Masterlist
L ─── Hi there lovely! I'm L and sometimes enjoy writing little stories <3 Feedback is always appreciated and happy reading!
@fancypoetrybread — please do not copy or modify any of my work!
taylor price

izzy's playlists!
Today's Document
Claire Keane
Jules of Nature

oozey mess
RMH
tumblr dot com
occasionally subtle
let's talk about Bridgerton tea, my ask is open
Game of Thrones Daily

No title available

shark vs the universe

Kaledo Art
ojovivo
$LAYYYTER

★
Cosmic Funnies
Sade Olutola
KIROKAZE
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from Saudi Arabia
seen from United States

seen from Malaysia

seen from Japan

seen from United States

seen from Australia
seen from China

seen from Spain
seen from Canada

seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States

seen from United States

seen from United States
@fancypoetrybread
Masterlist
L ─── Hi there lovely! I'm L and sometimes enjoy writing little stories <3 Feedback is always appreciated and happy reading!
@fancypoetrybread — please do not copy or modify any of my work!
ᴡᴇᴅɴᴇꜱᴅᴀʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ─── 🦇
06. The Perfect Morning ─── Isaac Night
05. Oh my Sweet Dove ─── Isaac Night
04. Love didn't Rot with me ─── Isaac Night
03. Death did us Part ─── Isaac Night
02. I'll be Here when You Go ─── Isaac Night
01. More Than a Little Obsessed ─── Isaac Night
00. The Silence he Broke ─── Isaac Night Series Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
✒️ ─── ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ─── ☕️
Wednesday
✒️ ─── ᴄʟɪᴄᴋ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴘᴀɢᴇ
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑃𝑒𝑟𝑓𝑒𝑐𝑡 𝑀𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 By FancyPoetryBread
Husband! Isaac Night x Reader
Summery: A quiet morning, sunlight spilling through the windows, the comforting scent of breakfast in the air, and the soft, steady presence of the person you love most. Between stolen sips of tea, playful banter, and the gentle rhythm of shared routines, two hearts find joy in the simplest moments - proving that sometimes, perfection is just a quiet kitchen, warm light, and someone to hold close.
Warnings: None, Just a lot of fluff
Word Count: 1.7k
It was a quiet morning, the kind you didn’t want to end. Sunlight spilled through the open window, brushing across the room as the curtains swayed lazily in the gentle breeze. You loved these mornings - unrushed, peaceful, free from the usual hum of activity. Just you, your husband still buried in the soft folds of sleep, and the comforting hush of your shared home.
You savored the silence, letting it stretch luxuriously around you. In one hand, you cradled a steaming mug of your favorite tea, its warmth seeping into your fingers. In the other, the new book you’d brought home from the bookstore just days ago, its pages waiting to transport you somewhere new.
You had been longing for this moment all night - the chance to finally dive back into the story, to lose yourself in the world tucked between the pages. With a quiet, satisfied sigh, you settled into your favorite chair, feeling the soft morning light wrap around you as you opened the book and let yourself be carried away.
Your peaceful silence didn’t last long. The bedroom door creaked open, and the familiar, groggy figure of your husband, Isaac, shuffled in, squinting at the unfamiliar brightness of the morning sun.
You looked up from your book and couldn’t help smiling. “Good morning, my love,” you said softly, your voice carrying the gentle warmth of the day.
He blinked a few times, his eyes slowly adjusting to the light, before making his way over to you. Reaching your spot by the window, he grinned mischievously - and before you could react, he snatched your mug of tea and took a long, satisfying sip.
You blinked, staring at him in mock horror as your expression twisted into an exaggerated gasp. “Isaac! That was my tea!” you exclaimed, though the laughter bubbling in your chest made it impossible to stay truly annoyed.
He just smirked, handing the mug back, eyes twinkling. “Tea tastes better shared,” he said, leaning down to press a quick kiss to your forehead, and you couldn’t help but melt a little in that small, domestic gesture.
You took a careful sip from your mug, glaring at him over the rim with mock indignation. “Shared? That’s called stealing, Isaac.”
He shrugged innocently, sliding onto the side of the couch next to you, hair still tousled from sleep. “Stealing’s a strong word,” he said, reaching for the book you had set down.
You laughed, shaking your head. “Not when it’s tea,” you shot back, though your tone softened as he reached across the armrest to brush a stray strand of hair from your face. The warmth of his hand lingered longer than necessary, making the quiet morning feel even cozier.
Isaac leaned back in his chair, stretching lazily, the sunlight catching his sleepy features in a way that made your chest ache with affection. “You’ve got that look,” he said, his voice low and teasing. “The one that says, ‘I’m enjoying this perfect morning, and you can’t ruin it.’”
"Do I now?" You questioned, grin still present on your face. "Well it's true. You may have stolen my tea but that isn't enough to disrupt my perfect morning."
He laughed softly, shaking his head. Then, after a beat, he added quietly, almost to himself, “Perfect mornings… I could get used to this.”
The two of you sat like that for a while, the world outside still sleepy and quiet, the gentle warmth of sun, tea, and shared presence wrapping the room like a soft blanket. This was all both of you ever wanted.
You let his words hang in the air, a gentle hum of comfort between you. The sunlight stretched further across the room now, spilling golden light over the wooden floor, catching the thin steam still rising from your mug.
Isaac cracked one eye open, still half-slouched in his chair. “I could make breakfast,” he said after a quiet moment, though neither of you moved right away. The idea felt secondary to the simple pleasure of being there together.
“You could,” You said, drawing out the word with mock suspicion, “but you’ll probably burn the toast again.”
He rolled his eyes in annoyance, but the smirk on his face betrayed him. “That happened once.”
“Twice,” You corrected without missing a beat. “And the second time it somehow caught fire.”
“That was an experiment, not a breakfast.” He countered, his voice that low, sleepy sound that always made your stomach flutter.
“Everything’s an experiment with you,” You said fondly, Gazing at his features, the charming handsome features that made him uniquely Isaac. “Fine. I’ll handle breakfast. You handle… supervising.”
“Supervising?” He echoed, smirking with his usual calm amusement .
“Yeah,” You said with mock seriousness, placing your mug down, already heading toward the kitchen. “Make sure I don’t poison us both. It’s a two-person job.”
Isaac followed, bare feet padding softly against the floor, the smell of tea and sunlight and home clinging to every inch of the air. And as you began rummaging through cupboards, you found yourself smiling again - because mornings like this, even with burnt toast and stolen tea, were perfect in their own quiet, ordinary way.
Isaac sat on one of the tall chairs by the kitchen bench, elbows propped on the counter, his head resting in his hands. His eyes followed your every move with quiet, unwavering devotion - the kind that only comes from knowing someone down to their smallest habits, their smallest flaws, and loving them all the more for it.
The kitchen had become your laboratory of sorts - but not in the sterile, old-fashioned sense. It was warm, familiar, alive with the quiet hum of home. The sunlight painted the counters gold, the faint smell of butter still lingered in the air, and for a moment, everything felt perfectly still.
It was your space, your safe little world. And Isaac - though brilliant with machines and everything experiement related - was utterly hopeless here. That fact alone had earned him a gentle but permanent ban from the stove, one he accepted with mock tragedy and genuine relief.
To be fair, you’d also earned a gentle exile from his makeshift basement lab, after that one incident with the machine that went spectacularly, if unintentionally, haywire after you poked it slightly too hard.
You moved around the kitchen with the clumsy grace of someone still partly asleep. Isaac still sat at the counter, head propped up, watching you pull out ingredients like someone on a mission: eggs, bread, butter, and a pan that looked like it had seen far better days.
You cracked an egg into the pan, watching as Isaac mock-judged you from his spot safely outside the kitchen, dedicated to his supervisor role. "Good job dove" he murmured.
You shot him a sideways grin, the kind that crinkled the corners of your eyes, and went back to cracking the second egg. The smell of sizzling butter and eggs began to fill the small space, warm and rich, curling around the both of you.
Isaac stood up to join you next to the stove, reaching up to open the cupboard filled with plates and bowls. His hand found your waist in that absent, familiar way, steadying himself as he reached above you. It was casual, instinctive - but it still sent a pleasant little shiver up your spine.
The butter hissed and spat in the pan, a tiny droplet leaping out to sting your skin. You hissed softly, more startled than hurt, and before you could react, Isaacs arm was already pulling you a step back, just far enough to shield you from the pans tiny rebellion.
His hand lingered at your waist, steady and protective, the gesture automatic, familiar. his other, carefully holding two plates. "Hostile butter." He muttered under his breath, his tone half serious, half teasing.
You laughed softly, leaning into him just a little. "Did you forget you're banished from the kitchen?" You teased, glancing at him over your shoulder.
Isaac hummed as he placed the plates on the bench, the sound low and lazy as he pressed a lingering kiss to your hair. "Of course not darling" He murmered against you. "But as your appointed supervisor, it is my solemn duty to protect you from rouge, violent butter."
You snorted, shaking your head as he tightened his arm around your waist, his laughter warm against your skin.
Honestly, it was hard to believe that the boy holding you now had once been so stoic, so cold - calculated and disinterested in anything beyond his inventions. His obsession still lingered, of course, as fierce as ever. But now, he was learning to live. To enjoy the life he’d fought so hard to give himself a second chance at.
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “Tragic,” you said. “All those years of culinary exile, and this is what you’ve been reduced to - a bodyguard against dairy products.”
Isaac chuckled, his breath ghosting over your neck. “A noble calling, I’d say.”
You gave the pan a careful swirl, the scent of browned butter rising between you. For a moment, it felt like the world had shrunk down to this - the quiet crackle of eggs on the stove, his heartbeat steady against your back, the soft hum of a song he wasn’t quite singing.
He was quiet for a while, just holding you, tracing idle patterns against your hip with his thumb. Then, more softly: “You know… I used to think moments like this were a waste of time.”
You glanced up at him, catching the faintest hint of a smile in his eyes - the kind that never quite reached his lips, but was real all the same.
“And now?” you asked.
Isaac tilted his head, considering. “Now,” he said, his voice low and sure, “I think they’re the only moments that matter.”
Your chest ached in that gentle, impossible way love always did. You turned back to the stove before he could see the grin tugging at your mouth. “Then I guess you’d better stay on butter patrol, supervisor.”
He chuckled under his breath, pressing another kiss to your temple. “Wouldn’t dream of leaving my post.”
You stood in silence, and really, nothing needed to be said. Just the two of you, bathed in the soft glow of the early morning sun, the comforting scent of breakfast lingering in the air, wrapping your home in a quiet coziness.
The smile on your face refused to fade, because this - this simple, perfect morning - was everything. You wouldn’t trade it for the world.
A/N: Hello my darling! I hope you enjoyed this short story. this one was particularly short because it was just a sweet little though that came to find, but I figured it would share it with you 💕 Im in the middle of writing part 4 to The Silence He Broke so that should hopefully be out soon. Anyway, let me know what you think and as always I hope you have an amazing day or night, wherever you are! 💋
Me again, but if you’re looking for ideas…
How about Isaac with a dove!psychic!reader, the light of his dark life, where she has a sudden and uncharacteristically dark vision when he kisses her. She sees his death, and it sends her spiralling. He has to comfort her, pushing down his own concern for her sake, but of course the vision comes true, and the loss results in her becoming a raven!psychic.
~ love, Ana 🧸
Hello my love! Im actually so obsessed with this idea, a dove turning into a raven after an unusual vision of Isaacs death. I hope you enjoy this short story 💕
𝑂ℎ 𝑀𝑦 𝑆𝑤𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝐷𝑜𝑣𝑒 By FancyPoetryBread
Isaac Night x reader
Summery: When you, a gifted Dove watch the death of the man you love in an unusually dark vision, you are powerless to stop it. Now, stripped of your light and marked by grief, the dove becomes a raven - haunted by the visions of a future that was, and the tragedy that took its place.
Warnings: Angst, Swearing, No use of Y/N
Word Count: 4K
You were his Dove - his light in the endless dark, the warmth that burned through the cold shadow clinging to him like a second skin.
Where the world had hollowed him out, you filled him. You didn’t just make him whole. You made him human.
He adored you with every aching bone in his body, every breath that rattled in his chest, every tick of his clockwork heart, every piece of him that had once been broken and now clung to you like salvation.
And you adored him just as deeply - maybe even more.
You were a psychic. A Dove, to be more specific. It was a title you’d always worn with quiet pride, but it meant more - so much more - when it came from his lips. A loving little nickname you had grown so fond of.
The way he said it... soft, reverent, like a prayer or a secret- It stirred heat low in your stomach and sent a flush to your cheeks every time.
With him, your name wasn’t just what you were. It was who you were. And you were his.
You had always found joy in the nature of your gift - the quiet beauty of it, the way it filled you with compassion, gratitude, and love.
There was something sacred in watching glimpses of the future unfold through eyes that weren’t your own - tender moments tucked between heartbeats, lives gently blooming ahead of their time.
You would sigh, soft and content, as you watched the light that waited for those around you - love, laughter, second chances.
It filled you with a quiet kind of happiness. Not because the future was perfect - But because it was possible.
You favorite were the visions you saw whenever Isaac was nearby, whenever he smiled at you, whenever his hands, delicate and trembling, brushed softly over your bare skin. the contact unlocking yet another window into the future.
and it was beautiful.
You had seen the visions of your future - the mother you would become, the home you and Isaac would build with your own hands, brick by brick, memory by memory.
Endless days bathed in golden light, filled with laughter, soft touches, and the quiet hum of his latest invention tinkering away in the background - each one more brilliant than the last, each one changing the world, just as he always dreamed he would.
It was everything you’d ever hoped for. Everything your heart had quietly wished for in the moments no one was watching.
But some things are just too good to be true.
You sat hunched over your mathematics homework, pencil in hand, but your mind was far from the numbers on the page.
It had drifted - softly, stubbornly - into daydreams that gripped you like vines curling through your thoughts. You let them. Of course you did. Why wouldn’t you?
Across the room, Isaac stood at his workbench, long finished with his own assignments. Now he was elbow-deep in his latest creation -some strange, Sci-fi looking contraption suspended from the ceiling, its metal limbs poised ominously above the iron table below.
It looked more like something from a nightmare than a science fair, all wires and hissing mechanisms.
But Isaac worked with calm precision, as if it were nothing more than a clock he was winding back to life.
And you - lost in dreams of a gentler future - barely noticed the storm quietly blooming in the shadows around him.
You were so lost in your thoughts, adrift in the haze of your daydreams, that you didn’t hear Isaac step away from the table, the soft clang of tools and the hiss of cooling metal fading behind him.
He wiped his hands on a cloth, eyes softening the moment he saw you - hunched over your book, utterly unaware of the world around you. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
Silently, he came up behind you, his touch gentle as he rested his hands on your shoulders. Then, with the kind of affection that only comes from knowing someone completely, he leaned down and pressed a featherlight kiss to the side of your neck.
You let out a quiet giggle, startled by the ticklish brush of his lips, instinctively tilting your head away.
The moment broke the spell of your daydream, but not in a way you minded. Infact you welcomed this new attention.
You hummed in quiet contentment, shifting in your seat as you turned to face him.
Isaac lifted his head from the curve of your neck, and for a moment, the world fell still. His eyes met yours - piercing, unblinking - filled with so much love it nearly hurt to hold the gaze. But beneath that devotion, there was something deeper. Something darker. Obsession, raw and unfiltered, stitched into every glance like a secret only you were allowed to know.
His face was a masterpiece of contradictions - sharp and soft, cold and alive. He was devastatingly handsome, always had been, but now... now he looked almost unearthly. The moonlight spilling through the tall windows of Lago Tower kissed his pale skin, giving him an ethereal glow that made it hard to tell where the science ended and the miracle began.
And yet, none of that mattered.
Because here, in his arms, time meant nothing. Worry meant nothing.
This was home. And it always had been.
He leaned into you, his lips grazing yours in a whisper of a touch before you finally collided - moving together with the ease of something long known, long missed.
And yet, even after all these years, the feel of his mouth on yours still made your heart stutter. Still made your body ache with a hunger that ignited like a spark in dry brush.
But this time, the fire wasn’t figurative. This time, it was real.
It burned - not just in your chest, but deep in your bones, spreading like molten metal beneath your skin. Your breath hitched. Your fingers twitched. And then your mind began to slip - sliding into that familiar blankness that always came before a vision.
Only this wasn’t the soft, golden silence you were used to.
This was cold. This was violent.
There were no images, no whispers of the future - just a feeling. A presence. Something ancient and angry, settling inside you like a weight you weren’t meant to carry.
Your head lolled back suddenly, your body going limp in his arms.
“Dove?” Isaac’s voice was sharp now, panicked. He caught the back of your head with one hand, steadying you, shielding you from yourself.
You’d had visions before - he’d seen them, soothed you through them. But this... this was different.
This was new. And it was terrifying him.
It hit you then - as if a thousand fists pounded your soul in a single, merciless moment. Your vision shattered and reformed in jagged bursts of raw terror. Flashes invaded your mind: not gentle whispers of the future, but angry demands of power, ambition, insatiable hunger. They clawed at every corner of your consciousness.
Pain exploded through your body like a tidal wave, dragging your breath from your lungs and burning your nerves alive. The images sharpened, becoming cruelly clear.
Your heart dropped when you recognized the scene.
It was Isaac, but not the kind of Isaac your memories held. This one was different - unhinged, obsessed. You watched him in his lab: eyes wide, fixated, as your friend Gomez writhed on a cold steel platform, bound and screaming. The machine - the same strange contraption hung in the ceiling - crackled with raw electricity, vibrating with menace as its metal tendrils lowered toward the victim.
Below it stood Françoise. Your sister. The one you trusted. You felt tears sting your cheeks, but the vision didn’t pause, didn’t let you breathe.
Then it shifted. Isaac stood before his creation, reverent as though he’d birthed a god. Behind him, a silhouette emerged, slow and silent - your best friend and mentor, Morticia Frump. She lifted an axe, and in a move that froze your soul, she brought it down on Isaac’s hand.
You felt the scream - not yours alone - coursing through you. What followed was chaos: bursts of light, explosions, metal biting into flesh, the wall of the lab shattering.
And as your vision finally ebbed away, one truth anchored itself deep inside you: Isaac was dead.
And that meant - Isaac was going to die.
You couldn’t breathe.
For several long seconds, your lungs refused to cooperate, your body frozen in place as the final echoes of the vision dissolved into stillness. Your head remained slack in Isaac’s hands, your skin pale and clammy.
"Dove," he rasped, panic bleeding into every syllable, "fuck - can you hear me?"
His voice cracked. The sound alone could have broken glass.
He gently shook your head, not out of frustration but desperation, trying to rouse you from whatever unseen torment had seized you. His thumbs brushed against your cheeks, searching your face for any flicker of recognition, any sign that you were still there.
At last, your muscles twitched. Your breath shuddered in your chest, and slowly, shakily, you lifted your head.
Isaac didn’t hesitate - he pulled you into him immediately, pressing your face into his chest, his arms wound tightly around you. You could feel the frantic rhythm of his heart, pounding like it was trying to escape the cage of his ribs.
He held you as if letting go might undo everything.
"What the fuck was that?" he whispered into your hair. His voice was hollow, trembling, stripped of all its usual calm.
Isaac Night did not tremble. He didn’t break.
But what he had just seen had shaken him to his core. Watching you seize, your eyes gone vacant, your body stiff and helpless - possessed by something cruel and ancient - terrified him in a way nothing else had.
You were his light. His constant. And for a moment, he thought he might’ve lost you to something he couldn’t fix.
You pushed yourself away from his chest, just enough to meet his eyes - but his arms stayed locked around you like steel, unwilling to let you go too far, as if afraid you'd vanish entirely.
Something cold traced the curve of your cheek. You lifted a trembling hand, fingertips brushing the wetness beneath your eye, expecting the salt of tears.
But when you pulled your hand away… It was black.
A thick, inky smudge stained your palm - dark as coal, gleaming faintly in the light.
Your heart stuttered. No.
Panic clawed its way up your throat. You stared down at your hand, at the black tear trailing down your skin like it had no business being there.
“Shit,” you breathed, voice paper-thin.
Isaac saw it too. His brows furrowed, confusion darkening his features. But you weren’t looking at him anymore.
Black tears. The sign of a Raven.
But that couldn’t be. You weren’t a Raven.
You were a Dove - always had been. A seer of peace, not death. A bearer of light, not shadows. Your visions were glimpses of joy, of promise - of futures filled with warmth. Never pain. Never this.
But this vision hadn’t been warm. It had burned. It had bled.
Something inside you had changed. Or worse - something inside you had awakened.
You couldn’t stand anymore.
The weight of it - of the vision, of the truth - dragged you down until your knees hit the cold floor of the lab. The sob tore from your throat before you could stop it, ragged and broken, the kind of sound that didn’t belong to anything human.
Isaac dropped with you instantly, catching your trembling form in his arms before you could collapse entirely.
You buried your face into his shoulder, your fingers clutching the fabric of his coat like a lifeline. But even his steady presence couldn’t stop the violence of your sobs. They shook your entire body, tearing through you like a storm with no end in sight.
And then came the tears - more of them. Hot and cold all at once, streaking down your cheeks like ink spilled from a shattered bottle. You didn’t have to look to know they were black again. your tears running the extra darkness that pooled at your lash line down your face.
Your wails echoed off the sterile walls of the lab, distorting the space until the room felt warped and wrong.
Isaac held you, silent, afraid. He was used to understanding things - equations, theories, mechanics, inventions. But not this.
He could fix broken machines, reanimate the dead - but he had no blueprint for the grief in your cries. No formula to undo the fear tangled in your voice.
Still, he held you tighter.
And then - barely above a whisper, so fragile it might’ve been your last breath - you spoke:
“You died, Isaac…”
He froze.
You pulled back just far enough to meet his eyes, yours wide and wet and shaking.
“She killed you. Morticia killed you.”
It felt like the words broke something in the air.
Isaac didn’t respond right away - his jaw clenched, his expression unreadable. But you could feel it: the flood of emotion behind his silence. The disbelief. The confusion. The terror.
You didn’t tell him when. Or how soon. You couldn’t. You were too far gone.
And so he sat there, holding the only person he’d ever truly loved, knowing death had already set its sights on him - and that it was wearing a familiar face.
He didn’t press you.
Even though every fiber of his logical mind screamed at him to ask questions - when, where, how - he held his tongue. Because now wasn’t the time for answers.
Now was the time to be here. To be yours.
He felt your heartbeat stuttering against his chest, your body wracked with quiet sobs, and he realized - some things couldn’t be solved with science. Some things just needed presence. Patience.
So he stayed.
Silent, steady, his arms wrapped around you like a promise.
He didn’t know what was coming, didn’t know what hell awaited him on the path ahead, but he knew this:
You needed him. And he would be here. No matter what.
“Oh, my sweet Dove… breathe for me,” he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. His voice was soft - low and deliberate - threaded with a tenderness that betrayed none of the storm thundering beneath his skin.
Even as his mechanical heart rattled in his chest like war drums, even as panic coiled tight in his ribs, he kept his tone steady - for you.
“I’m here,” he murmured again, arms tightening just slightly around you, grounding you to him like he was the only solid thing left in the world. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”
And in that moment, the way he held you felt less like comfort, and more like a vow.
One that he would break.
Over the next few months, you and Isaac began to drift - deliberately - from Morticia and Gomez. It started subtly: rescheduled catch-ups, vague excuses, missed dinners that once felt sacred. At first, it was easy to convince yourselves it was temporary, that they'd understand. But it had been long enough now. Surely, they'd caught on.
They weren’t fools. Especially her.
But Isaac… Isaac took it further. What started as avoidance evolved into obsession. He stopped sleeping in his dorm entirely, choosing instead the cold, humming sanctuary of his lab. The walls were lined with blueprints and wires, old machines ticking softly like broken clocks, echoing his own unrest.
He claimed it was for focus - progress, he said. But you knew the truth. He couldn’t bear to be near Gomez. Couldn’t shake the fear that proximity might somehow set things in motion - that a single shared hallway, a glance, a word, could begin the chain of events that would end with his blood on the floor and an axe in Morticia’s hands.
And he asked.
Weeks after your vision, late one night when your head was against his chest and your tears had dried, Isaac had asked. His voice quiet, almost afraid.
When does it happen? Where? What do I do?
And you cried again - harder this time - because you had no answers. The vision, so vivid, so harrowing, had vanished almost as quickly as it came. All that remained was the ache, the certainty.
You looked him in the eyes and told him the truth: You didn’t know how much time he had left. You didn’t know where. You didn’t even know why.
He was on his own.
And he had never looked more terrified.
But as Isaac returned to his work, desperately trying to find a way to save his sister from her curse, her Hyde gene, fear didn’t vanish - it merely receded, taking a back seat as obsession surged back to the forefront.
He was so close - so close to becoming someone’s savior again, he could practically feel it in his bones. It was tempting him, pulling at him. And Isaac, being Isaac - god complex and all - gave in.
All he needed now was a power source. Something strong enough to feed the monster of a machine he had created. Every mechanical option failed him. None were powerful enough. No - he needed something bigger. Something endless. Something that couldn't be drained.
And he knew exactly where to find it. He cast caution aside; the need to save his sister had eclipsed everything else. Nothing else mattered - not risk, not reason. Only saving her.
He’d poured everything into a contraption to remove Françoise’s Hyde gene, falling further into the pit of obsession. He knew he should be careful - his death trailed him like a patient hunter, a few steps behind, biding its time for the perfect chance to take him from this world… from you.
He hadn’t told you about his machine; he knew you wouldn’t approve. You had your own burdens to bear. Your gift had deserted you - your visions gone, utterly silent - a waking nightmare you could scarcely comprehend.
Getting out of bed had become a struggle. The life you once felt so grateful to live now pressed down on you like a weight - a cage, a bad omen you couldn't ignore.
Isaac didn’t want you worrying about his sister too. That was his burden to carry.
So he turned to Gomez for help. He asked him to power the machine, and Gomez - ever the gracious friend - agreed without hesitation. Maybe he was just happy to have Isaac back. But something tugged at the edges of Isaac’s mind, a voice buried deep in his subconscious, a quiet scream of warning he couldn’t quite silence.
He didn’t listen.
The day of the experiment arrived sooner than anyone was ready for. By the time night fell over Nevermore, heavy and silent, Isaac, Françoise, and Gomez were already in position.
Françoise had taken her place on the iron table without a word. The chill of the metal no longer made her flinch. She stared at the ceiling, unmoving, waiting - not with peace, but with practiced resignation.
Isaac moved with deliberate care, his fingers working the thick leather straps that secured the helmet to Gomez’s head. The device looked less like science, more like something dug out of a nightmare - wires snaking like veins, plates bolted together without elegance.
Gomez didn’t speak. He simply met Isaac’s eyes as the last strap clicked into place. Isaac managed a faint smile - more habit than comfort - then stepped back, leaving Gomez to adjust, to breathe, to wonder.
Somewhere behind the quiet hum of the machinery, a low unease began to rise - a sense that something had been set in motion that could no longer be undone.
Once he was sure Gomez was ready, Isaac struck.
With a flick of his hand - and a sharp twist of thought - the restraints snapped into place around Gomez’s wrists, metal biting into flesh with a finality that left no room for struggle.
It was sudden. Cold. A betrayal delivered not with words, but with force.
Gomez’s eyes widened in shock, but Isaac didn’t look away. There was no apology. No hesitation.
He turned to the console and activated the machine.
At once, the chamber lit up with violent bursts of energy - sparks arcing across the ceiling like electric veins, casting the room in flashes of stark white and deep shadow.
The voice in Isaac’s mind was no longer shouting. It roared now - thunderous, panicked - trying to claw its way to the surface through the crackle and hum. Stop. Stop. Stop.
But desperation had already taken hold. He couldn’t hear anything else. He wouldn’t.
He was too deep in. Too far gone. And the machine was awake.
From that moment on, everything unfolded in a blur - just as it had in your vision.
Gomez and Françoise convulsed in their restraints, their bodies writhing in pain as the machine roared to life. Isaac stood frozen, wonderstruck, his eyes locked on the arcs of energy dancing across the chamber.
Then - the silhouette. Moving behind him. Silent. Certain.
The axe lifted. A scream tore through the room - raw, violent, final.
The bright burst of angry light.
And just like that -
It was over.
It wasn’t just the moment from your vision that ended that night - it was your life, your love, your second heartbeat. The man who was once meant to stand beside you through everything, to grow old with you, to laugh with you in quiet rooms and stormy nights, was gone.
He had been your future, the one certainty in a world full of questions, and in an instant, that future had been ripped away.
Not by fate, not by time, but by choice, his choice - and that made the loss cut even deeper.
It was Françoise who told you - who caught you as you collapsed, who held you as the truth sank in. She stayed with you as you screamed into her shoulder, her own tears falling silently beside yours. The walls of your dorm room, once filled with warmth and love, now felt hollow - cold and unfamiliar, as if grief had stripped the place of everything it used to be.
In the days that followed, nothing felt real. The hours bled together, indistinct and heavy. You moved through them like a shadow, haunted by memories that played on repeat - his laugh, his touch, the way he used to say your name like it meant something sacred. You kept thinking if you closed your eyes long enough, maybe you’d wake up before it all went wrong. Maybe you’d yell at him to stop. Remember your vision. Save him.
But you didn’t. And he was gone. And now the silence he left behind was louder than anything.
Your mentorship - and your friendship - with Morticia had come to a quiet, complete end. Whatever warmth had passed between you had vanished, replaced by silence. But your visions had returned nonetheless.
However they were no longer the gentle glimpses of the future you had once held so close to your heart. These were different - darker. Reflections of what could have been. The life you had dreamed of was gone, and in its place came visions laced with chaos, grief and inevitable tragedy.
Dark inky tears began to fall without warning, they always did these days - streaking down your cheeks, staining your skin with marks that never faded. They didn't wash away. They didn't heal.
You were no longer his Dove.
You were the Raven he left behind.
And that loss - sharp, slow and suffocating - hurt more than you ever thought possible.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this story my darling! 💕 I absolutely loved this idea and just had to write it, even though I've got 7 assessments due this week 😭. Don't worry though I am still working on part 4 for The Silence He Broke and would still love it if you sent any requests my way! Anyway please let me know what you think and I hope you all have an amazing day or night, wherever you are. 💋
hiiii! i saw ur post asking for ideas so i’ve come w one!
if ur still down to do isaac night x reader related stuff, could u do one where issac had a thing for the reader but only got to tell the reader after he resurrection, and the reader lashes out at issac but doesn’t know he was dead/buried. The reader empties out all the “what ifs” they had, believing they did something to make isaac go away, and is like “you tell me this now?” and generally hard to cope with 1) issac appearing after yrs, 2) he liked her after these yr
thank uu thank uuu if u ever get to this!
Of course! thank you so much, this is an amazing idea love 💕 sorry its taken a while to post I've had so much schoolwork recently, but I hope you enjoy this story!
𝐿𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝐷𝑖𝑑𝑛'𝑡 𝑅𝑜𝑡 𝑊𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑀𝑒 By FancyPoetryBread
Isaac Night x Reader
Summery: You loved Isaac - with your whole heart and then some. But he left. Left you, left everything he once held dear. And in the hollow space he left behind, you convinced yourself it was your fault. That you’d driven him away. That love, no matter how fiercely felt, had simply not been what he wanted. So imagine your surprise when he showed up on your doorstep. Dirty. Hollow-eyed. Breathing - barely. Like something pulled from the earth. Resurrected. And then he said it - simple, quiet, and impossible: He had loved you all along.
Warnings: Fluff/Angst, Argument, No use of y/n, Swearing
Word Count: 2.8k
It was a breezy winter evening, but the wind couldn’t reach you here - wrapped in blankets, nestled into your couch, halfway through your favorite movie.
Then, the creak of your front door cut through the dialogue - long, high-pitched, and unmistakably real.
You paused the movie.
Silence settled over your home like a weight, thick and unnatural.
You listened. Every sound sharpened - the distant groan of settling wood, the faint rustle of leaves beyond the window, the low hum of your own breath.
But something was off.
It was too quiet. Unnaturally still.
And somehow, you knew:
You weren’t alone anymore.
You slipped out from under your blankets and stood as quietly as possible. You’d never been broken into before - but you had a plan, just in case.
Turn off the lights. Let the darkness do the work. They’d realize soon enough - it was over.
You knew this house better than they ever could.
Your fingers brushed over the light switch. With a swift flick, you plunged the room into shadow.
The only flaw in your plan? You couldn’t see either. And if you walked straight into them... well, that would be it. Game over.
But you were smarter than that. You knew every inch of this place - the creak in the hallway floor, the corner of the coffee table, the exact distance from the couch to the kitchen door. You had memorized it for a moment just like this.
And thank God you did.
You shrank into the corner of the room, just behind the large potted plant you knew by heart. It was the perfect cover - tall enough to conceal you, wide enough that they'd hit it before they ever saw you.
For a long, frozen moment, there was only silence.
Then you heard it.
Footsteps.
Soft - but not naturally soft. The kind of careful, deliberate quiet that only made things worse. Like listening to an elephant try to tiptoe.
You held your breath. Even the smallest exhale felt like a risk.
Your heartbeat thundered in your ears, almost drowning out the sound of their steps as they crept closer.
Closer.
Closer.
Shit.
You could almost feel them pass by - each step reverberating through the floorboards, shivering up your spine.
Your stomach twisted. They’d been so close. Too close. What if they’d seen you?
You squeezed your eyes shut. No. They couldn’t have. It was pitch black - they couldn’t see a thing.
The thought steadied your breathing, just barely. Slowly, you opened your eyes again, letting the darkness settle around you.
You sat there, perfectly still, straining to hear.
Where had they gone?
You lifted your head-
And you didn’t have to wonder anymore.
Your eyes locked onto the face in front of you - or at least, what you thought was a face.
In the darkness, it barely looked human. Just two dark, piercing but slightly sunken eyes and flashes of ghost-pale skin, half-swallowed by shadow. Just a head, his body mostly engulfed by the darkness, dark brown coat blending in seamlessly, he was watching you.
Your breath hitched. Your throat clenched shut, violently cutting off the scream rising in your chest - a scream sharp and primal, clawing to escape.
But you couldn’t move. You couldn’t even blink.
He was too close. And he was staring right at you.
Your body reacted before your mind could catch up.
Instinct took over - your fist lashed out, slamming into the intruder’s nose with a sickening crack. You surged forward, shoulder crashing into the pot plant as you scrambled to your feet, heart thundering in your chest.
The front door was still open - just barely - a sliver of escape. You sprinted toward it.
But just as you reached the hallway, arms wrapped around your waist.
Long. Cold.
You froze.
They were weak - too weak, almost - but the shock rooted you in place, limbs heavy, brain spinning. You felt yourself being pulled backward, your body limp, breath catching in your throat.
Hair brushed the side of your face as the intruder leaned in close, breath ghosting over your ear. You couldn’t see him - but somehow, you knew.
"Did you miss me, love?"
That voice.
God, that voice.
You knew it too well. It lived in the corners of your mind, echoing in every dream, every sleepless night. It haunted you - a cruel reminder of the boy who had once held your heart.
The boy you couldn’t get. The boy you scared away.
You opened your mouth to speak, but the words wouldn’t come.
They hovered on the edge of your tongue, just out of reach - like a dream slipping through your fingers.
It had been so long.
So long since you’d felt these arms around you. Since you’d heard that voice whisper your name like a promise. This couldn’t be real. It wasn’t real.
Slowly, almost unwillingly, you raised your hand toward the face beside yours. The room was still drowned in darkness - you couldn’t see him. But your fingers found his skin, and-
Cold.
Cold like it had always been.
Cold like the words that had come out of his sisters mouth 30 years ago when she told you he wasn't coming back.
Your breath caught in your throat. No. No, it wasn’t possible.
And yet… here he was.
Isaac Night.
Suddenly, you couldn’t stand. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t even begin to process what was happening.
You had lived for 247 years - far longer than any soul should - and yet, the last thirty had been the heaviest burden of all.
Haunted by absence. Haunted by the ghost of a friend. The man you had loved with your whole heart, even when love went unreturned.
Three years of friendship, shattered in an instant - one wrong move, one careless mistake, and he was gone.
But now...
He was here.
Holding you.
Cradling you gently as your knees gave way, and you sank to the floor.
In his arms, you found something you hadn’t dared to hope for in decades:
Home.
"I'll take that as a yes than, should I?" You could hear his chuckle in your ear, cold like everything he did, amusement tugged at the edges.
You couldn't to believe it - that he was really here.
And you couldn’t believe he just fucking left.
A flush of anger surged through you, hot and relentless.
He had left. Left you alone in Nevermore to drown in guilt, to rot in memories of why he’d vanished over a stupid kiss back in eleventh grade.
Fury bubbled up, fierce and unrelenting.
Without thinking, you drove your elbow backward, hard, into Isaac’s ribs.
A sharp, pained groan ripped from him as he released you, clutching his side and swearing under his breath.
“Fucking hell, Dove - what the fuck was that for?” he snapped, breathless.
You staggered toward the wall, fury still burning in your chest. Your fingers found the light switch, and with a flick, the room flooded with warm, blinding light.
You turned.
Isaac’s eyes met yours - dark, pained, and bewildered.
He was still on the floor, knees splayed, one hand gripping his side where your elbow had landed. But something about him was… off.
His skin carried a faint, unnatural hue - a greenish tinge that hadn’t been there before. His features were still his, still unmistakably Isaac, but his once-rich eyes had hollowed slightly at the edges, sunken with time or… something else.
And yet, he was still beautiful. Still Isaac.
Part of you ached to collapse into his arms, to bury yourself in the familiar curve of his face and never let go.
But you were angry.
So impossibly angry.
And underneath that anger was something even worse: humiliation.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” you snapped, the words cutting sharper than you meant them to.
Your eyes narrowed. “Actually -how the hell did you even get in?”
You threw a hand toward the front door, still slightly ajar, disbelief and anger warring across your face.
Of all the impossible things about tonight, that detail had just hit you: he hadn’t knocked. He’d just… appeared.
Then you looked at him.
And his expression - calm, unbothered, faintly smug - told you everything you needed to know.
Of course.
Locks meant nothing to Isaac Night. They never had. Not when he’d built machines that could rewire genetic, cheat death and even mimic the nature of human organs.
A deadbolt wasn’t going to keep him out.
“Get off my floor,” you sneered, flicking your hand at him like he was some stray you’d found tracking dirt into your home.
Isaac arched a brow but said nothing, that infuriating smirk curling at the edge of his mouth.
With a wince, he raised his hands in mock surrender and pushed himself upright, one arm instinctively wrapping around his ribs as he stood.
“Still dramatic, I see,” he muttered, breath tight.
“Oh! Me?! Dramatic?” you snapped, voice rising fast into a full-blown shout.
“Please, do remind me - which one of us disappeared for thirty fucking years and then broke into my house like it was nothing?”
Your hands were trembling now, the adrenaline burning through your veins as anger surged to the surface. You weren’t in the mood for smirks or sarcasm. Not tonight.
Isaac opened his mouth to speak, but you were faster.
You raised a finger - sharp, commanding.
“Don’t,” you warned, voice low and shaking. “Don’t you dare. I’m not done.” you continued:
“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that, Isaac? You really are.”
Your voice cracked under the weight of everything you’d been holding in. “All it took was one teeny, tiny kiss in eleventh grade and suddenly the world’s ending? That’s what broke you?
"You couldn’t even tell me - you had to just run. Disappear. Leave me thinking it was all my fault…”
The words spilled out like an avalanche, raw and unfiltered, every buried emotion crashing to the surface.
But Isaac - impatient, impulsive Isaac - had waited thirty years, and he wasn’t about to wait one second more.
“I love you.”
His voice cut through your fury like ice through fire - calm, level, maddeningly steady.
“I love you,” he said again, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “I’ve loved you since the year we met. And kissing you that night didn’t scare me, Dove-” he paused, jaw tightening, “-it ruined me.”
His hand flew to his hair, dragging through the strands as his composure began to crack.
“Fuck... I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you.” His voice cracked now, low and hoarse, like the words had been clawing their way out for years.
“No - I fucking died.”
He laughed, bitter and breathless, like it was some kind of cruel joke.
“My machine malfunctioned. It killed me. I’ve been buried in the goddamn ground for the last thirty years while you thought I left. I wouldn't just leave, no...”
He looked at you then - truly looked - and when he spoke again, it came out almost like a confession to himself.
“I’m so fucking obsessed with you.”
You stood frozen. Words stuck in your throat like glass, now you really couldn't breath, your heart thundering against your ribs, too fast, too loud, too real.
And Isaac - he just stood there, breathing hard, the air between you electric and aching. There was nothing smug in his face now. No sharp quip waiting on his tongue. Just a man unraveling.
Her anger falters. And she starts to see it - the pallor, the slight wrongness in his body. The greenish hue of his skin. The cold in his touch.
“But… what - no…”
The words barely escaped your lips. Your voice cracked under the weight of disbelief, your mind reeling, body frozen. All you could do was stare - stare into the hollow, burning eyes of the man who was supposed to be dead.
Isaac took a slow step forward. Then another.
“Yes,” he breathed, soft but certain.
“My love for you didn’t rot in the ground with me, Dove. It burned. It burned through death, through the resurrection, through every stitch, every broken bone, every second of clawing my way back.”
He was trembling now, his voice unraveling with every word, steady only on the surface.
“Everything in me - every nerve, every cell - screamed for you. Ached for you. For your voice. Your touch.”
Another step. Closer. You could feel the strange chill radiating off of him now, like he had been pulled from something that wasn’t meant to let go.
“And now you’re here,” he whispered, voice almost reverent.
There was a flicker behind his eyes - love, yes, but something else too. Something darker. Something desperate.
And yet, even now, even with that terrible wrongness curling beneath his skin…
He still looked at you like you were the only thing tethering him to this world.
“But…” your voice broke, barely louder than a whisper. “I thought it was my fault. I thought I scared you away…”
You could hardly breathe, each word catching on the edge of a sob you hadn’t realized you were holding back.
“I thought…” You swallowed hard, the ache in your throat impossible to ignore. “I thought you didn’t love me enough to stay.”
The anger that had kept you upright, kept you shouting, kept you safe - it was gone now. In its place was something softer, messier. Sadness. Longing. A love so blinding it threatened to crack you open from the inside out.
It filled the room like light, like fire, and suddenly thirty years of silence felt impossibly loud.
“No,” Isaac said, his voice steady and certain, a quiet conviction beneath the surface. “It was never your fault, my darling girl. Never.”
Without hesitation, he closed the distance between you, his cold hands rising slowly to trace the curve of your hips - tentative, almost afraid you might slip away.
But you don’t.
You stay rooted in his touch, the warmth of something long lost and desperately needed blooming between you both in the quiet space.
A dull ache was blooming behind your eyes, the kind that came with too many emotions crashing into each other at once.
You pressed your fingers to your temple and let your forehead fall gently against his shoulder. The fabric of his coat was rough, cool against your skin, but somehow familiar.
“I can’t believe you’re really here,” you whispered. “I have so many questions. How did you come back? How did you even find me?”
Isaac exhaled softly, the sound almost a sigh, and brought a hand up to cradle the back of your head, holding you to him like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
He tilted your chin up with a touch so careful it almost broke your heart, his eyes searching yours - wide and burning with a desperate kind of love, the kind that comes from decades of silence, of longing, of too many almosts.
Then he leaned in. Slowly. Hesitantly. Like a question unspoken, like a ghost afraid to touch the living. Like a man who had waited thirty years for a chance he thought he'd lost.
You glanced at his lips, then back to his eyes. That was all the answer he needed.
He kissed you - soft and slow, like a memory he didn’t want to scare away. And you melted into it, into him, into the impossible truth of his arms around you.
For thirty years, you had imagined what it would feel like. And yet nothing - nothing - could compare to the way his mouth moved against yours. Gentle. Reverent. As if he were trying to memorize the shape of you all over again.
When you finally pulled apart, breathless and still so close, his forehead rested against yours, and the world narrowed down to the space between your lips and the quiet rhythm of your hearts.
His voice, when it came, was low. Quiet. And trembling at the edges.
“That’s a story for another time, Dove,” he murmured. “Right now, I just want this. Just you. We've waited far too long for anything else.”
You stood together in the soft hush of your home, the quiet hum of the world fading into nothing as he held his arms around you, and yours around him. There was no past in that moment, no future - only the aching stillness of now.
Here, in the familiar warmth of your living room, pressed against the boy you had lost and somehow found again, you felt it settle in your bones:
This was where you belonged. And this time, you weren’t going to let him slip away.
A/N: Hello my love! I hope you enjoyed this short story, somehow I managed to write this entire thing within the span of one afternoon but at the cost of not completing an assignment that's due today 😭 but that alright! please let me know what you think and as always have an amazing day or night wherever you are 💋
Can you do an Isaac Night where reader dies and he becomes obsessed with trying to make her alive? Tyyyyy💞
Here you go my love! I hope you enjoy ❤️
𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝐷𝑖𝑑 𝑈𝑠 𝑃𝑎𝑟𝑡 By FancyPoetryBread
Isaac Night x Reader
Summery: After your death, Isaac couldn’t let you go - he never had the strength for letting go.But the hole you left in his iron heart was unbearable, a hollow echo that clawed at him from the inside. He would do anything to bring you back. Anything. Even if it meant tearing apart the veil between life and death with his own bloodied hands.
Warnings: dead body, Isaac going mad, talk about stitches, no use of y/n
Word Count: 1.7k
Isaac was never one to let things go - especially not when it concerned the one person he truly couldn’t live without. The one person on Earth he wanted to spend every day beside. The only one he ever let touch him without flinching, besides his sister of course. The only one who made his cold, metal heart beat just a little faster.
the only one who made said heart remember it was once human.
But love was never fair. It gives, it takes. It makes a heart race - and then it shatters it. Especially because yours had already stopped beating.
You were ill - terribly so. But even as you lay bedridden, unraveling at the edges, Isaac clung to hope. Foolish, lovesick hope - the kind he would’ve never dared to believe in before you. You were the light that tempered the darkness in him. The good that made his madness bearable.
he watched in terror as your breath faltered in the middle of the night, his own pauseing with it. The way your fingers twitched in your sleep, reaching for something, and how he always made sure his hand was there to meet yours.
It was the silence that terrified him most - the knowledge that one day, maybe soon, you wouldn’t stir at all. And then there would be nothing left to fix. No time left to save you. Just… absence.
So he worked.
He built and tested and rewired until his hands shook. Not because he believed he could stop death - but because he had to believe you were the exception.
Because if you weren’t…
Then he’d have to admit the truth: That even the brightest thing he ever touched still slipped through his fingers.
So imagine how he unraveled when you died.
Test after test, experiment after experiment - all of them failed. Nothing he built, nothing he begged from the universe could save you.
He held your hand as you slipped away from this world, but the truth is, a part of him died with you.
The part that smiled. The part that dreamed. The part that believed in anything beyond logic and wires and numbers.
He watched your chest rise - once, twice - then still. And in that silence, the good in him vanished, like smoke in a cold room.
What remained was obsession. Dark. Unrelenting. Inevitable.
After your death, Isaac became a ghost long before he found a way to make one. He forgot how to eat, how to sleep, how to live. The world outside his lab might as well have stopped turning. Every second, every heartbeat, was spent chasing the impossible - bringing you back. He would tear the laws of nature apart, if that’s what it took to hold you again.
He worked until his body gave up on him - until Françoise, hoarse from crying, begged him to rest, to eat, to let himself feel something other than grief. She had lost you too. And now she was losing him.
But he couldn’t stop. Every day felt like a step closer to you. And that hope - however fragile - was the only thing keeping him going.
the lengths he had gone to were beyond comprehension - things that would have horrified you. He dug up your body for gods sake, your skin slack and grey and littered with tiny writhing creatures. And still, he carried you back to the lab, laying you gently on the table - careful, almost fearful, as though you might somehow flinch if he wasn't gentle enough. you didn't.
"Don’t worry, my love. Soon enough, you’ll be back in my arms - alive and safe."
He would whisper it to you like a prayer, over and over, as if you could still hear him through the silence of death. He had truly gone mad.
For weeks on end, he worked without pause - day and night blurring into one long fever dream - building something, anything, that might spark your heart back to life. Just to hear your voice again. Just to feel you breathe.
Until one day - after months of obsession, failure, and sleepless nights - he heard it.
Your heartbeat.
Your body lay strapped to the iron table at the centre of his lab, skin marred with stitches where he had carefully - desperately - sewn you back together.
Isaac stood at the foot of the table, his white lab coat stained with dust, sweat, and time. His gloved hands moved with trembling precision as he lowered his goggles, eyes locked on the machine he had finally completed.
This was it. He was sure of it. It was going to work.
He pulled the lever.
The room erupted in a storm of blinding sparks - white-hot light searing through the air, buzzing like a swarm of angry wasps. The final component of his machine descended with a mechanical hiss, positioning itself directly above your heart.
Electricity cracked and snarled through the room before surging downward in a violent bolt, slamming into your chest. It flooded your body - not with warmth, but with something wild and furious. A brutal jolt of life, forced into something so still.
He watched with bated breath, adrenaline surging through his veins until it burst out of him in a hysterical, maddened laugh. His eyes were wide, wild, locked on your body as it convulsed beneath the current, limbs jerking with every surge of electricity.
This was going to work. It had to work.
Any second now, you’d return to him - torn from whatever peace death had offered, just as violently as you’d been torn from his arms.
Back into the chaos. Back into the madness that was Isaac Night.
The electricity cut out with a sudden, shrieking halt.
Your body dropped hard against the metal table, limbs limp, your head rolling lifelessly to the side.
Isaac froze. For a heartbeat, he didn’t move - then he lunged forward, hands cupping your face with frantic desperation.
Still cold. Still. Dead.
Anger surged up in his throat, raw and choking. With a roar, his fist slammed into the metal table, the sound ringing out like a gunshot. He shoved himself away from you, staggering back, one hand clutching the back of his neck as if to hold himself together.
He stormed toward his desk. Empty mugs crashed to the floor, shattering into sharp fragments. Papers scattered like birds startled into flight, caught in the storm of his fury.
It hadn’t worked.
Not yet.
Failure didn’t stop Isaac. He was a scientist - this was just another setback.
But patience was wearing thin. His body was starting to betray him - shaking hands, sleepless nights showing in his eyes, bones aching with exhaustion. No matter. It was only a vessel for his mind, and his mind was all he needed.
He tried again. And again. And again.
Each attempt ended the same: your body jerking under the current, then falling limp against the cold metal table. Still. Silent. Cold.
Life had let you go so easily. Death, it seemed, wasn’t nearly as willing to give you back.
A year into his experiments, Isaac was unraveling.
His sister had tried - desperately, lovingly - to help him move on. But there was nothing she could do to mend the hole you’d left in his cold, metal heart.
The only thing that could make him whole again was you.
And so, he sank deeper. Obsession swallowed him, inch by inch, until nothing remained of the man he once was. Only the mission. Only the machine. Only you.
Now, nearly a year to the day since it began, Isaac was more determined than ever to make it work - even if it killed him.
Because if he couldn’t bring you back… Then he would find a way to follow you.
The machine roared to life.
Sparks crackled through the lab - the same cruel electricity your body had come to know too well. For a moment, the air hung still, heavy with static, until a bolt tore downward, racing along the conductor straight into your chest.
Your body convulsed violently, jerking with every surge of current that coursed through your veins.
It looked like every other attempt. The same motionless body, the same cruel silence. Isaac’s hope was a dying ember - until suddenly, your eyes snapped open.
A sound tore from your throat, an unearthly, piercing scream that rattled the very walls. The electricity inside you flared wildly, light searing through the room as energy built and built - until it exploded outward in a blinding flash.
For a heartbeat, there was chaos. Equipment shattered, metal screamed, and Isaac was thrown to the floor. Then - stillness. A heavy, suffocating silence settled over the room.
And in that silence, a sound.
A breath. Then another. A steady, fragile heartbeat.
Your skin clung to the cold iron table as your chest rose and fell. your eyes darting wildly around the room and your body shot up to sit.
You were alive. You were back.
And Isaac - shaking, bleeding, unbelieving - knew he would never let you go again.
"Death did us part, my love," he whispered, awestruck as he watched you. "but I’ve brought you back to me."
He rose slowly, staggering forward from where the blast had thrown him. His gaze found you - alive, trembling, eyes wide and wild.
You saw him too. Your shoulders tensed as you pressed yourself back, inching toward the edge of the table. You didn’t recognize him. Not yet. But that was all right. You would.
Isaac moved closer, step by careful step, until he stood at the table’s edge. His eyes - shining with love, disbelief, and relief all tangled together - met yours, burning with fear and confusion.
His gloved hand reached out, brushing lightly against your leg before sliding upward to cradle your face, as though you were made of glass.
Your fingers flew to his, gripping them tightly - not to push him away, but to anchor yourself. Your pulse thundered in your chest, a storm of fear and something else, something you couldn’t name.
But you didn’t pull back. You just sat there, breathing.
You were back. And even if you didn’t remember him, Isaac knew one thing with absolute certainty - he was never letting you go again.
A/N: Hello my darling 💕 I hope you enjoyed this story. this one was really rushed and I write it at school lol. but anyway, let me know what you think and as always have an amazing day or night, wherever you are 💋
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝐻𝑒 𝐵𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒 by FancyPoetryBread
Isaac Night x Reader
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 (Your Here)
Summery: A Banshee’s song is her greatest gift, her deadliest weapon, and her most sacred possession — a melody born of grief and fate. But yours is silent. Desperate to break the quiet pressing on your chest, you turn to Nevermore’s most brilliant — and most arrogant — student, Isaac Night. Two broken lives, stitched together by necessity. But will your story end in healing... or in the grief and heartbreak your silence has always promised?
Warnings: Swearing, No use of y/n, tensionnn
Word Count: 4,682
You sat with your friends in the ever-bustling Nevermore courtyard, the air buzzing with laughter as someone retold a tragic - and hilarious - incident involving a supposedly dead lizard in biology class that turned out to be very much alive.
You couldn't laugh aloud - your faulty vocal cords saw to that - but your grin said everything.
Moments like this, surrounded by the few people who truly understood you, made the silence easier to bear. Your social circle was small, but they were your whole world - the best thing that had ever happened to you.
You sat shoulder to shoulder, all of you leaning forward, wide grins plastered across your faces. The table groaned under the weight of six people, but none of you noticed. You were too caught up in the hushed, giggly whispers - exciting stories and embarrassing memories passed back and forth inside the warm little bubble your group had formed.
Then, a sharp poke in your back shattered it.
You flinched, instinctively reaching behind you to grab at whatever had jabbed you, twisting into an awkward position as you whipped your head around, brows furrowed. But your expression softened when you saw who it was - Isaac, towering behind you.
His face was its usual mask of cold indifference, but you caught the subtle stiffness in his posture. He was uncomfortable, that much was obvious - surrounded by people he'd known for years, yet still didn’t trust. How terribly frightening.
You weren’t exactly thrilled that he’d barged into your circle, and that must have shown on your face, because Isaac’s eyes narrowed, and a smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth - sharp and amused.
“Don’t look so happy to see me, Dove,” he sneered.
That, of course, caught your friends’ attention. Their hungry gazes snapped toward you and Isaac with almost supernatural speed, eyes wide with surprise. You couldn’t really blame them - Isaac didn’t talk to anyone, at least not willingly, and you didn’t talk at all.
But what you didn’t expect was the soft wolf whistle that came from behind you.
You whipped your head around - again - this time to glare at the friend across from you. Honestly, if you kept this up, you were going to give yourself whiplash. Or a concussion. Probably both.
Your friend only offered a soft smile in response to your fierce glare.
Do not encourage this behavior, you thought sharply.
Isaac, meanwhile, didn’t seem to notice the teasing - or, more likely, didn’t care in the slightest. His mind was clearly elsewhere, obsessively focused on whatever had driven him to wade through a crowd of bustling students just to find you.
You stood up abruptly, grabbing Isaac’s arm as you strode away from the table. Whatever this was, you preferred to continue it far from your friends. You didn’t want your normal life blending with... this.
Isaac made a few attempts to shake your grip, but you didn’t let go. Instead, you dragged him into a nearby empty hallway. Not the most discreet location - especially considering the accusations your friends would no doubt hurl your way later.
You knew them well. And as much as you loved them, they were far too quick to jump to conclusions - boys and beauty secrets always at the forefront of their minds. Usually, it was endearing, even comforting, a fun escape that made your life feel somewhat normal again.
But moments like this? It could be exhausting.
“Nice choice,” Isaac smirked, his voice dripping with that usual arrogant amusement. “Not suspicious at all.”
You grimaced at him. Don’t even try, you thought, rolling your eyes as you crossed your arms expectantly.
Your message was clear enough - and Isaac got it. He dropped the attitude and got to the point.
“I’ve been digging through the library, seeing what I could find on... well, anything, really,” he said, stuffing his hands lazily into his pockets. “Let’s just say your case isn’t exactly common.”
You already knew that. With a lazy flick of your hand, you gestured for him to keep going.
He did. “But - I think we can try harmonic therapy.”
You shot him a flat, unimpressed look. One that clearly said: You think I haven’t tried that already?
To his credit, Isaac didn’t falter. If anything, he looked... energized. His voice picked up with a flicker of excitement you hadn’t expected - and couldn’t quite explain.
He was starting to get the hang of your silences.
“I can build something,” Isaac said, eyes flicking with a strange light. “A machine designed to emit precisely tuned frequencies - to coax your vocal cords into loosening. Like vocal physical therapy but... spectral.”
His tone was almost excited now. But not the bright, eager kind of excitement.
No - this was darker. Focused. Obsessive.
It was beginning to unnerve you.
You nodded slowly, turning the idea over in your head - pretending, just for a moment, that you had even a sliver of his intelligence, if only to stop yourself from feeling small in front of him.
The idea made sense. It wasn’t unfamiliar - you’d tried harmonic therapy before, of course - but always on a small scale. Controlled. Gentle. In the safe enviroment of a doctor's office. not the lab of a lowkey crazy mad scientist.
And if there was one thing you’d learned about Isaac in the two weeks you’d known him, it was that nothing he did was ever small scale.
Maybe it could work?
The image of being strapped to a table, reduced to little more than a test subject, wasn’t exactly comforting. But if this brought you closer to your scream - to control - to the feeling of finally being whole, to a normal life...
You’d take it. recutantly of course, but you'd take it.
You nodded again. This time, it was different - more certain. A silent agreement.
Or maybe just an attempt to convince yourself that this wasn’t the start of something you couldn’t undo.
That everything was going to be okay.
You met his gaze - he was already watching you, eyes locked onto yours, sharp and unrelenting. There was something in the way he looked at you, like he was trying to read permission in your silence, waiting for any sign that you were truly okay with this. That you wanted this.
You gave a final nod.
Small, but steady.
Your face held both resolve and fear, a fragile mix of defiance and uncertainty - but it was enough. Your answer was clear.
Yes. You wanted this.
“Good,” he said - but it came out like a verdict, not a word.
The air around him shifted, charged now with that crackling intensity he never bothered to hide. The kind of giddiness that didn’t belong to joy, but to discovery - the thrill of a new experiment unfolding before his eyes. You could already see it overtaking him.
“I’ll start drafting the blueprints tonight,” he continued, half to you, half to himself. “But I need you back at Lago Tower by sundown. There are more variables to test - I can’t finalize the resonance design until I know exactly how your system responds.”
He was already turning, mind sprinting miles ahead of his body.
"And don’t eat anything weird before hand."
Before you could even give him a questioning look, Isaac had already turned and was striding back toward Franciouse - who was now deep in conversation with a tall, impossibly elegant woman that stole your attention the moment you saw her.
You knew exactly who she was. Everyone did.
Morticia Frump.
And standing beside her, unmistakably devoted and equally dramatic, was her lover - Gomez Addams.
There’s no way. No. Actual. Way. Isaac was friends with Morticia?
But the longer you watched them interact, the clearer the picture became. It wasn’t Morticia he was speaking to, not really. It was Gomez.
And while Isaac did his best to mask it, the subtle shifts in his posture, the restrained smirks, the barely-there nods - all of it betrayed something undeniable. He and Gomez Addams were friends. Or… something close to it. Though, judging by Isaac’s expression, he wasn’t exactly thrilled to admit it.
It was a terrible thought - but you were genuinely shocked. You hadn’t thought Isaac had any friends. Watching him interact with people was strange in itself… almost unnatural, like seeing a wolf politely make conversation at a dinner party.
You didn’t realize how blatantly you were staring until Morticia’s gaze lifted and met yours.
Even from across the room, her eyes were unmistakable - deep black, but not cold. There was something soft in them, something graceful. Like velvet shadow. And suddenly, you were the one who felt out of place.
She held your gaze for a moment too long. Just as you began to lower your head, ready to turn away and disappear into the background, her lips - perfectly shaped and painted in a sleek, inky black - curled into a soft, knowing smile.
It wasn’t condescending. It wasn’t pity.
It was something quieter. Something sad. An understanding - gentle and deep - like she saw straight through you.
And somehow, that subtle look struck harder than anything else. Your chest tightened. And for a heartbeat, you swore you could feel the hollow space inside you - the one you'd tried so hard to ignore - ache like it had been touched.
You managed a small, polite smile in return - brief, barely there - before quickly turning away, needing to break whatever quiet trance she’d pulled you into.
You didn’t feel like rejoining your friends in the courtyard. No doubt they’d pounce the moment you sat down, eager to ask why, exactly, you’d dragged Isaac Night into a secluded hallway like something out of a scandalous romance novel.
Sure, you could admit Isaac was… well, easy on the eyes. Pale skin, delicate curls dark as shadow, and eyes sharp enough to cut through silence.
Alright fine, yes - he was a beautiful man. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not with him.
Not even close.
But that was the last thing on your mind right now.
The plans you and Isaac had made - well, mostly Isaac, really, seemingly powered by some strange new surge of enthusiasm - were now officially your problem too. You weren’t a genius inventor. Not even close. But you’d promised to help, and it was your voice, your condition. It felt wrong - rude, even - to leave him alone to figure it all out.
So, instead of wandering aimlessly around campus, you decided to head straight to your next class. The familiar cobblestone walls and winding hallways had lost their charm long ago, and the endless shrieks and laughter of passing students did little to calm your mind. A quiet classroom sounded like exactly what you needed.
The room was quiet when you entered - rows of empty desks, a clean whiteboard still glinting faintly from its last wipe-down. Class wouldn’t start for a while yet. You took your usual seat near the front, setting your bag down with a dull thud and slipping into the cold chair. The chill of the metal bit through your clothes, making you flinch, but you barely noticed.
The classroom may have been still, but your mind wasn’t. It was racing - flicking through theory after theory, imagining what kind of twisted, beautiful, horrifying machine Isaac might build. What would it sound like? What would it do? What would it feel like to scream again - or worse, to fail again?
It was exhausting. Overwhelming.
You rested your head in your palm, trying to still the chaos, letting your gaze drift to the sunbeams slanting through the window. Dust motes spun and floated lazily in the golden light, giving the space an almost sacred stillness.
But your thoughts wouldn't let you rest.
You inhaled sharply, trying to ground yourself - a deep, steadying breath.
And choked.
Not with fear. This was different. Heavier.
Pressure.
Your hand flew to your throat. Muscle shifted beneath your fingers - not smoothly, not naturally. It spasmed once. Then again.
What the fuck is going on?
Your heartbeat skidded into panic. You sat frozen, gripping your neck like you could keep something in - or maybe out. And then it happened.
A sound.
Faint. Barely there. But unmistakable. A hum - soft and strange, like a breath vibrating against the walls of a locked room. You weren’t sure if you heard it with your ears or felt it in your bones.
Your whole body stilled.
Did I just… hum?
It wasn’t possible. It shouldn’t be possible. But the pressure still sat there, tight and burning, and for the first time in months - maybe years - something inside your throat moved.
Your first instinct was to run. The nurse, maybe Isaac. Someone. But you didn’t move.
Because despite the ache, despite the fear, something else flickered inside you. A fragile, glowing thought:
Are they opening?
No. No, that couldn’t be right. They were overdeveloped - Isaac said so. Too dense, too thick to even vibrate. They were shutting down, not waking up.
Unless… he was wrong?
You had just managed to release the pressure in your next by twisting your head side to side. the panic that had filled your chest began to disapate and was replaced with confusion and unease.
You barely noticed the next person to enter the room: Isaac. no surprise there, he did typically get here before everybody else. Your eyes followed him as he sat down on the bench across from you, pulling out a thick book with too many loose papers to count.
You thought about telling him what happened, but other students had began walking in. You'll ask him later.
The rest of the day dragged by with unbearable slowness. Your mind spun so violently through spiraling thoughts that you were surprised your head didn’t follow suit. Every sound, every shift of light, every passing conversation became a new thread to pull - and pull you did, until your thoughts frayed into static.
You’d tried to catch Isaac later in the day. You’d spotted him with Franciouse just outside the greenhouse, but the moment he saw you approaching, he was quick to dismiss her. That alone left you more unsettled than anything else.
Why send her away?
The question clung to you like a cold sweat.
Now, night had settled over the campus like a heavy quilt. The world outside was quiet - but not to you. Not here.
The rattle and groan of the elevator up to Lago Tower echoed through the shaft like bones grinding in a throat. As much as you usually appreciated the noise - the distraction, the proof that something was moving - it was unbearable.
God, it drove you insane.
Each shuddering jolt up the tower felt like a countdown. To what, exactly, you weren’t sure. But you could feel it crawling closer.
You and Isaac had been working on a way to open your vocal cords for nearly two weeks now. Countless diagrams and sleepless nights - but finally, you had a plan. All that was left was to set it in motion.
The elevator lurched to a stop with its usual violent bang. You didn’t flinch - you were used to its fury by now. It groaned like something dying, but at this point, it was just part of the routine.
The smell hit you as the doors opened: iron and paper, sharp and musty - a scent you'd come to associate with sleepless obsession. The lab was no warmer than the metal coffin that carried you up, and the sight inside hadn’t changed. Massive machines lined the walls, hulking in shadows like cloaked giants, motionless but humming faintly with menace.
You stepped inside like you did almost every night, boots clicking against the tile, knuckles rapping on the metal table out of habit - a sharp, metallic clack to announce your arrival.
Isaac jolted upright from where he was hunched over the workbench, eyes wide, shoulders tense. He looked like he’d been caught in the middle of something he shouldn’t have been doing.
“God, fucking hell-” he hissed, clutching at his chest like you’d scared the soul out of him. “Don’t do that.”
You raised an eyebrow. It wasn't that bad you big baby. you thought, watching him hastily gather a handful of blueprints and shove them into one of his disaster-zone drawers, paper crumpling in his rush.
He looked… jumpy.
Odd. Not like him.
You brushed it off. Whatever he was hiding could wait - you weren’t here to unravel Isaac’s secrets. No matter how much you wanted to. You were here to get to work.
Crossing the room, you pulled out the extra chair - the one he’d placed beside his desk a few days after you started working together. It was a small, almost imperceptible gesture at the time, but you remembered it. You still appreciated it. Considering his nature.
Isaac settled into the seat beside you, clearing his throat in that overly formal way he always did when preparing to lecture. His face was the usual mask of cool indifference, all sharp lines and unreadable intent.
“Before we begin,” he said, voice smooth, but clipped with that signature edge of superiority, “I want to check whether your vocal cords have thickened any further since our last session. After that, I’ll start refining the blueprints.”
He spoke like a man delivering orders to a subordinate, not a peer - but then, Isaac was always like this in the lab. Precise. Detached. In control.
It used to grate on you. Now, it was only mildly irritating. Progress, you supposed.
You nodded, wordless as always, letting him carry on - though something in the back of your mind still hummed with your usual unease.
Isaac was scanning the notes from your last session, flipping through pages already marked with fine scribbles and precise annotations. It hadn’t been long since he last tested the condition of your vocal cords - barely a few days, in fact - but Isaac was meticulous. He liked to double-check. And then check again.
Without looking up, he began pulling off his gloves, distracted and automatic in the motion. The worn leather peeled away, revealing pale, elegant hands - skin like porcelain under the lab’s sterile light, marred only by the faintest ink stains and old burn scars from past inventions gone wrong.
You watched them for a moment too long.
The movement of his fingers, the quiet efficiency of it, the strange contrast between delicacy and control - it was hypnotic in a way you didn’t want to admit. You quickly shifted your gaze back to his face, catching him still absorbed in his notes, brow slightly furrowed.
Just business, as usual.
Isaac finally turned his attention back to you, eyes flicking down to your throat with clinical precision. His gaze lingered just long enough to make your pulse stutter just slightly, barely noticeable.
Without a word, he raised a hand - smooth, pale, and steady - and reached for your neck with the same practiced and unbothered ease he reserved for delicate instruments or volatile chemicals. It should’ve felt cold. Distant.
But then he did something unexpected.
He tugged you closer - just slightly. Barely more than a few inches, really. But enough that you felt the shift. Enough that your breath caught in your chest.
It wasn’t forceful, and it wasn’t careful either. Just necessary - to him, at least. He didn’t want to lean too far over to reach you. Efficiency. That’s all.
Still, the heat bloomed low in your stomach.
You told yourself it was discomfort. Just discomfort. Purely clinical. Perfectly explainable.
And yet, as his fingers brushed your throat - steady, analytical - your body refused to listen.
Your eyes fluttered shut, mortified by the way your heartbeat quickened as he leaned in, his breath barely grazing your skin. His touch was light but sure, delicate yet unmistakably firm, as his fingers pressed and traced along the lines of your neck with quiet intent.
This didn't feel like a test anymore, it felt like he was teasing you. fingers gliding across your neck with quiet amusement. Oh he was defiantly teasing you, he had to be.
But Isaac said nothing, didn’t notice the way your body tensed beneath his touch - too focused, or maybe he just didn’t care. Or worse, maybe he had noticed, and was drawing it out on purpose - a sick bastard who took pleasure in watching you squirm for him.
You cursed yourself for letting the butterflies loose - but honestly, could you be blamed? Isaac was, sure, an attractive guy, and anyone would feel a little on edge with a man like that touching their neck.
You squeezed your eyes shut, silently praying he’d be done soon. You were so caught up in those desperate thoughts, you didn’t even notice your breathing had turned to soft, shallow pants.
“Stop breathing like that,” he said. “You’re only going to drag this out. Unless that’s what you’re going for.”
His voice was flat - but the smug grin on his face told a different story. Gosh he was infuriating. and yet, you kept coming back.
You shot him a sharp glare - the kind that was supposed to say, This isn’t affecting me. But you both knew better.
You chose to ignore the truth. Isaac, on the other hand - with that damn superiority complex - found the whole thing wildly amusing. And clearly, he wasn’t finished playing his little game.
His hand traveled up the column of your neck, fingers soft but deliberate against your skin. They traced the curve of your jaw, slow and certain, until they found your chin - his touch shifting just enough to grip it, lifting your face to meet his own at an agonizingly slow pace.
You couldn’t believe what was happening. This sick bastard was using your body - your emotions - as his own twisted form of entertainment. Just to watch you squirm. What a fucking asshole.
And yet… you didn’t pull away.
You just sat there, perfectly still. And waited.
"Tell me what happened, Dove. I know something did." His voice was low, but firmer now - that obsessive edge creeping back in, stark against the gentleness of his fingers still cradling your chin.
You hadn’t noticed it until now, but with his touch shifting away from your neck, the pressure began to return - not as sharp as before, but enough to settle beneath your skin, unwelcome and persistent.
Isaac turned, finally letting go of your chin. And for a fleeting second, you almost - almost - missed the contact. But not quite.
He picked up a sheet of paper, turned it toward you, and held it out.
“Write,” he said - no, ordered, really. You rolled your eyes, snatched the paper from his hand, and grabbed a pencil from where it had been left abandoned nearby.
You wrote.
Everything you felt in that classroom spilled out - the pressure, the tightness in your chest, the struggle to breathe… and the hum. That strange, low hum that felt like something ancient, something calling. Like a flicker of identity, fragile but insistent. A spark just beginning to catch.
Isaac read in silence, that brilliant mind of his already spinning with theories and possibilities. But one thing became painfully clear - he needed to move faster. Time wasn’t on his side. Your body was adapting quicker than he’d anticipated, shifting beneath his calculations like sand through his fingers.
Time - such a useless, intangible thing. And yet, somehow, it held all the power.
And he was running out of it.
Isaac let out a sound that was far too close to a growl, shoving papers aside until he cleared a space on the desk. Snatching the nearest clean sheet, he began sketching - fast, precise, obsessive. Pages littered the surface, each one covered in diagrams of what looked like variations of the same machine.
He worked furiously, the pencil scratching so hard against the paper you were half convinced he'd carve a hole straight through the desk.
Curious - or maybe just desperate - you dragged your chair closer, peering over his shoulder at whatever had consumed him so completely.
A device. No... a collar?
It didn’t look like one - not in the traditional sense - but it was designed to encircle the neck, delicate and disturbingly intricate. There was too much detail for your mind to process all at once, lines contraptions layered like a language you’d never been taught.
And yet, despite the way it made your skin crawl, you felt something else bloom in your chest: hope.
Ugly as it was, unnerving as it felt - it was your only chance right now. And that made you love it.
You were starting to feel giddy now - almost excited - but you forced it down. You didn’t dare jinx it. This was the closest you’d ever gotten, and you weren’t about to ruin it now.
But Isaac looked tense. His shoulders were rigid, brows furrowed in concentration. You reached out, fingertips brushing just beneath his shoulder blade - and he flinched. His head whipped around, eyes sharp with surprise. You’d startled him. Again.
But this time was different.
There was no soft edge to him now - only seriousness, cold and clipped, like he didn’t have time to entertain your presence.
“I think I can handle this on my own tonight. It’s late. You should head back to your room. We'll test how your system responds to the tests tomorrow.” His voice was flat, firm. Dismissive.
It caught you off guard. Weren’t you supposed to be doing this together? Since when did he become so… weird?
His eagerness to send you away left a quiet sting in your chest. You tried to brush it off, but the ache lingered.
Maybe he was just being arrogant again - convinced he could handle everything on his own, without anyone’s help. Typical Isaac. Still, your stomach twisted with unease, and the pressure in your throat tightened - just enough to make it hard to swallow.
You rose slowly, patting his shoulder in a quiet, uncertain goodbye. Then you turned toward the elevator, moving at a pace that made it clear you weren’t quite ready to leave. Your eyes stayed on him the whole way, waiting - hoping - for something.
But he didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge you at all.
At least, not until-
“Actually, could you find Françoise and tell her to come up-” He cut himself off mid-sentence, his jaw tightening as he reconsidered. “No. Don’t. I’ll go to her myself.”
His tone was cold - colder than usual - and this time, it stung. It wasn’t the usual Isaac-brand indifference. This was sharper, distant in a way that felt almost calculated.
And for a brief, confused second, you couldn’t help but wonder - What the hell had twisted his panties this time?
“Have a good night, Dove.”
That stopped you.
Isaac never said goodnight - or goodbye, for that matter. His voice still held that same icy edge, but the nickname… it softened the blow. Slightly. Even if you knew he mostly used it to get under your skin. You were nothing like a dove - and he knew it.
The elevator doors slid shut, stealing him from view.
As you began the slow descent, you leaned against the cool metal wall, brows knit in thought. Something about the way he’d said it, the way he’d dismissed you - it didn’t sit right.
Maybe he was just tired. Maybe tomorrow would make more sense.
Still, you couldn’t shake the quiet hum of unease curling in your gut. Whatever tomorrow held, one thing was certain:
Isaac was planning something. You just weren’t sure if it was for your sake - or his.
A/N: Hello angels! 💕I hope you enjoyed this chapter of The Silence He Broke, I found this one really fun to write. and to be honest, I think i'm now three assignments behind because I spent so much time today writing the bulk of this but i'm really quite proud of it. anyway, please let me know what you think, I love hearing what you guys have to say and as always, I hope you all have an amazing day or night, wherever you are! 💋
Taglist:
@athenalesage, @bontensbabygirl, @devinitysann
Honestly I am desperate for new ideas 😩🙏. I'm still working on The Silence He Broke (don’t worry, it’s alive and kicking), but I like posting little Oneshots inbetween chapters just for fun.
However at this point my ideas bank is running dry, and the last creative brain cell is hanging on by a thread amongst schoolwork and all. So If you’ve got any random concepts, wild prompts, angsty fluff, unhinged scenarios literally anything, throw them my way. I also just love bringing other people's ideas to life, and it honestly makes me really happy.
Anyway, Drop your thoughts, your dreams, your cursed what-ifs and I'll try to get them back to you as soon as possible!
I hope you're all having an amazing day or night, wherever you are! 💕
𝐼'𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒 𝐻𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑊ℎ𝑒𝑛 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝐺𝑜 By FancyPoetryBread
Isaac Night x Reader
Summery: In the quiet, sterile world of a hospital ward, two terminally ill teenagers - one with glioblastoma, the other with heart failure - find an unexpected connection. As their bodies begin to fail them, they become each other's anchor, sharing whispered confessions, stolen laughter, and the fragile hope that love, even in its briefest form, can make dying feel a little more like living.
Warning: Fluff/Angst, No use of y/n, Swearing, reader has Glioblastoma (Brain Tumour), kinda rushed
Word Count: 3.4K
You were fast asleep - or at least, trying to be - when they brought him in. The sharp voices of the doctors, the clatter of equipment, and the heavy rhythm of urgency made it nearly impossible to settle your mind, let alone drift into the sleep you so desperately needed.
With a sigh, you pulled your pillow over your ear, irritation creeping in as the noise refused to fade. You knew the routine by now. A boy wheeled in on the brink, a swarm of doctors circling like hawks. It was a familiar scene here - too familiar.
You reminded yourself they couldn’t stop just because you wanted quiet. The boy could die if they did. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t pray they'd hurry.
You heard The doctors mumbling to each other, if that hushed medical nonsense you were no closer to understanding, 6 months in this hospital and it still seemed like they spoke a whole different language.
You rubbed your temple. Among the endless string of medical jargon, a few familiar words slipped through - words you should have understood. But somehow, their meanings had vanished, scattered like leaves in wind. Honestly, you weren’t surprised anymore.
It had been seven months since the diagnosis. Seven months of Glioblastoma - of hospital rooms and white walls, of being poked and prodded until this place became your permanent address.
When they first told you it was a brain tumor, you couldn’t believe it. How could you - young, healthy, full of plans - possibly have something like that? No one in your family had ever been sick like this. There was no reason, no logic, just a cruel twist of fate.
But the months that followed left no room for denial: the vomiting, the vision problems, the seizures that left you trembling in terror, the memory lapses that stole pieces of you one by one. Reality had settled in with quiet finality.
You had a brain tumor. And you were going to die.
The only question that remained now was: when?
You lived in a constant state of fear - never knowing when you’d lose control of yourself completely, or when the faces of the people you loved most would start to fade into unfamiliar shapes. The thought of one day looking at your parents - the ones who had poured every ounce of their love and energy into you - and not knowing them made your stomach turn. And yet, that end was coming, no matter how much you tried to deny it.
So you pushed the thought aside. Instead, you focused on the time you had left - whether it was a few more months, or, if luck was kind, another year - and tried to make it as gentle, as full, and as meaningful as you possibly could.
The doctors finally decided the boy was stable enough to be left alone for the night. After a few quiet murmurs and the soft shuffling of equipment, they slipped out the door, leaving behind a welcome silence.
You sighed, relief washing over you like warm water. Silence had become sacred in this place. But this time, it wasn’t complete - now, it was accompanied by the boy’s soft, even breathing and the steady beep of his heart monitor.
You hadn’t gotten a good look at him when they brought him in. The room had been dim, and the doctors had blocked your view completely. But now that everything had quieted down, curiosity began to stir in your chest.
Surely a little peek wouldn't hurt, you thought, shifting your pillow and craning your neck toward the other bed. No luck. The curtains had been drawn around it, hiding him entirely.
Shit.
Would it be creepy to go look at his face? Yeah, probably. Was that going to stop you? Not a chance.
With a quiet groan, you shoved off your blankets and pushed yourself into a seated position. Your body protested immediately - weak, wobbly, uncooperative. The numbness in your left side sent a flicker of unease through you. Classic tumor symptoms. Still, you reached for your IV stand, gripping it like a lifeline as you pulled yourself unsteadily to your feet.
You took one slow step - then another - and accidentally bumped the IV stand hard into the wall. The sound made you wince.
You froze, holding your breath, ears straining to catch any change in the boy’s breathing. Still slow. Still steady. Still asleep.
Thank fuck, you thought, letting the breath go in a quiet exhale.
You crept toward his bed, each step slow and exhausting. Your legs ached, and your balance wavered with every movement. You were starting to seriously question if this little mission was worth it - but you were already halfway there. Might as well commit.
Your fingers reached out, brushing against the heavy curtain surrounding his bed. You searched along the seam for the break in the fabric, fingertips finally catching on the narrow gap. Carefully, almost guiltily, you tugged it open - just enough to slip your face through.
The boy lying there was... unexpectedly beautiful. Even in sleep, even with the pale skin and faint bruising beneath his eyes, there was something striking about him. Strong jawline, soft lashes, the kind of face that looked like it belonged anywhere but here. You found yourself staring longer than you meant to, caught off guard by how alive he looked despite everything.
You wondered who he was. His name. His story. What life he had outside these hospital walls - what had brought him to a bed just a few feet away from yours.
You found yourself in a bit of a daze, just… watching him. If anyone walked in right now, they’d probably assume you were a complete psycho. Worse still? If he woke up and caught you staring at him like some kind of creep.
But you couldn’t look away.
There was something about him - something that pulled you in. You were trying to memorize his features, like maybe if you stared hard enough, you could understand who he was without a single word spoken.
Your quiet bubble, however, didn’t last.
A voice, low and hoarse, broke through the stillness.
"Did no one ever teach you it’s rude to stare?"
You froze. Your blood turned to ice. And then, all at once, the heat rushed to your face like wildfire.
“Shit - fuck - I'm sorry,” you stammered, your voice cracking under the weight of mortification. You scrambled to step back, cheeks burning, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow you whole.
You scrambled to step back, cheeks burning, wishing the floor would just open up and swallow you whole.
The boy blinked slowly, his eyes still adjusting to the dim light. He looked at you for a moment - really looked at you - and then, to your surprise, his lips curved into the smallest hint of a smirk.
“Well,” he murmured, voice still raspy, “thanks for the apology."
You let out a weak, breathy laugh, one hand going to your face in complete humiliation. “Yeah, uh…curiosity is kind of all I’ve got going for me these days.”
He hummed, the sound barely audible over the steady beeping of the monitor beside him. “You planning to keep standing there or…?”
“Oh - right,” you said quickly, backing away from the curtain. “Sorry again. I wasn’t trying to be weird, I just- ” You hesitated. How were you even supposed to explain this?
“I couldn’t sleep,” you offered lamely. “And they drew the curtain. Curiosity won.”
His head shifted slightly on the pillow as he studied you. “Hospital boredom. Dangerous stuff.”
You smiled at that. “Tell me about it.”
There was a short, slightly uncomfortable silence, your face still as hot as the sun's surface. Then he asked, “What’s your name?”
You blinked. You hadn’t expected that.
You told him your name, and then asked for his.
“Isaac,” he replied, voice soft now. “Well, technically it’s Isaac Night, but my last name only comes out when I’ve done something wrong, or when i'm being applauded for yet another magnificent experiment.”
Oh so he was a scientist? You chuckled, finally starting to relax a little. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Another silence settled, but this time it wasn’t awkward. Just… calm. Two teenage strangers caught in the strange, sterile peace of a hospital night, held together by IV drips, beeping monitors, and the quiet understanding that nothing here was normal.
“You should probably sit down before you fall over,” Isaac said after a moment, eyeing the way you were still leaning on your IV stand.
You nodded, already feeling your legs wobble from the effort. “Right. I should, yeah.”
You turned to hobble back to your bed, then hesitated. “Hey, uh… sorry again. For staring.”
Isaac's voice was low but kind. “It’s okay. I’ve had worse company.”
You smiled to yourself as you lowered back into bed, the curtain still slightly open now. The silence returned - but it wasn’t as heavy this time. There was someone else breathing quietly in the room, and somehow, that made it easier to sleep.
The next morning, you woke to golden rays of sunlight streaming through the window, warming your face in a way that almost made you forget you were, in fact, in a hospital.
Almost.
You shifted in your bed, a familiar wave of nausea rising in your gut like it did every morning. Grimacing, you pressed a hand to your stomach and took a deep, steadying breath. This had been your routine for the past seven months.
Once you managed to push yourself upright, you glanced across the room. The curtain around Isaac’s bed had been pulled open, and he was hunched over his sketchbook, scribbling furiously. He looked up just as you caught him, offering you a crooked, amused smile.
“Good morning, stalker.”
His voice was light, teasing, but threaded with that familiar undercurrent of amusement.
You let out a breathy laugh, though the sickness twisting in your stomach kept it from becoming anything more. “I did say I was sorry, didn’t I?” you whined, tugging the blanket up to hide your face. Your cheeks were already warming.
Isaac grinned, clearly delighted by your embarrassment. “You sleep well?”
Peeking out from behind the covers, you nodded. “Better than I have in a while, actually.” You hesitated, then added, “Didn’t mean to wake you up last night. I really was trying to be subtle.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You crashed into the wall.”
“Okay, after that.”
He laughed - rough-edged and genuine - and something about the sound made your chest ache in the best way. It was strange. A few days ago, he’d been a total stranger. Now, somehow, you were already grateful he was here.
“How long have you been stuck here?” he asked.
You looked away, toward the window, letting the light catch your face. “Feels like forever. Technically... a few months. Got diagnosed about seven months ago.” You hesitated. Then, quieter: “Glioblastoma.”
His expression shifted - not pity, exactly. Just something close to understanding.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s a bastard of a tumor.”
Silence followed - not heavy, but not quite light either. A pause that felt like both of you were balancing something fragile between your beds.
You realized, then, that you didn’t know why he was here.
“What about you?” you asked gently.
He leaned back, resting his sketchbook on his lap. “Heart failure. My ticker decided to fuck itself early.”
You blinked. “Shit. I’m sorry. That sucks ass.”
He shrugged, lips twitching in a half-smile.
For a while, neither of you said anything. The room buzzed softly with the sound of monitors, distant footsteps, and the murmur of hospital life outside your door.
Then, Isaac broke the silence, voice quieter this time. “We’re a bit of a mess, huh?”
You met his eyes, smiling faintly. “Yeah. But at least it’s not lonely anymore.”
Over the next few weeks, Isaac became your lifeline - and you, his.
He was your gravity, anchoring you when everything inside your body felt like it was slipping out of your control. When the scans came back worse. When more of your limbs grew numb. When your memories started to fade at the edges like old film. When the nausea hit in furious, relentless waves - he was there, steady and quiet, always pulling you back to earth.
And you were there for him. You sat beside him while the doctors listened to the faltering rhythm of his heart, their faces tight with quiet concern. You watched them pump his body full of medication, their words weighed down with the knowledge they didn’t want to say out loud.
You talked through the silences, rambling about anything and everything while he sketched - page after page of what looked like a heart. Not a cartoonish one, not even a human one exactly, but something else entirely. Steel-plated. Intricate. Like he was trying to draw himself a new one from scratch.
In a place where everything was sterile and temporary, you had become each other’s constants.
The rock the other clung to just to keep from drifting away.
Isaac had a dry, sarcastic kind of humor that snuck up on you. The kind that made you laugh even when you didn’t want to. He had this way of making the hospital feel less like a cage and more like... a place you could actually breathe.
One evening, maybe four weeks after he’d been admitted, you caught him staring out the window long after visiting hours had ended. your shared room lit only by a small lamp in the corner, bringing a soft golden glow to the room.
“Everything okay?” you asked, your voice quiet in the soft hues of the lamplight.
He glanced over at you, then back to the window. “My sister used to sit by this kind of window in the mornings in our home. Said the light always felt like hope.” He paused. “Now I look at it and all I see is time passing.”
You didn’t say anything right away. You just watched the way the light touched the side of his face - delicate and fleeting.
“I get it,” you said finally. “It’s like… the world keeps moving out there, but we’re stuck behind glass. Watching. Waiting.”
Isaac nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
The silence that followed didn’t feel empty. It felt shared - like you were both carrying a piece of the same unspoken weight.
After a while, he turned to you with a small, tired smile. “You ever think about what you’d be doing if none of this happened?”
“All the time,” you said, almost without thinking. “I was supposed to travel after I graduated. Backpack across Europe. Stupid romantic dream.”
He grinned. “That’s not stupid.”
You shrugged. “It feels that way now.”
He was quiet for a second, then said, “If we ever get out of here… we should go somewhere. Even if it’s just a crappy motel with a decent view.”
You looked at him, surprised. “You want to go on a pity trip with me?”
Isaac laughed. “No, I want to go on a we survived trip with you.”
That made you smile. A real one.
“Okay,” you said softly. “Deal.”
He held out his hand like you were sealing a contract, pinky raised.
You linked yours with his.
As the weeks passed, the friendship between you and Isaac quietly blossomed into something deeper - something fragile, fierce, and unmistakably real. Something that felt a little like magic.
He wheeled you outside one day - IVs and all - just so you could feel sunlight on your face for the first time in weeks. You both wore hospital bracelets and exhaustion, but when you looked at each other, none of that mattered.
You started keeping a notebook. A list of places you’d go, things you’d eat, music you’d dance to - all the stolen plans your illness tried to take. Isaac wrote in it too. Sometimes jokes. Sometimes poems. Once, a line you never forgot:
“If I met you outside these walls, I would’ve fallen just as hard.”
One night, maybe two months after he was admitted, you kissed him. It wasn’t dramatic. No music. No movie lighting. Infact it was quite out of the blue, Just the two of you on your bed, resting your eyes after a particularly intense nausea episode.
You turned over, saw him watching you, and whispered, “Can I?”
He nodded. Seemingly forgetting the fact that just 5 minutes earlier you were on the brink of emptying your guts everywhere.
You shuffled into a seated position, leaned in with shaky hands and a racing heart, and pressed your lips to his. your stomach exploded, but not in the bad way this time, but instead with thousands of untameable butterflies. His lips were warm. Familiar. Like something you’d been reaching for in dreams you hadn’t remembered. his hand was on the back of your head, pulling you into his with a lovesick determination.
When you pulled away, he whispered, “Took you long enough.”
You laughed, breathless. “I’m dying, Isaac. Let me have my moments.”
“Then make all of them count,” he said, fingers brushing yours as he leaned in once again. unable to resist the drug you had just given to him.
Unfortunatly, your happiness was cut short with a brutal slap back to reality. Your decline was slow, and then suddenly, it was fast. That was how it always ended.
At first, it was just the nausea and the numbness. But by month ten, things had worsened. Faces you once knew blurred at the edges. Friends and family became strangers. Words slipped through your fingers like water. The seizures grew more violent. Some days, you could barely speak at all. Your body was littered with various tubes and devices now. A symbol of you rapidly approaching death.
Your brain was deteriorating. The tumor was winning.
When the doctors finally told you the end was near, Isaac didn’t cry. He just climbed into your bed - the effort clearly exhausting, his body weaker now, every movement costing him more than it used to. But he didn’t hesitate.
He was careful. Gentle. Quiet. He held you without saying a word as you buried your face into his chest, sobbing into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to the one steady thing you had left.
And still, even with the weight of everything pressing down on both of you, he never let go.
"Im so scared" you wailed, your breath coming in shallow pants.
Isaac stroked your hair, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "I know my love. But i'm here."
"...Isaac?" Your voice was now soft, raw from all the crying you had been doing. "Can you pinky promise me something?"
Isaac pulled away to look at you in the eyes, his gaze soft, as if he's scared you might die right then and there if he looked at you slightly funny. "Anything." he whispered.
You sniffled, wiping your nose on your arm. You looked up to meet his eyes, your own holding an intense sencerity as you spoke the words he silently wished you wouldn't say: "Don't stay here once im gone, I've seen your sketchbook, build that heart. leave this hospital strong and healthy and go on that 'we survived' trip? Even if i'm not there?"
Isaacs chest tightened, his grip on you tightening ever so slightly, a small act of defiance against your words.
his voice cracked as he spoke, betraying him. "You'll be there. For fucks sake you'll be there do you understand what I'm saying? Every stupid, cheap motel. Every new place."
You just smiled and kissed his collarbone, your brain barely able to keep you concious. you laid against his chest, drifting off to the familiar sound of his faulty heart.
Isaac couldn’t stop the sting building in his eyes, no matter how hard he tried. Tears burned hot, threatening to spill, and he pressed the heel of his hand against them as if he could hold it all in - the grief, the helplessness, the love.
He knew. You weren’t going to make it. Not forever. And someday - maybe soon - you were going to leave. Leave this room. that the nurses had decorated just for you. Leave this life. Leave him.
His hand trembled as he reached for you, brushing your hair back gently. Then, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head - soft, lingering - as if trying to memorize the shape of you, the warmth.
He breathed you in. The faint trace of your shampoo. The sterile scent of the hospital. You.
And as the tears finally slipped free, silently rolling down his cheeks, he whispered against your skin:
“Don’t worry, my angel. I’ll be here when you go.”
You passed quietly in your sleep. He was holding your hand.
The nurses cried. The doctors spoke in hushed tones. Isaac sat with you for hours after. Eyes distant, unable to let your now cold body go. He didn’t speak, didn't scream when the doctors pried his body off your own so they could remove your corpse from the room. He just held the notebook you left behind on your bed, which now only held the ghost of you. His fingers tracing the last page:
“Even if I forget everything, I won’t forget you. You’re the good part in my life.”
A few months later, Isaac walked out of the hospital with shaky legs and brand new ticking metal heart.
Your notebook in his bag. A photo he had taken of you in his jacket pocket. And a train ticket to nowhere in particular.
Just like you wanted.
A/N: Hi Love! I hope you enjoyed this little Oneshot, I was actually so into writing this one its all I could think about during school but once I reached the 3,000 word mark I just wanted to finish it, so i'm going to be honest its barely proofread. 😅 Anyway I hope you all have such an amazing day or night wherever you are! And PLEASEEE don't be a stranger I would absolutely adore if you guys gave me any requests for stories you want to be brought to life! It genuinly makes me really happy 💕
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝐻𝑒 𝐵𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒 by FancyPoetryBread
Isaac Night x Reader
Part 1, Part 2 (Your Here), Part 3
Summery: A Banshee’s song is her greatest gift, her deadliest weapon, and her most sacred possession — a melody born of grief and fate. But yours is silent. Desperate to break the quiet pressing on your chest, you turn to Nevermore’s most brilliant — and most arrogant — student, Isaac Night. Two broken lives, stitched together by necessity. But will your story end in healing... or in the grief and heartbreak your silence has always promised?
Warnings: Swearing, Isaac - as usual- being an ass, No use of y/n, talk about surgery
Word Count: 4,184
You thought of little else that afternoon, torn between a shameful excitement and a stubborn dread for the night ahead. You didn’t like Isaac - certainly not. He was lonely, rude, and unbearably arrogant and most likely an absolutely infuriating person to work with, as you’d thought to yourself time and time again.
Still, your leg bounced with anticipation. You’d been sitting on the edge of your bed in your dusty old dorm room for at least half an hour now, the evening sun spilling rays of solid gold through your window. You were fully ready hours before eight.
Not that “getting ready” meant much - you’d only changed out of your school uniform into the dullest clothes you could find. You weren’t going out, after all. No need to dress up.
You glanced at the clock on the wall, blinking at it for a moment before your brain caught up - 7:38.
Might as well leave now, you thought, pushing yourself to your feet.
He’d said to meet at Lago Tower, but - of course - in true Isaac fashion, had been annoyingly vague in his details.
Did he mean the top? Or was it just a vague meeting point?
He didn't actually expect you to climb all those stairs? You sure hoped not.
But then again, he didn’t seem like the type graciously to wait at the bottom and walk you up, either.
You made your way down the seemingly endless stairwells of the girls' dormitory, each step echoing in the stillness, until you finally reached the ground floor. Stepping out into the courtyard, you were met with an unusual hush - the picnic tables and grimy corners strangely empty, stripped of their usual teenage buzz.
The cold chill hanging in the air nipped at you skin, and suddenly you wished you had brought another layer with you. No matter, you would be inside again soon.
You strode across the courtyard in the direction of Lago tower, a large figure looming over you in the cloudy night sky. No stars lit up the sky tonight, casting a gloomy glow over the school.
Nights like this were your favourite. Sure you loved gazing at the stars, but something about the grey fog engulfing the sky made you feel comfortable, natural. It made you feel just a bit more normal you suppose.
Your shoes crunched over dry leaves and loose gravel, the sound sharp and unnatural in the now barren corridors of Nevermore. You came to a stop in front of the rickety old doors leading to Lago Tower.
Shit, you thought. These things look like they’ll fall apart the second I touch them.
You glanced down at your watch, squinting in the low light - 7:55. Fuck.
The doors were a risk you were just going to have to take.
You shoved the doors open - too hard. You’d overestimated the strength needed, and nearly lost your balance as you stumbled inside.
You could practically hear Isaac’s obnoxious snickering echoing in your mind already.
You steadied yourself against the wall, eyes sweeping over the dim, musty room - until they landed on an ancient-looking elevator.
Oh, thank god, you thought. There was no way in hell you were about to climb a whole damn staircase all the way to the top.
Despite your relief that someone had bothered to install an elevator, you still needed to reach the top - and fast.
You stepped carefully into the rickety lift, hesitated for a moment, then jabbed the up button. The machinery groaned to life, shuddering as it rose. Every creak and jolt made your stomach twist.
Clutching the railing, you silently prayed that the elevator wouldn’t come unhinged and send you crashing back down the shaft. It felt entirely possible at the moment.
When it finally jerked to a stop at the top floor, the sound it made was far from reassuring. With a loud clank, the gate-like doors rattled open.
You wasted no time stepping out - then stopped.
The room ahead pulled you in with its sudden stillness. Your heartbeat slowed as you took it in, letting the moment stretch now that you were no longer moving. You’d made it up. But Isaac wasn’t here yet - or worse, he was, and he was waiting in one of those chairs like a suspecting villain awaiting the arrival of his victim.
You took slow, cautious steps, venturing deeper into the maze of towering shelves and strange, intricate machines. You had no idea what they were for - and, honestly, you weren’t eager to find out.
“I told you I don’t like people who are late,” a voice murmured - far too close to your ear.
You spun around, heart jumping into your throat, only to come face-to-face, well, more like face-to-chest with Isaac Night.
Jesus.
Fucking hell, you creep. You thought it, knowing full well he couldn’t hear you - though with Isaac, you were never completely sure.
You glanced down at your watch. 8:02.
Barely late.
You failed to stop the eye-roll as it slipped out anyway.
“Ah,” he said, his hand lifting to grip your chin, fingers firm but not quite cruel. “I said no attitude, didn’t I? You don’t want this to end before it even begins, do you, Dove?”
You didn’t remember that being on his ever-growing list of ethically questionable demands—but you weren’t about to argue.
You needed this.
His help, you told yourself.
Just his help. Being near him was enough to steer you away from any intruding thoughts that were trying to convince you otherwise. he was unbearable and you were reminded of that constantly.
You jerked your chin out of his grip, disgust and unease coiling in your stomach as you watched him turn away, striding toward the center of the room.
Without a word, he pulled a chair from beneath his desk and grabbed a pencil and a surprisingly plain piece of paper - an odd anomaly amid the chaos littering the tabletop. He dragged the chair across the floor, positioning it beside the large metal… thing. Table? Chair? Bed? It was hard to tell.
He looked over at you, his expression blank with disinterest. Then he tilted his head toward the metal contraption.
“Sit.”
The command came cold and clipped, his tone making it abundantly clear this was the last place he wanted to be. For once, you agreed.
Still, despite your silent complaints about having to endure more time in Isaac Night’s company, you couldn’t help the pulse of excitement rising beneath your skin - the quiet, desperate hope.
Maybe, finally, you would find it. Your scream. Your voice. The last missing piece of yourself.
The thing that might finally fill the endless, hollow ache in your chest.
Your feet were moving before your mind had fully caught up with the command - you were just as eager to get this over with as he was.
You hoisted yourself onto the edge of the cold, metal… thing - still unclear on whether it was a table, chair, or medieval torture bed. The chill of the surface bit into your palms, and you cringed slightly at the sensation. Your legs swung absently over the edge, the metallic creak beneath you filling the silence.
Your eyes lifted, instinctively seeking Isaac’s. Waiting.
He reclined slightly in his chair with all the energy of a man who’d rather be anywhere else. His gaze drifted from yours to the blank sheet in front of him, fingers idly twirling the pencil between them.
“So,” he said, voice smooth but disinterested. “Just some basic information first. Name?”
You stared at him, dumbfounded.
Seriously?
You blinked at him, saying nothing. His brow creased as confusion briefly flickered across his face - until it dawned on him. His eyes narrowed, followed by a muttered curse as he pushed himself up from the chair and went digging for another sheet of paper and a spare pencil.
For someone with a so-called “brilliant” mind, he could be shockingly slow.
You didn’t smile. But it took everything in you.
Isaac placed the paper and pen beside you with his usual brand of roughness - controlled, but just sharp enough to suggest he was mildly annoyed with himself for forgetting. You were still working hard to suppress the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.
As he sank back into his chair with a heavy exhale, you shifted slightly, leaning to the side to get a better angle on the paper.
“Let’s try that again,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face like he was trying to wipe the moment away. “Name?”
You jotted your name down onto the page and held it up for him to see.
He squinted at it for a moment, then copied it down in his usual rushed, barely-legible handwriting.
“Pretty,” he said absently, gaze flicking up to you - head still tilted downward, like he couldn't quite be bothered to lift it fully.
You couldn't tell whether or not he said so because he genuinely thought so, or merely to be polite. The latter didn't particularly seem to be his strong suit.
The word hung in the air for a beat too long.
You offered him a small, polite smile - while simultaneously trying to brutally strangle the single, traitorous butterfly that had dared to flutter to life in your stomach.
Keep it professional. That’s all you were here for, anyway.
Isaac cleared his throat. “Age, height, and weight.”
You raised a brow—unsure what your height or weight had to do with your vocal cords—but wrote them down anyway, choosing not to question it. Not out loud, at least.
His page was steadily filling with his signature rushed, chaotic scrawl as the questions kept coming. past Illnesses. Family history. Your parents - when they found their first scream. Where you lived.
That one made you pause, your pen hovering uncertainly over the paper. The question felt too exposing and slightly creepy. You hesitated before finally scribbling something down - just enough to satisfy him without giving everything away.
The further down the list he went, the more it felt like you were being dissected, piece by piece.
And yet, you answered every question.
Because you needed this. You needed him.
Even if you didn’t trust him.
Once he seemed satisfied with the information you’d provided, Isaac stood and carelessly tossed the paper back onto his desk. It disappeared into the mess like a drop in the ocean - already forgotten.
Then he stepped in front of you.
Too close.
Uncomfortably close.
Your body tensed, heat rising under your skin despite the chill that seemed to cling to him. And - was that ticking? Faint, rhythmic. Mechanical. You weren’t sure if it was coming from him… or just a new symptom of your slow descent into madness.
You shifted, about to lean away and reclaim a sliver of personal space - when he pulled off one of his gloves and placed his bare hand firmly against your neck.
Your breath caught. Eyes wide, you instinctively reached up to push him off - only for his free hand to swat yours away with a quiet, practiced efficiency.
You froze, heart pounding, mind racing.
What. The actual. Fuck.
Was this part of the process?
Or did Isaac Night simply not believe in the concept of personal boundaries?
You stared at him, eyes narrowed - but he didn’t notice. Or he didn’t care. His focus was locked on your neck, gaze sharp and unwavering.
Was he searching for something? Examining your vocal cords? Trying to determine if they’d finally developed?
Whatever it was, it made your heart race - for reasons both good and bad.
You shifted again, preparing to push him back. But before you could, his hand tightened just slightly, the pressure enough to make you freeze.
“Don’t move,” he said - softly, almost lazily, but there was no mistaking the command behind it. “I’m almost done, Dove. Don’t get fussy now.”
The nickname slipped from his mouth like a habit - warm and condescending all at once.
And you hated that it made something flicker in your chest.
But you let him.
Your arm dropped, defeated and irritated, as you allowed him to continue - his touch growing more uncomfortable with every press, every deliberate shift of his fingers.
Finally - after what felt like far too long - Isaac rose. His hand lingered for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he slid the glove back on - watching you squirm, amused, drawing out the discomfort like it was part of the process.
“Your vocal cords feel fully developed,” he said, already turning away. “The surrounding muscles are strong, too. So, in theory, there’s no physical reason they shouldn’t be working.”
He leaned lazily against the edge of his desk, scanning his notes with infuriating nonchalance - like he hadn’t just spoken words that could change the course of your life.
You didn’t respond. Just kept your eyes locked on him. Nothing new. The doctors had told you all this before - same vague conclusions, same dead ends.
Then he added, almost as an afterthought, “Could be they’ve overdeveloped. Thickened to the point they can’t open on their own.”
You blinked. Your spine Straightened. That was new.
Your attention snapped into focus, heart thudding. But Isaac barely looked up, casually flipping through his scribbled notes like he hadn’t just said something monumental.
As if this wasn’t the closest thing you’d had to an answer.
You knocked loudly against the metal table in an attempt to regain his attention. He lifted his head, eyes gazing lazily at you, expectant.
Your eyebrows rose, giving him a look that urged him to continue.
He rubbed his eyes, clearly wracking that so-called genius brain of his to push the idea further. "Yes..." he muttered, more to himself than to you. "That should be right."
You’d heard of cases like this before—rare, whispered-about things. A banshee’s vocal cords overdeveloping wasn’t impossible, but it was far from common. The thought sent a rush through your chest, your heart pounding with unease.
That couldn’t be too bad, right? Maybe it just meant you were special - some long-lost banshee princess or something equally ridiculous.
The joke barely landed, even in your own head, but you clung to it anyway, trying to hold off the creeping nervousness curling in your stomach.
What would happen if they didn’t stop? What then?
The thought had you gripping the edge of the table, knuckles pale.
Isaac looked up at you then, his expression unreadable, carved in that careful, neutral seriousness he wore too well.
"I think," he said slowly, "it’d be in your best interest to get them opened. Manually."
Like, surgery?
The idea settled in your mind like an eerie fog - heavy, slow, impossible to shake. You knew you had to get them open, and fast. You couldn’t let them thicken any more than they already had.
But the thought of them opening in silence chilled you more than anything.
No sound. No scream. Just the quiet unfolding of something that should never have been quiet.
What if the first scream - the one you’d been waiting for, aching for - was never heard at all?
Your first scream was supposed to be powerful enough to tear your vocal cords wide open — a raw, violent initiation. Every young banshee child waited for it with a mix of fear and anticipation.
But if they were opened manually... there’d be no need. No scream. No moment. Just silence where something sacred should’ve been.
You felt your throat tighten, as if already mourning what hadn't even happened yet.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe he didn’t know the first damn thing about banshee anatomy. Maybe that whole feeling-your-neck moment was just an excuse to be a creep with a God complex.
I mean - could you really trust him?
No. No, you couldn’t trust him.
He was an inventor, not a doctor. What right did he have to cut into your neck - to rip open the most sacred part of you like it was just another faulty mechanism?
Your fists pressed hard against your eyes, trying to block out the spiraling thoughts.
No. He was lying. He had to be. Maybe the cords were too thick - sure. But you’d pull through. You had to. You trusted your own body more than you could ever trust him.
You pushed yourself up from the table, knees buckling slightly under your weight - stress, probably, already pulsing behind your eyes like the start of a headache.
You shook your head slowly, gaze fixed on the floor, refusing to look at him. You didn’t need to.
The message was clear enough.
"Unless you’re planning to live in silence for the rest of your life, be my guest," he said, shrugging from where he leaned against the desk.
That same lazy, indifferent tone - the one that drove you absolutely insane - wrapped around his words like they were no big deal.
He wasn’t going to offer comfort. That much was obvious now.
You leaned against the side of the table, eyes buried in your fists like you could press his words out of existence - like if you just held on tight enough, they wouldn't settle so deep into your chest.
Silence bloomed between you. Heavy. Suffocating. The kind you’d known too well - the kind that made your thoughts louder, meaner.
Then came his sigh. Low. Frustrated. Like he had better things to do than deal with you falling apart.
Well, fuck him. It was the last thing you wanted to hear, too. This wasn’t how today was supposed to go. This wasn’t how anything was supposed to go.
You were mid-spiral, halfway through a string of silent curses, when you felt it - a tentative touch against your fists. Barely there, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed.
"Take them away, dove. You’re only going to give yourself a headache."
His voice was softer now, like he was trying to sound gentle, but the strain bled through - the awkwardness of someone who didn’t quite know how to be gentle unless he was building something out of metal.
Typical.
Still, you lowered your hands.
Isaac watched you quietly, searching for the right words - if there even were any. His gaze lingered on your eyes, that pale, stormy grey that marked you unmistakably as banshee-born, though they stayed fixed on the floor, refusing to meet his.
"Look," he said at last, voice low, almost reluctant. "Yeah, surgery’s terrifying. Believe me - if anyone fucking gets that, it’s me."
He paused, running a hand through his hair.
"But if your vocal cords thicken any more, they might not open at all. Ever." He exhaled slowly. "They could even press into your airways. Cut off your breath."
You could feel the sting of tears rising, sharp and unwelcome, but you squeezed your eyes shut - hard. There was no way in hell you were going to cry in front of Isaac Night.
You almost appreciated his half-hearted attempt at being helpful. Almost. But the truth was, it wasn’t the surgery that scared you - not really, even if it did a little.
It was the loss. The silence.
The fact that you might never, ever hear your first scream - the one every banshee child waited for like a promise. That sacred moment, that rite of becoming, tossed aside like garbage. Forgotten.
And you'd carry that weight forever.
Now Isaac was at a loss - and, frankly, your silence was starting to grate on him.
Sure, he knew this wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but did you really have to get so damn emotional about it? From his perspective, it was simple: get the surgery, fix the problem, move on. That’s what you wanted from him, wasn’t it? To fix you?
And he could.
With a scalpel and a swing kit, he could open you up and make it all right - at least on paper.
But he didn’t get it. Not really.
To him, it was just a malfunction to correct. A repair job. To you, it was more than that. It was sacred. It was identity. And letting him cut into that - into you - felt like surrendering something that could never be put back.
No. No, this wasn’t how it was going to go. There had to be another way.
You lifted your eyes, forcing yourself to meet Isaac’s gaze. He was already watching you, unreadable as always - but you didn’t look away. Not this time.
Defiance burned in your expression, sharp and unwavering. You shook your head slowly, deliberately. This wasn’t over. You refused to let this be the final answer.
His sister had said he liked a challenge. Fine. Let him prove it.
Isaac exhaled hard, dragging a hand through his hair, already irritated. His eyes narrowed, jaw clenched.
"I don’t have time to figure something else out," he snapped. "I have other, more important things to work on."
With that, he turned away and stalked back to his desk, planting both hands on its edge like he needed something to hold him back.
You snatched the paper he’d handed you earlier, your own handwriting already covering half the page. Flipping it over, you quickly scrawled a new message, pressing the pencil harder than necessary.
When you were done, you rapped it sharply against the side of the table to get his attention.
He turned-slowly-and you held the paper up for him to read:
And what would that be?
For a moment, he just stared at you, jaw tight, a storm brewing behind his eyes. The frustration rolled off him in waves.
"That," he growled, "is none of your damn business."
Your eyes narrowed. Fine. Touchy subject.
But his reaction lit a spark of suspicion in the back of your mind.
You flipped the page around and kept writing, your handwriting growing messier with each frantic stroke — desperation bleeding through every letter:
Please. Please, I swear I’ll help with whatever you need me to. I just can't do it. I'll help. just please.
Your hands were trembling now.
You needed to find another way — there had to be one. But without his help... you weren’t sure how you'd manage.
You were begging - and you hated it.
Hated that it had come to this. Hated that it was Isaac Night you had to beg.
It was humiliating. Embarrassing. But none of that stopped the desperation clawing at your chest. You looked at him, eyes wide with hope you could barely contain, heart thudding painfully as the silence stretched.
Then his expression twisted - jaw clenched, brows drawn low in frustration.
“Goddammit, fine!” he snapped.
You let out a breath you didn’t even realize you’d been holding. Relief crashed over you like a wave.
Isaac let out a sharp, humorless laugh - a sound completely out of place in the thick tension between you. He dragged a hand down his face, exasperated.
“Christ,” he muttered, “I just can’t seem to say no to you, can I?”
He looked at you again, shaking his head, more tired than angry now.
You had too much faith. Especially in him.
He cleared his throat. “Alright,” he said, voice lower now, more restrained. “You want another way? Then sit down, stop shaking, and give me time to think. No promises.”
It was the most he could give - and far more than he usually did.
You nodded, slow and cautious, like any sudden movement might make him take it back.
Then you sat down.
Your hands were still trembling, but you curled them into fists in your lap, trying to will the panic away. You didn’t say anything - not that you could - but the silence between you had shifted. Less suffocating now. Still heavy, but… not hopeless.
Isaac had moved back to his desk, muttering to himself as he pushed aside half-built parts and old sketches. You watched him as he worked - his movements sharp, focused.
Despite his demand to remain unbothered. You were quick to write, asking what you could do to help. There was no time to waste — no room for hesitation. You weren’t about to let him back out, not now. He needed to know you were committed, that you’d hold up your end of the bargain, no matter what it took.
Hope surged in your chest — almost too much to hold. But even as it swelled, urgency pressed in harder. You needed to move quickly, because one piece of information kept looping through your mind like a broken record:
They could even press into your airways. Cut off your breath.
Avoiding the surgery wasn’t just about identity anymore. It was dangerous.
But even so, you could let it come to that.
So like it or not, Isaac Night now had your life in his hands.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed this chapter loves! It's a little late but I've been really busy with assessments this past week. 😅 I found this chapter slightly difficult to write compared to the last one but i'm still happy with how it turned out! Please let me know if there's anything you would like to see in later chapters, i'm always open to suggestions! 💕
Taglist:
@athenalesage
I LOVEDDD YOUR ISAAC NIGHT FIC!! I honestly can’t wait for part 2 cause holy moly you are so talented!! 💕 I was wondering if I could request an Isaac night x reader fic where they’re already in a relationship and Isaac is obsessed and WHIPPED for reader, and Isaac gets jealous… only write this if you’re comfortable- STAY HYDRATED BABES!!💕💕
Thank you so much darling, you're so sweet 💕 I'm so glad you liked it!
I really liked this idea, so this is what I came up with! Please don't hesitate to request any ideas you have, i'm more than happy to write them! I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think :)
𝑀𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑇ℎ𝑎𝑛 𝑎 𝐿𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑂𝑏𝑠𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑑 By FancyPoetryBread
Isaac Night x Reader
Summery: When an old family friend visits, you’re thrilled—much more than your obsessive boyfriend, whose jealousy simmers beneath the surface. But you forgot one thing: Isaac’s obsession with you is fierce enough to make your knees weak, no matter how often you try to keep the peace.
Warnings: Swearing, Jealous Isaac, No use of y/n, possessiveness, implied future activities 👀 (barely and only once)
Word Count: 1,591
You were everything to him - his oxygen, his sunlight, the gears that kept his mechanical heart turning. One of the few people he’d ever been capable of truly caring for.
Isaac was obsessive in everything he did - inventions, experiments, theories. He didn’t waste time on fleeting relationships destined to crash before the year was out. He had no interest in something so trivial.
But you were different. You had slipped into his chronically busy life with such ease that by the time he asked you out, it felt as though you’d always been there - a missing piece he hadn’t realized he’d been searching for for all these years.
It was pathetic, really - the way he scanned every room for you, the way his hand instinctively reached for you on every cold night you spent together,
The way he looked into your eyes - with such unwavering devotion - you almost believed he’d never look away.
It was as if every breath he took was for you alone. You were the sunshine that rose to meet his endless night.
So you can imagine the silent cloud of rage that engulfed him - soul and all - when he heard a loud knock on your door, and watched as a young gorgon boy sweep you up into his arms when you opened it, swinging you back and forth while you squealed with delight.
The boy looked to be around your age - decent enough, though far less so in Isaac’s opinion.
His blood boiled. How dare someone touch you like that? What the fuck did this guy think he was doing, getting so close and personal with his perfect girlfriend?
He watched with disdain as the boy set you back on the ground, grinning down at you. Your giggling faded as you turned to face Isaac - his expression a perfect window into the storm brewing in his mind.
You smiled knowingly. You were used to Isaac getting like this, especially around people you knew that he didn’t. As much of a pain as it could be, you couldn’t ignore the butterflies that fluttered to life in your stomach whenever he got this way - you never bothered to push them down.
"Isaac," you said, flashing him the kind of smile you knew made him melt. "This is my friend Cassian - our parents are friends, we grew up together."
Cassian’s gaze lifted toward Isaac’s stiff figure, who was leaning against the wall at the head of your bed. Offering a wide, toothy grin and a nod, he said:
"Looking after you, is he?"
He gave you a brief glance before letting his eyes settle back on Isaac.
"Of course I am," Isaac replied, his voice sharp and clipped.
Cassian nodded - either oblivious to Isaac’s tone or deliberately ignoring it. "No problems then," he said, flashing another grin his way. "Nice to finally meet you. This ones been talking about you nonstop whenever somebody listens." Cassian teased, nudging you with his elbow—earning a quick slap on the arm in return.
The intensity of Isaacs gaze was unwavering, until it dropped, glancing down at the soot stain on his coat - probably from cleaning one of his many twisted, half-finished machines. noticing his sudden shut off, you turned back to cassian. Patting his arm gently.
“You mind if I handle this for a second? We’ll catch up later, yeah?” you said gently, letting your eyes linger on your boyfriend, the toxic fumes of jealousy practically radiating off his skin.
Cassian, clearly relieved, gave a quick nod and slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
“Isaac?” you called, arms crossed - though not in frustration. If anything, your lips twitched with amusement. The whole situation was almost too easy to enjoy.
Isaac lifted his head, eyes finding yours with the silent intensity of someone utterly lovesick - like a dog waiting for permission to breathe.
“My love,” you cooed, taking slow steps toward him. “You wouldn’t mind if I went to catch up with Cassian, would you? I haven’t seen him in ages.”
You sank onto the edge of the bed, giving him your best puppy-dog eyes - the kind you knew he was powerless against.
He didn’t speak. Just closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall, jaw tight. He couldn’t look at you - because he knew if he did, if he saw that expression, heard that softness in your voice, he’d give in. And right now, the thought of you walking away - even for a moment - was unbearable.
His hand reached for yours, cold to the touch but steady — a silent reassurance that grounded you, despite the unspoken tension hanging between you.
"C'mon, I haven’t seen him in forever," you whined, your voice playful as you bounced lightly on the bed, throwing a miniature tantrum. You pouted, realizing that your puppy-dog eyes had been useless while his eyes were closed.
Isaac didn’t budge at first. Then, almost reluctantly, he exhaled and muttered, "Fine." His voice was soft, as if he’d just been told he’d lost his most treasured possession. And to him - in some ways - he had.
His head remained leaned against the wall, squashing his perfect curls in the process. But when he finally opened his eyes, they locked onto yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. There was a possessiveness in his gaze, sharp and unyielding, like he was silently claiming you all over again. Every inch of him screamed obsession - the quiet, almost desperate need to keep you close, to have you to himself.
You could see it in the way his eyes never wavered from yours - like if he looked away, even for a moment, the world might slip out of his grasp.
"Don't forget, Dove," he whispered into your ear, his voice low and dark, sending a shiver down your spine. His fingers slid to the back of your neck, gently pulling you closer, the warmth of his hand sending a jolt through you. His touch was delicate, almost reverent, as his gaze dropped to your lips, hunger flashing behind his eyes.
"You belong to me," he murmured, his words lingering in the air, heavy with meaning. "You're mine."
He lifted his head from the wall, angling it so he could get closer, closer to the kiss he knew you both wanted, the air thick with anticipation. "If he forgets that," he added, his voice barely more than a growl, "and his hands get too close..." He moved in, his lips brushing yours in the softest of touches, barely there, just enough to make your heart race.
"I’ll take them off," he whispered, the promise in his voice sending a heat spreading through you. His hand tightened, not enough to hurt, but just enough to make your pulse spike, to make your cheeks flush and your stomach twist with a raw, irresistible heat.
He pressed his lips to yours - and despite the sharp words he'd just spoken, the kiss was nothing but soft. Gentle. Like you were something precious in his hands, something he couldn’t bear to risk breaking. His mouth moved against yours with aching tenderness, like he was trying to tell you everything he couldn’t quite say aloud.
When he pulled back, his eyes found yours again - and it was all there. That deep, unwavering devotion. That quiet desperation to hold onto you. Your heart skipped, fluttering wildly in your chest. God. Now you didn’t want to leave.
But Cassian was still waiting, and you had promised. Still, it was impossible to tear yourself away from the warmth of Isaac’s touch, the way his presence wrapped around you like gravity.
You gave him a small nod - a silent promise that you understood him, that you were his - and with reluctant fingers, reached down to grab your bag from the foot of the bed.
“I’ll be back soon, my love. I promise,” you whispered against his lips, the words threading between you like a vow.
Then you straightened, gave him a bright smile, and walked out the door - already missing his touch.
Isaac let out a long, drawn-out sigh, the room suddenly feeling hollow and cold without you in it.
Fuck, he thought, eyes closing for a moment. He was whipped.
And yet, despite the weight of his feelings, he couldn’t bring himself to care. In fact, he reveled in it. He loved it — the way you squirmed under his touch, the way your gaze softened when you looked at him, like you were seeing him in a way no one else ever had. You loved him with a depth that left him breathless, a love so raw and unguarded that it tore down every wall he’d spent so long building.
And now? Now he was hooked. Addicted. You were his drug - a sweet, intoxicating pull he couldn’t escape, and honestly, he didn’t want to.
He was a man who prided himself on control - on mastering every situation, every emotion, every inch of his life. So the overwhelming intensity of his feelings for you - and, more painfully, his inability to control them - sent him spiraling. Yet, in the depths of that spiral, the only place he wanted to fall was into your arms.
And if that was where he was bound to crash, he'd never want to pull himself back out.
Maybe he was more than a little obsessed.
A/N: I'm sorry this was a little late! I actually really had fun writing this and i'm I hope you enjoyed reading it. please let me know of any other ideas you wanted me to right, i'm always open to suggestions! have an amazing day wherever you are my loves! 💕
𝑇ℎ𝑒 𝑆𝑖𝑙𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝐻𝑒 𝐵𝑟𝑜𝑘𝑒 By FancyPoetryBread
Issac Night x Reader
Part 1 (Your Here), Part 2, Part 3
Summery: A Banshee’s song is her greatest gift, her deadliest weapon, and her most sacred possession — a melody born of grief and fate. But yours is silent. Desperate to break the quiet pressing on your chest, you turn to Nevermore’s most brilliant — and most arrogant — student, Isaac Night. Two broken lives, stitched together by necessity. But will your story end in healing... or in the grief and heartbreak your silence has always promised?
Warnings: Swearing, Isaac being an ass, No use of y/n
Word Count: 4,114
Despite the loud Buzz of classroom conversation, Quiet stillness filled the air around you, imprisoning you in your own unescapable reality. It was excruciating rather than something so often chased by others.
The shame of your silence wore heavy on your shoulders and in your steps. For seventeen years you have lived with her own quiet, your inability to speak, laugh, cry.
And most of all, when you tried to scream, only the awful stillness of silence echoed back at you. You had come to despise it.
When you were younger you didn't mind it so much, you fit right in with all the other Banshee children who's vocal cords were closed up, not yet strong enough to accommodate the horrifying scream they will soon let out.
that was until you reached the age of seventeen, and still, no such scream had yet ripped through your throat.
a Banshees scream was everything to them, a visceral and terrifying song that is heard with the body just as much as with the ears. It is a song so powerful that It vibrates in the bones of all that are living, curdling the air. Even the earth itself would flinch upon hearing it. A Banshees mere presence was never meaningless, it is a sign, an omen, a warning. A warning that death was standing idly by, awaiting the right moment to snatch away yet another soul. Sometimes they didn't even scream, their presence was enough.
A Banshees first scream was not just a sound, it was a force in itself the most potent and pure scream they will ever produce in their life, untouched by age or experience. When a Banshees vocal cords conclude their long, unnatural development, they do not simply open, they explode to life. it is unbearable pain for both Banshee and anyone unfortunate enough to hear it. For it is not just a scream, it is the sound of death waking up - and recognising them as one of its own.
Your scream had not yet come. Your voice idle and unheard by the world. a silent monument of the shame and disappointment you carried with you like a second skin, sagging you shoulders wherever you went like a dead weight. Oh what you would give to scream, to unleash every devastating note buried in your chest and relish in the sound of your own perfect song echoing back.
You sat, with your legs crossed elegantly over one another, your face cradled by your hand, scribbling mindlessly in the margins of your neatly organised notebook. You had not absorbed one word of the lecture, to the string of complex words streaming out of your teachers mouth a constant drone in the back of your head. Sometimes you swears she could still hear him in your sleep.
Infact, your Advanced Anatomy class was the last thing on your mind, statements and lectures about anatomical shifts during a werewolf's transformation went through one ear and out the other leaving barely a trace behind. Your eyes, However were unable to stay trained to your notes, they drifted - again and again - to a very particular classmate of yours. A young Davinci student whose mind was his most powerful weapon and dubbed one of the most brilliant to walk the stone walls of Nevermore.
Isaac Night.
He was arrogance incarnate - the living and breathing embodiment of, to be quite blunt, an asshole. Yet, there was something about him. He held a magnetic sort of charm that never failed to bait your eyes.
He sat hunched over his workbench in the far corner of the classroom, scribbling furiously about something that didn't quite seem like todays notes, his dark curls bounced with every sharp movement, strands falling constantly into his eyes. He brushed them back with a quick irritated sweep of his hand. only for them to fall right back into place. Nothing was distracting him from whatever was cluttering the unkept pages that seemed to demand so much of his attention.
You watched his movements with curiosity and a little admiration. Everybody knew Isaac Night. He was the schools star student, a creator of things both terrifying and beautiful. His very presence held an air of confidence and mystery. And somewhere, in the back of your mind, a small voice stirred - eager to uncover the mystery that was Isaac Night.
Suddenly, his head lifted from his scattered papers to briefly scan the board, filled with new and unfamiliar notes.
No bother, he would take them later, probably more thoroughly than anyone else could manage.
Out of the corner of your eye you watched as his focus returned to his papers, his pencil racing across the pages as if the idea burning in his mind couldn't wait a second longer.
That was when an idea you had been pushing away for quite some time resurfaced to take centre stage in your mind.
Could he help me?
You were conflicted at the idea.
He was an obsessive inventor wired for machines and theories, not a doctor, and you doubted he knew the first thing about a Banshees vocal cords - especially yours. As anatomy obviously didn't quite keep him awake at night.
But you were out of options.
You had tried teas. Warm compresses. You tried ancient remedies and new-age nonsense. You wished on every blown out birthday candle and prayed to every god. You scraped at snippets of information you could find about how to unleash the scream you were so desperate to hear.
But none of it had worked.
And now even your own parents had started treating you differently - as if you were foreign, becoming something other than the daughter they had loved and raised for seventeen years.
You hated it. All of it.
You tore your attention away from the young Davinci and back to the board, complex notes and diagrams providing you no comfort. You quickly scribbled down as much as you could, scrambling to catch up. Filling up two whole pages of your once pristine notebook with unkept, messy writing.
The Professor finally dismissed the class, and you were quick to back away your books. Sliding off of your chair and into the crowd of students, you moved with a purpose - eager to leave the faint metallic smell that accompanied the classroom, surely a result of the dozens of jarred organs lining the old wooden shelves.
As you passed the last workbench on your desperate mission out the door when you noticed him. Isaac.
Back still bent over the desk, pages upon pages of what seemed to be formulas as experiemental sketches strewn like debris across the surface.
You stopped, letting the last few students brush past you, their footsteps, a fading sound down the hall, before the classroom settled into that dreaded silence you knew all too well.
Only you, Isaac and the Professor remained, the latter of which was too engrossed in marking papers to notice you. Your eyes drifted back to Isaac, and for a moment, you watched his hands - pale and restless - grip his overworked pencil, messy handwriting scarring each piece of crumpled paper. You remembered the notes in your bag.
Doubt he had any time to write what was actually going on in class.
You rolled your eyes, twisting around to reach into your bag, you shuffled through loose papers and notebooks until you found a book neatly labeled: ANATOMY. You flipped through the pages until you reached todays frantic scribbles - rushed and uneven notes that just barely kept up with the class.
Carefully - as to not damage the pages - you ripped the them out, placing them on the table and sliding them towards Isaac, they bumped into the edges of his catastrophic pile, your own neat mess colliding with his full blown one.
His hand froze, endless scribbling ceased as he turned his eyes in your direction. He didn't even lift is head, merely angling it towards you - sharp, flat and wholly unamused.
"What's that?" he asked, voice low and seemingly a bit irritated that you interrupted his little scribble session.
Rude.
You tapped at the notes and shoved them further towards him, displacing a few of his own precious papers.
He scanned the pages with little interest before turning back to his own, as if you had just handed him a gum wrapper.
"Just leave them there". His voice held no appreciation whatsoever. You frowned.
Wow, asshole.
You stood pressed against the table for a moment, stunned.
You'd considered using this chance to try ask him for help - to say something - but now? You weren't so sure.
You pushed yourself off the side of the bench and continued out the door of the classroom without another word.
Not even a thank you? What a piece of work.
You trudged through the stone corridors, irritation buzzing in your head like the fly you couldn't quite swat away. It clung to you until you reached the tall, carved wooden doors that lead to your favorite place within the walls of Nevermore: The music room.
The moment you entered the room, the tension in your shoulders eased.
The music room was your safe space, your sanctuary. Here, you could express yourself without needing a voice. You could temporarily fill the hole in your chest left there by your... Shortcoming.
Sometimes you didn't even play. Sometimes you just listened.
The soft melodies created by the other students drifting around you, easing the unbearable quiet that seemed to engulf you like a gloomy fog. Being here didn't fix it, but it softened the ache.
Even just for a little while.
Today, however, there were no students playing. The music room was silent. No soft melodies drifted through the air - only stillness. Ironic. The absence only tightened the pressure growing in your chest. A weight that grew heavier with every passing moment.
You were quick to discard your bag by the door and crossed the room to the grand piano tucked neatly to the side of the room. Dark wood gleaming in the mid-day sun, commanding attention. You where desperate to fill the unusual silence.
You slipped onto the bench, your fingers delicately brushing over the worn ivory keys - a silent reminder of the powerful music it has brought to life over the years. Straightening your spine, you allowed your fingers to fall into position, allowing instinct to guide you.
Your fingers find their way to the first note. Pressing softly until a sound - clear and resonant - erupted from within the piano, swelling within the room for a brief moment before quietly fading back into silence.
You played the next note,
And then another,
Until your fingers found their rhythm, gliding across the keys with effortless grace. Each note molding together, weaving a melody that felt older than memory, familiar and freeing all at once.
The sound was carried through the room, filling the space like sunlight through stained glass - warm, alive and unrelenting. You felt a warmth fill you, the kind of warmth only music has ever been able to bring to your life. The elegant music pushed back the silence, drove it into the darkest corners of the room, banishing it along with the shame and dissapointment that followed you like a shadow.
Here in this moment you didn't need a voice, the music was your voice and for the first time today, you felt whole.
You chased this feeling like a lifeline, returning to the music room every day without fail - desperate to fill the devastatingly large whole in your chest, and it did. But only for a little while.
The moment you stepped back out into the real world - it returned, hollow and relentless.
This is what you craved.
And you were going to have it.
Your fingers abruptly froze mid-note. the melody created by the piano dissolved into silence, retreating like a tide, And with it came only one thought.
Isaac.
Well, not exactly him - but what his help could mean.
You didn't like the idea. More specifically you didn't like him. He was arrogant, cold and painfully rude - and the last person you would ever trust with something so personal. But you had run out of options.
And the aching, desperate need for a feeling you had only ever touched through music... It had become unbearable.
You stood abruptly. The piano bench scared against the floor with a loud screech, echoing through the empty room. You winced, silently cursing to yourself as you strode over to your abandoned bag, slinging it over your shoulder with sharp finality.
You shoved open the tall doors and stormed back towards the anatomy lab.
I shouldn't be asking.
He's an asshole.
I don't want his help.
And yet - you were already on your way.
Deep down, you knew he was probably the only man alive who might have even the vaguest idea of what to do.
No matter how much you hated admitting it.
You turned the corner into professor Orloffs classroom - only to find it completely empty. His desk spotless, all of his papers cleared away.
Fuck.
Of course he wouldn't still be here.
Defeated, you spun on your heels, shoulders tense and began your search. You trudged through the stone corridors, checking each hallway and classroom with mounting frustration. You noticed every passing student, your eyes flickering automatically to their hair - Black curls? No. Fair skin? Close, but no. None of them were him.
You had skipped the courtyard. The thought of combing through a crowd of loud, over caffeinated was too draining. Besides, Isaac didn't exactly strike you as the type to gather a table to gossip about the latest drama. You doubted he even had friends.
You had searched almost every inch of the school. Every hallway, every classroom. You didn't dare go near the boys dormitory - that would've crossed a line straight into stalker territory in your opinion.
However, by the time you reached the open doors to the library, an sinking feeling had already settled in the pit of your stomach.
Where is he? Surely he didn't just vanish.
Honestly, you wouldn't put it past him - if anyone was capable of inventing some twisted machine to disappear off the face of the earth just to avoid human interaction. It would be him.
You scanned the library from the doorway.
There's too many shelves, i'm not going to find him from here.
Stepping inside, you pass tables full of students quietly murmuring to one another. The air was thick with the distinct scent of old parchment and dust. Your eyes moved from shelf to shelf, scanning the spines of seemingly ancient texts, until they finally landed on something familiar - a mess of delicate black curls, tucked in the farthest corner of the room.
of course it had to be the last place I checked.
You sighed, watched a crumpled peice of paper drift to the ground beside him. Yep. Defiantly him.
He'd removed his uniform jacket and tossed it on the back of nearby chair. Typical - just enough effort to look careless. You lingered, watching him for a moment debating whether your scream was really worth putting up with him.
He wasn't just rude. You had heard what your classmates say about him. He was arrogant. Obsessive and completely self centred. Caring only about his inventions and have something dangerously close to a god complex.
You cringed.
Perfect. Just what I need. A God complex with a pencil.
But what choice did you have? Nothing else had worked. doctors were at a loss. Your parents were growing distant - watching you with a mix of pity and unease, as if your silence was something contagious.
Swallowing your pride, you cursed to yourself and walked towards him. Slowly.
You were just about to tap his shoulder when he spoke, voice flat and disinterested:
"Your notes are over there."
He pointed lazily to the corner of the desk, where the two pages you had torn out of your book earlier that day lay, unwrinckled, aligned and neatly stacked.
"I already copied them," he added, still not looking at you. "You were missing a lot by the way."
You started at the back of his head.
I swear to god - this fucking kid.
You ignored the fact that he was your age. Or maybe slightly older? Whatever. It didn't matter.
You tapped his shoulder. Hard.
His head snapped around, curls swinging with the force of it, eyes flashing with irritation. But you didn't feel like apologising right now.
"What?" he hissed, jaw tight, grip on his pencil visibly tightening.
Without answering, you reached passed him. Snatching one of the crumpled pages from his desk, and - upon finding no extra pencil - plucking his straight out of his hand.
"What the fuck are you doing?" He snapped, his voice full of the same arrogant, teeth grinding irritation he seemed to carry everywhere. But you barely heard him - not with how close his face was to yours, breath brushing against your cheek.
Too close.
Way too close.
You stepped back immediately, creating a comfortable and necessary distance between you.
Your eyes locked onto your paper. Scribbling furiously, heart hammering as you poured the words out onto the paper. You flipped the page around and held it towards him
His eyes dropped to read the page infant of him:
I can't scream. I can't speak either. I want you to help me.
A beat of silence.
Then he scoffed - loud, dismissive and infuriating. only further proving to you that he is in fact, an asshole.
Of course this smug bastard would find something funny about this.
You narrowed your eyes at him, and he smirked right back at you.
"What do you want me to do?" He said, tone sharp, like broken glass. "Not my fault you're useless."
You stare at him, stunned. Heat surged up your neck.
Fuck you Night. You thought. You knew this was a stupid idea.
You wanted to storm out. You wanted to scrunch the paper up and hurl it straight at his maddeningly charming face. You wanted to scream - just to spite him.
But you didn't.
Because he was your last option. The last fragile sliver of hope you were still clinging to.
And this - whatever 'this' was - needed to work.
You bent back over the desk, scribbling out what you hoped might sway him.
Please, I've tried everything and nothing works. And I figured, surely the most brilliant mind at nevermore, or even the world could figure something out.
You spun the page around and held your breath. Silently praying that your flattery would feed into his sky high ego just enough.
He read it, smirk growing.
"Well, I appreciate you stating the obvious," he said, head tilting in amusement - more entertained by your desperation than anything else.
You only barely managed to suppress an eye roll.
"But why would I do that, hm?" he continued, leaning back lazily in his chair. "I have far more important things to do than fix your... vocal problems".
There it was. He struck a good point, what did you have to offer him?
You suppose that a small part of you - the foolish, hopeful part - had thought maybe he would do it out of the goodness of his heart.
But now, standing infront of him, all you saw was the smirk of someone who enjoyed watching others squirm.
You paused, thinking. Why would he help you? What incentive did he have?
he raised his eyebrows, waiting - clearly amused by your silence.
You looked back, but this time you really looked at him.
His eyes were a deep, unreadable brown - not warm, not soft - but filled with something you didn't quite understand: secrets, sharp thoughts, maybe a little tragedy too. But most of all, he looked tired.
Then a soft voice cut in beside you.
"That's not a very nice way to treat a girl Isaac."
You turned, startled.
A girl stood beside you - maybe a year younger, with long mousy brown hair that cascaded down her back and shoulders. She held a nervous sort of energy, but her smile was confident and kind.
"She just wants your help," she added, glancing back at you. You must've looked completely thrown because she giggled softly and extended her hand.
You took it. Grateful.
"I'm sorry about my brother, he can be a little mean but most of the time he's nice... kind of."
You didn't need to look to feel Isaac rolling his eyes behind you.
"Im Fransoise," she said, smile wide and genuine. It made her face look even softer - gentle in a way you hadn't seen in a long time.
You smile back at her, relieved. At least one of the Night siblings wasn't a complete nightmare.
You applaud yourself for coming up with such a pun.
"I'm far too busy to take care of her Issues, Fransiose." Isaac groans, already spinning back toward his work.
Fransiose rolled her eyes this time, their matching shade of brown making the resemblance unmistakable.
"C'mon Isaac, that's just your go-to excuse when you want to seem more 'scientist-y'". She turned to you and stage whispered, ignoring her brother's bewildered glare, "He's not busy, he just doesn't think it's a big enough challenge for him. He's a show off."
"That's enough, Franciose." Isaacs voice cut through the air like a knife. Sharp. Final.
A student nearby shushed him instinctively, only to pale when they realised who it was they were shushing. You couldn't help the amused smile that curled at your lips.
Franciose just shrugged, wearing a deceptively innocent grin as she twirled away from the scene.
"Goodluck" she said quietly, waving before disappearing among the shelves.
You waved back, silently wishing she hadn’t left you alone with the walking pressure cooker that was Isaac Night.
When you turned back, you found him staring at you. Really staring. His eyes scanned your face, your frame, in a way that sent heat rushing under your skin.
Stop looking at me like that creep! You thought, but the heat in your chest wasn’t entirely discomfort.
"Fine," he said suddenly.
You blinked.
Did he just—
Your shoulders sagged with relief, the tension melting from your spine in one slow breath.
But of course, Isaac wasn't done. Seemingly less than pleased.
"Lago Tower. Eight p.m. No earlier, no later. Understand?"
You nodded quickly, almost too quickly.
"I want no resisting. No squirming. If you don’t like something, suck it up."
You were pretty sure that raised several ethical red flags, but now wasn’t the time to unpack them.
He looked at you with that same unblinking stare, tone clinical, voice sharp enough to cut.
And still — you nodded, agreeing without question. Despite the fact you definatly did have questions. Most along the lines of whether or not this guy has any ethical guidelines.
Something about the way he spoke left little room for argument. His presence had gravity, and it pulled you in despite every internal warning bell.
"Well then, Dove," he added, voice dripping with sarcasm. The nickname stirred something inside you — uncomfortable, definitely, but not entirely unpleasant.
"Take your notes and leave."
Whatever that was, it vanished the moment he turned away, waving you off with the same care you'd give a fly buzzing in your ear.
You grabbed your notes from the corner of the desk and scribbled something quickly on the crumpled page still in your hand.
Thank you.
You placed it gently in front of him.
Just as you moved to pull your hand back, his own closed around your wrist — cold, firm, unyielding.
You froze.
"Eight p.m." he repeated, eyes locking onto yours. "I don’t like people who are late."
His face was far too close — again — and for a brief moment, it felt like the air between you could crack.
You nodded, and the moment he let go, you stepped back, heart pounding in your chest.
You left the library with something strange fluttering inside you — a feeling bright enough to cut through the residue of frustration, bright enough to feel almost like hope.
Maybe, for the first time in your life, you’d be able to hear your own song.
Suddenly, asking Isaac Night for help didn’t seem like the worst idea you’d ever had after all.
A/N: Hello love! I hope you enjoyed this first chapter of The Silence He Broke! This is actually my first time posting something I've written. I was way too bored on the plane and ended up writing this, but I actually kind of loved how it turned out so here we are. Let me know if I should continue this series, I most likely will though because I really enjoyed writing this. Also feel free to send me any requests or ideas you have!