, his mouth dry. “It’s private. Exclusive. You can see the entire circuit from up there.”
“A neutral ground,” Nicolas muses. “No, not neutral. She chose the location. It’s her ground now. She is setting the terms of the engagement. This is a power move.”
“So, what do I do?” Charles asks, his voice barely a whisper.
“You prepare,” Nicolas says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You will be calm. You will be professional. You will wear something smart, but not a suit. You will reiterate your apology once, briefly. You will not ramble. You will not make excuses. And then you will be quiet and let her speak. And Charles, I cannot stress this enough: you will not, under any circumstances, beg.”
***
The next day, at 3:45 PM, Charles is in a state of quiet, spiraling panic.
He stands in front of his wardrobe, having already discarded three perfectly acceptable outfits. He has rehearsed his opening line in the mirror a dozen times, and it sounds more stilted and unnatural with each repetition. Nicolas’s final words echo in his mind: ‘Do not beg. Project confidence. You are an asset, not a supplicant.’
It’s good advice. It’s also completely impossible to follow. He feels like a supplicant. He feels like a condemned prisoner walking to his own execution.
He finally settles on dark trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a soft, unstructured navy blue blazer. It feels like a costume. The clothes of a man who is calm and in control, a man he is pretending to be.
The walk from the main Gestione Sportiva building to the Fiorano trackside suites is short, but it feels like miles. The late afternoon sun is golden and warm, casting long shadows across the immaculate grounds. In the distance, he can hear the faint, high-pitched scream of a junior driver putting an older F1 car through its paces on the track. It’s a sound that has been the soundtrack to his entire life, a sound of comfort and purpose. Today, it sounds like a eulogy for his career.
He takes the private elevator up to the Terrazza. The doors slide open with a soft hiss, revealing a stunning, open-air space. Glass walls provide an uninterrupted panorama of the legendary circuit below, its asphalt ribbon winding through the green Italian landscape. There are tasteful arrangements of lounge furniture, a sleek outdoor bar, and at the far end, a small, shaded table for two.
You are already there.
You sit with your back to him, looking out over the track, a glass of sparkling water on the table in front of you. You’re wearing a simple, elegant black dress that leaves your shoulders bare. Your hair is tied back loosely, and the gentle breeze plays with a few escaped strands. You look serene, a portrait of effortless power.
He takes a breath, the air feeling thin and sharp in his lungs. Be calm. Be professional. Do not beg.
He walks towards you, his expensive leather shoes making no sound on the stone tiles.
“Ms. Y/L/N?” He says, his voice coming out as a rough croak.
You turn. Not with a start, but with a slow, deliberate grace, as if you sensed him approaching all along. Your eyes, the same unreadable shade he remembers from the conference room, meet his. Today, they hold no trace of the amusement he saw before. Your expression is perfectly, terrifyingly neutral.
“Charles,” you say. Your voice is as smooth and cool as the marble table between you. “Thank you for coming. Please, sit.”
He pulls out the chair opposite you and sits down, his movements stiff. He feels like a marionette with tangled strings. He clasps his hands in his lap to stop them from shaking.
“Thank you for meeting me,” he manages. “And, I, uh, I hope you received my letter.”
“I did,” you reply. You take a slow sip of your water, your gaze never leaving his face. “It was … concise.”
He can’t read your tone. Is ‘concise’ good? Is it a compliment, or is it a criticism, implying it wasn’t groveling enough? The ambiguity is killing him. Nicolas’s carefully crafted script evaporates from his mind, replaced by a wall of white noise.
“I just wanted to say again, in person,” he starts, the words stumbling over each other, “that I am truly, truly sorry. My behavior was … there is no excuse for it. It was arrogant, and unprofessional, and …”
“I see,” you say, cutting him off cleanly. You set your glass down with a soft click. The sound is like a gunshot in the tense silence.
This is it. The calm before the storm. He can see it in your cool, appraising gaze. You’re just letting him squirm before you deliver the final blow. You’re going to tell him his apology is noted, but insufficient. You’re going to talk about brand values and professional conduct. You’re going to fire him with the same detached efficiency with which you ordered a sparkling water.
His mind flashes again to Alpine. He pictures the blue car, the French flags, the perpetual, soul-crushing battle for nineteenth place. He imagines explaining it to his family, to his friends. The humiliation. The failure.
Nicolas’s voice in his head screams, ‘DO NOT BEG!’
But Nicolas isn’t here. Lorenzo isn’t here. It’s just him, and you, and the vast, terrifying expanse of his ruined future.
Logic abandons him. Strategy flees. All that is left is raw, primal fear.
In a single, fluid movement that is born of pure desperation, he pushes his chair back and drops to his knees on the stone floor beside the table.
The sound of his knees hitting the ground is shockingly loud.
He looks up at you, his face a mask of utter panic. “Please,” he says, and the word is a ragged, broken thing. “Please, I am begging you. I will do anything. I will take a pay cut. I will do every single sponsor event, I’ll even do the terrible ones with the awkward photo-shoots. I will be the first one at the factory and the last one to leave. Anything. Just … please.”
He can feel the hot sting of tears welling in his eyes, a humiliation so profound it makes him dizzy. He lowers his gaze to the floor, unable to look at you. His voice cracks, shrinking to a horrified whisper filled with a very specific, very personal dread.
“Please don’t make me drive for Alpine.”
The silence that follows is absolute. It stretches for an eternity. He can hear his own heart hammering in his ears. He waits for your gasp of shock, your cold dismissal, the sound of you getting up and walking away in disgust. He is prepared for anything except for the sound that comes next.
Laughter.
It starts as a choked gasp, a sudden burst of air. Then it blossoms. It’s not a smirk or a polite chuckle. It’s a genuine, unrestrained, musical laugh. It’s a sound of pure amusement, and it fills the quiet air of the Terrazza.
He slowly, cautiously, lifts his head.
You are leaning back in your chair, a hand covering your mouth, but your eyes are squeezed shut and your shoulders are shaking with mirth. The cool, intimidating CEO has vanished, replaced by someone who looks … human. The sound is so unexpected, so completely at odds with the execution he was expecting, that his brain short-circuits.
“Alpine?” You finally manage to get out between waves of laughter, your voice giddy. “You think I’m going to force you to drive for Alpine?”
He just stares, still on his knees, utterly bewildered.
You take a deep, calming breath, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of your eye. The laughter subsides, leaving a bright, warm smile on your face. It completely transforms you. The ‘iron butterfly’ is gone.
“Charles,” you say, your voice still sparkling with amusement. “Get up. You look ridiculous.”
He scrambles to his feet, his face burning with a mixture of humiliation and profound confusion. He sinks back into his chair, his mind reeling.
“I … I don’t understand,” he stammers.
“No, I don’t suppose you do,” you say, your smile softening. You lean forward, your expression turning serious, though the playful light remains in your eyes. “Let me be perfectly clear so you can stop having a nervous breakdown. I was never going to fire you.”
He blinks. “Never?”
“Never,” you confirm. “Charles, let’s put the coffee incident aside for a moment and think about this like a business. I am here to potentially acquire one of the most valuable brands on the planet. My number one objective is to increase its value. What do you think would happen to the value of Scuderia Ferrari, to the morale of the Tifosi, to the stability of the entire organization, if my very first act was to fire the most popular, most beloved Ferrari driver since Schumacher?”
You lay it out for him, your tone crisp and logical. “It would be a public relations catastrophe. The fans would revolt. The team would be demoralized. The media would have a field day. It would be the single stupidest, most self-destructive business decision I could possibly make. My job is to build empires, Charles, not set them on fire for my own personal amusement.”
Relief washes over him in a wave so powerful it almost knocks the breath out of him. It’s a physical sensation, a loosening of every muscle in his body he hadn’t even realized was clenched. He sags in his chair, the tension of the last four days draining out of him, leaving him feeling hollow and incredibly foolish.
“Oh,” is all he can manage to say.
“Yes. Oh,” you echo gently. You watch him for a moment, letting the reality sink in. You let him absorb the fact that his career-ending catastrophe was entirely a figment of his own panicked imagination.
“But …” you say, and the word hangs in the air, pulling his attention back into sharp focus. You lean forward slightly, a slow, intriguing smile playing on your lips. The pragmatic CEO is receding again, replaced by someone else, someone he can’t quite figure out.
“The letter was a nice touch,” you say, your voice dropping a little. “And this …” you make a vague, graceful gesture towards the spot on the floor where he was just kneeling, “… was certainly memorable. I appreciate a man who isn’t afraid of a grand gesture, even a deeply misguided one.”
He feels a fresh blush creep up his neck.
“So,” you continue, your eyes locking with his. “While I’m not going to fire you … if you really want to make it up to me for the, shall we say, ‘unconventional start’ to our professional relationship, I can think of something you can do.”
He is so high on the dizzying cocktail of relief and humiliation that he’s not thinking clearly. All he knows is that this woman, this impossibly powerful and surprisingly amused woman, has spared him. He feels an overwhelming, desperate need to prove his gratitude.
He doesn’t even hesitate. Nicolas’s voice is a faint, forgotten whisper from a distant past.
“Yes,” he says, the word rushing out of him, full of conviction. “Anything. Whatever it is, I’ll do it. I promise.”
A slow, enigmatic smile spreads across your face. It’s a smile that holds a thousand secrets. It’s the smile of a woman who has just been handed a blank check. You’ve got him. You played the game, and you won.
“Good,” you say softly, leaning back in your chair and picking up your glass. “I’ll let you know.”
***
The two days that follow his meeting with you are a strange, surreal limbo. The acute, life-altering terror has been replaced by a low-grade, humming uncertainty. He is not fired. His career is not over. But his fate is still very much in your hands. He has signed a blank check made out to you, and he has no idea when, or for what, you will decide to cash it.
He throws himself into his training with a manic intensity, trying to sweat out the anxiety. He spends hours in the simulator, the familiar G-forces and whine of the engine a comforting cocoon. But even there, his mind wanders. What could you possibly want? A public endorsement of one of your companies? A series of mind-numbingly dull sponsor appearances? A donation to your favorite charity? His imagination, usually reserved for finding the perfect racing line through a complex corner, now conjures a thousand different scenarios, each more bizarre than the last.
The summons, when it comes, is not an email from a corporate assistant. It’s a text message, from a number he doesn’t recognize, that appears on his phone on Saturday morning.
Good morning, Charles. I have your assignment. Y/N.
His heart leaps into his throat. He stares at the message, his thumb hovering over the screen. His first assignment. It sounds ominous, like something out of a spy movie.
He types and deletes three different replies before settling on a simple, professional. Good morning. I’m ready.
The three little dots that indicate you are typing appear and disappear for a full minute. The suspense is excruciating. Finally, a new message pops up. It’s a location pin, dropped on a sprawling villa in the hills outside Modena. Below it, a short line of text.
Today. 2 PM. Dress code: casual. And durable.
Durable?
He stares at the word. Durable. What kind of assignment requires durable clothing? Is he going to be doing manual labor? Is this some bizarre, character-building exercise where he has to help landscape your garden?
He immediately calls Lorenzo.
“She wants me to go to a villa. She said I have to wear something durable,” Charles says, the words tumbling out in a rush of renewed panic. “What does it mean? Am I being hazed? Is this a thing that billionaires do?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the line, followed by the sound of Lorenzo trying, and failing, to suppress a laugh. “Charles, I don’t think the potential new owner of Ferrari is going to haze you. Maybe it’s a charity event? Building houses for the poor?”
“In a blazer?” Charles asks, gesturing wildly at his own closet. “What is durable casual? What do I wear?”
“Just wear some nice jeans and a polo shirt,” Lorenzo says, his voice full of amusement. “And Charlou? Try to relax. The worst is over. Just go, do whatever she asks, and keep smiling.”
***
An hour later, Charles is driving his Ferrari 488 Pista down a long, cypress-lined driveway, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. The villa is magnificent — a beautiful, old stone building that has been tastefully modernized, with sprawling, impeccably manicured gardens. He can hear the faint sounds of music and … screaming? Not screams of terror. Screams of high-pitched, chaotic joy.
He parks the car and walks towards the garden, his stomach churning. He rounds a corner, past a large, sparkling swimming pool, and the scene that greets him stops him dead in his tracks.
The lawn is a jumble of primary colors. There are balloons everywhere. A massive, inflatable bouncy castle in the shape of a red racing car dominates the space. A long table is laden with cakes, sweets, and enough sugar to power a small city. And running, jumping, and shrieking through it all are at least two dozen small children.
It’s a sixth birthday party.
And standing in the middle of it all, looking completely in her element, is you.
You are not the CEO from the conference room or the serene woman from the Terrazza. Today, you are wearing faded blue jeans, a simple white t-shirt, and your hair is in a messy ponytail. You’re holding a small, dark-haired boy on your hip, and you are laughing, your head thrown back, as he whispers something in your ear. You look young, relaxed, and impossibly beautiful.
This is his assignment. This is what required durable clothing. He’s been summoned to a child’s birthday party.
You spot him then. Your eyes meet across the sea of chaotic children, and a slow, wicked smile spreads across your face. It’s the same smile he saw in the boardroom, the one that says, I own you. You nod your head, a clear instruction. Come here.
He takes a deep breath and weaves his way through the tiny, running bodies. He feels like a giant, clumsy oaf in this world of miniature humans.
“Charles,” you say as he approaches, your voice full of false, saccharine sweetness. “So glad you could make it.” You shift the little boy on your hip. “Adam, look who it is. It’s the man from the fast red cars.”
The little boy, presumably the birthday boy, Adam, stares at him with wide, solemn brown eyes. “Are you Charles Leclerc?” He asks, his voice full of awe.
“I am,” Charles says, forcing a smile.
“My aunt said you were coming,” Adam says. “She said you owed her a favor.”
Charles glances at you. Your smile is positively gleaming with triumph. “That’s right, sweetie,” you say, patting Adam’s back. “Mr. Leclerc was very, very naughty at work, and this is his punishment.”
Adam’s eyes go even wider. “Wow,” he breathes.
Before Charles can process the full, mortifying horror of being framed as a naughty employee to a six-year-old, Adam points a chubby finger at him and yells at the top of his lungs.
“EVERYONE! IT’S CHARLES LECLERC! THE REAL ONE!”
The effect is instantaneous. It’s like a switch has been flipped. Twenty-five tiny heads whip around in his direction. A moment of stunned silence, and then, a roar.
He is swarmed.
It is a tidal wave of small, sticky hands and loud, unfiltered questions.
“Are you really him?”
“Is your car here?”
“Can you go faster than a cheetah?”
“Why didn’t you win the last race?”
“My papa says you need to be more aggressive in turn one!”
“Can I have your hat?”
They hang off his arms, tug on his polo shirt, and pat his legs as if checking to see if he’s real. He is a human climbing frame, an island in a sea of relentless, six-year-old energy. He looks over their heads, a desperate, pleading look on his face, searching for you.
You are leaning against a large oak tree, arms crossed, watching the scene with an expression of total satisfaction. You raise your glass of lemonade to him in a mock toast.
He mouths the word, ‘Help.’
You just shake your head, your smile widening, and take a delicate sip of your drink.
The next two hours are the most grueling, physically and mentally demanding of his entire life. It makes a double-stint at the Singapore Grand Prix feel like a casual Sunday drive.
He is forced to give endless piggyback rides, his back screaming in protest. He is dragged into the bouncy castle, where he is mercilessly bounced upon by a pack of shrieking children until he is dizzy and gasping for air. A little girl with a formidable grip insists on braiding his hair, pulling it into tiny, painful knots. Another child, whose face is a smear of blue frosting, decides to use Charles’s very expensive white polo shirt as a napkin.
Throughout it all, you watch. You drift through the party, the perfect, doting aunt, chatting with other parents, cutting cake, but your eyes are always on him. Every time he catches your gaze, you give him a little wave, a silent, mocking encouragement.
At one point, he manages to extricate himself from a heated debate about whether a Formula 1 car could beat a T-Rex in a race and makes his way over to you.
“This is cruel and unusual punishment,” he says under his breath, trying to discreetly wipe a sticky handprint off his jeans.
“Is it?” You ask, your voice laced with innocence. “They seem to be having fun. Adam said it’s the best birthday party he’s ever had.”
“I’m not a party clown,” he hisses. “I am a professional athlete.”
“Really?” You say, raising an eyebrow. “Because from here, you look like a very expensive, and not particularly durable, piece of playground equipment.” You pat his arm. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think Nina wants you to be the horse for her princess carriage. Don’t keep her waiting.”
He is about to protest when a tiny hand tugs on his trousers. He looks down to see a small girl with enormous blue eyes staring up at him.
“Are you the horse?” She asks.
Defeated, Charles sighs. “Yes,” he says, his shoulders slumping. “Yes, I am the horse.”
The absolute low point of the afternoon comes without warning. He is on his hands and knees, being the aforementioned horse, with a determined little girl on his back. Adam is running alongside, directing the ‘carriage’ with wild, enthusiastic gestures.
“Faster, horsey, faster!” Adam shrieks with delight.
In a burst of sugar-fueled excitement, Adam decides to climb aboard as well. He takes a running leap, attempting to land on Charles’s back behind his friend. He misjudges the jump. Badly.
Instead of landing on his back, Adam’s small, bony knee connects squarely, and with horrifying accuracy, with the most sensitive part of Charles’s anatomy.
The world goes white.
The air leaves his lungs in a silent, explosive gasp. All sound fades to a dull, distant roar. The bright, sunny garden dissolves into a pinprick of light. He collapses onto the grass, curling into a tight, fetal position, unable to speak, unable to breathe.
The two children, oblivious to the catastrophic damage they have inflicted, simply slide off his back and run away, screaming with laughter, towards the cake table.
He lies there on the lawn, a fallen gladiator, felled not by a rival on the racetrack, but by a six-year-old in a superhero t-shirt. He can hear your voice, suddenly sharp with concern, cutting through the haze of his pain.
“Charles? Charles, are you alright?”
He cannot answer. He can only manage a low, pathetic groan.
He feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. He cracks open an eye and sees you kneeling beside him, the teasing amusement on your face completely replaced by genuine worry.
“Oh my God,” you whisper, your eyes wide as you realize what must have happened. “Adam, did you …”
He just shakes his head weakly, which is all the confirmation you need.
The party begins to wind down shortly after that. Parents arrive, collecting their exhausted, sugar-comatose children. The shrieks of joy are replaced by the tired whines of the homeward bound. The garden slowly empties, leaving behind a battlefield of discarded paper plates, deflated balloons, and one deeply wounded Formula 1 driver.
Charles is sitting gingerly on a cushioned patio chair, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity while his entire lower body throbs in agony.
You emerge from the house and walk towards him. You are holding something behind your back.
“The last of the guests have gone,” you say softly. Your voice is gentle, stripped of its earlier mockery. You sit in the chair next to him, a respectful distance away.
“My legacy,” he rasps, his voice still an octave higher than usual. “To be remembered as the Ferrari driver who was taken out by a six-year-old.”
A small smile touches your lips. “He’s got a mean right knee. We’re thinking of getting him into football.” You bring your hand forward. You’re holding a small, plastic bag filled with ice cubes, wrapped in a clean dish towel. You offer it to him. “Here.”
He stares at the bag of ice. “Are you serious?”
“Standard medical procedure,” you say, your expression unreadable. “It will reduce the swelling.”
He hesitates for a moment, the sheer, clinical awkwardness of the situation warring with the very real, very intense pain. Pain wins. He takes the bag of ice from your hand, his fingers brushing against yours. The touch sends a strange, unexpected jolt through him that has nothing to do with the injury.
He carefully, discreetly, places the ice pack on his lap. The intense, numbing cold is a relief.
They sit in silence for a moment, watching the sun begin to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink. The quiet feels strange after the chaos of the afternoon.
“So,” he says finally, breaking the silence. He looks at you, really looks at you, in the soft, golden light. “Does this mean I’m forgiven?”
He asks it lightly, but the question is heavy with everything that has happened between you. The disastrous first meeting, the panicked apology, the agonizing wait, and this absurd, chaotic afternoon.
You turn to look at him. Your face is serious, your eyes searching his. The smile is gone.
“Yes, Charles,” you say, your voice quiet but clear. “You’re forgiven.”
The words hit him with the same force as the relief he felt on the Terrazza, but this time it’s different. It’s not just about his career. It’s … something else. It’s a feeling of resolution, of a strange, shared experience coming to an end. The blank check has been cashed. The debt is paid.
He should feel free. He should feel relieved. And he does. But he also feels a strange, unwelcome pang of disappointment. This bizarre connection, this weird power dynamic that has defined their every interaction, is over. Now, you will go back to being the untouchable CEO, and he will go back to being the employee.
The thought is surprisingly dissatisfying.
And that’s when the second-stupidest thought of his entire life enters his brain. The first, of course, was assuming you were an intern. This one is arguably worse. It is an idea born of pure, pain-addled, relief-fueled insanity.
He’s going to blame it on the groin injury. It has to be. The trauma must have temporarily rewired his brain, short-circuiting the part that controls self-preservation and common sense.
“Good,” he says, his voice a little shaky. “That’s good.” He takes a breath. “So, now that my career is no longer in jeopardy, and my future as a potential father is merely in question …”
He pauses. He can still back out. He can stop right there. It would be the smart thing to do. The sane thing to do.
He does not do the sane thing.
He turns to you, his expression deadly serious, and says the words.
“Would you be willing to go on a date with me?”
The question hangs in the quiet, twilight air between them, feeling both monumental and utterly absurd. He has just asked out the woman who is in the process of buying his team, the woman he mortally offended, the woman who used her nephew’s birthday party as a form of psychological torture.
You just stare at him. Your mouth is slightly open, your eyes wide with a look of pure shock. The cool, composed, in-control CEO is gone once again, replaced by a woman who has been rendered completely speechless.
And Charles Leclerc, for the second time in a week, realizes he is so massively, incredibly screwed.
For a long, silent moment, your brain refuses to process the words. The CEO part of your mind, the part that runs on logic and risk assessment and quarterly projections, is frantically searching for a protocol, a script for this exact situation. It finds nothing. There is no chapter in any business manual for what to do when your star employee, moments after being forgiven for a career-ending blunder, asks you out on a date while nursing a groin injury inflicted by your six-year-old nephew.
Charles watches the mix of expressions that flicker across your face. He sees shock, then disbelief, followed by something he can’t quite decipher — a flicker of confusion, maybe even a hint of vulnerability. He sees the precise moment your formidable composure cracks, not into anger, but into bewilderment.
His own mind is a siren, blaring a single, repeating warning: ABORT! ABORT! RETRACT THE STATEMENT!
“I’m sorry,” he says, the words coming out in a strangled rush. The relief has evaporated, replaced by a fresh, even more potent wave of horror. He’s done it again. He’s snatched defeat from the jaws of victory. “That was … stupid. I am so sorry. It’s the pain. I’m not thinking clearly. The ice pack must be restricting blood flow to my brain. Please, just … forget I said anything.”
He makes a move to stand up, to flee, to run back to his car and drive directly into the nearest canal.
“Sit down, Charles,” you say.
Your voice is quiet, but it carries an authority that roots him to the spot. He sinks back into his chair, his posture rigid with dread. He keeps his eyes fixed on a particularly interesting paving stone, unable to meet your gaze. He is preparing for the verbal evisceration he so clearly deserves.
But it doesn’t come. Instead, there is another long, heavy silence. He risks a glance up.
You are looking at him, really looking at him, with an intensity that feels like it’s peeling back layers of his skin. The shock has faded from your eyes, replaced by a deep, analytical curiosity. A slow, almost imperceptible smile is beginning to form at the corners of your mouth. It’s not the triumphant, mocking smile from the boardroom. It’s something else entirely. Something … intrigued.
“Let me see if I understand this,” you say, your voice a low, deliberate murmur. “You mistake me for an intern and order me to get you coffee. You then spend the next four days convinced I am going to ruin your life. You follow this up by literally falling to your knees and begging me not to send you to the Formula 1 equivalent of Siberia. And now, having been absolved of all your sins via trial-by-toddler, your very next move is to ask me on a date.” You lean forward slightly, your eyes sparkling with a dangerous light. “Are you out of your mind?”
“Yes,” he answers immediately, with profound sincerity. “Clinically. I am beginning to think I have a serious problem.”
The answer is so honest, so devoid of bravado, that it makes you laugh. It’s not the full, unrestrained laugh from the party. It’s a softer, deeper sound. A sound of genuine amusement.
“At least you’re self-aware,” you say, shaking your head slowly. “That’s a start.”
“So, that’s a no, then?” He asks, his voice small. He already knows the answer. It has to be no. It’s the only logical, sensible, professional answer.
You are quiet for another moment, your gaze drifting out towards the darkening hills. He can see the calculations happening behind your eyes. You are weighing the pros and cons, the optics, the sheer, unadulterated insanity of it all.
“Every professional instinct I have,” you say, turning back to him, “every single one, is screaming at me to say no. It’s inappropriate. It’s complicated. It’s a potential HR nightmare, assuming my acquisition bid is successful.”
His heart sinks. “I understand.”
“But,” you continue, and that single word electrifies the air between you, “I am also the woman who runs a multi-billion-dollar global corporation. I did not get here by always listening to my professional instincts. Sometimes, you have to take a calculated risk.” You give him a sharp, appraising look. “And you, Charles Leclerc, are nothing if not a risk.”
He doesn’t know what to say. He just stares at you, his mind a hopeful, terrified blank.
“Alright,” you say, a decisive glint in your eye. “I will go on one date with you.”
He blinks. “You will?”
“On one condition,” you add, holding up a finger.
“Anything,” he says immediately.
“You plan it,” you say. “No assistants. No PR teams. No reservations made by someone else. Just you. You choose the time, the place, the activity. And it has to be good. It has to impress me. And trust me,” you add, your voice dropping to a confidential whisper, “I don’t impress easily.”
It’s a test. Another one. But this one is different. This isn’t a punishment. This is a challenge. And if there is one thing Charles Leclerc understands, it is how to rise to a challenge.
A slow, genuine smile spreads across his face, the first one he’s felt in days that isn’t tinged with fear. “Okay,” he says, his voice full of a newfound confidence. “It’s a deal.”
***
He spends the next three days planning the date with the same meticulous focus he would apply to a race strategy. He dismisses a dozen ideas. A fancy, Michelin-starred restaurant? Too predictable. You’ve been to a hundred of them. A concert? Too loud, no room for conversation. A simple movie? Too impersonal.
He needs to show you his world. Not the glitz and glamour of the Formula 1 paddock, but the real, authentic heart of it. He needs to show you the man, not the celebrity.
On the evening of the date, a vintage, immaculately restored 1972 Ferrari Dino 246 GT in a stunning shade of deep silver pulls up outside your hotel. It is not a loud, aggressive supercar. It is a piece of art — elegant, timeless, and understated.
Charles gets out of the driver’s side. He is not wearing a team polo shirt or a designer suit. He’s wearing dark, well-fitting trousers, a simple linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and leather driving shoes. He looks relaxed, confident, and impossibly handsome.
You watch him from the window of your suite, a surprised, appreciative smile on your face. Point to Leclerc, you think.
When you come down to the lobby, he is waiting for you. He doesn’t say anything cheesy. He just smiles, his eyes lighting up when he sees you. You’ve chosen a simple, elegant navy-blue slip dress. It’s beautiful, but not ostentatious. You are meeting him on his level.
“Nice car,” you say, your voice dry, as he holds the passenger door open for you.
“I thought it was more appropriate for the occasion than my Pista,” he replies, a playful glint in his eye. “A little less … aggressive.”
The date begins not with dinner, but with a drive. As the sun begins its slow descent, he takes you out of the city, away from the familiar streets of Maranello, and up into the winding, cypress-lined roads of the surrounding hills. He drives the car with an effortless, fluid grace, the vintage engine a soft, throaty purr behind you.
This is his element. Here, on a challenging road, he is not the anxious, bumbling man from the boardroom. He is a poet in motion.
And he talks. He points out the ruins of an old castle on a distant hill. He tells you stories about growing up in Monaco, about the first time he ever drove a go-kart. He talks about the unique, almost unbearable pressure of driving for Ferrari, the weight of the entire nation’s hopes on his shoulders every other Sunday.
You listen, truly listen, asking questions that are sharp and insightful. You ask him not about his fame, but about his fear. Not about his wins, but about his most difficult losses.
In turn, you find yourself opening up to him in a way you rarely do with anyone. You talk about the immense, suffocating pressure of taking over your father’s company, the constant feeling that you have to be twice as smart and work three times as hard as any man in the room to be taken seriously. You tell him about the loneliness of being at the top, of having board members and employees, but very few true friends.
You discover that your two worlds, the high-stakes corporate boardroom and the high-G-force racetrack, are not so different. They are both places of immense pressure, public scrutiny, and a relentless, unforgiving demand for perfection.
He finally pulls the car to a stop at a scenic overlook. The entire valley is spread out below you, bathed in the soft, purple light of dusk. The lights of Maranello are just beginning to twinkle in the distance.
“It’s beautiful,” you breathe.
“It’s my favorite place to come when I need to think,” he says quietly. “When the noise gets too loud.”
You sit there in comfortable silence, watching the day end. The unspoken tension between you has dissolved, replaced by a warm, easy sense of connection.
For dinner, he doesn’t take you to a place with white tablecloths and a sommelier. He drives to a small, unassuming building tucked away in a tiny village. It’s a family-run trattoria, with checkered tablecloths, mismatched chairs, and the incredible, mouth-watering smell of garlic and fresh pasta hanging in the air.
The owner, a stout, beaming woman in her sixties, greets Charles with a loud cry of “Carletto!” and pulls him into a smothering hug before planting two loud kisses on his cheeks. She looks at you, her eyes twinkling.
“And you must be the special girl he told me about!” She says in rapid, musical Italian.
Charles’s face flushes a deep, adorable shade of red. “Nonna Maria, per favore …” he mutters.
The meal is simple, and it is the best you have ever had. Fresh, handmade tortelloni, local wine served in a simple carafe, and tiramisu so light it feels like eating a cloud. You talk and laugh, and he tells you stories about coming here for the first time with Sebastian Vettel. You see a side of him you never could have imagined — the teammate, the brother, the local boy who made good.
By the time he drives you back to your hotel, the night is dark, the sky thick with stars. He walks you to the main entrance of the hotel, the grand, imposing doors a stark contrast to the warm intimacy of the evening.
Neither of you wants it to end. The thought of going back to your separate worlds, of you becoming the CEO and him the employee again, feels wrong.
“I’m not ready for this night to be over,” he says, his voice low. The confidence from the drive has been replaced by a soft, hesitant vulnerability.
“Neither am I,” you admit.
“My apartment is not far from here,” he offers, the words tentative. “If you’re not tired. I could … make you a drink?”
You smile. “I’d like that.”
His apartment is exactly what you would have expected, and yet it surprises you. It is minimalist and modern, with clean lines and breathtaking views, but it feels like a home. There are photos on a side table — him as a boy in a karting suit, him with his brothers. And in the center of the vast living space is a beautiful, glossy black grand piano.
He leaves you by the vast window overlooking the city lights and goes to the kitchen. You can hear the soft clink of glasses.
He returns a moment later, his hands empty. He looks nervous again, that familiar anxiety flickering in his eyes.
“Can I get you something?” He asks, his voice a little rough. “Some wine? Water?” He pauses, a hesitant, mischievous smile playing on his lips. He takes a breath, and the whole world seems to hold it with him. “… An espresso?”
The question lands perfectly. The callback is so unexpected, so brilliantly audacious, that you burst out laughing. All the remaining tension, all the awkwardness of your history, evaporates in that single, shared moment of humor.
“I would love an espresso,” you say, your eyes shining.
You follow him to the kitchen and watch as he stands in front of the gleaming, state-of-the-art machine — the same model from the Ferrari conference room. But this time, the roles are reversed. You are the one watching, and he is the one at work, his movements practiced and competent. He grinds the beans, tamps the coffee, and pulls the shot. The rich, dark aroma fills the kitchen.
He hands you the small, delicate cup. It is a perfect mirror image of that first, disastrous meeting. A full circle. A closing of a loop that you never knew you needed.
You take a sip. “It’s perfect,” you say softly, your eyes meeting his over the rim of the cup.
“I’m glad,” he whispers.
He takes the cup from your hand and sets it down on the counter. He doesn’t move away. He is standing so close now you can feel the warmth radiating from him. He lifts a hand, his fingers gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch is electric, sending a shiver down your spine.
“Y/N,” he says, his voice barely audible, and the sound of your name on his lips is both an apology and a revelation.
And then he leans in and kisses you.
It is not a hesitant, questioning kiss. It is a kiss of absolute certainty, a culmination of every moment that has passed between you — the misunderstanding, the fear, the laughter, the forgiveness. It is tender, and it is passionate, a release of all the unspoken energy that has been crackling between you from the very first second he walked into that conference room.
You melt into him, your hands coming up to cup his face, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you tight against him. The world outside the windows disappears. There is only this room, this moment, and the incredible, undeniable truth that this impossibly complicated, slightly broken, beautiful man has somehow found his way straight into the center of your carefully guarded heart.
When you finally break apart, you are both breathless, your foreheads resting against each other.
You look up at him, a slow, playful smile spreading across your face as your quick, strategic mind finally catches up with your racing heart. You see the whole, absurd, wonderful trajectory of your story laid out before you.
You reach up and trace the line of his jaw with your thumb.
“So, Charles Leclerc …” you say, your voice a low, teasing murmur, the CEO returning for one last, brilliant power move. “What do you think is better for your public image? The driver who pissed off his future boss … or the driver who’s sleeping with her?”
He looks down at you, his eyes full of a light you’ve never seen before. The anxiety is gone, replaced by a natural confidence.
“I think,” he says, his voice a low, happy rumble, as he leans in to kiss you again, slow and deep. “I will take my chances with the second one.”
꒰ wc ꒱ 15k words
꒰ summary꒱ after stalking you for years, dex is completely unprepared for the dizzying reality of finally being invited into your life—your apartment, your bed, your soft thighs opening for him so sweetly that he can barely tell where fantasy ends and addiction begins.
.ᐟ contents |
18+ (MDNI), stalking, smut, unprotected sex, oral (f&m!receiving), pervert!dex, canon!dex, fbi!dex, horny!reader, oblivious!reader, stealing, panty sniffing, panic attacks, mental breakdown, suicidal dex, mentally unstable dex, canon compliant, somnophilia, dub-con, inexperienced!dex, mentioned murder, humping, groping, spit swapping, finger sucking, creep!dex, breeding kink, fluff, dark romance, manipulation, gaslighting, all in dex's pov
.ᐟ lizzy’s note |
this fic has been plaguing my life for the last three months and now im finally free. genuinely just wanted to write smut, then forced myself to create plot leading up to it. trying out a new layout, pls don't burn me at the stake.
at this rate stay tuned for my next dex fic in 2027 <3
likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨
divider by @uzmacchiato
Dex loved sushi night Fridays.
You two had settled into the routine months ago without either of you ever really acknowledging it. Fridays after work. The same tiny sushi place tucked between a laundromat and a pawn shop, the sign flickering like it was running on borrowed time.
Inside was all warm amber lighting and fogged windows, the air thick with rice vinegar and the low hiss of the grill.
The hostess smiled the second you walked in now, already reaching for a menu you never looked at, because you already knew what you wanted, and Dex already knew you’d order it before you did.
You referred to it as your “cheat day,” something Dex privately thought was bullshit. You were always working on cutting back on takeout or “trying to be healthier,” only to cave every Friday night without fail.
But the word cheat implied you were doing something wrong. Indulging something shameful. And he hated the idea of you apologising for your own appetite.
He’d watched the pattern long enough to know it by heart; Sushi Fridays. Thai food on bad days (red curry, extra spicy, no matter how much it made you sweat). Wings—any kind really— when you were too tired to cook… or on your period.
And coffee, too much coffee, all throughout the week, the same two-pump vanilla order from the cart on 47th.
Dex didn’t think you needed to worry about your weight. The thought irritated him every time it surfaced, a low-grade static at the back of his skull. You were beautiful exactly as you were.
If he had things his way, you’d indulge every craving that crossed your mind. Midnight milkshakes. Extra dessert. Those strawberry candies you liked from the bodega near your apartment.
He’d drive across the city at two in the morning if you suddenly decided you wanted dumplings or lemon cake or greasy diner fries.
The restaurant lights caught against your jewelry when you moved, tiny gold hoops glinting near your jaw. Warm light softened everything about you.
Your skin took on a honeyed tone, the shadows beneath your cheekbones gentle rather than sharp. It made you glow in a way Dex had never been able to properly explain to himself.
Like candlelight catching honey, or the last sun ray through a window at dusk.
He watched you pick up another fried roll with your chopsticks, your nose wrinkling slightly when it nearly slipped apart before you got it into your mouth.
That made him chuckle. A sound that died in the hollow of his chest, swallowed by the space between his ribs.
God.
He needed this.
Needed the quiet rhythm of it after the last week spent buried in FBI work. The lies. The noise. Too many voices in his ear, too many meetings, too much time spent orbiting Wilson Fisk and his suffocating shadow.
His apartment never helped either. Too quiet and too still. Silence had a way of making his thoughts louder, the walls pressing in until he had to pace just to feel like he still had room to breathe.
But here, things felt… normal.
Outside, rain poured weakly past the windshield of Dex’s car.
The wipers had been off for a while now, leaving the glass streaked with dried residue. The heater hummed low near his knees, filling the car with dry warmth and the heavy, layered smell of fried tempura, soy sauce, and burnt coffee that had long gone cold in the cupholder.
Across the street, through the fogged window of the sushi place, you laughed suddenly at something on your phone, leaning forward across the table.
Dex smiled before he could stop himself.
He adjusted the takeout container balanced carefully in his lap before it tipped against the console. The plastic lid was beaded with condensation, the heat of the food fogging it from inside.
Soy sauce packets crowded the cupholder beside the coffee and crinkled napkins were shoved messily near the parking brake.
One dumpling had leaked grease through the paper container onto his slacks minutes ago, a dark stain spreading across the fabric near his knee, but he barely cared.
He hadn’t even registered the warmth of it until it had already cooled.
Dex stuffed another piece of sushi into his mouth absently, chewing without tasting, his eyes never leaving you.
The rice was a little dry. The ginger had that sharp, stinging bite that made the back of his throat tighten.
He’d picked up the order right before you came in, timed it so the food would still be warm when he settled into the driver’s seat.
His monocular rested against his thigh for barely a second before he lifted it again automatically. He settled it back against his socket without thinking, the world snapping into that familiar, compressed clarity.
His pulse eased the moment your face sharpened back into focus.
There she is.
Chin propped lazily into your palm now, reading something intently on your phone. A server passed behind you carrying a tray and even distracted, you looked up at him automatically. Sweet and polite.
Warm in that effortless way that still twisted something painfully tight inside Dex’s chest after all these years.
You gave pieces of yourself away carelessly without even realising it. A smile here. A laugh there. A small wave to a regular who held the door for you.
You never hoarded your warmth. It just spilled out of you, abundant and unguarded, and Dex collected every stray drop like a man dying of thirst.
His thumb moved slowly against the steering wheel, tracing the seam where the leather had begun to crack near the top.
This was exactly what he needed after the week he’d had.
Just you and him.
The thought surfaced without permission, settling somewhere deep behind his sternum. He let it sit there as his hand drifted toward the glove compartment without looking away from you once.
The latch gave with a quiet click, and his fingers found the familiar bundle by touch alone, soft cotton folded neatly in the dark, tucked beside his registration and a crumpled gas receipt.
He drew it carefully into his lap, keeping his eyes fixed on your silhouette through the monocular.
The pale fabric bunched lightly in his fist. The lace trim was cool against his palm, delicate, a detail he’d traced with his fingertips so many times that he could map it blind.
Almost absentmindedly, like a man reaching for a cigarette or rubbing a familiar scar, he brought the stolen panties toward his face and inhaled slowly.
The smell hit him in stages. First the faint, clean scent of your vanilla lotion, the one you applied after every shower. Then the warmer note of your shea body oil, the one you massaged into your elbows and knees before bed.
Beneath that, something warmer and distinctly you, something saline and soft that settled low in his stomach hard enough to make his slacks tighten slightly. A familiar, hungry ache that bloomed behind his fly at just your scent.
He held the breath for a long moment, letting it steep in his lungs, before exhaling through his nose.
A small souvenir he’d rewarded himself four months ago, after letting himself into your new loft late one night to make sure everything was secure.
You’d forgotten to latch one of the windows facing the fire escape. Careless sweet thing. The lock had been loose, the frame warped slightly from humidity, and when he’d tested it with his fingertips, it had swung open without resistance.
Dex had fixed it for you before leaving. Tightened the screws on the latch, oiled the track, made sure it would hold.
He’d found the panties in your laundry basket on the way out. A pale blue cotton pair, with a small tear near the waistband that you’d never bothered to mend. He’d slipped them into his jacket pocket before he could think better of it.
Across the street, you laughed again, shoulders shaking lightly this time, your head tipping back just enough to expose the column of your throat.
He exhaled softly through his nose, smiling along with you like he really was sitting across the table
Just you and him.
That was all he needed.
He didn’t know what to think when he saw the newspaper.
For one suspended second, there was nothing. Not anger. Not fear. Not even confusion. Just a sharp, empty stillness, like a pin had dropped somewhere inside his head and every part of him had gone quiet trying to hear where it landed.
Dex had been sitting there for hours, spine rigid, eyes fixed on the bank of screens showing Fisk’s penthouse from every angle. The man himself was visible in one frame, seated at his dining table. Calm and unbothered like always.
Then the paper landed in front of him.
FBI INVESTIGATES ONE OF THEIR OWN.
Agent Kane shifted beside him. “I’m sorry, Dex. This isn’t right,” she said quietly.
He heard her voice, but it came from somewhere far away, as if she were speaking through water. The words landed and dissolved.
Dex stared at the headline until the letters stopped being letters and became just shapes—black ink pressed into pulp, arranged by somebody who didn’t know him, didn’t care about him, didn’t understand anything about what he’d done or why.
The static began to rise. It always started like this, a low hum at the base of his skull, building as the world pressed in.
Around him, the room kept moving. Agents passed behind his chair, their footsteps a rhythmic interruption. Phones rang in overlapping cadences. Somebody laughed too loudly near the elevators, the sound slicing through the air before smearing into everything else, sharp and meaningless.
He could feel them looking at him.
Not directly, none of them were stupid enough to stare. But he felt the glances anyway. The way people looked at car wrecks when they slowed down just enough to see blood but not enough to admit they wanted to.
His jaw tightened. The muscle in his temple pulsed once, twice.
He was being used as a scapegoat.
By the time Winn and Hattley called him into the office, the static had thickened. It filled the room around their fake sympathetic voices.
“We’re going to find out who leaked this,” Hattley said, leaning forward with that practiced look of concern people used when they wanted to seem human.
Dex looked at her mouth while she spoke.
Not her eyes. Her mouth.
The words were too clean. Too prepared. Every syllable landed exactly where she wanted it to, like she’d rehearsed this conversation. There was no surprise in her tone, no real outrage. Just a performance of solidarity.
She was lying.
They all were.
The thing inside him stirred, restless and cold. He pressed it down. But it was harder now, when the structure he’d trusted was cracking around him, when the rules he’d followed were being used to crush him.
It had been the Bureau.
They were throwing him under the bus because someone had to bleed publicly, and it was easier if it was him. Easier because he had no wife waiting at home. No kids. No loud, charming friends in the office to make a scene on his behalf.
Easier because he was useful until he wasn’t, precise until precision made them uncomfortable, disciplined until discipline stopped protecting him from becoming disposable.
After everything, they were disposing of him.
If he followed the rules, he could be normal. He could be safe. Everyone else could be safe.
But the rules had just thrown him away.
“Think of it as a paid vacation,” Hattley said, offering a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes.
The static in his skull sharpened.
Dex looked down at his badge before he realised he’d already taken it off.
He didn’t remember doing it. His fingers had moved on their own, undoing the clip, sliding the leather folder from his belt.
Now it sat in his palm like something foreign, the gold shield winking at him tauntingly.
His hand didn’t feel like his own when he set it on the desk. The leather made a soft, final sound against the wood. Then the gun. The weight of it leaving him felt wrong in a way that made his stomach tighten sharply.
Badge. Gun. Credentials.
Structure.
Mercer’s voice rose in his head before he could stop it.
Get a job with structure, Dex. Rigid structure. Stay disciplined. Stay useful. Routine is important for you.
Routine. Rules. The job gave him rules. Rules told him what to do. Rules made the edges of the world sharp enough to hold onto. Without them, everything blurred.
Everything bled into everything else. The thing inside him pushed against its cage like an animal scenting an open door.
And now they were taking it away from him like it was nothing.
By the time he reached the hall, the migraine had settled behind his right eye, hot and pulsing. It pressed against his optic nerve, sending thin spokes of light across his vision.
Nausea turned slowly in his stomach, a greasy, rolling sensation that made his throat tighten.
He was aware of his body in pieces. His pulse hammering in his wrists, too fast. Sweat cooling under his collar, the fabric damp and clammy against his neck. The empty space at his hip where his gun should have been.
Empty.
Empty.
Empty.
By the time he stepped back out into the hall, the Bureau felt wrong around him. Hostile in a way it hadn’t ten minutes ago.
But the air had changed. It pressed against him differently now, thick and heavy, as if the building itself had decided he didn’t belong here anymore.
He walked past an agent he’d worked with for two years. The man met his eyes, then looked away.
Dex’s fingers twitched at his sides.
None of it belonged to him anymore.
Or he didn’t belong to it.
The job was gone. The badge was gone. The rules were gone. And without them, he felt himself starting to come apart at the seams, the threads that held him together snapping one by one.
His breathing thinned. Too shallow. Too fast. The edges of his vision began to grey, just slightly, like someone was turning down the lights from far away.
He needed out.
He needed air.
No.
Not air.
You.
He needed to see you. Now.
The thought cut through the static like a blade. A fixed point in the chaos.
Dex looked down at his watch.
6:17 p.m.
Thursday.
You did your grocery shopping on Thursdays after work because you hated weekend crowds. End of the week, but not the weekend. Practical. Smart.
Sometimes you bought tulips even though you worked at a florist and could probably get better ones for free.
He had never understood that.
He loved that he didn’t understand that.
The Bureau, Hattley, Winn, Fisk, the paper, the headline, the badge sitting on that desk like a dead thing. None of it mattered. Not right now.
Not when his mind was splitting open and the only thought holding him together was the image of you standing under grocery-store fluorescents.
He turned before he’d fully decided to move.
His feet carried him toward the elevator. Each step felt like pushing through water. The walls of the hallway seemed to close in, then expand, breathing with him.
By the time he reached the elevator and pressed the button, his jaw ached from clenching. His hands were steady, but only because he had trained them to be.
Inside, everything was coming apart in small, quiet pieces. Like a dam with a thousand tiny cracks, water seeping through each one, the whole structure holding only by habit and memory.
That was fine.
He didn’t need the badge.
He didn’t need their rules.
He had you.
The drive from the bureau to the grocery store did nothing to settle the storm clawing through Dex’s chest.
His palms were slick against his slacks. He’d just walked in. Empty-handed. Bereft of purpose beyond the single, desperate need screaming through every nerve ending in his body.
Find her. Find her. Find her.
The automatic doors hissed shut behind him, sealing him inside a world of too-bright lights and Muzak and the sharp chemical sweetness of floor cleaner.
His tie felt like it had shrunk two sizes since he’d left the Bureau, the knot pressing against his throat like a noose. He tugged at it once, twice, but it only made it tighter.
The migraine was still there, settled between his eyes like a hot coal. It pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a steady, throbbing pressure that made the aisles seem to swim when he moved his head too fast.
And Mercer’s voice.
She was there, in the back of his skull, the way she always was when things got bad. But today she wasn’t the steady, grounding presence he remembered.
Her voice flickered and warped, sliding between registers like a broken radio.
Stay calm, Dex. Breathe. You’re okay.
Then, lower, twisted. Freak. Look at you. They threw you away because they saw it. They knew what you were.
His fingers twitched at his sides.
You were supposed to be better than this. All that discipline. And you can’t even—
“Shut up,” he muttered under his breath, but the words came out wrong, too loud, and a woman passing with a toddler shot him a strange look.
He didn’t care.
He checked the endcaps, the seasonal displays, the little stand with flowers near the entrance because you liked stopping there.
You weren’t there.
His breathing got thinner, shallower, each inhale less satisfying than the last. A tightness gathered behind his eyes, hot and humiliating, frustration swelling so quickly it scared him.
Not here. Not here. Not—
He crossed the store, his shoes squeaking on the polished floor. He passed a man in a dark coat who frowned at him. He ignored him. He rounded the corner into the makeup aisle and his chest seized.
Empty.
The shelves stretched out before him, neat rows of bottles and tubes and compacts reflecting the harsh light. A woman stood at the far end, examining a lipstick, but she had different hair. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.
The frustration crested, crested, broke.
Tears pricked at his eyes, and he blinked furiously against them. His throat closed. His hands shook.
This was stupid.
This was—
Where the hell are you?
He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes until he saw stars. The pressure helped, briefly, grounding him in pain instead of panic. He counted to ten. Then to twenty.
He breathed in through his nose, out through his mouth, the way Mercer had taught him when he was thirteen and didn’t know how to exist without breaking things.
In through the nose. Out through the mouth. You’re in control, Dex. You’re always in control.
But the voice was quiet now, drowned out by the static.
He dropped his hands and looked up.
There.
The fruit and vegetable aisle. Eight feet away. Your back.
And everything stopped.
The world snapped into focus like a lens being adjusted. The lights dimmed to something bearable. The buzzing of the fluorescents faded to a dull hum.
A shock ran through his system, ice-cold and bracing, like being splashed with water in the middle of a fever dream.
His throat worked. He swallowed once, twice.
He dragged his eyes up, angry at himself and not angry at all. Angry that he couldn’t just walk up to you, couldn’t just be normal, couldn’t just—
His hands were still shaking.
His chest was still tight.
His breathing was still too shallow, too fast, each inhale catching on something sharp lodged in his lungs.
He was still falling apart, and you were right there, six feet away, squeezing pears and humming to music he couldn’t hear, and he couldn’t calm down.
The realisation hit him like a fist to his throat.
If he couldn’t pull himself together now, if he couldn’t drag his shattered pieces back into something resembling a whole person, he was going to have a full mental breakdown with you a few steps away from him.
He couldn’t let that happen.
He couldn’t.
He stood at the end of the aisle, frozen, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, his heart hammering against his ribs, his eyes fixed on the curve of your spine and the gentle sway of your hips as you moved down the display.
And for a long, terrible moment, he didn’t know what to do.
The word nectarines repeated in his skull like a lifeline.
He didn’t know why that particular fruit had caught his attention—maybe because they were closest, maybe because they were red and blushing and reminded him of the colour your lips had been at the diner.
It didn’t matter. He grabbed one, then another, turning them over in his trembling hands pretending to inspect them.
Three steps away. You were three steps away.
Dex’s shoe scuffed against the linoleum as he adjusted his stance, positioning himself so he could see you in his peripheral vision without turning his head.
Look at something else. Let your eyes find the target naturally. But his eyes weren’t listening.
They kept sliding back to you, hungry and helpless, drinking in the curve of your hip where your sweatpants rode low.
He could smell you.
Estée Lauder. Beautiful Magnolia.
He knew the scent because he’d bought a bottle once, from a department store in Midtown, just to understand what it was that clung to your clothes and lingered in the air long after you’d passed.
He’d sprayed it on his pillow that night and buried his face in the fabric, breathing you in until the noise in his head quieted to a hum.
He inhaled now, deep and long, hoping it would do the same.
It didn’t.
His hands were still shaking. He could see the tremors as he turned a nectarine over, the fruit wobbling in his grip like he’d never held anything in his life.
Just breathe, Dex, Mercer whispered, but her voice was thin, frayed, like a recording stretched to breaking.
We don’t know how this got out, Hattley’s voice cut in, smooth and false, dripping with pity. We’re going to find out who leaked this.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
He wanted to hit something. Wanted to drive his fist into the display of nectarines, into the wall, into his own skull if it would make them stop.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
He tried to focus on you. On the sound of your breathing. On the fact that this was the closest he’d been to you in years.
But nothing helped.
The voices swelled. The migraine throbbed. His hands shook. His chest constricted. And he was drowning, drowning, drowning in the fluorescent light of a grocery store—
“Excuse me.”
The world snapped into silence.
Dex’s head shot up so fast his neck cracked. His eyes found yours, and everything in him locked up like a circuit breaker tripping. You were looking at him.
He stared.
He blinked.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
The silence stretched, and your smile tightened at the edges, just slightly. You cleared your throat, shifting your weight, the picture of casual confidence.
“I don’t know if this is gonna sound a bit creepy,” you said, and your voice was smooth, rolling, the same voice he’d heard a thousand times in his memory, “but do I know you?”
His heart stopped.
Then restarted at double speed.
Say something. Say something normal. Say something human.
“I—” He cleared his throat. The sound was raw, scraping. He forced a smile onto his face, “I don’t think so.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “No, I do.”
There was no room for argument in your voice. No uncertainty.
He tilted his head, mirroring you. Let his eyes narrow slightly, as if he were searching his memory.
As if he didn’t have every moment he’d ever seen you catalogued and cross-referenced in his mind.
As if he wasn’t memorising the way the light caught in your hair, the faint sheen of gloss on your lips, the tiny beauty mark just above your collarbone.
You snapped your fingers, before pointing to yourself. “I used to work at this diner a few years ago. I don’t know if you know it—Bel Air Diner, maybe?”
He let the pause hang. Let his brow furrow. Let himself pretend, when all he wanted to do was reach out and touch you to make sure you were real.
“Bushwick?” he said finally, his voice steadier than he felt.
Your eyes lit up, and the sensation of seeing that, of being the cause of that light, was like injecting ecstasy straight into his veins.
“Yeah!” You nodded, your smile widening into something that crinkled the corners of your eyes. “The one on the corner of 9th Ave. That’s the one.”
Dex’s breath caught. He swallowed, trying to find his footing, trying to remember how to be a regular person, having a conversation with a woman who had no idea that she was the only thing that had kept him from falling apart for years.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the word. “Yeah, I remember.”
“But you don’t remember me?”
Dex blinked at you, the words landing like a slap he didn’t see coming.
For a long, terrible second, his brain seized, caught between the instinct to apologise and the dawning realisation that you were teasing him.
You were teasing him.
The corners of your mouth curved, and there it was, a glint in your eye, a playful tilt to your chin that he’d never seen before.
Not in all the hours he’d spent watching you. You were straightforward. Bold.
In his head, you were soft. Sweet. A little shy, maybe, the way you’d duck your head when a customer thanked you, the way you’d bite your lip when you were concentrating on an arrangement.
He’d built a version of you that was gentle and malleable, a fantasy that existed to be consumed, not to talk back.
“I’m kidding,” you said, after his silence stretched a beat too long. Like you could see him drowning and had thrown him a line.
He hated himself.
The feeling was familiar, worn smooth by years of repetition, but this was a fresh, raw kind of hatred that made his palms itch.
The Dex in his mind, the one he’d imagined a thousand times, would have had a smooth response ready. Would have leaned against the display, flashed a grin, said something that made you laugh.
That Dex was charming. That Dex was normal.
But that Dex wasn’t real. And the real Dex was standing here, sweat beading at his temples, hands shaking.
He scrambled, forcing a smile onto his face that he hoped read as charming rather than manic.
“No, no.” His voice came out too quick, too eager. He reined it in, softened his tone. “I do remember you now. I’m just surprised you remember me.”
You tilted your head smiling, and the movement pushed the apples of your cheeks up. God, you were beautiful.
“Can never forget a handsome face,” you said.
Handsome. She said handsome. She’s flirting with you. That’s what this is. Say something back. This is how it works. So do it.
But his brain was a white-noise void, every thought scattering like roaches in harsh light.
His smile felt brittle on his face, but he held it there, hoping you couldn’t see how badly his hands were shaking.
“Thank you,” he managed, and the words came out rough, almost shy.
He shifted the nectarine to his other hand, wiping his palm against his slacks in a motion he hoped looked casual. Then extended his hand.
“Dex.”
You smiled and told him your name. Like he didn’t already know it. Like he hadn’t whispered it into the dark of his apartment with his fist wrapped around his cock, gasping it into his pillow like a prayer.
Your hand slid into his.
The contact was electric. Your skin was warm, soft, impossibly real against his calloused palm.
He had to stop himself from closing his eyes, from letting the sensation wash over him and drown him.
Every nerve in his body screamed at him to pull you closer, to bring your hand to his mouth and press his lips to your knuckles, to your wrist, to the delicate skin where your pulse beat just beneath the surface.
Instead, he shook your hand once, twice, like a normal person, and let go before he did something he couldn’t take back.
“So, Dex,” you said, drawing his name out just slightly, testing it, like you were deciding whether you liked the way it felt on your tongue.
You had no idea he’d been waiting to hear you say it for years.
“What brings you to the supermarket at—” you glanced at your phone, then back at him, a small smile playing at your lips, “—seven pm on a Thursday.”
Simple question. Normal question. The kind of question one person asked another when they wanted to keep a conversation alive, when they wanted to prolong it.
And you hadn’t even seemed to notice that he had no shopping cart. No basket.
Just himself, standing here in the produce aisle like a man who’d wandered in off the street with no purpose other than to stare at fruit he had no intention of buying.
There was no way he could tell you the truth. That just hours ago he’d been framed by the FBI, scapegoated for an ambush he’d had no part in, cast out of the only identity he’d ever known.
That he’d spent the last hour spiraling in his car, hallucinating voices, pressing a gun to his own jaw before forcing it back into the glove compartment.
That he’d driven here not for groceries, but because your Thursday evening routine was the only fixed point left in his collapsing world.
He couldn’t say any of that.
So he said the first plausible thing that surfaced from the scrambled mess of his brain.
“End of the week,” he heard himself say instead. The words came out rough, but he pushed through. “But way less crowded on weekends.”
You raised your brows, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “So I guess I’m not original at all, huh?”
You were making a joke, and he’d walked right into it and now he was supposed to respond. Laugh. A laugh would be normal. People laughed at jokes. That was the expected behavior. He should laugh.
He made a sound that was supposed to be a chuckle but came out more like a choked exhale, his lips stretching into a smile that felt too wide, too stiff.
“Great minds think alike, I guess.” He tried for laid-back, tried to make his shoulders relax, but they stayed hunched, like he was bracing for impact.
You tilted your head, just slightly, and hummed in agreement.
And then there was a pause.
A little one, at first. The kind of pause that happens naturally in conversation, where one person waits for the other to speak next.
But it stretched. It grew. It filled the space between you like something physical, and Dex felt it pressing against his chest, tightening around his throat.
Say something. She’s waiting. She gave you an opening and now you’re letting it die.
But his mind was a blank wall.
He cleared his throat, the sound rough and too loud in the quiet aisle. “So, uh—” He glanced down at the nectarine in his hand, then back up at you. “You come here often?”
The words landed and he wanted to die. You come here often? That was the line he’d pulled from his brain.
The most generic, cliché, forgettable question in the history of human interaction. The kind of thing a mannequin would say if it were programmed to simulate human speech.
He braced for the look. The one that would say really? delivered with a curl of the lip, a shift of weight away from him. He’d seen that look on women’s faces before, when a man tried too hard or said the wrong thing.
So when you let out a laugh, genuine and surprised, it hit him like a punch to the chest.
You were laughing. At him, maybe, but not at him. With him. Like you found him funny, endearing even. Like his awkwardness wasn’t a turn-off but a joke you were both in on.
Dex felt his face go warm. He rubbed his brow, a nervous tick he couldn’t control, the heel of his hand pressing against his forehead as if he could massage away the embarrassment.
“Yeah, I heard it when I said it,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Sorry…”
He risked a glance at you through his fingers, and you were looking at him with an expression he didn’t recognise.
You looked like you were trying not to smile and failing, the corners of your mouth twitching upward.
His heart was hammering so hard he felt it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers.
“I’ll give you a pass for now,” you said, a smile breaking through fully now.
Dex’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Nothing came out.
He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. “Thanks,” he said again , the word barely above a whisper. “I—I’ll try to do better next time.”
You raised your brows again, but your smile didn’t shift. In fact, it seemed to deepen, the corners of your mouth curling with delight. “Next time?”
The question hung in the air, but to Dex it felt like a tightrope. One wrong step and he’d plummet.
He hoped to God you couldn’t see the sheen of sweat beading on his forehead, the way his pulse was visibly jumping in his throat.
Adapt. You have to adapt. She’s smooth, she’s quick, she’s going to eat you alive if you don’t keep up.
He forced his mouth into something resembling a smile, though it felt more like a grimace on the way up. “You’re the one who said for now.”
And that’s how Dex ended up with your number.
Thirty minutes earlier, Dex had been sitting in his car, the engine off. His spare gun had been in his lap, cold and heavy.
He’d pressed the muzzle against the soft skin under his chin, felt the metal dig in, tasted the copper of a future he’d almost chosen.
His career. His structure. His livelihood. His reputation. All of it gone, stripped away in a single afternoon by people who’d used him and discarded him like a broken tool.
One pull. That’s all it would have taken.
Now, driving home, the streets of New York blurring past his windshield in streaks of neon and headlights, Dex felt something he couldn’t name.
It wasn’t relief, exactly—the weight of what he’d almost done was still there.
But it was layered over with something else, something bright and unfamiliar, like sunlight breaking through clouds after a storm.
He kept glancing at his phone. It sat in the cupholder, screen dark, but he could feel it like a beacon. Your number.
Your number, given willingly, freely, without coercion or manipulation.
The thought made his chest ache, a dull, insistent pressure behind his ribs. He flexed his hands on the steering wheel, and let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob.
It was a high he’d never experienced before. And he was terrified of coming down.
He pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, cut the engine, and sat there for a long moment, staring at his phone. The screen was dark, but he could still see your face, the memory of your smile burned into his eyelids.
And then his phone buzzed.
The screen lit up with a number he didn’t recognise, but the area code was familiar. New York. Manhattan.
He stared at it for three rings. Four. Five.
His thumb hovered over the decline button, but something made him pause. Something cold and familiar, settling in his gut like a stone.
He answered, “Hello.”
“When I was a boy…”
His skin wasn’t buzzing.
It was flaying itself from the bone, a high-frequency current ripping through every nerve ending until he couldn’t tell where the violence ended and his own body began.
The climb back through his window was a smear of pure sensation, the groan of the frame digging into his bruised ribs, the distant wail of a siren that might have been real or might have just been the echo of the screams still ricocheting inside his skull.
He tumbled into the living room, the red suit clinging to him like a second skin of sin and sweat, and the silence of his apartment hit him like a physical blow.
He spared a blank look at the microwave. 2:37 AM.
The high was curdling. The exquisite, crystalline purpose Fisk had injected into his veins was souring into a dense, suffocating fog.
The voices in his head were warping and overlapping, layered with the fresh screams of the people he’d just killed.
They weren’t separate voices anymore. They were a single, roaring static that made his skull feel too small for his brain.
He fumbled at the gloves, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, tearing at the constricting seams.
The helmet followed. The seal broke with a soft hiss of trapped breath, and the cool night air of the apartment hit the raw cuts on his cheekbone and split lip like a strip of litmus paper.
He wasn’t in control. He was a passenger, a ghost haunting a machine made of meat and bone.
The machine moved on autopilot, carrying him across the sticky floor through the debris of his life, toward his closet. His safe.
His fingers knew the combination better than his conscious mind. Beep. Beep. Beep. The door swung open.
Mercer’s tapes.
He reached for them, his fingers brushing the familiar edges, and he could already hear her voice in his memory. She would fix this.
She would rebuild the walls, draw the clean lines of the diagram, soothe the static into structured silence.
He paused.
The tapes felt dead in his hand. Cold. Alien. The thing inside him, that had killed tonight with a terrifyingly genuine grin splitting his face under the mask, revolted.
Structure was a cage. Control was a lie he told himself so he didn’t have to look at the abyss. Mercer’s voice was the voice of a woman who had never existed, a blueprint for a life he had never actually lived.
He didn’t want to be fixed tonight.
He wanted to be real.
He set the tapes down. The plastic clattered against the wood shelf, and the sound was a door slamming shut on his old self.
His body, no longer his to command, drifted to the phone on the nightstand. The screen was a blinding star in the gloom of his apartment.
Before he could rationalise the catastrophic stupidity of it, his thumb pressed the call button.
The phone pressed against his ear. The flat, electric hum of the dial tone filled his head.
First ring. A knife.
Second ring. His breathing turned ragged, harsh stabs of air in and out. He couldn’t control it.
His hand shook, the tremors traveling up his arm to his chest, making his heart rattle against his ribs.
Third ring. Where the fuck were you? The thought was a claw in his chest, desperate and raw, scratched out from the bottom of his fractured soul.
Fourth ring. Despair hit him like a bullet. The rejection he deserved. The silence he was born for.
His thumb was already moving to sever the connection, to retreat into the familiar dark, to let Mercer be the only voice he ever heard again.
The click.
A breath on the other end. The soft rustle of sheets. The sound of someone shifting out of sleep, pulling themselves back to consciousness for him.
A voice, sleepy and warm, cutting through the static in his soul.
“Hello?”
He opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out. His throat had sealed itself shut, his tongue a dead weight.
The buzzing in his head didn’t stop, it changed, shifting from static into a high, thin whine of pure panic.
What the fuck was he doing?
He should hang up. He should hang up right now, pretend this never happened, crawl back to the tapes and let Mercer stitch him back together.
But he didn’t move.
“…hello?”
Your voice again. Groggy, yes, but there was an edge now. Caution. Awareness creeping in.
He could picture you propping yourself up on an elbow, squinting at the phone, trying to place the unknown number glowing in the dark.
He cleared his throat.
“Hi. It’s Dex.”
Silence. Long enough that he felt his stomach drop through the floor.
“From the grocery store,” he added, stupidly. “Earlier today.”
More silence. He counted the seconds. One. Two. Three. His heart was a jackhammer against his ribs, and he was suddenly, acutely aware of how insane this looked.
He had your number for less than twelve hours. He had called you at 2:37 AM. There was no version of this that didn’t make him seem unhinged.
Then your voice came through, softer now, a hint of recognition bleeding through the drowsiness.
“Oh. Guy from the fruit aisle.”
The words were flat, stripped of the teasing lilt from earlier. He winced. He was an idiot.
But he couldn’t hang up either.
“Yeah,” he said, and his voice cracked on the single syllable. He cleared his throat again, harder this time. “Sorry. I know it’s late. I—”
He stopped. Ran a hand through his damp, tangled hair. The words weren’t coming. They never came when he needed them. “I couldn’t sleep.”
A beat. Then, “You call everyone you meet at the grocery store when you can’t sleep?”
There it was. The faintest edge of something, not quite playfulness, but not hostility either. A testing of the waters. He latched onto it like a drowning man grabbing a rope.
“No,” he said, and the honesty slipped out before he could stop it. “Just you apparently.”
The silence that followed was different. Softer. He could hear the rustle of fabric on your end, like you were shifting, settling deeper into the conversation.
“You’re weird, you know that?” you said, but your voice had lost its wariness. There was a thread of amusement in it now.
“I know,” he said. He didn’t even try to deny it.
He could have left it there. Could have apologised again, said goodnight, let you go back to sleep.
But the buzzing in his head was quieter now, drowned out by the sound of your breathing on the other end of the line.
“I was wondering,” he started, and his mouth went dry again. He pushed through it. “If you’re free tomorrow. Or, I guess, today now. For dinner.”
The words came out rushed, jumbled together like he was afraid he’d lose his nerve if he didn’t get them all out at once.
He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the rejection.
Another long pause. Then, a soft, breathy sound that might have been a laugh.
“You’re asking me out at three in the morning?”
“Depends on if you say yes,” he said, and the words surprised him. They were smoother than he’d intended, a sliver of confidence he didn’t know he possessed.
Your laugh came through fully this time, quiet and warm, and something in his chest cracked open.
“That’s a good line,” you said. “You rehearse that?”
“No,” he admitted. “I’m kind of making this up as I go.”
“Pretty good for improv.”
He felt the corner of his mouth twitch, almost a smile. “Does that mean you’ll say yes?”
A beat. Then, “Depends on what you’re offering.”
He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding. His fingers tightened on the phone, grounding himself in the plastic and the warmth of your voice.
“Anything you want,” he said. And he meant it.
Dex prided himself on focus.
It was the cleanest thing he had, the discipline that held the loose pieces of him together. But here, across the table from you, that focus was a dead wire. Useless.
Ten minutes in and he still couldn’t land anywhere. His eyes kept skirting, from the deep crimson painted across your mouth to the sharp neckline of that tight black dress, down to where the fabric pulled across your chest.
He felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck, forced himself to your eyes instead. The dark liner made them bottomless, pulling at him with every slow blink.
His body was wired tight, locked up like he was bracing for impact. Every breath measured. Every movement too careful.
Terrified of the wrong word, the wrong look, shattering whatever luck had gotten you here.
You took a sip of your wine, watching him over the rim. Then you tilted your head, a smile catching at the corner of your mouth.
“Relax. You’re sitting like I’m gonna jump over this table and bite you.”
The image slid under his skin before he could stop it.
I’d let you, he thought. Anywhere you wanted.
He locked that down, managed a rough chuckle. “Still can’t wrap my head around why you said yes.”
You shrugged, setting the glass down. “Got nothing better to do. Thought I might as well get a free meal with a hot guy.”
Hot. You called him hot.
Then your eyes narrowed. “Unless you’re one of those guys who believe in fifty-fifty for the first date.”
The question caught him off guard. For a second, he just stared at you, his brain struggling to catch up. Then he let out a choked laugh, shaking his head quickly.
“No. No, god, no. I promise.”
“Good.”
Your voice softened into something warm, teasing. You leaned back in your chair, swirling the wine in your glass, and the candlelight caught the curve of your smile.
The waiter appeared and Dex grabbed the menu like a lifeline, staring at the words without reading them.
He nodded when you ordered, asked for the same thing. When the waiter left, you leaned forward, elbows on the table.
The neckline of your dress dipped just slightly, and he caught the black lace underneath.
Fuck. Were you doing this on purpose?
“So, Dex from the fruit aisle.” Your voice had dropped, stripped of the teasing edge from earlier. Something warmer now. “Tell me something about yourself.”
His stomach dropped. Just a flash. He pushed it down.
“I’m an FBI agent,” he said. Safe. Simple enough. “Or—was. It’s complicated.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Complicated how?”
“The kind that makes for a bad first date story.” He tried to smile. It came out crooked.
You laughed, and the sound loosened something tight in his chest. “Fair enough. I’ll take a rain check.”
He nodded, scrambling for footing. “What do you do?”
You rolled your eyes and he felt a flicker of panic before you huffed, amused. “Just a florist. Completely boring compared to chasing bad guys, I’m sure.”
There’s nothing boring about you. The thought hit him hard and fast, and he heard himself say it out loud before his brain could catch up. “There’s nothing boring about you.”
You let out a small laugh. “So you do know how to sweet talk a girl.”
He couldn’t hide the blush that crawled up his neck to his ears, burning against the collar of his shirt. “I’m just saying it how I see it.”
“Maybe,” you hummed, “but then again you don’t know anything about me.”
Never had he heard a more untrue statement in his life.
He knew your schedule. Your favourite coffee order. Your comfort shows you loved to binge. Which soap you preferred. Your go to nail colour. How you liked cats and dogs equally.
But he couldn’t say that. So he just looked at you across the table, watched the candlelight catch your eyes.
The food arrived. Steam rose from the plates between them, the scent of ginger and soy cutting through the moment. The waiter said something he didn’t catch.
“Well,” Dex murmured, “I’m hoping to learn if you’ll let me.”
Being here with you was something he had never experienced before.
The night before was a smear of violence but it all felt muted now, distant, like a transmission he couldn’t tune into anymore.
Not with you across the table, your voice cutting through the static in his head.
You kept the conversation easy. When he fumbled an answer or went quiet because his brain short-circuited trying to keep up with you, you didn’t pull back. You just smiled, shifted, let him find his footing again.
Once or twice he found himself wondering why you were even giving him a chance. You could have anyone. Smarter, smoother, someone without the weight he carried.
It made no sense that you’d picked him. Not that he’d let anyone else close enough to try, but the thought still lingered.
Still, there was a weight pressing down on him the whole time. A clock ticking. He felt it sharpest as the check arrived. Signing it, his stomach twisted into a knot so tight it made him nauseous.
The thought of leaving, of stepping into the cold air alone and watching you walk away, hollowed him out.
He could already feel the emptiness waiting. Maybe he’d just follow you home. Watch you through your window. It would be enough to comfort him.
“How are you getting home?” The words came out before he could stop them.
“Walked here,” you said, pulling out your lipstick. “Guess I’ll do the same.”
He watched your mouth as you reapplied it, the careful, practiced stroke of colour. He couldn’t look away.
“Let me drive you.”
You paused, the compact half-closed. Your eyes lifted to his, and he could see you weighing it, the stranger across from you, the risk of letting him know where you lived. The silence stretched. He felt the whole night teetering.
Fuck. He’d done too much. He ruined it. He’d pushed too hard, too fast, and now—
“Okay.”
It hit him somewhere between the Williamsburg Bridge and the mouth of your street, a strange hollow equation he couldn’t solve.
Away from you, the restlessness ate at him, he couldn’t settle, couldn’t quiet the noise inside his head.
But here, with you in the passenger seat, so close he could feel the warmth coming off your skin through the space between them, he wasn’t any better. His body was locked tight, every muscle braced for a mistake he hadn’t made yet.
He couldn’t stop glancing at you while he drove.
His hands were rigid on the steering wheel, knuckles pale in the passing streetlight. You leaned back in the seat, your head tilted, completely relaxed, watching the city slide past the window.
No tension in your shoulders. No flicker of anxiety. Just calm. It made him feel transparent, like you could see every loose wire and frayed thread in his head.
By the time he pulled up outside your building, his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, a quick, raw pulse that wouldn’t steady.
How had this happened so fast? He’d spent years wanting you, fantasising about you from a distance, and now that you were here, the wanting had twisted into a kind of fear.
The fear of doing something wrong. Of saying the wrong thing. Of breaking whatever fragile spell had let him into your space tonight.
You turned toward him. Your expression was different now. At dinner, your eyes had been sharp, playful, like a vixen toying with her prey.
But here, in the dim lamplight bleeding through the windshield, your lashes fluttered against your cheeks, and your gaze was wider, softer, something he didn’t have a name for.
“I had a good night,” you murmured.
Dex opened his mouth. His tongue felt thick, useless. “Me too.” It came out pitiful, barely a whisper.
You kept looking at him, waiting. Your lashes lowered, then lifted, like an invitation he couldn’t decode.
He stared back, frozen. Should he get out? Open your door? Walk you inside? He had no script for this, no smooth line rehearsed. His eyes drifted from yours to your parted lips. Red. Soft.
He was still scrambling through the noise in his head for the right move when your hand moved. It slid up the back of his head, fingers threading gently into his hair.
Before he could react, before his brain could catch up, you were pulling him forward.
Your lips met his.
For a long, heavy beat, Dex didn’t move.
His body locked up completely as the reality of your mouth sank in. You were kissing him. The thought cracked through the static in his brain like lightning. You. Kissing him.
Then instinct took over before he could wreck it. His lips started moving, awkward and unpracticed, trailing behind the rhythm you set.
A shaky breath left him, his shoulders dropping a fraction as he relaxed into the warmth of your mouth, the simple unimaginable fact of it.
Until he felt the wet tip of your tongue brush his bottom lip.
He tensed immediately. His eyes cracked open, found yours closed, your face slack and completely lost in it. He parted his lips. Let you in.
The second your tongues met, a raw sound caught in his throat. His cock hardened painfully behind his zipper, a rush of blood that made everything else go distant.
The taste of you flooded his senses, faintly sweet, the slick slide of your tongue against his. His brain went quiet for the first time all night.
Then something inside him snapped.
The careful, terrified version of himself fell away. He had to touch you. Now.
He pulled his hand off the wheel, lifted it. Fingers spread, hesitated. Your hair? Your waist? Your cheek? He had no idea what he was doing. Every option felt wrong, but doing nothing was unthinkable.
His palm landed on your throat before he could decide.
His fingers curved around the column of your neck, thumb settling against the flutter of your pulse. You moaned into his mouth, pleased and approving, and the sound shot straight through his chest. You liked it.
He pushed harder against your mouth, greedier. The hand on your throat tightened fractionally, pulling you closer across the console.
He didn’t care about breathing anymore.
The taste of you flooded every nerve in his body like a drug he’d been starving for his whole life. He’d rather suffocate against your mouth than take another clean breath of empty air.
Your hands found his jaw, and for a split second his brain screamed that you were pushing him away. Too rough. Too fast. He ruined it.
His grip started to loosen, a fresh wave of shame crawling up his throat—
But your fingers dug into his skin and pulled him closer.
The sound that left him was raw, almost animal. Relief and hunger tangled together as you yanked him deeper into the kiss.
Little noises escaped your mouth, muffled against his tongue, and he tried to memorise each one even as he lost himself in the wet slide of your lips.
His hand slid from your throat to your jaw, fingers curling around the bone, tilting your head back as he pushed further into your mouth.
His tongue swept against yours, messy and desperate. He didn’t know what he was doing, he just knew he needed more. He wanted to crawl inside your skin.
Then your palms pressed flat against his chest.
Push.
The separation hit him like cold water. He broke away gasping, and his mouth chased yours before he could stop himself. But you didn’t pull further back.
You caught his lips in soft, quick pecks, barely there, just enough to soothe the ache you’d left behind.
Your mouth brushed against his when you spoke, voice low and rough.
“Do you wanna come up?”
Fuck.
The words hit him square in the chest, then dropped lower, settling hot and heavy in his gut. He was already nodding before his brain caught up, pupils blown wide, lips wet and swollen.
“Yeah,” he breathed against your mouth, “Yeah. Fuck—yes.”
Dex’s pulse slammed against his ribs the second the lock clicked behind him.
Standing in your apartment. He forced his eyes to wander like he was stepping in here for the first time, even as his brain catalogued every detail against the map he’d already burned into his memory.
“Nice place.” The words scraped out of him, rough and distracted.
He tilted his head at the bookshelf, the framed photograph he knew was your mother, the throw blanket draped over the armchair that he’d watched you buy from a street vendor three months ago.
Every careful glance was a lie, but he wore it like a second skin.
“Thanks.” Your voice came from right behind him.
Then your hands were on him again, sliding over his shoulders, turning him around. He went without resistance, boneless under your touch. You pulled him down and met his lips halfway.
Your tongue pushed past his lips and he opened for you like a starving thing.
Your fingers twisted into his hair, yanking his head forward just enough to deepen the angle, and he let you. He’d let you do anything.
You bit his bottom lip, sucked it into your mouth, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily.
His hands began to move. Everywhere. Your waist, the dip of your spine, the swell of your hips.
He grabbed desperate handfuls of your ass, pulling you flush against him, and the heat of your body through that thin dress made his head spin.
You were soft in ways he’d only ever imagined, and his imagination had been thorough, but nothing prepared him for the reality of you pressed against his aching body. He wanted to touch every part of you at once, to map you entirely.
You broke the kiss first, panting, lips slick and swollen. Your forehead rested against his, your breath hot and uneven on his mouth. “I don’t do this often,” you murmured, the confession raw and almost shy.
“I know,” he breathed without thinking.
The second the words left him, he felt you stiffen. You pulled back, confusion knitting your brows. “What do you mean, you know?”
Dex’s stomach dropped into freefall.
His eyes snapped open, panic flooding his veins.
Fuck. Fuck.
He scrambled for a lifeline, his mouth opening and closing before the lie managed to crawl out. “I mean I—I know what you mean. Me too. I don’t—I don’t do this often either.”
You held his gaze for a long moment. The sharpness in your eyes softened, and you snorted, a puff of warm breath against his lips. “You’re so weird.”
Relief flooded him so fast it made him dizzy. Before he could dwell on it, you were kissing him again, swallowing whatever fragile composure he had left.
Your hands guided him backwards. He followed blindly, drunk on your mouth, stumbling until the back of his knees hit something soft. You shoved him. Hard.
He landed on the couch with a grunt, bouncing once before settling, looking up at you with wide, dazed eyes.
Before he could ask, you leaned down, bracing your hands on his knees, and kissed him again. Slow and deep, a thorough occupation of his mouth that erased every thought trying to surface.
He melted into it, his hands finding your thighs, stroking the warm skin exposed by the hem of your dress.
You broke the kiss gently, pulling back just enough that he could see you.
You were on her knees. Between his legs. Looking up at him through your lashes, your lipstick smudged, your hair loose around your face.
The sight of you there stole the air from his lungs.
“What—what are you doing?” Dex heard himself ask, his voice thin and wrecked, stripped of every layer he hid behind.
You smiled as your hands slid up his thighs, fingers pressing into the muscle.
“Having my dessert.”
Dex’s brain went completely blank when your fingers found his belt buckle. The soft click-clack of it coming undone rang through the room like a gunshot in his ears.
He opened his mouth to speak, to protest, to do something other than lie there like a trembling mess offering himself up to you, but all that came out was a strained, cracked confession,
“Are you sure—you-you don’t have to—”
His hips lifted off the couch cushions anyway.
A complete betrayal of every word coming out of his mouth. His body didn’t give a single fuck what his brain was trying to negotiate.
It wanted you. It had always wanted you.
You didn’t hesitate. You dragged his slacks and boxers down his thighs in one smooth motion, baring him completely to the warm air of your apartment.
He shivered, his cock springing free to slap against his stomach with a wet, heavy sound.
He was already painfully hard, leaking against his navel, the swollen head flushed dark and slick, and the sight of you looking at it made his stomach clench so hard he thought he might be sick.
Your hand wrapped around him like it belonged there. A firm grip that made him grunt, his hips bucking up into your fist before he could stop himself.
The heat of your palm was everything. He watched, completely mesmerised, as your thumb swept across the sensitive head, smearing the bead of pre-cum that had gathered there, using it to slick your stroke.
You looked up at him through your lashes, your mouth hovering inches from his tip.
Your breath was hot and uneven against his sensitive skin, and there was a tremor in your voice when you spoke that made his heart stutter in his chest.
“You don’t want me to suck your cock?”
Jesus Christ.
The visual was so fucking obscene, you, on your knees, looking up at him with those wide, innocent doe eyes while your hand worked his shaft and your lips hovered so close he could feel the ghost of them.
He had to lean his head back against the couch cushion and squeeze his eyes shut. He was going to cum just from looking at you.
A soft, dark laugh came from between his legs. “That wasn’t a no.”
Before he could answer, something wet touched him.
His eyes snapped open. He looked down just in time to see your tongue trace a slow path along the thick vein on the underside of his cock.
An embarrassing, needy whimper crawled out of his throat before he could strangle it. His hips twitched, desperate to push into the warmth of your mouth, but he held himself still by sheer, crumbling willpower.
You didn’t stop. You laid a soft, lingering kiss right on the crown, your lips parting just enough to ghost over the sensitive slit before pulling away.
When you looked up at him, your eyes were dark and hooded, your lips slick and parted.
“Keep your eyes on me, Dex.”
He nodded. A dumb, jerky motion. He didn’t trust his voice. He didn’t trust anything. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
You didn’t even have his cock in your mouth yet and he swore he could feel the pressure building at the base of his spine, coiling tighter with every second you held his gaze.
His hands fisted in the couch cushions, knuckles white. His breathing was ragged, each inhale a desperate gasp.
He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, watching in rapt focus as you parted your lips and took the swollen crown of his cock into your mouth.
Your eyes stayed locked on his. You held his gaze as you sank deeper, inch by agonising inch.
The wet heat of your tongue curled around his shaft, the velvet pressure of your cheeks hollowing as you pulled him further into the slick, perfect heaven of your throat.
Every inch you swallowed made his hips twitch involuntarily against the cushions. Every flutter of your lashes made his stomach clench tighter. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t.
Oh, fuck. Your mouth was so warm. So impossibly wet.
The slick slide of your tongue curling around his shaft, the flutter of your throat when the tip pressed against the back of your mouth, he didn’t think anything in this world could feel better than having his cock in your mouth.
He was certain of it. This was the single best moment of his entire miserable life. He was ready to die right here and call it a life well-lived.
You pulled back slowly, dragging your tongue along the thick, throbbing vein on the underside of his cock before taking him deep again with a low moan.
A broken whimper crawled out of his throat before he could clamp down on it. “Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” His voice was wrecked, barely more than a ragged whisper. “You gotta stop—or I’m gonna—”
You just hummed casually against his slick, swollen tip, your breath hot and uneven against his sensitive skin.
“No, no, wait—please, I want it to last,” he heard himself begging, the words tumbling out in a desperate, breathless rush. “I’m not gonna make it—I swear to God—”
You didn’t stop. You just held his gaze with those innocent, wicked eyes and took him deeper.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He was so fucking pathetic. Lasting like some inexperienced teenager, his first time all over again.
He tried to think of anything else; baseball statistics, the cold metal of his gun, the layout of the presidential hotel, but it was no fucking use at all.
Every nerve in his body was tuned to the wet slide of your mouth, the curl of your tongue, the soft, muffled gag when he hit the back of your throat.
He squeezed his eyes shut, could feel the frustrated tears prickling hot behind his lids. He couldn’t look at you anymore.
He had to stop himself, had to make this last, but his body was betraying him completely, trembling, arching, pushing deeper into your heat.
You took him back into your mouth in a single, fluid motion. Hollowed your cheeks. Pressed your tongue flat against the underside of his shaft.
And when you swallowed around the head of his cock, pulling him deeper into the wet velvet of your throat, he shattered completely.
“Oh fuck—I’m coming—”
His hips bucked involuntarily, driving himself deeper into your throat, feeling you gag around him, feeling your throat constrict and pulse as you swallowed, milking the orgasm out of him.
His release slammed into him like a freight train.
Hot, thick ropes of his come spilled into your mouth, and you swallowed around him, milking every drop, refusing to let him go even as he convulsed through the aftershocks.
His back arched off the cushions. His hands fisted so hard in the fabric he thought he might tear it. His vision whited out completely.
When his hips finally stopped stuttering, when his body went limp and trembling beneath you, you released him with a soft, wet kiss to his oversensitive tip.
The tenderness of it made his chest ache.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he felt himself mumbling, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “That was so fast—I couldn’t—I didn’t mean to—”
His hand came up to cover his face, shame and self-disgust crashing over him in waves.
But you wouldn’t let him hide. You caught his wrist, gently pulling his hand away, and crawled up his body.
Your lips were slick and swollen, your chin wet with him. You cut off his rambling apologies with a kiss, and his own taste flooded his senses. He groaned into your mouth, as your tongue played with his.
You broke the kiss just barely, your lips brushing against his as you murmured, “That was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
He blinked up at you, dazed and trembling. “Yeah?”
You hummed against his lips, a slow, satisfied sound. “And I can’t wait for you to fuck me.”
The words hit him like a spark in a gas tank. The shame, the self-hate burned away in an instant, replaced by an animal surge of hunger.
He looked at you, still dazed, a slow, disbelieving smile pulling at his lips.
He still hadn’t ruined anything yet. He still hadn’t lost you.
His hands found your waist, gripping hard enough to bruise. Before you could react, he was moving, wrapping his arms around you and hauling you up with him.
You let out a surprised squeal, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.
He captured your mouth in a bruising kiss as he stood, walking blindly toward the hallway where he knew your bedroom was.
Dex lay perfectly still, afraid that even the smallest movement might shatter the fragile, impossible peace of the moment.
You were curled against him, your back pressed to his chest, your breathing slow and deep, the sound of someone completely and utterly spent.
He had never felt anything like this. Not once in thirty-two years. This is what it feels like. This quiet. This rightness. This terrifying, exhilarating certainty that he was exactly where he was supposed to be. Happiness.
His mind drifted back over the hours, replaying the sharp, vivid highlights like a film he couldn’t look away from.
He had learned so much about you tonight. How your breath hitched when he scraped his teeth along your pulse point. How your fingers twisted in the sheets when he found the perfect angle.
You loved being on your hands and knees for him. The first time, he’d followed your lead, sinking into you from behind, gripping your hips so hard he knew there would be bruises.
He pounded into you, watching your body rock forward with every thrust as you cried into your pillows, muffling your pleasure.
But something in him had itched. He hated it like this.
He couldn’t see your face. Couldn’t watch the expressions that flickered across your features when he hit that spot. Couldn’t feel your heartbeat against his chest or taste your moans with his own mouth.
It felt too much like taking, and not nearly enough like having you.
After you came the first time, your body shuddering and clenching around him, he pulled out before you could catch your breath and flipped you onto your back.
He needed to see you. Needed to watch the way your mouth fell open, the way your pupils blew wide when he settled between your thighs.
He buried his face between your legs and drank you in with a need that bordered on worship.
He lapped at your slick, swollen folds until your second orgasm crested, your hands fisting in his hair, your hips grinding against his mouth as you gasped his name into the dark.
By the time your third orgasm rolled through you, he had your legs wrapped high around his waist, his body pressed flush against yours.
He was buried so deep inside you that the world outside the space between your bodies ceased to exist. His nose touched yours. His forehead rested against yours.
He captured your gaze and held it hostage.
“Look at me,” he breathed, the command barely a whisper. “Don’t close your eyes. Look at me.”
He wanted you to see everything he had felt since the first moment he saw you in that diner. The obsession. The desperation. The hunger that had consumed him for years.
He wanted you to feel it in the way he moved inside you, as if he was trying to pour every ounce of himself directly into your bloodstream.
He knew you probably didn’t understand the full scope of it.
But lying here, in the aftermath, he let himself pretend. He pretended you had been waiting for him all this time. That your body recognised him. That this was always meant to happen.
When he finally let go, he held himself perfectly still, pumping his release deep inside you with a low groan.
He pressed so close that he could feel your heartbeat through his chest, grinding against you as if he could transfer his devotion through sheer physical proximity.
His nose stayed pressed to yours, his lips hovering just over your mouth, sharing the same warm, humid breath.
He whispered things against your lips. Broken things. Beautiful things.
Confessions that would never make sense in the harsh light of day, but here, in the dark, felt like the only truth that mattered.
“Been waiting so long. So long. I fucking worship you. You’re mine. I’m yours. Don’t ever leave me.”
His voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t care. He let himself be cracked open, let you see the raw, jagged edges of him that he had spent a lifetime hiding.
You didn’t answer. You probably didn’t even hear him. Your eyes had fluttered shut, your body going lax and heavy against him.
Lost to sleep. Lost to him.
He smiled against your hair, a real smile that softened all the hard lines of his face. He didn’t need you to answer. Not tonight.
Just having you here, warm and trusting and full of him, was already more than he ever dared to hope for.
The air in the room had cooled, but wrapped around you, he was warm for the first time in as long as he could remember.
Only twenty-four hours ago, he had been suffocating. Bound by rules and routines and the desperate need to keep himself contained.
But Fisk had shattered the cage he kept himself in. He had shown Dex a version of himself that was raw, hungry, and unapologetic. And instead of retreating from the wreckage, Dex had stepped into it.
He had let go of the ropes and the rules and the white-knuckled grip on control. He had chosen himself for the first time in his miserable, constrained life.
And by choosing himself, he had found the path that curved inevitably, beautifully, right back to you.
He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the curve of your shoulder. His hand splayed across your stomach, feeling the warmth of you.
I did this, he thought, pride blooming in his chest. I chose this. I chose me. And it led me to you.
Dex buried his face in the curve of your neck, his nose pressing deep into the warm, sleep-soft skin just behind your ear.
He inhaled slowly, letting your scent flood his lungs. You smelled like home—the faint coconut trace of your shampoo, the salt of dried sweat from the hours you had spent tangled together, and something deeper, muskier, that was entirely, irrefutably you.
God. This was unbelievable.
And that was where his next problem laid.
He spared a glance down, past the rumpled sheet that clung to his hips, and saw the unmistakable tent of fabric where his cock had hardened again.
He let out a quiet, shaky breath, his eyes tracing the outline of his own need with a mixture of frustration and irritation.
He couldn’t fucking help it.
He felt like a kid in a candy store. The kid being him, a thirty-two-year-old man who had never known what it felt like to want something and actually get it. And the candy store was you. Access to your body.
The knowledge that he could touch you, taste you, sink into you whenever he wanted, and you would let him. You would want him to.
He had known it would be addictive. He just hadn’t realised how quickly the addiction would take hold, how it would wrap around his nervous system and tighten until he couldn’t think of anything else.
His body moved before his mind could catch up.
Spooned against you, chest to your back, he felt his hips roll forward in a slow, instinctive grind.
The thick length of him slid into the warm cradle between your thighs, pressing against the soft, slick heat of you through the sheet. A low sound caught in his throat, a choked half-groan that he swallowed against your skin.
Fuck. He should let you rest.
He had been so rough with you tonight. Your body had given him everything.You deserved sleep. You deserved peace.
But his cock didn’t give a shit about what you deserved.
Before he could stop himself, his hips rolled forward again, and this time the tip of him nudged past the edge of the sheet, finding the bare, wet seam of your cunt.
He gasped against your shoulder, his eyes squeezing shut. The slide of you against him was obscenely slick, unbearably warm, a friction so perfect it made his toes curl against the mattress.
Shit. You were still leaking him from earlier.
The evidence of what he had done to you was still there, pooled between your thighs, making you slick and ready for him all over again.
He pressed a quick, guilty kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering just long enough to form a silent apology. I’m sorry. I can’t help it. I just... I need you. I can’t stop needing you.
His hand moved, sliding over the curve of your stomach, tracing the soft dip of your waist before cupping your breast.
The weight of it filled his palm perfectly, the flesh so soft and warm, molding against his fingers like it was made for him. He squeezed gently, then let his thumb drag across your nipple, feeling the peak tighten and pebble under his touch.
A small shift rippled through your body. A subtle arch of your spine. A soft, breathy sound that caught in your throat.
He froze.
Every muscle in his body locked tight. His breath stopped. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he was sure it would wake you on its own. He waited, suspended in the pure terror of being caught.
She’s going to wake up. She’s going to see what I’m doing. She’s going to realise what a fucking creep I am—that I can’t keep my hands off her even when she’s asleep, that I’ve been watching her for years, that I am completely, irreparably obsessed with her.
The seconds stretched like hours.
But you didn’t wake. Your breathing deepened again, settling back into that slow, even rhythm. Your body relaxed against his, soft and trusting and completely oblivious to the war raging inside his chest.
He should have stopped. He should have been grateful for the reprieve, thanked whatever cruel god had given him this moment, and let you sleep.
Instead, he kept moving.
His hips resumed their slow, steady rhythm, grinding against your soaked cunt, the head of his cock sliding through the mess of his own release and your combined arousal.
The sensation was maddening; a wet, slippery tease that promised heaven without delivering it.
His hand stayed on your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers, feeling the way your body responded even in sleep.
He pressed his lips to the back of your neck, a long, open-mouthed kiss that tasted of salt and skin. His breath came hot and uneven against your nape.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your skin, barely a whisper. “But I can’t... I can’t stop touching you. Every second I’m not inside you feels like I’m wasting time I don’t have.”
His hips rolled again, slower this time, deeper, the blunt tip of him catching at your entrance before sliding away, teasing both of you.
A shudder ran through his entire body.
“Please. Just a little more.”
The words slipped from Dex’s lips against the warm skin of your neck, a prayer offered to himself more than you, a plea for permission he was already taking.
He buried his face deeper into the crook of your shoulder, breathing you in until his lungs ached, and let his hips move.
There was nothing graceful about it. He rutted against you like a man possessed, the thick length of him sliding through the slick heat pooled between your thighs.
The sensation erased every rational thought. There was only you. The need to be inside you again. To own you. To fill you so completely that you couldn’t forget him, couldn’t leave him.
His breath came heavier against your nape, as his hand slid from your breast down to your stomach. He pressed his palm flat against the soft curve of your belly and pulled you tighter against him.
The arch of your back pressed your ass directly against his cock, and a fractured groan escaped him.
That’s when he felt it. A shift in your body. Your muscles tensed, your breathing changed, the subtle alertness of waking. Your voice cut through the dark, rough with sleep.
“Dex...?”
He froze for the span of a heartbeat. Then his hand came up to cradle your jaw, tilting your head back just enough for him to press a kiss to your cheek.
His hips never stopped their relentless grind, his cock catching at your entrance before sliding away again.
“Shhh,” he breathed against your ear. “Go back to sleep, honey. I’ve got you. Just let me stay right here.”
He needed you to stay in that space between dreaming and waking, where you were pliant and accepting and he could pretend his need wasn’t completely out of control.
But you turned your head toward him, your lips parting.
“Dex—”
He couldn’t let you finish. He kissed you, his tongue sliding into your mouth before you could form the rest of the sentence.
And you let him. No, you kissed him back. Your mouth softened under his, your body melting into his, your tongue meeting his with a lazy, sultry rhythm that told him everything he needed to know.
He felt your hand slide down between your bodies, your fingers searching blindly until they found him.
You traced the slick head of his cock, your touch featherlight, and a shudder ripped through him so violently he had to brace himself against the mattress.
“Fuck,” he gasped against your lips. His forehead dropped to yours, his breath ragged. “You want this too.”
You didn’t answer with words. You nudged the tip of him against your opening, a silent direction that drove the last shred of his restraint into the dust.
He answered with a small grunt as he pushed inside.
The heat of you swallowed him whole, and he dropped his forehead to yours, breathing you in. A soft, breathy moan escaped your lips, and your fingers curled against his back.
“Dex,” you murmured again, but this time it wasn’t a question. It was a sigh of surrender. A welcome.
He pressed another kiss to your mouth, before he began to move.
He tried to start slow. He tried to savour the sensation of sinking back into your slick heat. The attempt lasted only a handful of careful thrusts before the hunger surged through him.
His strokes turned hard and punishing. The rhythm of his hips fell into a desperate tempo that rocked the mattress beneath you, the steady thump-thump-thump of the headboard keeping time with the wild beating of his heart.
His hand slid up from your hip, fingers grazing the soft skin of your stomach, your ribs, before curling around your throat.
You looked up at him through heavy-lidded eyes, your pupils blown wide, your lips parted around soft, broken ah-ah-ah sounds that spilled from your throat with every deep thrust.
He leaned down, his mouth hovering over yours, and deliberately let a thick string of saliva fall into your open lips. He wanted more of himself inside you.
More of his taste, his mark, his presence seeping into every crevice of your body.
A low, guttural groan rumbled up from his chest as he watched you swallow it without hesitation, without question. Your throat worked under his palm, accepting him, taking him in, and the sight nearly sent him over the edge.
“Fuck,” he murmured against your lips, his balls slapping wetly against your ass as he drove into you harder. “You liked that, didn’t you? Touching you while you were asleep. Groping you. Fucking you like I own you.”
Despite the dazed pleasure softening your features, despite the way he was fucking the very thoughts out of your head, you still had the audacity to smile.
That slow, lazy, knowing curl of your lips that had haunted him since the first time he saw it. You hummed a soft, satisfied, “Uh huh.”
“Yeah,” he breathed, a fractured sound against your cheek.
He hooked your thigh higher over his arm, opening you wider, sinking deeper into your perfect, willing heat.
Your voice came out in fractured moans, but there was a teasing edge to it. “’S fucking hot. Knew you were a freak the second I saw you.”
Dex couldn’t help it. A laugh cracked out of him, low and disbelieving, pressed against the warmth of your cheek.
Here he was, balls deep in the object of a years-long obsession, and you were calling him a freak like it was the highest compliment.
The laugh faded into a shuddering exhale as he shifted his angle, driving into you with hard, deep thrusts that pushed the air from your lungs and left you gasping beneath him.
He wanted to leave a permanent mark on your soul. He wanted your cunt to remember the exact shape of him, the exact weight of him.
He wanted the memory of this night imprinted so deeply into your body that you would feel the ghost of him every time you closed your thighs.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear, breath ragged and hot.
“I’m gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”
Your response came as fractured, desperate moans, words swallowed by the rhythm of his hips driving into you.
Without breaking pace, his hand moved. Two fingers pressed against your lips. You opened without hesitation, taking them into your mouth just as you took every part of him.
He pushed them deep, curling them against your tongue in perfect time with his thrusts, a double rhythm that had you moaning around his knuckles.
The sight of you like this; mouth full of him, cunt full of him, eyes glassy and fixed on his face, pushed him to the edge. He could feel the tension coiling tight in his gut, the familiar ache building at the base of his spine.
He was seconds away from coming. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
He needed you there first.
With a wet gasp from you, he pulled his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva breaking between his skin and your lips. His hand dropped without hesitation, finding your clit.
He rubbed fast, precise circles against the swollen bud, his own rhythm faltering as he poured every ounce of focus into your pleasure.
His eyes locked onto your face. He watched every micro-expression. The furrow of your brows, the way your lips parted on sharp, punched-out breaths, the flutter of your lashes as pleasure overtook you.
You looked up at him, dazed and pleading, and he nodded like a man possessed, a dumb, frantic motion that matched the speed of his fingers.
“C’mon,” he breathed, the words cracking. “Let go f’me. Let go, baby.”
And you did.
The orgasm hit you like a wave, your back arching, your mouth opening in a loud moan. Dex felt it, the way your cunt clenched around him, choked him, milked him.
The sensation ripped a loud, guttural groan from his chest, his hips stuttering as he followed you over the edge. He closed his eyes, the world going white, and let himself go.
Deep, pulsing spurts of cum filled you, and he thrust into you with every wave, pushing himself as deep as he could go, holding himself there, making sure every drop stayed inside you.
When it was over, the room was filled with nothing but harsh, shared breaths.
He collapsed against you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress. He made no move to pull out. No move to let you go. He stayed buried inside you, as close as flesh could get.
“Jesus Christ,” you murmured in a daze, the words barely a whisper.
The silence that followed was a dangerous thing. It let the thoughts back in. The insecurity. The horrible, gnawing fear that he had done too much.
He pressed his face into the curve of your neck, hiding, breathing you in until his lungs ached. His voice was rough, muffled against your skin.
“Too much?”
A beat. Then your hand, slow and heavy with exhaustion, slid into his hair. You laughed, soft and drowsy.
“No.” A pause. “By all means... keep me in your basement if you want.”
Dex’s eyes snapped open.
The joke hung in the air, clearly just a sleepy, affectionate jab. But he didn’t hear the joke.
He heard the offer.
Having you to himself. Forever. In a place where no one else could touch you, see you, take you. A place where you were his, every single moment of every single day.
And if you wanted it... if you offered it up with that same trust you gave him your body, your mouth, your cunt...
Then why the fuck wouldn’t he do it?
He lifted his head slowly, looking down at your face. You were half-asleep, lips curved in a soft sex-dazed smile. You had no idea what you had just given him.
His voice dropped, quiet and raw. Completely serious.
“Yeah?”
Your lashes fluttered. You hummed, already drifting back into sleep, but the sound was an affirmation. A yes.
His hand slid up, cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His thumb traced your cheekbone, and when he spoke, the words were a vow pressed against your lips.
“Then I’m never letting you go.”
a/n | dex feeling absolutely blessed and a surreality of being seen and chosen by you, meanwhile reader is just a youngho and overly horny
pairing: pope cody x bambi!reader ( no use of y/n )
summary: pope wishes he was your favorite cody brother.
content warnings: fem!reader, mention of how pope gets mistreated by everyone else in his life, mention of drugs + alcohol, they share a bed, too many mentions of smurf, they're kind of loneliest guy in the world x loneliest girl in the world
a/n: hai my lovelies! this is me introducing bambi reader to you!!!! the link leads to a pinterest board, which i'm still working on, but i hope you like her as much as i do. gif credits to @wesandresons !! <3
wc: 4.4k
No one was exactly sure why you were friends with Craig. Not even Craig, but he liked you. And though he tried his best to get you into his bed, it never worked. And god, he tried. Annoyingly so. Your resolve never wavered, standing with not being interested in Craig whatsoever.
At every party he threw, you were the girl hiding in the living room or in the kitchen. Anywhere where strange, drunk and high, people couldn't talk to you. It was almost impossible to find you, yet you also seemed to never go home, instead deciding to remain at the loud party surrounded by people you didn't like.
It was strange for Pope to watch you, know that you feel the same things he did, but do nothing.
You had every right to disappear, leave this haunted house, go back to your own.
Instead, he'd find you in the living room, remote in hand. You'd usually shoot him a sweet, knowing smile, aware that he was feeling just as uneasy as you did. Not fond of any loud noise, or drunk people. And he wished he had the courage to ask you if you wanted to leave the house with him, if you wanted to just drive around, sit at the beach and watch the waves.
But he'd always turn on his heels and go back outside and hate himself for it.
If he asked you to sit with him, you probably wouldn't even bother him, wouldn't try and force him to drink alcohol or get high like everyone else. You probably wouldn't even talk to him, knowing he liked his silence. He always regretted not asking you the moment the smell of beer hit his nose, and the moment water splashed onto his clothes, while people laughed around him. It made him feel lonely and different.
Still, he couldn't figure out why you were always at their house. Smurf wasn't good company, obviously, though she tolerated you just barely. Mostly because you kept to yourself. She knew you wouldn't blab to anyone about the Cody's jobs or that you never intended on going against her.
You were just there.
And no one complained, because you were like a fresh breath of air. You smiled and within two minutes you'd have J smiling too. You stayed around a lot, but never for too many days. If you went over, you were there for a long time, but the moment you disappeared, you were gone.
There seemed to be no specific reason for it. You seemed to be just overly concerned that you were being too much and bothering people. He knew you were a lonely girl, but he was also aware that your fear of being too much overpowered your grave sense of loneliness that you were never able to hide.
It was a bad habit of yours, always apologizing, even for existing seemingly. Craig had shot you numerous perplexed looks, never having heard this many sorry come from one person ever. But Pope knew he liked it, enjoying the fact that someone saw him as important enough to feel bad for him, that he was worthy enough to receive the sweetest girl's ever apologies.
Pope on the other hand, hated it. He hated the word sorry, and he especially hated it coming from you.
Whenever you apologized, whether it was accidentally brushing his arm while you were in the kitchen, or speaking, what you thought was, for too long, Pope would shut you down. And he'd always do it in a cold tone, knowing that was the most effective way to stop you completely from ever uttering that word around him again.
He knew his voice would startle you, not expecting Pope who was always kind to you, to speak to you that way.
His plan worked, and you started biting your lip hard the moment the word slipped out. You'd look up panicked, and that would usually be enough for him. He'd shot you a dry look, bored even. And you'd shake your head and mumble, 'I take that back.' and he'd drop the look immediately, resorting to his normal soft look that he always wore around you.
The word didn't completely disappear from your vocabulary, but now you uttered it almost never when he was around, and it made Pope feel less worried about being in your presence.
Everyone adored you and sometimes he hated it. It worried him that everyone felt the same adoration he did for you, that somehow you'd never pay attention to him. Given his brothers were much better at being affectionate, it made him feel like he was behind. Like it was a competition to be your favorite brother, and he was last, not even having started the run, because he didn't know how to. That the moment Craig brought you into the house and introduced you, a starter pistol went off, and everyone started running.
It didn't stop him from seeking you out all the time. Whenever the question 'Where's Pope? popped up, the answer was the same. With you. Always with you.
Mostly, because you followed him around. When he'd reject your offers to sit with you on the couch at parties, you'd get up and follow him.
There the two of you would stand somewhere and observe the party together, both with the same repulsed expression. For him, it was the dirt and the carelessness, for you it was the loudness of it all.
When you caught Pope in front of a dark TV, staring at himself in the reflection, you'd tap his shoulder softly. Just two taps, never wanting to overwhelm him. "My car's making weird sounds," you'd say softly, and he'd get up and help you.
Sometimes you'd tell him something was broken in your home, and he'd drive to your place without a word. You'd always try to drag out his stay, offering him cookies (because you were absolutely terrible at cooking) or offering sodas.
Sometimes, he'd catch you looking around the room nervously, looking for new problems he could fix. So he'd grumble out a "Sink sounded weird earlier," and you'd smile so wide, it was like the sun came out from behind the clouds.
Things like this made him doubt everything.
Maybe you didn't dislike him as much as he thought, maybe he did have the potential to be your favorite brother.
But then he'd watch you light up when Deran would tell you he finally figured out how to make your favorite mocktail. (Obviously, you never had to pay a cent. If not for Deran shaking his head as you handed him money, then it was Pope who paid for everything you ate and drank.)
Even Craig offered to teach you how to surf. The shy expression you always wore around Pope would disappear and your smile would be so radiant Pope wouldn't be able to look away, never having gotten the privilege to see such an open expression from you.
Things like these made Pope doubt everything, consider that maybe the shy expression was just your uncomfortable one, that when you needed help at home, it was simply because you needed help and nothing else.
He knew Deran and Craig were absolutely terrible at fixing things, and he feared that, just like everyone else, you too viewed him as a tool, something to use and throw away. That he was just waiting for the throw-away part, and that it was coming sooner or later.
But he couldn't help but have all his worries vanish into thin air, whenever you decided to grace him with your big thankful eyes and an even wider, dazzling smile.
The first time he felt like too much for you, so much he wanted to run away, was when you joined him in the garage.
You softly knocked against the doorway. "Andrew?" you always said his name so sweetly, it made him want to record it and listen to it like a lullaby until he fell asleep, which didn't happen much these days.
He looked up at you. "You're awake." He furrowed his eyebrows in concern. It was pitch dark outside, and he figured you were asleep in the living room.
You shook your head. "Couldn't sleep." you smiled softly, your eyes telling him to please drop it. He did, turning his head back to what he was working on.
You stepped closer, and he could smell the perfume that he loved so much. Before he knew it, you were towering over him, lightly brushing up against his shoulder. "What are you working on?" you titled your head, staring down at whatever it was you were looking at.
"Part of the car. Stopped working last night," he replied in a low voice, not raising his head, even though he really really wanted to see your pretty face.
You glanced around, spotted what you needed and sat down. You pulled the chair closer to him, setting your elbows on the table in the process. "Mind if I watch you?"
Pope glanced at you, and his eyes darted all over your face, trying to gauge what exactly the point here was. You seemed sincere, so he hummed.
You laid your cheek in your palm and watched him. Your big eyes stared at his hands with so much interest, they started to tremble a bit.
The silence between you was filled with the sound of an owl and the ticking of a broken clock somewhere in the garage.
Five minutes must've passed by now and Pope had never understood until now how silence could be nice even with someone else in it. It wasn't like he couldn't feel your presence. No. He knew you were here, but he enjoyed it. More than enjoy, he craved it. He wanted to stay in this little room forever, hearing nothing but your soft breaths and the sound of you tapping your foot restlessly on the floor.
He didn't hate the silence like when he did with Smurf, who sat with him in silence at breakfast and watched him eat.
No, he loved the feeling of your soft eyes watching him work, knowing he was good at what he did, and that you were admiring him.
"You're not tired?" you asked after a while, careful not to be too loud, not wanting to disturb his work.
"No." When Pope looked up, he met your eyes immediately, like you'd been watching his face rather than his eyes, and your lips lifted into a flustered smile.
Embarrassed, like you'd been caught. He wasn't sure what it was, but he almost felt the need to gloat about it. Sweetest girl he knew was caught staring at him.
Stupid.
He looked away again, almost in shame, because how dare he think that you were admiring him. You were sleepy and he was awake. That's it. Had Craig been out here, you probably would've joined him too. He was nothing special.
"S'nice watching you," You brushed a hand over your face, rubbing your eyes tired.
Pope looked up, because surely he'd misheard, but you shot him a sweet smile, soft hair falling over your shoulders as you rubbed your eyes, hard, again.
People couldn't even stand to utter his name, and you were telling him that he was nice to watch. Like his presence was worth acknowledging. Like it was something good, like his presence wasn't to be feared, like he didn't hear the rumors in town about how people feared the thought of him.
Horrible, awful Pope who hit and hurt people, who made a mess of people and things, of everything.
A kind girl like you liked to watch him in the middle of the night doing things that his brothers called weird, made them shake their heads as they looked away in disappointment and shame, wishing they'd had a normal brother, one more like them.
He must've stayed quiet for too long, because you froze. "Sorry, did—did I say something wrong?" nervously, you toyed with your heart necklace.
"No—No you didn't." Pope shook his head quickly, eyes darting back down to his car part. His fingers twitched nervously. "You should try to sleep." And he could sense he'd said the wrong thing, because your eyes widened for a second, and worry overtook your face.
"Oh—right, yeah you're right." Stumbling over your words nervously, you stood up, and Pope regretted it.
He hadn't meant this. He was just trying to tell you that he appreciated your kindness, but surely he wasn't that interesting. "I meant— it's not healthy to stay awake," he managed out, eyes darting back up to your face and back down. "It's not good for you." he managed out nervously.
You looked down at him, and you stood there for a bit, before sitting back down slowly, understanding he didn't want you to go. "Yeah— I know." You toyed with a bolt on the table, rolling it in between fingers before you looked back at Pope who was still watching you. "Craig keeps yelling in his room about his video game, and Smurfs still awake by the Pool." You dropped the bolt. "It's distracting."
"You can sleep in my room," Pope said, and given your reaction, it wasn't exactly something you expected him to say. But it made sense to him. "You can't hear Craig in there."
You stared at him, your eyes wide, making them bigger than they already were. "You want me to sleep in your room?"
Pope wasn't sure what was so confusing. It wasn't like his room was bad. Sure, it was a bit empty, but he took care of it, it was clean. He pushed the car part away, getting up from his chair. "I'll get you new bed sheets," and then he just walked out of the garage. You stood in the empty garage, mouth open, before you scrambled to follow him.
To your luck, Smurf was fast asleep, bottles of alcohol next to her, and you hurried to follow Pope. Inside, he led you to his room, grabbing clean bed sheets out of one of the closets in the hallway, before walking into his room.
You stood in the doorway watching Pope fix the bed for you. Were you dreaming? Was Pope actually fixing his bed for you?
You looked down and pinched your skin. "Ouch." you muttered to yourself. Not a dream, officially and definitely not a dream.
Pope turned his head to you. "You need pajamas?" he asked, but you shook your head.
You never took, unless you were outright suffering and Pope's eyes slowly darted down to the goosebumps across your skin, which were visible even with just two night lights on.
You were wearing a simple white lace tank top and California nights weren't exactly known for their heat. Even Smurf outside, was sleeping with at least two blankets. He turned, opened a drawer and grabbed a hoodie. When he handed it to you, you didn't take it.
"Is that yours?"
Pope nodded, almost worried. "I—You can have one of Deran's if you want."
"Nope, I—I'd like yours." you managed, grabbing the hoodie and letting it swallow you whole. It was warm, and it smelled nice, so very nice. You couldn't help the way your head just lowered a tiny bit, letting yourself smell how nice Pope's scent was.
Pope had already looked away the sight too much, and was now awkwardly staring down at the bed, fingers twitching nervously at his sides. "Okay, have— have a good night."
In all of your years of living, you'd never been this bold before. You weren't even sure what overcame you. Your hand reached out, and you grabbed Pope's bicep lightly before he walked past you.
You felt him freeze up, eyes locked onto your hand around his bicep, and you had to resist the urge to squeeze, to test how really hard and warm his bicep was. "Will—" you bit your lip, already regretting starting the sentence. "Don't you wanna sleep?"
"I have to work." His eyes flickered back down to your soft hands around his bicep.
You had pink polish on with brown polka dots. It was sweet. He'd seen you paint them once, you'd even helped Lena with hers. Lena had been so happy, and hadn't stopped talking about you the entire afternoon after you'd gone home. He had been glad to know that someone else felt about you the way he did.
You dropped your hand, disappointment flickering across your face. Pope's eyes darted around your face, noting how close you were but also how you were still trying to find your words. He waited.
"I'd like you to stay," you phrased it so sweetly, the way you always did, but for the first time you told him what you wanted. There was no if it's okay with you, you don't have to, no it's okay.
No, you straight up wanted something from him and God would he be stupid if he said no to you.
His eyes darted back to the bed and his eyes stayed there for a while, thinking. "I have to turn off the lights in the garage."
"I'll wait here!" You looked like you were about to start bouncing up and down from excitement.
Pope watched you for a second before turning and walking down the hallway, wondering what on earth led him to commit to this.
Meanwhile, you were in disbelief, palm to your mouth, as you muttered. "Oh my god. Oh my god." Oh my god, you were going to die. You glanced at the bed, deciding to get in now, before you were stuck in the awkward moment of having to argue with him about what side to take.
You pushed back Popes clean blue covers, slowly settling down in bed, and god was it was warm and soft. And it smelled nice.
You pulled the hoodie sleeves down over your wrists, nervously squeezing your eyes shut. You couldn't believe he'd agreed to this.
Pope walked back slowly, boots thudding on the floor until he stood in the doorway looking at the top of your head. Not to seem like a creep, he didn't linger, quickly stepping in. He could feel your pretty eyes watching him as he grabbed a set of fresh boxers, shirt and a towel.
"Gonna take a shower, won't take long," he said, barely looking at you. The sight was too much for him to handle.
"Okay," you said softly, eyes following him until he was in his bathroom.
You passed the time by opening every drawer of his, checking out what he had in there. Barely anything. You sighed, Pope wasn't much of a talker, so you'd hoped you'd find out more about him in his room.
He wasn't joking when he said he wouldn't take long, because just as you were checking out his bottom drawer, he showed up. You shut the drawer with the loudest bang! possible before scrambling back into a horizontal position, embarrassed.
Pope's eyes darted down to the drawer before lifting to your embarrassed expression. He was more endeared than anything. Any other person and he would've gotten suspicious, but you were toying with his sheets nervously, avoiding his eyes, and he knew you'd just been curious.
He'd caught you walking around the house, staring at every picture more than once. He was more than aware of your curious nature.
He brushed a hand through his curls as he walked to his side of the bed, and you lifted the sheets for him.
You somehow managed to still surprise him with your small sweet gestures. He'd lived his whole life in Oceanside, and with his reputation, people had stopped granting him kindness, even as simple as receiving a thank you.
He felt so endlessly grateful that one person on this earth was able to be kind to him, that maybe he wasn't as evil as he thought, that there was a chance for him. That if someone like you looked at someone like him and thought he was worth it, worth spending your time and sweetness on, he might actually have a chance in life.
He slipped under the sheets, and you dropped them, making the warmth hit him all at once. He liked to sleep on his side looking at the wall, but it felt almost insane to miss out on seeing your pretty face all night, so he stayed on his back, view narrowing to the ceiling.
You, on the other hand, turned to your side, palm under your cheek. "Your bed's soft." You whispered, and he turned his head to you, eyes darting away shyly when he noticed your intense stare. He figured his bed was nice enough, almost relieved it was up to your standards. He'd been worried in the shower that you'd make some excuse, and he'd come out, looking like a wet puppy, to an empty bed.
"What?" he asked after he felt you stare for a little more.
"Your curls are nice," you whispered. "Always wanted to tell you that, but was too scared."
"Of me?" It just slipped out of Pope's mouth. He didn't want to know the answer to that question.
"What? No." Confusion was written all over your face, your lips curling into a frown. "I'm just— it's a weird thing to say. That's all."
Pope stared at you. Not scared of him. You weren't scared of him. ’S'not weird." He held your stare for a while until his nervousness overtook his entire body, leading him to glance away again, eyes focusing back on the white canvas above him.
"Thanks for dinner tonight."
Smurf hadn't been up for it for some reason and Deran or Craig didn't care, so Pope had made food just for you. You hadn't even told asked, and maybe that's why he made it, because he knew you never would.
He turned his head, happy you were giving him an excuse to look at you. "D'you like it?"
"Loved it." you smiled softly. "You could be a professional cook."
Pope's mouth almost lifted into a smile at that, but then you scooted closer, and he froze up. His arm, which had been resting on the side of the bed, almost touching your stomach now. You were so close, he could see how pretty your eyes were up close.
They had always been his favorite part about you. When Craig had first introduced you, Pope knew his brother had warned you about him, told you he was crazy and weird. His brothers did that with everyone they brought to the house, and their friends would always eye him weirdly, and he'd never be given the chance to show them that he was capable of kindness. That he could be as normal as they wanted him to be.
But you, you, had smiled, lifted your hand in a wave and looked at him in a way that no one had looked at him in years. Soft, kind, and open-minded.
He stared at you, and you stared back, and then you slowly lifted your hand.
"Can I—?" you whispered softly, and he was startled by the fact that you asked, so he nodded.
People never asked before they touched him. The only touches he received were involuntary ones from Smurf, or punches from his brothers and strangers. Never ones from sweet girls that asked before they settled their hand softly at his temple, toying with one of his curls.
The bottom half of your hand touched his cheekbones, and you brushed over his hair, thumb catching in a curl. He watched you, eyes big, before finally turning to his side, deciding that he'd make it easier for you.
He saw the smile you suppressed, absolutely delighted that he was so open to you touching him.
He took a second to absorb and analyze the expression. His hazel eyes darting all over your face, looking for any lie, that this was just a game to you. That maybe you'll look at him in the morning with pity in your eyes. But your eyes were glowing, and even with his insecurities choking him when he was with you, he could tell that no lie was in your eyes.
"They're wet," he provided you with the most unnecessary information, already wanting to smack himself for pointing out such an obvious thing.
You just hummed, too distracted to be touching his hair to focus on his awkwardness. You looped a curl around a finger, thumb brushing right above his eyebrow.
Your eyebrows were furrowed like you were studying his hair, but he knew you weren't as relaxed as you seemed. Your breath was going quicker, he could feel it against his face. He could smell your perfume, something floral and vanilla and felt the need to press his face into your hair and just stay there.
Your eyes traveled back to his face, and you observed him, before your hands went back down to his bicep. "You can relax," you whispered. "I won't do anything you don't want me to."
Pope stared at you, hazel eyes wide, never once leaving your face. "You have to sleep too."
"I will." Your hand already back in his curls. He let the feeling of your warm hands overtake every other feeling. Every sense of fear, insecurity and worry.
As much as he knew you wanted him to, he couldn't sleep. Whether it was because of his nightmares or because of you being here, he wasn't sure. His eyes continued to track your face, and it didn't take you long before you let your hand drift from his hair to his cheek, brushing your thumb lightly over his cheekbone one first and last time, before dropping it back in between you.
Your eyelashes fluttered lightly like a good night to him before you closed your eyes. Pope let himself watch you, let himself feel the phantom feeling of your hands. Your perfume continued to linger, and he wished his room would absorb it forever, that every time he walked in, he'd smell your perfume. He knew his bed would smell like you for at least the next couple of days now, and he hoped so desperately that the next time you came over to the house, you'd sleep in his bed.
Maybe next time he'd be the courageous one and ask you to stay.
Getting engaged to Dex and he’s just insatiable. Not like he wasn’t already but now every time he sees the ring on your finger he’s on the verge of tears, getting hard, or both. Jerk him off with your ring on and he’s a fucking goner.
OH its like you want to kill him at that point. he's already struggling to function normally on a daily basis, its hard for dex to even leave your apartment if he has a clear view of the ring on your finger, just one glimpse and his breathing turns erratic, he gets teary-eyed, he's coming back inside and tackling you without a warning and slamming his lips on yours, pulling and pushing you up over the armrest of the couch and fucking you dizzy while he babbles into your mouth "mine, mine, mine", dex grabs your hand with the ring on it and stuffs the digits inside his mouth, he moans pathetically at the metallic taste knowing that it means you're his forever now, his thrusts growing all the more crazed <3
Synopsis: He couldn’t explain why your porch light calmed him. It just did. As long as it on, the world made sense. Maybe that was the problem.
The song is just so s1 Andrew coded, forgot how hard (no pun intended lol) smut is too write.
Warning: NSFW,smut, sub ish pope, handjob,creaming in pants 👀, no use of y/n
After getting out of prison, Pope Cody felt like a ghost.
Everyone looked at him like they were waiting for something.
Waiting for him to snap.
Waiting for him to prove them right.
Pope understood. He was used to people not knowing what to do with him
Then there’s you.
You don’t treat him differently.
You didn’t look at him like he was something dangerous.
You didn’t look away either.
The first time you saw him after he was released, you smiled.
Not a pity smile.
Not a nervous one.
Just a normal smile.
“Hey, Pope.”
That was all it took.
——
The first thing Pope noticed about your house was the light.
A small glow cutting through the darkness.
He didn’t know why it mattered.
Maybe because prison had been years of locked doors and endless nights, with nothing but the sound of his own thoughts.
But your porch light meant one thing.
You were home, somehow; that was enough.
And every night, without even realising it, Pope found himself driving past your street to see that warm glow cutting through the darkness.
—-
The rain had started sometime after dark.
You noticed him before he noticed you.
Pope stood near his truck, looking toward your house like he always did, caught between leaving and staying.
You opened the front door.
“Pope.”
His head lifted.
For a moment, he looked almost guilty, as he already knew he shouldn’t be there.
You looked past him at the rain falling around him.
You stepped back from the doorway “Come inside.”
The words made him freeze.
Not because he didn’t hear you.
Because he did.
“You sure?”
It was such a simple question, but something about the way he asked made your chest tighten.
Like he needed to hear it again, he needed that permission to exist somewhere.
“Yeah, Pope. I’m sure.”
Slowly, he walked toward the door.
The same man everyone else treated like a problem.
The same man everyone expected to break.
But standing there in the warmth of your home, he looked less like someone dangerous and more like someone who had forgotten what it felt like to be invited in.
You closed the door behind him.
You turned to face him, his body tense, like a wild animal that couldn’t decide whether to run or stay.
Slowly, you closed the distance between you. Pope didn’t move. His hazel eyes never left yours, watching every careful step until you stood close enough to feel the warmth radiating from him.
“Is this okay?” you whispered
He swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
You gave him another moment, letting the silence settle between you.
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
His shoulders eased, if only a fraction “I will.”
You reached for him, your movements slow enough that he could pull away at any moment.
He stayed exactly where he was, watching you with an expression that was equal parts uncertainty and quiet longing.
Your fingertips brushed lightly against his chest before gliding higher, tracing the steady rise and fall of his breathing.
Your hands continued upward until they rested at the sides of his neck, your thumbs grazing his jaw.
Carefully, you cupped his face.
His eyes fluttered shut for the briefest moment, a quiet, shaky whine escaping him before he could stop it.
He leaned into your touch without thinking, as though he’d spent so long without genuine gentle affection that he didn’t quite know what to do with it.
You searched his face “Still okay?”
He answered with the smallest nod.
Your thumb brushed softly across his cheek, and when he opened his eyes again, they were bewitched by you.
You closed the last bit of distance between you, giving him every opportunity to pull away.
He didn’t.
Instead, he met you halfway as your lips finally found his. The kiss was slow, hesitant at first, before something in Pope seemed to unravel. As if he’d been holding his breath for years and had only just remembered what it felt like to breathe.
His hands found your waist with quiet uncertainty, lingering there as though he was waiting for you to change your mind.
When you didn’t, he relaxed ever so slightly, drawing you a little closer.
The kiss lingered. Every gentle brush of your lips seemed to quiet the restless noise he carried for so long.
He suddenly pulled his mouth away, and a flash of confusion hit you until you felt the bulge against your stomach.
“I’m sorry,” Pope whispered, his voice barely audible.
The words came out automatically. His arms slowly loosened around your waist, pulling away as if he’d already decided he had gone too far.
“Andrew.”
The name stopped him.
Not Pope.
Just Andrew.
His eyes lifted back to yours, almost startled.
“Shh,” you whispered. “I’m not mad.”
You moved closer again, gently closing the space he had created.
“You’re okay.” Your hands moved lower, tracing down from his chest before coming to rest at the waistband of his jeans
“Will you let me take care of you, Andrew?” you cooed
His breath shuddered “Please”
You pressed soft kisses along the column of his neck, feeling the way his pulse jumped under your lips.
Your hand slid straight past the waistband of his jeans and straight into his boxers, fingers wrapping around the hot, rigid length of his cock without hesitation. Andrew’s breath hitched hard against your ear.
He was already leaking, the head slick and sensitive as your fist closed around it.
You gave him one slow stroke from root to tip, thumb smearing the wetness over the head, then another, tighter, firmer. His hips jerked forward involuntarily, pushing his cock deeper into your grip.
“Fuck” The word cracked out of him, half apology, half need. His arms came back around you, clutching your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish.
You didn’t stop. You worked him steadily inside the tight confines of his boxers, the fabric rubbing against the back of your knuckles with every stroke.
Andrew’s forehead dropped to your shoulder. His breathing turned ragged, little broken sounds spilling out every time your fist twisted over the head, the fabric of his boxers growing wetter and stickier with each pass of your hand.
“I’ve got you,” you murmured against his throat, lips brushing the frantic beat of his pulse. “Just let go for me, Andrew.”
His thighs started to tremble. His cock pulsed hard in your palm, and then he was coming thick, hot spurts soaking straight through the cotton of his boxers, coating your fingers as you kept stroking him through it.
He groaned low and desperate, hips stuttering, pushing into your fist, the mess spreading warm and wet against your skin and his own.
His eyes closed as he tried to hold onto the feeling.
The feeling of being wanted.
being safe.
not having to be the man everyone expected him to be.
You felt his breathing slowly settle beneath your cheek.
“You’re okay,” you whispered.
It was the same thing you’d told him before.
But this time, he didn’t pull away.
He didn’t apologise.
He didn’t tell himself he didn’t deserve it.
He just held you.
For the first time since leaving prison, Andrew Cody didn’t feel like a ghost.
pervy dex 🤤 you’re having an innocent conversation with him while wearing a low cut tank top bc of the summer heat and you catch his eyes frequently dropping down to your cleavage hehe. you point it out, start teasing him, and dex proceeds to stammer out excuses and begin to tear up. you end up having to comfort him while holding in your giggles, even pulling his head to your chest and he buries his face between your boobs 🥴
god it’s been so hot and humid lately with rain where i live, so yeah you sent this at the perfect time nonnie 🙂↕️
suggestive content!!!
he’s trying to listen to you, he really is, but how is he expected to concentrate when you’ve got your smooth skin on full display, sweating a little from the crappy air conditioning not doing its job well enough that a little rivulet drips down your neck, your chest, disappearing under your top between your cleavage and making him swallow back the saliva in his mouth. he gives you a nod to whatever the hell you’re talking about, acting as if he’s fully immersed in what you’re saying but he sucks at hiding his pervy thoughts from showing so clearly on his face.
you suppress a grin when you snap your fingers in front of him after catching his eyes wandering again, raising your brows and teasing him that your eyes aren’t down there and he immediately starts feeling flushed and shakes his head, chuckling bashfully that he wasn’t staring, he was just thinking about what you were saying.
but you don’t buy it and it’s obvious and the longer he talks the more of a hole he digs himself in with his eyes getting all glassy and his breathing getting a bit shallow, the sweat on his forehead dripping past his temples before he can nervously wipe it away.
until you finally just give in and assure him it’s fine, you’re just teasing him, watching the way he inhales and exhales a deep but shaky breath because he doesn’t want you thinking he’s some perv who can’t even pay attention to you for more than five minutes, he does respect you even if his thoughts veer towards the most disrespectful stuff involving you 🫠
your hands reach for him, starting as you just taking his face in your palms to pull his attention back to you and out of his head, but he melts into your touch and leans into you, not caring about the muggy air clinging to both your lungs because the relief of actually touching you is all that matters and all he can focus on.
he’d lay you back on the sofa with his head against your chest, still murmuring soft apologies against you while nuzzling into your softness, all while you just can’t help but hold in your giggles as you run your fingers through his hair.
Tags: Mention of murder, Bruce and reader are kind of dating but not really, Reader and Jason get along, reader has a reason to murder but i don't explain it. Lab tech Reader.
This isn't that good, i just wanted to write something like this. Maybe someday I'll fix it.
“You know you should stop with this.” The voice behind you made you let out a sigh. Securing once again the test tube that you had taken out of your tights. Straightening your dress with your hands.
“And you know that you should let me work without any problems. I'm not doing anything wrong, Batsy.”
“You've been killing people, You—” You shook your head, crossing your arms over your chest.
“I've only killed men. And you know they weren't good guys. I'm doing a favor to this city, just like you.” The Batman approached you, his eyes fixed on your face, soon you needed to raise your head to keep up with him.
“I don't kill.” His voice was direct and harsh; it was frustrating not being able to see his eyes because of that stupid mask.
“Well, you should. If you did, it would save us a lot of trouble.” Without saying much more, you went back to what you were doing, walking away from him towards the bathroom exit. "If you'll excuse me, my date is waiting for me."
"That's not your date, it's your victim. I'm not going to let you go." All you felt was a firm hand on your waist before your chest collided with his.
"Aw, are you jealous, B?" you smiled while raising a hand to his cheek, surprisingly he didn't push away. “Don't be, he's not that important. By Tuesday he won't be around anymore.” You let out a giggle as you shrugged, trying to get away once again, only succeeding in making his grip stronger.
Bruce didn't agree with what you were doing, he never could, but if you continued with that kind of thing at some point you'd end up behind bars and even though he didn't say it out loud, he didn't want to be the one to take you there.
You were a very intelligent lab technician, and he knew it firsthand. You had managed to develop a strange mixture with which you had been ending the lives of several important men in Gotham's underworld. Somehow, you managed to make the effect of the injection slow enough so that they died a couple of days later, long enough that those who had seen you around wouldn't remember your name or your face.
You were Jason's favorite “villain”, and that said a lot.
Even so, he also felt a deep fear that at some point someone would find the pattern in the deaths, that someone else would realize that you were a constant presence in the days leading up to their deaths. If any of those people realized it, it would be the end for you, and it wouldn't be a pretty one.
Bruce didn't want to have to rescue your body from the dirty hands of those guys. He simply didn't want to lose you, that's all; it wasn't that hard to understand.
"Seriously, I have to go back or they'll realize something's wrong and that's never good." you complained as you still couldn't get away from him, placing your hands on his chest to try and push him away.
Your "date" was already drunk enough not to realize you were going to inject him with something; you had to seize the moment or you'd have to scrap your plan altogether. That guy had been taking girls from the alleys to put them to work for him; it was necessary to get rid of that filth.
"Bruce, I need to-!" Your voice was interrupted by several screams outside the bathroom, soon followed by the sound of weapons and things falling.
“We're already taking care of him, as you can notice.” You dropped a blow on his chest, knowing it wouldn't do any damage given his armor.
“You knew I would do it today, and you ruined it. You know it costs them nothing to escape from Blackgate." Your face began to turn red with the anger you felt; you knew that guy would continue to give orders from his cell until he managed to escape again. He would continue to take girls and lead them down a terrible path.
Bruce loved seeing you so angry with him; he liked the way your eyes seemed to turn colder and how your cheeks turned red. He was forced to suppress a smile.
"I'm not going to let him do it, I'll give you my word." You let out a humorless laugh, shaking your head. To you, his word was worth less than nothing, you wanted to believe him but it wasn't easy.
This time you were working in your lab, it was your “public” job. You were preparing some blood smears to analyze samples from that day's patients. In another zone of your lab, you were centrifuging other samples that you would analyze later.
That day your assistant had to leave early due to some personal complications, so you were completely alone there.
Noticing the new company behind you wasn't difficult; his gaze was as heavy as ever.
“Hey, Baby." you greeted in a carefree tone, leaving the swabs on the rack before pushing your chair up a little to get the dye with the dropper and start applying it. “Are you finally going to take me out to dinner?"
"Actually, I have a few questions," you sighed, rolling your eyes and turning your chair to face him. Batman was a black blur that seemed to absorb all the white of your lab.
“Of course you have them. It's the only reason you came here.” you murmured as you set the alarm on your cell phone.
Bruce let out a sigh, removing his cowl so he could see you; his eyes looked tired, but that was nothing new.
"I always come to see you, what are you talking about?" Finally, he took the other available chair, sitting down opposite you.
"Bruce, you only come around when you need me to analyze a sample for one of your cases or to try to stop me from continuing with my other project. We never talk properly, and I'm still waiting for you like a fool."
"You know we can't have anything serious, doll." The man ran a hand over his face, he was dying to be with you but...
“‘Cause I'm crazy?" You knew perfectly well what he was thinking. You'd even heard him mutter that with one more push you could become another Harleen. “I promise you I'm not. You can ask the others!”
Bruce looked at you deadpanned. “They're already dead.” You sighed in frustration. Yes, they were dead, but for perfectly valid reasons.
"Because they were bad, Bruce. I'm not crazy, what I did to them was a plan, with you it's something different!" You didn't want him to always see you as someone who needed to be in Arkham, you didn't want things to continue in a game where today you could get tangled up within the four walls of your laboratory's rest room and where tomorrow you would end up arguing in some alley because you had just murdered someone else.
"Then I need you to stop killing once and for all and let me take care of them."
“I-I can't, I can't stop yet.” You shook your head slightly as you sighed; there were still a couple more men who needed to leave. "Just... just three more, Bruce, please."
You stood up to go to him, taking off your gloves as you approached, leaving them in the appropriate trash. His hands find their favorite place on your waist, drawing you into his lap. You immediately dropped your head onto his shoulder, wrapping your arms around him.
"I know how to approach them, I can even take care of them at the same time... you know I'm not doing this on a whim, B. I need to." you whispered, almost pleading.
“Love, I already know who they are. Although I don't like the idea either, Jason is dismantling them from the bottom up." His fingers traced soft caresses on your waist, bringing you closer to his body. “You know what he's like."
When he mentioned his second child, you somehow felt calmer. He was the only one who seemed to understand your reasons a little better. Sometimes he was even the one who brought the samples that needed processing. He would often stay and talk with you for a long time; you were very fond of him.
"But I wanted to do it on my own," you murmured with a groan.
"And he didn't want you to have any more blood on your hands." The bond you and Jason had been forming was quite intriguing to him. On many occasions, Jason had even defended you during team meetings.
You would undoubtedly scold him for doing that when you saw him again, but you couldn't help feeling a little tenderness.
"And since I don't want you to have any more deaths on your shoulders or a pout on your lips... The questions I was going to ask you can wait. I'll take you out to dinner."
“You're just doing this to distract me. Next week you'll play dumb and tell me again that I'm crazy and that we can't be together". You moved your hands away from his body, trying to get up, but his hands gripped you more firmly to keep you in his lap.
"No... we're not going to be together like Batman and a mad scientist, but we can go to dinner as Bruce Wayne and a mysterious lab technician.” His voice was soft as he tilted his face towards you, lightly brushing your noses together before placing a small kiss on your lips.
You just remained silent, looking at him without being entirely sure.
“Besides, I think I deserve to be the only lucky one to go on a date with you and not end up dead a few days later, don't you think, Black Widow?" He kissed your lips again, smiling a little this time.
He wouldn't tell you, but it also worked to keep you from hanging out with those underworld people. Once your face was on the news with him, you'd be recognized everywhere.
He knew your pain and your reasons for killing those guys, but he had to keep you safe no matter what. He really hoped that would work.
“So what? We'll be together as long as you're not in the suit and I'm not out killing those scumbags?" you asked in a murmur, one of your hands playing with a strand of his hair, that let him know you weren't so upset with him anymore.
"For now, yes." Bruce waited for your answer. If his plan worked, perhaps you could be completely together sooner than you thought.
Your eyes scanned the lab, settling on the small drawer you had locked. If Jason dealt with those guys before you could reach them, there would be no need to eliminate them.
There would be no need for you to continue with that revenge, and maybe you and Bruce could be together without any doubt.
“Okay, but I want to go to Brasserie Zedel.” You finally nodded as you fixed your eyes on him again. A smile crossed the man's lips as he chuckled softly. Of course you weren't stupid.
You wanted to go to a restaurant in London; it would be difficult for any Gotham journalist to capture your face while you were there.
“Let me see what I can do. We'll need a reservation and the jet.” He placed one last kiss on your lips, letting you get up to put on a new pair of gloves and continue with your work.
I know Luvcat says that it's in Soho, but yk, script requirements
My hand finds the alarm clock on the first try, muscle memory from years of the same routine, and I silence the beeping with a firm press. The digital billboard outside pulses uselessly against my closed lids, a light show I'll never see.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and wince. Last night's patrol left its mark: a dull ache settled deep in my left shoulder from catching a falling junkie off a fire escape, and my ribs protest when I twist. Worth it. He'd been clean for three months before the Chems started flooding the Bowery again, same supply line I've been tugging at for weeks.
My bare feet find the cold hardwood as I pad into the kitchen. The apartment is small but mine, cluttered with the things I know by touch: the chipped mug from Foggy's failed pottery phase, the coffee tin with the dented lid, the kettle that whistles just slightly off-key.
I measure the grounds by feel, fill the kettle, and set it to boil. The familiar sounds of the Bowery filter through my window—a car horn, someone's radio playing Latin pop, the distant wail of a siren heading toward the Narrows. Morning in Gotham.
I have the screen reader on my phone read me my messages. There is one from Foggy. I tap it and hold it to my ear.
"Don't forget—tailor at 8:30, court at 9. And I swear to God, Mary, if you're late again, Judge Corrigan will have my head. Call me when you're up."
Foggy's voicemail ends with the click of him hanging up. The kettle starts to rumble.
I tap Foggy's contact and bring the phone to my ear. He picks up on the second ring.
"There she is. The living legend." His voice is warm, already caffeinated—the bastard always wakes up before I do. "Please tell me you remembered the tailor appointment."
"I remember," I say, pouring the hot water over the grounds. The smell fills my kitchen—rich, dark, necessary. "Eight-thirty. Corrigan at nine. I wrote it down and everything."
“You wrote it down and then immediately lost the paper?"
"I didn't lose it. It's... somewhere."
Foggy laughs. That easy, familiar sound that pulled me through three years of law school and four years of running a firm together.
"Just don't be late. I can only run interference so many times before Corrigan starts asking questions about your 'medical condition.'"
"Blindness isn't a medical condition, Foggy, it's a lifestyle choice."
"It's a 'you-need-to-be-in-that-courthouse-at-nine-or-we-
will-be-held-in-contempt' choice." He pauses. "Bodega run?"
"You read my mind."
"Two egg and cheeses, extra hot sauce on mine. I'll see you at the office." He hangs up before I can say goodbye.
I sip my coffee, letting the heat settle into my bones. The soreness in my shoulder eases as I roll it, working out the worst of the knots. Outside, the Bowery is waking up; the bodega cat that patrols the block, Mr. Chen opening his laundromat, the rhythm of a neighborhood finding its feet. I finish my coffee in long, measured sips, letting the caffeine work its magic. The mug finds the sink without me looking, I never look, and I head back to my bedroom.
My fingers brush through the clothes in my closet. Court today means professional. I pull out a black blazer, matching trousers, and a red silk blouse. The fabric is soft, worn-in, familiar.
Dressing takes longer than it would for most people—buttons checked twice, seams aligned by touch, the knot of my bow pulled just right. I carefully tie my long ginger hair up and apply a bit of makeup with practiced precision, even though I can't see the result. This begrudging habit started after an aging judge, long past retirement, remarked that a "lady lawyer" looks unprofessional without makeup. My red-tinted glasses sit on the nightstand, and I slide them on, the world settling into its usual warm blur of sound and texture.
I grab my cane from where it leans against the nightstand — the red-tipped white one, standard issue. My fingers find the worn grip, familiar as a handshake.
Keys in my pocket. Phone. Wallet. Briefcase by the door. I'm ready.
As I step out, I see my neighbor Jason coming home after what looks like a rough night.
I turn to grab my bag and softly say, “Morning, Jason. Rough night”
Jason turns to look at me and sounds like he cracks something that may be considered a smile and a tired look, “You don’t know the half of it, have a good day, Mary”
“You too, and get some sleep, you sound horrible,” I retort
“Thanks,” he says with a chuckle as he closes his door.
I lock my door and start down the stairs.
The moment I step out, the Bowery hits me like a wave. The smell of frying oil and exhaust fumes, the percussion of footsteps and chatter, the vibration of the elevated train rumbling a few blocks over.
Mrs. Ramírez is on the stoop, smoking a cigarette. "¡Buenos días, María! You look pretty today. Court?"
"Court," I confirm, tapping my cane along the familiar path. "Corrigan's docket."
She clicks her tongue. "That man has a face like a sour lemon. Want me to bring you lunch later?"
"I might take you up on that."
I turn the corner, following the scent of fresh bread and fried eggs. The bodega's bell jingles as I push through the door.
"Mary!" Luis’ voice booms from behind the counter. "The usual? Two egg and cheeses, one extra hot, one with the green sauce?"
"I know me too well, Luis."
His knife scrapes against the griddle. "I know you work too hard. And I know your friend Foggy eats like he's still in college."
I lean against the counter, listening to the rhythm of the bodega around me—the hum of the cooler, the rustle of a newspaper in the corner, the squeak of the ceiling fan.
"How's your daughter liking her new school?"
Luis’ spatula pauses mid-flip. "She loves it. Can't shut her up about it." I hear the pride in his voice, the way it softens around the edges. "She's already joined the art club. Came home with paint all over her uniform last week, grinning ear to ear."
"That's wonderful, Luis."
"Yeah." He scrapes the griddle again. "Public school in the Narrows would've eaten her alive. This place—" He stops himself. "Anyway. She's happy. That's what matters."
The bell above the door jingles. Someone shuffles in—heavy footsteps, the rustle of a plastic bag. I catch the scent of stale cigarettes and cheap cologne. One of the regulars, by the sound of his gait.
"Mornin', Luis’. Mary."
I nod in the direction of the voice. "Frank."
He grunts and shuffles toward the cooler. Luis slides a wrapped bundle across the counter toward me. "Two egg and cheeses. Red sauce is on Foggy's, green on yours. Don't let him mix 'em up."
My fingers find the warm foil, the familiar weight. I pull out my wallet. "What do I owe you?"
"Don't worry about it."
"Luis…"
"It's on the house. You got Corrigan today, yeah? You're gonna need the luck." He chuckles. "Besides, you fixed my nephew's eviction notice last month. Consider us even for a while."
I pocket my wallet. "You're too generous."
"I'm practical. A good lawyer's hard to find in the Bowery." I hear him pick up his rag, wiping down the counter. "Now go. Don't be late."
The morning air hits me again as I step outside, sandwiches warm against my side. The tailor's shop is four blocks east, past the laundromat and the corner church.
Mrs. Ramírez is still on the stoop when I approach, the end of her cigarette glowing ember-bright in the morning gray. She's taken up her usual post on the bottom step, one eye on the street, the other on nothing in particular—the neighborhood watch runs on retired women and their sharp tongues.
"María," she says, and I hear the smile in her voice. "You came back. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
"Never." I tap my way over, pausing at the bottom step. "Just grabbing breakfast for me and Foggy before the circus starts."
"Ah, the sour lemon." She takes a drag. "I know, my nephew Diego worked for Corrigan once. Said the man sweats when he lies. If you listen close enough, you can hear his heartbeat speed up when he's hiding something."
I file that away without comment. "I'll keep my ears open."
"Good girl." She ashes her cigarette. "You heading to the tailor now?"
"In a minute."
"Walk safe. I heard some chatter last night—strange men in suits around the old textile warehouse on Fourth. Not the usual types." She lowers her voice. "Could be nothing. Could be something. You know how to find out."
The textile warehouse. The same one I've been circling for two weeks, the one tied to the trafficking ring I've been pulling at like a loose thread.
Mrs. Ramírez always knows more than she lets on.
"Thanks, Mrs. R." I shift the sandwiches in my grip. "I'll look into it. Keep your ears open for me?"
She taps her cigarette, the ash scattering in the morning breeze. "Always do, mija. I will see you at church on Sunday, sí.”
“Of course, if I didn’t show up, Father Lantom would drag me back by ear,” I say with a small laugh, thinking of the stubborn priest who helped raise me at St. Agnes’. “Have a good day, Mrs. R." I offer her a small smile, the kind she can hear in my voice. "Try not to smoke too many of those."
She snorts. "At my age, smoking is the least of my worries. You go on now. Don't keep that tailor waiting—he closes for lunch at noon, and you know how he gets."
I do. Sal has been running his shop on the Bowery for thirty years and operates on a schedule that would make a train conductor jealous. Five minutes late and he'll lock the door in my face, no exceptions.
I tap my cane along the pavement, the familiar rhythm guiding me east. The morning sounds wrap around me—a mother calling for her kid, tires hissing through a puddle, the distant rumble of a truck shifting gears. I filter through them, cataloging, filing away.
The textile warehouse on Fourth. Strange men in suits. I've been circling that place for weeks, catching whispers of something rotten at its core. Mrs. Ramírez’s nephew, who got picked up for loitering near there. The missing persons reports that cluster in a two-block radius around it. The shell company that owns it traces back to one of Vance's associates.
Piece by piece, the picture forms.
Three blocks later, I catch the familiar scent of starch and steamed fabric. Sal’s shop. The bell above the door jingles as I push inside. The bell above Sal's door is old brass, hand-polished, with a distinctive ring that's higher than most. I've heard it a hundred times. The shop smells like fabric and thread and the faint, clean scent of the pressed suits hanging in plastic wraps along the back wall. a scent I've known since childhood, when my father would take his boxing trunks to the tailor.
I push open the door. The bell chimes.
"Mary!" Sal's voice comes from the back, gruff but warm, the accent pure old Gotham — born in the Bowery, died in the Bowery, and resurrected twice. "About time. Your dress is ready. I was starting to think you'd forgotten about me."
"Never, Sal." I let the door swing shut behind me. "Foggy keeping you busy?"
"He's got opinions, that one. Wanted me to add pockets to your dress. I told him, 'Salvatore Costa does not add pockets to an evening gown. It's not dignified." I hear him shuffle out from the back, the tap of his orthopedic shoes against the hardwood. "But I added pockets. Because he begged."
"I'm a professional." He's close now, and I smell the faint trace of cigar smoke clinging to his shirt — he sneaks them out back when his wife isn't watching. "Here. Feel."
He drapes the dress over my outstretched arms. The fabric slides against my skin — deep red silk, heavy and smooth. My fingers trace the neckline, the fitted waist, the hidden pockets he's sewn into the seams.
"It's perfect," I say quietly.
"Of course it's perfect. I made it." He huffs, but there's warmth in it. "Try it on. Make sure the fit's right before you take it."
The dressing room is in the back, a cramped alcove with a faded curtain instead of a door. I pull it shut, the rings scraping along the rod, and unbutton my blazer.
I shrug off my blazer and unbutton my shirt, hanging them both on the small hook by the mirror. The dress slides over my head like water, the silk cool against my skin. I settle it over my shoulders, adjust the fit at my waist, and run my hands down the fabric to smooth it out.
The hidden pockets sit perfectly at my hips. I slip my hands into them, testing the placement. Deep enough to hold a phone. Maybe even my billy club, if I needed it.
I step out from behind the curtain, my heels clicking against the hardwood.
"Alright, Sal. How do I look?"
I hear him turn from his workbench, the squeak of his stool. He's quiet for a moment, and I can picture him squinting at me the way he does, one eye half-closed, his mouth pursed in professional judgment.
"Like you were born in it," he says finally. "The waist hits you perfect. Hem's right. Shoulders could use a tiny adjustment — maybe a quarter inch — but I can fix that in two minutes."
"Good. Because I'm not the best judge." I gesture vaguely toward the mirror. "Mirrors don't really work for me."
Sal snorts. "I forgot. Sorry, kid."
"Don't be. That's what I pay you for."
He laughs — a dry, rasping sound that turns into a cough. "You pay me? I thought that was Foggy's job."
"Foggy pays you. I provide moral support."
I turn slowly, feeling how the dress moves with me. The silk swishes against my calves. The asymmetrical neckline sits modest but elegant, just above my collarbone. I'd asked for something that wouldn't make me look like I was not trying too hard. Sal delivered.
"Let me grab my needle," he says. "One quick fix and you're out the door."
"So what's the gossip, Sal?" I turn toward his voice, the silk of the dress rustling as I move. "You always know what's happening in the neighborhood before anyone else."
He laughs, the sound accompanied by the soft tap of his measuring tape against the counter. "You flatter me. But you're not wrong." There's a pause, the click of his fingers finding a needle. “You hear about the warehouse on Fourth Street? The one that's been empty for years?"
"I know it. Old textile factory."
"Was a textile factory. Now it's got new owners. Trucks comin' and goin' at all hours.
My nephew Vinny works the night shift at the bodega across the street — says he sees men going in and out, but they don't look like factory workers. No hard hats, no safety vests. Just..." He trails off, the needle threading through fabric with a soft pssh. "Men in suits. Expensive ones. Two days ago. Men in black suits, clean shoes, no dust on them. Drove up in a car that costs more than this block. Didn't buy nothin, didn't ask for nothin. Just stood across the street, looked at the building, got in their car, left."
"Recognize any of them?"
"Never seen them before." He pauses. "But one of them had a pin on his lapel. Silver. Looked like a snake wrapped around a gavel."
My pulse ticks up. A snake and a gavel. I've heard that symbol before—whispered in court hallways, scrawled on case files that disappeared from evidence lockers. A group of lawyers and judges who play their own game, above the law's reach.
My fingers still against the silk of the dress. Men in suits. A warehouse that's supposed to be empty. Trucks at odd hours.
"You tell the cops?"
"I told Vinny to keep his head down. Cops don't care about the Bowery unless someone's dead in the street." His voice is matter-of-fact, no bitterness — just the weariness of a man who's lived in this neighborhood his whole life. "Figured you might know someone who knows someone. If it's worth knowing."
He's not asking directly. He never does. But I hear the question underneath.
The needle stops. "Alright. Shoulders are done. Give it a feel."
"I know someone who might care about that," I say, and I keep my voice light, casual, like you're talking about a mutual acquaintance and not the red-clad vigilante who's been breaking bones in the Bowery for the better part of a decade.
Sal doesn't push. He never does. There's a long pause; the only sound is the rustle of fabric as he smooths the shoulder of my dress one last time.
"Good," he says quietly. "That's good."
I feel his fingers brush against my shoulder, adjusting the fit. "There. Done. Quarter-inch, as I said. Turn for me."
I turn slowly, feeling how the silk moves against my body. The adjustment is seamless; I can't tell where the needle even went in.
"Feels perfect, Sal."
I duck back into the dressing room, carefully peeling off the gown and handing it back over the curtain. I hear Sal's methodical movements as he wraps it in tissue paper, then slides it into a garment bag.
"Damn right it does." He steps back, and I hear the satisfied click of his tongue. "Now get out of my shop. You've got court, and I've got a hemline to finish for Mrs. Kapoor by noon."
I emerge, re-dressed in my blazer and trousers, and take the garment bag from his outstretched hand. The weight of it is reassuring — the silk shifting inside.
"Same price as always?" I ask.
"Same price as always. And tell Foggy I expect a thank-you card for those pockets."
I laugh, tucking the garment bag over my arm. "I'll hand-deliver it myself."
"Thanks, Sal. Have a good day." I sling the garment bag over my arm, feeling the weight of the silk shift inside.
"And Mary."
"Yeah?" I say as I turn back around
"That snake pin." He pauses. "I've seen it before. Years ago. A man came in asking for a suit alteration—wouldn't take it off, made me nervous. He was a lawyer. Had a name I recognized from the papers." His voice tightens. "He was found dead a week later. Ruled a mugging gone wrong."
The weight in the room shifts
"Take care of yourself, Mary. And tell Foggy I expect him at the shop next week for that suit fitting he's been dodging."
"I'll drag him here myself if I have to."
Sal laughs, that dry rasping sound. "I'd like to see that."
The bell chimes as I step back onto the street, the Bowery flooding back in—traffic, voices, the distant clatter of a train. The dress bag hangs over my arm, and the sandwiches are still warm against my side.
Time to head to the office. Foggy's waiting, and Corrigan's docket won't hear itself.
The Bowery unfolds around me as I walk—familiar sounds, familiar smells, the rhythm of a neighborhood waking into its full morning noise. I navigate by memory, by the texture of the pavement under my cane, by the way the acoustics shift when I pass the church. A cabbie curses at a delivery truck double-parked further down the block. Someone's car alarm chirps twice before falling silent. The pretzel cart guy is arguing with a health inspector about permits — I recognize both their voices; they have this argument every third Thursday like clockwork.
Nelson & Murdock occupies the second floor of a weathered brownstone on the corner of Third and Bowen. The sign out front is small, hand-painted, and easy to miss. I like it that way.
The stairs groan under my weight as I climb. The door's unlocked—Foggy's already here.
I push it open.
"And the prodigal partner returns." He's at his desk, coffee in hand, tie already loosened despite the fact that the court hasn't started yet. "Please tell me you brought the good stuff."
I set the bag on the corner of his desk. "Egg and cheese, extra hot sauce. Don't say I never do anything for you."
He unwraps it with religious fervor. "I take back every bad thing I've ever said about you."
"You've said a lot of bad things."
"And I take them all back." He takes a bite and groans. "God, I love this city."
I settle into my chair, the leather creaking under me. My desk is cluttered—case files, a Braille notepad. I pull out the Corrigan file and set it in front of me.
"So," Foggy says around a mouthful of sandwich. "Ready to make a lemon-faced judge cry today?"
"I'm hoping for tears before noon," I say, settling into my chair. The leather creaks under me. "But I'll settle for a ruling in our favor."
Foggy laughs, washing down his sandwich with a gulp of coffee. "That's the spirit. Nothing gets Corrigan going like a blind woman making him look stupid in his own courtroom."
"You mean a competent woman making him look stupid."
"Same thing, in his book."
I run my fingers over the Corrigan file, the Braille labels I'd put on each tab weeks ago. The eviction case is straightforward on paper—Carmen Delgado, a single mother of a seven-year-old girl, is being pushed out of her apartment by a landlord who claims she's behind on rent. But the paperwork I've dug up tells a different story. The landlord's records are inconsistent. Dates don't match. Signatures look forged.
"Did you talk to Mrs. Delgado this morning?" I ask.
"She called around seven. Nervous, but ready." Foggy crumples his sandwich wrapper. "She's bringing her daughter. Couldn't find a sitter."
"That's fine. Might help, honestly. Judges don't like evicting kids in front of their mothers."
“So what’s the deal with this gala thing you're making us go to tonight?” I asked absentmindedly while looking over the files.
“This gala thing is a fundraiser for the Gotham City Legal Aid Fund, hosted by Bruce Wayne. . We were invited by the foundation because our firm is one of their top litigators.
Our role is to mingle and persuade all those wealthy attendees to invest so we can keep doing cases like this while keeping the lights on. And just to remind you, you’re scheduled to give a speech on the virtues of the Fund. You remember that part, right?” Foggy said, raising an eyebrow.
“Of course I did! I just wanted to make sure you remembered, Mother Foggy,” I replied.
Foggy gave me a pointed look. “Really?”
“Yeah, even if I didn’t, luckily I’m great at thinking on my feet,” I said, feigning confidence.
"To get back on Topic, I want to go over the Delgado case one more time before we head over."
Foggy nods, flipping open a folder on his desk. "Carmen Delgado. Landlord's trying to evict her from the apartment her family has lived in for 8 years. Claims non-payment, but we've got records showing the checks were cashed every month for the last two years."
"Landlord's name?"
"Gregory Vance." Foggy's voice sours on the name. "Owns a dozen buildings in the Bowery. Known for letting properties fall into disrepair, then evicting long-term tenants to flip the units at triple the rent."
I finish my sandwich and wipe my hands, the familiar focus settling into my bones. This is what I do. This is what matters.
"What else do we know about Vance?" I crumple the wax paper from my sandwich and toss it into the trash can by Foggy's desk. Three points. I've been practicing that shot for five years.
Foggy flips open a folder, thumbing through the pages. "Gregory Vance, forty-seven, owns twelve buildings in the Bowery and another eight in the Narrows. His M.O. is textbook: buy up rent-controlled properties, let maintenance lapse until tenants complain, then find a reason to evict them. Usually non-payment." He slides a sheet across the desk toward me. "In Ms. Delgado's case, he claims she stopped paying rent six months ago. But we have bank records showing her money orders were deposited into his account every single month."
I run my fingers over the paper, finding the check numbers, the dates. My thumb traces the signature line.
"Anything else?"
"Vance has a lawyer on retainer. Harold Tattle, we know him. Slimy, wears too much cologne, specializes in landlord-tenant disputes. He's already filed a motion to expedite the eviction, claiming Ms. Delgado's unit has been vacant for two weeks."
"She's living there right now."
"Tattle says she's 'squatting.'"
I let out a breath. The injustice of it sits bitter in my mouth, the same old story. A powerful man with money and lawyers tries to bulldoze a family who can't afford to fight back. But that's why Nelson & Murdock exists. That's why we do this.
A knock at the door cuts through the thought–soft, hesitant. A woman's voice follows, quiet but steady. "Hello? Mr. Nelson? Miss Murdock?"
I hear a smaller heartbeat beside her. Quicker. Lighter.
"Come in," I say, rising from my chair.
"And who's this little one?" I ask, a smile creeping into my voice as I hear the smaller heartbeat shift closer to its mother's leg. Shy.
The mother laughs softly. "This is Sofia. She's seven. I couldn't find a sitter this morning, so..." She trails off, apologetic.
"Sofia," I repeat, crouching down to the child's level. I hear her small sneakers scuff against the floor. "That's a beautiful name. I'm Mary."
A pause. Then a tiny voice, barely above a whisper: "Are you really blind?"
"Sofia!" Her mother's voice is sharp with embarrassment.
I laugh, genuine and warm. "It's okay. Yes, I am. But I can still tell you're wearing a pink shirt with something sparkly on it. Am I close?"
The girl gasps. "How did I know?"
"Lucky guess." I wink in her direction, even though she can't see it. "My cane tells me a lot. And I can hear your mom's necklace jingling when she moves. The sparkles? That was a guess based on how excited I sounded."
Sofia giggles. I straighten up, turning toward her mother.
"Ms. Delgado?" I extend my hand. "I'm Mary Murdock. Foggy and I are going to do everything we can for you."
Her hand meets mine — calloused, warm, a grip that's firm but grateful. "Thank you, Miss Murdock. I don't know what we would've done if your office hadn't taken our case."
"Please, call me Mary. And I'd be surprised what people in the Bowery do for each other."
I hear Sofia's small sneakers scuff against the floor, uncertain. Then her mother's hand was gentle on her shoulder.
"It's okay, mija. Go on."
I crouch down again, my voice light. "Sofia, do you want to sit at my desk? I've got a fancy office chair that spins, and I'm pretty sure it's the most fun thing in this whole room."
A beat of silence. Then: "Can I really spin it?”
"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't mean it."
Sofia's footsteps approach, hesitant at first, then quicker. I hear the creak of my office chair as she climbs into it, the squeak of the wheels as she gives it a test spin.
"Whee!"
"See? Told ya." I straighten up, grinning in the direction of her laugh.
Ms. Delgado exhales, a sound of relief, of gratitude. "Thank you. She's been so nervous about today. I told her we were coming to see the nice lawyers."
"Nice is Foggy's department," I say, gesturing vaguely toward my partner. "I'm the scary one."
"I resent that," Foggy calls from his desk. "I'm terrifying in mediation."
"Last time you mediated, you cried when the client on the other side started talking about their cat."
"That was a very emotional cat, Mary."
Sofia giggles again from the spinning chair, and for a moment, the small office feels warmer, lighter. Ms. Delgado settles into the chair across from my desk — I hear the rustle of her coat, the clink of her necklace chain.
"So," I say, lowering myself into my own seat, my desk a familiar landscape of stacked files and a raised coffee mug. "Let's talk about Gregory Vance."
"Tell us about the eviction notice, Ms. Delgado." I lean back in my chair, my fingers resting on the edge of my desk. The morning light through the window casts a warm sliver across my face.
Ms. Delgado takes a breath. I hear the rustle of her purse as she pulls out papers, the soft crinkle of folded documents.
"It came three weeks ago." Her voice is steady, but I catch the slight tremor underneath. "Said I was behind on rent. Six months' worth." She pauses. "I've never missed a payment. Not once."
"But you have records?" I ask.
"Every single one. Money orders, receipts, bank statements going back three years." She sets the papers on my desk, and I reach out, fingers finding the stack. "I kept everything because... because I knew something like this would happen eventually."
I feel Foggy shift in his chair across the room, the leather creaking. "Why do you say that?"
"Because Mr. Vance has been trying to get us out since my husband died." Her voice catches, just slightly. "Two years ago. He called me a week after the funeral, offered me 'generous compensation' to vacate the unit. Said he wanted to renovate." A bitter edge creeps in. "I told him no. So he stopped fixing things. The plumbing, the heating, the cracks in the walls. He stopped taking my calls."
Sofia's spinning has slowed. I hear her small shoes drag against the carpet, her attention now on her mother's voice.
"And then the notice came," Ms. Delgado continues. "Saying I owed him thousands. With an eviction date already set."
"I'm sorry," I say softly, my voice gentling. "Two years ago, you said. Your husband."
Ms. Delgado is quiet for a moment. I hear Sofia's breathing slow in the desk chair, the creak of the leather as she shifts.
"Carlos. His name was Carlos." Her voice is quieter now. "He worked construction. Good with his hands. Fixed everything in that apartment himself — the leaky pipes, the cracked tiles, the wiring that should've been replaced in the eighties." A pause. "He died on the job. Scaffolding collapsed on a site in the Narrows. Three other men died with him."
The office goes still. Even Foggy stops shuffling papers.
"I'm sorry," I repeat. And I mean it — the weight of it settling in my chest like a stone.
"He was a good man. A good father." Ms. Delgado's voice steadies. "And Mr. Vance knew we wouldn't leave. Not after Carlos put so much into that place. So he found another way."
I hear Sofia's small voice from my desk chair. "Papi fixed my bike."
Ms. Delgado laughs, wet and warm. "He did, mija. He fixed your bike."
I sit with that for a moment. The clock ticks on the wall. A car horn blares somewhere outside.
Then I reach across the desk, my hand finding the stack of papers she placed there. "Ms. Delgado — Carmen — we're going to fight this. And we're going to win."
I hear Sofia's sneakers drag against the floor as she spins slowly in my chair. The paper bag from Martinez's crinkles as Foggy finishes off his hash brown.
I turn in her direction. "Hey, Sofia. I know what?"
"What?"
"We've got a big case this morning. And every good lawyer needs a paralegal to help them." I lean forward, lowering my voice conspiratorially. "You think you could be our paralegal for the day?"
A pause. Then a small, delighted voice: "What does a paralegal do?"
"Good question. Foggy, what does a paralegal do?"
Foggy clears his throat dramatically. "Well, Sofia, a paralegal is responsible for keeping the lawyers organized. Making sure they have the right files. Carrying important documents." He pauses. "And most importantly — making sure we eat lunch on time."
"I can do that!" The chair squeaks as she sits up straighter.
"Excellent." I reach into my desk drawer and pull out a spare notepad and a pen. I hold them out in her direction. "Then you'll need these. This is your official paralegal equipment. Don't lose them."
Sofia's small hands take the notepad, the pen. "I won't. I promise."
Ms. Delgado laughs softly from her chair — a warmer sound now. "Look at you, mija. My little lawyer."
"I'm not a lawyer, Mami. I'm a paralegal."
"That's right. Even better."
I check my watch. 8:12. The courthouse is a fifteen-minute walk. I pick up my cane from where it rests against my desk and stand, feeling the familiar weight of the day settling onto my shoulders.
"Alright, team." I grab my blazer from the back of my chair. "Let's go get justice."
I turn toward Ms. Delgado's voice, the stack of papers tucked under my arm, my cane finding the floor in a steady tap.
"Carmen, you ready?"
A beat of silence. Then the rustle of her coat as she stands, the click of her purse clasp closing.
"Ready." Her voice is steadier now. Stronger.
"Good." I offer a small smile in her direction. "We walk in together, we walk out together. That's how it works."
Sofia pipes up from my desk chair. "What about me?"
"You're carrying the important file," Foggy says, and I hear him cross the room, the soft thud of a manila folder being placed into small hands. "It's a crucial legal document. Don't let anyone take it from you."
"I won't!"
"Then let's move." I tap my cane and head for the door, my senses mapping the office one last time — the hum of the old refrigerator in the corner, the drip of the coffee maker, the warm scent of paper and old wood. My hand finds the doorframe. I step into the hallway, the stairwell stretching out before me, and the morning light filters through the window at the landing.
Ms. Delgado's footsteps fall in behind me, slower, steadier. And behind her, Sofia's light, quick steps, clutching her folder like it's made of gold.
The four of us descended the stairs together. Justice doesn't start in a courtroom. It starts with a first step.
The walk to the courthouse is brisk. Foggy leads the way, his footsteps steady and familiar on the pavement. Sofia stays close to her mother's side, the folder clutched to her chest. I keep my cane in front of me, reading the sidewalk's texture — smooth stretches, cracked slabs, the lip of a curb.
The courthouse looms as I approach. I feel it in the change of air pressure, the hollow echo of footsteps on marble steps. Glass doors swing open as a pair of officers exit, their radios crackling.
I pause at the bottom of the courthouse steps and murmur a quick prayer under my breath—familiar words, half-remembered from childhood mass at St. Agnes. Lord, let justice be done. Let the truth be heard. Let the innocent be held. I cross myself out of habit, my fingers brushing the small cross at my neck.
Foggy catches it. He always does. "Angel," he says softly, "you know God's got a full docket today."
"Then he'll appreciate me clearing one case off it."
He huffs a quiet laugh, and I hear the smile in it.
I push through the doors into the lobby. The air shifts — cooler, stiller, tinged with the scent of old wood and floor wax. The metal detector hums ahead.
"Alright, team," I say, low enough for only my group to hear. "Showtime."
I crouch slightly, angling my voice toward where I heard Sofia's small sneakers scuff against the marble floor.
"Sofia." My voice is gentle but firm. "Stay close to your mom, okay? Courthouses are big, and it's easy to get turned around in a crowd."
"I will." Her voice is solemn, serious. I imagine her clutching that manila folder like a shield.
"Good girl."
I straighten up, my cane already tapping forward toward the security line. The courthouse lobby buzzes with activity — the squeak of shoes on marble, the murmur of conversations echoing off high ceilings, the rhythmic beep of the metal detector up ahead. I catch the scent of stale coffee from a vending machine, the tang of floor polish, and the faint floral perfume of a woman passing by on my left.
Foggy falls into step beside me. "Row three, left side," he murmurs, low enough for only me to hear. "Judge Corrigan's courtroom is up on the third floor. Room 312."
"Got it."
I reach the metal detector. I set my cane on the conveyor belt — the officer knows me by now, a regular in this building — and step through. The machine stays silent. I retrieve my cane and wait, listening for my group.
Ms. Delgado's footsteps follow. Slower. Then Sofia's is lighter, quicker.
"Clear," the officer says.
I lead the way to the elevators, the button finding my fingertip. The hum of the elevator descending fills the small alcove. I step inside, the doors sliding shut behind me, and the four of us rise in silence.
Third floor. The doors open onto a long hallway, fluorescent lights humming overhead. A bench lines the wall outside Room 312, and I hear the shuffle of papers, the low murmur of voices from inside.
I turn to Ms. Delgado. "We wait here until they call us. Then we go in together."
Her hand lands on my sleeve, light and trembling. "Thank you," she says. "For—for believing me."
"Believing you is my job." I offer a small smile. "Winning is the part we get to enjoy."
I settle onto the bench beside Ms. Delgado, my cane resting across my knees. The wood is cool through my trousers. I angle my head toward her, keeping my voice low.
"You feeling okay, Carmen?"
A pause. She lets out a breath I didn't realize she'd been holding.
"Honestly?" A nervous laugh. "I feel like I'm going to throw up."
"Good. That means you care." I offer her a small smile. "If you were calm, I'd be worried."
She laughs again, softer this time. I hear Sofia shift on the bench beside her, the manila folder crinkling as she hugs it tighter.
"I just..." Ms. Delgado hesitates. "What if it's not enough? The receipts, the bank statements. What if he's done this before and gotten away with it?"
"Then we make sure he doesn't get away with it this time." I turn to face her fully. "Vance has money and lawyers. But we have proof, and you have us. And around here, that counts for a lot more than a checkbook."
Foggy chimes in from my left, his voice warm. "Plus, while he seems like a grump, Judge Corrigan's no pushover. He's seen Tattle's tricks before. If he tries to pull something, he'll shut it down."
Ms. Delgado exhales, the tension in her shoulders easing a fraction. "Thank you. Both of you. I've been so scared about this for months. I didn't think anyone would help."
"That's what we're here for." I reach over and give her arm a brief, reassuring squeeze. "Now. Let's go over the order of the hearing one more time."
I pause mid-sentence, my nostrils flaring. The air shifts, carrying a familiar scent — cloying, chemical, layered over cheap musk. I've smelled it in depositions, in hallways, in the brief moments before a courtroom door swings open and a man in an ill-fitting suit steps through.
I don't need to turn my head.
"He's here."
Foggy stops shuffling papers. "Who?"
"Tattle." I let the name sit in the air for a moment. "Cologne. The kind that costs forty dollars and smells like a teenager's first prom date."
Ms. Delgado tenses beside me. I hear her grip tighten on her purse strap. "Where?"
"Down the hall. Coming from the stairwell." I tilt my head, tracking the sound — dress shoes on linoleum, a measured gait, the subtle jingle of keys in a pocket. "He's walking this way. Probably with Vance."
Foggy lets out a low breath. "Showtime before showtime."
The footsteps grow closer. A voice cuts through the hallway — smooth, practiced, with the kind of polish that doesn't quite hide the grease underneath.
"Miss Murdock. Mr. Nelson. What a pleasant surprise."
I offer a thin smile in the direction of his voice. "Mr. Tattle. I'd say the same, but I try not to lie before noon."
Harold Tattle's laugh is hollow, scripted. "Still as sharp as ever. I see you've brought your client." A pause. "I do hope she's prepared for today."
"Prepared?" I tilt my head. "She's got receipts, bank statements, and two lawyers who believe in her. I'd say she's more prepared than your case is."
Tattle's footsteps stop. I catch the faint shift of his weight, the subtle crack of his neck as he adjusts his collar.
"We'll see what the judge thinks."
"Sofia, this is what we call the opposition."
I gesture vaguely toward Tattle with my cane, my tone light, almost playful. The girl's small sneakers shift on the marble floor as she looks up at the man I've indicated.
"A lawyer who represents the other side," I continue. "Sometimes they're reasonable. Sometimes they're not." I pause, letting a beat of silence hang. "Mister Tattle here, he's..." Another pause. "Well, Sofia, why don't you tell me what you smell?"
Sofia's voice is small but clear. "He smells like my abuela's perfume. The really strong one."
I bite back a grin. Tattle's silence is louder than any retort he could muster.
"Sofia, that's very observant." Foggy's voice is strained, clearly holding back laughter. "You're a natural paralegal."
Tattle clears his throat, the sound tight. "Charming. Truly." His footsteps shift, moving past me toward the courtroom doors. "I'll see you inside, Miss Murdock. I do hope the proceedings are... educational for the child."
"More educational than whatever cologne sample counter you got that scent from, I'm sure."
His footsteps quicken. The courtroom door creaks open and swings shut behind him.
Ms. Delgado laughs beside me, the tension cracking. "I can't believe you just did that."
"He started it." I shrug, a small smirk on my lips. "Besides, Sofia needed to learn that standing up to bullies starts early."
I crouch down to Sofia's level, my voice dropping into something quieter, more conspiratorial.
"Sofia, remember — you're our secret weapon."
The girl's sneakers shift on the marble floor. "I am?"
"You are." I nod, keeping my face serious. "See, the bad guys? They look at us and see two lawyers, a nice lady, and a little girl. They don't realize you're the one keeping us organized." I tap the edge of the manila folder she's holding. "And you've got the important file. Without you, this whole operation falls apart."
Sofia's voice comes out hushed, filled with importance. "I won't let them take it."
"That's my paralegal."
Ms. Delgado's hand finds my shoulder, a gentle squeeze of gratitude. "Thank you," she says, her voice soft. "For all of it."
I straighten up, rolling my shoulders back. The courtroom door looms ahead, the wood worn from decades of hands, the brass handle cool to the touch. Through the gap beneath the door, I catch the murmur of the gallery, the shuffle of papers, the distant squeak of a judge's chair.
"Alright, team." I set my hand on the door. "Let's go remind Mr. Vance that the law still means something in this city."
I push the door open.
The courtroom swallows me whole. The air is cooler here, tinged with dust and old paper. The gallery benches groan under the weight of a handful of spectators. The bailiff's footsteps echo from the side. I sense the bench ahead, elevated, heavy with authority.
Tattle is already seated at the defendant's table. I catch the faint, cloying scent of his cologne, the rustle of papers as he pretends to review notes.
Beside him, another presence. Heavier. Slower breath. The faint smell of cigar smoke clinging to an expensive suit.
Gregory Vance.
I guide Ms. Delgado to the plaintiff's table, my cane finding the edge of the wood. Sofia settles onto the bench behind me, the folder clutched tight.
"All rise for the Honorable Judge Marcus Corrigan."
I rise with the rest of the room, the scrape of chairs and rustle of clothing filling the space. The bench creaks as Judge Corrigan settles into his seat with practiced authority.
"Be seated."
The command is crisp, unhurried. Years of courtroom experience packed into two words. I lower myself back into my chair, my hand finding the edge of the plaintiff's table, the wood grain familiar beneath my fingertips.
"Good morning, your Honor."
My voice carries the right note — respectful but not deferential, professional without being stiff. I've stood before Judge Corrigan a dozen times. He doesn't tolerate theatrics, but he respects preparation.
"Ms. Murdock. Mr. Nelson." His voice is measured, cutting through the quiet hum of the courtroom. "Mr. Tattle. I see we're all here bright and early." A pause. The rustle of papers. "This is a motion hearing on the matter of Delgado versus Vance Properties. Eviction proceedings." Another pause. "Counsel, I trust you're both prepared to proceed without wasting the court's time."
Tattle rises. "Of course, your Honor. The defense is fully prepared."
I rise as well. "The plaintiff is ready, your Honor.”
Judge Corrigan's chair creaks as he leans back. "Then let's begin. Ms. Murdock, your opening statement."
"This is a simple case of landlord misconduct, your Honor."
My voice carries through the courtroom, measured and clear. I stand, my left hand resting on the edge of the plaintiff's table, my cane in my right.
"Mr. Gregory Vance owns a dozen buildings in the Bowery. One of them — a walk-up on Broome Street — has been home to Carmen Delgado and her daughter Sofia for eight years." I pause, letting the details settle. "Eight years of on-time rent payments. Eight years of Ms. Delgado's husband, Carlos, fixing every leak, every broken pipe, every cracked tile that Mr. Vance refused to repair."
I hear Tattle shift in his seat, the faint rustle of fabric.
"Two years ago, Carlos Delgado died on a construction site. A week after the funeral, Mr. Vance called Ms. Delgado and offered her money to leave. She refused." I let the words hang. "So he stopped maintaining the apartment. Stopped taking her calls. And then, three weeks ago, he filed an eviction notice claiming she owes six months of back rent."
I gesture toward the stack of papers on the table. "We have money order receipts. Bank statements. A paper trail spanning three years that proves Ms. Delgado has never missed a payment. Mr. Vance's claim is not just false — it's retaliatory."
I turn my head slightly in the direction of the bench. "This is a landlord using the court system to punish a tenant for exercising her right to stay in her home. And we intend to prove it."
I settle back into my chair. The courtroom hums with quiet energy.
Judge Corrigan's voice cuts through. "Mr. Tattle, your response."
I listen carefully, filtering the courtroom's ambient noise — the hum of the overhead fluorescents, the distant clack of a keyboard from an office down the hall, the shallow rhythm of Ms. Delgado's breath beside me — and beneath it all, Judge Corrigan.
His breathing is even. Measured. He doesn't shift in his chair, doesn't tap his pen. That stillness tells me more than words could. He's watching. Waiting. Giving Tattle enough rope to either save or hang himself.
Tattle continues, his voice smooth as polished glass. "We have bank statements showing deposits that don't align with Ms. Delgado's claimed payment history. Discrepancies that suggest — "
"Objection, your Honor." I rise, my voice cutting cleanly through his cadence.
"Speculation. Mr. Tattle is characterizing bank records that he has not entered into evidence and, I suspect, has not shared with the plaintiff during discovery."
Judge Corrigan's voice comes low, unhurried. "Mr. Tattle. Have you shared these records with opposing counsel?"
A pause. Tattle shifts his weight.
"Your Honor, we only received them from our client yesterday — "
"Then you should have filed a motion to extend discovery, not ambushed Ms. Murdock in my courtroom." The judge's tone sharpens, the first crack in his neutrality. "I won't have my time wasted with sandbagging. If you have evidence, counsel, you produce it. If not, you proceed with the case you have."
Tattle clears his throat. "Understood, your Honor."
I sit back down. Beside me, Foggy exhales quietly, and I can feel Ms. Delgado's shoulders loosen just a fraction. Good. Judge Corrigan's not playing games today.
I settle back into my chair. Let him talk.
Tattle's voice fills the courtroom, smooth and practiced. "Ms. Delgado's bank statements show deposits that don't align with her claimed rent payments. We believe these inconsistencies indicate the payments were never made, and that Ms. Delgado attempted to fabricate a paper trail retroactively."
I catch the shift in Carmen's breathing beside me — the sharp inhale, the tension coiling in her shoulders. Foggy's hand lands gently on the table, a small gesture of reassurance. I give the tiniest shake of my head. Not yet.
Tattle keeps going, his confidence building. "Our client has been patient. He allowed Ms. Delgado to remain in the unit well beyond the terms of her lease while attempting to resolve this matter informally. But at a certain point, the law must be upheld."
He pauses for effect. Judge Corrigan says nothing.
"The defense moves for expedited eviction on the grounds of non-payment and breach of lease."
The courtroom falls quiet. I can feel Tattle's satisfaction radiating from the defense table, the subtle shift of his posture as he lowers himself back into his chair.
Judge Corrigan breaks the silence. "Ms. Murdock. Rebuttal?"
I rise. Slowly. My cane finds the floor, my weight settling evenly.
"Your Honor, Mr. Tattle has presented no evidence of fabrication. He's offered a narrative, not proof. Meanwhile, we have bank records signed and stamped by a teller. Money order receipts with matching serial numbers. Three years of consistent payments." I tilt my head in Tattle's direction. "The defense's entire argument rests on the assumption that our client is lying, without a single document to support it."
I let that hang.
"When you have no case, you attack the credibility of the person bringing it. But credibility requires evidence. And the only evidence in this room says Ms. Delgado paid her rent."
I let the quiet settle for a beat before continuing.
"Your Honor, with the court's permission, I'd like to move to evidence presentation. We have documentation that speaks for itself."
I reach for the folder. Foggy slides across the table. "Exhibit A through F: money order receipts from the Gotham City Post Office, dated the first of each month for the past three years, each matching Ms. Delgado's rent amount." I hold them up, the paper crisp between my fingers. "Exhibit G through L: corresponding bank statements showing withdrawals matching those money orders." I pause. "Exhibit M: a letter from Mr. Vance's property manager, dated two years ago, offering Ms. Delgado a cash buyout to vacate the premises."
A rustle from the defense table. Tattle shifts.
"And Exhibit N," I continue, "a text message from Mr. Vance's personal number to Ms. Delgado, sent three days after her husband's funeral — reading, and I quote — 'The apartment needs repairs that I can't afford. Might be time to move on.'"
Ms. Delgado draws a sharp breath beside me. I let the words hang in the air.
"This is a paper trail of a landlord trying to force out a tenant who refused to be bought, and then fabricating a debt when she wouldn't leave."
I set the exhibits down and face the bench. "The evidence is clear, your Honor. Ms. Delgado has paid every dollar she owes. And Mr. Vance knows it."
I turn my head toward the defense table, my expression neutral but my voice carrying an edge of invitation.
"If the defense has questions, I welcome them."
Tattle rises. His chair scrapes against the floor.
"We do, Ms. Murdock. Thank you." He steps forward, and I hear the rustle of paper as he picks up a document. "These money order receipts. They're dated the first of each month, correct?"
"They are."
"And yet, Ms. Delgado's bank statements show the corresponding withdrawals happening on the second, sometimes the third." He pauses, letting it land. "Wouldn't a tenant paying on the first withdraw the money on the first?"
I tilt my head. "She withdrew the money on the first business day of the month, Mr. Tattle. Money orders can only be purchased during post office hours. If the first falls on a Sunday or a holiday, the transaction processes the next business day." I let a small smile touch my lips. "I'm happy to provide a calendar for the court, if needed."
A ripple of quiet laughter from the gallery. Judge Corrigan's voice cuts through, dry as old paper. "Mr. Tattle, if you're going to cross-examine the evidence, I suggest I prepare questions that account for basic civics."
Tattle clears his throat. "Of course, Your Honor." He retreats to his table, the air around him deflating.
Foggy leans in close, his voice a whisper. "He's flailing."
I give a small nod. Ms. Delgado's hand finds my arm, her fingers trembling slightly, but her grip is sure. Across the room, I catch the heavy breath of Gregory Vance, the faint crack of his knuckles as he clenches his fist beneath the table.
He's not happy.
"Your Honor, I'd like to call Carmen Delgado to the stand."
Ms. Delgado's breath catches beside me. I feel her hesitate, the weight of the moment pressing down on her shoulders.
"Ms. Delgado." Judge Corrigan's voice is firm but not unkind. "Please approach."
I turn toward Carmen, keeping my voice low and steady. "You've got this. Just tell the truth, the way you told me. One question at a time."
Her chair scrapes back. I hear her footsteps — hesitant at first, then firmer — as she crosses the worn floor toward the witness stand. The oath is administered, the familiar rhythm of words she repeats in a voice that only wavers slightly.
"Raise your right hand. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?"
"I do."
The bailiff steps back. The courtroom settles into silence.
I rise, my cane finding its familiar spot against the table. "Ms. Delgado, can you describe your interactions with Mr. Vance after your husband's funeral?"
Carmen's voice comes out clear. "He called me the day after the funeral. Said he was sorry for my loss. Then he said the apartment needed expensive repairs and he couldn't afford to keep tenants there unless they paid triple the rent."
"Triple the rent."
"Yes. I told him I couldn't afford that. He said maybe it was time to find somewhere else to live. Somewhere more... suitable."
"And when you refused to leave?"
A pause. "He stopped answering my calls. The maintenance stopped. The heat went out twice that winter, and he wouldn't send anyone to fix it." Her voice tightens. "He wanted me to leave so badly. But I couldn't. This was my home. My husband built that bookshelf in Sofia's room. He fixed the kitchen sink five times because Mr. Vance wouldn't hire a plumber. I wasn't going to let them erase that."
"And the money orders — you bought those yourself?"
"Yes." Carmen's voice is steadier now. "Every single one. I walked to the post office on Atlantic Avenue. Tomas — the teller — he knows me. He'd stamp the receipt, and I'd file it in my drawer."
"Did Mr. Vance ever provide you with a receipt for your rent payments?"
"No. He never did. I asked him for one, early on, and he said he'd get around to it. But he never did."
"So you kept your own records."
"I had to. My husband always said, " Her voice catches, but she pushes through. "He always said if someone won't give you a receipt, keep my own paper trail. So I did."
I let the answer settle, then turn toward the defense table. "Mr. Tattle, would you like to cross-examine?"
Tattle rises. I hear the hesitation in the scrape of his chair.
"Ms. Delgado... these money orders. You purchased them at the Atlantic Avenue post office?"
"Yes."
"And the teller — this Tomas — he would vouch for your regular purchases?"
"He would."
Tattle pauses. I catch the faint rustle of fabric as he shifts his weight.
"No further questions, my Honor."
A ripple of surprise moves through the gallery. Foggy exhales beside me, and I feel Ms. Delgado's relief radiate from the witness stand like warmth from a fire.
Judge Corrigan's voice cuts through. "The court has heard the evidence. I'll take a brief recess before delivering my ruling. Fifteen minutes."
I rise from my chair, my cane finding the edge of the table as I make my way toward the witness stand. The gallery buzzes quietly — spectators stretching, lawyers conferring, the low hum of a courtroom in recess.
"Carmen, you did great up there."
Her feet hit the floor as she steps down, and I hear the shaky exhale she's been holding in since she took the stand.
"I was so nervous I thought my voice would crack."
"If it did, nobody noticed." I offer her a small smile. "You answered every question clearly. You didn't let him rattle you. That took guts."
She laughs, a little unsteady, but genuine. "Your partner handed me a folder with a blank piece of paper in it before I went up. Said it was for moral support."
From across the room, Foggy's voice drifts over. "It's a tried and tested legal technique. The Fake Folder. Intimidates opposing counsel every time."
I shake my head, a real smile tugging at my lips. "I'm going to check the hallway. Give me a minute to breathe."
I tap my way toward the courtroom doors, pushing through into the corridor. The air is cooler out here, less charged. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. I find a spot along the wall and let the quiet settle around me, running through the hearing in my mind.
Fifteen minutes. Then Corrigan delivers his ruling.
I find the wall with my shoulder and let myself settle into it. The plaster is cool through my blazer, the surface faintly textured beneath my palm.
The hallway breathes around me.
Footsteps pass at irregular intervals — a clerk hurrying with papers, the measured stride of a bailiff, the soft squeak of a janitor's cart somewhere down the hall. Voices filter through closed doors, muffled and indistinct. A phone rings in an office two floors up, the sound carrying through the building's old bones.
I close my eyes. Not that it matters, but the gesture helps me focus.\
The courthouse has its own rhythm. I've learned to read it over the years — the way the heating system clicks when the steam rises, the creak of a particular floorboard near the water fountain that means someone's approaching from the east stairwell, the faint electrical hum of the clock above the courtroom doors. It's a language spoken in vibrations and echoes, and I've become fluent.
My mind drifts to the Fourth Street Mill. The trucks at odd hours. The men in suits who never dress like workers. Elena's story about the bounced check was settled in cash.
It's connected. I can feel it, the way I feel a change in air pressure before a storm.
But that's tonight's problem.
Right now, there's a woman and her daughter waiting for a judge to decide if they get to keep their home.
The courtroom doors creak open behind me. A bailiff's voice cuts through.
"Court will resume in five minutes."
I push off the wall, rolling my shoulders back. Time to finish this.
I push off the wall and turn in the direction of Foggy's familiar footsteps approaching. He stops beside me, the scent of his cologne — something inexpensive he's worn since law school — mixing with the courthouse air.
"Foggy, any last-minute observations?"
He lets out a breath, long and slow. "I think we've got this. Corrigan's been on our side all morning. Tattle's flailing, Vance is sulking, and Carmen's testimony was solid." He pauses. "But Corrigan's also unpredictable. He doesn't like being predictable. He might rule against us just to keep everyone guessing."
I nod. "He's fair, though at least by Gotham standards. That's what matters."
"Fair, yeah." Foggy's voice drops. "But fair doesn't always mean favorable. And Vance has connections. The kind that might've reached his chambers."
I consider that. I've heard the rumors about Corrigan — that he’s incorruptible, that he's turned down bribes from the Carmine family. But Gotham's rot runs deep, and everyone has a price.
"Then we trust the evidence," I say. "That's all we can do."
The courtroom doors creak open. The bailiff's voice cuts through the hallway. "All rise for the Honorable Judge Corrigan."
I straighten my blazer, my hand tightening on my cane. "Let's go hear our future."
I turn my head toward the small shuffling sound of Sofia's sneakers on the marble floor, finding her somewhere near her mother's elbow.
"Sofia, keep that file safe.”
The girl's voice comes back serious, important. "I will. I've got it right here."
"Good. That file is the difference between chaos and order in a courtroom. Without you holding it down, the whole system might fall apart." I keep my tone grave, as if entrusting her with state secrets.
"I won't let you down."
"I know you won't." I give her a small nod, then tap my cane toward the courtroom doors. "Alright. Let's go hear what the judge has to say."
The doors swing open as the bailiff holds them. I step inside, the familiar weight of the courtroom settling around me — the cool air, the faint scent of old wood and paper, the hushed murmur of the gallery. I find the table, my cane brushing against the edge before I settle into my chair.
Ms. Delgado sits beside me. I hear her exhale, steadying herself. Behind me, Sofia's small shoes scrape against the floor as she climbs onto the bench, the manila folder rustling in her lap.
Judge Corrigan's voice cuts through the quiet.
"Before I deliver my ruling," he says, "I want to address something I observed during these proceedings."
A pause. The air is tight.
"Mr. Vance." His voice sharpens. “Your attorney attempted to introduce evidence he had not shared with opposing counsel. He questioned the validity of a tenant's receipts without offering a single document to support those doubts. And throughout this hearing, I have sat in silence while your counsel built a case on insinuation rather than fact."
The gallery holds its breath.
"Ms. Murdock's client provided clear, consistent documentation. Three years of payments. A paper trail that any auditor would accept."
Another pause. "Mr. Vance, I'm going to ask you a direct question. Do you have any evidence that Ms. Delgado failed to pay rent, beyond the absence of your own record-keeping?" His question has a near-silent undertone of desperation, like he is begging for Vance to give him plausible deniability to rule in his favor.
I turn my attention inward, filtering out the ambient noise of the courtroom — the fluorescent hum, the rustle of the gallery, Foggy's steady breathing beside me — and focus on the defense table.
Vance's heartbeat.
It's there, beneath the silence. Steady at first. Then a flicker. A skip. The rhythm tightens, quickens, as Judge Corrigan's question hangs in the air.
“Do you have any evidence…”
Another skip. His breath changes — a shallow inhale, held too long. The faint creak of his chair as he shifts his weight. The subtle scrape of a shoe against the floor.
He's nervous.
"Mr. Vance." Judge Corrigan's voice sharpens. "I asked you a question."
Vance clears his throat. "Your Honor, I — my property manager handled the rent collection. I relied on his records."
"And those records show no payments from Ms. Delgado for six months?"
"They do."
"Yet Ms. Delgado has provided receipts for every single month during that period." A pause. "Did you ever personally review your manager's records against actual deposits?"
The heartbeat stutters again. A longer pause.
"I... delegated that responsibility, your Honor."
"Delegated." The word lands like a gavel. "Mr. Vance, let me be clear. You are asking this court to evict a widow and her child based on a bookkeeping discrepancy that you never personally verified. Your manager is not here to testify. Your records are incomplete. And the plaintiff has provided a paper trail that contradicts your claim entirely."
He lets the silence stretch.
"I'm prepared to rule."
"Your Honor, may I add one thing?"
Judge Corrigan pauses. "Go on, Ms. Murdock."
I rise slowly, my hand resting on the edge of the table. "Mr. Vance claims he delegated rent collection to his property manager. But in his eviction filing, he personally swore under oath that Ms. Delgado was six months behind." I tilt my head toward the defense table. "If he delegated the records, how could he personally verify the debt? And if he didn't verify it, he swore to a falsehood."
A beat of silence.
"Either Mr. Vance knowingly filed a false eviction claim, or he filed one without doing the bare minimum to confirm its accuracy. Both options have consequences under the law."
Tattle rises. "Your Honor, Ms. Murdock is — "
"Sit down, Mr. Tattle." Corrigan's voice cuts like glass. Silence follows.
The judge's chair creaks as he leans forward. "Mr. Vance. I'm giving you one last opportunity. Do I have any direct knowledge that Ms. Delgado failed to pay rent, or are you relying entirely on your property manager's incomplete records?"
A long pause. Vance's heartbeat drums against my ears, uneven, rapid. He clears his throat.
"...I relied on my manager's records, your Honor."
"Then I have my ruling."
The courtroom holds its breath.
"The defendant's motion for eviction is denied. Ms. Delgado is to remain in her home. Furthermore, Mr. Vance is ordered to pay court costs and Ms. Delgado's legal fees. I'm also referring this matter to the city's tenant protection board for review of potential retaliatory eviction practices."
A sharp exhale from beside me. Ms. Delgado's hand finds my arm, trembling.
"We won," she whispers.
"We won."
The courtroom erupts into quiet motion — the rustle of the gallery rising, the shuffle of papers, the low murmur of conversation. But at my table, time slows.
Ms. Delgado's hand is still on my arm, her grip trembling. "We won. We actually won."
“You won." I turn toward her, a genuine smile crossing my face. "I just helped you prove what you already knew."
Beside me, Foggy lets out a breath he's been holding for the entire hearing. "I need a drink. And a nap. Possibly in that order."
Sofia's voice pipes up from behind us. "Does this mean we get to stay?"
I twist in my seat, finding her small presence. "It means you get to stay. And Mr. Vance gets to pay for the privilege of wasting everyone's time."
The girl giggles. The sound is light, unburdened. It's the first time I've heard it all morning.
I rise, my cane finding the floor. Ms. Delgado guides Sofia out of the row, and I follow them into the aisle, the gallery parting around me. Tattle passes without a word, his cologne trailing behind him like a retreat. Vance's footsteps are heavier, slower — a man who just lost more than a case.
Outside the courtroom, the hallway stretches before me, cooler and quieter. Ms. Delgado stops, turns toward me. "I don't know how to thank you."
"By going home and living your life," I say. "That's all the thanks I need."
She laughs, a little watery, and hugs me. I let myself receive it, my cane tucked against my side, my arms finding her shoulders. She smells like lavender and coffee and relief.
When she pulls back, Sofia tugs at my sleeve. "Miss Mary? You're really good at being a lawyer."
I crouch down to her level. "And you're really good at being a paralegal. I might have to hire you full-time."
"Really?"
"Really. But you'll have to negotiate your salary with Mr. Nelson." I jerk my head in Foggy's direction. "He handles the budget."
Foggy groans. "I'm already being ganged up on."
Ms. Delgado laughs, and this time it's full and warm. She takes Sofia's hand, and they head for the elevators, the girl waving the manila folder like a flag of victory.
I listen to them go, the sound of their footsteps fading into the courthouse's hum.
Then I turn to Foggy. "We've got a gala to get ready for."
"you sound almost excited."
"I sound like I just won a case." I tap my cane against the floor. "Let me have this."
sorry about no bruce or batfam this chapter they show up in the next one
Trinket Goblin @loganskittycatears - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
