v1olets4rosess

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.

"Had—oh God—had the best teacher, didn't I?" you retort, eyes fluttering closed with pleasure when you manage to fit the first inch inside of you, and you both gasp at the same time—you, at the delicious stretch of him, Tom, at the snug warmth of your pussy.

Your skirt is bunched up just high enough for him to see you stretch around him, to have a visual to the sensation. And fuck, does it feel good—having you struggle to take him in this position, two of your fingers not nearly having been sufficient enough of a replacement for two of his own to prepare you for him.

Is he annoyed with you taking advantage of his trust, allowing you enough time to hex him when he wasn't paying attention? Yes. Will he retaliate later tonight, perhaps keeping you locked in his bedroom for the entire weekend? Very likely. But, most importantly—will he first enjoy watching you fuck yourself on his cock like a good little slut? Most fucking definitely.

You've managed to accommodate about half of him when a slight upwards thrust of his hips makes you hiss, your eyes finding his instantly. He isn't supposed to be able to move. At all.

"Riddle, I swear— stay the fuck still." you seethe, one of your hands leaving his shoulders and curling around his throat instead, feeling his adam's apple bob beneath your touch.

But Tom—he just smirks at you, all arrogant, all self-assured. If you had a free hand, you'd use it to smack him across his stupidly handsome face. Once. Maybe twice.

"Can't even take all of me. Show me you're worthy of being my best student, sweetheart. Come on, work for it."

Three times, it is.

Your eyebrows pinch together in annoyance, but you are determined. Determined to drag this out as long as you have to for him to learn not to leave you aching for his touch again—because today, you will show him just how torturous it is to be deprived of what you need most. Release.

"You don't get to tell me what to do. You're the one tied up, remember?" you breathe, steadying yourself with both hands on his chest as you lower yourself further, nearly having fit all of him.

"Tied up and helpless while I—fuck—take what I need. What you didn't give me last time." You grit your teeth, pushing yourself to your limit to take all of him, your walls clamped around him like a vice.

You feel his scorching hot gaze on you as you struggle—really struggle—to fit all of him in this position. Most of the time when he allows you to be on top, he guides your hips, praises you, circles the pad of his thumb over your clit. But now, with his hands tied and him being awfully uncooperative with his punishment, he merely looks at you amusedly, taking pleasure in your effort.

None of that, you decide.

Your hips roll against his, letting the head of his cock nudge at your cervix—and instead of the familiar sting you expect, an electric wave of pleasure floods your core, making your head tip backwards, moaning.

A small smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth, and with the help of your hands on Tom's shoulders, you slowly, gently lift yourself about halfway off his swollen, pulsing cock before you sink back down, grinding down on him.

Tom groans. Fucking groans when he feels your velvety walls part around him again, sucking him right back into their treacherous warmth, clenching down so sweetly around him, it has stars dance in front of his vision.

"Fuck— God, you're— you're impossible."

You set a pace, then—slow half-thrusts at first, allowing yourself to explore your favourite angles and pace, your eyes locked onto the deep, dark honey brown of his own. And dark they are—especially now, when your tits bounce right in front of his face, buttons of your blouse strained, your lips parting for sweet, serenading little gasps and moans, almost like a mermaid would sing for a fisherman beneath the blanket of the starry night sky to lure him into the depths of her stormy waters.

One of your hands wanders to that aching, neglected spot between your thighs—your clit. Slowly, you begin circling your fingers around the swollen, sensitive bud, and Tom's eyes follow the movements intently, jaw clenched tightly.

God, how deeply he wishes this was his hand rubbing your sweet little pussy.

His wrists ache due to the tight, rough ropes rubbing his skin raw, and yet he cannot stop himself from trying to yank himself free. He fucking needs to touch you—needs to feel the swell of your tits beneath his palms, wants to taste the slick dripping down his cock, staining his favourite trousers.

Tom cannot bring himself to care about the latter—not now, at least. Now, he uses his special trick on you, which has almost always gotten him what he wanted.

"Please," he murmurs, softened, big brown doe eyes lifting to yours. "Please let me touch you, darling. I'll make up for last time. Make you feel so good. I promise—fuck, I will do anything, just please, please let me—"

Your muscles fucking ache, trembling with the strain of your rapid movements up and down his soaked cock—and yet, you see right through him. Through the game he's playing with you. And today, you will not lose.

The sound of skin slapping on skin and your combined moans and groans fills the large classroom, echoing off the walls, wrapping you both in a cloud of lust and pleasure. You've been trying to drag this out for as long as you can—but the overwhelming need to come overwrites any desire of vengeance, nerve endings tickling with electricity and held-back pleasure.

As if on cue, Tom's cock twitches in anticipation, wrapped snugly in between your slick, pulsing walls.

"Sweetheart, please— I—"

Beads of sweat have formed on his forehead, colouring some of his curls an even darker brown than usual, and it's truly a beautiful sight—one you'll gladly frame with gold in your mind, tucking it away safely for later use.

His pleading gaze has you huff, pressing a gentle kiss to his tense jaw.

"Whatever would your students think of you? Letting me do this to you. Letting me unravel you to the point you're begging for me. Fucking pathetic, Professor Riddle."

Your fingers rubbing at your clit speed up, pace faltering to a slow, deep rhythm that has every ridge and vein of his length massage your sweet spots, inadvertently pushing you closer to that high you've been chasing ever since you ground your clothed pussy over the bulge in his trousers around an hour ago.

"Hardly have a choice, do I?" he sneers in response, clenching his hands into tight fists behind his back, knuckles turning white from the strain. "If you don't fucking let me touch you, I pray to Merlin he has mercy on you tonight—because I certainly will not."

You pay no mind to his threat—your mind too fuzzy with pleasure, the knot inside your tummy winding tighter with each passing second.

"Shut up, Riddle," you breathe, slapping a hand over his mouth. "Shut the fuck up and take it like you were made to."

The high of your courage to utter these words plus an angry, irritated upwards thrust of his hips has you tumble over the edge. You cry out his name as your walls pulse and clench around his achingly hard cock, your whole body trembling with the force of your climax.

As the feeling slowly subsides, you curl forwards, resting your head on his chest—smiling to yourself.

Victory.

A swift look at the clock mounted to the front of the classroom has you ease yourself off him. His cock is still so hard, so swollen, tip flushed and soaked with both his precum and your arousal, now resting against his lower abdomen, twitching with neglect.

"Don't. you. fucking. dare." Tom grits out, the sheer anger radiating off him sending a vase on a nearby counter toppling over the edge and shattering on the wooden panels of the floor.

You grin at him, turning your back to him as you walk towards the exit of the Defence Against Dark Arts classroom.

"Lesson starts in five minutes. Better get that raging boner under control, professor. Wouldn't want anyone to suspect you may be doing inappropriate things in your own classroom, would you?"

His expression turns venomous, voice pure, undiluted poison. "You will pay for this. Just you wait, brat."

From a safe distance, you turn around one last time to undo his binds, and then, before he manages to fetch his own wand, you disappear behind the thick, dark oak doors of his classroom, walking back to your dorm.

Now, you're smiling with the satisfaction of having successfully given him his punishment—but later that night, you're crying big hot tears, begging him to stop making you come, begging him for a break.

Of course he doesn't give you that break. Of course, naturally, he has you come around his cock so often, you lose your goddamn mind, turning you into a blabbering, broken little toy.

And it may just be his favourite look on you—sobbing, crying out his name with each mean, deep thrust of his hips into your sensitive, dripping cunt.

His broken, dumb little brat.

thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

©2026 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

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—

annie abbot was a certifiable force of nature. those were the words that would come to be uttered at her funeral on may 15th, 2000. they would be said by her husband, jack abbot.

she was taller than her husband by two inches– and he loved that about her. he loved her stature and how she was a force, not someone who could be undermined or bested. she was smart and quick as a whip, and passionate. passionate about everything. about food, about the world, about justice. she was a new york city public defender and it was the thing that she loved the most about herself. the second thing she loved was being loved by jack. in jack’s eyes, she was perfect, despite any imperfection that one could identify.

jack and annie did everything right. they stopped at red lights and gave other drivers the go ahead. but it didn’t matter when the passenger side of jack’s bmw absorbed the impact of a drunk driver who blew through their intersection.

she was gone before jack could get his wits about him, or his neck out of the brace. and for the next 365 days, jack abbot considered himself to be gone, too.

–

your grandfather clutches your hand between his. you’re tired– always so tired these days. that’s what a barely beating heart does to a woman just around the corner from thirty, you suppose. tears shine in his eyes and you offer what you hope to be a comforting smile. “i’ll be okay,” you say as they wheel you back towards the operating room. “and if i’m not… then it was all worth it, and i love you.” you squeeze his hand with the little energy that you have.

his mouth opens and closes. “you will be okay.” he says the words with such conviction, that you almost believe them to be true. but you know the reality of what a heart transplant can do. before you fell ill, you had half the thought to become a doctor. she wanted to help prevent the exact sort of thing that happened to your mother. but that opportunity was robbed from you, just as everything else was. and all that was left was a reclusive shell of a girl, having lived a half-life and only experiencing the world through pages or through a screen, or through your window. your window, where birds would chirp and you’d hear the loud honking of new york city traffic. it was comforting to know that while you are static, others are in freeflow.

there were many things that you missed, once you were moved into full time critical care. you missed the smell of her family’s restaurant. you missed the way that you could lay out in central park for hours and never tire of it. you missed loud music and singing along, you missed days out with mel and becca.

those things you missed give you another shred of hope, just as the doors that lead to the operating room click shut.

–

it takes a very long time to recover from receiving a heart. two weeks in the hospital, another 6-8 before you could really reap any of the benefits. you spent the summer inside, feeling just a little bit more alive, every single day. and every single day, you were reminded that someone else was gone.

“do i get to know anything about them?” you had asked your team of doctors on a saturday in july. you weren’t out of the woods, not yet– but things were looking good. your body was responding well, you didn’t have any infection, or rejection. you felt good, you looked good… it felt like things were on the upswing. but it didn’t change the gnawing feeling inside of you. guilt, maybe.

“it’s all anonymous,” your doctor says curtly. he doesn’t have the best bedside manner, but you don’t mind, because he took your heart out of your chest and replaced it and you lived to tell the tale, so what was there to really complain about? “you can try the organ donor liaison program. they maybe be able to connect you.”

you spend a year of your life writing and rewriting and rewriting the letter again and again, until you come up with something that feels succinct but warm and, hopefully, comforting. well, it probably won’t be comforting, you understand. but maybe it’ll do some good to the person’s family to know your gratitude.

“i can’t do this,” you say to mel as you crumple up a piece of paper again. “seriously, i can’t do this.”

“can’t do what? say– sorry your person died, but i needed their heart, thanks so much?” frank asks you. mel gasps and hits his arm, and you send the paper ball flying towards him, getting him right in his nose. “ouch.”

“you deserved that,” mel says. she turns her focus back to you. “you don’t have to send it if you don’t want to.”

“i do want to,” you reiterate. “i just… i can’t imagine what this person is going through. and i can’t imagine that they want to hear from me at all.”

–

the first ever episode of survivor aired on may 31, 2000, exactly 31 days after annie abbot died in a car accident. the cushy new york city brownstone that they had bought, finally bought, looked unlike it had in recent years. chinese take out containers littered practically every surface of the apartment, that once was polished and pristine. it was, truly, a one to one model of how jack abbot felt inside.

it was perfect that survivor aired at this time, because he honestly could do with the distraction. and what a better distraction than watching people on a remote island struggling to survive? at that moment, it felt like he might be better off on that remote island with them. he could do it, he thinks. even with a missing leg, he thinks he could hack it better than half of the people the network found for this show.

these are the types of things he thinks about, now. not what’s for dinner, or if him and annie should go out with heather and michael that night. in the span of one year, he watched that one season of survivor more times than he could count.

grief was a weird thing in that way.

a knocking on the door draws him away from his tv. robby stood on the other side, hands on his hips, raising an eyebrow. “again?”

“i’m watching the best episode,” he says, mustering up a smirk for his friend. his friend, who is showing up at his doorstep very obviously worried and concerned.

robby lets himself in and takes a seat on jack’s couch, rubbing his hands on his pants. “i set us up for a double date.”

jack laughs. “you’re real funny.”

“i’m serious. me, and heather, and you and heather’s friend marsha. it’ll be a good time.” jack’s hesitation must be obvious, because robby leans in slightly. “it’s been a year, man. i know you loved her, and you miss her. but–” he looks around. “you want to keep going like this?”

“i don’t know what you mean.”

“eating takeout, watching survivor, and working the nightshift?”

“i don’t know what you want from me,” jack snaps back. “only one of us has lost their wife.”

“i get that. i just… i just want to see you be happy.” the silence permeates through the space around them, and robby relents, hanging his head. “alright, i won't overstay my welcome. just… think about it, will you? we’re going to lucky’s. it’s some irish-italian place.”

“irish-italian?” jack asks incredulously.

“i dunno, don’t ask me.” robby stands and so does jack and he hugs his friend, a little bit tighter than he might’ve a year ago. “i love you, buddy.”

“love you too,” jack grumbles and all but pushes him out of his door. he hands his head and takes a deep, steadying breath.

a double date. he could do that. couldn’t he? before annie, he had been a shameless flirt– missing leg be damned. he knew who he was and that was a man who was confident and in control, regardless of the things in his life that forced him to relent that control. it should be the same, in theory. but… it’s not.

cleaning up his apartment might be a good start.

he starts at his entry table, sifting through the various bills and postcards from friends all over the world. but something catches his eye.

organ donor liaison.

he must’ve read that wrong. he knew that the recipient of annie’s heart wanted to remain anonymous, and honestly, that was probably for the best. he doesn’t know if he could see someone who has his wife’s heart living in their chest. didn’t matter if they were a saint or whatever else– jack is pragmatic. he’s a doctor, for christs’s sake. he knows that organ donation is necessary, and the way that a person who is gone can be honored long after they’re not of the earth anymore.

but this is his wife’s heart.

with shaky hands he opens the letter and finds light green stationary inside. the script that the letter is written in is loose, loopy, maybe a little shaky, too– like the author was nothing but a bundle of nerves. well, shit. that made two of them.

dear donor family,

i don’t quite know how to address this letter properly, or what there is to say, really. there’s not a lot to say, i suppose– but all i can offer is my immense gratitude and my hope for continued peace for whomever is reading this, and all those who loved the person who donated their heart to me.

i’ve lived with this understanding, for a long time, that i would not be able to live without someone else going through tremendous pain. it’s something that i grappled with for a long time. and i know that all i can do is take this second chance at life and try and not squander the opportunity that i’ve been given.

i won’t ever know who my donor was. but i know that they were a good person, who loved deeply, if they were generous enough to do what they did even after they were gone.

i will carry their memory with me every day.

jack’s heart goes to his throat. tears have sprung into his eyes, for some reason– he blinks them away and flips the letter over, as if maybe it’ll reveal the identity. jack doesn’t know why he wants to know, now. this doesn’t change anything. except it does, somehow. deep inside of him.

warnings: age gap city, slightly unexperienced!reader, sensitive!reader, talks of death, guilty!jack abbot, rarely proofread, themes of religious trauma, themes of regret, preacher’s daughter.

PART 1 tulsa jesus freak . . . sing me like a bible hymn.

PART 2 vivid light . . . he has seen the vivid light.

PART 3 bambi . . . what if all i want is conversation and time?

You wouldn’t say that you have favourites, per se. It’s hard to describe a casual situationship as anything but that, but you’d say that Jack Abbot treats you better than every ex boyfriend you’ve ever had.

You’d met him by chance, in the most ridiculous meet cute way. Something you’d write about, in fact.

You had been in your local bookstore, silently celebrating your first traditionally published novella. After three years of self publishing, dealing with Amazon (ew) and indie contracts, you’d scored a deal with a traditional printing house.

It had been kind of surreal, seeing your name on a book in a chain bookstore, something you’d dreamed of since your age had been in single digits. You’d been stealthily signing a couple of copies, hiding them in the stack, too lost in your own world to notice the older man when you’d taken a step back and almost tripped right over him.

Holding a copy of your book to your chest, you’d felt warmth rush to your face, embarrassment almost entirely overwhelming you when you realised he wasn’t not just some older guy, but handsome. Broad shoulders, salt and pepper curls, bright hazel eyes, and, if the black scrubs he was wearing were any indication, a doctor.

“Oh, god, I’m so sorry,” you had said, mortified, but he had just smiled at you, a lopsided little smirk that made the creases at the corners of his eyes more prominent.

“Don’t be. Yours?” He had asked, nodding at the book and pen in your hands.

You had been surprised, nodded, half expecting him to say something derisive about chick lit and porn in written form, but he hadn’t. He’d just smiled at you again, told you he’d noticed you signing a couple of the books.

He had been curious, sweet, bordering on flirty, and when he’d picked up a copy of your book and asked you to sign it for him, you’d taken a risk and added your phone number beneath it. You’d never expected anything to come from it, but he’d sent you a text just a few hours later.

Over the next few months, you’d gotten to know Jack better. He was an emergency medicine physician, a senior attending at a level one trauma centre. He worked the night shift. He was an army veteran, a widower, an amputee.

He was your friend, first and foremost, but you were comfortable enough with each other to let that friendship blur into sex without any sort of expectations.

Jack was still grieving his late wife, and you weren't really looking for anything serious; you wanted to primarily focus on your career, on letting your creativity bloom.

It was a good, practical, happy arrangement. Jack was lonely, you were lonely, and he made far more money than a guy who was technically single could ever need, in his words.

So while a lot of your relationship was built on friendship, on keeping each other company, there was also a part of it that was decidedly built on erotica.

Sexts, heated makeouts, long afternoons or, on his days off, nights of multiple rounds of mind blowing sex. You had no idea how a man of fifty had the stamina that Jack does, but you sure as hell had no complaints.

While you weren't together, there was an exclusivity to your arrangement. You both had attachment issues, but the maturity to know it and discuss it.

Said discussion had come about when you'd been discussing the idea of not using condoms anymore; you had had permanent contraception done in your late twenties, so it wasn't like you were going to get pregnant any time soon. Or ever, for that matter, which you preferred.

"Why would I seek out anyone else's company, sweetheart? We get along just fine, don't we?" Jack had said.

Regardless, he'd provided you with a screening to put your mind at ease, even though you hadn't asked.

You'd been pretty upfront; like him, you weren't looking for a label, but you liked the relationship you had. You weren't interested in having this sort of thing with anyone else, not when Jack was so good to you.

He took you out to nice restaurants, occasionally bought you little gifts. Jewellery, books, little trinkets for your bookshelves at home.

For a not boyfriend, he was considerate, too. He'd bought your favourite skincare products and perfume to leave at his place, bought you flowers for each chapter of your next novel you finished.

When your laptop had crapped out on you, he'd replaced it as soon as he'd heard about it. 

You sometimes weren't sure if you felt right about letting him spend so much money on you, but he'd just waved his hands.

"Don't exactly have anyone else to spend it on. Besides, I like spoiling you. You deserve it, and you don't expect it. Just like I don't expect anything in return."

Sometimes you accompany him to events if he wants a plus one. You're beautiful, according to Jack, and he likes showing you off.

"My girl's a writer," he would say proudly each time he introduced you to somebody, so open and confident that nobody judged your choice of career.

Tonight is one such night; Jack tells you he has an old army friend coming down from Boston for work. A chef, he says, owns a Michelin star restaurant up that way.

They're catching up for a couple beers and rounds of pool at a bar Jack likes, and he wonders if you'd like to come along.

You don't see why not. This isn’t totally out of the ordinary; you hang out with Jack often enough, have met his best friend once or twice. Besides, you know – and like – the bar he’s talking about.

By around six thirty, you’re stepping into the bar in a pair of high-waist jeans, a deep wine red tee that shows just a peek of midriff, and a washed out black denim jacket. Cute, put together, but casual enough that you don’t feel like you’re trying too hard.

That’s another thing you like about Jack; you never feel like you have to be someone you’re not. He’d told you once – whilst he was inside you, of all times, your wrists pinned above your head in one big, gentle hand – that he didn’t care if you were wearing a casual grungy look or a pretty dress, he was always one step away from pushing you against the nearest wall. That he thought you were beautiful no matter what you wore.

It was difficult to hear things like that and not feel a little something for him, though you knew that was pretty natural, and not something to be explored. Not right now, or necessarily ever.

You spot Jack by the bar, leaning against it casually, looking far too good in a black t shirt and cargo pants, talking to someone you can’t quite see.

You’re not too sure what to expect; he hadn’t told you much about his friend, only that his name was Grant, he was ex army like Jack, they’d done a couple of deployments together, and he was from Boston.

You were expecting another guy around Jack’s age, like his friend from the trauma centre, sure. What you decidedly were not expecting, was for him to so closely resemble Jack.

Grant stands a little taller, has a bit more ease to his posture, which after spending so much time with Jack, you recognise as a trait the latter doesn’t have due to being an amputee.

His hair is a little longer, more of a tangled mess of salt and pepper curls than Jack, but he’s no less built, has stupidly thick biceps that are on the border of obscene peeking out of a white t shirt. White shirt, black jeans, laced up dark boots.

You’re staring and you know it, cough and blink rapidly, completely missing the almost knowing smirk that the two gorgeous older men share.

The bar is a nice temperature, the music loud enough to be heard but not overbearing, so you can still hear each other talk.

You slot into the conversation nicely, find Grant just as easy to talk to as Jack, even if he seems a little more cautious, a little more careful.

Two pints and a couple of games of pool later, and the three of you seem to be getting along just fine, all comfortable with each other, laughing and joking. You can tell they’ve known each other a long time – over twenty years, Grant tells you when Jack goes off to grab another round of drinks after they finally get you to agree to play a round, rather than just watching.

That explains their easy dynamic, you think as you step around the pool table, try to balance the cue properly in your hands.

It’s not that you don’t know how to play – you most certainly do – it’s just been a while and you’re not so confident around this incredibly handsome near stranger. After a couple of failed attempts at lining up a shot, you huff, consider just giving up.

Grant watches you for a moment, as if trying to decide something, then circles the table and tilts his head slightly, before he steps behind you, your back against his chest.

His firm hands are gentle as he adjusts yours, guiding your body into a different stance. “There you go. Now try.”

His voice is low, raspy, just like Jack, but there’s a little more hoarseness to his. You suppose that’s to do with having to be heard over the sounds of the kitchen, which must be deafening.

Close to your ear, you have to resist the shiver that threatens to run down your spine. He’s so warm and solid against your back, his arms against yours as you line up your shot with his help. You sink the right ball, look up just in time to meet Jack’s eyes as he returns from the bar; you feel your face heating again, feel almost guilty, until you notice the smirk on his face, the glint in his eyes.

For the first time this evening, you start to wonder whether he has an ulterior motive for inviting you out tonight. More importantly, you realise, you want that to be the case.

You get your wish at around nine, when the bar starts to get busier, filling up with college students, and Jack suggests heading back to his place. Not just you and him. The three of you.

The suggestion isn’t entirely surprising; he’s made a comment or two about the idea of bringing a third person into the mix once or twice. Never another woman, though. Jack gets off on getting you off, on having control of the situation, sure, but he’s not interested in making you watch him fuck another woman.

However, what he does like is the way you look when you’re overstimulated, totally fucked out and needy. He likes spoiling you, after all, and this is no different.

You end up sitting between the two older men on Jack’s couch, feeling a little nervous and giddy until Jack kisses you first, clearly the more extroverted of the pair. That or perhaps he’s simply more comfortable with you.

Regardless, when you break apart, it’s entirely clear that the other man is interested, based on the way his hazel eyes are dark with desire as he looks at you.

Somehow, you get the feeling that he won’t be the one to initiate; he seems kind of shy, at least not the same kind of introvert as Jack. That doesn’t bother you, not in the slightest. In fact, you think it’s kind of endearing. Endearing and attractive.

You lean in to kiss him, brush your lips against his at first; it’s not a case of you being nervous, more the idea of making sure that he’s okay with it too.

At first, he doesn’t move, but then perhaps two heartbeats later and he’s pulling you in closer. Two pairs of big, warm hands roam your body as you lean into him, part your lips and let him lick into your mouth.

He kisses differently to Jack, of course. Jack kisses with a sort of self assurance, a quiet confidence. Grant is a little more cautious, not quite hesitant, but with the air of taking his time to figure out what exactly you respond best to.

Idly, you hope that translates over to everything else, too.

You find yourself pressed between them both, alternating between who you kiss while the other kisses your throat, only pausing when the three of you get to your feet, stumble, all three of you almost giggly, to Jack’s bedroom.

“’s easier in here,” he’d said, nodding down at his right leg, or rather, the half of it that’s titanium. Not like you needed an explanation; you’d long since learned to adapt to the physical limitations that came with Jack’s disability.

Grant doesn’t question it either, but that isn’t surprising – they’ve known each other for so long, you suspect since before Jack lost his leg.

You expect there to be a certain amount of awkwardness, or at least to be a bit uncoordinated, considering there’s three of you. Somehow, though, it just works, and you manage to get both of them shirtless.

That in itself is an achievement, considering they work together to get you naked; you’re gently pushed backwards onto the bed while Jack sheds his pants, sits on the edge of the bed to remove his prosthetic, before he’s settling himself behind you, unclasping your pretty lace bra and tossing it aside.

His warm hands cup your tits as you feel his hardened cock pressing against your ass, making you inhale sharply. You love his cock. Are intimately familiar with the thick, heavy length of him, the freckles at the base, the vein along the underside that, when you drag your tongue along it, always makes him groan.

The mystery here is Grant.

The other man removes the rest of his clothing with that same sort of quiet caution, that same caution finally giving way to blatant desire when he sees the way you look him up and down, slowly.

Fuck, he’s handsome. His biceps and pectorals look like they could be carved from marble, there’s a slight softness to his belly, and like Jack, he’s covered in freckles.

“Beautiful,” you breathe before you can help yourself, and only then do you let your gaze wander further south.

With the physical similarities between the two men, you shouldn’t be surprised by the fact that his cock is pretty, too. Just as thick, slightly curved, achingly hard.

You’re about to say something else, but then he’s joining you on the bed, gives Jack a look before the latter is adjusting you so that the other man can settle comfortably on his belly between your thighs, nudging them apart and settling there.

Slowly, agonisingly slowly, he brushes two fingertips along the damp fabric of your panties, has the audacity to smirk as he looks up at you. “Soaked,” he all but murmurs, raspy voice soft as his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear.

He waits for you to lift your hips so he can pull them down slightly, then tugs them the rest of the way down with his teeth.

You whimper softly as the ruined fabric is tossed aside and he settles himself back between your spread legs, planting open mouthed kisses on your inner thighs.

That he’s a tease doesn’t remotely surprise you. What you like is the way he occasionally glances up at you as he kisses inwards, as if silently checking in with you.

Perhaps it’s because you’re so used to Jack, who knows you and your body so well by now that he touches you with a sort of ease that only really comes after months of intimacy, but this sends a thrill through you.

Speaking of Jack…

He resettles himself behind you, leans in to kiss along your bare shoulder, up your neck, his hands still cupping your tits, thumbs brushing back and forth across your nipples slowly.

“You gonna be good for us?” He breathes into your ear, just as Grant presses an open mouthed kiss to your core, making you whimper and nod.

“No, you use your words,” Jack corrects you almost immediately, settling into that comfortable, confident dominance that you adore.

Just as you open your mouth to answer, Grant chooses that exact moment to circle your clit with the tip of his tongue, moaning as he drags his tongue through your slick folds. You whimper again, go to roll your hips without even thinking about it, but then just as quickly as he started, he’s pulling away from you, just a little, looking up at you with a little smirk on his face. “Jack asked you a question, honey.” His warm breath fans across your sensitive skin. In that moment, you think you might do anything, say anything, so long as it results in getting his mouth back on you.

“Y-yeah, I’ll be good.” You answer shakily, breath catching in your throat as you feel the purr of approval rumbling in Jack’s chest as he resumes kissing your throat.

Based on the way he touches you, featherlight brushes of his fingers across your nipples, smoothing his palms over your curves and back up again, he’s pleased with your answer. He keeps one arm wrapped around you, the other resting at his side.

Meanwhile, Grant resumes the slow, almost languid licks of your folds, intermittently sucking on your clit, moaning into you as you drip slick onto his tongue.

He’s so busy with work, the first to admit he has no life outside of his restaurant. No real hobbies, certainly no time for anything resembling a stable relationship. Hell, he doesn’t even remember the last time he spent a night with someone that wasn’t just a quick hookup.

Grant’s always loved going down on his partners. Loves the way it makes them react, loves the intimacy, and there’s a part of him that just loves the taste. You’re no different, reacting beautifully as he makes out with your pussy, drinking down your slick and teasing your entrance with two fingertips.

He eats you like you’re the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted, making absolutely zero effort to disguise the way he moans into you, the obscene slurping of his tongue and the filthy groan he gives you when he finally pushes his fingers inside you.

“Ohhh, god-” you gasp as he presses one last kiss to your puffy clit before he’s wiping his mouth on your inner thigh, sitting up as he slowly curls his fingers inside you. Jack shifts behind you and you realise he’s stroking his cock with his free hand.

“’s okay, baby, ‘s okay to want him, too-” Jack purrs into your ear, the hand that isn’t wrapped around his thick shaft sliding down to circle your clit in time with the warm fingers pressed knuckle deep inside your pussy.

You kind of assumed that was the case, but it’s still almost relieving to hear him confirm it out loud, so blatantly stated.

“Your pussy’s delicious, honey,” Grant murmurs, rests his head on your thigh for just a moment, looks up at you with pussy drunk eyes.

He kisses his way back up your body, pausing to pay more attention to your nipples, kissing and licking them, making you writhe against Jack, who laughs softly in the vicinity of your ear.

“Gonna tell us what you need, honey?” Grant breathes, brushing his lips against yours, massaging your g-spot before he slowly pulls his fingers out of you, making you whine pathetically as he maintains eye contact, licks his fingers clean with an obscene groan.

“Inside-” you breathe as Jack’s fingers circle your clit. “Want you both-”

The older men exchange a look, silent communication, a smirk, before Jack removes his hand too.

“Up you get, sweetheart. Turn over for us, yeah?”

You do as you’re told, turn onto your front, wait for Jack to move back a bit so he can lean against the headboard. Once he’s settled, you crawl up the bed to get closer to him, feeling the mattress dip a little as Grant moves up behind you, runs his palms over your ass as you settle on your hands and knees, giving him a beautiful view of your slick soaked folds, your soft skin.

Meanwhile, you’re very distracted by Jack’s cock. Fuck, you love his cock. It’s thick and fat and the perfect length, a smattering of freckles dusting the base.

You can’t help yourself – you lean in and press little kisses along the underside, from base to tip. Jack looks down at you, brushes his hand over your cheek as you look up at him, keep eye contact as you kiss the fat tip of his cock, already drooling precum.

Behind you, Grant holds your hips in one hand, grinds against you slowly, resting his equally gorgeous cock on your ass for a moment before he shifts again, wraps his hand around his shaft to guide the tip to your dripping entrance.

You’re so fucking wet. He doesn’t remember the last time someone wanted him so badly. In a moment of briefly selfish relief, he’s glad you’re not too preoccupied with blowing Jack just yet, so he can hear the moan you give him as he presses a couple of inches deep inside you.

He lets out an almost whimpering groan at the feeling of your warm, wet walls enveloping him, the way you angle your hips to give him better access.

“Oh, fuck,” he murmurs, his hands on your hips to steady himself as he slowly stuffs you full of his cock. Your attention is back on Jack by now, sucking on the tip of his cock again, before you take him in deeper, flattening your tongue so you can lick him at the same time.

It’s filthy, obscene, the way you moan around him as Grant’s hips finally meet your ass, the soft, breathy groans he rewards you with, the low almost growls Jack gives you from above.

You start to bob your head, trying to silently demonstrate how much you love sucking his cock as the other man starts to move, slowly grinding against you until he’s so deep you think he might kiss your cervix. Your appreciative moan is a little muffled, but it’s enough to encourage him.

They move almost in sync, Jack gently rolling his hips up, just enough that he’s encouraging you, whilst Grant starts to give you slow, shallow thrusts, letting you get used to the stretch of him inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans softly, breathless, “fuck, your pussy is perfect, baby-”

The praise makes you tighten around him, brief and involuntary, which draws a truly obscene groan from him, a rumbling purr that’s almost immediately echoed by Jack as you swallow around his cock.

Jack loves when you blow him, loves how sloppy and passionate you get with it, drooling all over him as you lick and suck, moaning around him as Grant picks up his pace behind you.

He steadily builds up a good rhythm, eventually giving you full, heavy thrusts, shifting to plant one foot on the mattress to give him better leverage. His hands are firm on your hips, but not bruising, guiding you back onto his cock to meet his thrusts.

“Nngh, mmmffff, fuck-”

He’s vocal, raspy voice dropping an octave lower as he grunts and groans, practically purring as he feels you getting tighter around him. The entire time as he works you up to the edge, you keep giving Jack all your attention with your mouth, wrapping one hand around the base of his shaft and stroking him, making him grunt.

“Mmmffff, shit, sweetheart, your fuckin’ mouth-” Jack groans, cups your face in one hand, brushes his thumb back and forth across your cheek.

“Doesn’t she take our cocks so well?” he asks, looks over your shoulder at Grant. Both of the gorgeous older men are a little flushed in the face, hazel eyes dark, pupils blown wide with lust.

“Nnh, such a good girl-” Grant agrees, giving you a particularly deep thrust that has you mewling.

You’re getting so close, hovering right on the edge of your climax, and they know it. Jack can tell by the change in pitch of your moans, Grant can feel you getting tighter around him, the increase in your already copious slick.

“Ohhh, you’re getting close, aren’t you, sweetheart?” Jack coos knowingly, “c’mon, we both wanna hear what you sound like when you cream all over his cock.”

Taking that as permission, you pull back from his cock, albeit a little reluctant; he really does taste delicious, clean and slightly salty, but there’s also a part of you that wants to focus entirely on your own impending orgasm.

Without having to focus on trying to make Jack feel good at the same time, you can give over to your utmost base instincts, letting yourself get lost in the feeling of Grant’s velvet soft cock pressing in and dragging out of your soaked pussy, moaning obscenely when one big hand leaves your hip to circle round, press his fingers to your swollen, aching clit and start to draw tight little circles around it.

That’s all you need, you think, you’re right there, but then he leans down over you, blankets his body with your own, just to be able to purr into your ear.

“There you go, honey, just let go. Let go for me, nnn; I’ve – I’ve got you...”

That’s what finally sends you crashing over the edge, your moans echoing around the bedroom as the tension in your core snaps, your thighs trembling with each wave of the intense, sudden orgasm.

He can feel a little trickle of your cum and slick soaking his cock, dripping out around him and onto the sheets, but all that serves to do is make him throb inside you, just prolonging your orgasm as he holds you against him.

You’re dimly aware of Jack’s familiar grunts; through the haze of your climax, you register him in front of you, one big, freckled hand wrapped firmly around his cock, giving his shaft a few slow, precise strokes as he watches his friend fuck you.

And god, does he.

Grant fucks you through your release, just keeps going, clearly chasing his own orgasm now.

His thrusts become more erratic with each one, grunting on every second impact.

“Mmff – mmm – nnngh -”

He makes no attempt to be quiet, and neither does Jack; their deep, masculine groans mingle with your breathy, high pitched moans as the room echoes with the lewd, wet sound of Grant’s hips colliding with your ass, Jack stroking his cock, matching the rhythm.

You know the tells of when Jack’s close; you lean forward again, wrap your lips around his cock, replace his hand with your ow, stroke him and bob your head, hollowing your cheeks and swallowing around him until he’s groaning, bucking his hips up involuntarily.

“Mmmm, yeah, that’s it sweetheart, suck my fucking cock-”

He runs his mouth when he’s close, so filthy that it makes you shiver, determined to get him there; just as you look up at him, make eye contact, he groans, tips his head back, giving you a beautiful view of the prominent muscle and veins in his neck, before he’s spilling down your throat.

You swallow every drop, lick him clean as Grant works you up to another orgasm; it’s only when Jack’s pulled his softening cock out of your mouth, brushed his thumb over your bottom lip, that his friend pulls out of you, gently maneuvers you onto your back.

He carefully pushes one of your thighs up to your chest, lowers it to wrap around his waist as he presses back inside you, groaning appreciatively at the way your walls almost immediately begin to flutter around him.

“Ohmygod, yes, fuck me-” You beg, your moans almost immediately swallowed in a filthy, greedy kiss, your fingers flying to his broad shoulders, scrabbling for purchase.

Thankfully, he’s merciful, gives you what you ask for, starts to all but pound you into the bed, breaking the kiss to nuzzle into the side of your neck, giving you intimate access to the huffed, breathy, whimpering moans he makes as he chases his release, fucks you through your second orgasm.

It’s only when you’re on the way down that he finally falls over the edge too, groaning a long, drawn out moan as he fucks his spend deep into you in a series of deep, erratic thrusts.

You gasp and whimper, still taking shuddering breaths and mewling softly by the time he eventually starts to go soft inside you. He stays above you, so you wrap your limbs around him, stroke his broad, freckled back as he peppers your shoulder, neck, and face with little kisses.

After he eventually pulls out of you, he follows Jack’s directions to the en suite, brings warm washcloths and a towel to help you clean up. Jack slips his prosthetic back on, heads out to the kitchen to grab chilled water for the three of you, giving you a lovely view of his ass as he goes.

The three of you work together to strip the bed, change the sheets, thanks to you completely ruining the existing ones, before finally, you’re lying in clean sheets between the two men.

“Mm, that was unexpected,” you hum, trailing your fingertips over Jack’s chest, brushing through the soft greying curls that grow there.

“Good unexpected?” Grant asks, and you turn your head to give him a long, slow kiss, breaking it to repeat the gesture with Jack.

They may look alike, but their kisses, confidence and mannerisms are so different. You kind of love it.

“Very good,” you assert, and both men laugh, exchange knowing smirks.

“Well, man, I guess you know what this means,” Jack says, lightly trailing his fingers up your sides, over your curves.

“Mm?” Grant sounds just like you and Jack, exhausted and satisfied. He genuinely doesn’t remember the last time he felt this way.

“No being a stranger.” Jack clarifies, and you giggle as his friend tuts.

“You know I have the restaurant. And you work a ridiculous schedule, too.” Grant hums, “but, I’m pretty sure I can find time. And hell, if you ever find yourself in Boston...”

You nod eagerly, too blissed out to try and be coy. As a matter of fact, you will be in Boston relatively soon for a book tour, and Jack has promised to come with you.

“We’d love to catch up with you again, but you know, she’s a big girl, she can always come visit on her own,” Jack purrs, curls into your side, nuzzles against your shoulder.

Grant raises an eyebrow at you, a silent question. You turn to kiss Jack’s temple before you lean up to kiss the other man again, liking the plush firmness of his lips. “Mm, it’s a date,” you confirm, and you swear both men give you approving little purrs as you finally settle down to sleep.

Part 2? Let me know!