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@tearsfortheyouth
Masterlist !!!
Note: almost all my works explore dark themes that may trigger others. make sure to read the warnings :)
Dr. Strange
(Dark!) Part one , Part two , Part three
Bucky Barnes
(Fluff) Blanket
Steve Kemp
(Dark!) Night Chase
(Dark!) Obsession Part One , Part Two
Nick Goode
(Dark!) After Hours
I loved their dynamic in the movie
OBI-WAN KENOBI Revenge of the Sith (2005) dir. George Lucas
Owen Painter as Isaac Night Wednesday | This Means Woe (2.08)
ISAAC NIGHT FANFIC RECOMMENDATIONS
Guys I’m literally scrapping the bowl of tumblr trying to find good Isaac night fics I haven’t read before. Pleaseeeeeee if you know any plz share. I love evil Isaac. Anything where he is evil and crazy would be perfect. I’m a huge fan of dark! Isaac Night (DUB/NON CON is cool too) but plz help a girl out im begging
ISAAC NIGHT X READER IDEA
Guys I just had an amazing idea for an Isaac night fanfic….imagine an insane asylum AU, like American Horror Story season 2 asylum.
Maybe the main character was falsely admitted, or maybe she’s just crazy and then it could go two ways— either Isaac night is a therapist who is lowkey kinda evil, OR he’s a patient who is absolutely insane. But then they inevitably fall in love and it’s just dark and depressing and slow burn and angsty.
Does this exist??? HELP MEEEE
Guys
Guys I’ve been listening to a lot of Ethel Cain and specifically Strangers and for some reason I’m thinking of Isaac Night and I was just wondering…would anyone be interested in a Strangers themed Isaac Night fic? Like maybeeeee an AU where perhaps the OC has a gift of having the greatest mind to ever exist, and he thinks he needs to eat her brains to gain that ability…idk it would be really dark with a lot of angst heartbreak….
Let mek is what you think plzzzzz
i need to be his controversially young girlfriend
⠀
everything reminds me of him……
la gloire à mes genoux - Isaac Night
Warnings: non-con, power play, needy and desperate Isaac, very dark, dead dove do not eat
— SUMMARY: Velvet gowns, black ties, bottomless wine glasses— Nevermore’s glorious annual Masquerade ball is in full swing. Despite this, a woman can’t seem to shake the news of locals going missing, only to be found days later with their brains sucked from their skull. When she steps outside for some much needed fresh air, she certainly doesn’t expect a familiar face to be hidden in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to prove to her how much strength he’s reclaimed— all thanks to her
ROSIE SPEAKS: Hello my darlings. I’ve come out of hibernation to write this. Forgive my skills, it’s been years. I’m currently living in Paris for university at the moment, and was recently introduced to this French musical. One of the songs, the title of this chapter actually, was really inspired me. It’s about a man wanting glory at his knees, wanting to rise to the top no matter what. I know most of the time when a writer adds music into a story, it goes unheard. However, I truly recommend giving in a listen, even if you don’t speak any French. It’s an amazing song.
°°° Velvet gowns drifted like spilled ink across the marble floors, masks glittered beneath candlelight, and the orchestra’s waltz wrapped itself around the ballroom in decadent, dizzying loops. Nevermore’s annual Masquerade had never looked more magnificent. Laughter rose, glasses clinked, and wine flowed freely enough to make anyone forget the world outside.
Anyone but her.
Beneath the shimmer and spectacle, unease clung to her like a second skin. The recent disappearances—those locals found days later with their skulls emptied as though something had feasted on their very thoughts—were impossible to shrug off. Even behind jeweled masks, every face felt like a secret. Every shadow seemed too deep. Every dancer moved just a little too close.
When the weight of it became unbearable, she slipped through a side door and into the cool night air. The sudden quiet rang in her ears. Moonlight brushed over the gardens in pale silver, peaceful in a way that felt almost wrong.
She exhaled, at last, unaware that the night was holding its breath right along with her.
The night outside the ballroom was supposed to be a relief—cool air, quiet space, a moment without masked faces brushing too close or laughter that rang a little too sharp, too forced. But the moment the door clicked shut behind her, she felt it: that prickling awareness along the back of her neck, the sense of being watched by something the dark itself was holding in its cupped hands.
The garden stretched out before her in pale ribbons of moonlight, serene and soft, yet the forest beyond it loomed like a different world entirely. She’d grown up hearing Nevermore’s stories about those woods—how shadows there moved with intention, how you could feel eyes on you even when you were alone. She used to dismiss those tales as dramatics.
Tonight, she wasn’t so sure.
A breeze drifted through the trees, carrying the scent of moss and cold earth. And beneath that… something else. Familiar, almost painfully so. She paused on the earth, breath hitching. The sensation rolled over her again, tighter this time—a tightening in her chest, a pull low in her stomach, like a memory trying to claw itself to the surface.
Someone was out there.
Not just someone—someone she knew.
She stepped closer to the treeline, though logic and every instinct told her she shouldn’t. The ballroom’s golden glow was far behind her now, replaced by the forest’s hushed silence. A wolfish quiet. An expectant quiet.
The moonlight stopped politely at the first line of trees, refusing to intrude farther, as if what lay within was none of its business. But she squinted anyway, trying to let her eyes adjust. The longer she stared, the more she sensed rather than saw: the subtle shift of weight against damp earth, the almost-sound of breath held perfectly still, the presence of something coiled, patient, powerful.
Her pulse quickened.
He felt close—close enough that if she reached forward, she might touch warm skin or brush against fabric. Close enough that she could almost imagine a figure leaning against a tree trunk, carved from the darkness itself. Broad shoulders tucked into shadow. Eyes she couldn’t see but could feel, cutting through the gloom like a blade pressed lightly to her throat.
She swallowed hard.
This forest had always been chilly, but the cold now seemed to radiate from a single point, as though the night was gathering around one person, shaping itself to him. She didn’t know how she knew that—she just did. Just as she knew that whoever he was, he wasn’t afraid of her seeing him.
If anything… he was waiting for it.
Her fingertips tingled. A strange pressure—like static, like a whisper brushing her skin—coiled around her wrist, feather-light but undeniably there. She jerked slightly, staring at her own hand as if expecting to see something clinging to her.
The sensation faded the instant she looked away, dissolving back into the forest as though it had never existed.
She wrapped her arms around herself, breath unsteady. She should go back inside, back to the noise and masks and safety. That would have been the smart choice.
But something about the darkness in front of her—something about the way it watched—held her in place.
“Who’s there?” she whispered, though her voice was barely audible beneath the stir of leaves.
Silence. Then a subtle shift, the kind that wasn’t sound so much as felt—a ripple through the night, almost like a response. She stiffened, heart thudding wildly.
Whoever lingered in those trees wasn’t stumbling around lost. He wasn’t wandering. He wasn’t uncertain.
He was anchored there. Rooted. Waiting.
And the most unsettling part?
She wasn’t afraid. Not exactly.
No, what unsettled her was far worse—because beneath all her confusion and the eerie stillness around her, there was a flicker of recognition. A pull she didn’t understand. A name she almost said aloud.
Almost.
She took a shaky breath and stepped back—not into safety, but into the awareness that something in that forest had been drawn to her long before she ever stepped outside.
And whatever he was now…
he was no longer someone she could ignore.
She stumbled back a step as he emerged into the spill of moonlight—her lungs tightening, her heart skipping a painful beat.
She knew that figure.
She knew that face.
But not like this.
The last time she saw Isaac, he’d been half-rotted, skin gray and paper-thin, eyes sunken and cloudy. He’d barely been able to stand. Pugsley had held him upright while Eugene whispered reassurances, and she had cupped the back of Isaac’s skull gingerly, trying not to react to the soft, sickening give of decayed flesh beneath her fingers.
She remembered feeding him—hands trembling, stomach churning—because he needed something, anything, to anchor himself. She didn’t know the legend was real. She didn’t know “feeding” meant that. She didn’t know the ritual would chain her to this nightmare.
And she had never imagined he would end up like this.
“Isaac…” her voice broke around his name.
He stood there—tall, fully formed, fully alive, beautiful in a way that made her blood run cold. His skin was smooth, luminous. His eyes were bright, sharp enough to cut straight through her. His shoulders were broader, his posture sure, every movement deliberate and eerily graceful. A red suit hugged his frame, soothing around muscles and hugging him tightly.
He looked…
perfect.
Too perfect.
And she hated herself for noticing.
A slow smile pulled at his lips, soft enough to be familiar, wrong enough to make her stomach twist.
“Surprised?” he asked.
She could only stare.
She had seen the in-between stages—the wet, slack flesh knitting itself together, the patches of rot sloughing off as new tissue grew beneath. She had watched him shudder with each stolen memory, each stolen life. She’d hidden him when Pugsley warned someone was coming, held him down when Eugene tried to soothe his feral spasms.
She had cried the night she realized Isaac was killing, and cried harder when she realized he didn’t seem to stop.
Now he looked like the boy she once cared for—only more.
Too much more.
“Isaac… this isn’t what we wanted,” she whispered.
He stepped closer, moonlight unraveling across his features like a spotlight unveiling something sacred and blasphemous all at once.
“I wanted it,” he said quietly. “You gave me a chance. I took it.”
“That doesn’t mean you had to—” her words snagged on her throat, “—hurt people.”
His expression didn’t flicker. “I had no choice.”
“You always had a choice,” she shot back, but her voice trembled.
He moved closer. She moved back, feet stumbling over a root.
His presence felt different now—denser, more consuming, like the forest bent around him rather than the other way around. The shadows clung to him as if they belonged to him.
“You’re scared of me,” he said softly.
The words sliced through her.
“I’m scared of what you’ve become.”
Isaac tilted his head, studying her. His eyes softened in a way that made her chest ache—because for a single fractured heartbeat, she saw the boy he had been. The one she’d whispered with under the bleachers. The one who’d shared secrets with her. The one who’d died too young.
But then something hungry flickered behind his gaze.
Something dark.
Something claiming.
“And yet,” he murmured, “you’re still here.”
His voice wrapped around her, warm and wrong.
“You raised me from the grave. You fed me. You protected me. You watched me become this.” He spread his hands slightly, as though showing off a new body he was proud of. “You gave me life again.”
Her pulse stuttered. “I didn’t know it would turn you into a—”
“A monster?” he finished calmly.
Her breath hitched.
He smiled, slow and devastating.
“Maybe,” Isaac said. “But I’m your monster.”
Her blood went cold.
The forest went silent.
And for the first time since resurrecting him, she realized—Isaac wasn’t here to ask for help.He wasn’t here for gratitude. He wasn’t here for forgiveness. He was here because she was the one who brought him back.
And he wasn’t planning on letting her go.
He stepped closer again, and this time she felt the shift in the air—a pressure, like the forest itself was holding its breath around him. Isaac was beautiful now… terrifyingly beautiful. But it was the way he looked at her that truly froze her blood.
Like she was the sun he had been resurrected to orbit.
“Do you see me?” he whispered, voice trembling—not with fear, but something dangerously close to need.
She swallowed. “Isaac, please—”
He cut her off with a sharp, ragged sound that might’ve been a laugh… or a sob pressed into a smile.
“Don’t say my name like that,” he murmured, stepping close enough that she felt the cold radiating from him. “Not like I’m something to fear. I came back for you.”
She backed away.
He followed.
“I’m stronger now,” he went on, tone tightening with frantic pride. “Faster. I can hear your heartbeat from across the clearing.” His eyes flicked to her throat, lingering there, almost entranced. “You have no idea what that does to me.”
Her breath hitched. “You’re scaring me.”
“I don’t want to scare you,” Isaac insisted quickly—but his voice cracked with a desperation that said he’d rather terrify her than lose her. “I want you to understand.”
He moved in front of her before she could keep retreating, not touching her—just blocking every direction except toward him.
A calculated, quiet display of dominance.
“I was weak before,” he whispered. “Die-able.” His expression twisted. “Forgettable.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. “Isaac, that’s not true.”
“You hesitated.” His voice fractured on the words. “When I was starving, you hesitated. You cried, but you didn’t want to save me. Not until it was too late.”
“That’s not fair—”
“You had a choice. And you waited.”
His chest rose and fell, too still between breaths.
“Now,” he said softly, “it’s my turn to choose.”
Her spine stiffened. “Isaac—”
He reached out. She flinched. His hand hovered inches from her cheek, shaking, almost trembling with anticipation. He didn’t touch her—likely because he wanted her to realize he had enough control not to.
“I’m perfect now,” he whispered, voice breaking with raw emotion. “Because of what I’ve taken. Because of what you allowed me to become.”
She felt her stomach twist. “What I allowed? Isaac, you’ve killed innocents. I tried to stop you—”
“You tried to starve me.” His expression hardened. “You wanted me weak again.”
“No,” she said quickly, “I wanted you alive. Not like this—”
“You wanted me harmless.”
He stepped closer. She couldn’t move back without brushing the rough bark of a tree. The forest seemed to fold around them, closing them in.
“I was harmless before—weak,” he murmured, eyes burning with something obsessive and unhinged.
Her throat tightened.
Isaac’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“But now?”
He leaned in, almost brushing her skin without touching it.
“Never again.”
Her breath stuttered.
“This strength?” he continued, lifting his hand to let moonlight catch on the perfect, healed lines of his fingers. “This new life? I want you to see it. To feel how different I am.”
“Isaac—”
“Let me show you,” he whispered, need clawing at the edges of his voice. “Let me show you I’m not the zombie you used to pity.”
Her breath hitched as he leaned in, but he didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. His presence alone pressed against her like a cage.
“I need you to listen,” Isaac murmured, voice tightening with that same frantic, hungry pride. “You can’t run from me anymore.”
Her fingers curled helplessly against the bark behind her. “Isaac… I wasn’t running.”
“You left the shed,” he said, and though his tone was soft, every word landed like a stone. “You left me to go to your pretty little ball. Masks. Dancing. Pretending everything’s fine.” His jaw clenched. “Like I wasn’t waiting.”
A chill scraped down her spine. “I didn’t know you were—”
“Yes, you did.” His voice sharpened, cutting. “You knew I’d come for you when I was healed. You just hoped I wouldn’t.”
She swallowed hard, unable to deny it.
Isaac stepped closer, slow, deliberate, his body blocking out the moonlight. His height, his perfect posture, the unnatural grace he’d gained—it all screamed of someone who knew exactly how imposing he had become.
“And now you’re afraid,” he whispered, almost in awe. “Afraid of me.”
“I’m afraid of what you’ve done,” she corrected softly.
His expression flickered—hurt, anger, longing, all battling behind his eyes. “I did what I needed to. To survive. To reach you.” His breath hit her cheek, cold and shaking. “And I’m not apologizing for that.”
Her chest tightened. “Isaac… you killed people.”
He didn’t flinch. “And you’re still here. That tells me everything.”
“No,” she breathed. “You don’t get to twist this.”
He laughed—a quiet, broken thing that held no humor. “You think this is twisting it? I know you, better than you think. You helped me. Fed me. Guarded me. You kept me alive.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “You don’t do that for someone you expect to disappear.”
“That was pity,” she forced out. “I never wanted this.”
His eyes darkened, something feral sparking behind them. “Pity kept me alive.” He braced his other hand against the tree, caging her in completely. “But pity won’t keep you safe anymore.”
Her pulse spiked.
His smile sharpened—he heard it.
“You can’t protect yourself from me,” he said, not as a threat, but as a cold, devastating fact. “You can’t hide me. You can’t weaken me. You can’t pretend I’m something fragile that needs your help.”
He leaned so close their foreheads almost brushed.
“I’m not the boy crawling in the dirt anymore,” he whispered. “I’m not begging.”
His voice softened, chillingly tender.
“I’m in control now.”
Her breath trembled as she tried to pull herself together. “Isaac, listen—”
He cut her off, voice low and trembling. “No. You listen.”
He dropped his head closer—close enough that she felt his breath skate over her throat.
“You don’t get to step away from what you created,” he murmured. “Not anymore.”
Her pulse thundered.
He smiled, slow and triumphant.
“There it is,” he whispered. “That heartbeat. That fear.” He straightened just enough to look down at her, taller, stronger—looming. “You can’t lie to me, not when your body tells the truth.”
She tried to slip sideways.
Isaac’s hand slammed softly but decisively against the trunk, blocking that direction too.
Not rough. Just final.
“You don’t get to walk away from me,” he said, quiet and absolute. “Not now that I’ve come back whole.”
Her breath stilled.
“Let me show you,” he whispered, voice aching with need and possession. “Let me show you that you’re not the one in charge anymore.”
Isaac’s smile never faltered. It was soft, almost tender—but there was a tightness around his jaw, a flicker in his eyes she couldn’t ignore. The moonlight made him glow, impossibly alive, achingly perfect—but the thing that made her stomach knot was what lurked beneath that perfection.
“I don’t want to frighten you,” he said, voice low and smooth, the words almost caressing her. “Really, I don’t. You know I’d never hurt you…”
His hand twitched, brushing against the air near her shoulder, not touching her. Too calculated to be accidental.
“…unless I had to.”
Her pulse jumped. She forced herself not to flinch. His gaze lingered, warm and magnetic, but there was something sharp behind it, something he was trying very hard to hold back.
“You look at me,” he continued softly, “and you see what I was. Weak. Broken. Hungry.” His eyes softened, but the flicker remained, just under the surface. “And I suppose it scares you… that I’m not that person anymore.”
She swallowed, unable to form words.
“I’ve changed,” he murmured, leaning in just slightly, close enough for the warmth of him to brush her skin. “And I suppose…” He smiled again, almost shyly, “…that terrifies you, doesn’t it?”
It did. But she couldn’t tell if it was fear of him—or fear of what she’d done. What she’d helped create.
Isaac’s voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, and she felt it vibrate through the space between them. “I wanted to be strong for you. You stayed, didn’t you? You fed me when I was barely… human. And I remember that. Every touch. Every breath. Every look.”
He paused, tilting his head, letting the silence stretch long enough for her to notice the tension behind his perfect composure.
“You can’t hide from me,” he added softly. “Not because I’m cruel. Not because I’m… whatever you fear I’ve become. You can’t hide from me because I’m part of you now. And you’re… part of me.”
The words were gentle, almost intimate—but the undercurrent was undeniable: he had claimed something in her, and he knew it.
A flicker of a grin crossed his lips, fragile and controlled. “I’m not asking you to understand. I’m just… showing you. Look at me.”
Her eyes flicked over him again. Every line, every perfect movement, every calm breath. And she realized, with a shiver, that the charm was a mask. Beneath it, something was fighting, coiling—hunger, power, need, darkness—all pressed down, barely contained.
And he was holding it for her.
“Do you see me?” he asked again, softly, almost tenderly. “Really see me?”
She did.
And it terrified her.
She stepped back instinctively, shaking her head, trying to force herself to speak, to reclaim some fraction of control. “I… I’m not… I won’t… I won’t let you do this, Isaac,” she said, voice quivering but firm. “You can’t just… take over. I helped you, yes—but I never agreed to this. I never wanted this.”
Isaac tilted his head, regarding her with that unnervingly perfect gaze. He smiled again, soft and almost apologetic, and yet there was a flicker behind it, a glint she couldn’t mistake for anything benign. His hands hung at his sides, loose, patient… and entirely ready.
“You won’t let me?” His voice was low, calm, the kind of tone that could soothe a frightened child or slice through steel. “Oh, I understand. I do.” His eyes softened in a way that made her chest ache with guilt—but there it was again: the glimmer underneath, the coiled, restless darkness.
“I don’t want you to give in,” she added, swallowing hard, forcing her words past the lump in her throat. “I won’t. I won’t let you… I won’t become like this.”
Isaac’s smile didn’t falter. In fact, it seemed to grow, almost mournful, like a teacher correcting a stubborn pupil. “Ah,” he said softly, stepping closer, each motion measured, deliberate, radiating control. “You’re very brave. Very stubborn. I like that about you.” His eyes swept over her, scanning her posture, her flinches, the subtle tremor in her hands. “But bravery doesn’t change the truth.”
She took another step back. The rough bark of the tree dug into her shoulder, and her breath came faster. “I said no,” she repeated, stronger this time, even as her knees threatened to buckle. “I said I won’t.”
Isaac’s smile remained, but the calmness in his eyes was giving way, just slightly, to something sharper, more impatient. “No, you won’t,” he said, voice soft, almost playful, but with a dangerous edge. “And that’s perfect. Because I wouldn’t want you to give in. Not yet.”
Her stomach knotted. She could feel it now—the subtle shift in the air, the pressure of his presence. It was almost gentle, almost sweet… until she noticed the undercurrent: he was holding back. Every word, every soft motion, was controlled, but she could see the tension coiling beneath it, the almost imperceptible tremor of need and frustration.
“I’ve waited for this,” he said, stepping closer, slow and deliberate, and she instinctively recoiled. “I’ve waited to show you—exactly—how much stronger I am now. How far I’ve come.” He paused, head tilting slightly, voice dropping to a whisper. “And you… stubborn, beautiful fool… you’re going to watch.”
Her heart pounded. “I… I’m not afraid of you,” she said, even though every instinct screamed that she should be. “You’re not… in charge of me.”
His lips twitched into that carefully measured, unnervingly sweet smile. “Ah… I hoped you’d say that.” There was a flicker of something almost desperate in his eyes now, the need barely restrained. He tilted his head closer, eyes bright and dangerous in the pale moonlight. “But stubbornness… won’t save you. Not tonight.”
She straightened, chest heaving. “I… I’ll leave when I want. You’re not… you’re not going to—”
He cut her off smoothly, almost teasingly. “No.” His voice was soft, measured, but it carried a quiet authority that made her pulse spike. “You’re not leaving—at least, not without knowing what it’s like to be caught by me.”
Her stomach turned cold. “Isaac… you’re insane—”
“Ten seconds,” he said suddenly, crisp, deliberate, almost clinical. “Ten seconds. Then I catch you.”
She froze, heart hammering. The calmness in his voice, the fake sweetness, was horrifying when paired with the weight behind his words. He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t screaming. He didn’t have to. But she knew he could—and he would—catch her in an instant.
“You can run,” he said, voice soft, almost coaxing, the edges of a smile still in place. “You can try to hide. Ten seconds. That’s all you have.”
Her breath hitched, fear and adrenaline mixing into something icy in her veins. She realized, in that moment, that no matter how fast, how clever, how determined she was… he was stronger, faster, relentless. And beneath that almost-boyish charm, the need he carried for her was dangerous, consuming, and utterly unrestrained.
She backed toward the shadowed trees, counting silently, heart hammering, knowing the game had just begun—and that Isaac Night was playing by his own rules.
She bolted, plunging into the shadows of the forest. Every step tore at the soft earth, every branch whipped her face and snagged at her gown, but she didn’t slow. Fear and adrenaline sharpened her movements, keeping her upright despite the uneven ground.
Behind her, the forest seemed to shiver. She knew he was there, even without hearing him. There was a presence—a weight in the darkness—that pressed against her like a living thing. She could feel it in the vibration of the earth beneath her boots, the snap of a twig slightly too precise, the brush of air that didn’t belong.
Her lungs burned. Her chest heaved. Roots threatened to trip her, mossy logs jutted out like traps, but she forced herself forward, forcing each stride to carry her farther into the tangled shadows.
A flicker of movement caught her eye—a shadow detaching from the trees behind her, gliding over roots with unnatural ease. Her stomach dropped. He was fast. Faster than she could have imagined. Not running, not chasing in a clumsy frenzy, but flowing, precise, like he was meant to move through this forest.
Branches tore at her arms and shoulders, mud clung to her heels, but she twisted through the undergrowth, weaving between trunks and leaping over fallen logs. He was everywhere at once, always just a fraction of a second behind her, silent and impossibly sure-footed.
The hairs on her neck pricked. She dared a glance over her shoulder. Moonlight caught his face for a heartbeat—perfect, beautiful, calm. His eyes were bright, alert, and terrifyingly focused. He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t snarling. He didn’t need to. The silence carried all the threat she could feel.
Panic sharpened her instincts. She ducked low, slid behind a thick tree, pressed herself against the rough bark, listening—not to his voice, but to the forest itself. The snap of a twig, the whisper of moving leaves, the subtle shift of air—he was moving through the trees with preternatural ease, and she could feel the coiled patience behind it, the quiet, controlled hunger in every step he took.
Her boots skidded over wet leaves. She stumbled over a root, clawed herself upright, and forced herself forward. Every fiber of her body screamed to hide, to find some place he couldn’t reach, some gap in the forest where she could disappear—but she knew, deep down, there wasn’t one.
He was stronger. Faster. Unstoppable. And though she couldn’t hear him, she could feel him, trailing her like a shadow that refused to detach, like gravity itself had chosen a side.
The forest narrowed, branches tangling overhead. She ducked and twisted, trying to keep moving, but the weight of his presence pressed on her chest. She could sense it wrapping around her, pressing closer, even when the darkness tried to swallow her whole.
Her pulse thundered. She was running blind, half-blinded by fear, every nerve straining. And somewhere in the oppressive quiet, she felt it—the patience, the coiled power, the obsession that didn’t need words to terrify her.
He would catch her. She knew it.
She just had to survive until she could figure out how.
She twisted down a narrow corridor of trees, branches clawing at her arms and gown. Her lungs burned, legs screamed, but her mind sharpened. She couldn’t outrun him—she knew that—but maybe she could force him to slow, to misstep, to give her a fraction of an advantage.
A fallen log blocked her path. Without hesitation, she vaulted over it, scraping her arm against the rough bark. Behind her, she sensed him—not the sound of his footsteps, not a shadow—just the impossible certainty of his presence, a force gliding through the trees like he belonged to the darkness itself.
She darted left, then right, weaving through thick trunks, crouching low under tangles of branches. Her ears strained for any clue of him, but there was only silence. The silence was him. It pressed in, heavy, suffocating.
Ahead, a narrow ravine cut through the forest floor. If she could make it across, she could put distance between them—just a little. She gathered herself, sprinted, and leapt. Muddy hands scrabbled at the opposite edge, and she hauled herself up, panting, shaking, but alive.
She froze, listening. The faintest rustle behind her, a movement too quick to be human, made her stomach lurch. She knew he had made the jump as well, effortless, fluid, silent. He wasn’t chasing like a man; he was flowing, gliding through the forest, and the trees bent around him, accommodating every step.
Branches whipped her face, roots tried to trip her, but she forced herself to keep moving. She ducked into a thicket, pressing her back against a massive trunk, heart hammering. She counted the seconds in her head, not because she had to, but because it helped her focus. One… two… three…
She moved again, trying to stay quiet, twisting through the dense undergrowth. Every shadow could be him. Every snap of a twig could signal he was closing the distance. She forced herself to remember: speed wouldn’t save her. Cleverness might.
Ahead, the forest opened into a small clearing. She darted into it, skidding across wet leaves. Her chest burned, arms scraped and bleeding from branches, and her legs were on fire—but the clearing gave her a moment, a space to think, to plan.
She crouched low, pressed herself to the ground, and scanned the edges. The undergrowth on the far side offered cover, shadows thick enough to slip into. Maybe she could circle around, loop back, mislead him. Maybe.
And then she felt it: that subtle pressure in the air again, like a hand pressing against the back of her neck. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that her blood ran cold. He was there, just beyond the edge of the clearing, silent, patient, watching.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe. He didn’t move, didn’t rush, but the weight of him was undeniable. Every instinct screamed to run, but her mind screamed louder: think, don’t panic. You have to outsmart him.
She backed into the shadows, pressed herself against a tree, and waited. One misstep could be the last.
And somewhere in the silent forest, she knew he was waiting too—watching, calculating, coiling. Not with rage, not with a roar, but with quiet, terrifying precision.
He could catch her anytime he wanted. And she had to make sure she wasn’t foolish enough to give him the chance.
She darted blindly through the forest, branches tearing at her gown, roots threatening to send her sprawling. The clearing ahead shimmered with the familiar, haunted silhouette she’d dreaded returning to—the Skull Tree. Her stomach clenched. No… not there. Not again.
But she had no choice. Isaac was on her heels—silent, precise, unstoppable. She could feel him pressing closer, the subtle vibration of the earth beneath his steps, the weight of him threading through the shadows. She pushed herself harder, desperate, lungs burning, heart hammering.
She reached the Skull Tree. Its jagged branches twisted like grasping hands, its trunk scarred with centuries of forgotten carvings. The air was thick, musty, and electric. For a heartbeat, she considered doubling back—but he would catch her. She knew it.
And then he was there.
He emerged from the shadows like a predator materializing from smoke. No warning. No sound—just presence, overwhelming and absolute. She skidded to a halt. He moved faster than she could react, closing the distance in a heartbeat.
“I told you…” His voice was low, soft, almost melodic, but it vibrated with coiled violence. “…I catch you.”
Before she could dodge, his hands shot out, gripping her shoulders with unrelenting force. She struggled instinctively, thrashing, clawing, kicking, but his hold was iron. He wasn’t panicking; he wasn’t careless. He was exactly this strong, exactly this in control.
“Isaac! Let me go!” she screamed, twisting, but every movement seemed only to amuse him, every bite of panic feeding his obsession.
“You can fight,” he murmured, teeth gritted just slightly, eyes burning with a mixture of need and rage. “I want you to fight. Don’t stop.”
She clawed at his arms, trying to shove him away, trying to create space—but he moved with her, anticipating, countering every twist and turn. When she lashed out, he barely flinched, redirecting her momentum with terrifying ease.
“You can’t hide from me here,” he whispered, pressing her back against the trunk of the Skull Tree. The twisted bark dug into her shoulders as he held her tight, not just to contain her, but to assert himself, to show that he was stronger, in control.
She kicked, hit, clawed at his chest, but he only adjusted his grip, tilting her just enough to keep her off balance. Her nails scraped his chest, leaving shallow marks, and he exhaled a soft, controlled breath—not pain, not anger—but satisfaction.
“You’re reckless,” he said softly, almost scolding, the fake sweetness threading through the words like a knife. “You could break yourself… or me. And neither of us wants that.”
Her head snapped back, trying to avoid his eyes. His thumb brushed her jaw—not enough to be gentle, not enough to soothe—but to remind her: I am here. You cannot escape.
“I won’t…” she gasped, chest heaving. “I… I won’t let you… control me…”
His smile cracked, just slightly, a flash of darkness breaking through the calm veneer. “Control?” he hissed softly, almost incredulously. “I’m not controlling you. I’m… proving to you. Showing you. That you… can’t stop me.”
He tightened his grip suddenly, forcing her to struggle even harder. Her legs kicked, trying to pry herself free, but he adjusted, moving with uncanny precision, cornering her against the tree’s jagged trunk.
The Skull Tree loomed over them, shadows twisting around his impossibly perfect form, his chest rising and falling steadily as hers burned with effort. She could feel every pulse of him—the strength, the need, the obsession that had grown since he was resurrected.
And despite her terror, despite the fight in her, a part of her froze—not with fear of being caught, but with the undeniable recognition that he wasn’t human anymore. He was something sharper, stronger, more dangerous than she could have imagined, and he had chosen this place—the place of his rebirth—to prove it.
“You can fight,” he whispered again, voice almost tender, a cruel mockery of care. “But it won’t change anything.”
She screamed, she kicked, she thrashed—but the Skull Tree enclosed them, the shadows wrapping tighter, and Isaac’s strength was absolute. The chase was over.
She had nowhere left to run.
He shifted his weight, and before she could react, he forced her down onto the damp forest floor. Leaves and mud pressed into her gown, scratches streaking her arms and legs, but she refused to still. His body was got against hers, his weight pushing her into the moist earth beneath her. Her hands clawed at him, kicking, twisting, screaming—but he anticipated everything.
“Keep fighting,” he murmured, voice low, soft… almost coaxing. His words brushed her ear, breath hot on her neck. But the words carried steel, the quiet certainty of someone who could break her in an instant if he chose.
“I’m not…” she gasped, thrashing beneath him. “I won’t—”
“Shh,” he said, leaning closer, breath brushing her ear. “I want you to fight. Don’t stop. Show me your strength.”
She bucked and twisted, scraping her nails along his arms, kicking at his legs. Each motion he countered effortlessly, shifting his weight just enough to maintain control without crushing her, keeping her on the ground, pinned—but alive.
“You think this will make a difference?” he whispered, almost tenderly, brushing a strand of hair from her face, the smallest gesture of mock care that sent a shiver through her. His body rocked against hers, his knee forcing itself between her legs. “You think resisting me will save you?”
Her chest heaved as he shifted, forcing himself between her thighs. Her legs screamed, her arms burned, but she refused to stop, refused to give him the satisfaction. “I… I… I won’t let you—”
He pressed her shoulders into the mud, his grip firm but controlled as he settled between her legs. His other hand came to grip at the fabric of her dress, hiking gather gown up. Cold fingers traced her skin, goosebumps raising. “Good,” he said, a flicker of a smile twisting his lips. “Fight. Scratch. Kick. Don’t make it easy for me. I like seeing that fire. That stubbornness.”
She struck at him again, hands clawing at his chest. He adjusted slightly, keeping her pinned, and yet… there was a hunger in his eyes, a desperate need that hadn’t been there before.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice cracking slightly with restrained need. “And I’m showing you. You can fight me. You can scream. You can thrash. But in the end…” He leaned closer, so close that the warmth of him pressed against her cheek, the cold night air tangled with the heat of him. “…you can’t escape me.” His body moved against hers, hips shifting slightly. A noise escaped him, a deep sigh of desire.
Her hands dug into his arms again, nails tearing, and he gritted his teeth, but his voice remained soft, almost gentle. “Just like that” he murmured, leaning downward to burrow his face into her neck. He inhaled the sweet scent, sighing against her skin. “I want every bit of you to fight. Show me that strength… because I need to see it.”
Her breath came in ragged bursts. She fought with everything she had—every kick, every twist, every desperate shove—but beneath her terror, a sinking realization clawed at her: he wasn’t just stronger. He was perfect now, every movement calculated, every ounce of his body trained by hunger and death, and no amount of resistance could match him.
And yet… he wanted her to struggle. He wanted her to fight. Because in that struggle, she was his.
She bucked upward with a sudden burst of strength, twisting her arms free just enough to shove at his chest. Isaac rocked back a fraction—just a fraction—but it was enough to give her hope. Her fingers dug into the dirt, trying to drag herself backward, to wedge herself between the roots of the Skull Tree.
He didn’t give her the chance.
His hand closed around her waist, firm, unshakable, and he dragged her back beneath him with terrifying ease. He swung her around onto her stomach, his chest crushing her back. Loose curls scattered the soil, her cheek pressed into the earth.
“There it is,” he breathed, voice deep against her neck. “That fire. That stubborn little spark in you—”
His hand reached down to grip her throat, holding her neck in his hand. It was supportive, almost, but the tight grip was also a threat to her “—don’t you dare let it go out.”
She writhed beneath him, every movement beneath him only furthering his need for her.
He was focused, his free hand reaching downward to her skirts. His fingers gripped the fabric, moving the velvet up her thighs.
Her frantic breaths fogged the cold air. “Isaac—stop—!”
“No.”
His answer was final, voice assertive and yet calm. As her skirts hiked higher, the cold night kissed her skin, shivers moving up her skin.
He seemed to take his time, hand still gripping her throat. His chest was warm against her back, a stark contrast to the moist soil pressed against her own chest. Finally, the fabric was up, the skin of her bottom finally exposed in the beautiful moonlight.
Slowly, as if unsure of whether or not she were real, he touched her, cold hands running along her exposed skin. She writhed beneath him, pleas escaping her pink lips. He shushed her simply, as if in a trance, hands following the curve of her hips, up to the roundness of her ass.
A shaky breath fell from his lips.
Something shifted in him. His gentle touch became hungry, his fingers coming to squeeze the flesh roughly. A pained cry fell from her lips, his name followed with it.
His eyes shone at that.
Toughening his grip on her throat slightly, he hands came to move to his own pants, hungrily. He was clumsy and impatient, like an animal starved.
The sound of a belt unbuckling rang in her ear, her blood freezing. “No— stop this!” She tried, flailing beneath him. He wasted no energy, his hand coming to grip even tighter on her throat as he shushed her.
“Shh— just relax,” he breathed into her hair, ignoring her labored breaths as she struggled to breathe.
He shifted, fumbling with himself, and then slowly, he moved, a strangled groan falling him his lips.
Tears welled in her eyes, soil clinging to her lashes. Her stomach swelled in pain at his size, a pained cry forcing itself from her mouth.
He kissed her exposed shoulder, lips pressed into her skin as he moved himself once more, releasing a hiss of pleasure. “My god—“
Teeth nipped her skin, before finally, he leaned upwards, his hand releasing from her throat. Instead, it found a home on the back of her head. His fingers laced in her hair, shoving her face deep into the ground as he moved more freely now.
She there as he fucked her, mud caked onto her cheek. She whined painfully, mind becoming numb to his assault. She was utterly hopeless, utterly powerless against him.
He seemed to notice her lack of emotion, as his hand pulled tightly at his scalp, pushing her further into the ground as his pace picked up. “Just like that, my love….do you feel that?”
A groan fell from his lips, head leaning backward. His hips snapped against hers, the pace ruthless and rough. Quickly, however, he pulled himself away from her, pulling her into his arms and turning her once more.
Her back hit the dirt, his hands grabbing at her thighs impatiently. “I want you to look at me, hmm? I want to look you in the eyes as I destroy you…”
He was quick to adjust himself once more, pushing himself back into her with no hesitation. The new position seemed to have broken him, his lips parting with a gasp as he continued his assault. Leaning down, his lips brushed her jawline, teeth nipping at her skin.
The world had gone quiet. The forest, the Skull Tree, the air—they all seemed distant, irrelevant. Only him remained, looming, pressing, a weight she could neither move nor escape. She lay beneath him, every part of her body aching, trembling, and yet nothing—no fight, no breathless panic, no sharp panic—rose anymore.
Her mind had gone numb, stripped of resistance. Every instinct to struggle had burned out, every defiance she had clung to in the past hours dissolved like smoke. She could feel him above her, steady, unyielding, and it wasn’t just his strength that overwhelmed her—it was the certainty behind it, the undeniable force of someone who could bend everything to his will.
She tried to think. Tried to summon fear, anger, outrage. But it was gone. Her body moved, yes, but it was automatic, reflexive, hollow. Her chest rose and fell, but it was like a machine going through motions, a puppet shaking against invisible strings.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice calm, soft, deliberate. Not angry, not shouting. Just absolute. His gaze pressed into her like a living thing, and she felt it burrow into her bones. “And you’ll see… you can’t stop me. Not now. Not ever.”
And she believed him.
The truth was undeniable. Every shred of resistance, every spark of rebellion she had carried, had been stripped away. He hadn’t screamed, hadn’t needed to raise his voice. The quiet precision of him, the patience, the control, had undone her in a way force never could.
Her limbs trembled, weak and useless beneath him. Her mind floated somewhere outside herself, a distant observer watching a body she barely recognized struggle and fail. He had destroyed her—not with violence, not with cruelty, but with inevitability. With the perfect, crushing weight of someone who was stronger, faster, and utterly unrelenting.
And as the fog of numbness settled over her, a single, icy thought crystallized in the back of her mind:
She had no escape. She couldn’t fight him. She couldn’t outrun him.
He had won.
Completely.
And she was utterly broken.
His hand came to grip her jaw, forcing her into a bruising kiss. His lips molded against hers— hungry, demanding, relentless— as he tongue wormed its way into her mouth. It was a claim, an invasion, and yet she welcomed it.
He moaned into her mouth, lips parting against hers. His hips snapped against hers, his breaths growing heavier. Suddenly, he was forcing her head upward to face him.
“Look at me,” he breathed, words warm against her face. “Look me in the eyes.”
He held her there, hand strong as he stared into her eyes. His own were dark, a hunger deep within. They were void of light, a threat behind the brown.
And so she obeyed.
He stared deep within her eyes as he snapped against hers, jaw tense and groans messy. His pace was growing sloppy, his grip on her face tightening as he neared his end.
“You’re perfect,” he sighed, desperation dripping from each word. “It’s all for you— everything, for you.”
And finally, with a snap of his hips, he came, head leaning down into the crook of her neck. He groaned against her skin, lashes fluttering in her collarbone.
For a long moment after it ended, she didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Her body felt weightless and heavy at once, as if all the strength had been siphoned from her veins and replaced with nothing but cold air. The forest swayed around her in a slow, distant blur. The Skull Tree loomed overhead like some ancient witness, its twisted branches clawing at the sky.
Isaac stayed above her, breathing hard, his palms still pressed into the ground on either side of her shoulders. The violent edge that had controlled him minutes ago slowly bled away from his expression. His jaw unclenched. His eyes softened. Something almost human seeped back into his face.
He looked down at her like she was something delicate — breakable, precious — even though he had been the one to shatter her.
“Hey…” His voice was quiet now. Frighteningly gentle. “It’s over. I’m not hurting you anymore.”
She stared past him, unable to focus her vision. Her heartbeat thudded unevenly in her ears, her breath catching like her lungs had forgotten their rhythm.
Isaac noticed. His expression wavered.
With slow, careful movements — the movements of someone handling a wounded animal — he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers were warm. Too warm.
“You’re alright,” he murmured. “Look at me.”
She didn’t. Couldn’t.
A flicker of pain crossed his face — not guilt, but frustration. A crack in the facade.
And then… he softened even more. A tenderness that felt horribly misplaced.
“I had to,” he whispered. “You were running from me. You didn’t understand how strong I’ve become… how much I’ve changed.” His thumb traced her jaw, gentle, reverent. “I needed you to stop fighting.”
She swallowed, throat dry and raw. Her voice barely scraped out:
“Isaac… what did you do to me?”
He exhaled, breath shaky but tender, like he was comforting her after a nightmare he caused.
“Nothing you won’t recover from,” he said softly. “I just needed you to listen.”
His touch lingered. Almost affectionate.
“See?” he whispered. “Now you’re still. Now you’re here. With me.”
She closed her eyes, because it was easier than looking at him.
He wasn’t angry anymore, and somehow, that felt much more terrifying.
The forest settled around them. The wind whispered through the Skull Tree’s twisted branches, carrying the scent of damp earth and broken leaves. For the first time in what felt like hours, there was silence—complete, heavy, and almost sacred.
Isaac shifted, finally sitting back on his heels, letting the pressure lift. He didn’t speak at first, just watched her with an intensity that was unnerving and oddly protective. His hands rested lightly on his knees, no longer forcing, no longer demanding—only waiting.
She lay there, numb, trembling, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tension in her body began to ease. Her muscles unclenched. Her breath returned to a slower rhythm. The terror that had gripped her melted into exhaustion, and for the first time, she realized she was alive.
He leaned closer, voice soft, quiet enough that it could have been mistaken for the rustling leaves.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you anymore.”
She blinked up at him, the moonlight catching in his eyes, making them look impossibly human. His face, once so hard and desperate, now held a strange calm, a gentleness that contrasted with everything he had been minutes ago.
She nodded weakly, not trusting her voice yet.
Isaac didn’t move closer, didn’t speak again. He simply stayed there, a silent sentinel, letting her recover on her own terms. The power he had wielded, the fear he had inspired, had ebbed, leaving only him—and the quiet weight of everything that had passed.
The Skull Tree loomed above them, silent, twisting in the dim moonlight. Its shadow stretched over the ground like a reminder of what had happened, and yet, in that shadowed clearing, there was something fragile, almost tender.
She felt him shift slightly, brushing a stray leaf from her shoulder without asking, without touching more than necessary. It was enough. A small gesture. A promise of calm after chaos.
She let her head rest back against the soft earth, closing her eyes. Exhausted, numb, but alive.
And for now, that was enough.
Isaac stayed by her side, silent, controlled, his presence both protective and terrifying—a reminder that, however gentle he seemed now, the darkness within him had not vanished.
The forest held its breath around them, and in that quiet, fragile moment, they simply existed.
la gloire à mes genoux - Isaac Night
Warnings: non-con, power play, needy and desperate Isaac, very dark, dead dove do not eat
— SUMMARY: Velvet gowns, black ties, bottomless wine glasses— Nevermore’s glorious annual Masquerade ball is in full swing. Despite this, a woman can’t seem to shake the news of locals going missing, only to be found days later with their brains sucked from their skull. When she steps outside for some much needed fresh air, she certainly doesn’t expect a familiar face to be hidden in the shadows, waiting for the perfect moment to prove to her how much strength he’s reclaimed— all thanks to her
ROSIE SPEAKS: Hello my darlings. I’ve come out of hibernation to write this. Forgive my skills, it’s been years. I’m currently living in Paris for university at the moment, and was recently introduced to this French musical. One of the songs, the title of this chapter actually, was really inspired me. It’s about a man wanting glory at his knees, wanting to rise to the top no matter what. I know most of the time when a writer adds music into a story, it goes unheard. However, I truly recommend giving in a listen, even if you don’t speak any French. It’s an amazing song.
°°° Velvet gowns drifted like spilled ink across the marble floors, masks glittered beneath candlelight, and the orchestra’s waltz wrapped itself around the ballroom in decadent, dizzying loops. Nevermore’s annual Masquerade had never looked more magnificent. Laughter rose, glasses clinked, and wine flowed freely enough to make anyone forget the world outside.
Anyone but her.
Beneath the shimmer and spectacle, unease clung to her like a second skin. The recent disappearances—those locals found days later with their skulls emptied as though something had feasted on their very thoughts—were impossible to shrug off. Even behind jeweled masks, every face felt like a secret. Every shadow seemed too deep. Every dancer moved just a little too close.
When the weight of it became unbearable, she slipped through a side door and into the cool night air. The sudden quiet rang in her ears. Moonlight brushed over the gardens in pale silver, peaceful in a way that felt almost wrong.
She exhaled, at last, unaware that the night was holding its breath right along with her.
The night outside the ballroom was supposed to be a relief—cool air, quiet space, a moment without masked faces brushing too close or laughter that rang a little too sharp, too forced. But the moment the door clicked shut behind her, she felt it: that prickling awareness along the back of her neck, the sense of being watched by something the dark itself was holding in its cupped hands.
The garden stretched out before her in pale ribbons of moonlight, serene and soft, yet the forest beyond it loomed like a different world entirely. She’d grown up hearing Nevermore’s stories about those woods—how shadows there moved with intention, how you could feel eyes on you even when you were alone. She used to dismiss those tales as dramatics.
Tonight, she wasn’t so sure.
A breeze drifted through the trees, carrying the scent of moss and cold earth. And beneath that… something else. Familiar, almost painfully so. She paused on the earth, breath hitching. The sensation rolled over her again, tighter this time—a tightening in her chest, a pull low in her stomach, like a memory trying to claw itself to the surface.
Someone was out there.
Not just someone—someone she knew.
She stepped closer to the treeline, though logic and every instinct told her she shouldn’t. The ballroom’s golden glow was far behind her now, replaced by the forest’s hushed silence. A wolfish quiet. An expectant quiet.
The moonlight stopped politely at the first line of trees, refusing to intrude farther, as if what lay within was none of its business. But she squinted anyway, trying to let her eyes adjust. The longer she stared, the more she sensed rather than saw: the subtle shift of weight against damp earth, the almost-sound of breath held perfectly still, the presence of something coiled, patient, powerful.
Her pulse quickened.
He felt close—close enough that if she reached forward, she might touch warm skin or brush against fabric. Close enough that she could almost imagine a figure leaning against a tree trunk, carved from the darkness itself. Broad shoulders tucked into shadow. Eyes she couldn’t see but could feel, cutting through the gloom like a blade pressed lightly to her throat.
She swallowed hard.
This forest had always been chilly, but the cold now seemed to radiate from a single point, as though the night was gathering around one person, shaping itself to him. She didn’t know how she knew that—she just did. Just as she knew that whoever he was, he wasn’t afraid of her seeing him.
If anything… he was waiting for it.
Her fingertips tingled. A strange pressure—like static, like a whisper brushing her skin—coiled around her wrist, feather-light but undeniably there. She jerked slightly, staring at her own hand as if expecting to see something clinging to her.
The sensation faded the instant she looked away, dissolving back into the forest as though it had never existed.
She wrapped her arms around herself, breath unsteady. She should go back inside, back to the noise and masks and safety. That would have been the smart choice.
But something about the darkness in front of her—something about the way it watched—held her in place.
“Who’s there?” she whispered, though her voice was barely audible beneath the stir of leaves.
Silence. Then a subtle shift, the kind that wasn’t sound so much as felt—a ripple through the night, almost like a response. She stiffened, heart thudding wildly.
Whoever lingered in those trees wasn’t stumbling around lost. He wasn’t wandering. He wasn’t uncertain.
He was anchored there. Rooted. Waiting.
And the most unsettling part?
She wasn’t afraid. Not exactly.
No, what unsettled her was far worse—because beneath all her confusion and the eerie stillness around her, there was a flicker of recognition. A pull she didn’t understand. A name she almost said aloud.
Almost.
She took a shaky breath and stepped back—not into safety, but into the awareness that something in that forest had been drawn to her long before she ever stepped outside.
And whatever he was now…
he was no longer someone she could ignore.
She stumbled back a step as he emerged into the spill of moonlight—her lungs tightening, her heart skipping a painful beat.
She knew that figure.
She knew that face.
But not like this.
The last time she saw Isaac, he’d been half-rotted, skin gray and paper-thin, eyes sunken and cloudy. He’d barely been able to stand. Pugsley had held him upright while Eugene whispered reassurances, and she had cupped the back of Isaac’s skull gingerly, trying not to react to the soft, sickening give of decayed flesh beneath her fingers.
She remembered feeding him—hands trembling, stomach churning—because he needed something, anything, to anchor himself. She didn’t know the legend was real. She didn’t know “feeding” meant that. She didn’t know the ritual would chain her to this nightmare.
And she had never imagined he would end up like this.
“Isaac…” her voice broke around his name.
He stood there—tall, fully formed, fully alive, beautiful in a way that made her blood run cold. His skin was smooth, luminous. His eyes were bright, sharp enough to cut straight through her. His shoulders were broader, his posture sure, every movement deliberate and eerily graceful. A red suit hugged his frame, soothing around muscles and hugging him tightly.
He looked…
perfect.
Too perfect.
And she hated herself for noticing.
A slow smile pulled at his lips, soft enough to be familiar, wrong enough to make her stomach twist.
“Surprised?” he asked.
She could only stare.
She had seen the in-between stages—the wet, slack flesh knitting itself together, the patches of rot sloughing off as new tissue grew beneath. She had watched him shudder with each stolen memory, each stolen life. She’d hidden him when Pugsley warned someone was coming, held him down when Eugene tried to soothe his feral spasms.
She had cried the night she realized Isaac was killing, and cried harder when she realized he didn’t seem to stop.
Now he looked like the boy she once cared for—only more.
Too much more.
“Isaac… this isn’t what we wanted,” she whispered.
He stepped closer, moonlight unraveling across his features like a spotlight unveiling something sacred and blasphemous all at once.
“I wanted it,” he said quietly. “You gave me a chance. I took it.”
“That doesn’t mean you had to—” her words snagged on her throat, “—hurt people.”
His expression didn’t flicker. “I had no choice.”
“You always had a choice,” she shot back, but her voice trembled.
He moved closer. She moved back, feet stumbling over a root.
His presence felt different now—denser, more consuming, like the forest bent around him rather than the other way around. The shadows clung to him as if they belonged to him.
“You’re scared of me,” he said softly.
The words sliced through her.
“I’m scared of what you’ve become.”
Isaac tilted his head, studying her. His eyes softened in a way that made her chest ache—because for a single fractured heartbeat, she saw the boy he had been. The one she’d whispered with under the bleachers. The one who’d shared secrets with her. The one who’d died too young.
But then something hungry flickered behind his gaze.
Something dark.
Something claiming.
“And yet,” he murmured, “you’re still here.”
His voice wrapped around her, warm and wrong.
“You raised me from the grave. You fed me. You protected me. You watched me become this.” He spread his hands slightly, as though showing off a new body he was proud of. “You gave me life again.”
Her pulse stuttered. “I didn’t know it would turn you into a—”
“A monster?” he finished calmly.
Her breath hitched.
He smiled, slow and devastating.
“Maybe,” Isaac said. “But I’m your monster.”
Her blood went cold.
The forest went silent.
And for the first time since resurrecting him, she realized—Isaac wasn’t here to ask for help.He wasn’t here for gratitude. He wasn’t here for forgiveness. He was here because she was the one who brought him back.
And he wasn’t planning on letting her go.
He stepped closer again, and this time she felt the shift in the air—a pressure, like the forest itself was holding its breath around him. Isaac was beautiful now… terrifyingly beautiful. But it was the way he looked at her that truly froze her blood.
Like she was the sun he had been resurrected to orbit.
“Do you see me?” he whispered, voice trembling—not with fear, but something dangerously close to need.
She swallowed. “Isaac, please—”
He cut her off with a sharp, ragged sound that might’ve been a laugh… or a sob pressed into a smile.
“Don’t say my name like that,” he murmured, stepping close enough that she felt the cold radiating from him. “Not like I’m something to fear. I came back for you.”
She backed away.
He followed.
“I’m stronger now,” he went on, tone tightening with frantic pride. “Faster. I can hear your heartbeat from across the clearing.” His eyes flicked to her throat, lingering there, almost entranced. “You have no idea what that does to me.”
Her breath hitched. “You’re scaring me.”
“I don’t want to scare you,” Isaac insisted quickly—but his voice cracked with a desperation that said he’d rather terrify her than lose her. “I want you to understand.”
He moved in front of her before she could keep retreating, not touching her—just blocking every direction except toward him.
A calculated, quiet display of dominance.
“I was weak before,” he whispered. “Die-able.” His expression twisted. “Forgettable.”
Her heart slammed against her ribs. “Isaac, that’s not true.”
“You hesitated.” His voice fractured on the words. “When I was starving, you hesitated. You cried, but you didn’t want to save me. Not until it was too late.”
“That’s not fair—”
“You had a choice. And you waited.”
His chest rose and fell, too still between breaths.
“Now,” he said softly, “it’s my turn to choose.”
Her spine stiffened. “Isaac—”
He reached out. She flinched. His hand hovered inches from her cheek, shaking, almost trembling with anticipation. He didn’t touch her—likely because he wanted her to realize he had enough control not to.
“I’m perfect now,” he whispered, voice breaking with raw emotion. “Because of what I’ve taken. Because of what you allowed me to become.”
She felt her stomach twist. “What I allowed? Isaac, you’ve killed innocents. I tried to stop you—”
“You tried to starve me.” His expression hardened. “You wanted me weak again.”
“No,” she said quickly, “I wanted you alive. Not like this—”
“You wanted me harmless.”
He stepped closer. She couldn’t move back without brushing the rough bark of a tree. The forest seemed to fold around them, closing them in.
“I was harmless before—weak,” he murmured, eyes burning with something obsessive and unhinged.
Her throat tightened.
Isaac’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“But now?”
He leaned in, almost brushing her skin without touching it.
“Never again.”
Her breath stuttered.
“This strength?” he continued, lifting his hand to let moonlight catch on the perfect, healed lines of his fingers. “This new life? I want you to see it. To feel how different I am.”
“Isaac—”
“Let me show you,” he whispered, need clawing at the edges of his voice. “Let me show you I’m not the zombie you used to pity.”
Her breath hitched as he leaned in, but he didn’t touch her. He didn’t need to. His presence alone pressed against her like a cage.
“I need you to listen,” Isaac murmured, voice tightening with that same frantic, hungry pride. “You can’t run from me anymore.”
Her fingers curled helplessly against the bark behind her. “Isaac… I wasn’t running.”
“You left the shed,” he said, and though his tone was soft, every word landed like a stone. “You left me to go to your pretty little ball. Masks. Dancing. Pretending everything’s fine.” His jaw clenched. “Like I wasn’t waiting.”
A chill scraped down her spine. “I didn’t know you were—”
“Yes, you did.” His voice sharpened, cutting. “You knew I’d come for you when I was healed. You just hoped I wouldn’t.”
She swallowed hard, unable to deny it.
Isaac stepped closer, slow, deliberate, his body blocking out the moonlight. His height, his perfect posture, the unnatural grace he’d gained—it all screamed of someone who knew exactly how imposing he had become.
“And now you’re afraid,” he whispered, almost in awe. “Afraid of me.”
“I’m afraid of what you’ve done,” she corrected softly.
His expression flickered—hurt, anger, longing, all battling behind his eyes. “I did what I needed to. To survive. To reach you.” His breath hit her cheek, cold and shaking. “And I’m not apologizing for that.”
Her chest tightened. “Isaac… you killed people.”
He didn’t flinch. “And you’re still here. That tells me everything.”
“No,” she breathed. “You don’t get to twist this.”
He laughed—a quiet, broken thing that held no humor. “You think this is twisting it? I know you, better than you think. You helped me. Fed me. Guarded me. You kept me alive.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “You don’t do that for someone you expect to disappear.”
“That was pity,” she forced out. “I never wanted this.”
His eyes darkened, something feral sparking behind them. “Pity kept me alive.” He braced his other hand against the tree, caging her in completely. “But pity won’t keep you safe anymore.”
Her pulse spiked.
His smile sharpened—he heard it.
“You can’t protect yourself from me,” he said, not as a threat, but as a cold, devastating fact. “You can’t hide me. You can’t weaken me. You can’t pretend I’m something fragile that needs your help.”
He leaned so close their foreheads almost brushed.
“I’m not the boy crawling in the dirt anymore,” he whispered. “I’m not begging.”
His voice softened, chillingly tender.
“I’m in control now.”
Her breath trembled as she tried to pull herself together. “Isaac, listen—”
He cut her off, voice low and trembling. “No. You listen.”
He dropped his head closer—close enough that she felt his breath skate over her throat.
“You don’t get to step away from what you created,” he murmured. “Not anymore.”
Her pulse thundered.
He smiled, slow and triumphant.
“There it is,” he whispered. “That heartbeat. That fear.” He straightened just enough to look down at her, taller, stronger—looming. “You can’t lie to me, not when your body tells the truth.”
She tried to slip sideways.
Isaac’s hand slammed softly but decisively against the trunk, blocking that direction too.
Not rough. Just final.
“You don’t get to walk away from me,” he said, quiet and absolute. “Not now that I’ve come back whole.”
Her breath stilled.
“Let me show you,” he whispered, voice aching with need and possession. “Let me show you that you’re not the one in charge anymore.”
Isaac’s smile never faltered. It was soft, almost tender—but there was a tightness around his jaw, a flicker in his eyes she couldn’t ignore. The moonlight made him glow, impossibly alive, achingly perfect—but the thing that made her stomach knot was what lurked beneath that perfection.
“I don’t want to frighten you,” he said, voice low and smooth, the words almost caressing her. “Really, I don’t. You know I’d never hurt you…”
His hand twitched, brushing against the air near her shoulder, not touching her. Too calculated to be accidental.
“…unless I had to.”
Her pulse jumped. She forced herself not to flinch. His gaze lingered, warm and magnetic, but there was something sharp behind it, something he was trying very hard to hold back.
“You look at me,” he continued softly, “and you see what I was. Weak. Broken. Hungry.” His eyes softened, but the flicker remained, just under the surface. “And I suppose it scares you… that I’m not that person anymore.”
She swallowed, unable to form words.
“I’ve changed,” he murmured, leaning in just slightly, close enough for the warmth of him to brush her skin. “And I suppose…” He smiled again, almost shyly, “…that terrifies you, doesn’t it?”
It did. But she couldn’t tell if it was fear of him—or fear of what she’d done. What she’d helped create.
Isaac’s voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, and she felt it vibrate through the space between them. “I wanted to be strong for you. You stayed, didn’t you? You fed me when I was barely… human. And I remember that. Every touch. Every breath. Every look.”
He paused, tilting his head, letting the silence stretch long enough for her to notice the tension behind his perfect composure.
“You can’t hide from me,” he added softly. “Not because I’m cruel. Not because I’m… whatever you fear I’ve become. You can’t hide from me because I’m part of you now. And you’re… part of me.”
The words were gentle, almost intimate—but the undercurrent was undeniable: he had claimed something in her, and he knew it.
A flicker of a grin crossed his lips, fragile and controlled. “I’m not asking you to understand. I’m just… showing you. Look at me.”
Her eyes flicked over him again. Every line, every perfect movement, every calm breath. And she realized, with a shiver, that the charm was a mask. Beneath it, something was fighting, coiling—hunger, power, need, darkness—all pressed down, barely contained.
And he was holding it for her.
“Do you see me?” he asked again, softly, almost tenderly. “Really see me?”
She did.
And it terrified her.
She stepped back instinctively, shaking her head, trying to force herself to speak, to reclaim some fraction of control. “I… I’m not… I won’t… I won’t let you do this, Isaac,” she said, voice quivering but firm. “You can’t just… take over. I helped you, yes—but I never agreed to this. I never wanted this.”
Isaac tilted his head, regarding her with that unnervingly perfect gaze. He smiled again, soft and almost apologetic, and yet there was a flicker behind it, a glint she couldn’t mistake for anything benign. His hands hung at his sides, loose, patient… and entirely ready.
“You won’t let me?” His voice was low, calm, the kind of tone that could soothe a frightened child or slice through steel. “Oh, I understand. I do.” His eyes softened in a way that made her chest ache with guilt—but there it was again: the glimmer underneath, the coiled, restless darkness.
“I don’t want you to give in,” she added, swallowing hard, forcing her words past the lump in her throat. “I won’t. I won’t let you… I won’t become like this.”
Isaac’s smile didn’t falter. In fact, it seemed to grow, almost mournful, like a teacher correcting a stubborn pupil. “Ah,” he said softly, stepping closer, each motion measured, deliberate, radiating control. “You’re very brave. Very stubborn. I like that about you.” His eyes swept over her, scanning her posture, her flinches, the subtle tremor in her hands. “But bravery doesn’t change the truth.”
She took another step back. The rough bark of the tree dug into her shoulder, and her breath came faster. “I said no,” she repeated, stronger this time, even as her knees threatened to buckle. “I said I won’t.”
Isaac’s smile remained, but the calmness in his eyes was giving way, just slightly, to something sharper, more impatient. “No, you won’t,” he said, voice soft, almost playful, but with a dangerous edge. “And that’s perfect. Because I wouldn’t want you to give in. Not yet.”
Her stomach knotted. She could feel it now—the subtle shift in the air, the pressure of his presence. It was almost gentle, almost sweet… until she noticed the undercurrent: he was holding back. Every word, every soft motion, was controlled, but she could see the tension coiling beneath it, the almost imperceptible tremor of need and frustration.
“I’ve waited for this,” he said, stepping closer, slow and deliberate, and she instinctively recoiled. “I’ve waited to show you—exactly—how much stronger I am now. How far I’ve come.” He paused, head tilting slightly, voice dropping to a whisper. “And you… stubborn, beautiful fool… you’re going to watch.”
Her heart pounded. “I… I’m not afraid of you,” she said, even though every instinct screamed that she should be. “You’re not… in charge of me.”
His lips twitched into that carefully measured, unnervingly sweet smile. “Ah… I hoped you’d say that.” There was a flicker of something almost desperate in his eyes now, the need barely restrained. He tilted his head closer, eyes bright and dangerous in the pale moonlight. “But stubbornness… won’t save you. Not tonight.”
She straightened, chest heaving. “I… I’ll leave when I want. You’re not… you’re not going to—”
He cut her off smoothly, almost teasingly. “No.” His voice was soft, measured, but it carried a quiet authority that made her pulse spike. “You’re not leaving—at least, not without knowing what it’s like to be caught by me.”
Her stomach turned cold. “Isaac… you’re insane—”
“Ten seconds,” he said suddenly, crisp, deliberate, almost clinical. “Ten seconds. Then I catch you.”
She froze, heart hammering. The calmness in his voice, the fake sweetness, was horrifying when paired with the weight behind his words. He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t screaming. He didn’t have to. But she knew he could—and he would—catch her in an instant.
“You can run,” he said, voice soft, almost coaxing, the edges of a smile still in place. “You can try to hide. Ten seconds. That’s all you have.”
Her breath hitched, fear and adrenaline mixing into something icy in her veins. She realized, in that moment, that no matter how fast, how clever, how determined she was… he was stronger, faster, relentless. And beneath that almost-boyish charm, the need he carried for her was dangerous, consuming, and utterly unrestrained.
She backed toward the shadowed trees, counting silently, heart hammering, knowing the game had just begun—and that Isaac Night was playing by his own rules.
She bolted, plunging into the shadows of the forest. Every step tore at the soft earth, every branch whipped her face and snagged at her gown, but she didn’t slow. Fear and adrenaline sharpened her movements, keeping her upright despite the uneven ground.
Behind her, the forest seemed to shiver. She knew he was there, even without hearing him. There was a presence—a weight in the darkness—that pressed against her like a living thing. She could feel it in the vibration of the earth beneath her boots, the snap of a twig slightly too precise, the brush of air that didn’t belong.
Her lungs burned. Her chest heaved. Roots threatened to trip her, mossy logs jutted out like traps, but she forced herself forward, forcing each stride to carry her farther into the tangled shadows.
A flicker of movement caught her eye—a shadow detaching from the trees behind her, gliding over roots with unnatural ease. Her stomach dropped. He was fast. Faster than she could have imagined. Not running, not chasing in a clumsy frenzy, but flowing, precise, like he was meant to move through this forest.
Branches tore at her arms and shoulders, mud clung to her heels, but she twisted through the undergrowth, weaving between trunks and leaping over fallen logs. He was everywhere at once, always just a fraction of a second behind her, silent and impossibly sure-footed.
The hairs on her neck pricked. She dared a glance over her shoulder. Moonlight caught his face for a heartbeat—perfect, beautiful, calm. His eyes were bright, alert, and terrifyingly focused. He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t snarling. He didn’t need to. The silence carried all the threat she could feel.
Panic sharpened her instincts. She ducked low, slid behind a thick tree, pressed herself against the rough bark, listening—not to his voice, but to the forest itself. The snap of a twig, the whisper of moving leaves, the subtle shift of air—he was moving through the trees with preternatural ease, and she could feel the coiled patience behind it, the quiet, controlled hunger in every step he took.
Her boots skidded over wet leaves. She stumbled over a root, clawed herself upright, and forced herself forward. Every fiber of her body screamed to hide, to find some place he couldn’t reach, some gap in the forest where she could disappear—but she knew, deep down, there wasn’t one.
He was stronger. Faster. Unstoppable. And though she couldn’t hear him, she could feel him, trailing her like a shadow that refused to detach, like gravity itself had chosen a side.
The forest narrowed, branches tangling overhead. She ducked and twisted, trying to keep moving, but the weight of his presence pressed on her chest. She could sense it wrapping around her, pressing closer, even when the darkness tried to swallow her whole.
Her pulse thundered. She was running blind, half-blinded by fear, every nerve straining. And somewhere in the oppressive quiet, she felt it—the patience, the coiled power, the obsession that didn’t need words to terrify her.
He would catch her. She knew it.
She just had to survive until she could figure out how.
She twisted down a narrow corridor of trees, branches clawing at her arms and gown. Her lungs burned, legs screamed, but her mind sharpened. She couldn’t outrun him—she knew that—but maybe she could force him to slow, to misstep, to give her a fraction of an advantage.
A fallen log blocked her path. Without hesitation, she vaulted over it, scraping her arm against the rough bark. Behind her, she sensed him—not the sound of his footsteps, not a shadow—just the impossible certainty of his presence, a force gliding through the trees like he belonged to the darkness itself.
She darted left, then right, weaving through thick trunks, crouching low under tangles of branches. Her ears strained for any clue of him, but there was only silence. The silence was him. It pressed in, heavy, suffocating.
Ahead, a narrow ravine cut through the forest floor. If she could make it across, she could put distance between them—just a little. She gathered herself, sprinted, and leapt. Muddy hands scrabbled at the opposite edge, and she hauled herself up, panting, shaking, but alive.
She froze, listening. The faintest rustle behind her, a movement too quick to be human, made her stomach lurch. She knew he had made the jump as well, effortless, fluid, silent. He wasn’t chasing like a man; he was flowing, gliding through the forest, and the trees bent around him, accommodating every step.
Branches whipped her face, roots tried to trip her, but she forced herself to keep moving. She ducked into a thicket, pressing her back against a massive trunk, heart hammering. She counted the seconds in her head, not because she had to, but because it helped her focus. One… two… three…
She moved again, trying to stay quiet, twisting through the dense undergrowth. Every shadow could be him. Every snap of a twig could signal he was closing the distance. She forced herself to remember: speed wouldn’t save her. Cleverness might.
Ahead, the forest opened into a small clearing. She darted into it, skidding across wet leaves. Her chest burned, arms scraped and bleeding from branches, and her legs were on fire—but the clearing gave her a moment, a space to think, to plan.
She crouched low, pressed herself to the ground, and scanned the edges. The undergrowth on the far side offered cover, shadows thick enough to slip into. Maybe she could circle around, loop back, mislead him. Maybe.
And then she felt it: that subtle pressure in the air again, like a hand pressing against the back of her neck. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that her blood ran cold. He was there, just beyond the edge of the clearing, silent, patient, watching.
She swallowed hard, forcing herself to breathe. He didn’t move, didn’t rush, but the weight of him was undeniable. Every instinct screamed to run, but her mind screamed louder: think, don’t panic. You have to outsmart him.
She backed into the shadows, pressed herself against a tree, and waited. One misstep could be the last.
And somewhere in the silent forest, she knew he was waiting too—watching, calculating, coiling. Not with rage, not with a roar, but with quiet, terrifying precision.
He could catch her anytime he wanted. And she had to make sure she wasn’t foolish enough to give him the chance.
She darted blindly through the forest, branches tearing at her gown, roots threatening to send her sprawling. The clearing ahead shimmered with the familiar, haunted silhouette she’d dreaded returning to—the Skull Tree. Her stomach clenched. No… not there. Not again.
But she had no choice. Isaac was on her heels—silent, precise, unstoppable. She could feel him pressing closer, the subtle vibration of the earth beneath his steps, the weight of him threading through the shadows. She pushed herself harder, desperate, lungs burning, heart hammering.
She reached the Skull Tree. Its jagged branches twisted like grasping hands, its trunk scarred with centuries of forgotten carvings. The air was thick, musty, and electric. For a heartbeat, she considered doubling back—but he would catch her. She knew it.
And then he was there.
He emerged from the shadows like a predator materializing from smoke. No warning. No sound—just presence, overwhelming and absolute. She skidded to a halt. He moved faster than she could react, closing the distance in a heartbeat.
“I told you…” His voice was low, soft, almost melodic, but it vibrated with coiled violence. “…I catch you.”
Before she could dodge, his hands shot out, gripping her shoulders with unrelenting force. She struggled instinctively, thrashing, clawing, kicking, but his hold was iron. He wasn’t panicking; he wasn’t careless. He was exactly this strong, exactly this in control.
“Isaac! Let me go!” she screamed, twisting, but every movement seemed only to amuse him, every bite of panic feeding his obsession.
“You can fight,” he murmured, teeth gritted just slightly, eyes burning with a mixture of need and rage. “I want you to fight. Don’t stop.”
She clawed at his arms, trying to shove him away, trying to create space—but he moved with her, anticipating, countering every twist and turn. When she lashed out, he barely flinched, redirecting her momentum with terrifying ease.
“You can’t hide from me here,” he whispered, pressing her back against the trunk of the Skull Tree. The twisted bark dug into her shoulders as he held her tight, not just to contain her, but to assert himself, to show that he was stronger, in control.
She kicked, hit, clawed at his chest, but he only adjusted his grip, tilting her just enough to keep her off balance. Her nails scraped his chest, leaving shallow marks, and he exhaled a soft, controlled breath—not pain, not anger—but satisfaction.
“You’re reckless,” he said softly, almost scolding, the fake sweetness threading through the words like a knife. “You could break yourself… or me. And neither of us wants that.”
Her head snapped back, trying to avoid his eyes. His thumb brushed her jaw—not enough to be gentle, not enough to soothe—but to remind her: I am here. You cannot escape.
“I won’t…” she gasped, chest heaving. “I… I won’t let you… control me…”
His smile cracked, just slightly, a flash of darkness breaking through the calm veneer. “Control?” he hissed softly, almost incredulously. “I’m not controlling you. I’m… proving to you. Showing you. That you… can’t stop me.”
He tightened his grip suddenly, forcing her to struggle even harder. Her legs kicked, trying to pry herself free, but he adjusted, moving with uncanny precision, cornering her against the tree’s jagged trunk.
The Skull Tree loomed over them, shadows twisting around his impossibly perfect form, his chest rising and falling steadily as hers burned with effort. She could feel every pulse of him—the strength, the need, the obsession that had grown since he was resurrected.
And despite her terror, despite the fight in her, a part of her froze—not with fear of being caught, but with the undeniable recognition that he wasn’t human anymore. He was something sharper, stronger, more dangerous than she could have imagined, and he had chosen this place—the place of his rebirth—to prove it.
“You can fight,” he whispered again, voice almost tender, a cruel mockery of care. “But it won’t change anything.”
She screamed, she kicked, she thrashed—but the Skull Tree enclosed them, the shadows wrapping tighter, and Isaac’s strength was absolute. The chase was over.
She had nowhere left to run.
He shifted his weight, and before she could react, he forced her down onto the damp forest floor. Leaves and mud pressed into her gown, scratches streaking her arms and legs, but she refused to still. His body was got against hers, his weight pushing her into the moist earth beneath her. Her hands clawed at him, kicking, twisting, screaming—but he anticipated everything.
“Keep fighting,” he murmured, voice low, soft… almost coaxing. His words brushed her ear, breath hot on her neck. But the words carried steel, the quiet certainty of someone who could break her in an instant if he chose.
“I’m not…” she gasped, thrashing beneath him. “I won’t—”
“Shh,” he said, leaning closer, breath brushing her ear. “I want you to fight. Don’t stop. Show me your strength.”
She bucked and twisted, scraping her nails along his arms, kicking at his legs. Each motion he countered effortlessly, shifting his weight just enough to maintain control without crushing her, keeping her on the ground, pinned—but alive.
“You think this will make a difference?” he whispered, almost tenderly, brushing a strand of hair from her face, the smallest gesture of mock care that sent a shiver through her. His body rocked against hers, his knee forcing itself between her legs. “You think resisting me will save you?”
Her chest heaved as he shifted, forcing himself between her thighs. Her legs screamed, her arms burned, but she refused to stop, refused to give him the satisfaction. “I… I… I won’t let you—”
He pressed her shoulders into the mud, his grip firm but controlled as he settled between her legs. His other hand came to grip at the fabric of her dress, hiking gather gown up. Cold fingers traced her skin, goosebumps raising. “Good,” he said, a flicker of a smile twisting his lips. “Fight. Scratch. Kick. Don’t make it easy for me. I like seeing that fire. That stubbornness.”
She struck at him again, hands clawing at his chest. He adjusted slightly, keeping her pinned, and yet… there was a hunger in his eyes, a desperate need that hadn’t been there before.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice cracking slightly with restrained need. “And I’m showing you. You can fight me. You can scream. You can thrash. But in the end…” He leaned closer, so close that the warmth of him pressed against her cheek, the cold night air tangled with the heat of him. “…you can’t escape me.” His body moved against hers, hips shifting slightly. A noise escaped him, a deep sigh of desire.
Her hands dug into his arms again, nails tearing, and he gritted his teeth, but his voice remained soft, almost gentle. “Just like that” he murmured, leaning downward to burrow his face into her neck. He inhaled the sweet scent, sighing against her skin. “I want every bit of you to fight. Show me that strength… because I need to see it.”
Her breath came in ragged bursts. She fought with everything she had—every kick, every twist, every desperate shove—but beneath her terror, a sinking realization clawed at her: he wasn’t just stronger. He was perfect now, every movement calculated, every ounce of his body trained by hunger and death, and no amount of resistance could match him.
And yet… he wanted her to struggle. He wanted her to fight. Because in that struggle, she was his.
She bucked upward with a sudden burst of strength, twisting her arms free just enough to shove at his chest. Isaac rocked back a fraction—just a fraction—but it was enough to give her hope. Her fingers dug into the dirt, trying to drag herself backward, to wedge herself between the roots of the Skull Tree.
He didn’t give her the chance.
His hand closed around her waist, firm, unshakable, and he dragged her back beneath him with terrifying ease. He swung her around onto her stomach, his chest crushing her back. Loose curls scattered the soil, her cheek pressed into the earth.
“There it is,” he breathed, voice deep against her neck. “That fire. That stubborn little spark in you—”
His hand reached down to grip her throat, holding her neck in his hand. It was supportive, almost, but the tight grip was also a threat to her “—don’t you dare let it go out.”
She writhed beneath him, every movement beneath him only furthering his need for her.
He was focused, his free hand reaching downward to her skirts. His fingers gripped the fabric, moving the velvet up her thighs.
Her frantic breaths fogged the cold air. “Isaac—stop—!”
“No.”
His answer was final, voice assertive and yet calm. As her skirts hiked higher, the cold night kissed her skin, shivers moving up her skin.
He seemed to take his time, hand still gripping her throat. His chest was warm against her back, a stark contrast to the moist soil pressed against her own chest. Finally, the fabric was up, the skin of her bottom finally exposed in the beautiful moonlight.
Slowly, as if unsure of whether or not she were real, he touched her, cold hands running along her exposed skin. She writhed beneath him, pleas escaping her pink lips. He shushed her simply, as if in a trance, hands following the curve of her hips, up to the roundness of her ass.
A shaky breath fell from his lips.
Something shifted in him. His gentle touch became hungry, his fingers coming to squeeze the flesh roughly. A pained cry fell from her lips, his name followed with it.
His eyes shone at that.
Toughening his grip on her throat slightly, he hands came to move to his own pants, hungrily. He was clumsy and impatient, like an animal starved.
The sound of a belt unbuckling rang in her ear, her blood freezing. “No— stop this!” She tried, flailing beneath him. He wasted no energy, his hand coming to grip even tighter on her throat as he shushed her.
“Shh— just relax,” he breathed into her hair, ignoring her labored breaths as she struggled to breathe.
He shifted, fumbling with himself, and then slowly, he moved, a strangled groan falling him his lips.
Tears welled in her eyes, soil clinging to her lashes. Her stomach swelled in pain at his size, a pained cry forcing itself from her mouth.
He kissed her exposed shoulder, lips pressed into her skin as he moved himself once more, releasing a hiss of pleasure. “My god—“
Teeth nipped her skin, before finally, he leaned upwards, his hand releasing from her throat. Instead, it found a home on the back of her head. His fingers laced in her hair, shoving her face deep into the ground as he moved more freely now.
She there as he fucked her, mud caked onto her cheek. She whined painfully, mind becoming numb to his assault. She was utterly hopeless, utterly powerless against him.
He seemed to notice her lack of emotion, as his hand pulled tightly at his scalp, pushing her further into the ground as his pace picked up. “Just like that, my love….do you feel that?”
A groan fell from his lips, head leaning backward. His hips snapped against hers, the pace ruthless and rough. Quickly, however, he pulled himself away from her, pulling her into his arms and turning her once more.
Her back hit the dirt, his hands grabbing at her thighs impatiently. “I want you to look at me, hmm? I want to look you in the eyes as I destroy you…”
He was quick to adjust himself once more, pushing himself back into her with no hesitation. The new position seemed to have broken him, his lips parting with a gasp as he continued his assault. Leaning down, his lips brushed her jawline, teeth nipping at her skin.
The world had gone quiet. The forest, the Skull Tree, the air—they all seemed distant, irrelevant. Only him remained, looming, pressing, a weight she could neither move nor escape. She lay beneath him, every part of her body aching, trembling, and yet nothing—no fight, no breathless panic, no sharp panic—rose anymore.
Her mind had gone numb, stripped of resistance. Every instinct to struggle had burned out, every defiance she had clung to in the past hours dissolved like smoke. She could feel him above her, steady, unyielding, and it wasn’t just his strength that overwhelmed her—it was the certainty behind it, the undeniable force of someone who could bend everything to his will.
She tried to think. Tried to summon fear, anger, outrage. But it was gone. Her body moved, yes, but it was automatic, reflexive, hollow. Her chest rose and fell, but it was like a machine going through motions, a puppet shaking against invisible strings.
“You’re mine,” he whispered, voice calm, soft, deliberate. Not angry, not shouting. Just absolute. His gaze pressed into her like a living thing, and she felt it burrow into her bones. “And you’ll see… you can’t stop me. Not now. Not ever.”
And she believed him.
The truth was undeniable. Every shred of resistance, every spark of rebellion she had carried, had been stripped away. He hadn’t screamed, hadn’t needed to raise his voice. The quiet precision of him, the patience, the control, had undone her in a way force never could.
Her limbs trembled, weak and useless beneath him. Her mind floated somewhere outside herself, a distant observer watching a body she barely recognized struggle and fail. He had destroyed her—not with violence, not with cruelty, but with inevitability. With the perfect, crushing weight of someone who was stronger, faster, and utterly unrelenting.
And as the fog of numbness settled over her, a single, icy thought crystallized in the back of her mind:
She had no escape. She couldn’t fight him. She couldn’t outrun him.
He had won.
Completely.
And she was utterly broken.
His hand came to grip her jaw, forcing her into a bruising kiss. His lips molded against hers— hungry, demanding, relentless— as he tongue wormed its way into her mouth. It was a claim, an invasion, and yet she welcomed it.
He moaned into her mouth, lips parting against hers. His hips snapped against hers, his breaths growing heavier. Suddenly, he was forcing her head upward to face him.
“Look at me,” he breathed, words warm against her face. “Look me in the eyes.”
He held her there, hand strong as he stared into her eyes. His own were dark, a hunger deep within. They were void of light, a threat behind the brown.
And so she obeyed.
He stared deep within her eyes as he snapped against hers, jaw tense and groans messy. His pace was growing sloppy, his grip on her face tightening as he neared his end.
“You’re perfect,” he sighed, desperation dripping from each word. “It’s all for you— everything, for you.”
And finally, with a snap of his hips, he came, head leaning down into the crook of her neck. He groaned against her skin, lashes fluttering in her collarbone.
For a long moment after it ended, she didn’t move.
Couldn’t.
Her body felt weightless and heavy at once, as if all the strength had been siphoned from her veins and replaced with nothing but cold air. The forest swayed around her in a slow, distant blur. The Skull Tree loomed overhead like some ancient witness, its twisted branches clawing at the sky.
Isaac stayed above her, breathing hard, his palms still pressed into the ground on either side of her shoulders. The violent edge that had controlled him minutes ago slowly bled away from his expression. His jaw unclenched. His eyes softened. Something almost human seeped back into his face.
He looked down at her like she was something delicate — breakable, precious — even though he had been the one to shatter her.
“Hey…” His voice was quiet now. Frighteningly gentle. “It’s over. I’m not hurting you anymore.”
She stared past him, unable to focus her vision. Her heartbeat thudded unevenly in her ears, her breath catching like her lungs had forgotten their rhythm.
Isaac noticed. His expression wavered.
With slow, careful movements — the movements of someone handling a wounded animal — he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers were warm. Too warm.
“You’re alright,” he murmured. “Look at me.”
She didn’t. Couldn’t.
A flicker of pain crossed his face — not guilt, but frustration. A crack in the facade.
And then… he softened even more. A tenderness that felt horribly misplaced.
“I had to,” he whispered. “You were running from me. You didn’t understand how strong I’ve become… how much I’ve changed.” His thumb traced her jaw, gentle, reverent. “I needed you to stop fighting.”
She swallowed, throat dry and raw. Her voice barely scraped out:
“Isaac… what did you do to me?”
He exhaled, breath shaky but tender, like he was comforting her after a nightmare he caused.
“Nothing you won’t recover from,” he said softly. “I just needed you to listen.”
His touch lingered. Almost affectionate.
“See?” he whispered. “Now you’re still. Now you’re here. With me.”
She closed her eyes, because it was easier than looking at him.
He wasn’t angry anymore, and somehow, that felt much more terrifying.
The forest settled around them. The wind whispered through the Skull Tree’s twisted branches, carrying the scent of damp earth and broken leaves. For the first time in what felt like hours, there was silence—complete, heavy, and almost sacred.
Isaac shifted, finally sitting back on his heels, letting the pressure lift. He didn’t speak at first, just watched her with an intensity that was unnerving and oddly protective. His hands rested lightly on his knees, no longer forcing, no longer demanding—only waiting.
She lay there, numb, trembling, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, the tension in her body began to ease. Her muscles unclenched. Her breath returned to a slower rhythm. The terror that had gripped her melted into exhaustion, and for the first time, she realized she was alive.
He leaned closer, voice soft, quiet enough that it could have been mistaken for the rustling leaves.
“You’re safe now,” he murmured. “I won’t hurt you anymore.”
She blinked up at him, the moonlight catching in his eyes, making them look impossibly human. His face, once so hard and desperate, now held a strange calm, a gentleness that contrasted with everything he had been minutes ago.
She nodded weakly, not trusting her voice yet.
Isaac didn’t move closer, didn’t speak again. He simply stayed there, a silent sentinel, letting her recover on her own terms. The power he had wielded, the fear he had inspired, had ebbed, leaving only him—and the quiet weight of everything that had passed.
The Skull Tree loomed above them, silent, twisting in the dim moonlight. Its shadow stretched over the ground like a reminder of what had happened, and yet, in that shadowed clearing, there was something fragile, almost tender.
She felt him shift slightly, brushing a stray leaf from her shoulder without asking, without touching more than necessary. It was enough. A small gesture. A promise of calm after chaos.
She let her head rest back against the soft earth, closing her eyes. Exhausted, numb, but alive.
And for now, that was enough.
Isaac stayed by her side, silent, controlled, his presence both protective and terrifying—a reminder that, however gentle he seemed now, the darkness within him had not vanished.
The forest held its breath around them, and in that quiet, fragile moment, they simply existed.
the knife in my teeth — [isaac night/reader]
content warning: power imbalance, smut, hand jobs, blow jobs, biting, cum play, jealousy, toxic relationships, angst, sexual inexperience, normie!reader, one-sided francoise night/reader, possessive behavior
notes: most normal person in this is eli and he dies immediately, so! whole family crazy asf. i need you guys to know that i suffered immensely to write this fic, please reblog, comment + like. tell me things you enjoyed, stuff you’re curious about!
word count: 10.2k
preview: You have a monopoly on his thoughts the way a problem does: irritating, inexhaustible, insistent on being solved. And unlike problems, you do not yield to solution.
→ [ part one. masterlist. ]
When Isaac kills Elijah Sinclair, he uses his hands.
It is not intentional. It is not because hands were optimal, not because some primal urge overrode protocol. Isaac, a man whose temperament inclines less to sentiment than to salvage, does not brood on the improvidence of the act. Sinclair, however pedestrian in wit, is still an auxiliary subject: a mobile container of fluids, tissues, cells, each with its prospective yield. Isaac Night is a man of science and the point… the point is never mourning the foregone; it is extracting what remains available.
This is how he rationalizes Elijah Sinclair’s imminent death.
The plan itself had been deceptively simple in design: the clean insertion of a needle into the Normie’s neck; the swift sequestration of the subdued subject to the clocktower; the gradual extraction of all the biological dividends that could be extricated from him. Isaac had charted the situation with the precision of someone who prefers the predictability of protocol over improvisation. Every step is taken into consideration, he leaves no stone unturned, every variable listed, every outcome predicted. Until there was a flaw, unforeseeable, subtle. Recognition. The human variable was a persistent anomaly, refuses to be tamed by protocol or procedure.
Sinclair loiters against his car, posture slack insouciantly. As Isaac approaches, those indolent eyes hone in on him, the flicker of nascent recollection animating them.
“Do we know each other?”
Isaac’s reply is cool and detached, “y’know, I can’t say that we do.”
But it doesn’t take long for Sinclair to snap his fingers as though nabbing the tail of a fugitive thought. “Shit, you’re one of them.”
Isaac’s eyelids close briefly, sighing in irritation. The smile does not reach his eyes when he opens them. The Outcast spiel is a customary one, one he’s overly familiar with.
Sinclair grins, backs of his legs pressed to his vehicle. “Don’t know what she sees. Whatever magic tricks you’re pulling, she’ll move on. And when she does? She’s got me.” His teeth flash, unknowingly sealing his fate.
Isaac has endured such tirades before: the tedious chest-beating of men whose hormonal surplus seemed to drown out whatever vestigial faculties they possessed, but this time it needled. Against his better judgement, he registers offense, as if some furtive nerve had been struck. That tolerant smile stiffens, his expression compressed to a blade’s gleam like something poised to cut. Sinclair drones on, blissfully ignorant, his declarations pelting the air.
Inside Isaac, something curdles. The churn starts low in the pit of his stomach, thick and bilious, climbing until it presses against his chest. A sickness of recognition, a bodily recoil so instinctive it arrives before reason.
Sinclair is still rattling off, but Isaac does not process a word. His lips twitch into a snarl, and suddenly he lunges, his body moves without consultation of mind. Choler inhabits his thought; his telekinetic faculties forgotten, his hands clamp around Sinclair’s throat. The man flails, claws at him, shouts, panics. Isaac does not let up. He drives him down, feels the frantic pulse beneath his fingers, the gasps turning into wet rattles before they fully cease, watching the life drain from those glassy, taunting eyes.
Francoise appears not long after, her gasp arriving before her words. She hurries to Isaac’s side, hands hovering uselessly, twitching with the impotence of broken tools. “What did you do?” she hisses; not out of pity for Sinclair, but out of dread for her brother. Thoughts crash through her in succession, but the one that sticks, stubborn and unshakable, is you.
Isaac looks at the corpse with the tranquil neutrality of a man regarding a finished equation. The solution is reached. There is, for the moment, peace.
The days feel lighter for Isaac, a paradox that he accepts without interrogation. Sinclair is excised, subtracted from the equation and you don’t seem to notice (or if you notice, you don’t seem to care). This indifference intoxicates him: indifference is not loss but aperture, a clearing into which you step, and in stepping, you draw nearer but not outward into anything like suspicion or grief, but inward, toward Francoise, toward him.
Francoise has always been porous to Normies, her predilection is a deeply rooted yearning for the narcotic lull of ordinary life. She craves the safety of the cocoon you provide. She has always been taken with you. Your elaborate wardrobe, your array of cosmetics, your unapologetic admiration for your culture and traditions. Every gesture, every habit that distinguishes you from her cloistered world becomes for Francoise a guide, a template she wishes to replicate. She shadows you with the fervor of an acolyte, following you in your footsteps.
Isaac sees it though with a clarity, the subtle thrill lurking beneath Francoise’s carefully measured concern, the way her eyes catch a secret light, a silent hungry delight at the thought of Sinclair’s absence and all the stolen moments it promises: more time basking in your company.
He understood it then in a way he had not before, remembering how she deliberately abandoned her carefully scheduled arrangements, those long discussions where they had planned to excise the monster from her. You had been siphoning her attention, drawing her into a gravitational field not of his making. The sensation was a loss of control: a resource slipping from his fingers into someone else’s custody.
Isaac observed all of this in silence. Irritation had needled at him: Francoise had once again tethered herself to someone else, and you, unreasonably, had allowed it. He had half expected you to recoil once you sensed her dependence, that familiar unease others betrayed in her presence. But you did not recoil. You accepted her attachment, even accommodated it.
You crossed the threshold into his laboratory with a natural ease, the kind that speared his irascibility before he even fully registered it. Francoise sat, calm, expecting you, a silent enabler to your intrusion into this sanctuary. Every step you took seemed to claim the room, pressing against the arrangement of instruments and glassware, drawing his attention in ways both vexing and quietly disarming.
Francoise, as curious as she was, had importuned you with a myriad of questions which you answered effortlessly and he was content to observe.
You’re ensconced in the quietude of the lab, where Francoise hummed in tandem with the ticking of the tower, your fingers moving with deliberate care, weaving your hair into intricate braids.
“Does it really take that long?”
You had laughed, a bright, lilting sound that echoed like startled birds in the lab. “Girl, yes,” you said, letting a small, melodramatic groan escape as if the very air around you weighed on your limbs. Your arms stretched with aggrandized languor. “My arms are killing me.” Then, inching forward, you dip the ends of your hair into a bowl full of boiling water.
“Why are you doing that?”
Isaac was the one who answered, “It’s a sealant. The heat softens the fibers.”
A look of surprise crossed your features, then a smile spread on your lips like a gradual sunrise. “So, he does talk,” you said, tone imbued with mirth, as if you had just uncovered a rare specimen in his own lab.
“Oh, I’ve been talking,” Isaac said, voice clipped, a tad cruel, but measured. “Though I suspect your brain filtered most of it. Frankly, it’s remarkable you even comprehend the basics of—” His gaze drifted over your hair, assessing, calculating, then he fell silent, leaving the thought curtailed, pointed in its implication.
You blinked, slightly peeved. “Discussing your little experiments in jargon you think I won’t understand isn’t the same as having a conversation.”
“These ‘little experiments’ are more than you’ll ever amount to in your entire life.”
“Isaac, you promised,” Francoise admonished.
He relented with a tight smile, “I didn’t think you’d be interested, is all.”
You narrowed your eyes for a moment, then to Francoise: “I’m getting ready for my cousin’s wedding on Saturday,” your gaze lingering on Isaac while he attended his work. “They’re always long but no one is turning down free food.”
You place the steaming bowl aside, lifting the next instrument of your meticulous ritual. Pipette in hand, movements measured, ceremonious, steadying the tip at your wrist. Francoise leaned in, elbows resting on the counter, her face cradled in her hands, eyes tracing your hands with a gentle fascination. “You keep it on for an hour, right?”
You paused, the pipette poised in your hand, then let a faint, almost vindictive twitch unfurl at the corner of your lips. “Why don’t we ask Isaac?”
His head snapped up. His earlier derision had drawn out your own, and now he was fully alert. For Isaac, it was not insignificant. He was accustomed to observing from the periphery, yet your voice pinned him like an insect under glass, his name in your mouth felt sharp, unfamiliar in its warmth.
“The longer you keep it on, the more pigment shows through.” The words came out clipped, almost brusque, as though he was shutting down an intrusion rather than answering a harmless question. But the way your eyes caught his own made him restless, because you did not seem chastened — you seemed entertained.
“Wow, Francoise,” you intoned, and he pinpointed the tone immediately. “A real genius, huh? You know what… maybe I do have it all wrong. I’d just about give it all up to be holed up in some tower after graduating, nothing but dusty old books to keep me company. Maybe then I’ll amount to something.”
“Don’t be mean,” Francoise chided, the suppressed giggle hidden behind her fingers, tangibly delighted at the exchange, but Isaac felt something else: a faint sting of irritation braided with something lighter. You were teasing him, and he did not know whether he resented it or welcomed it.
Your affront sounded more playful than offended. “What! Am I not allowed to return the favor?”
And then you grinned at her.
“She’s perfect,” Francoise breathed one night, holding the top you had lent her to her nose, inhaling your scent as if memorizing it, her voice hushed and full of reverence as though she were sequestered in a confessional booth.
Isaac said nothing. He did not fully comprehend Francoise’s mercurial wants but he loved her, and love, in his practice, meant endurance: allowing her indulgences until novelty exhausted itself. She always grew bored.
Except not this time.
Francoise did not loosen her grip, instead she tightened it. She curled herself around you like a cat discovering its sunbeam, unembarrassed by the dependency, and what was even worse, was that you permitted it. He half expected recoil from you, anticipated the familiar recoil others exhibited when confronted with Francoise’s appetite for attachment. Yet you did not retreat. You absorbed it, you accommodated it.
And Isaac, though he ought to have resented this trespass, found himself instead suspended in that same clearing, lighter, because though Francoise clung, you did not shake her off, and where she clung, he remained proximate too.
At first, Isaac explains you to himself in the same terms he explains all phenomena: a series of variables, an arrangement of surfaces and behaviors to be observed and classified. He notes the gentle slope of your features, mentally indexes your reactions and how you interact with the people around you. He tells himself these are social signifiers, external codings no different from plumage in birds or chemical markings in insects. Useful to note, irrelevant beyond that.
Francoise’s descriptor of you is skewed by limerence. Isaac does not share his sister’s delusion.
He sees you as you present yourself: you are not particularly kind, allowing your capricious moods to dictate the climate of an entire week. You surround yourself with deplorable company and you move among them with a kind of predatory ease. Vindictive, quick to anger, and gifted with a memory that hoards every slight, you navigate life with an ineradicable degree of spite, and wait for your opportunity to repay it.
But the longer he watches, the less his notes remain detached. Observation metastasizes into fixation. He records the tilt of your head when you laugh, the cadence of your footsteps on corkscrew steps, the way you treat Francoise’s eagerness not as weakness but as invitation, how your speech pitches when you’re pleased. None of it belongs in a ledger, all of it fundamentally banal, and yet he cannot stop compiling it. The data accrues, becomes a constellation.
This is how Isaac falls: incrementally, with a slow suffocation of resistance, the realization that every effort to explain you only fixates him more tightly to you. You have a monopoly on his thoughts the way a problem does: irritating, inexhaustible, insistent on being solved. And unlike problems, you do not yield to solution.
His body knows before his mind concedes.
And still, he does not say anything. His affection conducted in the surreptitious privacy of glances and observations.
Your aggravation proliferates when a week passes and you still haven’t heard a word from Eli. He has never been indispensable but his presence has at least provided a pulse of attention to punctuate your days. The arrangement between you had always been casual. He offered you a measure of interest without any strings attached, and you in turn granted his closeness. He had accepted your stipulations without protest: you were not a couple, nothing exclusive, you were free to come and go as you pleased.
But the premise, fragile as spun-sugar, carries its own implicit clause. Whatever this was could dissolve at any moment, and you both knew it. A gossamer-thin tether, already strained, that would snap the instant Eli’s attention strayed elsewhere.
You never pretended otherwise. You liked the attention but you did not need it. Eli required more than you were willing to give, and so you gave him nothing beyond the bare minimum. When his silence stretches on, your irritation exacerbates out of principle. The absence disrupts the arrangement: he was supposed to orbit you, not the other way around. You don’t like to be left in the dark.
“What?” Your voice cleaves harsher than intended when you catch the sidelong glance of one of the Outcasts lingering nearby, their gaze grazing over you like nails on a chalkboard. “Do I have something on my face? No? Then move.” The words slice, leaving them scuttling aside, but the irritation lingers, a residue you can’t quite shake.
Francoise waits just beyond the ornate iron-wrought gates, and she, in tune with your emotions, registers the disturbance. She hovers in that nervous space between wanting to fold herself into your arms and fearing she has somehow incurred your displeasure.
Something is wrong.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, voice tentative, her body edging closer toward yours as if her closeness begets reassurance.
“Francoise!” Relief bursts out of you in the form of her name. You pivot toward her, your exasperation already on exhibition. “Eli ghosted me. I knew I shouldn’t have given that loser a chance.”
In hindsight, she knows she should have prepared for this. The past week has been perfect according to her: your attention was on her. But she hadn’t counted on the moment when his absence would make itself known to you.
She falters, words stalling, then seizes one of yours and it’s something you’ve said before. She polishes it into a consolation of sorts. “Boys are stupid, especially Eli,” she declares. The mimicry is uncoordinated, like she doesn’t know how to wield it properly, but it carries the force of devotion, and she hopes that’s enough.
It is. your anger assuaged by the balm of her regurgitated words and you grin, and loop an arm into hers. “Who?”
Her answering grin is immediate and she leans into you, her shoulder grazes yours, testing how long the contact can linger before you begin to register it as anything other than innocuous.
The clocktower augments your intrusion, every footfall ricochets too loudly, every intake of breath announces itself as an unwelcome arrival. Dust hangs in the air, visible in shafts of fractured light, so thick you could pretend it’s not dust at all but the residue of lives half-lived here and abandoned. The machinery ticks and grinds as if out of spite, its rhythm stubbornly irregular, reminding anyone foolish enough to listen that time is not a comfort but a cudgel.
You do listen. You can’t help yourself. Each metallic cough and gear’s groan inserts itself into your bones until you are sure you are clanking in sympathy, a moving cog in Isaac’s private cathedral of steel.
“His organs are intact. No reason to discard a body,” Isaac intones, voice measured, as if tallying reagents rather than adjudicating life and death. The words land with the calm of inevitability, yet beneath them wreathes the mild satisfaction of someone who has eliminated a variable he would not tolerate.
“The police, Isaac,” Francoise hisses, panic fraying her whisper. “You know she’s noticed, right?”
You freeze mid-step. The words snag like a hook in the chest, drawing attention to yourself you had not volunteered. She’s noticed. The pronoun presses into you, intimate and accusatory, and the knowledge is heavy, unavoidable.
Isaac tilts his head, curiosity lacing the question more than fear: “Has she?”
Francoise’s insistence is urgent: “We need to get rid of the body. Now.”
A wire catches your foot; you stumble, clatter into a machine. The sudden noise shreds the conversation, leaving only the tension between them.
Isaac’s voice reaches you first, low, coaxing, intimate in a way that only you could receive without alarm. Your name leaves his lips in croon: “I know you’re there. It’s okay, you can come on out.”
You falter, weighing all potential exits. The lift is a joke: sluggish as molasses. The stairs are worse, corkscrewing out of reach on the far side, requiring exposure, the long trudge of prey pursued. That leaves only forward, the coward’s bravado of pretending you chose to step into the open.
So you do. One foot, then another, your pulse skitters like a jackrabbit’s, frantic enough you half expect the sound to give you away. You fix your eyes on Isaac as though that might anchor you.
And Isaac smiles. He tilts it at you the way a butcher might soothe livestock, smoothing the animal’s panic before the knife descends.
“Hello,” he says, gentle as a lullaby, deceptively soft.
It was soothing, for a moment, to let your eyes unfocus, until the comfort betrayed you. The respite lasted only long enough to betray the ambush: Francoise’s hasty concealment had been exactly that: hasty. Inept. The cadaver had not been spirited away so much as tucked under the rug like a child’s misdeed. Two legs protruded, pale and insolent, broadcasting their existence as if to taunt your credulity. And with that glimpse, panic resumed its racket, a trapped bird smashing itself stupid against the bars of its gilded cage.
“What the fuck did you do?” you blurt out, and unthinkingly you inch closer even though every nerve in your body is screaming at you to stop.
Isaac steps closer, carefully. “You missed quite the performance.”
You let out an exhale of disbelief, taking a step back when another wire catches your foot; you stumble. He is there instantly, catching you, the press of his chest against yours almost unbearably close. You push, he yields slightly, just enough to let you think you’ve won, then recovers with fluidity and you make eye contact with Eli’s corpse.
The body is no longer a body, but a stage for putrescence. The skin slackens and peels, colours blooming in shades of gangrenous green, jaundiced yellow and violet. The belly balloons, swollen like a womb distended with nothing but gas. What seeps from the mouth is not speech but a dark syrup, thick, unctuous, as though the body excretes its own silence.
You notice the lack of miasma in the air. The thought arrives slyly, intruding without your invitation: Isaac must have treated it, preserved it, as though he could defer the inevitable disintegration of meat but the same meticulous nature had not been spared for Eli’s appearance. He sullies your remembrance of him, whether this is intentional or not, you don’t know.
Inside your chest, emotion riots, a tangle of instincts clawing to take precedence. But there is no grief. You wait for it, demand for it to crawl up like a corpse from the grave, but it refuses you. What surges instead is the greater obscenity: the awareness that you do not feel bad.
You tremble; your knees refuse to cooperate. You fold. Isaac instantly holds you in his arms, folds with you, transforming your collapse into an act of grace, pinning you to him in a way that feels nothing like salvation and more along the lines of possession. Your head rings; the room tilts. You don’t notice him parsing your face, watching each expression alight and vanish, indecision written in microsecond shifts, until one emotion fixes and solidifies: fury. You wrench yourself free, twisting in his hold.
Your hand moves to slap him.
A hand grabs your wrist midswing, but not to stop you. Only to moor you, to remind you that you can let yourself go, that it’s okay. You twist, shove, and he allows every movement, every strike, his calm presence amplifying the ferocity of your actions, rabid like a wild animal.
The fist that cracks against his cheek he does not anticipate; until now your movements have been nothing but flailing, noise without aim. This lands. He reels, surprise splintering the composure he dons like a labcoat. For a moment, displeasure flickers like a light switch, before he reins it in, recaliberates, and straightens, the gesture reabsorbed into poise as though the lapse had never existed.
You shove again, sharper this time, and he leans into it. He lets the force guide him closer rather than push him away. His hands hover near yours, twitching in anticipation. When you strike, he doesn’t block outright; he catches your wrists just long enough to redirect, to guide, to invite.
You vaguely hear your name being called by Francoise, but the blood rushing through your head stymies it from reaching you.
You twist, try to push him off balance, and he flows with it, arms brushing yours, fingers grazing your forearm, a brush of skin that sets your nerves alight. Every motion is a tease: he does not overpower, does not end the fight, only shapes it, letting your strength meet his without ever fully conceding control.
The clocktower groans, a cacophony of iron and pendulum, gears grinding like the teeth of an unrelenting predator. Your fists strike again, and again, each impact a declaration of your anger, a corporeal litany. Isaac remains a study in endurance, his calm, his unyielding patience, is intolerable to you.
You shove him into a console of his making; your arms ache, your lungs scream for air, and still, he yields nothing, only the merest concession, a lean here, a minimal shift there, as if every motion of yours were a statement he is eager to receive, not evade. Your unmitigated rage finds no outlet in resistance, and the intensity of that absence roars louder than the machinery itself.
And then, a voice, fracturing, cutting through the tumult: “Stop!”
Francoise.
She bursts from where she had been rooted stagnant, a sudden flare of humanity in the mechanical cathedral, her eyes wide with alarm, fingers pressed to your chest in a futile attempt to stave off further contact. “Enough!” she cries, a demand you’re not used to hearing from her.
Your gaze snaps toward her, chest heaving, pulse hammering in your temples, and for a heartbeat the violence wavers, suspended between the two of you like a held breath. Isaac's composure is absolute, if not a little breathless. You can’t figure out why he didn’t use his powers.
She steps between you, hands bracing against your shoulders, eyes searching yours with the gravity of one who loves fiercely and fears loss. “You can’t,” she says, voice trembling but resolute.
The words strike, a counterweight to the frenzy, and you falter, muscles trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline but then you remember her earlier words and the anger builds back up. “You,” you seethe and she lets go of you as though she’s been branded by a hot iron. “You were a part of this.”
“No!” Francoise cries out vehemently, dismay coloring her voice, upset that you would even think that of her.
Isaac’s gaze sharpens, registering the familiar, perilous signs of his sister’s spiraling emotions, the hurt and frustration twisting in her, the precursor to an unabating storm. He does not attempt to temper your anger, only inclines his head slightly, measured and deliberate. “It was me,” he admits.
The admission presses against your ribs like iron. Anger, disbelief, and exhaustion collide, and your body tenses, ready to fling itself from the suffocating weight of the room. You don’t wait for another word, don’t pause for explanation. With a brisk motion, you wrench yourself free from the halo of his calm, brushing past Francoise, who recoils instinctively.
Isaac does not move to stop you, eyes following you out of the room.
Isaac has long since come to terms with the fact that he is not a man prone to impatience, particularly when it comes to his work. Time in the lab is a measured thing, a patient stretch of hours spent wrangling with the irreducible laws of nature. This, he can abide, but he has no patience when it comes to you.
And so, naturally, he abandons the pretense of patience altogether. If you will not come to him, he will go to you.
There you are, in the midst of one of your familiar haunts, where your voice cannot help but rise above the others in a self-assured manner. Isaac knows that grin on your face before it even reaches full bloom. It is a weapon, a prelude to some particularly biting rejoinder, the very sort that will leave your companions awed.
His eyes scan the scene: a group of dim‑witted sycophants crowd around you, content in their own reflections, their banter tumbling over itself in a kind of vacuous reverence.
But Isaac is never one to defer to this kind of thing, no matter how effortlessly you hold the stage. And when your smile falters, a slight dip in its angle, he knows that you are already constructing the perfect dismissive response in your mind.
The sneer of your lips is a cutting, almost surgical thing. The moment he approaches, you notice him, your eyes narrowing with practiced coldness. A subtle act of disapprobation. The smile vanishes altogether, replaced by the arch of a brow, the quiet, reflexive distaste only someone who truly knows you can read.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, and Isaac bets that your words are not an inquiry, but a challenge.
He almost feels the air tighten between you, the expectancy that follows in the wake of your question. He smiles, offering the barest gesture of politeness to your companions, letting his eyes flick over each of them with the efficiency of a man surveying a series of chess pieces.
“Are there laws prohibiting me from talking to an old friend?”
“Isaac,” you warn, though he is certain it is meant more to preserve the fragile illusion of control than anything else. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Really?” Isaac’s voice drops an octave, lowers itself into something intimate and prodding. “But we have so much to talk about.”
There is a pause. A breath. A beat of recognition. “I promise it won’t take long,” he continues. It feels false even as the words leave his mouth. The tone suggests as much.
You falter, words stuck somewhere between your throat and your chest. “Okay,” you manage at last, a fragile concession to the moment. Turning, you offer the girl you had been speaking to a tentative embrace, brief but full of warmth. In that rush of motion, you do not notice the almost imperceptible slackening of Isaac’s smile, a subtle fracture in his usual composure. “I’ll see you guys later,” you add, your voice a fragile thread attempting to stitch together civility from the disjointed fragments of your exit.
When you turn to Isaac, he smiles pleasantly. You wait until your friends’ voices recede into the distance before you lay your caveat bare. “We’re going somewhere public,” you say. “I’m not letting you second‑location me.”
“Believe me, if I wanted you dead, it would have happened already.”
You shake your head, scoffing in disbelief. “What the hell, Isaac?”
“After everything,” he says, and he sounds a little breathless when he does, “you’re still surprised.”
You find nothing to say to that.
He tilts out of the way, head inclining in a parody of courtesy. “Lead the way.”
The walk is brief but unbearable. He keeps exactly half a pace behind, a shadow with impeccable posture. You resent how unhurried he looks, hands folded behind his back like a man out for a stroll, while your eyes flick constantly to shopfronts and alleys, already plotting exit strategies. Twice you think about bolting, but you recall his abilities and reconsider this option.
There’s a quaint cafe not far that you like the pastries of, and the roads on the way there are semi-populated, the evening is encroaching fast and you want to get out before night takes over.
Isaac, however, has other plans. He takes off his coat, placing it onto the seat next to him and sits down leisurely. “Didn’t know cafes stayed open this late,” he comments off-handedly, sliding the other menu across the table as though he’s issuing paperwork and exploring the contents of his own, he grimaces, rictus-like. “I’ll need a minute. What about you? You always liked the food more than the drinks.”
“Isaac,” you exasperate, “what are we doing here?”
“We,” he emphasizes, “are eating. I’m hungry.”
“You just made a face, you don’t like anything on the menu.”
He grins at you, pleased at the observation. “Coffee, then. What about you?”
“I don’t know, Isaac,” and you lean closer, your tone hushed, “maybe you can start with telling me why you killed my fucking boyfriend?”
Isaac’s grin drops, his lips curl into a sneer. There is no gradual dispersing of his smile, he does not try to conceal the fact that he is displeased with the new denomination you’ve pinned on Sinclair. “He,” Isaac hisses, the syllables rife with contempt, “was not your boyfriend. You’ve never called him that before… don’t tell me you’re getting all sentimental now.”
You straighten up, taken aback at the level of vitriol suffused in what Isaac was saying. You haven’t been at the end of the genuine mockery from him for some time. You don’t say anything for a moment, using this opportunity to survey the man sitting across from you and slowly, you begin to piece things together, eyebrows smoothing out from your furrow: you note the clean pressed shirt, his usual unkempt hair, relatively tamed into a slickback style.
Your body deflates, your eyes scour over the menu. “A croissant.”
For a moment Isaac’s face arrests: blank, trying to make sense of the conceding, the sudden turning down of the argument.
He delicately drums his gloved fingers on the table, once, twice, vetting over your face before rising to make his way over to the counter. You take the reprieve greedily. Your brain careens into theories, trying to make sense of what’s happening. Your brain is already allocating conjectures that don’t align with your perception of Isaac Night because that would mean…
It would mean that he likes you.
Or, your brain reasons, as an addendum, and it seems more plausible than anything else: he’s avid in his manipulation, utilizing this avenue does not seem like a stretch for him.
When he comes back, he places down a plate in front of you and gives you a bottle of water.
You look at the croissant dubiously, then back up at him and you reach for the bottle of water, slowly unscrewing the cap and then you decide to try something. “I don’t go on dates with someone who’s murdered my boyfriend.”
His body goes still.
You let the provocation hang in the air and then twist the knife with a voice lacquered in something almost affectionate, almost cruel. “I can see why you’d be jealous of Eli. He fucks good.”
It’s effective: it manifests with a brief tick in his brow. Isaac’s riposte is whip-fast, mouth quirks into an irritated smile, his gloved hand waves its dissent in the air. “Not anymore, he doesn’t.”
Your chest tightens, your pulse you can feel drumming against the cage of your ribs, threatening to unravel the careful composure you have been cultivating since entering the cafe. You lift the bottle of water to your lips, sipping in an almost abstemious fashion, though the dryness of your mouth makes the act feel desperate, necessary only to delay the impending vertigo of anticipation. Each swallow echoes faintly in the empty booth, a small percussion to the taut silence stretched between you and him.
“Isaac. Why are we here?” You try again.
He seems to be weighing his options. “Francoise misses you, she’s worried you’re going to go to the police.”
The words hover, heavy, almost tangible, settling into the booth like dust motes in the late afternoon light. “And you? Are you worried?”
“No, because you’re not going to the police.”
You bristle at the assured tone he governs. “You-“
He interrupts you with the kind of quiet authority that compresses the air between you, folding it into his will. “If I was going to kill you, I would have done it already and if you… were planning on turning me in, I wouldn’t be here right now, sitting across from you in a booth.”
With the stillness of a guillotine held in the air, suspended over your thoughts, waiting for the inevitable drop, your body responds before your mind can fully comprehend: your pulse flares, your fingers curl reflexively around the rim of the glass, knuckles blanching.
After a long interval, he speaks again, quieter this time, his voice a delicate tremor against the weight of his usual composure. “I don’t know why I kept it,” he admits, the phrasing cautious, as though he were stepping into uncharted territory of confession. “But I wanted to see how you would react.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you know?”
You swallow.
“I think I’m a bad person,” you disclose in tu, there is an unidentifiable emotion swelling in your chest, you think it's a surfeit of love, you think it's grief and he smiles so fondly at this admittance.
“No, you’re not,” he says with such conviction, like he’s known you for your entire life. “For you, the pain will come later. It always does and when it does, I’ll be there.”
Strangely, the dynamic falls back into place, even with the fraught tension permeating the air, but you elude it. Francoise wants a picturesque relationship, neat and framed, a diorama of smiles and sanctioned affection, and so she welcomes you back with open arms, though the edges of her calm betray the sawtoothed undercurrent, the eruptive hyde-teeth she barely restrains. You notice the way she hesitates just long enough for the shadow of irritation to flicker across her features when your attention drifts to her brother rather than anchoring itself to her: a near capitulation to the truth: you are a force she cannot domesticate.
Isaac’s disposition contains a modicum of warmth, as if it were a catalyst to be titrated with care rather than a spontaneous effusion. Maybe it had always been there, lurking beneath the contours of his gaunt face and the strict geometry of his gestures, and maybe you had simply not been attending to it, too absorbed in the calculus of his habitual severity. When your gaze brushes over him now, the smile that had previously read as cold, as infinitely calculating, takes on a tenor of tenderness, subtle but undeniable, a shift almost imperceptible unless one had been trained in the recognition of infinitesimal change.
He does not approach you with words or overt gestures; rather, he is content to occupy the same space. It is as if the conversation at the cafe never took place, folded neatly into some recess of history, and yet the residue of it lingers, like a faint chemical trace that insists upon recognition even when denied.
It annoys you.
So you rope another poor soul into the equation. If it worked last time, it’ll work this time. If jealousy was the catalyst last time, then you’d use it again.
This time, though, you calibrate the variables differently. The substitute is not some random Normie, but one of his own: an Outcast, a gorgon, to be specific.
Obviously, there is no curiosity on your part. Isaac has already conducted the reconnaissance, delineating the abilities of every Outcast who used to pass through the school like insects pinned and labeled in a specimen drawer. You know the gorgon’s capacities as well as he does. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is the performance of curiosity, an exhibition mounted for a single spectator. So you ask questions you already know the answers to, laugh at demonstrations that hold no surprise, lean forward in what looks like fascination and the gorgon’s apprehension morphs into something panegyrized as he preens under your attention.
You lay it on thick when you see that Isaac is around.
You lean closer to the gorgon, letting your voice drop to a conspiratorial murmur, inviting him to a side of town the Outcasts hardly frequent.
He frowns. “That side of town?” The serpents in his hair shift nervously.
You step closer, letting the warmth of your body press into the space between you without closing it entirely. Fingers hover near his hand, brushing the edge of his sleeve, the faintest contact that sends a ripple through him. “I mean,” you murmur, slow and teasing, the innuendo thick in your tone, “we don’t have to go all the way.”
Despite the act, the blush that spreads across his face pleases you.
You lean in, intent on closing the distance, when the sensation arrests you. At first it’s nothing, a dulling as though your limbs belonged to someone anaesthetized. Then the numbness cements, pinning you where you stand. You think for a second that the gorgon has accidentally revealed his faithful serpents to you but in the corner of your vision, Isaac’s treacherous hand retreats, casual. The recognition lands with a thud heavier than the paralysis itself: he has chosen to exert what he shouldn’t. Powers weaponized against you.
Isaac releases you the instant he has you, and yet for you the seconds dilate into something approaching eternity. The betrayal stings.
Your face becomes a blank canvas, stone-cold.
“Are you okay?” the guy you had been flirting with asks, worry threading his voice like a hesitant chord.
Your smile is a blade, a knife of politeness masking everything beneath. “Yeah… give me a second.” The words are casual, but the meaning is precise: your attention has already shifted. Then you move, deliberately, stalking toward Isaac as if the world had condensed to a single trajectory. You already know where he’ll be. Every step you take is laden with purpose, carrying the weight of unspoken warning.
The laboratory door swings open, and his voice cuts through the space, biting: “Finally—”
“No,” your reply slices across him, firm and resolute. “You don’t get to talk right now.” The simplicity of the sentence belies the command embedded within it. It is an assertion of presence, a reclamation of control.
Isaac’s grin doesn’t reach his eyes, it feels like he’s mocking you. There is a new hardness in his eyes now.
“You’ve never done that to me, you’ve never—” Your voice falters on the edge of vulnerability, as if the sentence threatens to betray more than you intend. But you recover almost instantly, smoothing your features as though ironing out an inconvenient crease. He will not have the satisfaction of seeing you unsteady. “You’ve never used your power on me,” you say, each word deliberate, clipped, a statement for the record and the anger — the anger has no interest in moderation. It arrives as a deluge, an inundation that drowns its accompanying emotions on contact.
“I thought you liked me!” you blurt out, a paroxysm of your rage, body heaving and in the back of your mind embarrassment prickles.
Isaac leans slightly forward, lips pressing into a hard line. “If you know… why flirt with others?” he snarls. “You knew I’d notice. And yet… you still chose to test me. Felt heavy, didn’t it? Frozen in place… not being able to move.”
Your stomach twists uncomfortably.
He sees it. The tension in your shoulders, the stiff set of your hands, the way your eyes incensed with both anger and something else he cannot control.
Isaac pauses, the acerbic curl of his mouth fading, his body subtly shifting back. “I suppose, I’d say that we’re now even,” he says.
“We’re not even,” you say, and you feel a degree of clarity you hadn’t before, everything falls in place and all those messy emotions finally click into place. Everything comes pouring out. “You’re holding my transgressions against me, but you’re the one who spent all that time watching, not making a move, and when I thought— just when I thought when we’d made progress, you go back to how things used to be. And you’ve killed someone who loved me, genuinely loved me. I don’t understand, you don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to want me either.”
“I do,” he interjects, abrupt, unpolished. “I do want you.”
The confession is raw, stripped of ornament. It should soothe; it doesn’t. Instead, it hangs in the air, plaintive and insufficient, the bluntness itself is an insult.
“You didn’t love him back, though,” Isaac murmurs, and the phrasing, though blunt, is not accusatory. It’s diagnostic, confirming what he already suspects, and yet there’s a tremor of hunger beneath it.
Your seethe betrays you, and he sees it instantly, yet he does not recoil. Isaac never recoils. He inclines closer, as if your anger were proof of vitality, evidence that you are still gloriously alive to him. He amends, not to erase the sting of your emotion or to spare you from the weight of his observation, but to show you the purity of his intent. “It’s okay. I don’t think of you as any less for it. You don’t have to defend yourself to me.”
Your brows furrow, trembling as if unsure which emotion to settle on.
“Emotions are strange, aren’t they?” he asks. “We are a slave to them… an emotional weakness that we can’t make sense of. They strip us of any rational thought.”
His words drift, as though no longer addressed solely to you.
Then his attention snaps back. “And yet…”
You wait, fraught, breath caught.
“I won’t pretend it was there from the first time I saw you. I was content to leave you alone. But I’ve tried — silence, distance, time.” He lets the words fall one by one, like evidence being laid out. “None of it worked. I care about you.”
His mouth twitches, a flicker of something near a smirk, as though the absurdity of it entertains him, not laughter, but the grim satisfaction of witnessing a truth finally acknowledged. “Or ‘like you,’” he amends, crisp, unyielding, “as you so simply put it. Call it what you will. It is yours, and you have it, it doesn’t matter if you accept it or not.” He speaks with the unshakable authority of a theorem. There is no apology, no petition, only the sterile, terrible fact, luminous and undeniable in its unadorned lucidity.
“Take off your gloves,” you command.
Isaac’s brow twitches, a telltale sign of confusion. “What?”
“Your gloves, Isaac. Take them off.”
He hesitates. Then, slowly, he lifts one hand to his mouth, teeth catching the leather, tugging it loose. The second comes away without the same ceremony, stripped clean in a single pull, now that one hand is bare.
He folds his hands behind his back.
Your pulse accelerates.
“Show me you want me.”
A breath escapes him as though it were expelled by force, a subtle surrender. He laughs breathlessly. “Tell me how and…” he steps closer, into your space, hands reaching for yours, voice lilting facetiously. “I’ll position myself accordingly.”
It should feel like a cop-out, but for someone like him, it doesn’t so you take it as it is. You notice his throat bob in anticipation, the prospect of rendering him nervous excites you, though no other prodromal signs of nerves are apparent.
Your hands go to unbutton his pants, slowly - you’re not exactly teasing him but you want to savor each and every single one of his reactions, like he has been doing with you.
When you reach for his cock, he’s not as prepared as he thinks he is, his hands brace themselves on your shoulders, anchoring himself down.
“I’ve done this before,” he admits, unabashedly, as if confessing to having once jaywalked in an empty street rather than unveiling something that slices straight through your composure.
The words hang in the air, and hypocritically, you feel jealousy, nauseating and uninvited, swells at the back of your throat. It is never subtle. It doesn’t creep. It pounces, claws bared, leaving you with that sour-metal taste of humiliation you can neither spit out nor swallow. It has no rightful place in your mouth, not after you had paraded around attempting to rouse his own jealousy and succeeding.
A small part of you questions Isaac’s composure, how he had kept it together after watching you flirt with other people. Then, a small thought, unbidden comes to you: he hadn’t. It’s a thought that shouldn’t please you as much as it does, but emotions are a complex thing, you never understood yours.
And so you lash out because that is what jealousy does — it renders you wild. Your mouth curls before you have decided, your tone a deliberate laceration, like you’re trying to diminish him for his lack of experience: “What, a handjob?”
The word detonates obscenely between you. It is not sophisticated. It is the linguistic equivalent of grinding a cigarette butt into silk sheets, a deliberate desecration. A term with all the grace of an instruction manual, stripped of glamor. It is teenage fumbling in the dark, static on a radio channel when you drive through a tunnel. That is why you select it. You would rather defile the moment than admit it wounds you.
“No,” he rectifies, and there is no shame in the correction, Isaac isn’t flustered by it. “Getting off.”
The clarification, calm and scrupulous, strips the barb from your sneer. And then he adds, soft, lethal: “I was thinking of you.”
The words land with a violence no volume could achieve. It is the casualness that ruins you, the lack of ceremony, as though this revelation were nothing more than a grocery item mentioned in passing. And in that moment, you are undone, because jealousy has been outflanked by something more dangerous: possession.
The breath comes rushing out of you, and you feel his nose nudge against your cheek when he smirks. “You’re beginning to understand what it was like for me.”
You don’t need to confirm it. He already knows it to be true.
“You’re making a mess,” you stay instead, highlighting his plight, then your voice dips into a ridiculing coo when you tighten your grip, around him and Isaac’s mouth gives a betraying quiver. “You won’t last if this is how much you’re dripping all over my hand.”
You draw your hand back, deliberately unhurried, and the pause becomes its own provocation. Into your palm you spit, you spread it along the expanse of your hand with the sweep of your tongue and you think, he must like it because his eyes follow the movement of your tongue with rapt attentiveness.
“I don’t even think I need to do any of this,” you remark. For all the affectation of effortlessness, you want him to see how much command you wield: that you can take or withhold, that your ministrations are elective, not compulsory.
When your hand returns, his body answers before he does. His cock jerks against your palm, obstinate, as if it has resolved on its own that you will be complicit. His eyes, when they meet yours, have shed the whites entirely; they are devoured by stygian, pupils flooded wide in that primitive dilation that reduces man to animal. He looks at you with the focus of hunger that annihilates any social decorum.
The faint twitch of his lips denounces his struggle: whether to bare teeth or smirk. He is poised on the hinge between violence and reverence, both impulses colliding in the same breath. It would be comic if it weren’t so electric: the posture of an animal that pretends restraint, though its whole body is already lunging.
“Kiss me,” he rasps, the words emerging not as request but compulsion, scraped raw from his throat.
“Always so demanding.”
He scoffs, “oh yeah, it’s me who’s the demanding one.”
You smile, and then you tug him into a kiss.
You’d meant to be gentle, you remind yourself, you’d meant sweetness but it’s obliterated under the sheer force of his want. He kisses like he’s starving, like he’s trying to eat you whole, every bite at your lip proof he doesn’t know how to take without tearing.
“I was going to be so nice to you,” you manage between breaths, your voice mockingly mournful, though the words are smeared by the press of his mouth still chasing yours. He groans against you, chest heaving, as if he can’t bear the thought of you withholding even now.
You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, see the gloss of spit and red, and laugh at how quickly composure is drowned in the filth of wanting. “If you don’t know how to kiss, then don’t try to take over.”
“How else am I supposed to learn?” he snaps back, lips trembling, teeth pressing into yours again, the words defiant.
You twist your head slightly, teasing, letting him catch only part of your mouth before pulling away again, leaving him whimpering and pressed into empty space. “You learn by listening,” you murmur, dragging a finger along his jaw, over slick spit and damp skin, “not by shoving yourself forward like a fucking animal.”
He whines, low and unrefined, and you tug him back anyway, mouths colliding in a tangle of wet insistence, spit stringing, breath mingling.
He cants his hips into your fist, rutting like the motion itself has stripped him of any shame. The pressure drags another spill from the head, a hot, translucent rope that clings stubbornly before surrendering to gravity. It slides down the length of him in erratic trails, gathering at the thick root where it mats into the dark curls, gluing hair to skin. Every fresh pulse adds to the mess: sticky gloss coating the shaft, slicking your palm, stringing between your fingers when you squeeze tighter.
You can feel it tack against your skin, the slippery resistance that makes each movement louder, wetter, indecently audible. He’s soaking himself in his own undoing, smearing your hand, and still he can’t stop thrusting into it as if desperation might wring him clean.
There’s something almost abject in the sight: not the sculpted body he pretends to own but a leaking, straining thing, his cock a faucet he cannot close, his breath fractured in tandem with the obscene slickness gathering everywhere.
“Close. I’m—“
You feel the twitch in him, the way his hips sputter almost without thought, the slick pulse at the tip that tells you he’s about to come. “No,” you say firmly, and your hand eases just slightly, enough to let him register the denial.
He shudders, nearly trembling against you, a raw guttural sound spilling from his throat. His grip on you tightens, hips pitching forward even as you pull back, desperate for the friction he can’t quite get. The slick sheen of him glistens under your fingers, dripping where your palm once held him, hot and sticky and utterly uncontrollable.
You watch, fascinated, as his body fails him: thighs quivering, jaw twitching, lips parted in tattered gasps. He tries to will himself into stillness, to obey the command, but the need has grown beyond reason, beyond restraint. Every shudder, every whimper, every slick strand left on your palm screams his want and how deliciously futile it is to deny him.
“Isaac,” you tap his cheek, a gentle slap along the slick, damp skin. For a heartbeat, if the haziness won’t clear up, but your voice brings him back.
“There you are… not yet,” you hum. “Need you to hold on a little longer. Wanna spend more time with you. You can do that for me, can’t you?”
His chest heaves, the slick sheen on his lips betraying his need, yet his eyes rekindle with defiance. He licks his lips, jaw tight. “I can,” he says, voice clipped, pride weaving through the desperation, even as he trembles under your hand, you can see the stubborn insistence of ego refusing to vanish entirely.
You incline your head toward the chair, and he eases himself down, weight settling with a quiet, deliberate shift. Your hands find the waistband of his pants; he lifts his hips, helping, and the fabric slides off in a slow surrender.
Your throat feels dry at the sight before you. Legs slightly apart, the thick flesh of his thighs pressing into the chair, taut and glistening with heat, every line of him straining just enough. Your fingers twitch, hovering, before they reconsider the course of their action, making their way over to his shirt instead.
He tenses.
You pause.
“Too much?”
“Wasn’t expecting it,” he concedes. “You can keep going.”
You do, slowly, so he can stop you if he needs to. Your fingers brush against the clockwork heart, and the instant reaction sends a hot flush through you, cunt throbbing, slick and pulsing. His hips jerk sharply, fucking into the empty air, cock drooling.
You mentally file the reaction away.
Then you get onto your knees, ignoring how the cold floor feels biting into you.
You lick at the trail of hair at the bottom of his stomach, feeling his cock twitch beneath you, then you ghost your lips to the thick of his thighs and bite into the flesh. His hands grip the arms of the chair, knuckles white, muscles coiling, the hitch of his breath, ragged, uneven, as he bends into the bite.
“Fuck- don’t… don’t stop,” he rasps.
You ease up slightly, pretending reluctance, teeth grazing the tender skin there. His thigh jolts with a mind of its own, smacking your jaw with a wet, insistent thud. Each twitch sends a shiver through you. His breath comes in rough-hewn pulls, uneven and ragged, chest rising and falling like a storm-tossed wave, each hitch a wordless plea, a demand tangled with want that claws at your restraint.
You feel the weight first. A hot, sticky heaviness pressing against the side of your cheek. When you glance up, you almost laugh at the sight: Isaac, head tilted, eyes trained on you, watching with unnerving clarity. His hand wraps around the base of his dick, guiding it, slightly grinding his hips against your face, smearing your cheek with the wet sheen dripping down his length.
It’s obscene how much there is, thick strings of slickness dragging across your skin, glistening in the low light, smearing your lips, your jaw. Every slow push leaves another sticky trail, and he hums low in his chest as if testing you, painting you with his mess.
The weight drags along your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth, hot and slick, precome drooling so freely you can feel it slide, wet and warm, down your chin. The smell of him, saline, musky, floods you, and every grind of him against your skin makes your cunt throb, your thighs clenching tight against the cold floor.
You laugh a little breathlessly, and bite again, harder this time, marmoreal teeth pressing into warm, resistant flesh, tasting the tension under his skin.
Isaac bears it. His jaw flexes, molars rasping as if he’s grinding them to dust. His voice is low, gravel-thick, cutting into the air: “You can bite harder than that.”
You lean one side of your cheek into his thigh and look up at him, a laugh in your eyes. “Don’t want you cumming all over my face.” You spare him the humiliation of letting him know that he’s already drenched half of your face with his precome already.
“Isn’t that the plan?”
“The plan was in my mouth.”
The words barely leave your lips before he snaps, hips spasming hard, cock pulsing slick and hot against your palm. His jaw clenches, muscles bunching like coiled steel, and a low, guttural sound rumbles from deep in his chest, an amalgamation of a growl and a groan. Every fiber of him tenses, hips snapping, skin slick with the heat of it, wetness dripping freely over your hand.
Your hands clamp onto his hips, holding him to the chair. You let your mouth descend, slick from your spit and his slick, and the instant you take him in, he howls, a gravelly, ragged sound torn from his chest, hoarse, full of need and surprise. You moan at the sound, and the way his hips try to twist in the chair, has you grinding your cunt against the heel of your foot, each roll of your hips is insistent.
You dip your head, letting your tongue trace the raised ridge of a vein. Each pass is an exploration without haste, following the taut line beneath the skin that pulses with the weight of his blood. The heaviness feels comfortable on your tongue, the warmth of him presses against your mouth.
His hips jerk again, harder, faster, and you hum around him, lips and tongue slick and warm, responding to every pulse, every frantic moan. You hadn’t expected him to be this loud, he’s taut, even as his body betrays the sheer need he’s trying to control, and you ride it, every wet, hot tremor mirrored in your cunt, grinding against your own heel as your pleasure spirals.
When he notices that you’re faltering, mouth slack, breath catching in little hiccups while he thrusts shallowly into your mouth, he tilts his head, trying to figure out what you’re doing, eyes narrowed as he studies you with a furrowed brow and when the realization flickers over his face, his mind sharpens. His hands clamp gently on your cheeks, palms steadying you, thumbs tracing the contours of your jawline before coercing your face up to parse it, raptly watching your eyes roll to the back of your head, your hips stuttering as you come with a muffled cry.
“Fuck!” His voice cracks at the sight, wrecked and desperate, rutting into your mouth, wild and feral. His vision blurs, the world tilting and darkening at the edges, and a guttural, strangled moan tears from him as he comes hard, teetering on the edge of blacking out, swallowed by the rawness of himself. His moans are strangled, half-choked, spine arching, every nerve screaming as the tremors of his release shudder through him, leaving only the primitive pulse of himself, trembling, panting, devoured by the urgency that drives him beyond thought.
His come, thick and saline in taste, spills down your throat, the excess fluid leaking down your jaw and onto your clothes. Your senses reel, but you come back to yourself faster than he does, mind clearing even as your body still trembles. Your tongue laves over him and he shudders involuntarily, a concatenation of micro-convulsions racking his body while his hands shake against you.
You let yourself shift, releasing him from your mouth when you feel like he’s had enough, the tremor of his body a residual echo, raising yourself up to his open mouth.
You playfully kiss his peeking tongue, mouth wet, and when you retract to admire his face, you catch him licking his lips, eyes still blighted with voracious want. His bare hands act on their own, possessing their own thoughts, clambering desperately on your hips, drawing you in closer. He doesn’t do anything except feel, knead the skin over fabric, before impudently inching towards the hem of your shirt, nails digging in and attempting to get closer to flesh.
You ignore the ache to be filled, that gnawing hunger tugging at your core. “Alright, you’ve had your fill,” you say, vaguely amused, eyes raking over his dishevelled countenance, taking stock of his condition. You’re not surprised by his eagerness; Isaac wants to push his body beyond human constraints. His body doesn’t agree but he rarely operates in congruence with the flesh that holds him.
You draw back slowly, letting the space between you feel like a soft exhale.
He opens his mouth to voice his dissent.
You stop him, using the length of your fingers to brush back the tendrils of his curls, loosened by exertion, damp with sweat. “There’ll be time for everything,” you promise and the inference of the words has him stilling before he leans into your touch.
Foaming at the mouth
A tower for two — Isaac Night (18+)
— fem!reader x Isaac night (wc; 4.1k)
— synopsis: You weren’t supposed to find him. Hidden in Nevermore’s highest tower, Isaac Night lived among smoke, gears, and the ticking of his unique machines. But one midnight, your footsteps led you to his secret world. What began as curiosity turned into candlelit sketches, whispered confessions, and a fragile kind of love. In the tower’s shadows, Isaac discovered something his machines could never give him. You.
— warnings: pre-explosion isaac, emotional vulnerability, mentions of death, sickness + illness, loneliness, fluff, slight angst, smut, oral (m receiving) sub! isaac, not much overall :)
— song recs while reading: “High School Sweethearts” — melanie martinez + “Cant help falling in love” — elvis presley
The halls of Nevermore had a way of swallowing sound at night. The stones were old, older than the school itself, and when the moonlight bled through the windows it made the walls gleam like bone. You should have been in your dorm, but the silence pressed too tightly around you, restless and suffocating.
That was when you heard it.
Faint at first, softer than the turning of a page, tick, tick, tick. A heartbeat that did not belong to you. It pulsed through the air like a hidden vein inside the castle. You paused, listening, and it seemed to call you onward.
You followed it down one corridor, then another. The portraits lining the walls stared as if they knew you were trespassing, their painted mouths curled in secrets you weren’t supposed to hear. The ticking grew clearer with every step, not steady like a clock, but uneven, faltering, almost human.
At the end of the hall, you found a door you’d never noticed before. Heavy oak, iron-banded, with a handle worn smooth by hands long gone. Behind it lay a stairwell that coiled upward into shadows, narrow and breathless. Dust clung to the stones as if no one had dared climb here in years.
Still, you did.
The ticking was louder now, echoing in the hollow of the stairwell. It carried you higher, each turn tightening the air in your chest, until you reached another door, taller, heavier, its hinges scarred with rust. Candlelight flickered faintly beneath it.
You pressed your palm against the wood, hesitated, then pushed.
The door groaned open, spilling golden light across your face.
The room beyond was a cathedral of machines. Tables sagged beneath spools of copper wire and broken gears. Blueprints littered the floor in drifts like fallen leaves. Lanterns burned low in their sconces, painting the walls in restless shadows that shifted and stretched as though alive. The air reeked of oil and smoke, thick enough to sting your throat.
And at the center of it all was him.
Your classmate, Isaac Night sat hunched over a workbench, his face half-hidden in lamplight, pale fingers stained with ink and ash. He moved with the rigid precision of someone too tired to falter, bending over a mechanism that glimmered with brass teeth and steel veins. The sound that had called you here, that uneven heartbeat of metal, whispered faintly from his table.
He didn’t turn when the door creaked shut behind you. His shoulders stiffened, a pause in the rhythm of his hands. Then, slowly, his voice cut through the quiet.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
The words were calm, but there was something brittle beneath them, like glass under strain. He still didn’t look at you, though the candle at his side threw his shadow long against the wall, stretching toward you like a warning.
You hovered by the door, pulse unsteady, your gaze sweeping the strange kingdom he had built in secret. “I heard something,” you whispered, not sure why you felt the need to confess. “A sound. It led me here.”
At that, he finally turned. His eyes caught the light, dark and sharp, the look of someone who hadn’t spoken to another soul in far too long. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then his gaze flicked to the table, to the small machine that pulsed faintly in time with his own chest. He shifted, angling his body as though to shield it from you.
“You heard this,” he said. Not a question, but a judgment.
You took a step closer, unable to help yourself. “What is it?”
His mouth curled, not in a smile, but something closer to disbelief. The shadows trembled on the walls as the lantern hissed low. At last, with a sigh that sounded like surrender, Isaac slid the candle across the table toward you, the flame spilling light into your hands.
“See for yourself,” he murmured.
You took the candle from him, its fragile flame trembling as if it already feared the weight of this place. The light stretched across the workbench, revealing the sprawl of his world.
Sheets of paper crowded the surface, each covered in frantic sketches: mechanical hearts, ribs like cages of steel, lungs made of bellows. Margins filled with scribbled numbers and notes, the handwriting sharp and furious, as though each line had been carved into the page rather than written.
The ticking filled the silence.
You realised it wasn’t only coming from the object on the table, but from everywhere.
Small devices lined the shelves, their tiny gears twitching and turning, all out of rhythm with one another. The room was alive with them, a chorus of broken time.
Your fingers hovered over the blueprints, careful not to touch. “You did all of this?” you asked, your voice almost lost in the hum.
Isaac leaned back in his chair, his face still half-hidden in shadow. His eyes lingered on you as if measuring whether you deserved an answer. Finally, he gave a small, tight nod.
“No one else,” he said. There was pride in it, but also weariness, the kind that comes from carrying something too heavy, too long.
You moved further into the tower, the candle’s light chasing away the shadows at your heels. Everywhere you looked, there was evidence of him: soot on the walls, smudges of ink across the wood, the faint burn marks where flames had licked too close. It was obsessive, consuming.
Yet there was beauty in it too.
One sketch caught your eye. It wasn’t a machine at all. Just a face, drawn over and over on scraps of paper, each one more frantic than the last, as if he’d been desperate to perfect it. You froze when you realised.
It was yours.
Isaac saw the moment you recognised it. His jaw tightened, his fingers curling around the edge of the desk.
For the first time, he looked unsettled, as though you had stepped too close to a boundary you weren’t meant to cross.
“I sketch things,” he said, his tone clipped, defensive. “Details I want to remember. Shapes. Proportions.”
But his gaze wouldn’t meet yours.
The candle shook faintly in your hand. “You want to remember me?”
For a moment, silence held the room, heavy and electric. Then Isaac rose from his chair, the movement smooth but deliberate, like a machine set suddenly into motion. He came to stand beside you, his presence taller, closer than you’d expected.
“I couldn’t stop seeing your face as I sketched,” he said at last, his voice low, almost a confession. “Even when I tried.”
The ticking around you seemed to slow, falling into a rhythm that wasn’t quite mechanical anymore. It was steadier. Warmer.
And still, on the table, the small brass heart pulsed faintly in the candlelight.
You stood frozen before the endless machines, candlelight flickering across the scattered sketches, his creations, his formulas, and, unmistakably, your own face drawn in restless strokes.
But it was the small brass device on the workbench that kept pulling your eyes back, its uneven rhythm filling the tower with a strange, fragile life.
Isaac followed your gaze. For a long while, he said nothing, his expression unreadable. Then, with a quiet scrape of wood against stone, he pulled out a stool and lowered himself into it, as though the weight of silence itself demanded he sit.
You followed soon after, pulling a chair that was scattered a few metres back.
“You shouldn’t have seen this,” he murmured, though his voice lacked the bite it carried earlier. Instead, it sounded… tired. Resigned.
You set the candle down, its glow pooling between you. “Then tell me,” you said gently. “If I wasn’t meant to find it, then why does it sound like it’s keeping you alive?”
His lips curved into a weak smile. Slowly, he touched his chest with his fingertips, right over the faint rise where his shirt stretched against his ribs. The ticking wavered, syncing with his gesture.
“Because it is.”
Your breath caught, the words sinking heavy and cold. He glanced away, toward the wall of restless machines.
“My heart was never strong,” he admitted. “Always too weak, too slow. The doctors said I wouldn’t last. I’ve been living on borrowed time since I was a child.” His jaw tightened, but his eyes stayed distant, fixed on some memory you couldn’t reach.
“Every day I wake up, and I don’t know if it will be the last. Sometimes…” He hesitated, lowering his voice. “Sometimes I can feel it faltering. Missing beats. I can’t count on it anymore.”
The room seemed smaller all of a sudden, the air heavier, the ticking louder.
“That’s why you’re building this,” you whispered, your gaze dropping to the brass heart.
He nodded, his pale fingers brushing over the metal casing with something that looked like reverence. “A clockwork heart. If mine fails, this will take its place. A machine doesn’t forget. It doesn’t tire. It doesn’t give up.”
For the first time, his composure cracked. His hand lingered on the brass device, but his eyes flickered toward you, searching, wary. “But I don’t know if it will work. If I’ve done enough. I don’t know if I’ll… have the time to finish.”
Your throat tightened, emotion prickling hot at the back of your eyes. Isaac Night, sharp, untouchable, endlessly meticulous, sounded almost like he was confessing a sin.
“Isaac,” you whispered.
He shook his head sharply, pulling his gaze away. “Don’t look at me like that. I don’t want pity. That’s why I work. That’s why I stay up here alone. If I keep moving, if I keep building, maybe I can outrun the truth.” His fingers curled into a fist against the workbench. “Maybe I can give myself a future.”
The candle between you guttered, and in the wavering light you saw something raw in his expression, not anger, not even fear. Just a boy terrified of vanishing, clawing at the dark for one more heartbeat.
The silence pressed heavy after his words. Isaac kept his eyes fixed on the brass heart, the candlelight turning its gears into veins of molten gold. His hand lingered on the table, trembling faintly, though he tried to still it.
You reached across the workbench before you could stop yourself, your fingertips brushing over his knuckles.
His head snapped toward you, eyes wide, startled like no one had dared to touch him in years.
“I’m not pitying you,” you said softly. “I just… don’t think you should carry this alone.”
He didn’t move, didn’t pull away. For a moment, the only sound was the uneven ticking that filled the room. His throat worked, as though he wanted to argue, but instead, his hand turned under yours, his fingers curling hesitantly around your own.
“You don’t understand,” he whispered, his voice breaking in its restraint. “Every time I let someone close, I think, what if I disappear tomorrow? What if they wake up and I’m gone?” His grip tightened, desperate now. “I don’t want you to see me vanish.”
You shook your head, inching closer, the candlelight casting both of you in gold and shadow. “Then let me see you now. That’s enough for me.”
His breath caught, a sharp, fragile sound. For the first time, his shoulders seemed to loosen, as though your words had slipped through the armor he’d wrapped around himself. Slowly, almost fearfully, he lifted your joined hands and pressed them against his chest.
Beneath your palm, his heart stumbled, weak and faltering, yet stubbornly alive. The rhythm was uneven, a boy’s heart already halfway claimed by death. And beneath it, faint but steady, the brass device echoed the same pulse, like a twin struggling to keep pace.
“This is what I am,” Isaac said, his eyes locked on yours, dark and glass-bright. “Half flesh, half hoping to become machine, A mistake waiting to happen. And still… when you’re here…” He faltered, searching, his voice breaking into something you’d never heard from him before.
Vulnerability.
“When you’re here, I almost believe I’ll last.”
The words settled between you, trembling with more weight than a confession.
Without thinking, you leaned closer, your candle casting light over his features, sharp cheekbones, the smudge of ash along his jaw, the shadows under his eyes from sleepless nights; and his beautiful black curls.
He smelled faintly of smoke and ink, of iron and oil. And beneath it all, something uniquely him.
“I don’t care how long you last,” you whispered. “I just want to be with you, Isaac. For as long as you’ll let me.”
Something inside him broke then, not the boy of iron and machines, not the scholar with restless hands and endless blueprints, but Isaac himself. His free hand rose shakily, as though he had to fight his own hesitation, and brushed a lock of hair from your face with such aching gentleness it nearly undid you.
The ticking filled the room again, but now it seemed softer, steadier, as though the tower itself held its breath.
When Isaac finally leaned toward you, his lips ghosting so close to yours you could feel the warmth of his breath, his voice was barely audible.
“Then stay,” he murmured. “Stay, and I’ll keep building a future worth having.”
Your promise hung in the air between you, trembling in the hush of the tower. Isaac’s hand still rested against your cheek, his fingertips uncertain as though he feared you might vanish if he touched you too firmly.
You closed the distance.
His lips met yours with a hesitation so fragile it broke your heart. It was not the kiss of someone practiced or confident, but of someone who had never believed he’d be allowed this closeness.
His breath shuddered against you, uneven, and when you tilted closer, pressing softly into him, he let out a sound, small, almost a whimper, that betrayed the depths of his longing.
The candlelight danced across his face, painting his sharp features in gold. His hands, usually steady with ink and gears, trembled as they cupped your jaw, then slid down your shoulders as though mapping the proof of your presence. You could feel the weakness in him, the fragility he hid from the world, and it only drew you closer.
When you pulled back just enough to look at him, his lashes lowered, his cheeks faintly flushed. “I don’t…” he faltered, voice ragged. “I don’t know how to be wanted like this.”
“You don’t have to know,” you whispered, brushing your thumb across his knuckles.
“Just let me.”
He swallowed hard, and for the first time, Isaac didn’t argue. He let himself lean into your touch, let himself be guided. His breath came fast, shallow, his dark eyes fixed on you like he was terrified the moment might dissolve if he blinked.
When your lips trailed from his mouth to the corner of his jaw, down the line of his throat, his head tipped back, exposing the pale column of his neck. A shaky exhale escaped him, half-strangled, his fingers curling desperately into the fabric of your sleeve.
He was always the one in control here, master of machines and calculations, yet now, in your hands, he surrendered.
“Please,” he whispered, the word spilling out before he could stop it. His voice was low, hoarse, tinged with need and fear alike.
“Don’t stop.”
You didn’t. Every touch, every kiss you pressed against him drew him deeper into a kind of unraveling he had never allowed himself. His body trembled beneath yours, not with weakness this time, but with the unbearable weight of feeling wanted, cherished, alive.
The uneven ticking of the tower filled the silence, yet for once, it wasn’t the sound of doom. It was a rhythm, a pulse, an echo of life, his life, in time with the way his chest rose and fell under your touch.
And when his hands finally fell from clutching to resting, open and vulnerable against you, you realised this was the moment Isaac Night had given you something more than his secret.
He had given you his trust.
“Isaac,” you whispered, brushing your knuckles against the buttons of his waistcoat. “I want to… but only if you’ll let me.”
His breath caught. His gaze flickered from your lips to your eyes, as if searching for a trap, some hidden cruelty. When he found none, only softness, he let out a shaky exhale.
“Tell me,” you murmured, your hand sliding lower to the buckle at his belt. “Will you undo this for me?”
For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Then, with trembling fingers, he fumbled at the clasp, the metal clinking softly in the stillness of the tower. It was clumsy, almost hesitant, but he obeyed.
The leather slipped loose, the buckle falling open between you.
You kissed his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, small reassurances that you were here, with him, that he wasn’t alone in this.
You slowly lowered yourself onto the wooden floors of Iago tower, your knees hitting the cold surface smoothly.
When you brushed the back of your hand over the hardness straining beneath his trousers, Isaac’s head tipped back against the wall with a low, helpless sound.
“You don’t have to-” he began, voice cracking, but you hushed him with another kiss, softer this time.
“I want to,” you said simply. “I want you.”
Something fragile broke in him at those words. He nodded quickly, like he couldn’t trust his voice, his hands falling uselessly into his lap.
You guided the fabric down, slow, careful, never rushing him. His breath came in shivers, every second a struggle to let himself be seen like this, bare and undone.
When you leaned down and pressed a kiss to his thigh, just above where he was already flushed and aching, Isaac whimpered, high and startled, his hands clutching at the bench as if to ground himself.
“Good,” you soothed, your lips tracing lower, your voice warm and steady. “You’re doing so good for me.”
And then you whispered, gentle but certain: “Let me take care of you.”
His breath came quick, shallow, his knuckles white where they gripped the bench. He looked at you like a man on the edge of something he didn’t believe he deserved.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he rasped, half a plea, half a warning.
You kissed his hipbone gently. “Like what?”
“Like I’m worth this.” His voice broke, raw.
You lifted your eyes to his, steady and
unwavering.
“You are. To me, you are.”
The silence after was so delicate you were afraid to breathe too loud and shatter it. Isaac’s throat bobbed, his lashes fluttered, and then he gave the smallest nod, as if surrendering to your truth.
You eased lower, pressing a final kiss to the inside of his thigh before wrapping your hand around him. He shuddered, a strangled whimper slipping free, his hips twitching against your touch before he forced himself still.
“Relax,” you murmured, stroking him gently, setting a rhythm that was more about comfort than urgency. “You don’t have to hold back. Not with me.”
“I-I don’t know if I can…” His voice was desperate, choked, as if he was already unraveling.
“Yes, you can.” You leaned in, your lips brushing the head of him, soft as a sigh. “Just let me.”
When you finally took him into your mouth, Isaac gasped like he’d been punched in the chest. His hands shot out, hovering helplessly in the air before clutching the edge of the bench again.
“God-“ His head fell back, a broken groan spilling out of him. “You’re… oh, fuck…”
You hummed softly around him, the vibration making him jerk, his thighs trembling.
Every little sound he made, every whimper and gasp, only pushed you further, made you want to give him more.
You set your own pace, slow, deliberate, savouring the weight of him, the heat. One hand smoothed over his thigh, grounding him, reminding him that this was tenderness, not cruelty.
Isaac tried to keep quiet, he really did, but every time you took him deeper, another helpless whimper tore from his throat. “Please-please don’t stop,” he begged, his voice thin and ragged. “I can’t-God, I can’t…”
You pulled back just enough to whisper, lips still brushing against him: “It’s alright. You don’t have to hold it in. I want to see you fall apart for me.”
His entire body shuddered, undone by your words alone.
When you took him back into your mouth, deeper this time, Isaac let out a sound so raw it echoed in the tower walls. His hands trembled, desperate to touch, but he didn’t dare. He let you have him, let you guide him, let you take him apart.
And through it all, he kept whispering your name like a prayer.
You never looked away from him, not even with your lips stretched around him, not even when his body quaked with restraint.
His eyes kept darting down, wide and desperate, then fluttering shut as if the sight of you was too much for him to bear.
“Shit..feels so good-please-“ he whispered again, the word trembling. His voice was cracked glass, fragile, about to split.
You pulled back just enough to murmur against him, your hand stroking what your lips had left. “Please what?”
His breath hitched. “Please… let me… I don’t want to feel pre-“ He broke off into a helpless whine, as if even asking felt dangerous.
“You’re safe,” you soothed, your voice like a thread sewing him back together even as you unraveled him. “It’s alright, Isaac. I want this. I want you.”
Something shattered in his face then, fear, disbelief, shame, all dissolving into a kind of twisted, weak, love. His chest rose and fell too fast, his hands gripping the wood of the bench until it creaked.
You took him back into your mouth, slow and deep, letting him feel the full press of your lips, the warmth of your tongue. He groaned raggedly, his head tilting back, throat bared, heart ticking like a frantic clock you thought might break at any second.
“God-“ His voice was ruined, soft and hoarse. “I can’t… I can’t hold it-“
You hummed in response, the sound vibrating through him, and that was all it took. His whole body jolted, his hips jerking helplessly despite himself. His mouth fell open in a cry that echoed up the stone walls, raw and unguarded, like he’d given you more than his body, like he’d given you every hidden part of himself.
The release hit him in shaking waves, every sound he made spilling out of him like he didn’t know how to contain it anymore. You stayed with him, soft and steady, swallowing him down, your hand stroking through the aftershocks, your touch as gentle as your lips.
By the time you pulled back, Isaac was trembling all over, his hair damp against his forehead, his eyes glassy. He looked destroyed and holy all at once, like you’d touched something no one else had ever dared to.
You pressed a kiss to his hipbone, then another to his faint and dying heart that you knew you wouldn’t hear again.
When you finally stood up, Isaac looked up at you in awe, his lips parted, his chest heaving.
“Why…” His voice cracked. “Why would you… do that for me?”
You rose slowly, brushing your thumb along his jaw, guiding his face up until your lips brushed his.
“Because,” you whispered. “You gave me your truth. And this… was mine.”
You smiled faintly, propping yourself up onto the chair close to his once again, wrapping your arms around his body to rest in his warmth just a little bit longer.
Isaac didn’t fight back, pulling you close to him as his hands made their way to your hair, playing with your strands ever so gently.
Before you knew it, an idea consumed your resting mind.
“You know… in biology, we’re learning how to dissect human hearts.”
Isaac tensed, pulling back slightly, his brows furrowing. “That is not remotely comforting.”
You bit back a grin. “Wait, let me finish. We’re also learning how to replace them. I am quite progressed in my studies. So, if yours ever… gave out…soon..”
His eyes widened, horror and disbelief warring on his face. “You’re suggesting you would perform surgery on me?”
“Well,” you said innocently, kissing the edge of his jaw. “I have steady hands. And a perfect score in anatomy.”
He let out a hoarse, enlightening laugh, shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe you. “You are deranged. Absolutely deranged.”
“Maybe,” you admitted with a smile, brushing your lips to his again. “But you’d let me try.”
His gaze softened, the laughter fading into something molten. He exhaled shakily, resting his forehead against yours. “God help me, I would.”
And then he kissed you again, laughing against your mouth, as if somehow, for one fleeting moment in Iago Tower, eternity didn’t feel so impossible.
please lmk if you enjoyed and remember, likes and reblogs are always greatly appreciated (and requests are always welcome!)
GUYS
I’m begging for Obi-Wan fanfics….preferably with LOTS of angst, maybe enemies to lovers type. I need the build up and slow burn so badly.
Double points for a love triangle ;)
HELP A GIRL OUT
When you're reading a fanfic and suddenly reader starts to call him daddy or any other embarrassing pet names
i need to be his controversially young girlfriend
Stop guys hear me out:
Angsty enemies-to-lovers slow burn fic in which obi wan falls in love with the main character, a princess who is betrothed to another man who happens to be secretly a villain….
Im talking lots of angst, big build up, HUGE tension omg
