so i decided that i need to make an actual post about why i havent posted. i was writing a kwon jae sung short story, but stopped posting it. i dont think i will ever continue it as i completely lost interest in it. but at the same time i want to just finish it and get it over with. same thing with my isaac night story. i want to finish it, but i lost interest. i dont know if ill ever come back to writing as i just dont know who to write for. the only show ive been interested in lately is stranger things since the new season is coming out, but i have NO idea how to write for it. i dont know what my plans are for this account, but im not deleting anything. i might come back to write for someone in the future but for now i just have no idea. i do still wanna write as i enjoy doing it, but at the same time i have no interests in any characters, shows or movies.
Right now i need a fat blunt in between my lips a twisted tea in my left hand and a hot 6'5 short tempered man in the right hand and then i just maybe i can go to sleep
Theo exhaled a slow, smoke-filled breath as the silence stretched between them. too heavy, too warm. His fingers brushed against yours as he took the blunt from your hand, and for a second neither of you moved.
The stars blurred at edges when Theo blinked too hard. Fuck. He was high enough that Daphne might’ve been in another lifetime right now, high enough to let his shoulder press flush against yours without pretending otherwise anymore either way.
"...You ever get tired of looking up?" Theo finally murmured after another drag passed over his lips, still tingling with her proximity, words slurred just slightly around syllables like this whole night had been one long slide into something dangerous already anyway. So what did it matter if he slipped further still?
You were staring up at the stars, almost admiring them. "At the stars..?" You finally asked, voice soft. You were slightly confused as to what he meant. Of course you were. But the high left you in a daze, so it was almost expected.
Theo's laugh came out rough, too sharp at edges, because of course you didn't get it. Not when he was too far gone to articulate the real question burning behind his ribs:
Did you ever get tired of making me look?
But instead, Theo just knocked his knee against yours absently as he took another drag. "...Yeah," he muttered eventually after smoke curled from between them again. "Stars." A pause. His gaze slid sideways toward her profile in dark—lashes casting shadows over cheeks flushed faintly with cold. Or something else.
"...They're pretty." He said it like a confession; one that had nothing do sky above, and everything do girl beside him who kept stealing glances back when thought no noticed either way.
sorry for the late upload ive been busy on some school trips so i havent been able to upload this when i wanted to but dw yall the final 2 chapters wont take too long to be uploaded
The night they left the crypt, the world seemed to hold its breath. The forest stretched around them like a cathedral of shadows, branches arching high as if to bear witness to their procession. Isaac’s lantern swung at his side, spilling pools of light onto the path. She leaned against him, still weak, her hand trembling in his but no longer cold as stone.
They walked together toward the ruins of his workshop—a place where Isaac had once drowned himself in invention, where grief had sharpened into obsession. It rose from the earth like the skeleton of some fallen beast, its towers half-collapsed, gears rusting in silence, walls veined with ivy. Windows gaped open, glass long shattered, and within, machines hummed faintly, the ghosts of his genius refusing to die.
Isaac paused at the threshold, his hand tightening around hers. “This is where I made the heart that keeps me alive,” he murmured, voice both proud and weary. “Where I swore I would find a way to bring you back. Every broken gear, every sleepless night—it was all for this moment.”
He pushed the heavy door open. The air inside smelled of oil, rust, and dust, but beneath it lingered something older: the faint perfume of roses he had once kept for her, now nothing but dried petals hidden in corners. He guided her in, settling her upon a fainting couch draped with velvet long-faded. In that dim light, she looked less like a revenant and more like a woman pulled back from a cruel dream.
For days, Isaac tended to her there. He brought her offerings prepared with almost ceremonial care, serving them on tarnished silver trays as though she were royalty. Each time she ate, color bloomed faintly in her cheeks, warmth lingered a little longer in her skin.
But hunger was a cruel master.
One evening, she caught her reflection in a cracked mirror across the room. Her lips were faintly stained, her eyes rimmed with shadow, her beauty touched by something feral. She recoiled. “Isaac… look at me. I am not what I was.”
He came to her at once, dropping to his knees before the couch. His hands—one scarred, one fitted with brass—framed her face. “No. You are more. The grave tried to take you, and still you rise. Do not mourn what you were. Rejoice in what you are becoming.”
Her gaze trembled. “And what is that? A hunger wearing my face?”
“A hunger that I will feed until you are whole again,” he said fiercely. “Do you not see? Every fragment I place upon your lips draws you closer to life. Soon, you will breathe as you once did. Soon, your laughter will fill these halls again.”
She searched his eyes, torn between fear and trust. “And if I lose myself before that moment comes?”
Isaac leaned forward, pressing his forehead to hers, the tick of his mechanical heart filling the silence between them. “Then I will lose myself with you. I have already walked thirty years in darkness without you—I will not walk another step alone.”
She closed her eyes, a shiver passing through her body, not of cold but of longing. When she spoke again, her voice was softer, weighted with both hunger and devotion. “Then feed me, Isaac. Keep me here with you.”
And so he did. Piece by piece, night after night, he offered her what she needed, and she accepted it with trembling hands and lips that grew warmer, redder, more alive.
Yet Isaac knew the truth, though he dared not speak it: every bite she took, every flush of color that returned to her face, was bought not only with the offerings he gathered but with the slow unraveling of himself. The gears in his chest ticked louder, faltering at times, as though his clockwork heart knew it was being bartered away.
Still, he smiled whenever she reached for him. Still, he whispered promises into her hair as she slept against him. For if the price of her return was his own undoing, then Isaac Night was willing to pay it without hesitation.
The workshop, once a tomb of invention, now lived again with the sound of her voice. But beneath the hum of gears and the rustle of velvet, the house itself seemed to know: there would be a reckoning.
guys dont worry part 3 of my isaac story will be out tomarrow, sept 12th 2025, i just had this really good idea and wanted to write something about it. and maybe ill make a part 2 of this if enough people like it
important- if you are on my taglist but your name is crossed out it means i cant tag you.
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The rumors of Isaac Night were older than your arrival at Nevermore.
They whispered about him in the dining hall, his name carried on half-bitten words: mad scientist, grave-robber, psycho. They said he tinkered with dead things, bottled lightning, and spoke to shadows no one else could see. His presence lingered like cold air before a storm—unsettling, heavy, always at the edges of perception.
And you, too, had your whispers. Broken. Fragile. Unstable. Even here, among the outcasts, silence marked you as something set apart. You felt like a cracked mirror reflecting the world in pieces no one wanted to look at.
It was inevitable that two “broken” things would find each other. Though the beginning was anything but tender.
---
You first saw him in the greenhouse. You had slipped in at dusk, searching for quiet. The sky outside had turned storm-dark, streaked with lightning, and the glass panes rattled in protest. You sat on the damp stone floor, sketchbook balanced on your knees, when the sharp clang of metal on stone startled you.
A figure straightened from the shadows: Isaac. His hair clung damp to his forehead, his shirt torn at the cuff, hands stained with ink and something darker. He looked less like a student than some fever dream stitched together from midnight thoughts.
His eyes locked on you, sharp as broken glass. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Your throat tightened, but you forced words out. “Neither should you.”
He studied you in silence, gaze cutting. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, deliberate. “And what’s your excuse? Hiding? Or haunting?”
The words struck harder than you expected. You curled inward, clutching your sketchbook. “…Hiding,” you admitted.
Something flickered in his eyes—disappointment? amusement?—before he turned away. “Pathetic,” he muttered, though there was no true venom in it, just the exhaustion of someone who hated weakness, perhaps because he saw it in himself.
You wanted to flee, but you stayed. And that seemed to surprise him more than anything.
---
After that, Isaac became impossible to avoid. Perhaps you were drawn to him, or perhaps he allowed himself to be found. You crossed paths in the dead hallways, in abandoned classrooms, beneath the skeletal trees of Nevermore’s grounds.
He rarely softened his words.
“You wear your sadness like armor,” he told you once, lips curling as though the sight offended him.
“And you wear madness like a crown,” you shot back before you could stop yourself.
For a moment, silence stretched. Then—unexpectedly—he laughed, sharp and short. “Maybe you’re not as fragile as I thought.”
The strange thing was, the harshness didn’t drive you away. If anything, it kept you tethered. His cruelty was never casual; it was precise, like a scalpel cutting into bone, forcing you to bleed honesty. And in turn, he revealed slivers of himself: obsessions, fears, the endless hunger to prove he was more than a monster whispered about in shadows.
One night, he led you—without explanation—into his laboratory. The room smelled of metal and ozone, candlelight throwing grotesque shadows across walls littered with sketches. There were jars, contraptions humming faintly with stolen lightning, bones threaded with wires. It was the sort of place meant to repel.
Instead, you felt at home.
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” he said, voice tight.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m not a monster.” His gaze burned into you, almost angry. “Everyone else knows what I am. Even I know. Why don’t you?”
Your voice came out softer than you intended. “Because I see myself in you.”
His jaw tightened, hands flexing against the workbench as though he wanted to tear it apart. “You’re broken. Don’t mistake kinship for salvation.”
“I’m not looking for salvation,” you whispered. “Just… someone who won’t flinch.”
That silenced him.
---
Over time, the sharp edges between you dulled. Isaac still spoke with harshness, but less often to wound, more often to challenge. When your mind slipped into its darkest places, he stayed—not with gentle words, but with presence, with restless pacing, with half-mad rants about inventions that could “cage despair” if only he perfected the formula. He never tried to cure you. He only refused to leave.
And you, in turn, refused to leave him. When his hands trembled with obsession, you steadied them. When his voice shook with fury at the world that branded him psycho, you listened until it broke into silence. You became the anchor he didn’t know he was searching for.
One storm-heavy night, thunder rolling above Nevermore, he finally confessed it.
“You make me feel sane.” The words were harsh, almost like an accusation. His hands gripped the edge of the table so tightly his knuckles whitened. “Do you understand what that means? You—the one they call broken—you steady me.”
You stepped closer, heart hammering. “And you—the one they call mad—you make me feel alive.”
For once, he didn’t fight the softness. His hands trembled as they reached for yours, the touch uncertain, almost reverent.
The storm outside raged on, but inside, the world grew quieter.
For the first time, Isaac Night looked at you not as a ghost, not as a mirror of his own madness, but as something fragile and extraordinary.
