mori

[rainyyy-weather]

NEW OWEN PICTURE!!!!!!

Credits to the instagram user!🫶🏼

Lordy he looks so good with long hair smoking a cig😛 And the arm veins………. I’m wet🤤

@pepsipoet @mattsleftball

[mechaincalheart]

[ivelivedtoolong]

[clockworkcardiac]

early 90s isaac night (outside of nevermore)

[hearteyesforowen]

he’s so fucking perfect. look at the nervous smile 🥹🥹

[latanyalove]

Lone Wolf

Summary: at the age of 14 you left the Roger Pirates and set out for your own adventure by yourself. Somehow a clown will always have the last laugh.

Song: One Shirt - Rema, Ruger

Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🎂🫶

The salt spray bit at your exposed skin, a familiar sting that had been your companion for decades. Thirty-nine years. A lifetime spent chasing horizons, carving your name into the annals of the Grand Line. Even now, the memory of the Roger Pirates felt like a phantom limb, a presence that had shaped you more than you’d ever admit.

You were the silent prodigy then, a whirlwind of power even at twelve, a stark contrast to the boisterous energy of Shanks and the gleeful chaos of Buggy.

They’d tried, those two, to pry you out of your shell, their childish attempts at friendship bouncing off your quiet walls like harmless cannonballs. You’d observed them from your silent perch, a powerful enigma they couldn’t quite decipher.

Then, at fourteen, you’d simply… left. No fanfare, no goodbyes. The Roger Pirates, in their wisdom and respect, hadn’t pursued. They understood. They knew you were a force that needed to chart its own course. And chart it you did, across treacherous seas and through forgotten islands, your name whispered in hushed tones, a legend in the making.

The news of Gol D. Roger’s execution had blindsided you. You’d been on some godforsaken island, a fleeting shadow against the vastness of the ocean, when the tidings reached you. The world stilled. The waves seemed to hold their breath. And for the first time in your young life, tears, hot and stinging, had spilled down your cheeks, a silent testament to the depth of your grief.

Now, at thirty-nine, the weight of those years pressed down on you. You were in a precarious position, the aftermath of a brutal encounter leaving you battered and weary. You’d underestimated your opponent, a creature of immense power, and had been caught off guard, your reserves depleted from a previous skirmish. Every breath was a struggle, every movement a monumental effort. You’d sought refuge in a secluded cove, hoping to recover before your enemy found you. The tide was turning against you, not just in this fight, but perhaps in your entire life.

Suddenly, a splash. Not the gentle lapping of waves, but a more deliberate, albeit clumsy, disturbance. Your senses, honed by years of survival, snapped to attention. You squinted through the dim light filtering through the cave entrance, your hand instinctively reaching for a weapon that felt too heavy to wield.

And then you saw him. A splash of garish color, a shock of vibrant crimson hair, and a nose… a very, very large, red nose. The unmistakable silhouette of Buggy the Clown.

Your breath hitched. Buggy. After all these years. He was older, of course, his flamboyant costume a little more weathered, but the manic energy was still there, a palpable aura radiating from him. He strode onto the sand, his mismatched boots sinking slightly with each step, a wide, almost deranged grin plastered across his face. He looked like he’d stepped straight out of a nightmare, or perhaps a particularly vivid circus.

“Well, well, well!” his voice boomed, echoing through the quiet cove, laced with a familiar, theatrical flair. “Look what the tide dragged in! If it isn’t the silent one! Still so quiet, I see. You’d think after all these years, you’d have learned to shout a bit.”

He continued his boisterous monologue, his eyes scanning your weakened form. There was genuine concern beneath the bluster, a flicker of something that reminded you of the twelve-year-old boy who’d desperately wanted to be your friend.

“You look like you’ve tangled with a Kraken and lost, my dear,” he continued, circling you with an unsettling grace. “And not even a good Kraken. A truly pathetic specimen, I’d wager.”

You wanted to retort, to snap back with your usual quiet intensity, but your throat felt like sandpaper. All you could manage was a weak grunt.

Buggy stopped in front of you, his gaze softening ever so slightly. He knelt down, his painted face surprisingly close to yours. “Don’t push yourself, you idiot. You always did have a knack for getting yourself into trouble. And for doing it alone.”

He reached out a hand, his gloved fingers hovering for a moment before gently touching your forehead. His touch was surprisingly cool, steadying. “You’re burning up,” he murmured, his usual booming tone subdued.

Suddenly, the sound of heavy footsteps approached the cove. Buggy’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing, the jovial mask falling away to reveal a sharp, intelligent glint.

“Well, this is inconvenient,” he muttered, standing up. He looked back at you, a spark of something akin to mischief in his eyes. “Don’t worry, my dear. The main event hasn’t even started yet. And I do love a good show.”

He turned to face the approaching threat, the garish colors of his costume a stark contrast to the grim reality that was about to unfold. You watched, a silent observer once more, as Buggy the Clown, the man who had once desperately sought your friendship, now stood between you and death.

The enemy emerged from the mist, a hulking brute of a man, his eyes burning with predatory hunger. He was clearly the victor of your previous encounter, his aura radiating brute force. He grunted, a sound of pure triumph, his gaze falling upon Buggy.

“Who are you, clown?” he snarled, his voice a low growl. “Get out of my way. The weakling is mine.”

Buggy threw his head back and laughed, a loud, booming sound that seemed to vibrate through the very ground. “Yours? Oh, but darling, you misunderstand. I’m not just anyone. I am the Great Buggy! And this… this is my stage tonight!”

With that, he brought his hands together, and the world around you fractured. Your breath hitched in your throat as you realized what was happening. He was using his Devil Fruit ability. Not a hint of hesitation, no wasted motion. One moment he was standing, the next, his arms and legs were detached, flying through the air with impossible speed.

Your mind, even in its weakened state, registered the sheer power and precision. He wasn’t a clumsy clown. He was a seasoned fighter, his movements honed by countless battles. He was using his abilities with a skill you hadn’t seen since your days with the Roger Pirates.

The brute roared, surprised by the sudden, chaotic assault. Buggy’s dismembered limbs became a whirlwind of attacks, striking with precise jabs and kicks, each one aimed with deadly accuracy. You watched, mesmerized, as your old acquaintance, the one who had pestered you endlessly for attention, now fought with a ferocity that belied his eccentric appearance.

He wasn’t just fighting; he was toying with his opponent, his laughter echoing with every successful strike. It was a performance, yes, but a deadly one. You saw him use his abilities in ways you’d never imagined, his body parts acting as independent projectiles, creating diversions and striking from unexpected angles.

The brute, enraged and confused, swung wildly, but Buggy’s dismembered parts dodged and weaved with an almost supernatural agility. There was a method to his madness, a strategy that was becoming clearer with each passing moment. He was disorienting the brute, wearing him down, preparing for the final blow.

And then, he did it. With a final, explosive surge, Buggy’s body reformed, his hands clasped behind his back as if he were simply admiring his handiwork. The brute, stunned and bleeding, stumbled back, his eyes wide with disbelief.

“What… what was that?” he stammered.

Buggy bowed deeply, a theatrical flourish that made his cape billow. “That, my dear brute, was the art of the clown! The art of my art!”

He then pointed a single, extended finger at the brute, and with a chillingly calm expression, he activated his power again. This time, the attack was swift and brutal. His body exploded into countless pieces, a flurry of sharp appendages that sliced through the brute’s defenses like butter. The brute screamed, a guttural sound of pain and terror, before collapsing onto the sand, defeated.

Silence fell over the cove, broken only by the gentle lapping of waves. Buggy, his body reassembled, stood over his vanquished foe, his chest heaving slightly. He turned his gaze back to you, and the intense, almost predatory look was gone, replaced by something softer, something you hadn’t seen in a long time.

He walked back to you, his steps less boisterous now, more measured. He knelt beside you again, his painted smile somewhat muted.

“See? Told you the main event hadn’t started,” he said, his voice quieter now, a hint of huskiness in it. He looked at your still-trembling form. “You were always too stubborn, you know that? Too proud. Always thinking you had to do everything yourself.”

He reached out and gently pushed a strand of hair away from your forehead. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence he had just unleashed.

“It’s okay to need help sometimes,” he whispered, his gaze locked with yours. “Even for someone as… impressive as you.”

You could only stare at him, your mind still reeling from the fight and his unexpected reappearance. The years had changed him, but the core of the boy who’d desperately wanted your attention was still there, buried beneath the layers of bravado and theatricality.

“Buggy…” you finally managed to croak out, your voice rough and unused.

He offered a small, genuine smile. “Took you long enough to say my name. I was starting to think you’d forgotten it. Or worse, that you didn’t care.”

He then began to rummage through a large sack he’d apparently carried with him. He pulled out a flask and a small, crudely bandaged bundle.

“Here,” he said, offering you the flask. “Water. And this,” he added, pulling out what looked like a rather lopsided, half-eaten apple. “Emergency rations. Don’t judge. They’re surprisingly nutritious.”

You took the flask, your hand shaking as you brought it to your lips. The water was cool and soothing, a blessed relief. You managed to take a few sips, feeling a little strength return.

Buggy watched you, his painted eyes scrutinizing your every movement. “You were fighting alone, weren’t you?” he stated, not as a question, but as a fact. “Didn’t even have a decent crew, I bet. Still a loner, even now.”

You nodded, a lump forming in your throat.

He sighed, a surprisingly human sound. “It’s a dangerous world out there. Especially for someone with your… reputation. You can’t just wander around like a ghost forever. Someone’s going to catch you.”

He looked out at the vast, unforgiving ocean. “I’ve been sailing my own course, you know. Built a pretty decent crew. Got a bit of a name for myself. Not as grand as some people, of course,” he added with a wink, “but respectable. And I’ve been keeping an ear out. For those who were… important. Those who mattered.”

He turned back to you, his expression serious. “When I heard you’d been in a spot of trouble, I… well, I couldn’t just let that slide, could I? Not after all the times you ignored me when I tried to be your friend.”

A ghost of a smile touched your lips. “You always were the persistent one.”

Buggy chuckled, the sound a little less manic now, more genuine. “Someone had to be. You were so… enigmatic. It drove me crazy. I wanted to know what made you tick. What made you so quiet, and yet so powerful.”

He extended his hand again, this time offering it fully. “Come on, my dear. You can’t stay here. You need to recover. And I… I have a ship. And a crew. And a rather impressive amount of stored food. Enough to get you back on your feet.”

You looked at his outstretched hand, then at his face. The paint was still there, the garish colors a constant reminder of his persona. But beneath it, you saw the earnestness, the years of unspoken connection that had existed between you. He was still Buggy the Clown, the flamboyant pirate captain. But he was also the boy who had tried so desperately to be your friend, and the man who had just saved your life.

You hesitated for a moment, the memories of your solitary adventures flashing through your mind. But then you looked at his hand, waiting patiently. You thought of the lonely years, the quiet battles, the silent grief. And for the first time in a very long time, you didn’t feel the urge to retreat.

With a deep breath, you reached out and took his hand. His grip was surprisingly firm, steady. He pulled you to your feet, his arm steadying your wobbly frame.

“Easy there, partner,” he said, a flicker of concern in his eyes. “We’ve got a long way to go. And who knows,” he added, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes, “maybe you’ll even learn to shout a little on the way.”

As you leaned on him, your legs still weak, you felt a strange sense of peace settle over you. The Grand Line was still a dangerous, unpredictable place. But perhaps, just perhaps, you didn’t have to face it entirely alone anymore. The silent prodigy was finally finding her voice, and it was being answered by the cheerful, chaotic, and surprisingly loyal laughter of an old friend.

The clown had always known how to make an entrance, and now, it seemed, he was here to help you make an exit from your solitary past. . . .

[creepycranberry]

Can you feel my heart?

Isaac Night x Avian!reader

Warnings: angst, fluff(?), character death (I’m sorry, really), grief, gore, suicide, they celebrate thanksgiving, not fully proofread, slightly rushed so it’s not fifteen chapters long, formatted funny because it was too long,

A/n: this was great for helping my writers block. It kind of counts as my Halloween thing but we’ll see (I might have another one out by then). The ending is supposed to reflect like gothic romance so it’s kind of sad and a little dark. I cried while writing this so hopefully no one cries while reading it. It’s set up for a part two if anyone would be interested in that.

Word count: 12k

—————————————————————————————————————

There was something to be said about Francoise Night’s ability to worm her way into your affections. She was intensely sweet, incredibly well intentioned always. The complete antithesis to your irresolute, reserved disposition.

Unfortunately she came as a packaged deal, her dear brother accompanying you both in the courtyard at lunch each day.

It wasn’t that you didn’t like Isaac, it was just that you didn’t love him. You found it hard to be close with and covet people who didn’t burrow under the skin of your heart and stay there despite your efforts.

And there was the issue of Isaac’s inability to see past his own inflated intellect. Which was… a thing to push through nonetheless.

And then there was the totally separate (but still infuriating) matter of what seems to be Isaac’s Francoise type friend, Gomez, and his girlfriend. They were a couple who were utterly obsessed with each other, attached at the hip and would probably never spend a night apart once they were married.

Which is great for them, really, you are happy they are happy.

Except for that they are being happy all over your lunch table, in broad daylight, at the lunch table that you picked specifically because it was out of the way.

“Ay, Mi Vida, you are looking absolutely devilish today. It’s almost too much for me to handle.” Gomez was mumbling against Morticia’s wrist.

“Oh, my love!” Morticia grins, her face slowly moving further into Gomez’s space.

You glare at Isaac but he’s paying no attention to them. He’s reading a book so old the title has rubbed off the hardcover of the book.

So you look to Francoise, but she is also not paying attention. She's listening to her Walkman and journaling.

So this is only bothering you.

So you live with it for a while longer but then the smooching starts. Not kissing, actual smooching noises, obnoxious smooching noises at that.

But it’s not bothering anyone else, so the logical conclusion you come to is to not make a thing of it, and to extricate yourself from the situation that is seemingly bothering only you.

You gather your things and stand up as the smooching turns into giggling and other unpleasant noises.

“I have to grab something from the library before class.” You tell Francoise, hooking your crossbody bag over your shoulder.

“I’ll join you.” Isaac pipes up, closing his book and gathering his things.

You jump, slightly startled as you didn’t think Isaac was paying attention to anything happening around him.

“That’s not-“

“I need study materials.” He deadpans, beginning to walk past you. You find yourself blinking cluelessly before rushing to catch up with him, “I also was waiting for the proper moment to extricate myself from the immense public display of affection.”

That puts you at ease enough to smile, half from amusement and half because you don’t know how else to acknowledge him acknowledging you on his own terms for possibly the first time ever.

It’s cold outside, late fall and almost time for Thanksgiving break.

Isaac is wearing a black peacoat you’ve never seen him wear before. The ticking of his heart is muffled by the thick wool, the collar popped up to block his neck from the harsh wind.

“I like your coat.” You tell him in an effort to make idle conversation.

He actually stops in his tracks for a moment, like he’s having to recalibrate his brain to figure out how to respond.

He blinks slowly and then turns a quarter of the way so that if he just moved his head to the side a bit more he’d be meeting your eyes, “thank you.”

And then his eyes actually glance over your face, and then down to your shoes. They’re leather shearling lined boots with little star shaped buckles on the straps.

“I like your shoes.” He says, almost robotically but with enough sincerity you’re sure he means it to some extent.

You look down at them as well, “oh. Thanks. My cousin changed the buckles on them.”

“They’re nice.”

He’s taking in your facial features, almost like he’s filing them away for later scrutinization.

“Thanks, Isaac.”

And then you both stand there for a moment, like you don’t know how to keep going now that you’ve stopped.

“Ladies first.” He mumbles, gesturing at the path ahead of you.

He follows you all the way to the library and once you enter the library you go your separate ways.

You’re sitting at the end of an alley of bookshelves reading a book when Isaac walks past, stopping when he sees you in his peripheral vision.

He’s not sure what to make of you. You were kind and welcoming to his sister, but overall you were even-keeled and stoic.

From what he’s seen of the progression of yours and Francoise’s relationship, you were perfectly happy alone. It was very interesting to watch. At your age most kids are looking for companionship and are learning how to navigate connection.

And you couldn’t seem less interested in it.

And it wasn’t even in a self centered forced individuality way, you just seemingly preferred your own company.

Maybe it had something to do with your outcast ability? You could be a Hyde like Francoise possibly? Maybe a vampire? You weren’t a gorgon.

It could also just be you.

An effort to seem mysterious or just plain low self esteem.

The book you’re reading is a faded yellow paperback, the title is scrawled on the front in red letters that he can’t quite make out.

It startles him when you look up, so much so that he basically runs away, rushing off to a different area of the library.

——-

Francoise likes to take walks, long walks where she winds her way through the woods with Isaac at her heels just waiting to see where she might be trying to take him.

It started as a way to get out of the house for a few hours as kids and it evolved into a way for both of them to spend quality time with one another without feeling the need to converse with each other.

However, today's walk had the unexpected interruption of you.

At a spot in the woods was a stone table with matching stone benches, forgotten garden ornaments that were overtaken by nature, one of the benches formed a faint crack longways down the middle of it.

You were surrounded by birds, cardinals, goldfinches, bluejays and little chickadees. Like a goddamned princess from one of Francoise’s old fairytale books. They were perched on the trees around you, on the ground pecking at the dirt, even on the table right by you as you read out loud to them.

You were speaking softly, like you were attempting to lull a child to sleep.

“…I’m glad that it can not happen twice, the fever of first love. For it is a fever, and a burden, too. Whatever the poets may-“

You’re interrupted by Francoise bounding towards you, scaring the birds away. You’re seemingly startled enough not to notice Isaac at first and for a moment he sees you how Francoise must.

Because you smile when you see her. A beaming smile, accepting Francoise’s hug and making space for her on the bench next to you. Only to look up and visibly deflate when you see Isaac.

“Hello.” He greets you softly, waiting patiently by the bench opposite to you and Francoise for you to give him permission to join you.

“Isaac.” You bow your head, gesturing to the bench, “you can sit.”

And so he does, and he listens patiently as Francoise talks to you, prattling on about what they were covering in the advanced plant science she was in.

Isaac notices one bird that didn’t fly away when Francoise approached. A little red cardinal perched at your feet.

“What advanced courses are you taking, Isaac?”

He finally looks away from the bird, his surprise in you addressing him clear in the way he has to process the words for a second after he meets your eyes.

“Calculus and Mad science.”

“Both?” You ask, your head cocking to one side as you lean forward to let the table bear your weight.

“I didn’t feel the need to take another physical education credit if it wasn’t absolutely necessary.” He shrugs, “are you taking any advanced courses?”

“Dual credit literary theory.” You respond and his eyebrows raise.

“Is this for class?” Francoise asks you, reaching to take the book out of your hands.

You pull it away from her, “Fran, we talked about this.”

Isaac sits up straighter, prepared to challenge your authority in the situation but Francoise doesn’t seem hurt or upset.

She simply readjusts, “may I see it?”

“Of course.” You respond, handing it over to her, “and it’s not for class, I finished the reading for that last night.”

Isaac is now able to get a look at the front of the book. It’s the same one from the library the other day, but now he can read the title.

Rebecca, Daphne Du Maurier.

He feels something on his shoe and when he looks it’s the cardinal. It’s standing on top of his shoe and pecking at it.

“Is this a friend of yours?” Isaac asks and you perk up again, looking from his face to down at his shoe where he’s gesturing.

“Oats.” You scold, like he’s a dog.

The bird flies off, perching on a tree branch that’s not too far away.

“You’re an avian?” Isaac asks.

Your eyes widen a bit and you nod, “mhm.”

And he stores this information in the back of his mind in a file he won’t realize he’s keeping for a long while.

——-

Over the next two weeks you and Isaac became more comfortable existing in the same space as each other. He sat on the same side of the table as you and Francoise at lunch, he trailed behind you and Francoise in between classes, and you actually began to stay in your dorm room when he came by to help Francoise study.

All of these have built up to today.

You and Isaac actually had one class together, History of Supernatural Studies. Normally you sat on opposite ends of the room but today he followed you as you walked with Francoise to her class and then walked with you (on opposite sides of the hallway) to class to get there at the same time.

He found that the both of you acclimating yourselves to one another was very similar to two cats getting to know each other.

Except your caution was more akin to hesitation, which is to say that you didn’t get to know him slowly out of any feelings of danger, but instead because you are more unsure of him than anything.

But the preamble was making him weary, so he decided to expedite the process.

And you reacted exactly how he expected you might. Near frozen, shoulders tensed and pushed up slightly.

“What are you doing?”

“We’re starting a new unit today, which means a new project, and therefore new partners.” He explains slowly.

His voice softened when he talked to you.

You first noticed it last week when he was helping Francoise with her algebra homework. You were sitting at your desk working on your last project for this class. Francoise went to use the restroom and it was just the two of you.

Isaac spoke to Francoise with all of the patience in the world. It was different from how he spoke to Gomez or how he gave presentations in class. His tone gave way to his affection for her by losing that haughtiness you initially loathed.

That’s what you had become accustomed to with him, that patient yet self assured tone that suggested he had all of the knowledge in the world and he was kind enough to bestow it upon those around him.

But there was a shift when he approached you from behind, looking over your shoulder at your paper.

“Shouldn’t your partner be helping you with this?”

And gone was that self-importance that vexed you so. His tall frame was leaning over you from behind, his dark eyes darting from the paper, to your hand which was half covered in lead from your pencil, and then to your downturned eyelashes, fanning out over your cheeks from above.

“We were supposed to meet at the library last week but he didn’t show and he hasn’t been in class.” You responded despondently.

“Okay…?” Isaac muttered idly.

“And this is due tomorrow.” You offered brusquely.

Isaac stood over you for a moment before resting his palm against your desk and leaning over to try and catch your eye. He failed.

“That's hardly fair.”

“I work better on my own anyway.” You dismissed, avoiding his eye contact.

“You should still speak to the professor about it so he doesn’t get the credit for your good work.” He amended and you sighed dejectedly. Your pencil pulled itself from your hand, floating in midair.

You glanced behind you at the hand by Isaac’s side to see two fingers lifted. You huffed and looked up to him, meeting his eyes finally, clearly miffed.

“Give me my pencil back.” You ordered and he shook his head.

His eyes flitted over your features, he seemed to register something in your gaze and he gently put the pencil down.

And you both got stuck like that for a long moment. Your eyes rejecting the dark pools of his own.

The toilet flushed in the other room and he stepped back from your desk, you looked back to your work.

“I’ll ask next time.” He cleared his throat.

“I’d appreciate that.” You muttered, staring blankly at your desk as his footsteps retreated to his sister's side of the room.

And since then he’d been softer, his voice hushed when he addressed you. Like he was subconsciously matching you. You had a slight suspicion it might be purposeful. He was too smart not to be aware of it either way.

“And you want to be my partner, why?” You question.

“I figured you’d appreciate not being forced to interact with someone new.” he offers like the notion is an olive branch.

You nod in response, signaling your acceptance without fanfare.

——-

A few days later you and Isaac receive your assignment, and an order to officially start said assignment after thanksgiving break.

“Are you leaving for the break?” Isaac asks as you gather your things.

Normally you’d be halfway to the library by now to pick up something to read over break before the librarian leaves after school lets out, but lately Isaac has been engaging in small talk with you before you skitter off to wherever you go after class.

“Kind of.” You respond, gathering your notes into a folder.

“What do you mean?”

“I live just outside of Jericho, not too far from here.” You explain, and then stammer slightly, “what about you?”

He busies himself with putting all of his things in his bag, “we’ll be staying here over break.”

Your lips press together into a thin line. You sigh steadily, “you and Francoise are welcome to come to my house for thanksgiving. You can come by to work on the project a bit as well.”

Isaac seems momentarily perplexed, his forehead creasing, “have you talked to Francoise about that?”

“She told me to extend the offer to you.” You explain.

And he’s quiet, like you’ve surprised him. His eyebrows lift and he nods absentmindedly, “we’ll be there. Just leave the home phone number with Francoise and I’ll call you.”

You smile in response and it feels like his stomach curls into itself. The feeling makes him panic and he rushes off with a muttered goodbye, and you watch him go.

——-

It’s two days into the break when Isaac calls at first. You’re fresh from a shower when your phone rings. It’s an old landline in your basement room, a powder blue and green rotary phone that rang loud enough for your uncles to hear from the living room.

“Hello?” You answer, idly holding your towel.

“Hi, is this-“ you hear his voice on the other line.

“Isaac,” you blurt, “you called.”

“You told me to.” He responds, perplexed.

“No, I know I’m just- you just surprised me is all,” you stammer, “um, what can I do for you?”

“I was wondering what dates and times you might be free this week… to work on the project, I mean.” He inquires.

“Oh, any time works, really. Whichever day. I- I’m never really that busy. Have you considered my offer to join us for Thanksgiving?” You ask, tossing your towel in the hamper and sitting at your desk.

He’s quiet for a moment, “I have. Francoise is looking forward to it. May I ask who all will be there?”

“Just me, my uncles, and my older cousin. Though, he will probably spend most of the day aside from the meal in his room.”

You’re startled by a knock on your door, “hey, kid, who’s on the phone?”

It’s your uncle, the phone probably woke him up from his after dinner nap. You press the phone to your chest.

“A friend, the one I said might come to Thanksgiving.” You call at the other side of the door.

“Do you know whether or not they’ll be coming?”

You sigh and press the phone back to your ear, “are you coming?”

“Pardon?” Isaac sputters.

“To Thanksgiving?”

“Oh, yes, we will be there.” He confirms.

You press the phone back to your chest, “yes, they’ll be here.”

“Alright, don’t stay up too late. Goodnight, Birdy.”

“Goodnight.” You respond and then pull the phone back to your ear, “sorry about that, my Uncle can be quite nosy.”

“No worries.” Isaac responds, “I’ll come over tomorrow at noon. You left the address with Francoise, right?”

“I did.”

“Alright, well, I’ll let you return to your evening. Goodnight.” You open your mouth to respond but Isaac interrupts before you can get your next words out, “oh, and Oats was at your window this afternoon. I gave him some sunflower seeds. Well I scared him away accidentally but Francoise said he came back and ate them later.”

That makes you grin involuntarily. You chuckle at the image the statement conjures in your mind.

“Thanks for that, I… I’m sure he appreciated it. Goodnight, Isaac.”

“Goodnight.” He murmurs once more.

The line goes dead on your side and he puts the phone back on its stand and stands there at the phone stall for a moment longer.

It’s something about the light laugh you let out freely that sticks with him. The sound of it and the clear image of the way your face formed around it. It’s clear in his mind and it’s agonizing in its lasting effect on him. He spends the next few hours in his lab, getting no work done because the moment won’t stop playing in that loop that’s sure to eventually drive him mad.

——-

You’re in the yard when he arrives, coat on, scarf looped over your head. You’re wearing thick wool socks and sitting on a bench swing that’s adjacent to the front path to the porch. The bench creaks as you swing, one foot pushing against the stepping stone in front of you to keep you swinging.

You’re reading an old collection of Bukowski poems, mumbling along to the words as you read them.

He observes you for an embarrassingly long time before he makes his way up the front path, his shoes clicking on the pavement.

You look up then, smiling politely when you see him, “you’re early.” You comment.

“I’m actually eight minutes late.” He corrects, “I miscalculated how long it would take to walk here.”

He actually miscalculated by far less than he was admitting to, but you didn’t need to know that.

Your eyebrows knit together and you pull your sleeve up to look at your watch.

“I must’ve lost track of time.” You mutter.

“You must be enjoying your reading.” He shrugs, hands in the pockets of his neatly pleated trousers.

He looks nice today. His hair is natural, not slicked back like it is on school days, and he’s wearing his coat with a waffle knit sweater underneath. The sweater is a muted blue color. You’ve never seen him in blue. You like him in blue.

He gestures to the bench and you scoot over. He sits next to you and holds out his hand for your book, his way of asking politely. You hand it over and his eyes scan over the page.

It’s not an obscure Bukowski poem, but it’s woefully on brand.

Bluebird, as in “there’s a bluebird in my heart…”

“Coincidence?” Isaac inquires and you shrug.

“Kind of. I’ve read this collection tons of times. They’re akin to nursery rhymes at this point.” You sigh.

The puff of air comes out as a cloud in the cold and Isaac stands, offering you a hand.

“It’s cold.” He shrugs when you give him a slightly bemused look. You take his hand and he helps you navigate the stepping stones to the front path.

Once there you look from your socked feet, up to Isaac, whose gaze is soft, almost serene.

“I didn’t think I’d be out here as long as I have been.” You explain.

“Well let’s get you inside then.” He clears his throat, stepping back, dropping your hands, or rather lowering them to your sides and sincerely mourning the loss of the weight of them.

You lead him up the path and through the front door, removing your scarf and coat and hanging them by the door. You hold your hand out for his coat and he hands it to you hesitantly.

“This your friend?”

Isaac looks up to see a boy in pajamas eating cereal over the sink.

“Yes. We’ll be in my room.” You respond humorlessly. Grabbing Isaac’s sleeve and dragging him through the living room.

“Keep the Door open at least halfway.” Your cousin calls after you.

“I know the rules, Henry!” You groan. Isaac chortles slightly at your exasperation, “what?”

You lead him to the end of the hall, opening the last door on the left and turning on the light switch outside of the door, illuminating the stairs.

“Nothing.” Isaac hums. Following you down into your room.

You narrow your eyes at him, “I don’t believe you.”

He just shrugs, a smirk playing on his lips.

You just purse your lips, turning on your desk lamp and closing the curtains on the little window above your desk.

Isaac looks around the room, observing the small space. You have a twin bed with a wrought iron headboard, the comforter is yellow with white flowers and little mockingbirds all over it. The wallpaper in your room is blue with little gold stars all over it.

There are multiple bookshelves, your small wooden desk, and little storybook art prints in frames on the walls, along with a few framed family photos.

It’s quaint and cozy, exactly the kind of space he can imagine you existing in.

“I don’t have another chair so we can just put everything on the bed and you can take the chair.”

“That’s fine.” Isaac mumbles, watching you carry your notes over from your desk and onto the bed.

You both sit and begin to work. The Conversation is quiet and consistently on task. After a while you hit a wall, the words on the pages before you blurring together and every passage sounding like nonsense as Isaac reads them.

Isaac, however, is doing just fine. He’s not losing steam the way you are.

You wonder faintly if his heart made him some kind of machine, if it needed different things to survive than yours, if he felt pain in the same places you did, if his heart ached the same way yours always seemed to.

You tune out his words after a while and just stare at him, and then at his hand as he writes things down.

He switches them, his hands. When one gets tired he starts using the other. Your gaze traces his handwriting.

It’s neat, kind of loopy in a pretty way.

He was kind of loopy in a pretty way.

You rub your eyes and groan, you were definitely in need of a break.

“Are you okay?” Isaac asks. When you look back to him you’re reminded just how tempting the dark pools of his eyes are.

“Yeah. Just kind of tired.”

“Do you want to take a break?”

And his voice is soft, so soft it pisses you off and makes you want more all at once.

“I think it might be necessary.” You attempt to smile but it comes out looking more like a grimace.

“I could leave if you just want to be done for the day.” He offers and the speed at which you shake your head and respond is damn near pathetic.

“No, it’s fine. You don’t have to leave. I just need coffee. And a snack probably. Are you hungry?” You ramble, looking everywhere but at him.

If you were looking at him, you’d see a kind of infatuation previously foreign to him, but growing stronger every day against his will.

“I could eat.” He says, capping his pen.

“Great.” You squeak, hopping out of your bed and bounding up the stairs, leaving him to follow you at his own pace.

Once he gets to the kitchen you’re pouring coffee grounds into the top of the pot. He stands patiently by the kitchen island, watching you set up the coffee pot and open the fridge.

“Are sandwiches okay?” You ask, looking back at him.

It shouldn’t strike him as violently as it does, and it shouldn’t affect him so wholly either. You’re so lovely, in every way. Every facet of you that is revealed to him is more wonderful than the last.

“That sounds fine.” He responds, soft eyes following you as you mill about the kitchen.

After a few minutes an older man with features adjacent to yours enters the front door, smiling when he sees you.

“Hey Birdy. Who’s your friend?” Your uncle asks, wiping his boots on the doormat and hanging up his coat.

“This is Isaac. Isaac, this is my Uncle Samuel,” you introduce the two of them, “Isaac and his sister are the friends joining us for Thanksgiving.”

“Well it’s nice to meet you,” Sam smiles sincerely, holding out a hand for Isaac to shake.

“Likewise.” Isaac mutters in response.

“Where’s Henry?” Sam asks you.

“In his room probably.” You shrug, placing a plate in front of Isaac. On it is a sandwich on French bread, he looks at yours and it’s the same but without tomatoes, And his is missing olives.

Did you know he was allergic or did you just forget?

“And Elliot?”

“Not home yet.” You exhale heavily.

“Okay, well, I’m going to go shower,” Sam sighs, pressing a kiss to the side of your head as he heads down the hall, “don’t study too hard!”

It faintly occurs to Isaac that this is how you live all of the time. In your cozy house with your loving family. He understands now why you are as mild and self reliant as you are, and why Francoise enjoys your company as much as she does.

You had that normal life that she yearned for. You and your way of living were so opposite to the life he had been leading thus far. He was used to a house that was only quiet when tension grew too thick, and parental figures that were rarely involved enough to care who his friends might be.

He ate his sandwich and pondered the disparities between the both of you.

He was brash and forthright, and, according to others, cold, unfeeling.

He’d always been okay with that description, he didn’t feel things like everyone else seemed to feel them. He felt things like anger and dread so strongly that the mere idea of those emotions caused a reaction that felt adjacent to mania.

And emotions like sadness, grief, well he always found them pointless, cumbersome.

He always felt a general fondness for his sister, and despite his disgust for her, he had always felt a love for his mother that made him sick. He chalked it up to biology.

And outside of his affection for the both of them he felt a general tolerance towards the rest of the world. Sure he tolerated some better than others, but it was still tolerance.

But then you.

At first he was just intrigued with you, your nature and your friendship with his sister, and then intrigue became slight infatuation.

And now he’s left wondering when he will have to admit his reverence and endearment for you, and he’s dreading having to confront himself with it.

——-

The night before Thanksgiving you’re in the kitchen, working on pies.

You always made the desserts for family events. You didn’t see the point of hiring someone else to make a birthday cake, or buying a store bought pie if you could make it yourself.

You’re making one pumpkin pie for everybody else, and one cherry for you. And Isaac or Francoise if they’d prefer it. You were the only one in your family who liked cherry pie but you made it every year because you weren’t a fan of pumpkin.

It’s late, well past midnight, when the phone downstairs rings. You have to stop in the middle of cutting the strips for the lattice top on the cherry pie and run down stairs to answer it before it wakes up the rest of the house.

“Hello.” You rasp, catching your breath.

“Hi. Are you- did I wake you?”

God, his voice.

“Oh, no. No, I just ran downstairs.” You explain, sitting on the floor by your desk.

“Ah. I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how late it was until after you picked up.” He apologizes.

“You’re fine. I was just baking.” You assure him.

“You bake?” His voice lifts in interest.

“Sometimes. Mainly for special occasions. I hate spending money on unnecessary things.” You pick at the strings on your pajama pants.

“Pragmatic.” Isaac comments.

“I try.” You sigh.

“I was just calling to confirm when we should be there tomorrow.”

Really he was calling because he had been working on a generator for a project of his all day and has been unable to focus because he hasn’t stopped thinking about you since he saw you last. He thought hearing your voice might help.

“Um, around two probably? And then dinner is at four.” He’s quiet for a moment, “or you can just come around four so you don’t have to hang out as long.”

“We’ll be there at two.” He promises.

“Okay,” you smile, “okay, good.”

“Oats brought you a leaf.” Isaac informs you in an effort to continue your conversation.

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. A red one. I… left him some seeds as a thank you.”

That makes you smile, he can hear it in your voice, “I appreciate that. I told him when I’d be back but he has separation issues.”

“If you live in town why doesn’t he just join you?” Isaac asks.

“He has a nest and I put some faux eggs in there so he stays to take care of them.”

“Why would you put faux eggs in his nest?” Isaac queried, his fast track mind searching for the reasons you might have.

You sigh mournfully, “he had a partner and she died after the actual eggs were laid. The eggs never hatched, they began to rot and he was none the wiser to it. I couldn’t bear to tell him they would never hatch so I put some fake ones in the nest until I could possibly find some different eggs to leave to him.”

Your voice grows thick as you talk about it, Isaac can hear the tears in your eyes. It’s the first time in a long time that an overt display of emotion hasn’t struck him as foolish. You’re so quietly sorrowful about it, and in turn Isaac feels a sort of sadness that’s more an acknowledgment of the pain you’re feeling than a reaction of his own.

“I’m sorry.” Is all he can think to say.

“It’ll be okay. I’ll find eggs. I’ll buy them from somebody or get some from a different nest. I’ll have to barter with other aggressive birds over it but it’ll be worth it if it works out.”

Your sheer determination makes him grin, “do you enjoy being an avian?”

“I think I do. I’m never alone more than I want to be.” You remark.

“I’ve noticed that.” He states and you perk up slightly.

“Noticed what?”

“You’re not much for other people.” He says simply.

“I guess not.” You yawn, “really I just hate making a fool of myself.”

“How could you possibly make a fool of yourself?” Isaac asks, an affectionate edge to his voice that delights and terrifies you all at once.

“I was actually a very outspoken child.” You admit.

“Is that so?” He smirks, you can hear it.

You wrinkle your nose, “yeah. I grew out of it eventually but there was a point in my life where I didn’t understand that some thoughts are inside thoughts. There was one time-“

A series of beeps plays over the phone speaker, Isaac curses.

“I’m out of change.” He informs you, “but I will see you tomorrow. It was- I’ve enjoyed talking with you.”

You try to ignore the disappointment and opposing giddiness as you say goodbye, “likewise. Goodnight, Isaac.”

“Goodnight, Birdy.”

The use of your childhood nickname on his lips makes your heart jump with endearment. The phone disconnects, and you place it back on the receiver.

You go upstairs and finish your pies, you go to bed and try not to let your thoughts linger on your excitement for the proceeding day.

——-

You’re on your bench again, feeding a band of bluebirds. Francoise doesn’t allow Isaac his time to admire you, because the second she sees you she bounds towards you, scaring off your birds.

You toss the rest of the bird seed in your hand to the pavement and squeal happily as your bench is thrown back with Francoise’s weight.

“Hello, my darling.” You beam, wrapping your arms around her neck.

“I missed you so, my beloved.” Francoise says in a posh voice.

This is some inside joke that Isaac doesn’t quite understand, but he enjoys it nonetheless. He enjoys anytime his sister is content, and he enjoys anytime he gets to see you smile.

“I wanted to come visit you with Isaac but he wouldn’t let me.” Francoise pouts with faux petulance.

“We were getting schoolwork done.” Isaac refutes, making his way up the path to your bench, hands in the pockets of his coat.

“I wouldn’t have been a distraction.” Francoise argues.

“Mhm.” Isaac hums, not wanting to argue as he drinks you in.

You’re wearing a sort of long sleeved black minidress with bell sleeves and red tights, wool socks on your feet. It’s very sixties, and far more dressed up than he’s seen you before.

“You’re early this time.” You comment and Isaac has to pull his eyes away from the hem of the dress brushing your thighs.

“Um, yes. I adjusted accordingly this time. You’re not wearing shoes again.” He points out.

“My dress shoes pinch my feet.” You shrug, glancing down at the grey socks.

“I hope we’re dressed appropriately.” Francoise frets, looking down at her long plaid skirt. She pulls at the sleeves of her shirt.

“Nonsense, you look great,” you smile, reaching up to adjust the bow in her hair, “both of you.” You amend, eyes flitting over Isaac.

Francoise smiles warmly, looking back to Isaac.

“It’s cold,” Isaac declares, reaching both of his hands out for both you and Francoise, “let’s get inside.”

You both take one of his hands and let him pull you up. Francoise hops over the stepping stones to the front path, and skips to the porch. Isaac replaces his now empty hand with yours, helping you across the stepping stones patiently. You trip over one, falling forward into his chest.

Something warms in him in a way he’s not quite used to as he holds your waist firmly to help you catch your balance. You look up at him through your eyelashes and that warmth begins to ache heartily.

“Sorry.” You mutter, and as quickly as you held onto him you let go, fretting over your dress and leading him up to where Francoise is waiting at the porch.

He’s momentarily stunned, stuck in place as he’s sure his heart should be racing. You step inside the house and Francoise turns back to watch him breathe through his momentary panic.

“Are you okay?” She asks him and his eyebrows raise as he takes a beat longer than usual to respond.

“I’m fine.” He clears his throat, following her inside.

Inside your uncles are arguing over the table settings, and your cousin is standing at the counter picking carrots out of a bowl by the cutting board.

“Henry.” You scold, “I just cut those, would it kill you to wait?”

He turns and whines like a child, “given that I haven't been allowed to eat since nine this morning, I very well might.”

“You will be fine,” you chide, smacking his hand away from the vegetables you had previously been cutting and approaching your uncles in hopes of getting their attention, they don’t stop their bickering so you end up having to yell over them.

“Birdy,” Samuel scolds, “it’s rude to yell.”

“It’s also rude to ignore your guests when they arrive.” You retort and your uncles finally notice Isaac and Francoise at the door.

“Oh gosh,” Elliot mutters, “sorry about that, you must be Isaac and Francoise. I’m Elliot and this is Sam, we’re Birdy’s uncles.”

Francoise smiles warmly and shakes both of their hands, leaning in your ear to mutter into your ear, “you have an Uncle Sam?”

You wrinkle your nose and nod humorously. You wander back into the kitchen to continue preparing the salad.

“I’m sorry to have missed you the other day,” Elliot is saying to Isaac.

“That’s alright, it’s nice to meet you anyhow. We are both quite fond of your niece.” Isaac responds. He sounds shockingly comfortable. You’d have thought he’d be a bit more awkward but what he lacked in warmth he made up for in charm.

“I’m sure.” Sam coughs behind Elliot and you turn around to glare at him. He just laughs.

“Uh, Isaac,” you stammer, trying to distract him from your uncle's antics, “will you be wanting salad or can I put the olives in now.”

So you were aware of his allergy. How’d you figure that out?

“I’ll abstain. I appreciate the sentiment though.” He responds, a smirk playing on his lips. He stands behind you, leaning back against the island as you put the salad together. When you’re done you turn around and are face to face with him, your cheeks warm when you register your proximity and you quickly duck around him to place the salad in the fridge.

“Do you want to see my room?” You ask Francoise, Isaac following behind you as you lead them down the hall.

“Sure.” Francoise smiles. You take her down the steps to your room and she coos appraisingly, “it's so pretty. I love how it’s decorated.”

“You can thank my uncles for that. I’ve added a thing or two there but it has pretty much looked like this since it was my nursery.” You kick some dirty clothes into the closet and smile at Isaac as he descends down the steps.

“Did your mother live here when you were born?” Francoise asks.

You purse your lips, and awkwardly meet Isaac’s gaze, unable to break from it as you stumble through your reply.

“Um, no. No, my mother died in childbirth. My Uncle Sam has raised me my… my whole life.” And then you realize that you’re staring at Isaac and you panic. This was painfully unpleasant.

So you begin focusing on your desk, organizing things that don’t need organizing.

“What about your da-“

“Francoise,” Isaac hissed, and then in an attempt to change the subject, “is Henry related to Sam or Elliot?”

You look up and clear your throat, “he’s from Elliot’s first marriage. They moved in when I was around three, I think.”

You fall back onto your mattress and Isaac has to will himself not to focus too hard on how your dress moves up your thighs ever so slightly. Now is hardly the time.

“So you basically have a brother too?” Francoise wonders, sitting next to you on your bed.

“I guess. He’s a total butthead, he’s nice sometimes though. When my first pet bird died he organized a funeral for it in the backyard. Made it a little headstone and everything.”

Your smile is back now and Isaac can’t help but admire it. Get sets himself up at your desk chair, listening to you and Francoise chatter for the better part of an hour before your uncle is calling you all from upstairs.

You all sit at the table to eat. Isaac and Francoise expect some sort of prayer, like what their father would do back home, but none came. Everyone just dug in and began making their plates.

Sam carved the turkey and your family all talked over each other, your uncles commenting on how well the turkey came out and you and Henry arguing over whether the Mac and cheese was better last year when you made it or this year when he did.

Isaac looks at Francoise who seems utterly charmed with your little corner of the world, and he feels oddly safe in this space, around your unconventional yet painfully normal family.

Francoise is across the table next to Henry, and Isaac sits next to you, much to his delight. Henry starts conversing with Francoise, asking about school and her classes.

She’s all too happy to respond, ever the social butterfly.

“Is your food okay?” You ask Isaac, fork poised over your plate.

“It’s great, it’s- it’s all great.” He responds, a genuine smile finding his features.

“I’m glad.” You grin, bumping his shoulder with your own and returning to quietly observe the rest of the table.

Once everyone finishes their dinner you take out the pies, setting them in the middle of the cleared table, divvying out slices of pumpkin pie to your family.

“Francoise, Isaac,” you begin, “cherry or pumpkin?”

“Pumpkin, please.” Francoise smiles politely.

You cut a good sized piece of pie and place it on a dessert plate for her.

“Isaac?” You ask, pie knife already poised over the pumpkin pie.

“Cherry, please.”

A pleasantly surprised smile lights up your face. You pick up the other pie knife and begin cutting out a piece. You have a difficult time telling if the bottom crust is cut all the way through, so you put your thumb on the edge of the pie tin to hold it steady.

You gasp as your hand slips, a brief moment of panic flashing over your face. The sound of Isaac’s chair scraping against the floor as he stands abruptly rings in your ears.

He presses the tips of his fingers against your wrist, “are you alright?” He asks softly, studying your hand.

His head turns to face you and he’s closer than expected. You nod pathetically, “I’m okay.”

In the corner of his eye Isaac sees your uncles exchange a look.

“Let me.” Isaac mutters to you.

“Alright. Sorry, I’m sorry.” You mutter abashedly.

Isaac takes the pie knife from your shaking hand, “you’ve nothing to apologize for.” He assures you with a comforting smile. You sit back in your seat as he cuts his own piece, “which do you prefer?”

“Uh, Cherry.” You falter. And he cuts a piece for you as well, setting the dessert plate in front of you.

After he sits down the conversation resumes to some degree, you and Isaac both falling quiet, listening to everyone else cook.

After dinner your uncles fall asleep on the couch, Henry returns to his room and you walk Isaac and Francoise out.

“Let me at least call you a cab.” You insist.

“This is Jericho, there are no cabs.” Isaac retorts.

“We’ll be fine. I promise.” Francoise responds, knotting her scarf.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Isaac and Francoise say at the same time.

“Thank you for inviting us,” Isaac says sincerely, “we had a lovely time.”

“Yeah. It was really nice to meet your family.” Francoise choruses.

“I’m glad you guys were able to make it. I’ll see you at school?”

“Of course.” Francoise grins, hugging you once more before her and Isaac depart.

You watch as they walk down the road, and just as you turn to go back inside, Isaac looks back, drinking in his last seconds of you.

Francoise watches him turn, and waits for him to look back ahead, then back at her.

“You must really like her.” She says point blank.

“Who?” Isaac feigns ignorance.

“You know who, Isaac.” Francoise looks down at the road under her feet, “it’s okay for you to like her, y’know. It would even be okay for you… to love her. You’re allowed that. It won’t compromise your whole ‘cold, calculated, too smart for everyone else’ routine.”

“I don’t think I’m too smart for everyone else.” He sputters.

“You’re deflecting.” She intones, “just admit you like her.”

“And why should I?” Isaac asks, fully aware that to ask is to admit it in some form.

“Because she very clearly likes you too.”

“I don’t know about-“

“Isaac.” Francoise chides firmly.

Isaac sighs, looking up at the dusk sky.

“She doesn’t deserve to deal with everything I come with. I’m well aware that I am not in any way an ideal partner.” He argues.

“Would you be willing to deal with everything she comes with?” Francoise offers and for once Isaac has nothing to respond with, “I think you’d both compliment each other very well. You’d give her plenty of time to herself to spend with her birds and books, and she wouldn’t demand all of the time you’d spend working on your machines.”

“I suppose.”

“And you’re both very smart. She’s not an idiot, you can have intelligent, substantial conversations with her.” She reasons once more and Isaac exhales, bowing his head.

“Okay. You’re right.” Isaac admits begrudgingly, “do you think I should ask her out?”

“Do you want to?”

“I think so.” He concedes.

“Then do it. Be sincere, be sweet- I know you can be- and just be-“

“If you say ‘be yourself’ I will puke.” Isaac jests.

Francoise pushes him with her shoulder, and they laugh.

——-

Isaac calls you early in the morning, so early in the morning that the sound of the phone ringing is what wakes you.

“Hello?” You mumble groggily.

“Hi, I- I woke you up didn’t I?” His voice was rough, tired.

“Uh, kinda. Is everything okay?” You inquire, rubbing your eyes.

“Why- why would everything not be okay?” Isaac asks. He sounds nervous, erratic.

“I don’t know, it’s just really fucking early,” you laugh, “you’re up really early. Have you slept yet?”

“Not yet, no.” He responds, ignoring the fact that you cursing is something completely foreign and overwhelmingly welcome.

“What kept you up?” You yawn.

“Well… well you actually,” he admits and you’re stunned into silence, “or, you- something you said I mean. I- I have something I want to show you. Today, actually, if you would be okay coming by the school for a little bit.”

You grin and lay back against your pillows.

“Okay.” You sigh affectionately.

“Okay?”

“Okay. Give me an hour or two and I’ll head over there.” You assure him.

“Okay. Okay, great.”

You say your goodbyes and sit up, rubbing the sleep and crust from your eyes. You get ready for the day and eat breakfast, barter with Henry for a ride to the school, bundle up and then head to Nevermore.

When you get there Isaac is in the courtyard. There are a few stray students milling about but you don’t have time to take anything in as he grabs your hand and leads you down the corridors to the entrance to Iago tower.

“Isaac, students aren’t allowed up there.” You say matter of factly.

He grins devilishly, “trust me?”

It’s unfair, really, just how much more attractive his charm makes him.

His hair is slicked back today, probably to keep his hair out of his face while he’s been working on whatever he’s been working on. You could see his face as clear as ever. That bone structure that seems damn near dangerous and those dark deep tempting eyes.

“Of course.” You respond before you can think about it too hard.

He’s still holding your hand, and he continues holding it as he leads you into an old creaky elevator.

“You’re not just bringing me up here to kill me or dissect me or something, right?” You ask cautiously.

“I thought you were going to trust me.” He states and you give him a look of uncertainty. His gaze softens as the elevator comes to a stop. He pushes the elevator door open and holds on to your other hand, “you’ll like it, I promise.”

You step out of the elevator and you’re immediately taken aback by the contents of the tower.

“Isaac, what is all of this?”

“This is my lab. I build things up here, things to solve problems lesser minds have trouble grasping.” He explains haughtily and you’re reminded why at one point you weren’t a fan of him.

Granted that was before you had become attached to and insanely spellbound by him.

“Okay, hotshot.” You mumble.

“What was that?”

He knows what you said, you know he knows what you said, you can tell by his impish grin and playful demeanor.

“I didn’t say anything,” you simper, “now what are we doing here?”

He moves a little further into your space, fingers brushing your forearms.

“I have something for you.” He almost whispers.

“For me?” You mutter in slight disbelief.

“C’mon.” He pulls you towards his work bench, plans are strewn across the surface of it, and in the center there is a little iron nest with three pearly white eggs in it.

“It’s a nest.” You cock your head to the side, studying the nest closely.

“They’re replacements for Oats eggs.”

You look back up at him, wonder painting your features the way he hoped it would.

“What?”

“They’re set on a timer, once you start the timer they will begin to age and evolve. The eggs will hatch and become baby birds, they will go through a cardinals life cycle until they reach adulthood and then they will stay in that stage until you turn the timer back off. After that they will ‘die’ so to speak.” He explains, and then he seems to remember something else, something that excites him. he pulls a notebook out from under other stacks of paper and flips through it until he reaches a page he wants to show you, “the nest- the nest is self warming. I figured it would help out Oats. Keep him warm as the months grow colder. And there’s- he can store food in the cracks of it as well.”

You observe the plans, fingers tracing pencil strokes like they’re ancient texts only you can make sense of.

Your eyes widen and you bite back a look that would surely give your feelings for him away, “How do you know they work?”

He leans against the table on his palms, his eyes earnest as he assures you that “they will work, I promise.”

And he’s taken by surprise when you abruptly wrap your arms around his neck. It takes him a moment to process before he’s tossing his journal back onto the workbench and wrapping his arms around your waist.

“Thank you, Isaac. Really I-“ you sniffle, pulling away slightly, prepared to let go of him when he holds onto you just a bit more firmly.

You begin to let yourself fall into the pools of his eyes, you relish in the warmth of his hands against your waist and your cheeks burn with the weight of his intent gaze, “Don’t mention it, really, I wanted to do something nice for you and I… well I wanted to ask you if-“

“Isaac! I’m back!” Gomez’s voice echoed through the tower from down the stairwell.

You and Isaac part, separating like shrapnel.

“Um, we- we’re in here.” Isaac clears his throat, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“We? Who- oh. Hello,” Gomez greets you, his eyes darting from you to Isaac, “am I interrupting something?”

You avoid Isaac’s gaze as he regards you for a moment, admiration and longing, a font of stare he was becoming all too familiar with.

“No, not at all. I didn’t think you’d be back for a few more days.” He comments, that unaffected demeanor of his returning with ease.

“Tish and I decided to come back early. Her roommate won’t be back for a few days so you don’t have to worry about me invading your space.” Gomez explains, his eyes returning to you in a suggestive expression that makes Isaac cringe internally.

“I’m going to go bring these to Oats.” You interrupt, cradling the nest in your hands. Isaac is still maintaining mild eye contact with Gomez, but when your fingers brush the inside of his wrist his attention could not be more captivated with you, “I’ll see you soon?”

Isaac smiles and Gomez understands now the full extent of what is happening here, “of course.” Isaac breathes and he’s utterly taken aback when you stand on your toes, hand firm against the side of his neck, warming the skin there. You press a kiss to his cheek, muttering one more soft ‘thank you’ before leaving him and Gomez in Iago Tower.

Once you’re gone Gomez scrutinizes Isaac’s wistful expression, gaze still lingering to the exit you just left out of.

“So you love her?” He concludes.

Isaac scoffs, “I’ve not the time for love.”

“That doesn’t matter. Love doesn’t live on your clock, old boy.” Gomez intones.

Isaac considers this for a moment, resting his fingers on his workbench, eyes tracing his plans for the eggs.

Across the school, in a different tower, you are scoping out the room of a dusty attic, a storage room with a broken window.

You don’t see him, you don’t hear him either. You deduce it’s safe and sneak across the floor and up the loft, replacing the weighted false eggs and their nest with the ones Isaac made him.

You observe them for a while, watching how the pearly quality shifts in the light and makes it reflect pretty sparkling pinks and blues.

As the morning turns into the early afternoon and the sun rises higher in the sky, the tower gets brighter, and Oats returns with a pale blue flower, tweeting happily when he realizes you’ve come to visit.

“Hey man. Where’d you find that this time of year?” You ask him, resting your head in your hands, your eyes closing while you listen to him tell you about his day, about finding his flower, and about the boy who keeps leaving him ‘thank you’s’ in the form of food.

“And how are the eggs? You keeping them nice and warm?” You ask, bracing yourself for him to notice you’ve gypped him.

He hops into the new nest, regarding it with caution.

“Isaac made you a new nest. It- it keeps itself warm. It’ll keep you warm, it’ll keep them warm too.” You assure him, “Isaac made sure of that.”

He steps and hops and sings around his nest, happy as a clam. He asks you if you think the eggs will hatch soon.

And you respond how you have been responding for a while now, “I’m sure they will,” and this time, “I’m very, very sure.”

——-

School has started back up again, you’re a few weeks underway and you would be drowning in class work if Isaac had not become insistent on helping you with schoolwork at the same time he was helping Francoise with homework.

What would happen is everyday after the class you had together, at the end of the school day he would walk to the library with you, talking about whatever he was working on, rambling more like, but you liked it. You liked his voice, you liked how his voice sounded when he spoke to you.

Even when he was insisting the most efficient way for them to organize the library had nothing to do with the Dewey decimal system.

And then after he followed you around the library like a lost puppy for an hour he would walk you back to your dorm, holding whatever books you had gotten and asking about what homework you might have and ‘oh, I think I had some notes related to that that might help, or I can just come inside and help you out and I mean I was supposed to help Francoise out with something anyways so I might as well.’

And then he would spend until time for lights out there with you. Most times Francoise would leave for dinner and not come back until lights out, she’d have to push Isaac out the door, and then she’d give you a knowing look that you didn’t quite know how to decipher.

Today, however, is different. It’s a half day so you don’t have that last class with Isaac. Isaac is planning to maybe just start a conversation with you that you can’t finish in the span of lunch so he will just have to go with you to where you will be going.

His plan is apparently not needed though, because the second you see him at lunch you’re dragging him off, and he happily goes with you.

“You have to see!” You exclaim giddily, “it’s- it’s wonderful! It’s a miracle- you… you are a miracle worker.”

“While I don’t disagree, I would love to know what you are referring to.” He grins as you pull him up the stairwell.

“You’ll have to wait and see.” You sing song, giggling at yourself.

He’s enjoying seeing you so happy. He’s enjoyed seeing you generally over the last couple weeks. He liked the sound of your laugh, the way you would stain your face with graphite from rubbing it after writing too long, how you would deny you were falling asleep even as you started snoring.

He liked it all.

It’s been a long time since he’s found a person he seemingly liked everything about. He didn’t think he’d love it so much. He didn’t think he’d love y-

“Watch your step.” You tell him, guiding him up a rickety set of stairs, “I visited this morning, before class, and one of them was pipping- pipping is when-“

“I know what pipping is, darling.” He coos, knowing full well you won’t stop your rant for his interjections.

“-and so I thought I’d check before lunch and now they are almost out and I really really wanted you to witness the birth of your creation.”

When you get up onto the loft you continue to hold onto his hand even as you approach the nest.

Oats is on guard, even with you.

“We just wanna look,” you insist, “we won't touch, promise.”

Oats steps behind the nest, pacing.

There are holes in the eggs, little hairline cracks spreading from them.

You can hear little squeaks coming from the eggs. It’s slow going but you’re so excited, Isaac can’t find any reason to be bored.

After a while a little beak pokes through a big hole in the shell, peeping as the little bird attempts to escape the egg. Finally, you get to see the little bird’s face.

“He’s blue.” You observe.

“Mhm. They should both be different colors.” Isaac responds.

The little bird was seemingly made of tinfoil. Light, thin sheets of metal layered down to the base of the little bird, giving the illusion that the metal fluff is wet.

He starts talking, little squeaks coming about as Oats hops around excitedly.

“Hi,” you coo softly, “hello, baby.”

Isaac watches your expression evolve from wonderment to unbridled affection. You keep talking to the little bird, exchanging in lively chatter with Oats. He’s stuck in admiration so when you begin speaking to him again he isn’t paying much attention to what you’re saying.

“Isaac?”

“Hm?”

“How’d you do that?” You’re asking, standing fully now, your fingers skimming across his palm in a way that’s making it insanely hard to focus.

“Do what?” He puzzles.

“I understand him. It’s like baby babble, he’s not making much sense, but he’s still saying… something.” You profess, glancing back at the cheeping chick.

Isaac’s eyebrows knit together, “I’m not sure. I didn’t do it intentionally,” he admits, “I didn’t even consider that they’d be susceptible to your abilities. I was more focused on impres- on get- getting it right.”

You smirk at him knowingly, “what was that?”

“Nothing.” He maintains, attempting to turn back to the nest but you rest a hand on his shoulder, pulling him towards you a slight amount.

“Isaac. What were you going to say?” You inquire softly, unsure feet causing you to sway slightly.

He stares at you for a long moment before sighing heavily, “I just wanted to impress you.”

“Why?” You grin incredulously.

“Why- well… well because I thought that if I accomplished this for you, then maybe I could negotiate for a… date.” He stands up a bit straighter, trying to seem more confident in his actions than he is.

He finds your following expression hard to read, a sort of dazed, far away smile he can’t decipher.

“Yes.” You nod.

“Yes?”

“Yeah. I- I would love to go on a date with you Isaac. Very much, actually.” You admit, glancing down at the floor and then to the nest where the second chick was making her way out of her shell.

You’re taken by surprise when he begins to laugh, a mad, relieved laugh. He doesn’t give himself time to think as he pulls you into his arms, twirling you giddily. It’s the most overt display of emotion you’ve ever seen from him.

And you love it.

That joy lasts you through the whole rest of the day, even as you spend it with him. Neither of you mention the date, but Francoise can see the change. She can see it in how you lean into him when he stands behind you at your desk, and in how his trademark grin refuses to leave his face when you’re interacting with him.

——-

A week later a note is slipped under the door to your dorm room.

It reads:

Meet me at Iago tower, midnight- I.N.

You narrow your eyes and look at your roommate who is conveniently avoiding your gaze.

“Do you know anything about this?” You ask her, gesturing to the note.

“No idea, but I do think you should wear that purple halter neck dress that’s been collecting dust at the back of your closet all semester.” Francoise comments, brushing away the eraser bits from her homework.

“Uh huh.” You mutter sardonically.

You take her advice though. You put the dress on and you stare at your face in the mirror for longer than necessary, eventually settling on a little mascara and some lipgloss.

At 11:30 you sneak out to the tower, walking slowly, your chunky heels clicking on the floor below you, echoing through the stairwell of Iago tower.

“Isaac?” The tower is dark, the only light coming from the moon in the window, “hon?”

There’s a crash, then some cursing, and then, “just one second, I’ll be done in a second.”

You grin, “okay.”

There’s winding noises, like a key in a music box almost.

And then he appears out of thin air, leaning over the bars on the catwalk, pausing slightly when he sees you, his wide smile faltering. His throat goes dry, his adams apple bobs as he swallows.

“Hi, do you- can you- you look…”

“Yeah?” You look down at your dress, smoothing your hands over the skirt.

“Yeah,” he clears his throat, “yes. Um, I’ll be down- just a moment.”

The metal of the catwalk tings with his steps, and you watch as he lowers himself down the latter.

“I didn’t realize we’d be going up or I’d have worn different shoes.” You comment timidly.

“No, you’re perfect, er… you look perfect.” He assures you, reaching for your hand, which you give him without hesitation.

He appreciates the weight of it in his, the softness of your palm.

“I have something to show you before supper.” He says, leading you through the dark, to the chair by his work bench. You giggle and he catches it, eyebrows shooting up quizzically.

“Supper.” You hum, giggling around it.

“What’s wrong with the way I say supper?” He asks, leaning forward to be eye level with you, appraising you in faux seriousness to make you laugh more.

“Nothing, you just talk like an old man sometimes.” He scoffs, “it’s cute. Promise.”

And then he short circuits again and you get to laugh at him once more.

He has to force himself to move on from it, “sit here and just give me one more second.”

He scutters off to a different place in the lab and comes back, holding one end of a long wire, dragging it behind him until he reaches behind your chair.

There’s a click, and then a low humming sound and then a ton of tiny fairy lights in purples and blues light up the area. Looped around the hand rails of the catwalk, the sides of the ladder, hung over bookshelves and hooked around the support pillars.

You gasp, moving to stand but Isaac places a hand on your shoulder, quietly telling you to stay put. So you do.

He lifts his hands like he’s conducting a choir and the fairy lights begin to move, twisting and turning and shaping themselves until they resemble the little chickadees that crowd you at lunch.

You laugh, delighted, eyes glowing in astonishment. The birds start flying, looping themselves on little pegs nailed to the wall, following a pattern that Isaac had to have rehearsed many times over.

They wind and loop and cross each other until they start to become decipherable words.

W…i…l…l

Y…o…u

B…e

M…i…n…e…?

You laugh, light and airy and happy.

He’s made you happy, he’s made you laugh. The feeling overwhelms him in the best way, especially as he leans over you, hands resting on your shoulders.

“Have I met expectations?” He mutters into your ear, his lips lingering against the shell of your ear in a way that sends tingles down your spine.

You stand, turning to face him.

“You,” you murmur sliding your hand up the organic side of his chest to cup the back of his neck, “have exceeded expectations to a seriously absurd degree.”

“Yeah?” He mutters proudly.

“Mhm.” You nod, stepping in closer, not expecting it when his hand finds the small of your back and presses you against him.

“So…” He coaxed, nose bumping against yours, “will you?

You nod, smiling wildly, “yeah, yes, ‘f course.”

And he laughs, a true, joyful, victorious laugh.

“Can I kiss you now? Please?” He pleads. It almost kills you, the sincerity there, relinquishing control of the situation to you.

“Yes, please.” Your lips are already slightly brushing his.

He doesn’t hesitate, he dives into you, tasting your lips like he’s waited for years and he’s not passing his chance up now.

“I love you.” He presses in between kisses, “really,” he mumbles, lips sliding against yours and then down the line of your jaw.

You pull back slightly, opening your mouth slightly, only for him to interrupt, “you don’t have to say anything now. I don’t expect you to, I just- I don’t want to wait any longer for you to know.”

His eyes are pouring into yours in earnestness. He’s silenced you with that, every anxiety you had concerning him up to this point depleting completely as his eyes bore into yours.

“Okay.” you whisper, And then his lips are against yours again and you’re laughing once more, “aren’t we going to eat?”

“That can wait.” He mutters slyly, delighted by the way you laugh in response and fall into him once more.

——-

One year later

Morticia had to tell you what had happened, she had to break the news slowly, she had to tell you over and over again.

You went in search of Francoise, your mind reeling but when you returned to your dorm room she wasn’t there. You frantically searched the library, the classroom you had spent in eighth period with him everyday, the lunch table you sat with him at.

You nearly broke down Gomez’s door at half past three, searching for an explanation, hoping it was some horrible horrible lie.

But Gomez wasn’t there, and Isaac’s side of the room was entirely untouched. You sat in his bed and begged, pleaded with the earth or whatever god might exist to bring him back to you.

But it was all for naught, and in the wee hours of the morning you made your way up the winding flights of stairs to find Iago tower utterly destroyed, a picture akin to how your heart felt.

You survey the contents of his work table, finding an automaton of a bird. It works like a music box, you wind a little lever and the bird moves, gliding up and down and singing a little song. There’s a button at the base of it and when you press it the bird caves in on itself, forming itself into a baseball sized egg.

It’s engraved around the seam, loopy words in his handwriting which form the words ‘for the bluebird in my heart, happy anniversary, Birdy.’

Your aching sobs become somewhat sentimental, your head begins to hurt as you clutch the egg to your chest. You force yourself to keep moving.

There’s a spot on the floor, a bloodstain, and you know instinctively that it belongs to him, just how you belonged to him.

And you are gutted, your insides ripped out and strewn across the cracked wooden floorboards of Iago tower.

You lay where his body must have for a while, your tears flowing from your eyes, and into your ears, finding a home in twin puddles on the floor.

You fall asleep like that and wake up to the sound of voices, and the creaking of the old elevator.

And you run, flying down the stairs quicker than you’ve ever ran from anything in your life.

——-

Months later, nothing helped. You felt an immeasurable pain, and you feared it may never go away.

Your uncles fretted over you, even Henry seemed to worry. He sat in your room at night while you pretended to sleep and he read you your books.

He cycled through fairytale books, collections of poems, and classic novels, eventually finding his way to the gothic romances you read as a guilty pleasure.

He read you ‘A Rose for Emily’ and made his way through your collection of Shakespeare. He avoided Romeo and Juliet for the longest time, fearing it would give you ideas.

His fears were founded one night when he came into your room after spending the weekend at his mothers to find the bed unmade, the music box gone from its place on your desk.

He knew you were gone, yet with the determination only an older sibling could have for their baby sister, he tried to find you.

He went outside and found Oats, and a funeral procession of other birds, bluebirds and cardinals and little white birds stained red.

Oats flew away and Henry followed, rushing through the woods, bounding past brush and foliage alike until he arrived at a gnarled half tree with holes like eyes. Oats perched himself on top of it, making melodic sounds that reminded Henry of your wailing cries just after Isaac had gone.

The eyes dripped with blood like they were crying it.

It was then that Henry knew for sure of your fate. He knew even as he climbed up the base of the tree and peaked through the eye holes to see your body, crumpled forward in the fetal position.

You were covered in cuts and missing your eyes. Two gaping holes marred with blood that crusted around your eyelashes. And in your hands your music box glinted, clutched tightly to your chest like you could thank Isaac for it when you saw him.

Henry fell backwards, Oats’s wails piercing his brain as he wretched and cried into the dirt.

He stumbles back home, barreling into his uncle's room with hiccuping sobs that spoke of your demise.

Days later he would return to your final resting place, avoiding the trees opening and the sight of you as he carved your initials into the dead tree’s bark.

And there you were left. Now nothing more than an urban legend that consisted of a wailing, eyeless woman wandering around with a music box, searching for her lover.

[whyshouldelisabesad]

happy 2026!! ✨

for good luck please enjoy these pictures of isaac looking psychotic <3

[sweetnndbitter]

still don't catch where he got that damn Long Coat

[soluda]

[noctisvel]

Isaac looks so pretty in these photos in his Nevermore uniform. Wish we got more of it 😭❤️❤️

[kattesmoon]

Test Subject

(Vampire!Reader x Isaac Night) Chapter 19

Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen Summary: The long awaited camping trip arrives. Now that Y/n and Isaac have a forced bond with each other, Y/N is struggling to keep her urges intact. And Isaac...gets hard? Notes: I feel like Isaac would speak some Spanish because of Gomez and something in my mind is telling me he has a french background and I'm only saying that because of francoise's name lol. Also, this chapter really exposes why isaac likes y/n so let me know on your thoughts about that. Warning: Drinking blood, sexual tension

The machine was finally finished.

It crouched in the middle of the dusty clocktower lab like a living thing: copper coils thick as a man’s wrist, capacitors ripped from Stonehearst’s restricted sub-levels in the dead of night, grounding plates etched by hand while Isaac’s shoulder still wept blood. Moonlight poured through the high arched windows, glinting off exposed wires and the polished steel table at the heart of it all.

Francoise lay on that table now. She had climbed up herself the moment she saw the last cable connected, rolling up her sleeves without a word. Soft leather restraints circled her wrists and ankles, buckled gently by her own fingers. She stared at the vaulted ceiling, silver light catching the hope in her eyes.

“No more Hyde after tonight,” she said, voice steady.

Isaac checked the final connection one last time. The bond thrummed under his ribs, a restless second heartbeat that kept trying to drag his thoughts back to Y/N’s dorm, to the memory of her skin against his mouth. He shoved the feeling down hard. Francoise first. Always Francoise.

“One clean surge,” he answered, hoarse from too much coffee and too little sleep. “That’s all it needs.”

He rested a gloved hand on her shoulder for a single heartbeat, then stepped to the control panel.

Francoise gave him a small, trusting nod.

Isaac pulled the brass lever.

For three blinding seconds the clocktower became a storm. Blue-white lightning snapped from the electrodes taped to her temples and sternum, crackling loud enough to rattle the ancient gears overhead. Francoise’s back arched off the table, breath caught in a sharp, hopeful gasp.

Then the capacitors coughed, the overhead bulbs dimmed to a sickly amber, and everything died.

Silence crashed back in, broken only by the slow, distant tick of the great clock above.

Francoise’s chest rose and fell too fast. “Isaac…?”

He tore off his gloves and kicked the nearest cable so hard it skittered across the worn floorboards. “This campus grid is an insult,” he snarled, pacing beneath the moonlight. “Sixty hertz, stepped down to nothing. I built something that could rewrite biology and they feed it the same current they use for the dorm microwaves.”

Francoise sat up slowly as he unbuckled the restraints, rubbing the faint red marks on her wrists. “So we try again tomorrow?”

“No.” Isaac dragged both hands through his hair, eyes fever-bright. “We need a real storm. Millions of volts begging to be caught.”

She frowned, worry creasing her brow. “Where are you even going to get that kind of power?”

Isaac stopped pacing. A slow, sharp grin cut across his exhausted face.

“I have an idea,” he said.

…

Y/N sat in the back row, sunlight slicing across her desk. Every sense was razor-sharp. The chalk squeaked too loud, the air smelled faintly of graphite and old paper, and her pulse thrummed with a steady, effortless power she had never known. She hated the reason for it. She hated how good it felt.

Live blood.

One mouthful from Isaac’s vein and her body had come fully, terrifyingly alive.

Her pen moved without conscious thought, solving integrals faster than the professor could write them. The bond purred beneath her ribs, sated and quiet for the first time since she was turned. She pressed her lips together, tasting phantom copper.

The room blurred.

She was back in her dorm at dawn.

She woke first. Isaac’s arm was a steel band around her waist, his chest flush against her back, breath slow and deep against the nape of her neck. The stitches on his shoulder stood out stark black against his pale skin, the wound closed but angry, crusted with dried blood that had seeped onto her nightgown and the sheets in dark, rust-brown streaks. The room smelled of iron and sleep.

For one suspended second she simply listened to his mechanical heartbeat, steady, strong, hers, and panic clawed up her throat.

Careful not to wake him, she began to inch forward. His fingers tightened reflexively, a sleepy frown pulling at his mouth, but exhaustion kept him under. She slipped free bit by bit until she could sit on the edge of the bed. The moment her feet touched the cold floor, strength flooded her limbs like liquid fire. The constant chill under her skin was gone. She felt invincible.

And terrified.

She fled to the bathroom on silent feet, shutting the door with a soft click. The mirror showed a stranger: cheeks flushed with color she hadn’t worn in years, eyes bright and predatory, dried blood smeared at the corner of her mouth like war paint. Her nightgown was ruined. The sheets would need burning, not washing.

She locked the bathroom door and leaned over the sink, palms braced on cold porcelain.

She stumbled to the sink and twisted the cold tap all the way open. Water roared out, shocking and merciless. She cupped her hands beneath the stream and splashed it over her face again and again, scrubbing until her skin felt flayed. The dried blood dissolved into pink rivulets that swirled down the drain, but the taste of copper stayed thick on her tongue, the memory of his pulse still fluttering against her lips.

She clawed at her mouth, nails scraping the corner where the stain had set.

Harder.

Harder.

As if she could tear the night off her skin.

The mirror refused to lie.

Her reflection stared back, cheeks flushed with stolen color, eyes too bright, too alive, too wrong.

A stranger wearing her face.

Her legs gave out.

She sank to the tile, back sliding down the door until she sat in a crumpled heap.

A broken sound ripped out of her throat, half sob, half scream, and she clamped both arms over her mouth to smother it before it could reach the bedroom.

She did not want him to hear.

She did not want him to know how completely he had ruined her.

Tears fell hot and silent, each one striking the tile with a tiny, sharp sound that echoed too loudly in the cramped bathroom. They slipped off her jaw and shattered in the puddle already spreading beneath her knees. She couldn’t stop them. She didn’t even try.

Every breath scraped like broken glass in her throat. Every beat of her heart carried his heartbeat beneath it now, a second, steadier rhythm that refused to be ignored. She pressed both palms over her sternum, hard enough to bruise, as though she could crush the echo out of existence. It only grew louder, smug and certain.

He had looked straight Into her eyes while she fought, while she lost, and he had smiled like a man receiving the gift he had always known was coming. He had decided her body was his to feed, his to save, his to own. And her body, treacherous and starving, had opened for him like it had been waiting its entire life for exactly this.

The gratitude in her veins was the ugliest betrayal of all. The way her limbs thrummed with a strength she had never known, the way colors blazed brighter, the way the world suddenly rang in perfect clarity. Her blood sang thank you while her soul screamed no. She hated the warmth in her cheeks, hated the steadiness in her hands, hated the monstrous vitality flooding every cell like sunrise after centuries of dusk.

She was his now.

Forever had teeth, and they were already buried to the bone.

Grief swelled until the tiny room could not hold it. It pressed against the walls, against her ribs, against the inside of her skull until she thought she would explode. She curled forward, forehead to her knees, arms locked so tightly around herself she felt her own bones creak. The tears came harder then, soundless and endless, each one a silent apology to the girl she had been only hours earlier, the girl who had still owned her future.

When the storm finally ebbed into shaking exhaustion and the taste of salt, she dragged herself upright. Her legs felt wrong, too powerful, too alive. She filled a bowl and the water sloshed over the rim and soaked her sleeves while her hands trembled with the last dregs of rage.

The rag went In next. She watched it drink the ice until it sagged, heavy and dripping.

She did not care if the cold shocked him awake. She wanted it to hurt.

She carried the bowl back into the bedroom like a verdict. Isaac lay exactly where she had left him, curled on his side, black stitches stark against skin gone wax-pale from everything he had poured into her. One arm still stretched across the hollow she had occupied, fingers half-curled as if even unconscious he refused to let her go.

Y/N knelt by the bedside, her hands steady but her mind a whirlwind, the freezing rag heavy in her grip. She pressed it against the crusted blood on Isaac’s shoulder, the cold cloth soaking through the dried stains with a slow seep. Water trickled down his skin in thin rivulets, cutting clean paths through the red, the chill biting deep enough to make the wound glisten anew.

Isaac came awake with a guttural grunt, his body jerking as if struck by lightning, the cold searing through the haze of blood loss. His eyes snapped open, unfocused at first, pupils dilating in the dim moonlight that spilled through the arched window, casting silver streaks across the stone floor. The room swam into clarity piece by piece- the familiar scent of old wood and candle wax, the creak of the mattress beneath him, the faint draft from the door he had forced open hours ago. Memory flooded back in fragments: the lab’s chaos, the outcast’s flames, the dissection’s grim precision. Then her dorm. Her resistance. The blood he had deliberately smeared to bait her. Her fangs sinking in. The bond igniting like fire in his veins. He had won. She was his now. The details blurred at the edges, but the heat in his veins, the weakness in his limbs, told him he had bled for her, and she had drunk deep.

He flinched hard, his stitched shoulder pulling with a sharp twist that sent fresh pain lancing through him, but he didn’t recoil. Instead, he forced himself upright, leaning his weight into the mattress, muscles trembling under the effort. The world swayed violently; black spots swarmed the edges of his vision. He caught himself inches from her knee, palm braced on the mattress, breath coming in ragged bursts. Another helpless tremor ran through him. His good arm lifted without permission, fingers reaching, needing to touch her even as the room tilted from dizziness. When his fingertips brushed the inside of her wrist the contact burned hotter than the ice, and a low, shattered sound escaped him- half pain, half worship.

His hand moved to her cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear with devastating gentleness. “Y/N,” he rasped, voice cracked and raw from exhaustion, “you’re everything to me. Don’t you see? This… this is us now.” His eyes, still hazy but locking onto hers with an unwavering intensity, gleamed with a desperate certainty, as if her pain, her tears, were just another sign that she belonged to him, that her resistance was a temporary storm he could weather.

The touch lingered, his thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone, slow and reverent, possessive, like he was memorizing the shape of her grief. And in that moment, stretched out over the space of one heartbeat, two, three, the realization settled over Y/N with the weight of a closing trap.

It came slowly, layer by layer, unfolding in the space between breaths.

He wasn’t hearing her.

He would never hear her.

Every scream of protest, every boundary she had drawn in fire, every tear she had shed in the name of her freedom, it all translated to him as need, as proof that she required his protection, his possession. No matter what she said, no matter how she expressed her fury or her fear, he would twist it into a narrative where he was the hero, where she was his to save, to own. Words were useless against a man who rewrote them in his mind before they even left her lips.

Something inside her chest cracked open, not with pain, but with a hollow, exhausted surrender.

She was so tired.

Tired of fighting a war that had already been lost the moment his blood first touched her tongue. Tired of pretending she could outrun the bond, outsmart him, outlast the hunger he had planted inside her like a seed. Tired of the endless loop of defiance and defeat, of hating him and still crawling back when the ache became unbearable.

The rag slipped from her limp fingers and landed with a soft, wet thud on the sheets.

“If you want me so bad,” she said, voice low and steady, each word measured like the tick of a clock, “then let me have you.”

The fight left her all at once.

She moved before the echo died, before the last shred of resistance could claw its way back up her throat.

One knee pressed into the mattress beside his thigh, the fabric dipping under her weight. Then the other knee followed, slow and deliberate. She rose over him in one fluid motion, her nightgown brushing his bare skin, and lowered herself into his lap with a controlled grace, her thighs framing his hips, pinning him beneath her. The shift in weight tore a startled breath from him, his body tensing like a bowstring drawn tight.

Y/N wanted him to feel it, the fear, the helplessness, the loss of control she had endured every time he had pushed, every time he had crossed her boundaries. This was her reclaiming power, turning the tables to make him taste the terror she always felt in his presence. But she didn’t know- couldn’t see- that it was doing the opposite, his wide eyes not filled with fear, but with a stunned, heated reverence.

He tensed beneath her, expecting the sharp prick of fangs at his shoulder once more, his breath holding, body bracing for the bite. But she stopped, her hands hovering over the black stitches, her gaze locked on his face, the room thick with the scent of old wood, candle wax, and the faint copper tang of blood.

She reminded him of the first time she had done this, many months ago- when she had pinned him in a moment of anger, her strength a surprise, her eyes flashing with the same fire. Back then, it had been a spark; now, it was a blaze.

She rose from his lap slowly, thighs brushing his as she lifted herself away. The blood from his reopened stitches coated her fingertips in warm, slick crimson. She stared at it for a heartbeat, then, without breaking eye contact, brought her fingers to her mouth.

One by one she slid them between her lips, sucking them clean with deliberate, unhurried pulls of her tongue. The taste of him flooded her mouth again, and she let her eyes flutter half-closed for the briefest second, a low hum vibrating in her throat before she caught herself.

Isaac watched, transfixed, breath shallow, pupils blown wide.

“You stupid boy,” she whispered, voice velvet-rough, lips still glistening red. “If I drink any more, you’re probably going to die.”

She withdrew her fingers with a soft, wet pop and wiped the last trace of blood across her lower lip like war paint.

“Get out so I can change.”

Isaac’s breath came in short bursts, his body responding in ways he couldn’t control, heat pooling low as he stared up at her, the pain from her touch mingling with something sharper, more insistent. He sat up slowly, his hands lingering on her hips for a moment too long before he released her, his face flushed, eyes dark with a mix of pain and desire. He stood, adjusting his rumpled coat with unsteady hands, the bulge in his pants evident as he turned toward the door, the morning light beginning to creep through the window. “I’ll be back,” he said, his voice rough, a promise that hung in the air as he slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Y/N collapsed back onto the bed, her hands shaking, the power she had tried to reclaim leaving her more defeated than before, the room’s shadows pulsing with the echo of his presence.

A sudden, theatrical gasp cut through the drone from two rows ahead that made Y/N jump out from her thoughts back to class.

“You’re lying.”

She snatched the folded-up weather report her friend had smuggled in from the morning newspaper and slapped it open on the desk.

“They’re still making us go on that stupid camping trip tomorrow? Look at this: severe thunderstorms, frequent lightning, flash-flood watch. All night! We’re going to be soaked to the bone in the middle of nowhere. What is wrong with them?”

Her friend leaned over the page, eyes widening. “It says the buses leave at six a.m. sharp. Rain or shine. No cancellations.”

“Rain or shine, my ass,” the first girl hissed, crumpling the corner of the newspaper. “Nothing builds character like freezing in a canvas tent while the sky tries to fry us.”

A ripple of groans and nervous laughter spread through their little knot of desks. Someone muttered about ruined sleeping bags. Another whispered that the only lightning rod in the forest would be the metal poles holding up their tents.

Y/N’s fountain pen stopped moving.

Tomorrow.

The camping trip.

Forty-eight hours of wet leaves, canvas walls, and no real doors between her and Isaac.

The bond stirred under her ribs like a cat stretching awake, slow and pleased, as if it had just heard the words thunderstorm and lightning and already knew exactly what those things meant for the two of them.

Outside the tall gothic windows, the sky hung low and iron-gray, innocent for now, but heavy with the promise of everything about to break.

…

The gravel yard was already slick with the first cold drops. Students huddled in restless clusters, duffels thudding to the ground, scarves whipping in the wind.

Y/N stood near the back of the group, swallowed by a heavy brown wool coat that fell to mid-thigh. Beneath it, her school skirt and black tights disappeared under the hem; a thick charcoal scarf was wound twice around her neck and tucked into the collar, the hood pulled so low that only a pale sliver of face showed between wool and lashes. A compact black umbrella was strapped tight to the side of her backpack- she knew the bus aisles would be too narrow to open it once they were packed in.

Francoise, bright in a scarlet cloak, nudged her gently. “You look like you’re about to rob a Victorian bank.”

“Sun on the bus,” Y/N muttered into the scarf. “Windows.”

Morticia drifted closer, black cape-coat swirling like liquid night, veiled hat tilted against the drizzle. “You appear both luminous and funereal, darling. A delicious contradiction.”

Gomez flashed a grin, twirling his mustache. “She glows like a poisoned moon. Magnificent.”

Francoise snorted. “She also looks like she hasn’t slept since the invention of electricity. Rough night?”

“Something like that,” Y/N said, voice muffled.

Morticia’s gaze sharpened behind her veil, thoughtful. “Speaking of electricity… I had a vision last night.” She paused, letting the wind carry the words. “Thunderstorms tomorrow night. Violent ones. Black lightning that splits the sky like a seam. Someone will be touched by the storm in a way they won’t forget.”

Gomez’s eyes lit up. “Morticia, you glorious creature-”

“Someone will be kissed by the sky,” Morticia continued, soft and certain, “and nothing afterward will be the same.”

Francoise raised an eyebrow. “So we’re all going to die dramatically in the woods. Fantastic.”

“Or be reborn,” Morticia corrected, a faint smile playing beneath the veil.

Y/N pulled the scarf higher, the bond giving a low, uneasy throb at the word reborn.

Before anyone could press further, footsteps crunched across the gravel behind them.

Isaac sauntered into the yard as though the entire trip had been scheduled purely for his convenience. Dark coat open despite the cold, collar turned up, a leather satchel slung across his body and a long, narrow case in another. His hair was still damp from a shower, curling at the ends; the stitches on his shoulder hidden beneath crisp white linen, but the faint pallor of blood loss only sharpened the angles of his face. He looked rested, smug, and far too pleased with himself.

He swept the little group with an easy, proprietary smile.

“Bon matin, mes monstres,” he greeted, voice warm and lazy.

Gomez’s face split into a delighted grin. “Isaac, mon garçon!” In two strides he closed the distance, seized Isaac in a fierce, theatrical bear hug, and lifted him clear off the ground for a second, clapping him on the back hard enough to make the narrow case rattle. “The prodigal genius returns! I was beginning to fear the academy had lost its brightest spark!”

Isaac laughed, breathless, and returned the embrace with one arm, careful of the case. “Someone has to keep you from burning the forest down with sheer passion, Gomez.”

Gomez released him but kept both hands on Isaac’s shoulders, eyes shining. “Passion is the only acceptable fuel! Tell me, have you brought anything that explodes? Poisons? A collapsible torture rack?”

“Only the essentials,” Isaac replied, grin widening.

Francoise folded her arms, smirking. “Translation: something that will probably get us all expelled by Sunday.”

Morticia inclined her head, amused. “As long as it’s elegant expulsion.”

Isaac’s gaze slid to Y/N then, slow and deliberate, the smile softening into something quieter, more private.

“Morning,” he said again, just for her. “Love the fortress aesthetic. Very… impenetrable.” His eyes traced the brown wool coat, the scarf, the hood pulled low. “We’ll see how long that lasts when we’re sharing a tent wall.”

Y/N tugged the scarf higher and said nothing.

Gomez, oblivious or pretending to be, slung an arm around Isaac’s shoulders and steered him toward the buses. “Come, come! You must sit with us and regale me with tales of your latest crimes against common sense.”

Francoise hooked her arm through Y/N’s and tugged her forward. “Move, walking corpse. Before Gomez adopts him permanently.”

Morticia followed, veil fluttering, a knowing smile still curving her lips.

The buses hissed open.

Isaac glanced back once as Gomez dragged him along, the look quick, possessive, and entirely unrepentant.

The bus lurched out of Nevermore’s gates and onto the slick, winding road. Rain hammered the roof like impatient fingers. Francoise had claimed the window; Y/N sat on the aisle, cocooned in her brown wool coat, scarf still high, hood still low.

Francoise bumped her shoulder, eyes bright. “I’ve been waiting for this trip since first year. Finally, finally, we get a whole weekend in the woods with no classes, no curfew, no teachers breathing down our necks.”

Y/N managed a small sound of acknowledgment.

Francoise leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Picture it: huge campfire, crackling logs, the smell of pine and smoke everywhere. We’ll all sit in a circle with blankets and cocoa, and Morticia will tell one of her stories.” She clasped her hands dramatically. “You know the ones. The slow, velvet voice, the way she pauses right when you think you can’t take the tension anymore… I swear she could make the trees lean in to listen.”

Y/N’s lips twitched beneath the scarf. “I heard she did that thing last Halloween with the widow in the walls. Half the dorm wouldn’t sleep for a week.”

“Exactly!” Francoise laughed. “This time I’m bringing extra marshmallows so we can bribe her for two stories. Maybe three. I want the one about the drowned bride again. And the hitchhiker with the glass eye. And whatever new nightmare she’s been saving.”

She bounced a little in her seat, scarlet cloak rustling. “It’s going to be perfect. Just us, the fire, the dark, and Morticia turning the air itself cold. You, me, spooky stories until the sky falls down. Promise you’ll sit next to me so I can hide my face in your coat when it gets too scary?”

Y/N exhaled, the sound almost a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it,” Francoise sing-songed, nudging her again. “Come on, admit it. You’re secretly excited.”

Y/N looked out the rain-streaked window, the bond quiet for once under the steady drum of water and Francoise’s uncomplicated joy.

“Maybe,” she allowed.

Francoise beamed like she’d won a prize but her voice dropped to almost nothing, barely louder than the cars the zoomed past the bus outside.

“There’s something else. Isaac caught me after breakfast. He has a plan for tomorrow night.”

Y/N’s fingers froze on the strap of her backpack.

Francoise’s hands twisted in her lap. “He built a lightning collector. Tomorrow’s storm is supposed to be the strongest we’ll get all year, probably the last real one until winter comes. If he can capture it, he’ll have the surge he needs to finish the machine that could burn the Hyde out of me forever.”

She swallowed hard, eyes glassy. “Stonehearst will be watching him every second. If they see him on the ridge with his gear, they’ll stop him. He needs someone to keep them busy, just ten, fifteen minutes when the storm is worst.”

“He asked me to ask you.” A quick, nervous breath. “But I completely understand if you don’t want to. I know being around him makes you uncomfortable, and I’d never push you. Really. Just… say no if you need to. I’ll figure something else out.”

The words hung between them, soft and honest, leaving the choice entirely in Y/N’s hands.

The bond flared, hot and possessive, but it was instantly drowned by something deeper, older, and far more painful.

Three older boys had waited for her after class. They hadn’t touched her, just formed a tight half-circle and hissed every ugly word they knew: monster, freak, animal. They’d laughed when she flinched, laughed harder when her voice cracked trying to answer. By the time Y/N found her, Francoise was sitting on the bottom stair, arms locked around her knees, repeating under her breath, “They’re right. They’re right.”

She remembered the night they stole two mugs of cocoa and a blanket and climbed to the roof of Ophelia Hall just to watch the stars. Francoise had pointed out every constellation she knew, voice soft and wondering, and when Y/N admitted she had never learned their names, Francoise had traced them in the air with her finger, inventing ridiculous stories about drunken gods and lovesick wolves until they were both laughing so hard they nearly fell off the tiles. They had lain shoulder to shoulder until dawn, breath fogging in the cold, and for once the world had felt gentle.

Every memory hit like a blade between the ribs.

Francoise, who had bled for being born wrong.

Francoise, who had chosen her anyway.

Y/N’s throat closed so tight she could barely breathe.

She thought of Francoise waking up one more morning with someone else’s blood on her hands and hating the girl in the mirror.

She thought of Francoise free.

The bond screamed in protest, but it was nothing against the sudden, fierce ache in her chest.

“I’ll do it,” she said, voice raw, cracking on the edges.

Francoise’s breath hitched on a broken sound. She seized Y/N’s gloved hand with both of hers and pressed it to her own cheek, tears spilling over.

“Thank you,” she whispered, trembling. “Thank you.”

Across the aisle, Isaac never turned, but the line of his shoulders eased, as if the entire bus had just exhaled with him.

…

The buses coughed to a halt in a wide clearing carpeted with rust-colored pine needles. The rain had mercifully stopped, leaving only a damp, electric smell in the air and a sky the color of old pewter.

Students poured out in two distinct waves: one group sprinted toward the creek with whoops of excitement, duffels banging against their hips; the other trudged like condemned prisoners, muttering curses at every root and stone.

Y/N fell squarely into the second camp.

She dragged her pack and Francoise’s gear across the clearing with grim determination, boots crunching. Because Mia had begged her parents to let her skip the trip entirely and go home for the weekend, Y/N’s tent had an empty spot. Francoise had quietly taken advantage of the gap; no one had noticed the switch, and now the two of them were sharing the same patch of ground beneath a stand of towering hemlocks.

The trees rose straight and merciless, trunks thick as wells, crowns lost in the low clouds. Y/N paused with a mallet in her hand and looked up. The height made her stomach tilt. Tall enough to draw every bolt after bolt when the storm finally broke. Morticia’s vision flickered behind her eyes: black lightning, split oaks, rewritten destinies.

She drove the copper grounding stake into the earth with a dull thunk.

This was not how these trips were supposed to go.

In all the decades she had been shuffled onto Nevermore buses- spring, summer, fall, sometimes winter- the weather had been an afterthought. A little drizzle, a little fog, once a surprise snow that turned the scavenger hunt into a snowball war. The forest was always just the forest: tall, quiet, and safe enough. This year the calendar had simply lined up wrong, the first violent front of the season rolling in exactly when the buses were already booked.

Yet Nevermore never wasted a teachable moment.

Self-discovery, they called it. A chance to feel your power in its raw form when the sky cracked open and the rules got washed away. Vampires learning how fast they could really move when thunder chased them. Sirens discovering their voices carried farther in wind. Werewolves finding the shift came easier when lightning lit the clearing like daylight. The faculty watched from the edges, took notes, and quietly adjusted the next decade of lesson plans.

Y/N had sat through dozens of these weekends. She had never minded the rain before.

This was Francoise’s first time sharing one with her, and the sky had decided to make it biblical.

She slammed the final stake home with more force than necessary.

Francoise poked her head out of the half-raised tent, red curls already rebelling against the humidity. “You’re hammering like you’ve got a personal grudge against the planet.”

“I’ve been on this trip since before your grandparents were born,” Y/N muttered. “The universe could have picked a quieter year to get dramatic.”

Francoise gave a small, rueful laugh. “Leave it to me to jinx your streak of peaceful camping.”

Y/N glanced up once more at the waiting giants. The forest stood patient and ancient, branches swaying like slow metronomes counting down to tomorrow night.

The day had been an endless gauntlet of forced cheer: relay races across the lake in leaky canoes, trust falls into mud, three-legged sack races, riddle stations, and a tug-of-war that left half the camp soaked and the other half laughing hysterically. By the time the sun bled out behind the ridge, every student was filthy, bruised, and convinced the torture was finally over. Fires were lit, cocoa passed around, sleeping bags unrolled, and the collective sigh of relief was almost loud enough to drown out the first warning growl of thunder.

Then the whistles blew again.

“Night hike! Powers only, no flashlights, half-mile loop! Move, move, move!”

Groans turned into startled laughter and curses as everyone was herded back into the dark. The teachers weren’t taking no for an answer; this was the real curriculum.

Y/N slipped toward the back of the slow, snaking line of students, eyes sharp. The trail was narrow, the forest absolute black except for the occasional flare of heat lightning that turned the trees into stark white skeletons for a heartbeat. It was the perfect cover.

Isaac appeared at her side as if the shadows had spat him out.

“Enjoying compulsory fun?” Isaac’s voice slid through the dark like warm smoke, close enough that she felt the words more than heard them.

Y/N didn’t answer. She couldn’t. The memory of his blood was still thick on her tongue: copper-bright, electric, wrong. Every swallow since that night tasted like betrayal. Her throat burned with it now, raw and furious, and the bond throbbed under her ribs like a second, hateful heartbeat. So she walked, shoulders rigid, eyes fixed on the black ribbon of trail ahead, letting the cold night air scour her lungs and pretending the boy beside her didn’t exist.

Isaac waited. When the silence held breath of silence stretched too long, he tried again, softer, almost gentle. “Still angry, I see.”

Nothing.

He stepped in front of her, walking backward with that infuriating fluid grace, boots silent on the pine needles. The next sheet of heat lightning flared; for an instant the forest turned silver, and she saw him clearly: hair damp from earlier rain, collar open, the faint white line of new stitches peeking above his shirt. He looked unfairly alive. Unfairly pleased with himself.

“Look at me,” he coaxed, voice velvet and coaxing. “One glance. I promise I’m prettier in the dark.”

She stared past his ear as if he were glass.

He pivoted again, keeping her in his sights, the scent of ozone and wet pine clinging to his coat. “Very well. I’ll talk to myself. I particularly enjoyed watching you face-plant off the rope swing. Mud became you.”

Her jaw flexed. The bond flared hot, possessive, mocking.

Another flash of lightning. Another slow, knowing grin.

He dropped his voice to a deliberate murmur pitched just loud enough to carry to the students ahead. “As you wish. You can’t ignore me forever, though. I thought we had something special. After all, we did sleep-”

Y/N’s hand shot out and clamped over his mouth mid-word, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Her eyes finally met his, livid, glittering with the same lightning that cracked overhead.

“Are you insane?” she snarled, voice a raw whisper scraped over broken glass.

Isaac’s grin spread slow and wicked beneath her palm, eyes dancing with triumph. He didn’t move, didn’t fight it, just let the warmth of her hand sink in like he’d been starving for the contact.

She realized what she’d done and snatched her hand back as if burned.

He leaned in, breath brushing her ear, barely audible over the rising wind.

“There you are, ma petite.”

“What do you want now?” she hissed.

Isaac caught her wrist before she could escape again, fingers warm and sure. Heat flared under her skin, instant, traitorous, a blush she couldn’t stop rising hot across her cheeks.

He tilted his head, thumb brushing once, deliberately slow, over the frantic drum of her pulse.

“Still pretending you hate this?” he asked, voice velvet and low, meant only for her.

His thumb traced another slow circle over her pulse, deliberate, maddening. The bond answered with a sharp tug deep in her chest, as if it were a string he held in his fist. She hated how easily he found it. Hated how easily he pulled.

She tried to jerk her wrist free; he let her get halfway before tightening just enough to keep her there, a silent reminder of who had the real strength tonight.

His gaze dropped to her mouth, lingered, then lifted again.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured, softer now, almost wondering. “Not from cold.”

The darkness pressed close, thick with pine and coming rain. She could feel his breath, steady and warm, against her cheek.

Then, quieter still, like a confession he hadn’t meant to give:

“I know you’re hungry, Y/N.”

The words hung between them, simple and devastating.

Y/N’s thoughts fractured. “W-what? What do you mean-”

Her stomach betrayed her first, a low, hollow growl that rolled out into the charged silence, unmistakable.

Isaac’s smile curved, slow and devastating. His thumb pressed a fraction harder, right over the vein that carried his blood inside her now.

“Exactly that,” he whispered, eyes dark, voice rougher than before. “I feel it every time you do. The same ache. The same want.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said, the lie scraping her throat raw.

The words barely left her mouth before her stomach betrayed her again, a low, animal growl that rolled through the silence like a warning. The hunger was no longer a whisper; it was teeth now, sharp and relentless, gnawing at the lining of her gut. It tasted of copper and cedar and the memory of his skin under her tongue, and it terrified her how quickly that memory had become the only thing that quieted the ache.

Isaac stood motionless, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him in the cold night air. Close enough that every breath pulled more of his scent into her lungs: rain-damp wool, the faint metallic trace of blood dried beneath fresh stitches, and underneath it all the clean, electric bite of cedar and ozone that clung to him like static before a lightning strike. It curled inside her chest and made the bond throb, slow and deliberate, like a second heartbeat counting down.

His thumb was still resting over the vein in her wrist, a gentle, unbearable pressure. She could feel her pulse slamming against his skin, frantic, ashamed, alive.

“Say it again,” he whispered, voice velvet dragged over gravel. “Tell me you don’t feel it.”

She ripped her hand free so violently the motion jerked her whole body. Cold air rushed into the space his fingers had been, shocking after the heat, and she hated how much she missed it already.

“I said no.” The words cracked like a branch under snow. “I’m not your fix. I’m not your anything.”

Her voice shook, but her spine straightened, every inch of her carved from fury and refusal.

“I will starve,” she told him, each syllable deliberate, “before I let you win.”

She stepped back. Pine needles snapped beneath her boot like tiny bones. The night rushed in to fill the gap between them, damp, resin-sharp, alive with the low rustle of unseen things watching from the dark.

Isaac didn’t follow. He stayed where he was, half-shadowed, the faint glow of a distant lantern catching the edge of his jaw, the slow rise of his chest. His eyes never left her face.

“Starving won’t break the bond, Y/N,” he said, soft enough that the wind almost stole it. “It will only hurt you.”

“Good,” she snarled, and turned away.

…

“Why did I say that,” she groaned, voice muffled against the sleeve she had shoved over her mouth like a gag.

She lay flat on her back in the pitch-dark tent, knees drawn up, both arms clamped so tightly around her stomach she was half convinced she could crush the hunger by sheer force. It wasn’t pain exactly, more like an unbearable, gnawing emptiness that started low in her gut and kept blooming outward in hot, rolling waves. Her fangs throbbed. Her tongue felt thick. Every swallow tasted like copper and cedar and the memory of his pulse against her lips, and the memory refused to leave.

She rolled to one side, then the other, then onto her stomach, face mashed into the sleeping bag like a starfish trying to disappear.

I can wait it out. I’m a vampire, not a toddler. I have willpower. I have pride. I have, apparently, a death wish.

Her stomach let out a noise so tragic it belonged in a documentary about starving sea lions.

Francoise slept on, snoring softly, one foot sticking out of her blanket like she didn’t have a care in the world.

Y/N curled into a ball and whimpered.

He’s awake. I know he is. Probably lying there with that stupid half-smile, counting down the seconds until I last before I come crawling. He’s literally waiting for me to lose.

Another cramp twisted through her, sharp enough to steal her breath.

Okay, fine, worst-case scenario: I sneak over, take one sip, just enough to stop feeling like I’m being eaten from the inside, and leave. He doesn’t even have to speak. I’ll bite, swallow, gag him if he tries to gloat, and vanish. In and out. Thirty seconds. Medicinal. Like taking the world’s most humiliating medicine.

She sat up so fast her head spun.

No. Bad Y/N. Down. You are not doing this. You are not giving him the satisfaction of being right.

Her stomach staged a full rebellion, an audible, mortifying gurgle that echoed in the tiny tent.

“Oh for the love of,” she hissed, already on her feet, boots shoved on without laces, coat haphazardly put on, zipper teeth chattering as she ripped it open.

She was outside before the rational part of her brain could tackle her again, cold air slapping her face, moving fast and silent between the sleeping tents toward the one at the very edge of camp.

Pride lasted exactly until the hunger won.

She tore across the clearing, boots half-laced, breath fogging in frantic puffs, every heartbeat screaming hurry before someone sees. The camp slept on, oblivious, and she reached the lone tent at the edge without a single witness.

She ripped the zipper down and slipped inside, letting it fall shut behind her with a hushed rasp.

Isaac was seated on the folding camp chair, the low lantern painting everything in warm gold. A small, intricate machine sat on the plastic desk in front of him: coils of copper wire, glass tubes, a faint shimmer of moving parts that caught the light like trapped starlight. He had clearly been waiting.

He looked up the Instant she burst in, and the slow, radiant grin that spread across his face was so smug and so utterly delighted it should have been illegal.

“Took you longer than I expected,” he said, voice soft with victory. He lifted the goggles off completely and set them aside. “I was starting to worry you’d actually try to sleep it off.”

Y/N stood frozen just inside the flap, coat inside-out, hair wild, cheeks flushed from cold and humiliation. Her fangs ached so badly her jaw trembled.

I was right, she thought, the realization slamming into her like a second wave of hunger. He was waiting. He knew. He’s been sitting here this whole time, ready for me to lose.

The lantern light caught the amused glint in his eyes, and for one mortifying second she almost turned and bolted.

“Where’s Gomez?” she managed, voice rough.

Isaac’s grin widened. “With Morticia. Somewhere.” He tilted his head, lazy and amused.

Isaac’s gaze sharpened, amusement fading into something quieter, more dangerous. He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

“Stonehearst,” he said, voice low. “Did he see you come here?”

She shook her head once, sharp. “He’s on patrol. Northern loop. Ten minutes exactly until he circles back.” A faint, bitter smile tugged at her mouth. “I know his route better than he does.”

Isaac studied her for a long second, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

“Good,” he murmured. “You’re terrifying when you’re thorough, you know that?”

Y/N lifted her chin, clinging to the last shred of pride she owned.

“Shut up,” she muttered. “And roll up your sleeve.”

She crossed the small space in three stiff steps, the lantern light trembling across her face as she dropped to her knees in front of his chair. Isaac watched her, expression unreadable now, and slowly rolled his sleeve past the elbow. The motion was deliberate, unhurried, the cotton whispering against his skin until the pale inside of his forearm was fully exposed, veins faint blue lines under the warm glow.

Y/N took his wrist with both hands, grip tight enough to bruise if he’d been human. She brought his arm to her mouth, breath ghosting over the thin skin, warm and uneven. For one heartbeat she hesitated, fangs extended, lips trembling against the pulse that fluttered there, fast, eager, alive. She hated how good it already smelled. Hated how her mouth watered before she’d even broken skin.

Then the hunger won.

She sank her fangs in, swift and deep.

Isaac’s breath hitched; a low, involuntary grunt escaped him as the sharp sting bloomed into heat. Because she was kneeling and his arm angled downward, gravity did the rest, blood welled fast and rich, flooding her tongue in a thick, dizzying rush. The taste exploded across her senses: copper-bright, electric, laced with that maddening cedar note that was only ever his.

His fingers flexed once against her hold, not pulling away, just feeling the pull of her mouth, the soft drag of every swallow. The small grunt melted into a slow exhale that sounded almost like relief.

Y/N closed her eyes and drank, shame and need braided so tightly she couldn’t tell which was winning.

Isaac had imagined this hundreds of times, maybe thousands, in the dark hush of his dorm room, in the sterile white corners of the lab, in every sleepless hour since the night he first decided the bond was the only way to keep her.

He had pictured her angry, proud, beautiful, always beautiful, and always fighting him. He had pictured her on her knees exactly like this, not broken, never broken, but finally, finally giving in to the thing that lived between them. In every version of the fantasy her mouth was on his skin and the world narrowed to the wet heat of her tongue and the soft, helpless sounds she tried to swallow.

Reality was better.

The moment her fangs slid home, something in his chest unclenched so violently it almost hurt. A low, shuddering breath left him, half grunt, half prayer. Gravity pulled the blood down his arm and straight into her, and he let it, welcomed it, reveled in the dizzying rush of giving her exactly what she had sworn she would never take.

This was why.

It had started the day Francoise dragged her into the greenhouse, laughing at something Y/N had muttered under her breath. Isaac had been calibrating a spectrometer on the far bench, pretending not to watch. But he watched. He always watched after that. The way Y/N moved like she expected the world to bite her first, the way her rare smiles were sharp enough to cut glass, the way she never asked for anything, never leaned on anyone, never let the cracks show.

She was perfect control wrapped in deliberate distance, and Isaac had spent his entire life chasing control. His father had taught him early that love was a fist, that weakness was punished, that needing someone was the fastest way to have your ribs broken. So Isaac learned to need nothing, to stand alone, to build machines that obeyed and people who feared him just enough to stay in line.

Except for Francoise.

Francoise had been the first living proof that someone could need him and still survive it. She had arrived at Nevermore shaking from blackouts, terrified of her own shadow, and Isaac had stepped in front of her like a shield. He sat outside the infirmary every time she woke up covered in someone else’s blood and didn’t remember. He learned the exact pitch of her voice when the Hyde was rising and the precise amount of sedative that would drop her without killing her. She needed him to breathe, to stay human, to stay alive, and every time she whispered thank you with those wide, grateful eyes, something inside him settled. Someone needed him and the world didn’t end. Someone needed him and he was good.

That was power. Clean. Safe. Absolute.

Then came Y/N.

She never looked at him with gratitude. She never looked at him like he was salvation. She looked through him, past him, like he was furniture.

Most students treated him like a loaded gun: some kept a respectful distance, eyes wide with the kind of fear that tasted like respect; some edged closer, desperate to be near the rumored genius who could fix any machine, solve any equation, bend the laws of physics before breakfast.

Francoise had been the exception. Francoise looked at him like he was the only solid thing in a world that kept trying to tear her apart. Like he was the difference between breathing and breaking.

Y/N looked at him like she could see straight through the reputation, through the careful masks, through every calculated smile and dangerous invention, and found nothing worth stopping for. She saw the frightened boy who once hid under a desk while glass shattered overhead. She saw the part of him that still flinched at raised voices. She saw the hunger he dressed up as science, and she dismissed it all with a single bored flick of her eyes.

And every time she did, the old lesson cracked open wider: if Francoise’s need had soothed the child who once hid from flying bottles, Y/N’s refusal lit the adult on fire. It burned away every polite mask, every careful calculation, until all that was left was the raw, vicious want to be seen. Not feared. Not worshipped. Not used.

Just seen.

And then needed so completely that looking away was no longer an option.

So he gave her the one thing no one else ever had: a reason she could never look through him again.

He hated it.

He craved it.

Francoise needed him to survive.

Y/N needed no one.

So he made her need him the only way he knew how, with science and blood and a bond that would never let her walk away again.

He became addicted to the way she made him feel human and monstrous at the same time. Every sarcastic remark she tossed his way, every time she rolled her eyes at his arrogance, every time she walked away without looking back, it carved itself deeper into him. She was the first thing in his life that refused to be measured, contained, or predicted. She was chaos in human form, and chaos was the one variable he had never learned to control.

So he engineered the only solution he knew: he made himself the thing she could not live without.

Not because he cared if she starved. He didn’t. The emptiness in her eyes when the hunger hit too hard was just data, beautiful, exquisite data. What he cared about was the moment the data bent to his will. The moment the untouchable girl finally finally crawled to him, knelt, and took what only he could give.

Francoise needed him to be human.

Y/N needed him to be a monster.

And he discovered, with a thrill that tasted like copper and victory, that he was very, very good at both.

And now she was here, lips sealed around his vein, swallowing him down like he was the only answer to every question she had ever refused to ask.

Her blush was high and furious, staining her cheeks crimson in the lantern light, and Isaac drank it in like wine.

Mine, the bond sang, savage and satisfied.

Mine, his pulse echoed, over and over, with every desperate pull of her mouth.

He had won.

And he would never let her forget it.

She drew one last, slow pull, then eased her fangs free with a soft, wet sound that echoed too loudly in the small tent. The punctures welled crimson for a heartbeat before the skin began to knit itself closed. Y/N’s tongue darted out, shy, almost apologetic, and lapped once at the twin beads of blood, sealing them with a delicate flick.

Isaac watched, transfixed. The motion was so careful, so feline, that for a moment he forgot how to breathe. A cat finishing cream and pretending it had never been desperate for the bowl.

The lantern painted gold across her lowered lashes, the stubborn set of her mouth, the flush that refused to fade. She still knelt beside his knee, hands braced on his thigh for balance, unwilling to meet his eyes.

He broke the silence first, voice low and rough.

“Feel better?”

She gave a single, curt nod, barely perceptible.

“Good,” he said, and meant it in ways she would never ask about.

Y/N finally looked up. Her pupils were blown wide, the hunger sated but the war still raging behind them.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she muttered.

Isaac’s smile was slow, lazy, devastating.

“Of course not,” he agreed, too easily. “You still hate me. I’m still a monster. And tomorrow night you’ll still need me again when the storm comes.”

Her jaw tightened. “I’ll find another way.”

“There isn’t one.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, bringing their faces dangerously close. “Not synthetic. Not bagged. Not anyone else’s vein. Just mine. Say it.”

She glared, defiant, gorgeous, furious.

He waited, patient as winter.

“…Just yours,” she whispered at last, the admission dragged out of her like a splinter.

Isaac’s smile softened into something almost gentle. He brushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek with the same thumb that had traced her pulse earlier.

“See?” he murmured. “We’re already so honest with each other.”

Y/N closed her eyes, shoulders sagging a fraction, and for one unguarded second she looked impossibly young.

“Don’t get used to this,” she warned, voice hoarse.

Isaac leaned back again, letting her rise if she wanted, knowing she wouldn’t yet.

“Too late,” he said simply.

Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the tent walls like distant applause. Inside, the lantern flickered between them, and neither moved to leave.

He let the quiet settle for another heartbeat, the lantern flame trembling between them, then tilted his head.

“Are you ready for tomorrow?”

The question was soft, almost casual, but it carried the weight of everything they had both pretended wasn’t coming.

Y/N’s shoulders stiffened. She was still kneeling, his taste lingering on her tongue, his blood warm in her stomach. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand like she could erase what had just happened.

“There won’t be another storm like this,” he continued, voice low, steady. “Not this season. Maybe not for months. One night. One chance. After that the window closes and Francoise stays caged forever.”

He watched her face, watched the flicker of guilt and duty and helpless loyalty that always surfaced whenever her friend’s name was spoken.

“You keep Stonehearst away from the ridge for fifteen minutes,” he said. “That’s all I need. Fifteen minutes and she’s free.”

Y/N’s fingers curled against her thighs. “And if I don’t?”

Isaac’s smile didn’t reach his eyes this time.

“Then nothing changes. She keeps waking up with blood on her hands she doesn’t remember spilling. You keep pretending you don’t need me every time the hunger crawls up your throat. And I keep waiting for the next time you lose.”

He leaned forward again, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him.

“But we both know you won’t let that happen. Not to her. Not even to spite me.”

She let the last of the tension bleed out of her shoulders. The warmth of his blood pooled low in her belly, heavy and golden, and for once the hunger was nothing more than a distant, satisfied purr. A soft exhale slipped from her lips, almost a sigh of surrender.

Without thinking, without giving her pride time to scream, she shifted to the side and lowered herself fully to the tent floor. She settled on her knees beside his left leg, close enough that her shoulder brushed his calf. Then, slowly, as though the motion belonged to someone else, she let her temple rest against the outside of his thigh. The fabric of his trousers was worn soft, faintly warm from his body, and it smelled faintly of cedar and the night air he had walked through earlier.

Her hands came to rest lightly on the ground on either side of his boot, fingers uncurling from their earlier fists. She stayed there, cheek pressed to his leg, eyes half-lidded, lashes casting delicate shadows in the lantern glow. The blush had softened into something gentler, a rose flush across her cheekbones that made her look younger, unguarded, almost peaceful.

Isaac’s breath caught, just once. His hand hovered above her head, then descended with deliberate care, settling over the crown of her hair like a blessing he had no right to give. His fingers spread, cradling her gently, thumb tracing the shell of her ear in a single, reverent stroke.

For a long moment the only sounds were the soft hush of her breathing and the restless prowl of wind around the tent walls.

“Fifteen minutes,” she murmured at last, voice drowsy, muffled against his thigh.

His fingers tightened, just slightly, in her hair.

“Fifteen minutes,” he echoed, quiet and certain.

She didn’t move. She stayed exactly where she was, head resting on his leg, content for the first time in weeks, while the coming storm circled overhead and waited.

…

The tent was still wrapped in pre-dawn dark, the air thick with the smell of pine and sleeping earth. Morticia lay motionless for a moment, eyes open, staring at nothing while the last thread of the feeling coiled around her ribs like cold wire.

Then she turned her head on the pillow to face Gomez.

“Dear,” she said, voice low, almost conversational, “I think Y/N is in trouble.”

Tags: @eternal-sunshine-eclipse @cynical-ghost @sxlsvv @frey-williams @qardasngan @vwv-watching-boy @stranger-chan @yougotafriend-inme @moon-zoons @mylife-isafxckingjoke @wingedloverstranger @iamonewiththebitches @lawlietfangirl @yepitsmesendhelp @riffcrusader @v4mp-carm1ne @afternoonfairy @madelynn-xo @totallysocially @burningwitchprincess @speakercosplays @lunaryasha @ssnakehipss @defiantnightmarequeen @flirtysnakes @miyakui @aiywns @star-girl-interlud3 @sunndroppp @melvin333 @flow33didontsmoke @navs-bhat @dontyellatmeiwillcry @ifonlyihadneverseenhim @sassycheesecake @heartzfromluna @moonj0 @cannibalcoyote @chaosinciter

[isaacnights]

he looks like the cutest little elf in this scene. the red nose, the hair tucked behind his ear, making them look almost pointed

[kattesmoon]

Test Subject

(Vampire!Reader x Isaac Night) Chapter 18

Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen Summary: Y/N drinks Isaac's blood so now they're together forever right...? Notes: Hope you guys enjoy this chapter. More moments with gomez and morticia so hope you guys like how I portrayed them aswell. Also what do u guys think of Isaac using ‘sweet girl’ as a pet name? Warning: Manipulation, Gore, Blood, Non-con kissing, Obsession, Pet name

The halls of Nevermore Academy stretched before Y/N, their stone walls bathed in the dim, flickering glow of sconces that cast jagged shadows across the floor. It was late afternoon, the light filtering through stained-glass windows in hues of crimson and indigo, painting the corridor in a surreal, almost dreamlike haze.

Y/N’s boots scuffed softly against the worn floorboards as she wandered, her arms crossed tightly, her scarf shielding the burn scar on her arm from stray sunlight. Her mind churned, a relentless storm of questions and fears about Isaac, Stonehearst, and Francoise. How was she supposed to help Isaac unravel Stonehearst’s blackmail? The professor’s threats- using Francoise’s Hyde transformations to control Isaac- felt like a noose tightening around them all. Y/N’s resolve to protect Francoise burned fierce, but the path forward was murky, tangled in Isaac’s half-truths and her own fear of his forceful presence.

The memory of his desperate plea last night, his exhausted frame begging to rest with her, gnawed at her guilt, but the trauma of his stolen kisses kept her wary.

She needed a plan, something to shield Francoise from Stonehearst’s web, but every step echoed with uncertainty, the camping trip in four days looming like a deadline she wasn’t ready to face.

Lost in thought, Y/N rounded a corner and collided with a soft, startled gasp. She stumbled back, her heart lurching, only to find Francoise and Morticia Frump standing before her, their faces alight with an unexpected brightness that cut through her fog of worry.

Francoise’s pale cheeks were flushed with a rare, vibrant glow, her eyes sparkling with a joy Y/N hadn’t seen in weeks. Morticia, ever the vision of poised elegance, stood beside her, her long dark hair gleaming like polished obsidian, her lips curved in a serene yet faintly chilling smile that seemed to revel in some private delight. The contrast to Y/N’s churning thoughts was jarring, their happiness a beacon in the dim hall.

“Whoa, sorry!” Y/N said, her voice catching as she steadied herself, her eyes flicking between them. “You two look… happy. Like, really happy. Did something good happen?” Her tone was light, but curiosity tinged her words, a small smile tugging at her lips as she registered Francoise’s infectious energy.

Francoise’s grin widened, her hands clasping together in a burst of excitement, her voice bubbling with pride. “I won my first fencing match today!” she exclaimed, her usually fragile tone replaced with a bright, triumphant lilt. “It was against one of the senior duelists, everyone thought I’d lose, but I got her with a feint and a riposte in the final bout!” Her eyes danced, her hands mimicking a quick fencing thrust, the motion graceful yet fierce, a glimpse of the strength she often hid.

Morticia’s smile deepened, her dark eyes glinting with a proud, almost predatory satisfaction, her voice low and melodic, dripping with her signature charm, equal parts warmth and macabre delight. “Francoise was magnificent,” she purred, her gaze lingering on Francoise like a mentor savoring a protégé’s triumph. “I taught her well, didn’t I? Every parry, every lunge, honed to perfection. She danced with the blade as if it were an extension of her soul.” Her lips twitched, a chilling edge to her smile as she added, “There’s something exquisite about the clash of steel, the promise of a wound just a breath away.”

Y/N’s smile broke wide, genuine and warm, her worries momentarily eclipsed by Francoise’s victory. “That’s amazing, Francoise!” she said, her voice bright with enthusiasm as she stepped closer, her hands unclenching to gesture excitedly. “Your first match, and you took down a senior? You’re so cool!” She laughed, the sound echoing softly in the hall, her eyes shining with pride for her friend. Francoise’s joy was contagious, a rare spark that Y/N clung to, a reminder of why she’d vowed to protect her.

Francoise blushed, her smile shy but radiant, her hands fidgeting with the edge of her sweater. “Thanks, Y/N,” she said softly, her voice warm with gratitude. “It felt… good, you know? Like I could be strong for once.” Her eyes met Y/N’s, a quiet strength in them, though the faint tremor in her hands hinted at the Hyde struggle she still carried.

Morticia tilted her head, her gaze shifting to Y/N, her smile still carrying that eerie, allure that was serene yet tinged with a love for the morbid. “We’re celebrating tonight,” she said, her voice smooth, almost hypnotic. “Francoise, Gomez, and I are visiting a museum that just built near town. They have a new exhibit, mummies, perfectly preserved, their hollow eyes staring into eternity.” Her eyes gleamed, a shiver of delight in her tone as she clasped her hands together, her expression rapturous. “I do enjoy looking at the dead. There’s a poetry in their silence, a beauty in the way they defy time, don’t you think?”

A blink, amusement and unease flickering at Morticia’s chilling enthusiam. Francoise nodded eagerly, excitement undimmed. “Gomez says there’s a sarcophagus with carvings that tell a whole story about a cursed pharaoh,” she said, voice bright, hands gesturing animatedly. “And Morticia’s been telling me about the preservation techniques, it’s kind of fascinating, actually!” Eyes sparkled, the fragility seen in her dorm yesterday replaced with vibrant energy, as if the fencing win had rekindled her spirit.

Gaze softening, Morticia’s chilling smile warmed slightly, a hand resting on Francoise’s shoulder, a touch that felt maternal. “Francoise has a keen mind for the macabre,” came the low, approving voice. “She’ll fit right in with Gomez and me tonight.” Eyes flicked to Y/N, a glint of curiosity in them. “You’re welcome to join us, Y/N. The dead have stories to tell, and I suspect you’d find them… illuminating.”

Thoughts flickered to Isaac, his exhausted plea, Stonehearst’s threats, the unresolved weight of protecting Francoise. The museum trip was a tempting distraction, a chance to bask in Francoise’s rare joy and escape the churning questions for a night. Hesitation lingered, the mission pressing heavy, but Francoise’s radiant smile tipped the scale. “Okay.. I’ll go,” came the reluctant agreement, voice tinged with a cautious smile. “Mummies sound… interesting. And I want to hear more about that fencing match, Francoise.” A nod to her friend, the decision settling with a mix of anticipation and unease.

Francoise’s face lit up, excitement bubbling over as she clapped her hands. “Yes! You’re gonna love it, Y/N!” Voice bright, hands gestured wildly. “Gomez is meeting us at the front gate in an hour with the car. He’s probably already practicing his tour guide impression.” A laugh, bright and carefree, a stark contrast to the worry seen before. Then her expression softened, a touch of concern creeping into her eyes as she added, “I thought about inviting Isaac, too, but… he’s been so busy lately. Pulling him out of his lab would probably stress him out even more.” Her voice lowered, tinged with worry, fingers twisting the edge of her sweater. “He’s barely sleeping as it is.”

A pang shot through Y/N’s chest, guilt and unease flaring at the mention of Isaac, his exhausted face from last night flashing in her mind, his slumped shoulders, the desperate plea to stay. Francoise’s concern mirrored her own, but the trauma of his forceful kisses kept her silent, unwilling to share his late-night visit. A forced smile masked the turmoil. “Yeah, he’s… probably buried in his work,” came the vague reply, voice steady but strained, eyes flicking to the floor.

Morticia’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of curiosity in her dark eyes, as if sensing the unspoken weight. “Isaac’s passions do consume him,” she murmured, voice low and melodic, carrying a hint of cryptic understanding. “But the dead will offer clarity tonight, for all of us.” Lips twitched, chilling smile returning as hands clasped with anticipation. “An hour, then. Prepare for a night of shadows and secrets, Y/N. The mummies await.” Tone blended warmth and menace, gaze lingering as if peering into the storm beneath the calm exterior.

…

The museum loomed at Jericho’s edge, its gothic facade a fortress of weathered stone and sprawling ivy, spires stabbing into the twilight sky. Inside, the air hung cool and dense, thick with the scent of dust, aged linen, and a faint chemical bite of preservatives. Dim lanterns cast a warm, golden glow over polished wood floors, illuminating glass cases of relics, fractured pottery, corroded blades, and the centerpiece: the mummy exhibit. Sarcophagi stood sentinel along the hall, their carvings sharp and foreboding, while linen-shrouded figures lay in eternal repose, hollow gazes seeming to track every step. The atmosphere pulsed with history, a quiet menace threading through the shadows, perfectly tailored to Morticia’s dark elegance.

Francoise led the way, her excitement a bright thread, boots tapping as she wove between displays, recounting the cursed pharaoh’s tale with sweeping gestures. “Check out these carvings!” she called, pointing to a sarcophagus etched with snarling jackals and shattered crowns. “They say he defied a god, buried alive with a curse that bound his soul to the tomb!” Her voice sparkled, still buoyed by the high of her fencing victory.

Gomez followed, his energy a tempest, dark curls bouncing as he spun vivid stories. “A cursed pharaoh, mi querida!” he boomed, nearly knocking into a decorative pillar. “His spirit howls for release, don’t you feel it? It tingles in the air!”

Morticia glided beside Y/N, her black dress whispering across the floor, a serene anchor in all the chaos. She examined the mummy’s curled fingers with reverent fascination. “Such divine decay,” she sighed. “Time makes art of all things.”

Y/N nodded quietly, umbrella shading her from the lantern glow. What she appreciated most truly was how none of them hovered or stared or questioned it. They simply accepted it, accepted her, as naturally as breathing.

Gomez dramatically threw an arm out.

“This exhibit- these curses! They remind me of the infamous Ravenwell Trials last spring!”

Francoise lit up. “Ooh! Tell that story!”

Morticia’s lips curved, faintly amused. “He was waiting for someone to ask.”

Gomez puffed up proudly.

“Picture it! The Nevermore gymnasium, transformed into a battleground of puzzles, traps, and riddles from every Nightshade era! The annual team challenge. Morticia and I were paired together, of course-”

“Only because the principal wanted to separate you from the fencing flags after last year,” Morticia murmured.

“Semantics.” Gomez waved her off. “Anyway! One of the trials was meant to simulate ‘ancient curses.’ Very dramatic. Dark hallways. Fog machines. Hidden pressure plates! But the moment we stepped in- BOOM!”

His hands shot up.

Tiny arcs of electricity snapped between his fingers, bright, crackling blue.

“The fog machine malfunctioned and exploded with static! Sparks everywhere! The wiring shorted, lights flickering like a haunted house! Students screaming- chaos, pandemonium!” Gomez reenacted it all with sweeping gestures.

Y/N’s eyes widened.

Francoise gasped, delighted.

Morticia added calmly, “He caused the short circuit. He was… enthusiastic.”

“Enthusiastic? Mi amor, I was brilliant!” Gomez insisted. “I tried to use just a little charge to reveal invisible ink on the wall. A tiny jolt.” He pinched the air. “Barely a spark!”

Morticia raised a brow.

“It was not tiny.”

Gomez ignored her, continuing with gusto.

“And then- while the room was still dark, Morticia placed her hand on one of the old stone replicas. Suddenly she froze. Eyes glowing like moonlit water. And she whispered-”

Morticia’s voice softened, dreamy and distant.

“‘The safe path is the one that feels wrong.’”

Gomez clapped his hands together. “¡Exacto! Because of her vision, we avoided a rigged archway that would’ve dumped two hundred gallons of slime on us!” He shuddered. “Green slime. Raisin-scented.”

Francoise wheezed laughing. “Raisin?”

“Apparently that year’s student council president liked raisins,” Morticia said delicately. “I’m still unsure why the judges allowed it.”

Gomez leaned close to Y/N and Francoise, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

“So- thanks to her psychic miracle and my electrical… improvisation, we beat the other teams by nearly ten minutes! Won the whole trial!”

Morticia nodded, smoothing her hair.

“It was lovely. Except for Gomez getting stuck to a metal gate afterward.”

“I was magnetized!” Gomez corrected proudly. “Not my fault electricity is passionate, mi amigas.”

Francoise snorted. Y/N hid a smile behind her umbrella, warmth blooming in her chest despite the chill air.

For once- she wasn’t the odd one out.

She was simply… part of something.

Something strange, yes.

Chaotic, absolutely.

But oddly comforting.

And as Gomez launched into another round of dramatic reenactments, and Morticia ghosted her fingers across hieroglyphs like they were poetry, and Francoise pressed her nose to every display-

Y/N felt, quietly and profoundly,

that she wasn’t alone tonight.

…

After hours of looking through the museum they then headed to a nearby diner, a cozy, slightly run-down spot that had checkered floors and neon signs buzzing in the windows. Inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of greasy burgers, fries, and the faint tang of spilled coffee. Booths lined the walls, their red vinyl creaking under the weight of decades, while a jukebox in the corner crooned a scratchy old love song, blending with the clatter of plates and muffled chatter from other late-night patrons.

The four slid into a corner booth, lanterns above casting a soft glow over their faces. Francoise was still buzzing, her hands waving as she recounted stray details about the mummy exhibit, her fencing win’s high lingering like a spark. Gomez sprawled across his side of the booth, one arm slung over the backrest, tossing fries into his mouth with dramatic flair, occasionally aiming one at Morticia, who deflected them with a raised brow and a chilling smile.

Y/N settled in beside Francoise, her folded umbrella propped against the booth, its dark canopy a quiet reminder of her sunlight sensitivity. The lack of prying stares from her friends about it warmed her, letting her sink into the easy chaos of their company, though the weight of Stonehearst, Isaac, and her vow to protect Francoise simmered beneath her grin.

As the waitress dropped off their plates, burgers, shakes, and a towering basket of fries, Y/N leaned toward Francoise, her voice light but curious. “Okay, you’ve gotta tell me more about that fencing match,” she said, popping a fry into her mouth, eyes crinkling with a smile. “I need details!”

Francoise lit up, her cheeks flushing as she set down her soda, hands already moving to mimic her winning strike. “It was insane!” she said, voice bright, eyes wide with the thrill. “She kept coming at me with these aggressive lunges, right? So I baited her- dropped my guard a little, let her think she had me. Then, bam! Feint to the left, riposte to her shoulder, point scored!” She thrust an invisible foil, nearly knocking over her glass, her laugh bubbling up. “The look on her face was priceless- she didn’t see it coming!”

Y/N laughed, the sound warm, Francoise’s energy pulling her from darker thoughts. “That’s unreal! You’re out here playing chess with swords,” she said, shaking her head, pride for her friend glowing in her chest.

Morticia’s serene intensity held steady, her knowing smile unwavering as she set her milkshake down, her voice low and melodic, slicing through the diner’s hum. “Tell me, Y/N, how are things with you and Isaac? Love has a way of lighting even the darkest corners, doesn’t it?” Her tone was warm, laced with that Addams edge, her assumption of romance carrying the weight of a vision’s certainty, fueled by Gomez’s tales of Isaac laboring late into the night over a salve for Y/N’s burn scar.

Y/N froze, a fry halfway to her mouth, eyes widening as the words landed like a shockwave. Francoise, mid-sip of her soda, gasped, nearly choking, her face splitting into a shocked, gleeful grin. “Oh my god!” she squealed, slamming her glass down, soda sloshing. “You and Isaac?! My brother?! Y/N, why didn’t you tell me sooner?!” Her eyes sparkled with excitement, hands clapping together, the Hyde tremor vanishing in her burst of glee. “This is huge! Spill everything- how long has this been a thing?!”

Y/N’s heart lurched, her face flushing as she waved her hands frantically, nearly toppling her milkshake. “No, no, no- hold up!” she stammered, voice pitching high, desperation creeping in. “There’s nothing going on! We’re not- like, at all! Morticia, you’ve got it all wrong!” She shot a pleading look at Morticia, then Francoise, words tumbling out. “We’re just… friends, okay? Not even that close! Total misunderstanding!” Her pulse raced, the diner’s warmth turning stifling, her umbrella a grounding weight against her leg.

But as the denial spilled out, a vivid memory crashed over her, sharp and unbidden. She was back in her dorm, three nights ago, moonlight spilling through the window, Isaac’s exhausted frame pinning her to the bed. His white coat hung loose, hair a mess, dark circles carved under his eyes as he leaned over her, his lips pressing against hers in a desperate, forceful kiss. “I love you, Y/N,” he’d whispered, voice raw, trembling with need, his hands framing her face. Her cheeks burned now at the memory, a flush creeping up her neck, but she shook her head fiercely, snapping back to the diner. Yeah, there’s nothing going on, she told herself, the denial firm despite the heat in her face.

Gomez, mid-fry toss, leaned forward, his grin widening as he jumped in, voice brimming with mischief. “Oh, amiga, it’s clear as day! Me and Isaac, we share a room, right? Couple nights ago, he’s half-asleep, muttering your name like it’s some kinda magic spell!” He chuckled, waving a fry for emphasis, eyes twinkling. “Guy’s got you stuck in his head, grinning like a fool in the dark!”

Morticia’s gaze stayed locked on Y/N, her smile unshaken, a glint of amusement dancing in her dark eyes. “My mistake, perhaps,” she said, voice smooth, though the way her fingers traced the rim of her glass suggested she wasn’t buying the denial. “Gomez heard tell of Isaac’s late nights crafting that salve for your scar, pouring his heart into it. One might assume such devotion speaks of love.” Her tone was gentle, but probing, like a needle testing a seam.

Y/N’s flush deepened, the memory of Isaac’s salve, its cool relief on her burn scar, stirring a pang of guilt. “It’s not like that,” she insisted, voice steadier now, though her hands gripped the edge of the table. “He was just… helping out. As a friend. That’s it.” Her eyes flicked to Francoise, desperate to shift gears. “Can we talk about your match again? That feint was killer.”

Francoise hesitated, her excitement dimming, but Morticia leaned forward, her presence commanding, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. “Forgive my prying, Y/N, but the heart is a curious thing, isn’t it? It hides even from itself.” She tilted her head, her smile softening, warm yet piercing. “Isaac can be… intense, I know. His passion burns like a storm, sometimes too fierce. But there’s a sincerity in him, a depth that lingers in his actions- the salve, the way he watches you. Have you never wondered what lies beneath that intensity?”

Y/N’s throat tightened, Morticia’s words stirring a churn of doubt and memory. The flashback surged again, Isaac’s desperate “I love you,” his lips on hers, the raw need in his eyes. She’d pushed him away, fear and anger at his forceful kisses outweighing his confession, but now, in the diner’s glow, Morticia’s question cracked something open. “I… don’t know,” she admitted, voice barely above a whisper, her fingers twisting a napkin. “He’s done things- crossed lines. It’s complicated. I don’t trust him like that.”

Morticia nodded, her gaze steady, understanding. “Trust is a fragile thread,” she said, her voice soft but firm. “And intensity can wound as much as it heals. But sometimes, the heart sees what the mind resists. Isaac’s flaws are real- his storms are not gentle- but his devotion, from what Gomez shares, is no small thing. A salve crafted through sleepless nights is no casual gesture.” She paused, her smile faintly playful. “Perhaps a chance, not for love, but for understanding, might shift the shadows between you.”

Francoise, still wide-eyed, leaned in, her voice softer now, less gleeful. “Oh, Y/N…” she said, her brow creasing with understanding, a gentle hand reaching to rub Y/N’s shoulder. Her touch was warm, grounding, her eyes full of quiet support, sensing the weight behind Y/N’s words without pushing for more.

Y/N’s stomach twisted, grateful for Francoise’s restraint but wary of exposing Isaac’s actions, his confession, the forceful kisses, the Stonehearst web, in front of her. The urge to spill battled her need to protect Francoise, to keep her safe from the full truth. “Thanks,” she said, voice tight, forcing a small smile. “It’s just… messy. But I’m fine.” Her eyes darted to Morticia, silently pleading for a subject change, but the weight of their conversation lingered, her denial feeling thinner.

Morticia leaned back, sipping her milkshake, her smile enigmatic, her gaze still on Y/N, as if she saw the storm of doubt now swirling in her heart. “The heart is a labyrinth,” she murmured, her voice almost a purr. “Isaac’s intensity may cloud it, but sincerity often hides in the chaos. A moment to listen, to him, to yourself, might reveal more than you expect.” Her eyes held Y/N’s, gentle but unyielding. “You’re stronger than his storms, Y/N. Don’t fear them.”

Gomez, sensing the tension, lobbed a fry at Francoise, breaking the moment with a grin. “Enough of this mushy stuff, querida! Tell us about that fencing move- did you make that senior beg for mercy?” His laughter boomed, pulling Francoise into a reluctant giggle as she swatted the fry away, her hand lingering on Y/N’s shoulder a moment longer.

Morticia leaned back, sipping her milkshake, her smile enigmatic, her gaze still on Y/N, as if she saw the storm of doubt now swirling in her heart. The diner’s hum wrapped around them, the jukebox crooning a slow tune, but Y/N’s thoughts spun, Isaac’s confession, his intensity, Gomez’s words, and Morticia’s nudge to give him a chance.

The memory of his kisses, both violating and desperate, clashed with the image of him pacing, sketching, his mind tangled with her name. Stonehearst’s threats, Francoise’s safety, the camping trip in four days, they loomed, a relentless clock, but now, a new question flickered: could she trust Isaac enough to understand him, or would his storms consume her vow? The flame of her resolve burned, but it wavered, caught in the diner’s glow and Morticia’s piercing eyes.

…

Two days had passed since the diner, and Nevermore Academy’s halls felt heavier, the air thick with Y/N’s restless anticipation. Each night, she sat on her bed, back against the headboard, her dorm bathed in moonlight streaming through the arched window, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floor. Her umbrella rested by the door, its dark canopy a silent sentinel, but it offered no shield against the churn in her chest. She suspected Isaac would come again, his intensity undeterred by her rejection two nights prior, his raw “I love you” still burned in her memory, a confession that had shaken her. Morticia’s words from the diner echoed relentlessly: “A chance, not for love, but for understanding, might shift the shadows… You’re stronger than his storms.” They stirred doubt, making Y/N question Isaac’s side, his sincerity, despite the fear and anger his actions had sparked.

For two nights, she’d stayed up, antsy, her fingers twisting the edge of her blanket, eyes darting to the door at every creak in the old building. She waited until 2 a.m., heart pounding, half-expecting his knock, half-dreading it. Each night, when silence held, she’d collapse into fitful sleep, relief tangled with unease. The camping trip was tomorrow, a ticking clock tied to Stonehearst’s threats, and her vow to protect Francoise burned, but Morticia’s nudge to brave Isaac’s “storms” had her reconsidering, could there be truth in his devotion, beneath the chaos?

On the second night Y/N sat again, the clock ticking past 1:45 a.m., her dorm quiet save for the distant howl of wind against the stone walls. Her burn scar itched under her sleeve, a reminder of Isaac’s salve, its cool relief a contrast to his intense confession. Morticia’s voice clung, “His devotion is no small thing… A smile that lingers in his dreams.” Gomez’s anecdote, Isaac muttering about her smile, softened the edges of her anger. What if she’d misread him? Her resolve wavered, the flame of her vow flickering as she stared at the door, ready to confront him with confidence if he dared show.

At 2:03 a.m., a sharp knock broke the stillness. Y/N’s breath caught, but she rose, spine straight, her jaw set with determination. She crossed the cold floor, threw open the door with a boldness fueled by Morticia’s words, ready to face Isaac head-on. But the sight of him stopped her cold- his white coat was splattered with blood, streaks of it smudged across his cheek, his face pale, eyes gleaming with a wild, unsteady light. Dark circles carved deeper under his eyes, his hair a tangled mess, his presence raw and disheveled, like he’d walked through a slaughter.

“Y/N,” Isaac said, voice low, rough, his hands twitching at his sides as if fighting an urge to reach out. “I had to see you. I know you told me to stay away, but I can’t.” His eyes locked on hers, a mix of desperation and something sharper, echoing the sincerity Gomez and Morticia had hinted at.

Y/N’s confidence faltered, her voice catching as she took a step back, eyes fixed on the blood staining his coat. “Isaac… what happened?” she asked, her tone sharp but unsteady, Morticia’s advice warring with the shock of his appearance. “Why are you… covered in blood?”

Her voice dropped to a quiet, defeated whisper, her eyes fixed on the blood smudged across his cheek, her hand trembling as she reached out, touching it lightly, the contact sending a dangerous thrill through her. “That blood…” she murmured, her throat tight with thirst and fear, “is it yours, or… someone else’s?” She pulled her hand back, her fingers shaking, fighting the urge to give in to her vampire nature.

Isaac’s smile widened, a predatory edge sharpening it as he stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with the certainty of a hunter who’d baited his trap perfectly- hook, line, and sinker. He knew the blood’s effect on Y/N, her vampire thirst a weakness he’d deliberately weaponized, and her fixation on it only tightened his hold. Her gaze was locked on the fresh, stitched cut on his shoulder, revealed as he unbuttoned his coat with a slow, deliberate flourish, the wound still oozing faintly, the red stark against his pale skin.

“It’s mine,” he said smoothly, a white lie slipping effortlessly from his lips, masking the truth of the outcast he’d dissected in Stonehearst’s lab, their blood mingling with his own. “Got careless tonight,” he added, his voice light but dripping with calculated charm, each word a lure as he watched her unravel, his presence overwhelming. The moonlight cast his shadow over her, the wind howling outside, the shadows tightening their grip like a net closing in.

Y/N’s mind was in shambles, her thirst and trauma warring with her need for answers, the blood’s scent shredding her focus. “I- I have questions,” she stuttered, her voice trembling, her eyes darting from the wound to his face, the crimson streaks dizzying her. “A lot of questions, Isaac. You’re being too vague- what are you doing?” Her words tumbled out, desperate, her resolve fraying as she tried to anchor herself to Francoise’s worry, to the mystery of his absence, but the thirst clawed at her, his trap snapping shut.

Isaac’s predatory grin softened into a charming mask, his voice low and coaxing, every syllable a hook sinking deeper. “I’ll answer all of them, Y/N,” he said, his tone a velvet promise laced with manipulation, his eyes never leaving hers, relishing her struggle. “Every single one. Just let me stay.” His words were a siren’s call, his confidence unshaken, the moment perfectly staged- her resistance crumbling under the weight of his calculated allure and the blood’s pull.

Her thoughts spiraled, the blood’s scent shredding her defenses, and she shook her head, grasping for control. “Wait- let’s clean your blood first,” she struggled to say, her voice barely coherent as she fought to contain her thirst, her hands trembling violently. “I- I can’t think with it…”

She muttered, almost to herself, “I’m going to get some water,” and turned, practically stumbling to the small bathroom attached to the dorm, her bare feet slapping against the stone floor. The door slammed behind her, her breath ragged, the blood’s scent still searing her senses as she leaned against the sink, her reflection in the cracked mirror showing a face pale with fear and hunger, caught in Isaac’s perfectly baited trap.

Y/N lingered in the bathroom, her breaths steadying as she gripped the sink, the cracked mirror reflecting her pale, haunted face. The scent of Isaac’s blood still seared her senses, a dangerous pull that threatened to unravel her, but the couple of vials of synthetic blood she’d downed before bed- kept in stock for emergencies- gave her a fragile hold on her vampire thirst.

Her hands trembled as she filled a small bucket with water and grabbed a clean rag from a shelf, the cold stone floor grounding her as she braced herself to face him again. His calculated manipulation, his predatory grin, and the trauma of his forceful kiss last time gnawed at her, but so did her need for answers about his absence and her promise to help. Steeling herself, she pushed the bathroom door open and stepped back into the dorm, the moonlight casting jagged shadows across the stone walls.

Isaac sat on her bed, his presence jarring in the gothic quiet of the room, the air thick with the scent of old wood and candle wax. His white science coat was unbuttoned further, pulled back to keep the fabric from touching the fresh, stitched wound on his shoulder, still oozing faintly. The moonlight caught the red streaks, stark against his pale skin, and his face twisted in visible pain, his jaw clenched, his eyes shadowed with discomfort. The vulnerability felt too staged, too perfectly timed, making her skin prickle with unease. Y/N’s stomach twisted, her resolve wavering between caution and pity, but her trauma screamed to stay away.

“Here,” she said, her voice clipped, shoving the bucket and rag toward him, the water sloshing slightly. “Clean yourself up.” She quickly shuffled to the other side of the room, putting as much space as possible between them, and sat on Mia’s empty bed, the mattress creaking under her. The distance felt like a lifeline, her knees drawn up, her arms crossed tightly, her eyes darting to him as she fought to keep her thirst and fear in check. She was grateful for the synthetic blood dulling her hunger; without it, the blood’s pull might have broken her, leaving her vulnerable in ways she didn’t dare imagine.

Isaac took the rag, dipping it into the bucket with a slow, deliberate motion, the water dripping softly as he wrung it out. He pulled his coat further open, exposing half his torso, the moonlight tracing the lean lines of his chest and the faint scars crisscrossing his skin, old marks that hinted at past experiments or fights.

The wound on his shoulder glistened, the stitches pulling tight as he dabbed at it, his movements careful but strained, each swipe of the rag smearing blood into faint red streaks on his skin. Water trickled down his arm, catching the light, and Y/N’s cheeks flushed hotly, her breath catching at the sight of him so exposed.

Her eyes lingered a moment too long before she tore her gaze away, her heart pounding, embarrassment mixing with her fear. To escape the image, his half-bared torso, the way the moonlight made his skin glow, she forced her thoughts elsewhere, focusing on her unanswered questions, the jar of salve on her desk, the mystery of his blood-streaked arrival.

Her mind spiraled, why was he here, what was he hiding, how could she help without losing herself?- when his voice broke through, soft and coaxing, cutting into her haze. “Y/N,” he said, his tone gentle but carrying a deliberate edge, “can you help me? The blood’s leaked onto my back, from the shoulder. I can’t quite reach it with one hand.” He held the rag limply, his face contorted in discomfort, his eyes pleading as he shifted, the wound glinting in the moonlight. But beneath the pained facade, there was a flicker of intent, a calculated spark that betrayed his true motive.

Isaac wanted her to lose control, to let her thirst take over. He’d pored over Nevermore’s library on vampire lore and learned the myths: a vampire drinking another’s blood could forge a bond, a connection deeper than words, tying their fates in a way that transcended trust. He believed if Y/N drank his blood, even a drop, it would bind her to him- make her his lover, his partner, in a way that surpassed her rejection, her insistence that “we’re not lovers.”

Her denial had cut him, fueling his desperation to force a connection, to make her his in a way his charm, confessions, and manipulations hadn’t achieved. He’d come straight from Stonehearst’s lab, the outcast’s blood deliberately smeared with his own, knowing the scent would push her to the edge. This wasn’t just about desire, it was about possession, about rewriting her refusal into an unbreakable bond, one that would make her see him as more than a friend, more than a storm. The blood on his coat, his face, his shoulder, it was no accident, but a calculated gambit to trap her heart.

Y/N froze, her heart thudding, her trauma clashing with the sight of his pain. The memory of his forceful kiss, his guilt-tripping manipulation, made her want to refuse, to keep the distance she’d fought for. But his strained expression, the way he winced as he tried to twist his arm, tugged at her empathy, her promise to help echoing in her mind. Reluctantly, she stood, her movements stiff, and crossed the room, keeping her steps slow, her body angled to bolt if he tried anything.

“Fine,” she muttered, her voice tight, snatching the rag from him and dipping it into the bucket, the water cold against her fingers.

Sitting beside him, she kept as much distance as she could, leaning in only enough to dab the rag against the blood that had trickled down his back, the red smearing into the cloth. His skin was warm under the rag, the stitched wound raw and angry, and she worked quickly, her hands trembling, her thirst roaring despite the synthetic blood’s buffer.

The scent was intoxicating, each dab pulling her closer to the edge, and Isaac’s stillness, his shallow breathing, felt like a trap waiting to spring. His eyes flicked to her, a subtle, predatory glint confirming he was watching, waiting, hoping she’d break. The moonlight cast their shadows long and jagged, the wind howling outside, the dorm’s shadows tightening around them like a noose.

The past months had worn her down: the constant ache of her hunger, the emotional toll of Francoise’s worry, and a lingering cold that sapped her strength, leaving her vulnerable. She focused on the rag, her movements quick and mechanical, trying to block out the warmth of his skin under her touch, the way the moonlight glinted off his scars.

Don’t look at the blood, don’t breathe it in, she chanted inwardly, her heart pounding, her throat burning. But Isaac’s presence was a trap, his blood a deliberate lure, and she felt her control slipping, her fingers gripping the rag tighter as she fought to stay grounded.

Isaac shifted slightly, his shoulder flexing under her touch, and the wound oozed a fresh trickle of blood, the scent hitting her like a wave. Her breath hitched, her vision narrowing, the rag slipping from her fingers as she stumbled back a step, her hands shaking violently.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low, almost a purr, his eyes locking onto hers with a knowing intensity. He leaned forward, deliberately, his coat falling open further, exposing more of the wound, the blood glistening in the moonlight. “You’re shaking,” he murmured, his tone soft but laced with intent, as if daring her to break.

The deliberate trigger shattered her restraint. Months of pain, exhaustion, and the cold’s lingering grip converged, her thirst roaring to life, drowning out her fear and trauma. With a guttural sound, she lunged forward, her hands shoving Isaac’s chest, forcing him to lie back on the bed. The mattress creaked under his weight, his eyes widening for a moment before a triumphant glint flickered in them. Y/N straddled him, her knees pinning his hips, her hands gripping his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin. Her fangs bared, she leaned down, her breath ragged, and sank her teeth into the stitched wound, tearing the sutures open. Blood flooded her mouth, hot and metallic, a rush that sent a shiver through her, her body trembling with both ecstasy and horror.

Isaac gasped, a mix of pain and satisfaction, his hands hovering at her waist but not daring to touch, as if savoring his victory. The wound bled freely now, the stitches undone, the red staining the sheets as Y/N drank, her thirst consuming her, the synthetic blood’s buffer obliterated. The moonlight cast their tangled shadows on the wall, grotesque and intimate, the wind howling outside like a witness to her surrender.

Her mind screamed- what are you doing, stop, this is what he wanted- but her body wouldn’t obey, the blood’s pull too strong, binding her to him in a way she couldn’t undo.

Isaac’s hands gripped her waist, firm but gentle, not to push her away but to anchor her, to keep her close as the bond took hold. His quiet groans and moans filled the air, a low hum of pain laced with a strange, reverent satisfaction, his head tilted back, eyes half-closed, a fervent glint flickering in them. The torn stitches on his shoulder oozed, and his fingers tightened, grounding her trembling form, ensuring she stayed bound to the moment he’d orchestrated, a moment driven not just by his need to rest with her, as he had before, but by his belief that her drinking his blood would bind her to him forever.

The bond, rooted in vampire lore, had shifted him too: he felt an overwhelming urge to touch her, his hands itching to trace her skin, her presence consuming his thoughts. He sensed her fear, her anger, as if they were his own, and her proximity sparked intrusive thoughts- stay close, don’t let her go, she’s yours now.

Her hands shook, her breath ragged against his skin, the blood’s rush clouding her thoughts. The weight of his hands on her waist felt like a trap, his groans a lure, yet the taste of him, his blood, his essence, held her captive, her trauma and months of exhaustion crumbling under the primal need.

The moonlight cast their shadows longer, the room’s shadows tightening like a noose, and Y/N’s heart pounded, torn between the horror of what she’d done and the intoxicating pull of the bond forming, one Isaac had manipulated her into, knowing she couldn’t resist.

For Y/N, the bond was a nightmare. Her senses were heightened to a razor’s edge, his scent now the sole trigger for her hunger, her rationality fraying in his presence, but the need for physical closeness was muted, replaced by revulsion at the violation.

She didn’t want this- didn’t want his touch, his scent, his hold over her. The trauma of his confession days ago surged, amplifying her horror, her exhaustion leaving her defenseless against the act.

“No- no, what did I do?” she gasped, her voice raw, shoving against his chest to break free, her hands shaking as she scrambled off him, nearly tumbling from the bed. Her bare feet hit the cold stone floor, and she backed away, clutching her face, blood smearing her lips, the bond’s weight suffocating her. “Why, why, why did I trust you?” she choked, tears streaming down her face, her body trembling as she pressed herself against the wall near Mia’s bed. “Why did I let Morticia’s words make me think you could be different? Of course it wouldn’t be like that- why, Isaac, why did I let you in?” Her voice cracked, self-blame crashing over her, her nails digging into her palms as she fought the hunger, his scent pulling at her despite her will.

Isaac sat up slowly, wincing as he touched his bleeding shoulder, the wound raw and jagged. His face was pale, but his eyes burned with a lovesick, controlling intensity, the bond flooding him with sensations he’d craved.

Her blood’s taste lingered in his mind, her fear and rage pulsing through him, and his hands trembled with the need to reach for her, to claim her completely.

“Y/N, you said we’re not lovers,” he said, his voice soft but laced with a possessive edge, a chilling certainty. “But look at us now- bonded, tied deeper than any love. You’re mine, and I’m yours, more than lovers could ever be. You denied me, pushed me away, but I found a way- a solution ten times better. You can’t deny it anymore.” His gaze locked onto hers, his smile both worshipful and commanding, as if the bond was his triumph, his control absolute.

He raised his right hand, his da Vinci abilities flickering to life, the air rippling as an invisible force guided a needle and thread from his coat pocket. His eyes never left Y/N’s, staring with a hungry, unwavering focus as he stitched his wound closed, the needle weaving through his skin with precise, effortless motions, no need to look at the injury. Blood still seeped, but the stitches held, his control a stark contrast to her unraveling.

“I don’t want this!” Y/N shouted, her voice breaking, tears stinging her eyes as she pressed herself harder against the wall, as far from him as the room allowed. Her thirst roared, triggered by his scent, her rationality slipping as intrusive thoughts, stay near him, breathe him in, flooded her mind. She hated it, hated herself for trusting him, for letting Morticia’s words sway her, hated him for forcing this bond. “You knew what this would do! You wanted me to drink, to trap me like this! You’re sick, Isaac!”

Her hands balled into fists, her nails drawing blood from her palms to anchor herself against the hunger, her self-blame and disbelief surging at what she’d done, drinking his blood, letting the bond take hold, all because she’d dared to hope for understanding.

Y/N’s legs gave out completely. She slid down the wall, knees buckling, until she hit the cold stone floor in a crumpled heap. Her arms wrapped around her shins, forehead pressed to her knees, body curling into the smallest ball she could manage. The thirst still screamed in her veins, but exhaustion had won; every muscle felt like lead, her mind a fog of static. What now? The question looped, frantic and useless. What happens to me? To us? Isaac had cracked open a door she’d never even thought of, and the madness that poured through was all-consuming.

The bond pulsed like a second heartbeat, his mechanical heartbeat, inside her chest. Vampire lore, the stories her mother used to tell her when she was a little girl, had always been myth to her: one taste of living blood from a willing donor forges the sanguis vinculum. The blood-link. It wasn’t just hunger; it rewired the vampire’s entire system. From this moment forward, no other blood would satisfy her unless the donor dies. His scent, copper, salt, the faint chemical tang of his lab, would be the only thing that registered as food. The rest of the world’s veins might as well be filled with ash. And for the donor? The texts were vaguer, but the warnings were clear: the human would feel the pull in reverse, an aching, addictive need to give, to be taken from, to stay close enough that the vampire could feed whenever the hunger struck. A feedback loop of craving and surrender. Two halves of a broken circuit, forever sparking.

Isaac watched her collapse as the needle levitated by his abilities dropped to the ground. The stitches on his shoulder throbbed, but the pain was distant, muffled by the rush of triumph and blood-loss euphoria. She’s mine now. The thought was a drumbeat. The needle left a trail similar to a red ribbon as Isaac crossed the room in three unsteady strides. A grunt escaped as his wound pulled, but he didn’t care; the sting only sharpened the want clawing under his skin.

The soft, broken whimper that escaped her as she curled into herself struck Isaac harder than any wound. Heat rushed to his face in a fierce, uncontrollable blush while the sight of her trembling, tear-streaked, utterly undone burned itself behind his eyes.

He bent, sliding one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back, and scooped her up against his chest. She was lighter than he’d imagined, limp with exhaustion, her head lolling against his collarbone. The contact sent a jolt through him, her cool skin, the faint tremor in her limbs, the way her breath hitched when his blood-scented coat brushed her cheek. More. He needed more. The blood loss had stripped away every filter; all that remained was the raw, dizzying urge to feel her everywhere.

“Shh, sweet girl,” he murmured, voice rough with need and something that sounded almost tender. “It’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.” He carried her the few steps to the bed, the world narrowing to the heat of her body against his, the thrum of the bond singing in his ears. Carefully, reverently, he lowered her onto the mattress, the springs creaking under their combined weight.

Y/N didn’t fight; she couldn’t. Her eyes were half-lidded, glassy with shock and fatigue, tears still slipping silently down her temples into her hair. Isaac followed her down, crawling over her, knees bracketing her hips. One hand braced beside her head, the other sliding up to cradle her jaw, thumb brushing the smear of blood at the corner of her mouth, his blood. The bond flared between them, a live wire: her hunger answering his yearning, his yearning stoking her hunger. He leaned in, forehead almost touching hers, breath mingling.

“You feel it, don’t you?” he whispered, the words fever-bright, laced with possessive triumph. “We’re the same now. You can’t run from this. From me. You’re mine, Y/N, body, blood, soul. Every beat of your heart echoes mine. Every craving you have is for me alone.” His voice dropped lower, a growl edging his lovesick fervor. “You said we weren’t lovers? Look at you now, bound to me deeper than any vow, any ring. You deny me again, and I’ll carve this bond into eternity, ten times stronger, a thousand times unbreakable. No one else will ever touch you, feed you, know you like this.”

His injured shoulder brushed the pillow, fresh red seeping through the hasty stitches, and the scent hit her like a drug. A broken whimper escaped her throat, half-protest, half-starved. Isaac’s eyes darkened, pupils blown wide with obsession. “I’ll give you everything, Y/N. Every drop, every secret, every breath. You’re trapped in my veins now, and I’m never letting go.

His gaze dropped to the pale column of her throat, exposed where the strap of her nightgown had slipped down her shoulder. The bond thrummed, urging him closer, and he lowered his head with deliberate slowness, lips brushing the cool skin just below her ear. A shiver rippled through her, involuntary, and he smiled against her pulse- mine.

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss there, his mouth warm and insistent, the faint stubble along his jaw grazing her sensitive skin like a whisper of friction. The scent of his blood, still seeping from his stitches, mingled with the salt of his sweat, filling her senses until the world narrowed to the heat of his lips and the frantic beat of his heart echoing in her own chest.

He parted his lips, tasting her with the tip of his tongue- a slow, deliberate drag that traced the delicate vein beneath her skin, savoring the cool silk of her throat. Another kiss followed, deeper this time, his mouth sealing over the spot with gentle suction, drawing a faint, involuntary gasp from her. The bond flared, a live current sparking between them; her hunger answered with a sharp pang, his yearning with a low, possessive hum in his throat.

He shifted, angling his head to trail a path of open-mouthed kisses downward, each one lingering longer than the last, wet, reverent, claiming. His breath fanned hot against her cooling skin, a contrast that made her arch faintly despite herself.

“I love you,” he breathed between kisses, the words a vow and a chain, murmured against the hollow where her pulse fluttered wildly. “I love you.” Another kiss, slower, more deliberate, his lips molding to the curve of her neck as if memorizing every inch. His free hand slid from her jaw to the nape of her neck, fingers threading into her hair, tilting her head just enough to expose more of her throat to his worship. The world dissolved into the rhythm of his mouth, soft presses, gentle nips, the slick glide of his tongue, each touch a seal on the bond he’d forced into existence, binding her tighter with every whispered “I love you.”

Tags: @eternal-sunshine-eclipse @cynical-ghost @sxlsvv @frey-williams @qardasngan @vwv-watching-boy @stranger-chan @yougotafriend-inme @moon-zoons @mylife-isafxckingjoke @wingedloverstranger @iamonewiththebitches @lawlietfangirl @yepitsmesendhelp @riffcrusader @v4mp-carm1ne @afternoonfairy @madelynn-xo @totallysocially @burningwitchprincess @speakercosplays @lunaryasha @ssnakehipss @defiantnightmarequeen @flirtysnakes @miyakui @aiywns @star-girl-interlud3 @sunndroppp @melvin333 @flow33didontsmoke @navs-bhat @dontyellatmeiwillcry @ifonlyihadneverseenhim @sassycheesecake @heartzfromluna @moonj0 @cannibalcoyote @chaosinciter

[mechaincalheart]

i went on pinterest and chose all the pics in where he looked like a hamster

[kattesmoon]

Test Subject

(Vampire!Reader x Isaac Night) Chapter 17

Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen Summary: Y/N finally meets Gomez and Morticia after another hard day of facing Isaac’s suffocating love. Y/N denies Isaac that they are lovers and somehow he’s going to twist her words into meaning something else. Notes: thank u for all the love and support from last chapter hope you guys enjoy this one as well. Your comments mean the world to me and the fact that ppl are still reading when the Isaac night fandom is kinda dying is amazing. Warning: somnophilia, non-con, manipulation, human experimentation, sexual tension

The noon sun crept through the half-drawn curtains, its light fractured into hesitant slivers that spilled across the rumpled bed, painting the dorm room in hues of molten gold and fading shadow. The clock on the nightstand ticked past twelve, its hands a quiet accusation of time stolen from a world that had moved on without Isaac.

For weeks, he’d forsaken sleep, his nights consumed by the sterile hum of the lab, his body sustained by black coffee and the relentless churn of equations, fears, and Stonehearst’s veiled threats. But now, as consciousness stirred, he woke to a stillness that felt almost holy, his limbs heavy with the deep, dreamless rest he’d denied himself for too long.

The air hung warm and thick, laced with the faint, clean bitterness of medicine and the intimate musk of shared slumber, a scent that wrapped around him like a secret he’d guard with his life.

Isaac lay on his side, his chest rising in slow, even draws, and it was the warmth against him that first anchored his awareness- the soft, living weight of Y/N in his arms.

She faced him, her body turned toward his in some unconscious drift of the night, as if drawn by a tide neither could name. Her head rested just below his chin, her breaths feathering against his throat, steady and shallow, a rhythm that synced with his own without effort. Her arm lay wedged between them, a delicate barrier, her fingers curled loosely against his sternum, pressing just enough to keep their hearts from fully aligning.

A low chuckle rumbled in his chest, the sound soft and private, swallowed by the room’s hush. Even in sleep, she guards herself, he thought, amusement curling through the dark pulse of possession that thrummed in his veins. Let her try. I’ll slip through every crack, until she’s mine in every way that matters.

He shifted slightly, careful not to disturb her, his arm tightening fractionally around her waist to savor the way her body molded to his. From head to toe, she fit with a perfection that felt like fate, her forehead brushing his collarbone, the curve of her hips slotting into the hollow of his pelvis, her legs tangled loosely with his in a way that made every point of contact a quiet claim.

Her warmth seeped into him, soft where he was unyielding, yielding where he demanded, and the thought coiled, dark and intoxicating: She was made for this, for me. Her body aligns with mine like a lock to a key, every curve meant to be held, to be mine.

Possession burned hotter, a venomous thrill at her unconscious surrender, her form pressed flush against him as if she’d always belonged there, as if the universe had conspired to deliver her into his arms. He could keep her like this, forever, cocooned, dependent, her world narrowed to the beat of his heart against her skin.

With a quiet precision honed from years in the lab, he lifted his free hand, his knuckles brushing lightly against her forehead to check for the fever’s lingering heat. Her skin was cooler now, the searing warmth of last night’s illness faded to a gentle warmth, a sign that rest and the ordinary pharmaceutical pills had done their work. Relief settled over him, a quiet satisfaction at the small victory, his touch lingering for a moment longer to confirm the change before retreating, his hand falling back to his side.

He tilted his head, his gaze softening as he studied her face hidden away from the golden light. Y/N slept on, oblivious to his scrutiny, her features relaxed in a way that made his chest ache with a hunger he couldn’t name. Her hair spilled across the pillow in wild, a cascade that framed her cheeks, still faintly flushed from the fever’s retreat. Her lips, parted slightly, bore the faint cracks of last night’s illness, and her lashes cast delicate shadows across her skin, trembling with each breath. He watched, mesmerized, the subtle rise and fall of her chest, the way the light caught the edges of her jaw, turning her into something almost ethereal, a puzzle he’d never tire of solving.

But then his gaze drifted lower, and his breath caught, a jolt of heat flooding his veins. Her overlarge nightdress, a faded, pale lavender cotton shift, its thin fabric softened by countless washes and fraying slightly at the seams, had slipped in the night, the loose, scooped collar sliding off one shoulder to reveal the delicate arc of her collarbone and the barest hint of cleavage, just the soft swell at the top of her chest.

The garment, too large for her frame, should have concealed, but in her position, it betrayed her utterly, clinging to her form with a transparency that stole his breath. The thin cotton molded to every curve, outlining the gentle dip of her waist, the rounded swell of her hips, the subtle line of her thighs tangled with his, each contour accentuated in the noon light as if the fabric were complicit in his gaze.

It was as if she lay bare, her vulnerability exposed not just by the slipped collar but by the way the dress hugged her, revealing the shape of her body in a way that felt both accidental and deliberate, innocent yet devastatingly intimate. The sight hit him like a spark to dry tinder, a deep blush roaring up his neck, staining his cheeks as his pulse thudded in his ears. It was too much, too raw, her exposure a quiet assault on his restraint, and shame crashed over him, not for her, but for the boyish rush of desire that urged him to stare, to trace every curve with his eyes, to etch this image into his mind and claim it as his alone.

He averted his gaze, the gesture quick and guilty, his free hand moving instinctively to tug the fabric back into place. His fingers trembled as they brushed her skin, warm and impossibly soft, the cotton whispering as he adjusted it with deliberate care, pulling it up to cover her shoulder and chest, restoring her modesty while his blush burned hotter, a traitor to his usual control.

The shame was unbearable, a crack in his fortress of certainty, and he ducked his head, burying his face in the crook of her shoulder to hide it. Her scent enveloped him immediately, clean, warm skin laced with the faint, floral ghost of her shampoo, earthy and unadorned, a drug he inhaled with greedy abandon. He pressed closer, his nose grazing the curve of her neck, relishing the way her warmth seeped into him, chasing away the chill of solitary nights.

This is mine, the thought surged, dark and fervent, her scent, her skin, marking me as I’ll mark her.

It was intoxicating, this closeness, the way she anchored him to a peace he hadn’t known he craved, a peace he wanted to drown in every night.

The memory of last night seared through him, vivid and unrelenting, each moment a spark that stoked the fire in his chest: the door slamming in his face, her defiance crumbling under his relentless advance, the kiss- savage and desperate, a thirsty collision of lips born from weeks of pent-up need, his mouth crashing against her dry, fever-cracked lips as he poured out not just “I love you” but the raw, fractured truth of his soul, Stonehearst’s threats, Francoise’s fragile lifeline, his heart laid bare like a wound.

That kiss had been a storm, all-consuming, driven by the fear she’d slip away, his hands gripping her as if she might dissolve, his lips bruising hers with a hunger that left blood on both their tongues. Now, with her so close, so unguarded, the urge swelled again, but different- still desperate, still thirsty, yet tempered by the quiet of the noon light, the certainty of her presence in his arms. He’d fantasized about her lips for months, their shape haunting him since the first time he saw her laugh in the library, the curve of her smile catching the light like a secret he needed to unravel.

Night after night, in the sterile glow of the lab, her lips had invaded his thoughts- fuller at the center, slightly upturned at the corners, a puzzle he’d traced in his mind while equations blurred, imagining their softness, their taste, the way they’d feel under his. Those fantasies had been a torment, a forbidden reel that played when he was alone, fueling his obsession until he’d convinced himself they were meant for him, a prize he’d claim when the time was right.

With a tenderness that felt like worship, he lifted his head, his gaze settling on her lips, still cracked from fever, still bearing the faint ghost of his blood from last night’s bite. His fingers trembled as they brushed a few stray strands of hair from her face, tucking them gently behind her ear to clear the path to her mouth.

Unlike last night’s frenzied claim, he leaned in slowly, as if he had all the time in the world, his lips brushing hers in a kiss so light it was almost a whisper, careful not to wake her. At first, it was playful- a teasing graze, like a boy savoring a stolen moment, his lips dancing over hers with a soft, fleeting pressure that sent a shiver of delight through him. The contact was electric, her softness a stark contrast to the rough edge of his need, and he lingered, savoring the texture of her lower lip, its faint cracks a map he wanted to learn by heart.

His free hand slid to her cheek, fingers curling gently to draw her face closer, tilting her head to deepen the angle, while his arm around her waist tightened, pulling her body flush against his, her curves pressing into him until no space remained. The intimacy of it nearly undid him, a low, stifled moan vibrating in his throat, caught just before it could escape, the sound a raw confession of how her nearness unraveled him.

The playfulness gave way to something deeper, a hunger to memorize every curve of the lips he’d dreamed of for so long, too long, those fantasies weaving through his sleepless nights like threads in a tapestry he’d finally touched. He tilted his head, adjusting to trace the bow of her upper lip with a slow, deliberate brush, committing its gentle arch to memory, a contrast to last night’s hurried, grasping desperation.

Where that kiss had been a wildfire, this was a slow burn, each movement measured yet no less thirsty, his desperation now channeled into precision, a need to know her lips as intimately as he knew his own pulse. His tongue flicked out, teasing the seam of her mouth with a feather-light touch, tasting the faint, metallic echo of his own blood from last night’s bite, mingled with the warm, sweet essence of her, unyielding yet pliant under his exploration.

This is what it feels like, he thought, to know her, to map her, to claim what I’ve wanted since that first smile.

The kiss deepened, his lips coaxing hers apart with a subtle insistence, no longer just playful but purposeful, a study in intimacy as he pressed closer, nibbling again with a soft pull that felt like stealing a piece of her soul. Each movement was deliberate- slower, savoring the fuller curve of her lower lip, the slight dip at its center, the way it yielded under his teeth, his tongue lingering to explore the texture, the warmth, the reality of her after so many nights of imagining.

His hand on her cheek trembled, urging her closer still, while his arm tightened, molding her body to his as if to fuse them, the near-moan rising again, a quiet testament to the thirst that burned steady beneath his patience. Unlike last night’s frantic need to possess, this was a quiet conquest, his breath hitching as he etched her into his bones- the shape of her lips, the taste of her, the way she felt like his even in sleep, the thirst still there but cloaked in patience, a desperation that burned steady rather than wild.

The intimacy was a silent theft, one he couldn’t stop, his pulse thundering as he lost himself in the act, driven by the need to make her lips as familiar as his own heartbeat, to fulfill the fantasies that had haunted him for too long.

…

The warmth beside Y/N was the first thing to pierce the fog of sleep- a soft, enveloping heat that pressed against her side, unfamiliar yet strangely anchoring, stirring confusion in the hazy space between dreams and waking.

Her eyelids fluttered, heavy with the remnants of rest, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered what it could be, this warmth, this gentle rhythm of breath against her cheek, the faint pressure on her lips that felt like a whisper of something forbidden.

She blinked once, twice, her vision clearing as the room swam into focus: the noon light slanting through the half-drawn curtains, the rumpled bed, and then- Isaac, his face inches from hers, his lips pulling back from hers just as her eyes met his, dark and unrepentant, gleaming with a hunger that sent a jolt of panic through her.

Clarity crashed over her like a wave, memories of last night flooding back in sharp, searing fragments: his relentless advance, the bitter taste of ordinary pharmaceutical pills forced into her mouth, the savage kiss that left blood on her lips, his confessions that had bound her like chains. Her heart slammed against her ribs, fear and betrayal igniting as she registered the violation of his kiss, stolen while she slept, his arm still draped around her waist like a claim she hadn’t invited.

Adrenaline surged, lending strength to her fever-weakened body, and with a sudden, desperate shove, she pushed against his chest, her palms connecting with enough force to send him tumbling off the bed. He landed with a muffled thud on the hardwood floor, a startled grunt escaping him as she scrambled back, yanking the thin, faded blanket from the bed and wrapping it tightly around herself, the fabric a flimsy shield against the exposure of her thin lavender nightdress and the weight of his gaze.

Tears pricked at her eyes, hot and unbidden, as she curled against the headboard, her knees drawn up beneath the blanket, her breath coming in shallow, shaky gasps. The burn on her arm throbbed, a silent echo of her hidden curse, the sunlight she could never touch, and now this-mIsaac, violating her boundaries again, his lips on hers while she was defenseless.

“You creep!” she spat, her voice cracking with a mix of fury and fear, the words trembling as tears spilled over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. “You weirdo! What’s wrong with you?”

Her hands clutched the blanket tighter, her knuckles whitening, her eyes blazing with mistrust as she glared at him, the betrayal of last night and this morning twisting into a knot in her chest.

Isaac, sprawled on the floor, propped himself up on one elbow, his rumpled shirt half-unbuttoned, revealing the lean planes of his chest. His blush from moments ago lingered, but his lips curved into a lopsided, almost boyish grin, utterly unfazed by her outburst. If anything, he found it, her fury, her tears, the way her voice shook, irresistibly cute, like a kitten hissing with claws too small to wound.

He tilted his head, his dark eyes glinting with a teasing warmth that only deepened her outrage. “You’re adorable when you’re mad, you know,” he said, his voice light and playful, as if they were sharing a private joke. “And, for the record, you’re not half bad at kissing yourself. Those lips of yours-” He paused, his grin widening as he tapped his own lips with a finger, savoring the memory of her taste. “-they’re something else.”

Y/N’s face flushed, a mix of embarrassment and anger burning through the tears, her hands trembling as she swiped at her cheeks.

“Shut up!” she snapped, her voice rising, the blanket slipping slightly as she leaned forward, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You don’t get to do that- kiss me, act like it’s nothing, and then tease me about it!” Her heart raced, the sting of his violation warring with the reluctant pull of his boyish charm, the way his teasing almost disarmed her, almost made her forget the line he’d crossed.

Isaac pushed himself to his feet, brushing off his pants with a casual ease, his grin softening but not fading, his eyes still locked on her with that infuriating mix of adoration and mischief. He took a step closer, stopping when she flinched, her body tensing beneath the blanket.

“Alright, alright,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though the glint in his eyes betrayed his amusement. “But I’ve gotta ask-” His voice dropped, taking on that boyish, almost shy tone again, as if he were a schoolboy confessing a crush. “Was I your first kiss?” The question hung in the air, light but loaded, his gaze searching hers with a curiosity that felt both innocent and predatory, as if her answer might hand him another piece of her to claim.

The question hit like a spark, igniting a flustered heat that crawled up her neck, her heart stuttering under the weight of his teasing. “I’m not telling you!” she stammered, her voice sharp but tripping over itself, the words tumbling out in a rush as she tried to mask the embarrassment with anger.

Her tear-streaked face burned, the violation of his kiss- last night’s and this morning’s- mixing with the mortifying intimacy of his question, leaving her flustered and off-balance. She straightened against the headboard, her gaze darting away from his, unable to hold that predatory glint.

“Now get out! You had your rest, didn’t you? Shouldn’t you go back to your lab now?” Her words came fast, laced with venom but shaky, her hands trembling as she pointed toward the door. “Go there and stay there- you can drop dead this time for all I care!”

Isaac threw his head back and laughed, a warm, rich chuckle that filled the room, as if her biting words were just another round of their familiar banter, a playful sparring match he relished. His eyes sparkled with that infuriating amusement, his grin widening as he leaned against the desk, crossing his arms with a casual ease that made her flush deepen.

“Harsh,” he said, his voice light and teasing, as if she’d tossed him a witty quip over coffee. “I know you don’t really mean that, Y/N. Come on, you’re too sweet for that.” He tilted his head, his gaze softening but still glinting with that possessive mischief, as if her flustered anger were a game he’d win with charm alone.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her face burning hotter as she fumbled for a retort, her tears mingling with the embarrassment that made her voice catch. “I do mean it!” she snapped, but the words sounded weaker, her fluster undermining her fury as she hugged the blanket closer, her fingers twisting in the fabric.

Isaac’s laughter faded, though the amused glint in his eyes didn’t fully vanish, softening into something almost tender, though the possessive hunger lingered beneath. He straightened, uncrossing his arms, his expression shifting to a careful balance of charm and confidence. “Alright,” he said, his voice quieter now, but still laced with that infuriating certainty, as if her fluster only made her more endearing. “I’ll go. For now.” He took a step back, his hands slipping into his pockets, his eyes never leaving hers, drinking in her tear-streaked, flushed face as if it were a prize.

He paused, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small bottle of cold medicine, setting it gently on her bedside table with a deliberate care. “Take care of yourself,” he said, his tone soft but carrying that familiar promise, or threat, that this wasn’t over. “Keep up with these for your cold. I’ll be back once I finish the salve for your arm.” His gaze lingered on her, the half-smile returning, teasing and boyish, as if her anger and fluster were just another chapter in their story.

Y/N’s eyes flicked to the bottle, then back to him, her flush deepening at the implication of his return, her heart pounding with a mix of dread and reluctant gratitude. “Don’t you dare…” she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper, her hands clutching the blanket tighter as she turned her face away, unable to meet his gaze any longer.

Isaac nodded, the movement slow, almost reluctant, his eyes tracing her one last time- her tear-swollen eyes, her flushed cheeks, her lips still swollen from his theft. He turned toward the door, his footsteps deliberate, each one echoing in the small room like a heartbeat. At the threshold, he glanced back, that infuriating half-smile still in place.

“See you soon,” he murmured, and then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving the room heavy with his absence and the sunlight that burned through the curtains, a cruel reminder of the shadows she couldn’t escape.

Y/N sank back against the headboard as she pulled the blanket tighter, her breath shuddering. The burn on her arm ached, a quiet warning of the light she could never touch, and Isaac’s laughter echoed in her mind, his scent lingering on the sheets, his taste on her lips. The bottle of medicine sat on the table, a tangible reminder of his promise to return, and the weight of her flustered anger pressed against her chest, mingling with the fear that he’d come back, that he’d keep weaving himself into her life no matter how hard she pushed him away.

…

Two days had passed since Isaac slipped out of Y/N’s dorm, his boyish grin and murmured promises lingering like a stubborn fog in the corners of her room. The bottle of medicine still sat on her bedside table, its amber glow catching the late afternoon light, a silent witness to the chaos he’d left behind. Her cold was gone, the fever and congestion swept away by rest and the over-the-counter pills he’d left, but her burn scar, hidden beneath a fresh bandage on her arm, itched with a quiet insistence, a reminder of the sunlight she could never touch and the boundaries Isaac had crossed with his stolen kisses.

The dorm felt emptier than usual, the silence heavy with the echo of his voice from that night, low and fractured, as if he’d been unraveling right in front of her. Francoise had visited both days, as was her routine, her soft knocks breaking the quiet with a familiar rhythm.

On the first day, when the knock came, Y/N had held her breath, her heart lurching with the fear that it might be Isaac returning, his shadow too close, too real; relief flooded her when Francoise’s gentle face appeared instead, unaware that Isaac had spent the night in Y/N’s room.

Francoise brought tea and nervous smiles, focused solely on nursing Y/N’s fever, her sisterly care warm but fragile, her hands trembling as she poured the tea, oblivious to any news Y/N might have about Isaac. Y/N had accepted the care in silence, hiding her unease behind polite thanks, careful not to betray the secret of Isaac’s visit, but Francoise’s quiet fussing and delicate concern only deepened the weight of his absence, his secrets a shadow Y/N carried alone.

Francoise’s attentive care had stirred something in Y/N- a fierce, unshakable resolve to protect her, to shield her from whatever darkness Isaac’s vague warnings about Stonehearst implied. Those trembling hands, that fragile smile, the way Francoise fussed over Y/N’s fever with such selfless devotion, it was for her that Y/N had promised Isaac her help, her words that night driven not by his pleading eyes or desperate confessions, but by the quiet strength of a girl who deserved better than to be a pawn in someone else’s game.

Even if it meant losing herself in the process, tangling her life with Isaac’s shadows, Y/N would do it for Francoise, to keep her safe from the strings Stonehearst was pulling. That resolve burned now, a steady flame in her chest as she sat on her bed, the journal open in her lap, her pen scratching out questions she needed answered. She’d find Isaac today, after classes, and demand the truth, no matter how his presence made her heart stutter or how his secrets threatened to swallow her whole.

The final bell rang, its chime swallowed by the chatter of students spilling into Nevermore’s gothic corridors, their voices bouncing off stone walls and stained-glass windows. Y/N wove through the crowd, her dark scarf shielding her arm from stray sunlight that pierced the arched panes.

Her first stop was Isaac’s lab at the usual clock tower, a chaotic den of vials, burners, and crumpled notes she visited many times before. The door was locked, the room dark, no flicker of movement behind the frosted glass. She pressed her palm against the wood, willing it to yield some clue, but only silence answered, a faint unease prickling her skin.

Next, the library, where Isaac often holed up, his lanky frame bent over biochemical texts, oblivious to the world. But the carrels were empty, the stacks quiet save for a lone student snoring over a book. Her unease deepened, a knot tightening in her chest. Isaac was always somewhere- his lab, the library, a corner of Nevermore where his restless mind could churn. To find him gone felt wrong, like a note played out of tune.

She sought out Francoise in her dorm, tucked in the girls’ wing, where the air smelled of lavender and old books, a soft warmth that seemed to cling to the faded curtains and worn rug. Francoise sat on her bed, a knitted blanket draped over her lap, her pale face softer now but still etched with faint lines of worry, her fingers gently cradling a steaming mug of tea instead of twisting a novel’s pages. The sight of Y/N in the doorway brought a bright spark to her eyes, and she set the mug down, her lips curving into a relieved smile.

“Y/N, you’re looking so much better,” she said, her voice light with genuine joy, though it carried a fragile edge, so unlike its usual burst of excitement and vibrancy that it sent a pang through Y/N’s heart. “I was so worried- your fever was awful. I’m so glad you’re alright now.”

Y/N leaned against the doorframe as Francoise’s warmth caught her off-guard, a gentle tide that eased the tension coiling in her chest, and she managed a small, sincere smile.

“Thanks to you,” she said, her tone soft but heartfelt. “The tea, the fussing- you’re too good to me, Francoise.” She stepped inside, the floorboards creaking under her boots, and settled on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel the quiet comfort of Francoise’s presence.

“I was wondering if you’ve seen Isaac,” Y/N said, her voice light but tinged with the unease she couldn’t quite mask, her fingers tightening slightly on her scarf. Francoise’s smile faltered, her eyes widening with a worry that mirrored Y/N’s own, her voice dropping to a near-whisper, delicate and trembling, a shadow of its usual lively spark.

“Not since yesterday,” she said, her hands fidgeting with the blanket, her gaze drifting to the mug as if it held answers. “He didn’t come by, didn’t send word. He’s been... so distant lately, always rushing off, like something’s pulling him away.” Her words were soft, but the fragility in her tone, the way her shoulders seemed to carry an unseen weight, hit Y/N like a quiet revelation, whatever was consuming Isaac was taking a toll on Francoise, too, dimming her light, stealing the joy that usually spilled from her so freely.

Y/N’s heart twisted, Francoise’s quiet vulnerability igniting the fierce resolve that had burned in her since those tea-filled visits- the need to protect this girl who cared so deeply, who deserved a life free from whatever darkness Isaac and Stonehearst cast.

She reached out, hesitating only a moment before resting a hand on Francoise’s, her touch gentle but firm. “Hey, he’s alright,” she said, her voice steady now, infused with a warmth she hoped would anchor Francoise’s spiraling thoughts. “I saw him a couple nights ago- he got some rest, a real break, looked better than he has in weeks. He’s probably just caught up in one of his experiments, you know how he gets. Maybe off in the woods, trying to catch some poor animal to dissect or something.” She grinned, her joking tone light but playful, coaxing a soft, genuine laugh from Francoise, the sound a small victory against the worry in her eyes.

Francoise’s laugh faded into a grateful smile, her hand turning to squeeze Y/N’s lightly, her touch warm and steady despite the earlier tremble. “You’re always so good to us,” she said, her voice thick with emotion, her eyes meeting Y/N’s with a sincerity that made Y/N’s chest ache. “Isaac’s been... he’s been struggling, and I know he doesn’t say it, but you being there for him- for both of us, it means everything. Thank you, Y/N, for everything you’ve done.”

Her words were quiet but heavy, a heartfelt acknowledgment that landed like a vow, binding Y/N even tighter to her promise to help, no matter the cost.

Y/N swallowed, her throat tight, the weight of Francoise’s gratitude mingling with the secret she kept- that Isaac had slept in her dorm, his presence a tangled mix of comfort and violation she hadn’t shared.

“You don’t need to thank me,” she said, her voice softer now, almost a whisper, as she squeezed Francoise’s hand back before letting go. “We’re in this together, okay?”

She stood, her smile reassuring but her words ringing hollow in her own ears. Isaac wasn’t in the woods, and the truth of where he might be- with Stonehearst, caught in whatever web the professor had spun, sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the drafty hall. She straightened, her resolve hardening. For Francoise, whose vibrant spirit was now a fragile echo under the weight of Isaac’s burdens, she’d find him, demand answers, and unravel this mess, even if it meant facing his shadows head-on.

…

After leaving Francoise’s dorm, Y/N’s resolve burned brighter, fueled by the fragile tremor in Francoise’s voice and the weight of her gratitude. She needed to find Isaac, to unravel the shadows tied to Stonehearst for Francoise’s sake, even if it meant diving deeper into his world. That was why she ended up in front of his dorm room’s door.

The idea of knocking churned her stomach, a mix of dread and embarrassment at stepping into Isaac’s personal space, where his scent would feel too intimate. She stood before the door, the brass knocker glinting in the dim light of a flickering sconce, her fingers hovering as her mind wrestled with itself.

He’s not here, just go back; no, you need answers for Francoise; what if he’s inside, what if he looks at you like that again?

Her boots scuffed the worn floorboards as she paced, Francoise’s dimmed spark echoing in her thoughts, steeling her resolve. With a sharp breath, she knocked, the sound louder than she’d intended, her heart thudding as she braced for Isaac’s sharp gaze- or worse, his teasing grin.

Footsteps.

The door swung open to reveal a man who was definitely not Isaac. He radiated a vibrant energy that seemed to brighten the dim hallway- dark curls slightly wild, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, grin sharp and infectious. “Hey, who’s this, amiga?” he greeted, his voice warm and teasing, leaning against the doorframe with playful curiosity. “You look like you’re on a mission.”

Y/N blinked, caught off-guard by his sheer enthusiasm, her resolve wavering under his bright scrutiny. “I’m Y/N,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt, though it carried a slight tremor as she shifted her weight, her hands fidgeting at her sides. “I’m looking for Isaac. Is he here?”

The man’s eyes lit up instantly, his grin splitting wider as he clapped his hands together, the sound sharp in the quiet hall. “Y/N! So you’re the girl Isaac gave that beautiful gel to! You’re Isaac’s lover!” he exclaimed, his enthusiasm bursting with delight, already convinced of a romance.

Y/N’s eyes widened, her cheeks flaming with shock as she shook her head. “No, no, I’m not his lover!” she blurted, her voice pitching higher, completely flustered by the leap. “We’re just… friends, sort of!” Her hands waved in protest, the weight of Francoise’s gratitude and Isaac’s secrets making her denial more frantic.

He chuckled, a warm, rolling sound that filled the space, brushing off her protests with a casual wave of his hand, seemingly oblivious to her denials. “No luck finding Isaac here, amiga, but you must have some serious spark to make him head over heels like that! Truly one of a kind.” He leaned closer, his voice brimming with playful conviction. “Tell me, you two are dating, right? After I wrote that note, you’re bound to be!” His eyes twinkled with mischief, certain his handiwork had sealed a romance.

Y/N’s eyes widened further, a memory flashing through her mind- Isaac’s flushed face, his stammering when she’d teased him about that absurdly romantic note, calling him “Romeo” for a week straight. The realization hit her, and she burst out laughing, the sound bright and unguarded, cutting through her fluster and sparking an instant connection with the man’s infectious energy.

“So that was you who wrote that note!” she said, pointing at him, her voice bubbling with amusement. “I’ve gotta hand it to you, that was genius. The look on his face when I called him out- priceless!” She shook her head, still chuckling, their shared glee over Isaac’s embarrassment forging a bond that promised they’d be swapping stories as friends in no time.

The man bowed theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest, his eyes twinkling with delight. “Gracias, my dear!” he said, the Spanish word a warm flourish as he savored her praise. “Not one regret, even if he got me back. I swear he switched my left and right toes while I was sleeping! Woke up feeling all wrong, like my feet were plotting against me!” He laughed, a rich, infectious sound that bounced off the walls, and Y/N’s own laughter echoed it, their easy banter feeling like the start of something solid.

From the back of the dorm, a calm, smooth voice cut through their laughter. “Gomez, darling, you’re overthinking it. Your toes are perfectly fine.” Y/N’s heart lurched, her eyes darting past him to the dimly lit room, where she hadn’t noticed another presence. Morticia Frump glided forward from behind a curtain divider, her long dark hair gleaming like silk, her sharp eyes soft with faint amusement.

Y/N, caught off-guard, hadn’t seen her in the shadows of the cluttered dorm, where candlelight flickered over scattered books and a singed fencing foil. Who knew what the two had been doing alone? Y/N swallowed, her fluster creeping back, and managed an awkward, “Hello,” her voice small, her hands still fidgeting at her sides.

Morticia’s smile deepened, her gaze warm but piercing, as if she saw the spark of camaraderie between Y/N and Gomez. “A pleasure, Y/N,” she said, her voice low and melodic. “Looking for Isaac, I presume?” Y/N nodded, still reeling from Gomez’s lover declaration and Morticia’s sudden appearance. Gomez, undeterred, chimed in, his voice brimming with matchmaking zeal. “Haven’t seen him all day, amiga, but I swear, if I spot that lovesick Romeo, I’ll send him straight to you!” He shot Morticia an adoring glance, his fingers brushing hers with a tender, romantic flourish, their chemistry a quiet flame that warmed the room.

Morticia tilted her head, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. “His absence is intriguing,” she said, her tone thoughtful. “If my visions reveal anything of Isaac’s whereabouts, I’ll ensure you’re informed, Y/N.” Her words carried a weight, a promise both reassuring and unsettling. Y/N nodded, the combined force of Gomez’s teasing and Morticia’s scrutiny making her feel like an outsider in a story she hadn’t meant to join, yet warmed by Gomez’s infectious charm that promised a friendship to come.

“Thanks,” Y/N said, her voice firm but tinged with a smile, her laughter with Gomez lingering like a shared secret. “Just let me know if you hear anything.” She stepped back, turning to leave, Gomez’s hearty “See you soon!” and Morticia’s quiet “Take care” following her down the hall. Their warmth lingered like the afterglow of a spark, but her thoughts were racing, Isaac missing, Francoise’s dimmed light, the answers she needed to protect the girl whose care had bound her to this path. The dim light cast jagged shadows across the stone walls, each one a reminder of the truths she’d chase, no matter how Isaac’s world unnerved her.

Deep within Nevermore, hidden behind a false panel in a forgotten corridor of the faculty wing, Stonehearst’s lab festered like a buried secret. The stone-walled chamber reeked of scorched metal and acrid chemicals, its air heavy with the relentless hum of machinery that clawed at the silence. Flickering gas lamps hung from the uneven ceiling, casting a sickly green glow over tables strewn with jagged tools, vials of glowing liquid, and pulsating devices that twitched like half-living things. At the heart of the room loomed Project L.O.I.S., a towering apparatus of copper tubes and glass chambers, its core pulsing with an eerie blue light that flickered like a caged soul. The walls bore faint, claw-like scratches, and the floor was littered with papers scrawled with equations and cryptic runes, as if the lab itself recoiled from its purpose.

Isaac stood by a steel table, his coat rumpled, his dark hair plastered to his sweat-slicked forehead, his bloodshot eyes fixed on a control rod linked to L.O.I.S., its faint sparks hissing under his touch.

His hands trembled from exhaustion, but Stonehearst’s threats, and the faint hope of protecting Francoise, kept him anchored to the task. Her worried face, her fragile voice from their last meeting, lingered like a ghost in his mind, but he buried it, his resolve hardened by the professor’s promises of power.

In a shadowed corner, slumped on the floor, lay their latest subject: a fire-wielding outcast, a gaunt young man whose drug-glazed eyes and twitching limbs betrayed the heavy sedatives Stonehearst had pumped into him for Project L.O.I.S. Charred ropes, burned through by his powers, dangled loosely around his wrists and ankles, the floor beneath him blackened from an earlier, failed attempt to restrain him. They’d planned to dissect him today, to probe his outcast physiology for insights into the project’s core, but the drugs, meant to keep him docile, had underestimated his fire.

Without warning, the outcast’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing with fury. “You’ll burn for this,” he spat, his words slurred from the drugs coursing through him, courtesy of Stonehearst’s syringes for Project L.O.I.S. Flames erupted from his hands, a roaring arc that scorched the air and set a nearby table ablaze.

Isaac dove behind a steel cabinet, the heat singeing his coat as vials shattered in the fire’s path. Stonehearst, his tall, gaunt frame a shadow against the green light, lunged for cover behind L.O.I.S., his black robes billowing.

“Isaac, contain him!” he snarled, his voice sharp with rage, his icy composure shattered as a tongue of flame grazed the apparatus, blackening a copper tube. The flames roared higher, licking the ceiling, and the outcast thrashed, his drug-addled rage fueling his power.

“You pumped me full of your poison!” he screamed, his voice raw. “I’ll torch this hellhole!”

Isaac’s heart hammered, his breath ragged, but his da Vinci abilities surged- a telekinetic precision that made him Stonehearst’s perfect weapon. He raised his right hand, the air rippling as an invisible force seized the outcast’s flailing form. The flames faltered, the man’s drug-weakened body lifting off the floor, his screams rising in pitch as Isaac levitated him toward the central steel table. With a flick of his wrist, Isaac’s power yanked the table’s automated straps into position, the metal bands snapping open like jaws. The outcast hit the table hard, his fire sputtering as the straps clamped his wrists, ankles, and chest with a metallic screech, locking him down. Isaac’s face remained stone-cold, his jaw set, his eyes hollow, a look that betrayed this wasn’t his first time subduing a subject for Stonehearst’s experiments.

The outcast’s screams echoed, raw and desperate, a dying flame flickering in his palm. Stonehearst emerged from behind L.O.I.S., his face twisted in a scowl, his eyes glinting with fury as he surveyed the damage- a charred table, a blackened tube on the apparatus, the blue core flickering erratically.

“Foolish boy,” he spat at the unconscious outcast, grabbing an anesthesia mask from a tray. He pressed it to the man’s face, the hiss of gas silencing the screams as the outcast’s struggles slowed, his eyes rolling back, his body slumping. Stonehearst adjusted the mask with clinical precision, his gaze snapping to Isaac. “Prepare the tools. We dissect as planned, but this-” he gestured at the scorched apparatus, his voice tight with irritation, “this means we’ll be here longer than usual to repair L.O.I.S. That damned outcast nearly ruined everything.”

Isaac nodded, his face still a mask of cold resolve, though his hands shook faintly as he turned to a tray of gleaming scalpels and bone saws. The outcast’s chest rose and fell under the straps, unconscious but alive- for now. Isaac’s mind flickered to Francoise, to Stonehearst’s promises of power to protect her, but the lab’s hum drowned the thought. He’d done this before- too many times, the screams and flames blending into a grim routine.

Stonehearst’s voice cut through again, laced with venom. “That infernal camping trip looms closer- four days, Isaac, four days until I’m forced to play shepherd to a gaggle of insolent children in the woods!” He slammed a fist on the table, his composure fraying. “A waste of time when L.O.I.S. hangs in the balance. We need this dissection’s data and the repairs done before I’m dragged off.”

Isaac’s jaw tightened, his hands steadying as he selected a scalpel, its edge catching the blue glow of L.O.I.S. “We’ll manage,” he said, his voice low, mechanical, the weight of the outcast’s fate and Francoise’s safety pressing against his chest.

Stonehearst’s eyes glinted, a predator’s satisfaction in his nod. “See that we do,” he said, turning to a tome etched with runes, his fingers tracing its cover as the apparatus hummed louder, its blue light pulsing like a heartbeat. Isaac gripped the scalpel, his stone-cold gaze fixed on the outcast, the lab’s shadows closing in as the dissection loomed, another grim step in Stonehearst’s dark ambition.

…

The next night, Y/N lay in her bed in the girls’ wing of Nevermore, the gothic dormitory steeped in an oppressive quiet that pressed harder without Mia’s presence. The room was dimly lit by the faint silver glow of moonlight seeping through the narrow, arched window, casting eerie shadows that writhed across the stone walls. Her bed creaked faintly as she drifted in a light sleep, the thin blanket loosely draped over her, her breathing uneven.

Mia’s absence- her roommate having left for a temporary break to visit home, skipping the upcoming camping trip, left the room feeling cavernous, amplifying Y/N’s restlessness. The air was chilled, tinged with the scent of old wood and candle wax, and the distant howl of wind rattled the windowpane, tugging at her fragile slumber.

Francoise’s fragile voice, Gomez’s teasing laughter, and the gnawing mystery of Isaac’s absence had plagued her thoughts before sleep took hold, but the lightness of her rest, sharpened by Mia’s empty bed, made waking effortless.

At 3 a.m., a sharp knock on the door snapped her eyes open, her heart lurching as she bolted upright, her breath hitching. The knock came again, softer but relentless, cutting through the silence like a blade. Her pulse raced, her body tensing, the moonlight casting jagged shadows that seemed to claw at the walls. It was too late for anyone to be here, especially in the girls’ wing. She slid out of bed, her bare feet cold against the stone floor, and crept toward the door, her hands trembling.

“Who’s there?” she whispered, her voice tight, her fingers hovering over the iron handle, fear already

“Y/N, it’s me,” Isaac’s voice answered, low and hoarse, carrying a weight that twisted her stomach into knots.

Her breath caught, a wave of dread crashing over her, tinged with the trauma of his last visit,mwhen he’d forced a kiss on her, his hands too insistent, his presence overwhelming, leaving her shaken and violated. The memory flooded back, her chest tightening as she cracked the door open just enough to see him, keeping it a firm barrier she could slam shut. She wasn’t letting him in, not again.

Isaac stood in the hallway, framed by the dim flicker of a sconce, and Y/N’s heart stuttered in shock. His dark hair fell into his bloodshot eyes, shadowed by exhaustion and a sharp, calculated glint that made her skin crawl. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets, his lips curving into a disarming smile that didn’t reach his eyes, a practiced mask of vulnerability.

“Isaac, what the hell?” Y/N’s voice was sharp, edged with panic, her grip on the door white-knuckled as she kept it half-closed, their eyes meeting through the narrow gap. “You can’t be here. Not after last time.” Her voice trembled, the memory of his forceful kiss burning in her mind, her body tensing as she braced for him to try something again. “Just- go.”

Isaac’s face fell, his eyes softening with a flicker of regret, but there was a desperation in his stance that set her nerves on edge. “Y/N, please,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading, but carrying a subtle edge that made her skin prickle. “I need to talk. I’ve got nowhere else to go tonight. You’re the only one I trust.” He leaned closer, his face too near the gap, his tone shifting to guilt. “You know what I’m going through- Francoise, Stonehearst, everything. I’m falling apart, and you’re shutting me out?”

Y/N’s heart twisted, guilt clashing with her trauma, but she held firm, her voice adamant. “I didn’t mean like this, Isaac! Not you showing up in the middle of the night, not after what you did!” She pushed the door slightly more closed, the gap narrowing, her cheeks flushing with fear and shame. “Stay out there. I’m not letting you in.”

Isaac’s eyes darkened, a flash of frustration crossing his face before he masked it with a sigh, his shoulders slumping further. “I was a mess that night,” he murmured, his voice dripping with remorse, but his hand edged toward the door, subtle enough that she didn’t notice. “I’d never hurt you, Y/N. I just… I need you right now.” Before she could react, he leaned his weight against the door, his movement smooth and practiced, forcing it open just enough to slip inside. Y/N stumbled back, her breath catching in a gasp, her fear spiking as he crossed the threshold, the door clicking shut behind him.

“Isaac, get out!” she snapped, her voice rising, her hands balling into fists as she backed toward her bed, the stone floor cold under her feet. Her heart raced, the trauma of his last visit screaming in her mind, her clarity unclouded by hunger but sharpened by panic. He raised his hands, palms out, his pristine coat a stark contrast to the menace she felt, his smile returning- disarming, calculated.

“I just need to rest, Y/N,” he said, his voice soft, almost tender, but the glint in his eyes betrayed his intent. He strode toward her desk, his movements confident, and placed a small jar on it, a salve that sparkled under the moonlight, its translucent glow eerily familiar. “Look, I even brought the salve I promised you,” he said, his tone warm, persuasive. “Sorry for taking so long.” He opened the jar, scooping a shimmering gel onto his fingers, and stepped in front of her, his presence overwhelming.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her body tensing as he gently took her arm, his touch calculated and soft, lifting it to apply the gel to her forearm. The cool sensation sent a shiver through her, her trauma roaring as his closeness echoed his past violation, her resolve wavering under his presence and her own fear. “Isaac, stop,” she said, her voice shaking, making one last desperate attempt. “My roommate’s coming back any second now.” The lie was weak, her voice faltering, and Isaac’s smile widened, his sharp perception reading through it instantly.

“At 3 a.m.?” Isaac said softly, his eyes locking onto hers, a piercing glint cutting through his feigned concern as he caught her lie. His gaze flicked to Mia’s half-empty closet, the door ajar, betraying her absence. “Looks like she went out for a while.” His fingers lingered on Y/N’s arm, the gel’s glow casting eerie shadows on his face, his presence suffocating. “You don’t have to fight me, Y/N. I’m not here to hurt you.” His voice was a velvet trap, and Y/N’s shoulders sagged, her resistance crumbling under his persuasive words, her trauma and fear clawing at her resolve.

Y/N’s shoulders sagged, her resistance crumbling under the weight of Isaac’s persuasive words, the trauma of his forceful kiss months ago still raw, her fear pulsing in the gothic dorm room. The moonlight sliced through the narrow, arched window, casting eerie shadows across the stone walls, the air thick with the scent of old wood and candle wax. Her hands trembled, her resolve fraying, but her need for answers, about Stonehearst, Francoise, his absence, gnawed at her, outweighing her instinct to shove him out.

“Fine,” she muttered, her voice low, laced with reluctance, her eyes narrowing as she stepped back, keeping distance. “You can stay, but only because I have questions. A lot of them.” She crossed her arms, her tone sharp. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you for the past two days, Isaac. Where the hell have you been?”

Isaac’s lips curved into a teasing smile. “Didn’t know you missed me that much, Y/N,” he said, his voice light, almost mocking, but carrying a warmth that disarmed her guard. “Maybe I should come here more often.” His head tilted, his dark hair falling into his eyes, his relaxed posture a stark contrast to the tension radiating from her.

Her jaw tightened as she shot back a sarcastic retort. “Yeah, sure, make it a habit- maybe next time I won’t even answer and save us both the trouble.” Her voice dripped with venom, but her cheeks flushed, the weight of his presence and her trauma making her words feel hollow, her questions about Stonehearst and Francoise burning brighter than her anger.

Without a word, he stepped closer, his hand reaching slowly toward her forehead, his movements deliberate but gentle, as if testing her reaction. Y/N flinched, dodging his hand with a quick step back, her heart racing, her body tensing as memories of his forceful kiss months ago flooded her mind. “W-what are you doing?” she snapped, her voice sharp, her eyes wide with fear, her arms crossing tighter over her chest, her trauma screaming at her to keep distance.

Isaac’s hand froze mid-air, his face softening, his eyes steady and reassuring, though a subtle glint of intent lingered. “Easy, Y/N,” he said, his voice low, coaxing, like soothing a startled bird. “I’m just checking your forehead. That cold you’ve had- it’s still there, isn’t it? I’m not going to do anything, I promise.” He kept his hand outstretched, waiting, his gaze unwavering, urging her to trust him, his tone carrying a warmth that chipped at her defenses. “You’re safe with me.”

Y/N’s breath hitched, her trauma warring with her need for answers, her exhaustion making her waver. His words echoed the false promises of before, but the steadiness in his eyes, however calculated, made her pause. She swallowed hard, her eyes darting from his hand to his face, searching for a lie. “Just… check,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper, her body rigid as she gave in, stepping forward slightly to let him touch her forehead. “Nothing else.”

She felt Isaac’s fingers brush her skin, cool and gentle, lingering only a moment as he assessed her temperature, his eyes never leaving hers. “Still a bit warm,” he murmured, his voice soft, but instead of withdrawing, he let his hand slide down, his palm resting gently on her cheek, his thumb grazing her skin in a tender, coaxing gesture. His gaze deepened, a quiet plea in his eyes as he tilted his head toward the bed. “You need rest, Y/N. We both do. Come on, let’s lie down, like before.” His voice was a velvet lure, his touch lingering, urging her to follow, his original intent to rest with her resurfacing.

Her heart pounded as she froze, the warmth of his palm unsettling, her trauma flaring at the intimacy. She stepped back, breaking the contact, her arms crossing again as she shook her head, her voice trembling with disbelief. “Why are you so keen on this, Isaac? This is wrong- it’s not right!” Her eyes searched his, her fear and questions she needed answered mixing with her rejection of his closeness. “You can’t just… act like this is normal!”

Isaac’s brow furrowed, a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his face, his hand hovering where her cheek had been, something in him urging him to touch her again. “I thought…” he said, his voice trailing off, his eyes searching hers, as if grappling with her reaction. “I thought this is what lovers do- rest together, take care of each other.” His tone was earnest, almost vulnerable, but the weight of his assumption hung heavy, his belief in their connection shaped by his own desires and the bond’s influence.

“We are not lovers, Isaac!” she shot back, her cheeks flushing with anger and shame as she remembered the kisses she was forced upon. “You don’t get to decide that! You forced your way into my life, into my room, and now you’re acting like we’re something we’re not!”

Isaac’s face crumpled, a flicker of genuine hurt flashing across his features, his eyes dimming as if her words had struck deeper than she intended. He stood frozen, his hand still hovering where her cheek had been, his urge to touch her, his intrusive thoughts of her, making his fingers twitch. For a moment, he said nothing, his jaw tightening, his eyes searching hers, the silence heavy with the weight of her rejection. The moonlight cast his shadow long and jagged across the stone floor, the air thick with the scent of old wood and candle wax, the jar of salve on the desk glowing faintly like a mocking beacon.

Then, he exhaled softly, lifting his gaze to meet hers, a faint, resigned smile tugging at his lips. “Okay, that’s fine,” he said, his voice low, almost gentle, but carrying a subtle edge that made her skin prickle. “I’ll let you believe that.” He stepped toward her bed, his movements slow and deliberate, and sat on the edge, the mattress creaking under his weight. He gestured to the space beside him, his eyes softening, though a glint of intent lingered. “Come, Y/N. I’ll answer any and all questions you have- Stonehearst, Francoise, everything.” He patted his knee lightly, a playful, coaxing gesture, as if inviting her to sit on his lap, his smile widening with a teasing warmth.

Before he knew it a a sharp glare shot his way as she crossed her arms tighter, her body rigid with defiance. “Don’t even try that,” she snapped, her voice biting, her cheeks still flushed from her outburst. She moved to the bed but sat on the furthest edge, as far from him as possible, her knees drawn up, her posture screaming distance. “Start talking, Isaac. What’s happening with Stonehearst?” Her questions spilled out, her voice rising, her need for answers overriding her fear, though her body stayed tense, wary of his closeness, his intentions.

Isaac leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped, his bloodshot eyes meeting hers with a mix of exhaustion and guarded sincerity. “Alright, Y/N,” he said, his voice steady but low, as if weighing how much to reveal. “Stonehearst… it started years ago, back when I was a first-year. They noticed me early- my brilliance, my knack for solving problems others couldn’t. Professor Stonehearst took me under his wing, said I had potential to change things.” He paused, his gaze flickering, a shadow of pride crossing his face before it faded. “Not long after, we started working on Project L.O.I.S.”

Y/N’s brow furrowed, her arms loosening slightly, her curiosity piqued despite her wariness. “What’s Project L.O.I.S.?” she asked, her voice sharp, leaning forward just a fraction, her eyes locked on his, searching for any hint of deception.

“It stands for ‘Long-term Outcast Integration Study.’ Stonehearst- he’s a normie, always has been, but he’s obsessed with outcast powers. L.O.I.S. is his brainchild, a project to transfer outcast abilities to normies, to manipulate biology, genetics, whatever it takes to make it work.” His voice grew quieter, a trace of unease creeping in. “At first, I was all in. The idea of rewriting what’s possible, of bending nature like that- it was thrilling. I thought we were on the edge of something revolutionary.”

Y/N’s heart sank, her mind racing with the implications, her voice dropping to a tense whisper. “You’re saying Stonehearst wants to… steal outcast powers? For himself?” Her eyes narrowed, her posture stiffening again, the weight of his words settling like a stone.

He nodded, his gaze meeting hers, a flicker of regret in his eyes. “That’s the goal. But it’s not clean, Y/N. It’s messy, dangerous. And then I started noticing Francoise- her condition was getting worse. She needed more blood, more often, and she was exhausted all the time, barely holding it together.” His voice cracked, his hands clenching tighter. “I had to put L.O.I.S. aside, focus on finding a way to help her, to cure whatever’s breaking her down. Stonehearst… he didn’t like that. He wanted me back on the project, but I couldn’t let Francoise suffer.”

Francoise’s weary eyes flashed in her mind, the way she’d seemed more fragile lately, her Hyde nature a constant battle Y/N already knew about. She sat on the furthest edge of the bed, her knees drawn up, her arms crossed tightly, her body tense as she glared at Isaac, her need for answers warring with her fear of his intentions.

“Is Stonehearst holding something against you?” she pressed, her voice sharp, her eyes narrowing. “Where were you these past two days?”

Isaac’s gaze dropped to the floor, his shoulders slumping, a heavy exhale escaping him as if the weight of his secrets was crushing him. “I was at Stonehearst’s lab,” he admitted, his voice low, almost reluctant, his hands unclenching to run through his dark hair. “Working on L.O.I.S.- experiments to transfer outcast powers to normies, like I told you. I’ve been there for two days straight because Stonehearst made it clear: if I stop, if I back down even once more, he’ll force Francoise to transform into her Hyde form.” His jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with a mix of anger and fear. “And that’s not good for her, Y/N. Every time she turns, it drains her, shortens her lifespan. It’s like burning through her life force, and she’s already so fragile.”

A cold realization was dawned as Y/N pieced together Francoise’s struggles. Her eyes widened, her voice dropping to a tense whisper. “Wait… was Stonehearst behind all the attacks Francoise was getting before? The times she was forced to turn, like when that siren professor used their song to make her transform? Are they working together?” Her posture stiffened, her hands gripping her knees, the memory of Francoise’s pain fueling her questions, her fear of Isaac’s half-truths sharpening her tone.

Isaac scoffed, a bitter edge to the sound, his lips twisting into a grim smile as he shook his head. “Hardly,” he said, his voice low, laced with disdain. “Stonehearst doesn’t ‘work’ with anyone. I’d bet anything he found a way to trick that professor, to bend them to his will- some leverage, some manipulation. That’s how he operates. He uses people, Y/N, plays them like pieces on a board. He doesn’t play fair, and he doesn’t share control.”

His eyes met hers, a flicker of exhaustion in them, but also a guarded intensity, as if he was revealing just enough to keep her hooked.

Y/N couldn’t help but roll her eyes, a sharp exhale escaping her, the description hitting too close to home. Sounds just like you, she thought, her gaze flicking to Isaac’s face, his calculated warmth, his careful words mirroring Stonehearst’s tactics. She bit back the retort, her voice steady but laced with suspicion. “So Stonehearst is blackmailing you with Francoise, and you’re just… going along with it? What’s L.O.I.S. doing to her? What experiments?”

A heavy sigh escaped as he ran a hand through his dark hair, his bloodshot eyes betraying the toll of sleepless nights. “I don’t have a choice, Y/N,” he said, his voice low, strained, a flicker of desperation in his tone. “Stonehearst is holding Francoise over me. I’ve been in the lab these past two days, splitting my time between L.O.I.S. and finding a way to stabilize her Hyde condition. That’s why I’m never around, why I’m not sleeping- I’m trying to keep him from forcing her to transform, because every time she does, it’s killing her faster.” His jaw tightened, his hands clenching on his knees, his voice steady but carrying a weight of fear.

After a moment of silence Isaac’s eyes flickered, a shadow crossing his face as he leaned back slightly, his hands unclenching, his tone shifting to something softer, more personal.

“Look, Y/N, it’s… it’s not just about Stonehearst,” he said, his voice low, almost pleading, steering the conversation away from L.O.I.S. “Francoise- she was ready to give up before you came along. Controlling her Hyde side, it’s brutal. It takes everything. her strength, her will, and this school, the other students, they make it worse. The whispers, the isolation… she was done, Y/N. She told me she didn’t want to keep fighting, that she was ready to let go.”

His voice cracked, his eyes glistening with what looked like genuine pain, his gaze locking onto hers. “Then she met you. You gave her something to hold onto, a reason to keep going. I’ve never seen her fight harder, or smile like she does when she talks about you.”

Y/N’s heart twisted, a mix of warmth for Francoise and irritation at Isaac’s shift, her eyes softening briefly before narrowing again. “Don’t do that, Isaac,” she snapped, her voice sharp, her arms crossing tighter around herself as her body tensed. “Don’t drag Francoise into this to make me feel something. I know you’re trying to avoid talking about Stonehearst.” Her voice held steady, her distrust cutting through his emotional appeal, her fear of his intentions keeping her on edge, the memory of his forceful kisses fueling her wariness, the bed’s edge her shield.

Isaac’s face fell, a flicker of hurt crossing his eyes, but he leaned forward, his hands spreading in a gesture of openness, his tone softening further. “I’m not avoiding anything,” he said, his voice low, a note of exhaustion creeping in. “I’ve told you about Stonehearst, about L.O.I.S., about Francoise. But you’re right- Francoise matters to me, and I know she matters to you. I just… I thought you’d want to know how much you’ve helped her.” His gaze searched hers, the bond urging him to reach for her, her presence filling his thoughts, his words a careful blend of vulnerability and persuasion.

Y/N’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing, her body still angled away from him. “I do care about her,” she said, her voice firm, “but that doesn’t change what’s happening here. You’re trying to shift this conversation, and I’m not falling for it. You got your answers out about Stonehearst, so now what? You think you can just stay here?” Her voice rose slightly, her fear and resolve holding strong, her posture rigid as she clung to the bed’s edge, the distance between them a silent defiance.

Isaac’s jaw tightened, and in a swift, deliberate motion, he slid off the bed and dropped to his knees in front of her, his movements urgent but controlled. He reached for her hand, gently but firmly guiding it to his cheek, his skin warm against her fingers as he pressed it there, his eyes filled with a raw, desperate want, a burning desire to sleep with her again, to have his way as he once did.

“Y/N, please,” he begged, his voice low, thick with a pleading intensity, his gaze locked onto hers, his thumb brushing her hand. “I’m falling apart without you. Just rest with me, like before. I need this- I need you. Nothing more, I swear.” His tone was soft, but the hunger in his eyes betrayed his deeper intent, his pushiness now a fervent plea, his annoyance at her refusals simmering beneath the surface, fueling his relentless pursuit.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her heart pounding as his touch sent a shiver through her, her guilt deepening at the sight of his exhaustion, his desperate posture. She wanted to pull away, to recoil from the memory of what happened days ago, but his hand held hers in place, his eyes pleading, tugging at her sympathy. Yet her fear surged stronger, the violation of her boundaries a vivid warning.

“Isaac, I’m sorry,” she said softly, her voice gentle but firm, laced with guilt and sadness, her eyes glistening as she carefully pulled her hand free, her body trembling. “I see how tired you are, and I feel awful, but I can’t do this. Not after what happened. Please, just go.” Her words were kinder, her tone heavy with regret, but her resolve held, her fear outweighing her sympathy.

His eyes darkened, a shadow of frustration and wounded pride flashing through them, his jaw clenching as he slowly rose to his feet, his hands falling to his sides. The moonlight cast their shadows as one, the wind howling outside, the dorm’s shadows pulsing with the weight of their tension. The camping trip in four days loomed, a distant storm that would only deepen the tangle of her fear, her guilt, and the weight of Isaac’s presence.

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[mattsleftball]

Hiii! This might be very vague and I don't really have an idea for a plot but I've been thinking about Vampire!Isaac Night that have to feed from readers blood. I also like versions of mean Isaac (or not) 🤧

Bite First, Ask Never - Vampire!Isaac Night x Reader

You had been warned.

Everyone at Nevermore whispered about him - the strange boy who never smiled, never laughed, snuck out after curfew, and who made everyone stiffen up when he passed by.

And yet here you were, leaning against the cold stone wall of the abandoned passage that led to Iago Tower.

"I told you not to follow me," Isaac said, voice smooth and dangerous, eyes glinting faintly under the dim moonlight that spilt through the small windows.

You smirked. "And yet, here I am."

He didn't answer. He simply stopped a foot away, studying you like a predator assessing prey. His hand twitched near the hem of his coat, a subtle, threatening motion, but you didn't flinch.

"Do you want to live, or are you just curious?" he asked, calm and deliberate, every word dripping with control.

"Curiosity keeps life interesting," you said. "Maybe even worth dying for."

That earned you a sharp tilt of his head, a faintly amused glimmer in his eyes too dark to read.

"I hate people like you," he said, voice low. "And yet I think I might like you."

You laughed softly. "Careful. That was dangerously close to making sense."

Isaac's jaw tightened. He moved closer, so close you could smell him. Your pulse picked up, not from fear, but from the way he looked at you, measured, hungry, and unstoppable.

"You think you're brave," he said, leaning closer, "but I'm patient. I won't bite...yet."'

"And when you do?" you challenged, lips quirking into an infuriating grin.

His fangs slid out just a fraction, catching the light. "Then you'll learn exactly what fear tastes like."

He lunged. Not recklessly, but as though he had planned this, there was a surge of raw power in the motion that made your knees go weak. His lips barely brushed your throat, teasing, testing, drawing a shiver from deep inside you.

"Hold still," he murmured. "I can't promise I'll be gentle."

"I wouldn't want gentle," you whispered, breath hitching.

The first taste was shockingly sweet, metallic, and utterly intoxicating. You gasped at the feeling of his fangs in your throat, clutching his shoulders, and his eyes flared with something feral.

"Do you even realise what you do to me?" he asked, voice strained as he pulls back from your neck to give you a moment of reprieve.

"I think I do," you reply, voice low and teasing. "And I like it."

He growled softly and pressed forward again, teeth barely grazing your neck.

"You belong to me," he whispered.

"I think you're right," you said, daring to close your eyes, giving yourself fully to the dark heat of him.

When he pulled back, fangs hidden once more, his hands lingered on your shoulders, thumbs brushing your collarbone.

"Stay out of here," he said finally, voice sharp and terrifyingly intimate. "Or I won't be as...polite next time."

You laughed, heart hammering, heat rushing through you. "What, will you bite me again?"

Isaac didn't answer with words. He only leaned close, brushing his lips to yours - quick, hard, dominant - and left, fading into the shadows like he'd never been there at all.

But the memory lingered, and you knew this wasn't the last time he'd claim you.

taglist: @vvia00 @pepsipoet @speakercosplays @jessalynnight @lilyyexe

xoxo,

infinity-quill