So I finished up my Daenerys Targaryen bust today!! I hand painted everything and made some alterations to how it’s supposed to be painted to make her more book accurate. Hence the white eyebrows and I did paint her eyes an Amethyst type purple that doesn’t translate so well on camera. But most of all I decided against giving her drogon on her shoulder and opted for a more book accurate viserion with cream and gold. I bought the stand separately to include her house colours!
I just know the school forced his ass to do an extra curricular activity to graduate because he “needs” to socialize. And I know he joined stage crew for the school musical. And I KNOW he runs that shit like the military.
Method To Madness (1) || Isaac Night x Reader || 18+
Blurb: Your rivalry with Isaac was supposed to be academic. Equations, chalkboards, late-night assignments... But when the tension finally snaps, he doesn’t just kiss you, he ruins you across his desk with the obsessive precision of a man who always thought you could be his greatest experiment.
Word Count: 5'430
Warnings: Filthy, obsessive smut including telekinetic restraint and undressing, rivalry-fueled tension, orgasm control, messy cum play, and dirty talk with a “scientist cataloguing his subject” edge.
(( Part 2 ))
The classroom buzzed with faint chatter, the scratch of pencils and the rustle of parchment. Isaac Night ignored it all. He always did. They could play at brilliance all they wanted, in the end, none of them ever came close. None of them mattered.
Except you.
You sat two rows over, back straight, eyes fixed on the chalkboard with that same unnerving focus you always carried. You never fidgeted. Never broke under the weight of a professor’s questions. Worse, you answered them before he could.
It infuriated him.
He told himself it was irritation, annoyance at your arrogance, the way your hand always shot up like you’d already solved the problem while the rest of the class stumbled. But irritation didn’t make his blood spike every time your pen tapped the desk. It didn’t explain the way his eyes dragged to you when he should’ve been diagramming the equation on his own page.
You were his rival. His equal. The only variable he couldn’t control.
The professor scrawled out a complex formula on the board, pausing expectantly. Isaac had the solution already dancing at the tip of his tongue. He leaned back, waiting for the inevitable silence when no one else could catch up.
Then your voice cut through, clear and confident, every word precise and worse; correct.
A ripple of laughter broke through the classroom when you didn’t just solve the problem but expanded it, undercutting his half-formed rebuttal before it even left his lips. His jaw clenched. He felt the heat crawl up the back of his neck as you turned just slightly, just enough for him to catch the glint of triumph in your eyes.
You didn’t look at him often. But when you did, it was like you were holding up a mirror, forcing him to see that maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t the smartest one in the room anymore.
And God, it burned.
His pencil snapped between his fingers, graphite dust smearing across his skin. He welcomed the sting, the mess. Anything to ground him while the thought slithered in, uninvited, dangerous: you weren’t just competition. You were a problem he couldn’t solve. A flame he couldn’t put out. And maybe, a disaster he wanted to let consume him.
The professor’s chalk squealed across the board, a line of numbers left half-finished. “If anyone can resolve the final step, you’ll earn the last five points for today.”
Isaac leaned forward, already knowing he had it. His fingers hovered over his notes, the solution unfolding in his mind like clockwork. Too easy. He opened his mouth… And you beat him to it.
Again.
Your voice was crisp, certain, not a trace of hesitation. You explained the answer with unnerving clarity, like you weren’t just solving it but teaching the class yourself.
The professor beamed. “Excellent work.”
Isaac’s knuckles tightened around his desk until it creaked. He forced his lips into a smirk, masking the fire in his chest.
“Not quite excellent,” he drawled loud enough for the room to hear, “you skipped a step. Convenient, but sloppy.”
Your head turned slowly, eyes narrowing in on him like a blade. “Convenient or efficient?”
The class shifted, a ripple of tension running through the air. He tilted his head, curls falling into his eyes. He wanted you to falter, wanted the smug confidence to slip. Instead, he saw the curve of your lips, not a smile, but close. A challenge.
“Efficiency without accuracy is meaningless,” he said, voice smooth, controlled. He leaned back in his chair like a king indulging a fool. “But I’m sure you’ll get there someday.”
A soft scoff escaped you. “Accuracy doesn’t matter if you’re too slow to deliver it.”
The room erupted in a few stifled laughs, a couple of impressed murmurs. The professor hushed them, but Isaac barely heard. His ticking pulse was hammering too loud in his ears.
You’d met his strike head-on. No flinch, no stumble, just steel. And God help him, it lit something deep in his chest. The irritation, the hunger, the pull. He wanted to tear you down and devour you all at once.
He leaned forward, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “Careful, you’re playing a game you won’t win.”
Your gaze flicked to him, sharp and steady. “We’ll see.”
That single look unraveled him. You weren’t afraid of him. You weren’t beneath him. You were his equal, maybe worse.
As the bell rang, the announcement dropped like a guillotine.
“Pair projects,” the professor said, voice booming over the shuffle of papers. “You’ll be working in teams of two. I’ll assign them.”
He didn’t bother looking up. He didn’t do teams. Every assignment was cleaner, sharper, faster when he worked alone. No one could keep up with him. No one except… His head snapped up.
You.
Of course - of fucking course - your name and his were called together. The professor was still droning, but his blood roared too loud in his ears to catch the rest. His jaw tightened, his fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against his desk.
You turned toward him, lips twitching with something dangerously close to amusement. That same look you’d given him yesterday when you beat him in alchemy class.
His chest tightened, irritation sparking like static. He told himself it was annoyance, an inconvenience, but the truth was uglier.
He wanted it. Wanted the chance to match himself against you again, wanted to see how far you’d push him, how far he’d push back… You strode straight to his desk, dropping your notebook with a thud.
“Looks like we’re partners.” Your tone was too smooth, too calm, and it scraped against his nerves in the best way.
He leaned back, folding his arms, eyes dragging over you like a blade. “Try not to slow me down.”
You arched a brow, unfazed. “Funny, I was going to say the same.”
Something hot twisted in his gut. Not rage, not exactly, it was closer to hunger. The professor was still shuffling papers, the rest of the class streaming out around you, but he barely noticed. His focus was locked, sharp and devouring.
He should’ve hated this but instead, his mechanical pulse quickened with anticipation. You were going to drive him insane and he couldn’t wait.
While the others packed up with muttered excuses, already planning to copy someone else’s notes later, you didn’t move. Instead, you slid into the chair beside him, opening your books with a decisive thud, pencil tapping like a blade about to strike.
He should’ve been annoyed. He told himself he was. But his gaze lingered anyway on the way your brows pinched when you concentrated, the way you bit your lip when you checked a figure twice, the faint crease between your eyes when you found an error. You leaned close, pointing out flaws, arguing each line, and instead of silencing you, he found himself feeding on it.
Minutes stretched. Students trickled out. The professor left with a stack of papers and a distracted “lock up behind you,” and still you stayed, scribbling across the page of his notebook like it belonged to you. The sun dipped, the windows darkened, and by the time the last candle had been lit, it was just the two of you. Alone.
And he realized that of course it would come to this. Of course you would keep him hooked long past curfew. Of course he wouldn’t leave, not when you were still here, daring him to match you line for line. Neither willing to give up ground first.
Time bled away without either of you speaking much. The scratch of graphite and the shuffle of paper filled the silence, broken only by the occasional muttered correction or sharp sigh when one of you hit a dead end. At some point, the notebooks weren’t enough, you both shifted to the board, chalk flying, equations sprawling wide across the slate in jagged, overlapping lines. Still, your notebooks stayed open on the desk, pencils scattered, the two of you moving between them in a rhythm that felt less like work and more like a duel neither of you wanted to end. The room grew warmer with the candles burning low, shadows climbing the walls as night settled in, until it felt like it belonged to no one but the two of you.
“It won’t work,” you finally said, arms crossed.
He didn’t look up from the board. “How would you know?”
“Because I know.” You paused, then added with infuriating calm, “And also because your equations are wrong.”
The chalk snapped faintly in his grip. He turned, jaw set, and shoved it toward you. A challenge. “Then do better.”
You raised your chin, refusing the chalk like it was beneath you. “No thanks. I don’t put my energy into projects set to fail.”
He smirked, almost cruel. “Not much would ever get done if everyone thought that way.”
“Maybe.” You shrugged, already halfway to packing your notes.
His voice dropped lower. “Don’t you want to stay and show me what you’re capable of ? Or would you rather live in my shadow forever ?”
That got you. He saw the twitch in your jaw, the way your lips parted to retort. But then, your eyes drifted. Not at him, not at the board, but somewhere else. Somewhere far. Your focus slid away, leaving you strangely blank.
He froze, chalk still in his hand.
You’d done this before. More often, lately. A flicker in your expression, like you were listening to something no one else could hear, like your mind wasn’t fully here and every time it happened, it made his pulse crawl hotter. What was it ? A tic ? A trick ? A secret ? He wanted to peel you open and see the mechanics underneath, to dig his fingers into that skull of yours and pull out the truth.
When you came back to yourself, you blushed. The smallest crack in your armor, and it wrecked him more than he wanted to admit.
Without a word, you took the chalk. And in a blur, you corrected his work, fast, precise and merciless. Each line carved with certainty, your hand moving like you were channeling something beyond human. Isaac’s throat went dry.
Fascinating.
“God, shut up, I can’t concentrate,” you muttered.
He blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”
You turned, embarrassment flashing across your face before your brows furrowed again, like someone else had spoken to you.
“What’s going on ?” he asked, genuine curiosity slicing through his usual bite.
“Nothing.” You snapped the word, defensive. Then louder, as if to someone invisible: “Let’s just work in complete SILENCE from now on.”
He leaned back against the desk, watching you. You thought you’d shut him out, but all you’d done was set his mind on fire. Whatever this was - whatever you were - he needed to know.
You turned back to the board, scribbling with quick, confident strokes, and he should’ve been irritated, should’ve been furious that you’d taken over his work, his equations… But instead, he found himself moving closer.
Not because he needed to, not because he couldn’t see, but because he wanted to. He wanted to stand near enough to feel the heat radiating off you, to hear the soft scratch of chalk paired with your low, steady breathing. To watch the way your shoulders tightened with focus, the way a strand of hair slipped against your cheek as you bent closer to the board.
“Your angles are too sharp,” he remarked, leaning over your shoulder, close enough that his breath stirred the hair by your ear.
You stiffened. “They’re precise.”
“They’re arrogant,” he countered smoothly, and raised a hand. His fingers brushed yours as he adjusted the chalk, deliberately dragging it in a softer arc. “See? Fluidity keeps the equation alive.”
The contact was small, fleeting, but it jolted through him like fire.
You turned your head, eyes narrowing, so close your nose nearly brushed his. “Or maybe you just like touching things that don’t belong to you.”
Isaac’s artificial pulse kicked hard, and for a split second, he couldn’t tell if he wanted to snap the chalk in half or kiss the smugness off your mouth.
He swallowed, forcing a crooked smirk. “Maybe I just like proving you wrong.”
You dropped the chalk into his palm, defiant. “Then you’ll be chasing me for a long time.”
The words struck deeper than you probably meant them to. Chasing you. The thought slid into him like a hook, sharp and dangerous. He told himself this was still rivalry, still about outsmarting you, but as you turned back to the board, your body close, your scent curling into his lungs, he knew the truth was darker.
He didn’t just want to win. He wanted to unravel you.
Later, you filled his notebook like it belonged to you, page after page of frantic notes, equations, plans. Things he hadn’t even considered. Things that burned off your pencil so fast the lead snapped, leaving you huffing in frustration.
He took the broken piece gently from your hand, fingers brushing yours. That same pull hit him again, sharp and insistent, the fascination that never seemed to leave whenever you were around.
“It’s late,” he said, softer than he meant. “Maybe you should go back to your dorm. I’ll finish up by myself.”
“I’m fine. We’re almost there.”
He nodded, secretly glad you stayed but as he turned to fetch a new pencil, your sigh cut through the quiet.
“No, that’s not happening. Now shut up.”
He froze and turned back. You looked up at him, caught, color rising hot to your cheeks. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be so… weird.”
Weird? No. Nothing about you was weird. Dangerous, maybe. Tempting, definitely. He stepped closer, unable to help himself.
“I don’t think you’re weird,” he said. “More like… intriguing.”
“Oh, stop.”
“Sorry.”
“No, not you.” You shifted, embarrassed. “That was… sweet. I just meant… Sidonia.”
His brow furrowed. “Sidonia?”
“My four-times-second cousin or something like that. She’s my spirit guide.”
The words landed like a spark in his mind. He stilled, watching you with new eyes. Spirit guide. Not a tic, not madness. Something else. Something extraordinary.
“A spirit guide,” he repeated slowly. “Are you a psychic ? By your prowess in class, I thought you were just… a genius.”
“Can’t I be both ?”
He tilted his head, studying you. “You could. But that would make you very special.” His voice dipped darker than he meant, dangerous in a way that made your shoulders tighten. Good.
“I’m the only psychic in my bloodline since Sidonia. Everyone else was a Da Vinci,” you admitted.
The corner of his mouth twitched. Of course, a brilliant, haunted lineage. It explained everything and nothing all at once.
“And on what path is your spirit guide trying to steer you tonight ?” he asked, voice like velvet over glass. “She seem… talkative.”
You flushed more, averting your gaze. “Oh. No path, no life-altering decision. Nothing important.” Another pause, as if you were still arguing with the air. “She just can’t stop giggling in my ears.”
His smirk cut sharp. “Giggling about what?”
Your eyes flicked up, caught between defiance and mortification. “You. She thinks you’re… cute.”
For a ticking heartbeat, he forgot to breathe. Then laughter tore from his throat, low and genuine. Cute. You thought he was cute. Or at least, that ghost inside your head did. He saw the way it made you shiver, saw the way you bit your lip like you didn’t mean to, and his mind burned with forbidden thoughts.
Your blush lingered even as his laugh died down, the sound echoing faintly against the shelves. You turned back to the board too quickly, pretending to write, but he saw the tremor in your hand. He stepped closer, slower this time, like testing the pull of a magnet. Each step a risk, each breath louder in the thinning space between you.
Cute.
The word burned in his chest. He’d been called brilliant, arrogant, dangerous but cute? Never. And from you — from you — it was a different kind of wound. One that ached. One that thrilled.
He hovered just behind your shoulder, close enough to see the tiny hairs at your nape, close enough that he could imagine lowering his head and breathing you in.
“Tell me,” he murmured, voice pitched low, “does Sidonia always interrupt your work ? Or just when I’m near ?”
Your spine went stiff. “Why does it matter ?”
“Because,” he said, leaning in, his lips nearly grazing the shell of your ear, “I’d like to know if I can haunt you too, or if it’s just her.”
Your hand faltered on the chalk. The silence that followed was so taut it could’ve split the air itself.
You turned your head just slightly, enough that your cheek brushed his jaw. Not a kiss, but the kind of touch that crackled like lightning. His mechanical heart slammed against his ribs. Every part of him screamed to close the gap, to taste the flush on your lips, to prove that this pull wasn’t one-sided.
Instead, he dragged back an inch, barely in control. His smirk curved sharp, masking the way his breath trembled. Your eyes narrowed, fire sparking in them, not fear, not dismissal, but challenge.
The exact look that ruined him every time.
You went back to the equations, scribbling furiously as though his words hadn’t shaken you but they had. He saw it in the way your shoulders were tense, in the slight unevenness of your handwriting.
And then a streak of chalk dust smeared across your cheek when you brushed your face with the back of your hand. His chest tightened. It was nothing. A smudge, ordinary, but on you, it felt monumental, like a mark only he was meant to see.
Before he could stop himself, the rag lifted from the professor’s desk, floating soundlessly into the air. His power reached out, subtle and precise, the way he usually only used when he was alone. The fabric brushed your skin gently, erasing the smear with a faint stroke, like he was sketching you clean again.
You froze. Your eyes flicked toward him, wide. “Did you just… ?”
He let the rag drop back into his hand, smirking like it was nothing, though the ticking of his heart was a drumbeat in his ears. “Can’t have my partner looking sloppy.”
“Partner,” you echoed, voice edged with disbelief.
He stepped closer, closing the last inches between you. His hand - not the rag, his hand - lifted, fingers brushing the same spot where the dust had been. Skin to skin this time. He shouldn’t have, he knew it, but God, the heat of your cheek under his fingertips, the way your lips parted slightly at the touch, it was more intoxicating than any victory he’d ever tasted.
“Missed a spot,” he explained, though he hadn’t.
For a second, the air split open. You were right there, so close his breath mingled with yours, so close the world narrowed to nothing but the line of your mouth, the hammer of his own mechanical pulse. One lean forward and he could have you. One reckless second and the rivalry would break into something neither of you could take back.
But you turned your face just slightly, enough to let the tension hang, not snap. “Maybe you should let me handle my own mess.”
He pulled back half an inch, smirk curling sharp to mask the hunger clawing at his chest. “Maybe I don’t want you to.”
Your gaze locked with his, defiant and breathless.
The assignment was still there. The board, the notebooks, the empty classroom. But he knew none of it mattered anymore. The real experiment was you and he was already obsessed with the outcome.
You scrawled another line of notes, muttering under your breath as if the equations were arguing back. Isaac leaned against the board, arms crossed, watching the way your mouth curved when you smirked at your own cleverness.
“Are you always this ruthless with other people’s work ?” he asked.
You didn’t look up this time. “Only when they’re wrong.”
His jaw twitched, but his smirk stayed. “So always, then.”
Finally, your eyes snapped up, sharp as glass. “You’re insufferable.”
“Funny,” he said, pushing off the board, closing the gap, “I was about to say the same thing about you.”
Your lips parted again, just slightly. A flicker of hesitation. And then there it was again. That strange, distant look, your gaze slipping past him like you were listening to something no one else could hear. His stomach twisted. He hated that you weren’t fully here with him, that a ghost had your attention when it should belong entirely to him.
He leaned in, close enough his breath brushed your temple. “Is there a way you could get Sidonia to leave us alone for a moment ?”
You startled, cheeks flushing. “I wish, but whenever I tell her to leave me alone, she usually makes it even worse.”
His smirk sharpened, hungry, dangerous. “Then I hope she’ll enjoy the show because I’m about to kiss you.”
You blinked. And then he did.
At first, you went stiff under him, surprised. His mouth pressed to yours like a line crossed, a declaration made, and for one second he thought you might shove him away.
Then you kissed him back. Hard.
It was clumsy for half a heartbeat - teeth knocking, breath catching - before it sharpened into hunger. His hands framed your face, thumbs on your jaw as if he could hold you still while he devoured you. Your lips parted, and his tongue slid against yours, slow at first, then rougher, deeper, like every ounce of tension between you had been building toward this moment.
You moaned into him, and his vision blurred. God. He’d wanted this - you - more than he’d ever wanted to win any argument, any assignment. You were fuel to his fire.
The kiss grew reckless, desperate. He pressed you back until your spine hit the edge of the desk, books scattering to the floor. His hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head for a better angle, while the other clutched at your hip, dragging you closer.
He broke away just long enough to rasp against your mouth, voice raw. “And now, I’m going to sit you down on that desk and fuck you until you can’t take it anymore.”
Your breath hitched, sharp, your shock fluttering against his lips.
He smirked, every word soaked in hunger. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know this was how the night would end. I saw you. You had a vision earlier, didn’t you ? You hesitated… and then you decided to stay.” His hand slid higher on your waist, squeezing. “Not because you care about our assignment, but because you knew what it would lead to… And you wanted it. ”
Your smile was small, wicked but breathless. “Maybe you’re as smart as they say you are after all.”
That snapped the last thread.
His mouth crashed back onto yours, rougher now, almost violent with need, while he lifted you onto the desk like you weighed nothing. Chalk rolled, notebooks fell, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered but you and your lips, your breath, your body finally where he wanted it.
And this time, he wasn’t holding back.
His mouth was on yours again, hungry, desperate, while his hands roamed like they couldn’t decide where to begin. Your waist. Your thigh. Your neck. Every inch a data point he needed to memorize. Until he broke the kiss and you felt his invisible grip sliding over your waist, your thighs, instead of his hands. The air itself seemed to curl fingers around you, lifting, dragging you higher onto the desk.
Your eyes widened, but his never left yours. His hands braced on either side of you, but the force pinning you wasn’t them anymore.
“Stay,” he commanded, voice low and hungry, and the pressure on your hips pressed you flat against the cool wood.
The buttons of your uniform jacket tugged one by one, undone by nothing, slipping open under his power. Your blouse followed, seams gaping, buttons rolling across the floor. He dragged the fabric off your shoulders, exposing skin, inch by inch, like he was unveiling a masterpiece.
His eyes darkened. “God… look at you.”
Your bra straps slid down next, invisible fingers pulling them, deliberate and slow. Then your skirt was pulled up, bunched high, the pressure rougher now, almost impatient. He didn’t have to move his hands at all; his power did it for him, revealing you like he’d been waiting years to do it.
Your panties followed, dragged down your thighs by an unseen force until they dropped to your ankles. Then he spread your legs wide, knees braced apart, held there by invisible restraints.
Exposed, helpless and his.
He just stood there for a moment, chest heaving, staring at you like you were something rare on a glass slide under his microscope. His tongue darted across his lips, his hands flexing like he had to remind himself not to ruin you all at once.
“I’ve imagined this for so long. Not just fucking you but unraveling you, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left you can hide from me.” he said, voice hoarse.
His hand finally moved, fingertips brushing the inside of your thigh with just enough contact to make you jolt against the hold keeping your legs apart. He smirked at your reaction, eyes burning with fascination.
“Perfect,” he muttered. “Every reaction exactly as I predicted.”
The air trembled as his power shifted, pressing against your core like phantom fingers teasing, circling, never giving enough. His eyes locked on the way your body responded, on every twitch, every gasp, drinking it in like data.
“You’re even better than I imagined,” he rasped, voice breaking into reverence. “And I’ve imagined you in every way possible.”
The invisible grip on your thighs tightened, holding you open wider. He didn’t move closer; he didn’t need to. His head tilted, eyes locked on the slick heat between your legs like he was studying, dissecting. Phantom fingers brushed your folds, featherlight, tracing without mercy. You gasped, jerking, but the hold kept you pinned exactly where he wanted you.
“Hypothesis,” he spoke, almost clinical. “Your body twitches at every stimulus. Voluntary ? Or involuntary ?”
The phantom pressure pressed harder, circling your clit once, slow and deliberate. You jolted, whining, and his smirk curved, cruel and reverent all at once.
“Involuntary,” he decided, like he was dictating notes. “Good.”
A second sensation slid lower, teasing your entrance but never pushing in, just hovering, dipping enough to make slick gather but refusing to give you relief. Your hips strained against the invisible hold, chasing it, and his cock throbbed at the sight.
“Control test,” he said hoarsely, his own breath stuttering now. “If I keep you like this long enough, will you beg ? Or will you break first ?”
His phantom fingers withdrew entirely. Your gasp cracked into a groan, and his chest clenched. He was trembling with restraint, every nerve screaming to take you apart with his hands, his mouth, his cock, but the power, the control of keeping you like this, it was intoxicating.
“You’re shaking,” he remarked, almost to himself. His hand twitched at his side, but he forced it still. “All this, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”
He leaned in then, lips grazing your ear, the invisible sensations still teasing, ghost like fingers brushing everywhere but where you needed them most.
“I could keep you like this all night,” he whispered. “Stripped bare, open, waiting. You’d hate me for it but you’d come undone eventually.”
Your moan broke sharp in the quiet classroom, and he groaned in return, hips jerking helplessly.
“Fuck.” his voice cracked, raw. “You make me want to throw the whole experiment away and just take you.”
“Isaac…” Your voice broke, raw and pleading. “Please.”
Every nerve in his body snapped. Your please wasn’t just begging. It was surrender. It was his name on your tongue, trembled out like it meant something more.
He lost it.
His real hands took over, rough and desperate. He grabbed your thighs, fingers biting deep, spreading you wider as he surged forward. His mouth crashed to yours, devouring, tongue sliding past your lips as if he could taste that plea still lingering there.
One hand shoved down between your legs, finally touching where he’d only teased with his power. Slick heat met his fingers, and he groaned into your mouth, nearly dizzy.
“So wet already…” He pushed two fingers inside, burying them to the knuckle, groaning again when your walls clenched tight.
You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, and his cock twitched hard against the edge of the desk. He curled his fingers inside you, angling just right, watching your whole body jolt under him. It was exquisite. Hypnotic. He wanted to watch you unravel like this forever.
Your moans grew sharper, faster, and his mouth trailed down your jaw to your throat, biting, sucking, leaving marks like equations written into your skin.
“Say it again,” he demanded, thrusting his fingers harder, faster. “Beg for it.”
“Please.” your cry cracked, high and needy, “Please, please…”
And that was it. His restraint shattered. He yanked his hand out, already fumbling with his pants, dragging himself free, hard and leaking. He pressed the head against your entrance, groaning at the heat, the wetness, before sinking in slow, inch by inch, until he was fully buried inside you.
His vision blurred. His head dropped to your shoulder, teeth biting into your skin as a guttural sound ripped out of him. He didn’t move at first, couldn’t, just stayed buried to the hilt, cock pulsing inside you while he panted against your throat. His hands gripped your thighs tight, thumbs digging crescents into your skin, holding you open like you were an experiment pinned under glass.
“The way you clench just from being filled… God, I could write a thesis on this alone.” he rasped, voice breaking as he ground in just a little deeper.
He pulled out slow, dragging every inch, then thrust back in hard enough to make the desk shudder. You gasped, and he groaned, teeth bared. He angled lower, grinding against your clit, and your body arched up off the desk. His grin cut sharp, manic.
His thrusts grew faster, his brain raced, cataloguing every detail even as his body burned, chasing each broken sound like a starving man, from the pitch of your moans, to the way your nails dragged across his skin, or the shudder that rippled through you every time he hit deeper.
You whimpered his name, and he fucked you harder, eyes locked on yours, pupils blown wide. Fascination burned hotter than lust. Every sound you made, every tremor in your body, it all fed into the sick, obsessive thrill in his veins.
His voice cracked against your ear, fevered. “Every variable points to one conclusion,” another thrust, harder, his cock driving you open until your cry echoed through the room “you were made for me.”
Your head tipped back, mouth open, begging without words, and he pressed harder, deeper, the desk rattling under the force of his rhythm.
“Now,” he groaned, wrecked, voice thick with obsession. “Now, come for me. Show me.”
Your body obeyed instantly, clenching around him, spasming, gasping his name like prayer. The sight of your whole frame shaking, undone by him shattered him. His vision went white, his cock throbbing painfully as his own orgasm tore through him.
But he didn’t let go inside. Not yet.
With a strangled curse, he yanked free, stroking himself hard, furious, until thick, hot release spilled across your stomach, streaking your skin like graphite across a page, chalk across a board. His breath broke on a groan, his hand working himself through the aftershocks as his seed dripped over you, marking you without breaching the final claim.
“Fuck.” he rasped, head falling back, chest heaving and eyes fever bright as he watched you tremble.
The smell of chalk and sex hung heavy in the air, thick and intoxicating. He leaned down, mouth crashing against yours, hungrier than before, teeth clashing, tongue claiming. His fingers tangled in your hair, messy and desperate, pulling you deeper into the kiss until your lungs burned.
When he finally stepped back, your lips were red, eyes wild with reverence and ruin.
“This,” he panted, voice ragged, gaze devouring you. “This is only the beginning.”
(( Part 2 ))
☕ If you enjoyed the chaos, buy me a coffee and I’ll brew up more filth... 👀🖤
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All of these contain SMUT, please check the warnings before reading.
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dunk this, targaryens that. my man lyonel baratheon hasn't been sober for this entire tourney. no thoughts head empty tankard full. might do something homoerotic
kinda love this dynamic where ilya's like i get to have sex with anyone i want anytime i want and i also get to tell you about it while you visibly try to repress your feelings. but the second i think you might be having sex with someone else i am going to absolutely fucking spiral. epic crash out. because when I have sex it is empty and meaningless and utterly devoid of real emotional intimacy but you are a rule-following little dweeb who would still be a virgin if i hadn't deflowered you when we were like 18 so i fucking KNOW it means something to you!!!!!! the hypocrisy is delicious
I dont want to hear shit about Catelyn Stark being mean to Jon from people who like The Hound who rode down the butchers boy, Jaime Lannister who pushed Bran out of a window, little finger who sent an assassin after him and sold Jeyne Pool to Ramsey Bolton, Tywin Lannister whos men raped and murdered Elia Martell and murdered her children and had Tyrions first wife gang raped, Rhaegar Targaryen who kidnapped and raped Lyanna Stark, Robert Baratheon who sent assasins after Daenerys and didnt bat an eye about Elia and her children, Viserys Targaryen who sold Daenerys, Drogo who bought and raped Daenerys, and all the other men who have harmed/killed children. Check your misogyny, its wild she gets more hate than all of these men (who've done far worse) combined
book jon snow come back to me... i love that you're selfless and kind and you stand up for what's right but you're ALSO resentful and amibitious and entitled and sassy. you're desperate for love and belonging but ALSO stubborn and self-isolating and think you have to do it all alone. you're merciful and compassionate and just but ALSO preferential and vengeful. you have a strict honor code and sense of morality that will even drive you to be cruel in the face of a greater good but ALSO you will leave everything at the drop of a hat for the ones you love. you're good and right and loyal and it eats you alive. walk it off bitch i need you back!!!
isaac eats you out and spells his name with his tongue. he'll do it over and over again until you're crying with how good it feels. he doesn't stop even if his jaw gets sore.
and he'll trace it slower than ever and make you spell it out loud till you say you belong to him. thats right, his possessiveness drives him crazy for you.
Real question. How tf does Isaac Night take a shower without getting his heart wet? Do y'all think he takes a plastic bag and tapes it over his heart to make it waterproof like a kid with a cast does? That's my only theory. Cuz there is no way that heart can get wet, also, that water would literally seep into him. He literally has an open cavity in his chest. No ribs, no flesh, nothing. Just open. Bro is waiting for an infection.
