the old dorm’s legendary man is back to life— fortunately for your needy self, he has a mega crush on you. so what do you do? you welcome him with open arms and legs every. single. night.
WARNINGS: MDNI/18+, language, strong power play, bondage, hints of masochism + sadism, impact play, use of clamps + sex toys, praise + degradation kink, cum eating, fingering + cunnilingus, dacryphilia, overstimulation, marking, creampies, drooling, slight exhibitionism,
Isaac knows what he likes. He doesn’t need to do talking stages or courting rituals— once he has his eyes set on something, oh baby, he’s going to be on it. But what’s the relevance? Well, once he wants a partner, he’s going to have one.
Imagine seeing a tragic legend appear at your door, soaked in rain and blood. Of course you help the poor zombie! Night after night he’ll visit, perhaps leaving a gift or two of appreciation. That is, until he started giving other gifts.
I mean, you loved him already when he was fresh from the grave— so obviously you’re head over heels once you see his completely morphed form!
Isaac knows how to please women— teeth, lips, and hands are your main weakness, and he doesn’t even have to use his dick yet before you start becoming a moaning mess. But don’t forget, he’s a man who believes himself god— so he’s sure to have some power play in the room.
Bondages, cuffs, clamps, ever-lasting sex toys— he’s done it all to you. He’s done wicked combinations of nipple clamps as he finger-fucks your soppy pussy, and you’re trembling when the vibrating bullet overstimulates your puffy clit. He’d whisper words of praise;
“You’re doing so well for me.”
“Such a good patient you are.”
“Show me how bad you want to cum.”
He’d push you over the edge with your toys, sometimes humming in content, other times, in distaste when you hold back your sweet melodies. He needs to consider all the effects of his experimentations after all, so this simply won’t do.
You would be bent over his knee, one of his hands rubbing your sensitive bundle of nerves, the other, spanking your weeping cunt. It would hurt more when he wore his gloves, but you didn’t complain, not when his filthy words rattled your diminished brain;
“You look so pretty like this, wet and sobbing over my knee.”
“Oh is it too much? That’s too bad, I haven’t even gotten to the best part sweetie.”
“Ah, ah, ah! Lick my gloves first— that’s a good girl.”
Isaac has a strong preference of seeing you below him. He loves seeing you whimper and tremble, begging him to never stop his lustful attempts. He even adores the pitiful way you try to push him, so, so, so weakly.
You would be bent over your bed, being a sweet pillow princess as you held onto the plush as your only leverage. The man would be ramming his cock into your pretty pussy, cooing at you to keep sobbing for him as he fills you up, one hand pushing down the back of your neck, and the other holding your hips in place.
You would always be left with fingerprinted bruises all over your body, and sometimes the occasional hungry bite. They littered your lower body, and if you were unlucky sometimes, your throat. It looked like you fell off a cliff every night, but there was only one difference— falling off a cliff doesn’t make your pussy flutter and drip with milky cum.
The sick man even likes it when you suck his cock; your brows furrowed and your throat erupting in choked air, unable to breathe properly. He would have your hair in a fist, a strong sign of who’s really dominant here.
Oh, and word of advice— don’t ever crawl away from him. It doesn’t matter if you’re trembling or if you’re drooling like some rabid dog, he will get mad. You could be overflowing with creampies, your body slick and dewy as you gasped for a brief break— and he would be very, very, very upset.
“Oh no, no, no! Where do you think you’re going sweetie?”
He’d either grab your neck or your hair— unkindly of course— and press you against your soaked bed once more. His weight is heavy upon you, his bloody breath tickling your ear as he whispered,
“You don’t get to walk out of this— ever. So open that pussy up, or I will.”
So what were you to do? Well, reach south and part your slippery folds of course.
Isaac is definitely a pussy guy. Sure, he’d give your ass an occasional smack or your tits a simple pinch and tug— but it’s not the same as the special thing you have down there.
His new tongue allows him to stretch at least a foot long (not sure? just ask him over…but it’ll come at a price), but he’s at least considerate enough to not shove it all up at you. He’s definitely more of a “lift your ass up as I lay down” kind of guy too, with a preference at keeping your thighs spread far apart for him.
You’d be moaning by the time his tongue slips inside your hole, practically scissoring your gummy walls as his thumb focused on stimulating your clit. Or, he’d definitely eat you out after he’s used your toys on you, being “kind” enough to clean you up internally.
Can’t say that you don’t like it though, because his soft growls vibrate into you— making you clench uncontrollably at the tongue you rode.
He’s also a Da Vinci— so he’s good with his hands. Whether it be having you on his lap as he thrusts his fingers into you slowly, his lips muttering incoherent equations to your head— or simply being unrelenting after your squirming orgasms as punishment— he knows it all.
Definitely not his fault that you couldn’t close your legs properly the other day.
Isaac may be a smart evil scientist, but he’s still a really sloppy guy. Uneven kisses, wet tongues, and even blatant biting— it’s his way of showing his carnal love.
Well, I suppose it depends. When he’s deeply in love, he’s the kind of guy to show it off. So expect to be on Lagos Tower, your tits and tummy pressed again the humid glass as he helps himself to your warm pussy.
Your cum would drip down your inner thighs, passing over healing bites and purple hickies, and then down to the dirty ground. Your lips would create the sweet noises that push him to start licking your dewy body, his hunger strong to simply mark you all over again.
It’s as if he found a purpose again.
“Aw, you like it when I touch you like this?”
His hand would wrap itself in front of you, applying pressure to your abdomen as your cunt squelched with each feverish thrust. You wouldn’t be able to process everything though— not when your knees were practically side to side and your head lolled onto his chest as your fucked-out face drooled down your bobbing throat.
“You have such a bad habit of drooling, now what shall we do about that?”
Clearly, your pretty lips needed to be plugged by his sweet cock once more.
You’ve grown used to the glow of candlelight spilling out from Isaac’s corner of Nevermore’s workshop. It flickers across brass gears, coils of copper wire, and parchment scrawled with frantic notes. He hardly sleeps anymore, eyes sunken but sharp, hands trembling not from weakness but from the relentless pace he sets for himself.
And always, the name on his lips: Francoise.
“Isaac,” you say softly, leaning against the wooden beam of the doorway. “It’s past midnight. Again.”
His head jerks up. Shadows carve sharp lines into his pale face, the hollow of his cheek catching the light. He’s been working for hours, the same mechanism laid out before him: a machine of whirring cogs meant to harness power, meant to strip away Hyde blood, meant to do the impossible.
“I can’t stop now,” he mutters. His voice is hoarse, like gravel dragged across stone. “I’m closer tonight than I’ve ever been.”
You take a step closer, folding your arms over your chest. “You said that last night. And the night before. And the week before that.”
He stiffens. “This time it’s different.”
You can hear the unspoken part: this time, she might be saved.
Your chest aches, torn between admiration and worry. You love him,you’ve never doubted that,but his obsession gnaws at him like rot beneath the skin. And it gnaws at you too, leaving you lonely in the very moments you want to be closest.
“Isaac,” you say, firmer this time, “you need to rest. You’re burning yourself out. What use is saving your sister if you destroy yourself first?”
He freezes, shoulders rising, tension like a drawn bowstring. His dark eyes lock on yours, cold, gleaming. “Don’t say that.”
“I’m not saying stop,” you whisper, reaching for him. “Just… pause. Sleep. Eat. Let me help carry some of this weight.”
For a moment, you think he’ll soften. His lips part, a shadow of your Isaac flickering there, the boy who used to walk with you through Nevermore’s woods, murmuring secrets under the canopy of leaves.
But then the shadow vanishes. His jaw hardens.
“You don’t understand,” he snaps, pulling away from your touch. “None of you do. If I stop,even for a moment,it could mean losing her forever. Do you think I care about sleep? About myself?” His voice rises, sharp enough to cut. “I don’t need your pity, Y/N. I need you to stop distracting me.”
The words slice through you. Your hand drops. You open your mouth, then close it again, because what is there to say when the boy you love looks at you as though you’re standing in his way instead of at his side?
Your throat tightens, eyes burning. You step back from the table, back into the shadows of the workshop. “Fine,” you breathe. “If that’s what you want.”
He doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t call after you. The only sound is the relentless clicking of gears as you walk away.
---
You don’t remember how you got back to your dorm. The hours blur into a haze of muffled tears, the sound of your sobs pressed into your pillow so no one will hear. You curl against the cold wall, knees tucked to your chest, and let the grief pour out.
You love him. You’ve given everything you have to stand by him, to hold him steady when the obsession claws at him, to remind him that he’s still human. But tonight, he didn’t want to be held. Tonight, he wanted only the machine.
And for the first time, you wonder if there’s any space left for you in his fractured world.
---
It’s late when you hear the knock. A hesitant, uneven rhythm.
You don’t answer.
The door creaks open anyway.
“Y/N?”
It’s his voice,lower than usual, rough around the edges. You swipe hastily at your face, but your tears have already left streaks. You keep your gaze fixed on the blanket bunched in your lap.
“Go away, Isaac.”
There’s a pause. Then the sound of the door shutting, the shuffle of boots against stone. He doesn’t leave. He crosses the room and sinks to the floor beside your bed, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” he whispers. His voice trembles, stripped bare. “I was cruel.”
Your lips press into a thin line. “You think?”
He flinches. But he doesn’t retreat. “I’ve spent so long chasing this dream,saving her,that I forget… I forget I’m not the only one paying the price.” He looks up at you then, eyes glistening with guilt. “I hurt you. And that’s the last thing I ever wanted.”
You finally meet his gaze. He looks exhausted, yes, but there’s something else there too,fear. The kind that comes from realizing you might have pushed too far, from realizing the one person who’s always been in your corner could walk away.
Your voice cracks when you speak. “I don’t need you to be perfect, Isaac. I don’t even need you to stop fighting for her. But I do need you. I need to know I matter to you. Because when you look at me like I’m nothing more than a distraction…” Tears well again, spilling before you can stop them. “It feels like I’m already losing you.”
His breath shudders out. He reaches for your hand, hesitant, as though afraid you’ll pull away. When you don’t, he laces his fingers through yours, gripping tightly.
“You’ll never lose me,” he says fiercely. “Do you hear me? Never. I get lost in my work, in my guilt, in all the ways I failed her,but you… you’re the only thing that pulls me back. You’re the reason I haven’t let the darkness eat me alive.”
Your heart aches at the raw honesty in his words. He leans closer, pressing his forehead against the back of your hand.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “I’m so damn sorry. I should have listened. I should have seen how much it was hurting you.”
You brush your free hand through his hair, tangled from long nights bent over schematics. “You’re stubborn, Isaac Night,” you whisper. “But I love you anyway.”
His eyes flutter shut, relief washing over his features. When he looks up again, there’s a fragility in him you rarely see, a boy stripped of all his armor.
“Stay with me,” he pleads softly. “Even if I stumble. Even if I forget to look up from the machine. Remind me when I lose sight of what matters.”
You nod, tears slipping silently down your cheeks. “Always.”
He climbs onto the bed beside you then, curling against you as though afraid you might vanish. You hold him close, your fingers tracing gentle patterns against his back, and for the first time in weeks his body loosens, the tension draining away.
The machine can wait. The world can wait. Tonight, it’s just the two of you, clinging to each other in the quiet heart of Nevermore.
And though the shadows still lurk at the edges of his mind, for now, you are enough to keep them at bay.
just going CRAZY thinking about isaac as a whimpering mess ngl…just the most vile degrading person ever but loses it after a few rounds and lets you get on top of him and do what you want…
Breaking point
Isaac Night X Reader:
Warnings: smut, no use of y/n, switch Isaac and reader, whimpering, pathetic Isaac, rough-ish sex, teasing, pre slurp era Issac, cowgirl, cream pie, use of pet name (love).
Word count: 1K
a/n: I love me a pathetic man. Hope you enjoy!
Isaac likes being in control in almost every aspect of his life. But there is one moment when he lets his walls down and allows himself to be the most pathetic version of himself. And that’s when he’s inside you.
You’re draped over the loveseat he has in his lab, body completely naked. You’ve been at it for hours, the rough fabric of the small sofa already leaving your skin practically raw. It would have been a lot nicer to be doing this on a bed, but you and Isaac, unlike Gomez and Morticia, have consideration for your roommates’ ears. Plus, being in Isaac’s lab allows you to be as loud as you wish — which always seems to be the case when the two of you are together.
Isaac is panting, his hips snapping forward with an intensity that seems unnatural for his slim frame. You can feel your fifth orgasm of the night building, the coil in your stomach growing tighter with every thrust. But then Isaac falters, his speed slowing for a moment, and your eyes snap open. You gaze up at him, your focus falling on his features. He glances at you through his lashes, and you know just what he needs.
Without so much as a word, you wrap your legs around his waist and throw your body to the side, flipping both of you over. Isaac stares up at you, his hair spread messily around his head like a halo. He takes a deep breath in, hands moving to grab onto your waist. You grind against him, and he whimpers at the action.
You can’t help but grin, hands moving to rest on his chest. When your nails graze his skin, Isaac’s eyes close in pleasure, his hips bucking into you, pushing his dick deeper inside. You throw your head back, enjoying the feeling for a second before beginning to lift your hips.
“Please….” he whispers.
You smile down at him, sinking down in one quick movement. Each rise of your hips drags a desperate sound from his throat, soft whimpers spilling out of him no matter how hard he tries to bite them back. His hands grip your waist tighter, knuckles white as if he’s trying to ground himself against the flood of sensation.
“Fuck-ah-yes don’t stop.”
You roll your hips slowly, deliberately, watching his face twist in a mixture of pleasure and frustration. His usual sharp composure is gone, every ounce of control stripped away until all that’s left is this vulnerable mess beneath you.Your nails trail over his chest again, leaving faint red lines in their wake. Isaac arches into your touch, a broken moan escaping him when you squeeze around him.
“You like that Issac?” you question, voice soft and teasing.
“Love it” he groans, brows furrowing as you clench around him again.
Each time you lift your hips and slam back down, Isaac’s voice cracks into high-pitched whimpers, his usual sharp words lost to broken, needy sounds. His fingers dig into your waist as though he can’t decide whether to hold you steady or beg you not to stop.
You slow your rhythm, grinding down on him instead of bouncing, and the reaction is immediate. His head tips back against the cushions, a strangled cry escaping his throat, the sound so sweetly pathetic it makes you smile.
“P–please,” he gasps, the word tumbling out before he can choke it back.
“Look at you,” you murmur, dragging your nails down his chest again. “All that control, all that pride… and now you’re just begging under me.”
He nods weakly, breath hitching as you circle your hips. His voice comes out broken, almost sobbing with each syllable. “Y–yes, just—don’t stop, don’t… please—please—”
You can tell he’s close and as much as you love torturing him when he’s like this. You’re not too far from reaching your peak, body loving to have him at your mercy. Your pace quickens, and Isaac’s body can’t keep up. His legs tremble beneath you, his hips stuttering helplessly, and the sounds pouring out of him are no longer words but desperate, broken cries.
“C–can’t—hah, I—” His voice cracks, and when you look down, his eyes are glassy, sweat clinging to his lashes. He’s trying so hard to hold himself together, but every thrust knocks another sob out of him.
You slow just enough to make him writhe, his back arching as he claws at your sides, babbling half-formed pleas.
“Please—please don’t stop, don’t—don’t leave me like this, I c-can’t—” His breath hitches sharply when you squeeze around him, and a choked sob spills from his lips.
The sight makes heat coil tighter in your stomach. He’s a mess: flushed, damp with sweat, whimpering beneath you. His once-careful mask of control shattered, replaced with raw need. You lean down until your lips brush his ear, your voice low and cruelly sweet.
“Cum for me, love.”
Isaac spills into you with a broken sob, his whole body trembling as release crashes over him. The sounds he makes are enough to make your eyes roll back, nails digging into his skin as your orgasm takes over you. You shiver, body locking as you coat his thighs in your cum before collapsing against him.
For a long moment, the only sound is the ragged, uneven gasps of your breathing tangled with his. His chest heaves beneath you, slick with sweat, his arms twitching uselessly at his sides as though he doesn’t have the strength to hold you.
You rest your chin against his chest, watching his face as he stares up at the ceiling. Once he feels your gaze on him, he glances down at you. You give him a soft smile, moving up to place a kiss on his lips.
“You did so good for me,” you murmur, letting the words drip with satisfaction.
Isaac growls, biting into your lip so hard you groan. His hand moves from his side to grab your throat, applying just enough pressure for you to feel his fingers without restricting your breathing. He stares at you, a snarl curling across his face.
“Don’t forget who owns you,” he growls.
And just like that, he’s back to his normal self again. You can’t help but smirk. Your Isaac really was a mystery.
As your family endured struggled, you were promised to marry off some man you didn't even know or love, but it would bring you wealth and your parents insisted you two would grow close with time.
To be honest, neither of you was happy with any of this. He was nice, but after meeting him you just couldn't change your mind about the fact that one day wasn't enough for you to decide you wanted to marry this guy. So you were struggling at every reharsal of your vows, reading off a paper words that you didn't mean and dreading your destiny.
In the solitude of the forest, however, you decided to try again.
"With this hand..." you muttered, holding up the silver ring, making it shimmer under the moonlight. "...I will lift your sorrows. Your cup... will never be empty, for I will be your wine..." you took a deep breath, feeling a little more confident. "With this candle, I will light your way in the darkness... With this ring... I ask you to be mine."
You set the ring in what you thought was a branch that looked like a hand, in something that was kinda like a finger. Then the wind blew harder, crows flying away and shrieking in horror as if expecting what was about to happen, and the bright moon got covered with clouds.
A scream escaped your lungs as you felt a hand gripping your wrist so tight it actually hurt. Jerking backwards, you tried to pry it off, but instead all you managed was getting the hand itself ripped off still clinging to you. You looked at it in terror, and when it moved as if it were alive, you shook it off with found strength.
And then it came... him.
Rising from the ground was a man, body half rotted, face and a part of his rib already decomposed, hair messy, skin pale and almost blue, still wearing something that one would assume was a fancy wedding tuxedo; now partially ripped apart. He opened his eyes, blinking as if rose from a deep slumber, and spoke:
SUMMARY: Nevermore has seen many prodigies, but none like Isaac Night—brilliant, untouchable, and colder than the steel heart ticking in his chest. He fixes everything, yet feels nothing. Y/N is a walking problem, branded by a secret her tormentors will never let her forget. She needs help, but the cost of asking him might be far greater than she imagined. Because once Isaac touches something broken, he never lets it go.
WARNINGS: +18 content, language, strong sexual themes, bullying, blood (drinking/vampire themes), violence, angst, slow burn, eventuall smut, explicit content (later in chapters), emotional manipulation, dark themes, power play, dark romance.
⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆
Despite all the effort Y/N had put into her hair that morning—something she had spent the previous night practicing to braid—the first drops of rain had already ruined her half-hour creation. She hurried across the quad, dashing toward class, her uniform soaked through.
Before entering the classroom, she let her hair fall from the loosely tied elastics, smoothed the hem of her skirt, still dripping, and quietly slipped into one of the back rows. The professor hadn’t arrived yet, which was a small relief—this would have been the third time she was late. She tried to ignore the whispers around her, but they clung to her like wet clothes.
“Looks like a drowned rat,” a familiar voice sneered from the front.
“Good thing she had that bath, at least she doesn’t smell like a normie now,” someone else added.
Flushing, she tried to sit down, but someone yanked her chair away, sending her sprawling to the floor. Laughter erupted, and a small circle quickly formed around her. Four vampires, grinning, slapped each other on the back, clearly proud of themselves for humiliating her.
“Well, well, where did Y/N’s chair wander off to?” one of them jeered.
Y/N clenched her teeth, forcing herself to stay calm. She met their eyes defiantly—her old group of tormentors. Ever since they had discovered her secret, she had endured a month of relentless torment. At first, it had been minor—mocking glances, whispered comments. But each week, their actions became bolder. Once, all her clothes vanished from her room, only to reappear later that evening, dirty and full of holes. Another time, she found dead insects in her school bag, or discovered her small gardening project completely destroyed.
Yet she had never gone to the principal. There were several reasons, each as merciless as the bullying itself. Her family was powerful and wealthy—the primary sponsors of Nevermore Academy. Any complaint could cause political tension, and Y/N didn’t want to be the one to drag others into a conflict just to save herself.
The situation was even more tangled. The parents of some of her classmates benefited from her family’s influence and scholarships. They would never intervene against their own children, even if they knew what they were doing. This unspoken agreement between power and advantage left the bullying largely unpunished.
And finally, fear—fear of exposure. Y/N knew that if anyone outside her class found out her secret, her position in the wider vampire community, and at Nevermore, would be irreparably damaged. So everything stayed contained within the student vampire circle; only they knew how weak she truly was, and she had to endure the pain and humiliation alone.
“Look at her blinking so fast—she’s on the edge!” Dimitri, the oldest, laughed.
“Ugh, if she cries, I think I’d throw up over her weakness,” groaned his brother Sebastian.
“We’re going to get in trouble over her. Better stop,” Mirabella warned, but she lifted her nose haughtily.
Y/N wanted to respond, but a sharp tug at her hair made her whimper. “Still dripping. Like a kitten thrown out of its owners’ house,” sneered Evelynne De León, the cruelest of the quartet, her warm breath brushing Y/N’s neck.
“Better not touch my hair, Evie—you might catch something,” Y/N muttered through the pain, forcing a small, bitter smile. “Maybe the same thing I have.”
Evelynne’s murky eyes narrowed behind her dark glasses, her grip momentarily loosening, though she quickly masked it.
“Go ahead and try,” she hissed, leaning close so only Y/N could hear. Her sharp nails scored red lines across Y/N’s cheek. “But we all know you’re defective. And one day, everyone will see it—your daddy’s money won’t save you.” She raised her hand, ready to strike.
Y/N’s vision blurred. Before she could think, she spat right in Evelynne’s face.
“Ugh!” Evelynne shrieked, stepping back, wiping her glasses and the spit from her face. The classroom buzzed softly, students gasping or smirking—but no one moved. Not a single person intervened. Eyes watched, some hidden behind hands, some laughing quietly. They all saw, but none of them acted.
“Can we end this circus now?” came a cold, irritated voice from the front.
Isaac Night didn’t even look up. He rested his elbow on the desk, a mechanical pen sliding lazily between his fingers, his expression chillingly indifferent—as if the whole scene were happening in another room entirely.
He was a genius. Not in the way students bragged about grades—Isaac was something else entirely. Walking proof that Nevermore Academy had never housed a mind like his, and perhaps never would again. His thoughts raced at speeds the others couldn’t even register. Some professors admired him; others approached him cautiously, aware that their own lectures seemed laughably trivial in comparison. And Isaac made it obvious—with cool irony, scathing sarcasm, and total disregard for anything outside the labyrinth of his own mind.
Y/N had barely noticed him before. He was the kind of student whispered about in corridors, rarely involved in anyone else’s life. To her, he had always been a boy with an empty gaze, more absorbed in calculations than the world around him. A distant star, shining, untouchable—until now.
“The professor will be here in a few minutes,” he said, flatly. “And I’d rather listen to his monotone lecture on parasitic symbiosis than your pitiful attempts at… well, whatever this is. Comedy? Drama for an audience of idiots?”
Finally, he looked at them, lazily, as though the entire drama annoyed him. “Can someone remind me when exactly chimpanzees learned to pull chairs and yank hair? Might make a nice addition to my biology notes.”
Sebastian chuckled but froze under Isaak’s gaze. Dimitri frowned, Mirabella looked down nervously. Evelynne, still red with rage, clenched her jaw.
Isaac smirked—coldly, without emotion. “I understand. When there’s nothing in your head, this is probably the highlight of your day. Congrats. Evolution must be proud.”
Then his gaze, sharp as a blade, slid toward Y/N. Just a fleeting moment. Empty, mirror-like eyes. No hint of feeling. No empathy.
“And you,” he said tersely, “try to make less noise when you fall next time. You just ripped me out of concentration.”
His voice was flat, like he was talking about the weather. The pen clicked against the page again, and Isaak returned to his notes, as if the whole scene had been nothing more than an annoying interruption.
“For now, you’re lucky,” Evelynne hissed, stepping away and adjusting her glasses. “But don’t expect someone to save you every time.”
The classroom remained motionless. Everyone had seen everything, yet no one moved. Silent stares, whispers behind hands, hunched forms trying to be invisible. The collective stillness itself was part of the bullying.
Y/N sank slowly back into her seat. Her heart pounded, but outwardly she stayed calm. Her hair, still damp from the rain, clung to her face as whispers gradually faded.
Only Isaac remained perfectly composed. A universe unto himself. Not a muscle moved as the classroom door opened.
Professor Orloff stepped in, ignoring the students, and began lecturing on supernatural organisms. His voice filled the room, overtaking the last murmurs.
Y/N sat in the back row, barely hearing a word. In her mind, Isaac’s cold, measured tone replayed over and over. He had saved her… and yet, he hadn’t at all.
⇢ ˗ˏˋ SUMMARY ୨୧ On your final year at Nevermore, you struggle with your weak psychic powers that make you feel more normie than outcast. When Pugsley Addams revived a zombie you thought this year couldn't get more weird. But somehow...his zombie kept staring at you for some reason.
⇢ ˗ˏˋ WARNING ୨୧ dub-con/noncon, necrophilia? (since they do the dirty when Isaac is almost regenerated), kidnapping, porn with a plot, death and grief, obsessive and possessive behavior, poisoning, seizures, and body horror, psychological manipulation and blurred reality, OOC Isaac Night? bye this is like 99 percent words and 1 percent smut. MINORS DO NOT READ.
If you don't want to see my dark stories in the future please block the tag #madi: dark content
A/n: bye i have been inactive for like forever, but I have risen from the dead (literally). i deeply apologized for not responding or posting because i was in rehab a few months ago and completely stopped writing, this was a literal out of nowhere idea, but other than that i need to see owen painter in new movies fr. This fic is probably the longest I have ever written and this was supposed to be published a week after Wednesday volume 2 dropped in October but I completely forgot about it 🤷♀️ oops.
To this day, you are confused and no one seems ever to make any attempt at determining your outcast abilities. Being too strange to ever be mistaken for being a normie; yet too weak in your gift to stand proudly among outcasts who carried their abilities like flags.
Thrashing awake, your breath is ragged and your hair clings to your sweaty forehead. The dream claws you again, screams ripping through the dark, a pain like fire consuming your caged chest, you writhe in agony, and it feels like you're going to be torn apart from the inside. But at the moment of your snapping awake, your bed is still your bed, whole with the morning light weakly slanting across the ceiling of your dorm.
Well, today is your birthday. Since the year here at Nevermore has just begun, you have greeted it like too many mornings before: trembling, heart racing, convinced you are dying… only to find that all is intact.
"Another nightmare?" Bianca's voice pulls you back to the reality. She sits up across the room, her silk nightgown's strap slipping off one shoulder. For all her sharpness, Bianca Barclay is the closest thing you have had to a family here.
You press a trembling hand to your chest. "Yeah, just the same one."
Bianca studies you with an arched brow. “The screaming again?”
You nod, swallowing hard. “Yeah....it's fucking getting on my nerves for 8 years now.” You sighed, “Just… a dream. I do my best to ignore it.” You added
Bianca doesn’t push. She never does, though you can see the worry flash through her siren blue eyes before it transitioned to her usual calm facade.
You breathe slowly, up and down, hoping the weight to fade. But it wraps around you instead, as it always does, that feeling that something is due, something halfway between a dream and a faded memory.
Because that is the truth. Your psychic power is weak. So weak that the teachers sometimes whisper about it, not knowing what to make of you.
Psychics at Nevermore usually fall into two camps. Doves were bright souls who see visions steeped in possibility, tender urgings of hope, of warmth. Ravens were dark and sharp, their visions bloodied and brutally detailed, watching tragedy unfold at a killer pace.
And then there's you.
Your visions flicker and vanish like smoke, fragments of something whole, a hand reaching, a glass shattering, a voice cut before it can be heard. No story. No meaning. Only scraps. Too faint to pull someone out of the fire, too incomplete to condemn.
You have been told that you lean more toward the Raven—that your dreams are leaning more towards the shadow than light. But you're not enough of anything to truly belong.
Not truly a Dove. Not truly a Raven. Just…halfway. Always straddling some line.
Sometimes you wonder if that is why you hold onto Bianca tight with her sharp edges grounding you. If not, you do not think you would know where you stand.
This is the year it all has to end—the doubts, the weakness, the feeling of being caught in two worlds. Your last year at Nevermore. Your last chance to show you truly belong here.
But here you are, sitting on the edge of your bed, with cold sweat sticking your clothes to your body—and the thought still refuses to leave. The nightmare will be waiting.
It always is.
A week goes by. Classes continue in their familiar routine, uninteresting mornings of lectures, disinterested late-night study sessions, the boring hum of Nevermore's halls, wrapping around you like a suffocating blanket.
As was their custom, your new Botany Sciences taecher dramatically declared that "true mastery of plants demands communion with nature."
You sometimes want Mrs. Thornhill to come back, unfortunately she was an outcast-hating-normie who wished and plotted death on the school the whole time she was teaching, fortunately she's been confined now.
Botanical Sciences had given out yet another impossible assignment: to bring back a sample of something called Perennial Vulgaria—a creeping grass rare enough that most of the students would waste their coming hours searching for it. But you had something else in mind. The Beeshack.
There were plenty of chances for something strange or rare growing there, near the rundown little hut where Eugene kept his bees. The boy had a knack for stumbling over odd things.
You swing your fist to knock. Voices come through the door, muffled. Sounds panicked... Sounds urgent. "Just—no, you can’t—don’t let it out—" Eugene. High-pitched and anxious.
The next voice was deeper, more gravelly; he sounded half-hurt. "Relax, I’ve got this under control." You knocked on the door loudly.
"Eugene? It’s me. I just need grass for Botany."
Their voices trailed off. Silence fell for what seemed a long time before Eugene's reply came, muffled but too loud and too fast: "Uh—n-now's not a good time! You should come back later! Way later! Like—next week!"
You frown. "I can't. The assignment's due before sundown. Just a few, Eugene."
More frantic whispering. Then Eugene again: "Seriously, no! It's—bee season. Yeah. Super busy. Bees everywhere. Stinging. Dangerous. Come back tomorrow!"
You roll your eyes. Eugene was an awful liar, and patience was never your forte. You push open the door.
"Wait—no!" Eugene cries.
The air inside hits you first: a stench foul, thick, rancid, rolling out like a wave. You gag, hand over your nose, just as your eyes adjust to the dim interior. The smell was putrid and absolutely foul, it smelled exactly just like nauseating blend of rotting meat, feces, and rotten vegetables.
Eugene is there, flustered, his bees buzzing nervously in their hives as if agitated by something unnatural.
And then you see it.
At one far corner, Pugsley Addams crouches under the shadow, the filthy white blanket tucked tightly over something under it that twitches from time to time. The attempt at concealment is ridiculous, for the creature under it jumps, reveals some mottled gray-green flesh where the blanket slips to cover it. A heavy and thick iron chain is looped tightly to the neck and anchored to a support beam.
The stench is unbearable. Putrid, earthy, damp, and something gnawing, like rusting metallic things.
"Pugsley," you breathe, horrified, "what in the actual fuck is that?"
Pugsley lifts his eyes, wearing the same suffocating half smile as before. "Uh… nothing?"
Something shifts again and a low groan escapes from its throat under the blanket. It slips further, and a glimpse of a face-sunken, rotted, lips torn back to reveal teeth stained black. Empty sockets flicker with the faintest trace of movement.
You stagger back, bile rising. "That is not—That is a fucking corpse bee-face!"
"Technically," says Pugsley, rubbing the back of his neck, "it's more of a zombie. Big difference."
Eugene waves his arms like crazy, almost tripping over a hive box. "We weren't supposed to tell anyone! Oh god, if Dort finds out, I'm toast, I'm expelled—we're expelled!"
The corpse lurches again, miraculously managing to stand up straight (or as straight as it could be), though shakily, the chain rattling as it straightens to its full height. The state of its body is rather unpleasant with skin torn, bones peeking beneath—indicates something of its vulgarity, it possesses an unsettling dignity, suggesting that it remembers what it was once before.
For an instant, the thing's head turned towards you. Its hollow gaze lingers on you far longer than it should, and you could swear you feel it—recognition. As beneath the rot and ruin, it knows you.
But you didn't know it.
Eugene grips your arm, tugging you back. "Please don't tell anyone. Please. It's complicated."
Pugsley gives an offhand smirk but is not quite casually failing. "Well, relax. It's not like it bites… in theory."
The air gets damp with the sound the zombie makes, again low and mournful, which rattles through the Beeshack.
The stench of putrefaction wafted through the Beeshack.
But the more disturbing part was on how its head was following you, becoming comparably more animate with every step you take—a mockery of sight in the ruined eye sockets that should have had eyeballs in there.
Chilled, your voice broke the long, oppressive silence. "Okay, fine. I will not say anything. But only if I get what I came for—real quick. That thing is looking at me, and it is freaking me out.”
Eugene nearly cried out "Right! Right, yeah, of course—uh—grass. Easy. I have tons. Just—stand there. Do not move around. Do not breathe too loud. Do not—do not look at it!"
He ran towards the back shelf, tripping over himself while rifling frantically through jars with labels and brown sacks. The buzzing of the bees lashed out in sharp, agitated waves as if echoing his panic.
Pugsley tugged at the filthy blanket, trying to cover the remaining parts of the zombie sprawled out before him. The cover, theoretically a great idea to hide the rotting body, was rather not doing its purpose too well. Undoubtedly, the head was free, constantly jerking its stiff neck to follow every one of your movements. The faint clinking of the chains served to remind the room that it wasn't as secure as Eugene so desperately wanted to believe.
You asked Pugsley, your voice sharpening into a low hiss, "Why do you even have that?"
Without batting an eyelash, he grinned. "Found him. Thought he'd be fun."
"Fun?"
"Yeah. Y'know. For experiments. Or a bruh"
"A bruh?" You asked incredulously.
"A bruh. Like a buddy." He slung his arms across its shoulders, totally unafraid whether or not it would eat him. "See? My bruh."
The decaying corpse shrieked, and a gurgling breath forced its way past the blackened teeth. It groaned, which Pugsley took as its mode of language.
"See!" crowed Pugsley. "Bruh! He said it again. My bruh!"
Eugene turned around in the makeshift shelves to flash an annoyed face. "He's not saying bruh, he's saying brains! That's what zombies say, everybody knows that!"
"Couldn't find a bruh with a pulse?"
Eugene clutched his head like he was living in his own personal nightmare. "No, it's brains." He pointed at the corpse like a frustrated teacher correcting a toddler. "Brains, not bruh. You know what? Forget it. I give up. Why do I even try?"
The zombie let go a long, rattling breath that rolled like smoke through your bones. The dislocated jaw twitched, making you think for a moment it might actually say something. Then it tilted its head further, neck cracking as though it were straining to get a better look at you.
"Got it!" Eugene appeared again with a tied-up clump of Perennial Vulgaria, the unique grass glowing faintly green in the dimness. "Take it and go," he practically shoved it at you. "Please. Go. Before you—before it…"
There was no argument. One last glimpse at the creature, its chained body tugging against the beam, its head never leaving you, and you fled from the Beeshack, lungs craving the fresh air outside.
By the time midnight struck and you finally stumbled back into your dorm, your head felt like it would split in two, the faint trace of rot from the Beeshack having clung to your clothes no matter how many times you'd tried spraying perfume on your uniform. The encounter was replayed to you in flashes—the way that thing's dislocated jaw hung loose, how it just watched you.
You shoved it back, refusing to allow it any room to nest in your thoughts.
It was a perfectly quiet room. The space that belonged to Bianca was perfectly ordered—neatly stacked textbooks, folded uniform blazer, a faint scent of vanilla lotion. It was very grounding. Secure.
You sat at the edge of your mattress, a breath you had not realized you'd been holding had let go. The springs creaked beneath, and for the first time all day, allowed yourself to relax.
You slid your hand over the blanket, feeling the familiar stitching of the fabric underneath. Should be nothing—simple, grounding in nature. But that time, the second your palm pressed flat against the mattress, the shift happened.
The air thickened like water closing over one's head, and breathing became very difficult, caught somewhere in one's throat. The walls rippled, folding inward, as if the room were inhaling.
Panic surged in your heart as you tried to pull back your hand, but your body would not allow it. A very low thrum filled your ears, as vibrations spread your bones, and the light above flickering, extinguishing, and melting away as you felt yourself sinking, falling, and spiraling down into a choking darkness.
You opened up your eyes.
You were in your room. Except, it wasn't yours.
The blanket under your palm was satin pale rose pink—far too elegant for anything you ever owned. The walls had changed color, painted in a subdued cream. Your scattered notebooks were gone, gone with the little sketches, the little souvenirs from your years at Nevermore. Instead, in the corner stood a wooden vanity, covered in antique glass perfume bottles. A cassette player hummed in soft sounds, spitting out Madonna's voice through static.
Your eyes had been caught on a calendar, pinned to the wall: January 1991.
An instant before you could even take that in, something drew your gaze.
She stepped into the room. Must've been no older than you—beautiful hair captured in soft curls, her uniform the same as yours, and she's holding a 90s magazine. She marched with every measure of confidence unaware of the watching intruder.
She took a vase from the nightstand, crammed with white roses. The petals shone in the thin lamplight, immaculate and purified. She brought it up to her nose and took in a deep breath.
Then froze.
Her smile wavered, her eyes widened with pupils dilating until they swallowed her eyes whole. The vase slipped through her hands and shattered against the floor, shards scattered far across the wood.
Her body jerked violently, tearing a strangled gasp from her throat as she clutched her chest. She staggered back, convulsing, her knees hitting the edge of the bed before collapsing onto it.
On instinct, you stumbled forward but it's as if your feet is glued to the floor. You couldn't reach her. Couldn't touch her.
The girl writhed, her back arched unnaturally, fingers clawing at sheets. A scream ripped through her, a sound so sharp and bloodcurdling it divided the air in two. Her eyes rolled back, the whites flooding with black until they gleamed like tar. Her lips moved around a plea you couldn't hear, her voice drowned in static and ringing.
Then—silence.
Her body slackened, the head hanging at one side. Scattered flowers on the floor wilted instantly, curling the petals into darkness.
You gasped when the vision spat you out.
The room snapped back into place. Your blanket became yours again.
Your desk still remains the same as always—messy. Bianca's books are right where they had been left.
You swiftly drew your hand from the bed as though it would burn you. Your chest was heaving, and sweat was gluing your hair to your forehead.
There was a click as the door opened.
Bianca was there, calm and unbothered, as though the whole world around her had not just been turned upside down and inhaled like yours. Her uniform were neat and well kept, slightly less crisp from a full day of being worn to classes. She looked at you with a questioning gaze.
"What's wrong? You look like you saw a ghost."
The dryness in your throat was unbearable. You swallowed again. "I…I touched the bed, and…" You faltered. "I was somewhere else. Like…like I fell into some other person's life. Their room. Their—Their—Death? Fuck! I don't know!"
Bianca's brow went up, and her unsettling blue eyes narrowed in curiosity. "Some kind of hallucination? Stress?"
You shook your head vigorously. "No. It was as real as it could get. I felt it. The air. The details. It wasn't mine, but…it happened. I know it happened."
For the first time, Bianca's cool mask had softened just a tad. She leaned against the frame, arms folded. "Then congrats." A short pause. "Looks like you just had your first vision."
The day was fading and bleeding into one of those gauzy Nevermore evenings where the campus appeared to breathe under a dimming sun. You have already collected the pile of overdue library books halfway toward returning them when Bianca tapped you on the shoulder from behind. Deep midnight blue painted her nails, still glinting with a little light above the drying wet varnish.
“Dort’s looking for you,” she said, voice low, as if it were something she didn’t want to say out loud.
Usually, the Principal asked for students directly only for something worth raising eyebrows. You looked questioning at Bianca, but she just shrugged.
"Did he say why?" You asked. Bianca shook her head.
"No, just told me to send you his way."
You bit your lip in hesitation. "Do you think he… knows?"
Her brows furrowed. "Knows what?"
You lowered your voice to almost a whisper. "About the vision, the one I told you about. It's haunted me ever since it happened. What if he somehow found out?"
Bianca's expression softened slightly but at the same time she stepped closer and lowered her voice to match yours. "No one knows, I haven't told a soul. And if Dort did know, trust me, he wouldn't be this subtle about it. He'd have dragged you into his office in front of half the school to make an example of you."
That made you laugh nervously, although it didn't go very far toward untangling the knot in your stomach. "So why me, then? He never calls on me for anything."
Bianca's shrug was not mindless, it was a consideration "That's what I don't like about it. Just… keep your guard up, okay?" Her eyes searched yours, steady protective in the way that only Bianca could while not uttering the word.
Her warning kept resonating in the place long after she left you standing there with books pressed into your chest like a shield.
That was how the office of the Principal looked; as you remembered it, dark polished hardwood gleaming walls, heavy curtains casting pouches of easy shadow, and a faint whiff of wax from elaborately constructed candelabras lining the wall. On his desk stood paperwork yet to be taken up, stacked neatly, it seemed more for decoration than to serve any real function.
Barry Dort sat behind it, posture perfect, smile stretched too wide, the kind of saccharine warmth that made you feel smaller the longer it lingered.
"Ah, my favorite Raven," he said, as honeyed as his voice, hands clasped like one in prayer. "Please, sit."
"You know tomorrow is an important day," he began, his tone dipping into a practiced cadence. "Camp Jericho! An event that not only reflects the pride and strength in being an outcast, but also reminds each of us about the beautiful things we need to become." He spoke as if a speech for the public, practiced, but something flickered inside his eyes that was less noble.
"But I wish to ask you to… contribute," he urged, leaning in quite closely, his voice almost a whisper. "Help me with the games. It will be most entertaining. You will be around your colleagues and all."
There was a pause. "Me? Why not somebody else, umm…?" You trailed off, trying to get the right word. Stronger? More capable?
Dort tilted his head, smile tightening. "Cause you're special."
The word stuck onto you like oil.
"Even with..." He paused, fingers tapping on the edge of the desk, searching for the right phrasing. "Your particular gifts are really not that sharp as some, but they belong to you. Rare. Fleeting. And fleeting things are often the most precious."
You did not believe him, not for a second. But he said it like gospel, and it settled on your chest with uncomfortable weight.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly, voice lowering even further. "You could have excelled, you know. As a Da Vinci. Like her."
"Her?"
His smile didn't falter but something colder passed behind his expression. "Irrelevant," he said. "Not sweet enough." He took a slow sip and grimaced at his cup of coffee.
He set it down with a clink and looked back at you with a pointed sharpness. "Be a dear and fetch some honey from the Beeshack, will you?"
Your throat tightened. Eugene was in class; you knew it; he knew it. The shack was horrible, hidden, and just thinking of it twisted your stomach into knots, that disgusting and piece of rotting flesh. "Principal Dort—sugar does the same? Eugene's not there right now and—"
"That's an order."
The words sliced through the silence as his face dropped from a smile. His voice was not angry or even loud, but it had all the authority of a command that was absolute—the kind of authority which served as a reminder of the fact that in this place, his word was law.
You just sat there feeling as though his gaze had somehow pierced right into you. He leaned back again, smile again stitched on his face, but a lot thinner this time.
"She was not special as you," he added almost casually, sipping his coffee again as though he hadn't just delivered a threat wrapped in silk.
"Run along now, the coffee won't stay warm forever" He chortled as he took a sip of the tea, then purposely made an over exaggerated look of disgust after sipping the tea.
The way down Dort’s office felt surreal as your pulse raced with his saccharine smile. By the time you reached The Quad, the air in the walkways of Nevermore had transformed into something heavy and damp as though the school itself were holding its breath.
You didn't want to do this. Every ounce of you wanted to turn back, pretend to be sick, or forget it entirely, but even from here, you could almost feel Dort's eyes on you, the invisible hooks pulling you toward the Beeshack.
The wind wafted in with the scent of wildflowers and wet bark, and then, suddenly, with the sight of the Beeshack, the sweetness turned rancid. The foul odor greeted you even before entering, putrid—meat like with sweet honey warmth on the side. It was almost enough to make you vomit.
Then you gagged your way inside, squeezing your nose shut in the crook of your elbow. God, it was still there. You had been half convinced yourself Eugene moved it or you imagined the whole thing the first time. But now, the smell made it all that much more real.
Gulping hard, you forced yourself forward. The dim little shack was lined with wooden crates and old jars, with hives and various insects. Somewhere deeper inside, bees buzzed just a little bit, as though suffering too from the stench itself. You rummaged into your bag for the small container you carried with you always—every practical habit derived from years of messy assignments and forgotten cups.
You neared the bees, only then did it dawn on you. How could one extract honey from honeycomb? The combs in their frames appeared pulsating and alive with an effulgent golden flame but it felt sacrilege to touch it even for a moment. You hovered your container uncertainly, whispering, "Do I just... scrape it?"
It growled low in response.
Your spine went rigid. That sound didn't come from any bee.
You turned around slowly. In the half light of the shack, stood the zombie. It was taller than you remembered, its body crooked, and its head tilted at a leisurely yet deliberate angle, as though it were a bird scrutinizing a prey. Mottled, grayish green skin and a glimmer at the neck where the chain lay faintly illuminated by a stray beam of sunlight.
It only stared at you, unblinking in its gaze. Neither hungry nor mindless—simply watching. Waiting.
Your eyes flicked toward the corner wall of the shack. Beside the filthy potato sack lay the shining jar of honey, still warm from the fresh extraction. Your heart convulsed. Of course. Right next to it.
Dort's orders burned into your mind. If you came back empty-handed, you'd never hear the end of it. It had to be taken, it had to be done silently, it had to be accomplished.
With every inching step, thick fear dabbed heavily upon your heart. You couldn't tell whether the thing was indeed looking at you or merely sensing your presence.
Almost there. You reached for the jar, fingers brushing the cool glass. A sigh almost escaped your lips.
And that is when a cold, rough hand shut around your own hand.
You gasped in what felt like an involuntary jerk. Almost unconsciously, as if some long forgotten muscle memory had clicked into place, you wrestled its wrist with your other hand, attempting to dislodge it. But then, at that instant, as soon as your skin touched its skin, the world faded away.
It sucked you into the vision, as if being drowned into the waters.
A bolt of sudden, sharp pain tore through you.
You never knew that visions could hurt like this— It felt as though your skull were splitting open from within. You wanted to keep calm, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, you kept repeating but your body felt no longer yours.
You stood somewhere else but not in the little shack. White walls, harsh hospital lights, and the stench of antiseptic. A tall, pale young man was standing by the bed, dressed in a Nevermore uniform against the sterile white bedsheets.
He was crying—no, sobbing—his shoulders shook so violently one would almost assume his body had reached its breaking point.
You follow their gaze to the bed.
There lay a body. Female. Lifeless, skin alabaster, black veins crawling like vines up her neck. Black were her eyes. Empty and lifeless, as if something had filled them. Black tears streamed from her eyes onto the cheek and from there stained the pillow below her even after death.
You took a step nearer, and suddenly the room felt like it was suddenly going to collapse. Because the woman on the bed's face was your face.
Your face, marred. Eyes jet black, blackened veins, and tears bled black. Dead.
The young man's grief sharpened into a wail that resonated deep inside your bones. You staggered back, covering your mouth in disbelief. This wasn't right. Visions were supposed to be mere fleeting glimpses here and there, soft echoes of things yet to come or perhaps days gone. But not this. Not pain, nor naked death in the skin that is yours.
You tried to pull free, but the vision clung to you like tar, dragging you under. Am I seeing my death? The thought screamed through you. Is this what's coming? Is this its fault?
You were terrified that the premonition was about you getting killed by Pugsley's zombie.
With a violent shove you tore yourself back, your hand pushing the zombie away before you even realized you were moving. It ripped away from you like a long held breath, and suddenly you were back at Beeshack, knees weak, heart hammering.
The zombie stepped back for a moment, letting out a soft rattle of the chain. Its head tilted again, but now there was something almost wounded in the gesture. As if he was hurt and offended that you pushed him back.
You didn't wait to find out what it meant. You ran out of the shack, the putrid smell still hanging over you, and the taste of antiseptic and black tears swirling on your tongue. You didn't even know you left the honey behind until you were halfway across the quad.
Your lungs were burning. You tried to slow down, to breathe, but your hands were shaking too hard. You couldn't stop seeing the black veins, the black eyes. That was me.
For the first time in years, your weak psychic gift didn't feel like a pain in the ass. It felt like a curse.
Back in the shack, that zombie was standing there still, tilting its head as if it knew something you did not. But little did you know then that the night had more surprises in store for you.
Stepping on the hall's wooden floor late in the afternoon, chandeliers overhead cast long, trembling shadows over the fencing piste. Bianca is standing at the end of the hall, with her white jacket and lowered mask as if confidence was built into every line of her form. She has never looked more champion-like than now.
"En garde," she calls, raising her foil.
You lift your own foil, your heart pounding. Your legs feel weak from fatigue, and your mind is still out of it—so drained from the last couple of days, the nightmare vision, horrors that unfolded in Camp Jericho. You try to concentrate.
Bianca makes the first advance. She lunges forward, trying to score a point with her attack, and you retreat slightly, slicing through the air with your blade.
You parry—block her blade—then counter-attack, but your arm seems to swell in weight. The weapon almost slips out of your hand.
She gives you a look in the match, her unnatural bright blue eyes piercing. She stops, lowering her own weapon. "You’ve been off today," she says, voice tight. "You’re slowing and always zoning out."
You force a smile behind your mask. "I’m fine. Probably just—after the camp, everything feels off." You hesitate, then add in a whisper, "You know how it is? Pugsley's freakish zombie incident, and...everything went to shambles, I guess."
Bianca tilts her mask slightly. You know her well enough to see the worry there although she'd never say so. She doesn’t press you. Not now. She just nods and steps back.
Eventually, she says she’s tired and excuses herself, gathering her gear. You’re alone now, but you insist on staying for a couple of minutes more—practicing for yourself.
You lunge once, retreat, and parry the air, as if pretending the target is her.
But a few more minutes later, fatigue overwhelms you. Your arms are trembling, your breath shallow. You lower your foil, unclip your mask, and step out of the hall. The night is at hand—just ten minutes to curfew.
You knew Nevermore’s corridors by heart — every cracked tile, every creaking hinge — yet somehow, tonight, they felt wrong. The silence was total, the air too thick. You tried to convince yourself that it was just the horror flicks again—the ones you weren't supposed to have binge watched last weekend. Each dimly lit hallway now resembled the period immediately before something terrible happened. You caught yourself glancing over your shoulder more than you cared to admit.
And of course, your imagination refused to calm down. If this was a movie, at this point the killer would leap out, your brain whispered.
Unconsciously, you let out a shaky laugh that was meant to demonstrate that you weren't frightened which frankly made you sound more frightened.
The echo of footsteps was beginning to sound disproportionate—heavier. Not just yours. You stopped in mid-stride. Listened.
Nothing.
You just made yourself go on again, this time clenching your fencing bag a little bit tighter. The portrait of Nathaniel Faulkner stared at you; his penetrating gaze seemed to follow you wherever you went. You hated it. Always had.
Now the hallway was getting darker on your way to that bend toward the staircase, the stretch of corridor where light never quite reached. You could picture every slasher movie cliché you had ever encountered: Don't go down the dark hallway! Don't split up! Don't check out weird noises. And still, here you are, walking right into it.
You told yourself to stop being ridiculous. "It's fine," you murmured. "No Ghostface is go—"
From behind, a gloved hand clamped over your mouth.
Your complete being stiffened immediately, a choked noise stopped in your throat. The hold was too powerful, supernaturally powerful — and also deathly cold. You were aware of every finger pressing hard into your flesh and pushing you against a strong body. You were desperately trying to escape, kicking, scratching, and grumbling at the arm, but it still did not move.
Your heartbeat was so loud that it was like being in your ears, and you couldn't even hear your own breath. Panic was strangling you. Your brain kept on shouting it is the end, it is the end, this is where it begins — the scenes of every horror movie you had ever watched coming back to your mind in a series of panic flashes.
Then, the odor arrived.
A thick cloth was pressed onto your face — wet and of chemical smell. It hurt your nose, it had that pungent and sweet smelling like hospital disinfectant mixed with something rotten. You wanted to yell, yet the sound was so quiet. Everything around you changed — the candle holders became streaks of gold.
Your legs gave up, and if it weren't for the being supporting you, you would've been on your knees. Your sight was like a pulsating light. The cold air was brushing your face and you could feel it.
Your breath hiccupped.
Your mind was blank.
Your bag slipping from your grasp and emitting a loud thud to the ground as the world collapsed into darkness
You slowly awakened, but the way it felt was as if your body had risen when it has completely forgotten what being awake even means.
At first, there isn't anything but sensation which is shapeless, heaviness in the chest, a faraway pressure inside the skull, a slight burning behind the eyes, as if one were staring for too long at light which has ceased to exist.
Your mouth feels thick and dry like cotton, your tongue dry, your jaw stiff like it hasn't been moving for days. Your breathing comes out like a manual process, as if your body has to relearn itself to do it, each inhalation being shallower and less satisfying, every exhalation being a very weak release.
Limbs are there, to be exact, but they feel disconnected —overweight to the point that they don't feel like yours, tingling with numb electrification, strange like you have borrowed them from someone else and have forgotten how to handle them rightly.
The first thing that you become aware of is the coldness. It gradually comes through your skin of whatever thin covering is over you and settles in your bones. The second thing is the noise. A soft, continuous hum underlying everything else, like a machine in dreamland.
You make an attempt to open your eyes; they put up resistance at first, fluttering feebly before eventually giving way to very narrow, unfocused slits. The world was nothing but a blur and a shadow. A beam of light runs across your field of vision, it is too bright, too artificial to be sunlight, yet not soft enough to be from a candle. Your eyelashes are glued together. Your sight is like a pool.
You blink thrice until forms start to come out of their hiding places first as shadows, then as outlines and finally the ceiling appears to be actually there—not made of stone or plaster, not wood either, but rough metal that has been distorted and cracked in certain places, has beams of wood and parts of the roof that are missing where darkness yawns through as if it is a wound opened in the structure above you.
It's nighttime.
Not only do you see it, but also the whole atmosphere gives it away, it feels cooler, heavier, and is delivering the very slight scent of outside that is a bit damp. Somewhere very high, the wind is murmuring through the broken rocks. Every once in a while, something is dripping—it is a slow, irregular sound that reverberates too much in the enclosed space.
It could be rain or it could be water moving through the cracks in the ruined tower. You make a little movement and immediately wish you did not. Muscles are sore and are now pulling painfully against your bones. A small noise escapes your mouth before you can stop it. Your voice doesn’t sound right. It is weak. It is rusty.
You are pushing yourself up slowly and in the end unevenly, resting every time the room does a pirouette or when dark spots bring some discomfort at the sides of your vision.
The bed that you were lying on is very small and very hard, the mattress is so thin that you can feel the metal slats pushing through it. This is no hospital bed. This is more like something temporary. Cheap. Forgotten. The kind of bed that you shove into a room if you do not plan on anyone staying long—or when the person sleeping in it does not matter much at all. Your fingers are curling up in the sheet automatically, creasing the fabric which is faintly smelling of dust and antiseptic.
When you eventually take a proper look around, your breathing gets interrupted.
This is not a bedroom. This is not a classroom.
This—
This is a laboratory. Or whatever is left of it.
The walls are decorated by tables that are full of equipment. Some machines are very old and rusty, others are so modern that it is hard to imagine they belong in the same place at all—like parts from different times that have been sewn together with the same disregard for aesthetics—only function.
Black cables are running on the floor like arteries. Screens are flickering and glowing softly, giving off blue-white light throughout the room in irregular pulses. There are glass containers, many of them empty, some stained. Tools are hanging from hooks. Wires are creeping up the walls and disappearing into the decaying stone.
And yet, in spite of the decay, all are still intact
Your confusion quickly escalates to the point of making you feel dizzy.
Iago Tower.
The epiphany hits you with the force of a slap.
No, that's not possible. Iago Tower is a ruin everybody is aware of. The tower was destroyed years ago, and it turned into ruins. An empty place. No power. No machines. Anyone who might have been there has not been inside for a very long time, not officially at least.
You gulp down your saliva with difficulty. The sandpaper like sensation in your throat indicates that you are trying very hard. Your heart also starts beating more forcefully now, the weight of each beat being greater with each one.
However, memory returns. Not suddenly. But in a very painful way as every recollection was thrown upon you like bricks.
The corridor, the glove, the cloth pressed against your face. A bitter taste creeping into your mouth and your lungs giving up as black spots appeared in your vision, then darkness.
You jolted up quickly, your breath being fast and shallow. The hot and vicious fear of your body floods your system now that your mind is awake enough to grasp its own danger. You bounce your legs off the bed almost falling when they do not fully obey you. You grasp the corner of a nearby metallic table to keep your balance and push your body to an upright position through giddiness and nausea.
There is a burning desire in you to get out. You need to breathe.
You need to—
Your sight goes up.
And you become immobile.
For a man is at the opposite end of the room.
Initially, he appears merely as a silhouette. Tall. Skinny. Motionless. Then the lighting changed. And your stomach sinks.
He... is not right. He didn't look right.
Not entirely formed is the better way to descibe it.
One half of his face is clearly human— sharp cheekbone, very light skin tightly stretched over very fine bone, an eye catching the light with nervous clarity. The other half tells a contrary story. The skin there is darker, irregular, hardly opaque in some areas, as if it is still in the process of figuring out what it is supposed to be. Veins are barely visible under the skin, and they are darker than they ought to be. Not to mention his chin is a little off.
His hair is thin in some spots, longer on one side, shorter and sparser on the other, as if it is still finding its way back to the full-length it used to have. His posture is deliberate and controlled, but he exudes a stiffness and subtle tension that resembles a body held together solely by willpower.
Observing. Expecting.
Your heartbeat is so strong that you can hear it in your ears. Your hand is close to your body, moving slightly as if it were preparing for fight or flight.
All of a sudden he takes a step toward you.
His voice sounds soft when he eventually breaks the silence.
"My beloved," he whispers.
Their words go under your skin, ice and intrusive, wrapping your ribs and lying somewhere near your heart. Your breathing misfires. You do not know the who he was referring to, but your body acts as if it does—like something in you recalls being that, recalls heat and allegiance that never were yours.
His facial expression seems to become more severe, eyes quickly moving over your face that makes your stomach knot. He looks at you as if he is really afraid that you will disappear if he turns his gaze away, as if the very act of seeing you is the only thing that is keeping him tied to this moment. He looks at you for too long, mapping out details that you have never shown him, recognizing you with a kind of intimacy that is not characteristic of a stranger.
"You are awake"
There is no doubt about it—the relief in his tone is very clear—but it was very frightening to you.
It was as if has practiced this sentence for one hundred times, his words laced with sacredness as he delivers them like a prayer that has endured multiple disappointments yet continues to believe in better things.
You choose not to answer.
Your mouth opens, then closes again. Your tongue feels heavy, useless. Every part of your body forces you to reject this situation because this man should not have any connection with you while he stands here. The machines produce a sound which becomes stronger because it fills all the space between you while it creates a suffocating silence.
He observes that you are not making any sound.
"I was very concerned about you" He spoke almost inaudibly, "You have been asleep for too much time than I can bear"
You were watched and waited for.
Your heartbeat starts thumping a strong rhythm which reasonates in your ears. You take an unsteady step backward, your back hitting the metal bed which created an unpleasant screeching sound. The sound was louder than it should in this moment.
His eyes snap to the movement immediately, sharp and alert despite the gentleness of his tone.
He stays in his place, he does not adavnce towards you.
His expression suddenly soften as if something deep inside him breaks free from his tight control. His emotions plastered through his face, his waiting finally come to an end after years of sadness and intense desire to be with someone.
The words emerge from your mouth before you even decided to speak.
You spoke with a hoarse voice laced with doubt and uncertainty.
"Who… who do you think I am?" The question hangs between you, fragile and trembling.
Your voice remains quiet, you didn't want make any accusations yet, because your body and mind cannot handle that. You remain silent while your heart beats fast as you look at him because you want to hold onto your existence through your name and your past and your memories.
“I don’t know you,” You said quietly. “I don’t know this place the way you think I do.” You added.
He stays silent for a brief period.
The following silence becomes unbearable because it creates an intolerable situation.
The gaze of his eyes drops down because your words now weigh heavily upon him. His eyes look at you again, tears welled up in his eyes as he did his best to not let it flow.
“You don’t remember,” he whispers.
It wasn't a question.
His body sags. He hand coming up to his chest and his fingers grasp the fabric of his shirt at the area above his heart. As if he needed to hold it in place
He repeats the same sentence "You are my beloved" in a quieter tone. As if he believes that saying this statement in a gentle and more sincere way will make it become true.
The statement sounds romantic, but it sounded so wrong.
Your brain starts to search for every memory that it can find in your mind because it needs to retrieve all of your past experiences. The memories run their course from your childhood. Nevermore shows itself. You remember the sound of Bianca laughing. The memories take you to Ophelia Hall.
You have no connection at all which links you to him.
"I’m not," you say. You don’t shout. You don’t pull away. You simply state it, trying to anchor yourself from the truth.
"I’m me."
The silence that follows is sharp.
His face tightens—not with anger, but with desperation. His brows draw together, and his lips part as if he wants to argue with the universe itself. He takes a step closer, then stops, holding back, as if afraid his presence alone might harm you.
"Yes," he says, his voice trembling now, conviction fighting against grief. "You are."
He shakes his head slightly, tears finally spilling down his uneven skin, leaving thin paths.
“You just don’t remember yet.”
Your stomach twists.
He speaks again, faster now, words pouring out as if he’s held them in for years. "Death does that," he said. "It strips things away. Names. Faces. Time. But the soul—" his voice breaks, "—the soul remembers. It always does."
"The gods gave me another chance," he says trying to convince you and himself. "They took me apart, burned me, buried me—but they didn’t let me stay gone. Not without you." His eyes snap back to you, shining with fragile certainty. "They brought me back to you."
"They brought you back to me," he repeats, as if making it real through repetition. "Rebirth isn’t mercy. It’s correction. We were taken too soon. Both of us." His mouth twists painfully. "We never got to live the life we were meant to."
You shake your head, breath shallow. "I didn’t die," you say. "I am at Nevermore. I had a life. I still do."
His face softens, it's almost frightening, and it makes you feel uneasy, when he looks at you. Coming face-to-face with the person you're supposed to be getting away from is never easy, and he makes no effort to get closer, instead says something that sends a chill down your spine.
"You did die, a long time ago" He said.
“And I did too,” he continues. “But death isn’t the end, not for people like us.” He takes another careful step closer, stopping just within arm’s reach. “We were never meant to stay apart.”
Madness shows no trace in those eyes.
Instead you see belief. An unshakable, devout, and utterly terrifying belief.
“And this time,” he whispers, voice breaking entirely now, “nothing is going to take you away from me again.”
Your stomach drops as the quiet truth hit you like a train—he never wanted your memory at all. Your past and your present. In his eyes you had someone else's name, memories, and heart.
Staying is what he asks of you. Nothing more than your presence matters now.
Time stretches, thin and unbearable. You hesitate. That's all it takes.
You bolt. Instinct kicks in before your mind figures out what’s happening. Adrenaline slices through the fog in your head, and your feet pound the stone floor.
There’s the exit—you remembered, spotting it immediately. But behind you—something moves. Fast. Unnervingly very fast.
He doesn’t bother shouting. Doesn’t waste breath with your name. He just charges like a cheetah.
His boots hit the ground uncannily, way too heavy, way too close, echoing like gunshots. He moves like someone who had nothing else left to lose. You hear his breathing—rough, uneven—and it makes your heart thump.
You lunge for the door as it was in arms reach. You rejoiced quietly as your fingers graze the rusted handle.
And suddenly your head jerks back, hard, as something or someone yanks your hair.
Pain flashes across your scalp, blinding and sharp. You yelp, balance gone and your body snapping backward. The world reels as he drags you away, your feet scraping uselessly over stone.
“No—!” you gasp, clawing at his hands.
He throws you and your back slams into the floor, knocks the air out of your lungs. You feel your bones rattle as white sparks burst behind your eyes. Before you can even think about moving, his shadow looms over you, stretched and monstrous under the harsh lights.
"You were never supposed to leave,” he spits out, voice trembling—not because he’s scared, but because he's desperate.
You try to scoot away, but he’s already blocking you.
“You really think this life is real?” He takes one slow step. “Your friends, your dorm, your name—none of it. It’s a fucking sham!. Something to get you here.” His eyes catch yours, wild and bright. “Everything dragged you back to me.”
Your heart crashes against your ribs.
“That’s not true,” you manage, but your voice comes out all wrong—shaky, too thin. "WHO THE FUCK EVEN ARE YOU!?" You gathered the strength to scream, you sobbed as tears flowed freely from your eyes.
He drops to his knees, hands gripping your shoulders, trapping you. The cold stone bites into your back. You push at him, but he’s stronger than he looks—desperation making him unmovable.
“I died,” he rasps. “And so did you. They took you away, but I have to put it right. I am going to fix what was broken.”
You shake your head, gasping for air. “No. You’re wrong. GET THE FUCK OF ME!”. His face twists—pain, maybe, but just for a heartbeat.
Then it goes hard. “I’ll remind you,” he breathes. Before you can move, he crushes his mouth to yours.
It’s not gentle. It’s not love. It’s just wrong.
Cold and strange was the best way to describe it. The sharp, rotten smell of something dead mixed with bleach hits you, turning your stomach. You jerk your head away, shoving at his chest, desperate to get loose—panic clawing at your throat as you gasp for air.
He goes still for a moment.
His face shifts—first confusion, then a flash of hurt, then something darker and meaner. He pulls back a little, his breath shaky, like this isn’t how he pictured it at all.
“You don’t feel it yet,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “But you will.”
You’re trembling now, trapped under him, every nerve screaming at you to run.
And deep down, beneath the fear and disgust, something else wakes up, not recognition. Just that horrible, gut deep certainty, this man isn’t letting you go. Not without a fight.
"I'll make you feel what you felt once my beloved" He said as he licked your cheek and savored the taste of your salty tears and skin.
Your back arches against the dirty sheets, your body too spent to move, pinned by a man. For three hours, you've been his plaything, and it has finally broken you. Every muscle in your body aches, and your mind is a haze of pleasurable overstimulation.
"Please," you rasp, your voice barely recognizable. "I can't anymore."
He does not let up, though. A calloused hand covers your mouth as his hips show no signs of relenting.
"Shhh," he murmurs low in your ear. "We're not done yet."
"Didn't I promise I'll make you remember?"
The tears start to roll down your temples as his mouth invades yours, kissing you and swallowing your protests. His tongue meets yours with the same fervor as his cock, leaving no room to deny him.
You weakly claw at his shoulders to push him away, but you have nothing left. Every nerve in your body is lit on fire with pleasure as he slams into you, the rhythm of his thrusts becoming erratic the closer he gets to his release.
His long and lean cock pounds into depths inside of you that make you clench around him with a pleasurable and odd stretch. The narrowness of his shaft makes it less forgiving at first, but the length and reach it has makes it a completely different ballgame. Each thrust hits your cervix with extreme force.
The room starts to spin around you as your vision goes gray, and everything starts to fade as you almost pass out. He seems to sense when you're about to blackout, his fingers tightening around your hips as he cements you under him.
"Not yet," he growls into your mouth as his movements don’t relent. "Stay with me."
Against your will, your body remembers what to do as you cum around him one last time, waves of pleasure crashing over you before you finally pass out.
When you awake a few moments later, he is still above you, a victorious yet possessive smile on his face as he finishes and claims you as his own.
"Mine," he whispers to you as he finally stills inside you.
"All mine."
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