The Character Chronicler

The only good girl this side of the moon

[thecharacterchronicler]

MASTERLIST

Last update: November 2025

All of these contain SMUT, please check the warnings before reading.

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One Shots:

- Perform

You get married to Coriolanus Snow, a powerful man that you don’t even know, and try to adjust to your new life as his wife.

- Snakebite

Coriolanus has his eye on the new nurse of the caserne and he’d do anything to have her.

Series:

1 - There Will Come A Ruler

You agreed to a marriage of convenience with Coriolanus Snow to please your parents and be an asset in his campaign to become the new president of Panem. On your first wedding anniversary, the man who you barely spend time with and hardly know, tells you that he wants you to give him a heir.

2 - Snow Lands On Top

It’s the first round of the presidential elections and Coriolanus Snow’s results aren’t as good as he hoped. Fortunately, you’re there to give him an outlet for his frustration.

3 - Insatiable

Coriolanus is starting to lose control over his feelings for you and the way your driver seems to be flirting with you forces him to show him - and you - who you belong to.

4 - The Bitter Taste Of My Fury

After a vicious attack from the rebels, Coriolanus lets some of his true feelings for you show.

5 - Craving

After many attempts, you’re finally pregnant but you need Coriolanus’ help to induce labor.

ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ ˋ

1 - District Girl

In district 12, peacekeeper Coriolanus Snow catches you sneaking past the fence. Thankfully for you, he accepts when you offer him a special arrangement in exchange of his silence.

2 - District Girl (Part 2)

Coriolanus doesn’t like how friendly you are to other men and how much you ignore him on his evening out at the Hob. So he decides to leave you with a lasting impression of him.

3 - District Girl (Part 3)

Coriolanus meets you again and, as a bad thunderstorm approaches, you invite him to take shelter in your cabin…

ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ

1 - Playing With Fire (Pt. 1)

Coriolanus is forced to work on an assignment with a classmate but, while alone in her bedroom, he finds something interesting in her drawers and requests a demo.

2 - Playing With Fire (Pt. 2)

After working together on an assignment, Coriolanus still can’t seem to get along with her, but that doesn’t stop them from enjoying each other’s company.

Series:

1 - Exams, poltergeists and supply closets

You and Sebastian decide to sneak into your professor’s office late at night but with Peeves chasing after you, you have no choice but to hide together in a tiny supply closet… One thing leading to another, you end up passing the time rather pleasantly together. But your actions may have unexpected consequences…

2 - Friends with benefits… and a baby.

You and Sebastian decide that you might as well be “friends with benefits” during your pregnancy…

3 - Mandrakes, dusty books & an apology

You’re still managing to hide your pregnancy, but jealousy and mood swings are complicating everything.

4 - Tight shirts and short skirts

Spring break at Feldcroft wasn’t supposed to change everything, just a quiet escape with Sebastian. But between too-tight school uniforms, a baby you’re not supposed to have, and the terrifying question of what comes next… hiding how you feel is becoming impossible.

5 - Heatstroke, green jumpers and a lavender bath

After you collapsed during revision, Sebastian sneaks you into the Prefects’ Bathroom to cool off. It was supposed to be innocent but once his hands are on your skin… it becomes impossible to stop. And just when your world is already upside down, he says something that changes everything...

6 - WIP

One Shots:

- Memorable

Sebastian invites you to the ball, the very first one you get to attend at Hogwarts. After learning that you have yet a few more first times to experience, he vows to make this night memorable for both of you.

- Runaway

After what happened between him and his uncle, Sebastian has no choice but to run away with you.

- Fair Play

You duel Sebastian but things quickly take another turn. You both decide to give in to the desires that have been complicating your friendship, just this once.

Series:

1 - Bloodline

Your family arranged for you to marry Marvolo Gaunt. Fortunately, your best friend Ominis steps up and makes sure to save you from such a fate.

2 - Please

After your arranged marriage and wedding night with Ominis, you found yourselves alone in the Gaunt house for a few days.

3 - Heirloom

Weeks after your arranged wedding, you and Ominis have a few things to confess to each other…

One Shots:

- Like An Evening Sky

You ask Ominis to be your date for the ball and he feels sorry that he can’t see how beautiful you are... So you help him get a much more detailed and intimate idea of what you look like.

Smut Alphabet (Season 2)

1 - Obsessive

The guy who made high school hell for you just escaped Willow Hill and now he’s in your home. He’s dangerous, obsessive, and very, very out of control… but maybe you’ve been just as twisted all along.

2 - Possessive

You’re supposed to be researching monsters in the safety of your library, but the real monster is already under your desk, feral, filthy, and determined to ruin you while your ex-boyfriend hovers just inches away.

3 - If I Catch You...

You thought the crowd made you safe. But he’s in the shadows, watching, hunting, waiting to pin you against the wall while your boyfriend is just steps away.

4 - Reflections

You thought he was gone but he’s in line behind you at the café, and minutes later you’re on your knees in the bathroom, your phone in his hand as he tells you exactly who you belong to.

5 - Unleashed

He’s weak, burning up without a master, but you’re the only thing that can bring him back. You ride him, ruin him, make him yours… and for the first time, he almost admits he loves it.

WIP

ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ

1 - Puppy (x Isaac Night)

You burned down Willow Hill to free the chained monster behind the glass. He calls you psycho, you call him puppy. Now you’re running through the woods, high on blood and fire until you finally let him off his leash...

ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ

Love, be afraid

You know Tyler Galpin as the sweet boy behind the coffee counter but tonight, after prom, something breaks. And when he looks at you with eyes that aren't quite human, you should be afraid... But you’re not. Because even when the monster reaches for you… he still answers to your voice.

Smut Alphabet

1 - Method To Madness

Your rivalry with Isaac was supposed to be academic. Equations, chalkboards, late-night assignments... But when the tension finally snaps, he doesn’t just kiss you, he ruins you across his desk with the obsessive precision of a man who always thought you could be his greatest experiment.

2 - Method To Madness

The Rave’N was supposed to be nothing, music, dresses, a meaningless spectacle. But when Isaac loses control, obsession turns to hunger. In the lantern-lit gardens, among roses and whispers, he worships you.

ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ

1 - Mon Cher (1)

The Nightshades library isn’t meant for games. But when you push Isaac Night past the edge of his precious research, parchment burns, books fall, and control shatters. One brutal kiss at a time, he makes sure you learn your lesson.

2 - Mon Cher (2)

Every path in the haunted maze leads back to Isaac Night. He doesn’t just want to catch you, he wants to ruin you. Louder than the screams in the dark, he’ll make sure the whole school knows you belong to him.

3 - Mon Cher (3)

Masks, whispers, and a waltz sharp enough to draw blood lead you to the balcony. Insatiable and reckless, you push Isaac past restraint and he makes certain you leave the masquerade marked, stuffed, and shamelessly his.

ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ ˋˏ-༻❁༺-ˎˊ

2 - Brains (x Tyler Galpin)

You go on a revenge kill with Isaac, just the two of you. But after the blood’s been spilled, something shifts. He doesn’t eat you; he devours you... Just this once.

William Bonney || Billy The Kid

- He’s All That I’ve Got

Your lover is on the run but he pays you a heated visit.

Billy Hargrove || Stranger Things

- The Queen Of Hawkins

You are the Queen of Hawkins (instead of Steve being king) but the new guy in town is after your crown and decides to try his luck at a party.

Benedict Bridgerton || Bridgerton

Muse

Your new husband wants to paint your portrait but you feel a bit insecure about yourself.

Victor Rookwood || Hogwarts Legacy

Captive

Five years post-Hogwarts, you work in the shadows, recovering stolen relics for the Ministry. But when a mission goes wrong, you end up captured, blindfolded and at the mercy of Victor Rookwood, seductive, cruel, and far too amused by your defiance. Tied, exposed, and forced to obey, you're about to learn what it truly means to be owned by the enemy.

Xavier Thorpe || Wednesday

Shapes, Shadows & Lines

You only meant to help Xavier with his sketches. You didn’t expect to find dozens of portraits of yourself hidden in his shed and you definitely didn’t expect to walk back in and catch him messy, desperate, and too obsessed to stop...

Smut Alphabet

[thecharacterchronicler]

A Court of Puppets and Distractions || Rhysand, Azriel & Cassian x Reader || Smut

Blurb: When an ancient threat tears down your court, your father calls on allies for help. But in your chambers, something even more dangerous happens as the three of them decide to have you... All at once. 

Word Count: 3'365

Warnings: Explicit smut. Consensual group sex (polyamory / threesome), double penetration + oral. Mentions of a verbally abusive father. No spoilers (i think).

Author's note: I recently fell headfirst into the ACOTAR books and haven’t managed to climb back out since. I’m currently on book five, when Cassian casually mentions that he used to have sex in the same room as Rhys and Az... That single line has been living rent-free in my mind ever since. So this story is my way of exorcising it.

This is set long before the Archeron sisters ever entered Prythian. Just… innocent fun between friends. Mostly.

Side note: I’m reading the series in French, so please forgive me if a title or detail is slightly off. At this point, I’m just grateful I double-checked before translating “High Lord” into something like “Big Lord” or “Tall Lord.”

Enjoy. ✨

It was already night when your father’s men returned to the palace.

They had been sent out days ago, searching for traces of an ancient creature that had broken free during the destruction of one of the sacred temples on your lands, the puppeteer. Since then, it had roamed unchecked, terrorizing villages and manipulating its way through the populace, turning citizens into hollow mannequins, stripped of reason, stripped of will.

You had been ordered to remain inside the palace at all times, guards stationed outside your chambers like sentinels. Watching your court fracture under the creature’s influence while being forbidden to act was a new kind of torture, one that sat heavy in your chest and refused to loosen its grip.

Your father had even gone so far as to summon the Night Court for aid.

A bitter choice, considering his relationship with its High Lord had been… strained, to say the least. He would sooner bow before enemies than ask for your help. Your gift, your curse, had to remain hidden. Your clairvoyance was a secret to be buried deep, even if it meant losing your people to a threat you were forbidden to confront.

For days, his men had returned empty-handed.

Tonight was different.

They arrived escorting three figures: the High Lord of the Night Court himself, his spymaster, and his general. The news they carried was not good but it was hopeful. A trace had been found. A possible hiding place identified. Now they leaned over the massive dining table with your father and his general, staring over maps, discussing ways to lure the creature back into its magically warded sanctuary.

You sat at the opposite side of the table. Present, but invisible. Not allowed to speak. Not allowed to intervene. Not even allowed to matter.

You had expected the High Lord of the Night to arrive with an army at his back. Instead, he had come with only two winged warriors. You had never seen men like them before. Their dark wings marked them as something other than the refined fae nobles of your court, something sharper, more dangerous.

The High Lord himself was said to be cruel, arrogant and ruthless… And yet he had agreed to help. Which meant, undoubtedly, that he intended to collect something in return. Something unpleasant.

You listened in silence as the general, Cassian, gestured toward the map that covered half the table, pointing out the area where they believed the creature had taken shelter.

You huffed softly, barely a sound, but every gaze snapped toward you. Heat rushed to your face as you shifted in your chair under your father’s sharp glare. You hadn’t meant to react, truly, but the location Cassian indicated could not be right.

Every night, your dreams showed you the same images: a silver waterfall, mist curling over a quiet lake… Cassian was pointing to a dense forest instead.

“Is there something you’d like to add?” the High Lord asked.

Rhysand’s violet eyes fixed on you, piercing in a way that made your breath catch, as though he could see far more than your silence.

“Don’t mind her,” your father cut in sharply, before you could speak. “My daughter knows very little about our… situation.”

“Is that so?” Rhysand replied, tilting his head, his gaze never leaving yours. “May I?”

The question startled you. You barely had time to wonder what he meant before you felt it, a presence brushing against the edges of your mind. Foreign but patient, waiting for invitation. 

You shook your head once in consent and the intrusion deepened.

It felt as though he had stepped uninvited into your chambers, rifling through drawers, overturning shelves, prying open boxes meant to stay closed. You squeezed your eyes shut, steadying yourself, and deliberately brought forth the memories you chose to show him.

The recurring dream.

The sacred temple, collapsing under the hands of thieves and mercenaries, even though you had never been there. The rush of pleasure that wasn’t yours yet felt achingly real as the wards shattered and the creature ran free across the lands of the Eclipse Court. The twisted delight of slipping into homes, pulling invisible strings, forcing people to dance like dolls.

And then the calm. The waterfall. The lakebed beneath its surface, where armed guards searched again and again, never thinking to look below the water. They never would.

Rhysand drew back abruptly.

His purple eyes burned brighter when they met yours again, something unreadable flickering within them. He inclined his head slightly, a silent thanks. You mirrored the gesture, grateful he said nothing aloud, not in front of your father.

Silence followed.

The spymaster and the general both appeared distant for a moment, as though Rhysand’s power had briefly brushed their minds as well. When the discussion resumed, the plan had changed.

“We’d like to investigate the Silver Lake, too,” Cassian announced casually. “Just to be sure.”

When his gaze lifted to you, he winked. You felt your cheeks warm once more.

They were gone again before the sun had fully risen.

You paced the palace halls like a restless ghost, nerves coiled tight as you wondered whether following your vision would prove a blessing or a death sentence. What if it had been a trap? What if you had sent them straight into the Puppeteer’s grasp without realizing it? And what if they did find the creature… only to discover it was stronger than any of them?

Minutes stretched into hours. Hours into an eternity.

Then, at last, the squadron returned.

Your father was the first to greet them, of course. You lingered at a careful distance, composed. But when your gaze met Azriel’s, he smirked and tilted his head ever so slightly.

A confirmation.

Your chest loosened with a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. They had found it. They had followed the path you had shown Rhysand.

By dawn, your father and the Night Lord had settled on a plan. Troops would be sent in force to capture the Puppeteer. Numbers mattered. The creature could only control a handful of minds at once, not an entire division. Azriel and Cassian would subdue it. Rhysand would bind its power long enough to escort it back to its warded sanctuary.

The mood that evening was dangerously light, as if the problem had already been solved.

Fae wine flowed freely. Music echoed endlessly through the throne room. Your father laughed too loudly, drunkenly dancing with his general, convinced victory was already theirs. You slipped away unnoticed, retreating to your chambers as discreetly as you had learned to be.

Later, jewelry discarded, makeup washed away, skin still warm from your bath, you had just changed into your nightgown when a sharp knock echoed against your door.

No servant would disturb you at this hour. And the guards stationed outside would never allow entry without reason.

You opened the door. Three silhouettes stood there. The three men of the Night Court.

Your breath caught. You suddenly became painfully aware of how thin the white linen of your nightgown was beneath the lantern lights, how little it concealed. Heat rushed to your cheeks as their gazes lingered, unashamed.

“I didn’t get a chance to speak with you without your father listening in,” Rhysand said smoothly, “but we thought you’d like to know that we found the Puppeteer. By the waterfall. Just as you showed me.”

“It buries itself beneath the surface,” Azriel added quietly. “Hides in the sand beneath the water to rest.”

“I’m glad I could help,” you managed, though their attention made your skin feel far too warm.

“I need to make sure you’ll tell me if your visions change tonight,” Rhysand continued.

“Why?” you asked.

“Because now that it knows we’ve found it,” Cassian said, “there’s a chance it might run before we reach it tomorrow.”

A shiver slid down your spine. The thought of new visions, of witnessing the Puppeteer’s carnage firsthand, made your stomach twist.

“I’d rather not sleep at all, then,” you muttered.

Rhysand chuckled softly. “I know it isn’t easy to see things you never asked to see. Things that don’t belong to you. But you’re powerful. I wonder why your father refuses to let you help.”

“Because I’m a woman,” you snapped bitterly. “And because he thinks I’m too young. For this. For anything. I can barely leave the palace. I’m hardly allowed distractions.”

Cassian’s grin turned slow and dangerous. “Would you like one tonight?”

Azriel elbowed him sharply, but Cassian barely flinched.

“Would you give me one, General?” you replied, matching his tone.

“I’d give you three,” he said easily. “We’re sort of a package deal.”

Heat bloomed low in your body at the implication. You’d been with men before, but never three. And never winged warriors. Never a High Lord. Only guards reckless enough to break rules and pretend they weren’t playing with fire.

Your lungs felt empty. Your thoughts scattered. Instead of answering, you stepped aside and let them in.

Cassian claimed your bed as if it were his own, folding his wings with practiced ease. Azriel moved through the room, checking the windows, the shadows, ensuring privacy before relaxing. Rhysand simply watched you, starlight and something sharp glinting in his eyes.

One of the guards tried to follow them inside. Azriel stopped him with a single look.

“Don’t worry,” he said calmly. “She’ll be in very capable hands tonight.”

“I have orders,” the guard protested.

“Ignore them and get a drink,” Cassian shrugged.

The door closed.

“I doubt he will,” you murmured. “He never breaks rules.”

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t remember any of this,” Rhysand said lightly.

A shiver traced your spine. The ease with which he spoke of such power was… unsettling. Uncomfortably close to the Puppeteer’s own abilities.

Cassian leaned back on your bed, watching you like prey. Azriel lingered near the shadows. Rhysand stepped closer.

“I…” You swallowed. “Do you do this often?”

They laughed together. Deep, masculine sounds that filled the room and sent butterflies spiraling through your stomach.

“Only when we all want the same thing,” Rhysand said smoothly. “And can’t decide who should have it.”

His smile sharpened.

“So we behave,” he added. “And we share.”

He circled around you slowly, boots quiet against the stone floor, close enough that you felt the brush of his presence, the subtle shift of air as he passed behind you. Power hummed around him, restrained but unmistakable, like a storm held just below the surface.

Cassian watched you openly from the bed, his gaze warm, hungry and unapologetic. Azriel, half-lost to the shadows near the wall, observed in silence, his attention sharper somehow for how little he revealed.

“You’re trembling,” Rhysand remarked, stopping just behind you.

You hadn’t realized you were.

“I’m not afraid,” you said, though your voice wavered.

“I know,” he replied softly. “If you were, you wouldn’t still be standing here.”

His hand lifted slowly but he didn’t touch you at first. The anticipation was worse than contact. His fingers hovered near your wrist, close enough that heat pooled there, that your pulse seemed to thrum against his skin even without contact.

You swallowed but didn’t move so his fingers closed around your wrist at last. The touch was light, barely there, but it sent a spark straight up your arm, settling low in your belly. His thumb brushed over the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse raced, as if he were memorizing the rhythm of you.

Azriel moved then. One step closer. Two.

You felt him before you saw him, the shadows curling subtly around his presence as he reached out, his fingers grazing your shoulder, enough to make you aware of the breadth of him, the solid heat beneath his clothes. His touch was different from Rhysand’s. It was more grounded. Steady.

Something inside you snapped taut. You turned slightly, your free hand lifting on instinct, fingers brushing Cassian’s knee where he sat on the bed. His breath hitched and his hand covered yours immediately, warm and solid, thumb pressing lightly against your knuckles as if anchoring you there.

The realization came quietly. Three different touches. Three different pulls. And instead of confusion, something inside you settled. You didn’t want one of them. You wanted them. All of them.

The way Rhysand watched you like he already knew the request you hadn’t dared to voice. The way Azriel gave you space while silently closing ranks around you. The way Cassian made no attempt to hide his desire, as if daring you to meet it head-on.

You drew in a slow breath, then another. Your shoulder brushed Azriel’s chest. Your hip shifted closer to Cassian’s knee. Your wrist flexed slightly in Rhysand’s grasp, not to escape, but to feel more of him.

The effect was immediate.

Rhysand went still behind you, his grip tightening just enough to let you know he’d noticed. Azriel’s breath changed, subtle but unmistakable, his fingers curling reflexively before he caught himself. Cassian’s smile softened, turning less teasing, more intent.

When Azriel’s fingers caught on the lace hem of your nightgown, You knew this wouldn’t be the slow seduction you’d expected. The fabric tore with a sound like branches snapping, too loud in the hush of your chambers, where moonlight pooled between the four of you like spilled silver. 

The spy’s laughter was a shadow against your neck, his wings rustling as he pinned your wrists behind your back, while Rhysand’s fingers started tracing the newly bared skin of your thigh with the precision of a scholar reading old runes.

They moved in staggered harmony: Cassian rough palms skating up your ribs, Azriel’s teeth grazing the shell of your ear, and Rhysand snapping his fingers to dissolve their clothes into thin air and make them as naked as you were. 

You arched, not from any one touch but from the impossibility of the three points of contact, three rhythms, three intentions converging until your breath came in jagged staccato.

The High Lord of the Night Court knelt in front of you, his mouth hot where you needed to feel it the most, and the general’s growl vibrated through you as he gripped your hip.

 “This is the only time I’ll kneel in front of the Eclipse Court,” Rhysand warned, though his hands were already splitting your thighs wider, calluses catching on skin humming from his tongue. 

Azriel’s fingers mimicked Rhysand’s but from behind, slick and relentless, and when he crooked two inside you without ceremony, you realized they weren’t preparing you for pleasure so much as ruin.

“Breathe,” the spy whispered, though his own breathing was ragged. 

Rhysand’s fingers twisted deeper inside you, stretching you in slow, deliberate arcs. Azriel’s thumb circled the bud of nerves, relentless, as Cassian’s nails dimpled the flesh of your inner thighs. Someone muttered, but the words dissolved into a moan when you clenched around their fingers.

Cassian was the first one to lose patience, he dragged you closer to him, pulling you onto his lap and his chest rose with a sharp inhale as you sank onto him, his wings flaring against the sheets. The stretch burned. Every thrust upward intensified the blissful fire tearing through your core.

Their touches were a discordant symphony. Azriel focused his featherlight grazes against your nipples while Rhysand palm pressed down on your shoulders so that you’d take all of Cassian in.

Azriel’s laugh was dark against your nape as he lined himself up behind you, his cock slick and heavy where it nudged between your cheeks. He pushed in, a slow, relentless intrusion that made your vision blur. The stretch burned sharper than Cassian’s invasion, your body protesting even as it clenched greedily around them both, Azriel’s groan vibrating through your spine.

You wanted to scream but couldn’t, not with the spy’s hand suddenly covering your mouth, his other hand guiding your hips into a rhythm that was neither yours nor Cassian’s, but something feral and shared.

The general rumbled beneath you, his nails digging crescents into your hips. The spy took a step back to watch himself disappear into your ass, inch by obscene inch.

 “Fuck,” he hissed, his wings shuddering, “she’s so tight.” and then he was bottoming out, his pelvis flush against you, his cock lodged so close to the other one inside you in a way that shouldn’t have been possible but was.

They didn’t move at first, letting you feel the impossible stretch. Rhysand’s fingers tangled in your hair, forcing you to look at his purple eyes. 

“Breathe through it,” he said, though his own voice was ragged, and when you whimpered, he nipped at your earlobe. “That’s it, sweetheart. Now take them like the princess you are.”

And then they began to move. Cassian thrusting up, Azriel pulling back, their rhythms counterpointed and cruel until all you could do was cling to Cassian’s shoulders and scream. Rhysand’s laughter was a dark hum against your temple. 

“Listen to her,” he continued, pressing a kiss to your hair. “She sounds like she’s being unraveled.” 

Azriel’s response was a groan, his cock twitching inside you as he leaned forward, his chest flush against your back. 

“She is,” he rasped, his breath hot against your neck. “And look at her, still so fucking greedy for it.”  His hand slid down your belly, fingers splaying over the swollen curve where they were buried in you, and you jolted, your vision whiting out at the edges.

Cassian growled, his fingers tightening on your hips, holding you still as Azriel fucked you harder, his pace relentless. You sobbed, your thighs trembling with the effort of holding back. You gasped out pleas and half-formed curses, your voice breaking as they dragged you closer to the edge, their bodies moving in you like a storm, relentless and wild. 

The spy’s hand found your throat, squeezing just enough to make your pulse roar in your ears, and through the haze, you heard the general’s satisfied chuckle, his wings flexing behind him. Rhysand’s fingers traced the shape of your mouth before he replaced them by the thick press of his cock against your lips, his grip in your hair forcing your head back. 

You opened for him, letting him fill your mouth until tears pricked at your lashes. Behind you, Azriel groaned, his hips snapping forward with brutal precision, his cock dragging against the bump of Cassian’s inside you in a way that made your toes curl. Rhysand’s thumb stroked your cheek, a mockery of tenderness as he fucked your throat in time with their thrusts.

It was too much; the stretch, the heat, the way their voices tangled together above you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure. Your orgasm tore through you like a blade, blinding and brutal, your body clamping down around both cocks in a vice grip that had them cursing in unison as pleasure ripped through you, sharp and dizzying.

Then, Rhysand came with a groan, his release flooding your throat, salty and thick, until you started choking on it. You swallowed greedily, the taste of him lingering on your tongue, and Azriel cursed behind you, his rhythm faltering as he watched. 

Rhysand’s hand still tangled in your hair, he tilted your head back to meet his gaze, his eyes gleaming with something feral. “Good girl,” he purred. And then he kissed you, deep and claiming, tasting himself on your tongue, while the other two kept moving inside you their rhythm utterly merciless.

Azriel's grip tightened on your hips as he buried himself deeper, his wings shuddering with the effort of restraint. Cassian’s hips jerked, his seed spilling hot inside you and dripping down your thighs as he pulled out, too late. Azriel pulled out too, with a ragged groan. His release painted your ass in streaks of white, his breath coming in sharp gusts as he absently traced the mess with reverent fingers, smearing it across your skin like a claim. 

Rhysand’s thumb brushed your lower lip, catching a stray drop of his own cum and he pressed it back into your mouth, his eyes dark with satisfaction. « You took the three of us so well, sweetheart. »

And as you caught your breath, you stayed there between them, knowing this night would never be spoken of… but would never truly leave you either.

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 8 images

💬 0  🔁 52  ❤️ 973 · MASTERLIST · Last update: November 2025 All of these contain SMUT, please check the warnings before reading. // Find m

[thecharacterchronicler]

🖤 taking a little break 🖤

Hi! This is just a quick note to say i’m going quiet for a bit. i’ve been struggling with my mental health lately, and i really need to take some time to rest and reset.

I’ll be back when i can actually enjoy creating again, not just push through it.

Thank you for being patient, kind, and here, it means more than i can ever say. 🖤

[thecharacterchronicler]

Brains (Puppy Part 2) || Isaac Night x Reader || Smut 18+

Blurb: You go on a revenge kill with Isaac, just the two of you. But after the blood’s been spilled, something shifts. He doesn’t eat you; he devours you… Just this once.

Word Count: 3’600

Warnings: Blood, gore, 🚩murder kink 🚩, mental instability, mentions of abuse, rough sex, degradation, possessiveness, cum play, oral obsession, breathplay, overstimulation, finger fucking, zombie boyfriend and violent fantasies. Read at your own risk (or pleasure).

(( Part 1 )) - (( Masterlist ))

Tyler paces like a wolf with a limp, a blade in his hand and murder in his eyes. The metal sings each time it drags across the whetstone.

Shhhk. Shhhk.

A whispering rhythm. Each stroke harder than the last.

You don’t look at him. You’re too busy sprawled across Brains’ lap like a spoiled cat, fingers tracing lazy shapes along the seam of his thigh. His hand rests on your hip, unmoving but heavy, the kind of possessive weight that says mine without sound. You can feel the tremor in it, hunger, maybe, or the effort of not breaking something.

The air is thick with sweat, blood, and rot. The stink of death follows Isaac like a shadow now, clinging to his collarbones and the curve of his throat. It’s not just on his skin. It’s in him. You catch a whiff of disinfectant, wet concrete and your favorite scent: chaos.

Tyler’s eyes keep flicking between the door and you, like he’s waiting for someone to break in or for you to explode. His shoulders are tight, his hair damp with rain. He looks like a caged animal in a den that isn’t his.

“You smell like corpses,” he mutters, voice rough.

Isaac tilts his head. “Because I ate one.”

He says it like he’s telling you the time of day.

You laugh, too loud, too delighted. 

“Two, actually,” you correct, dragging your nails down his ribs just hard enough to make him smirk. “The one in the alley and the nurse who begged. You bit through her skull like a peach.”

Isaac hums again, eyes glassy but sharp underneath, like there’s still a man trapped somewhere inside the monster. Tyler throws the blade across the room. It clatters against the wall with a violent rattle and sticks in the wood.

“Don’t start,” you sing-song, not even looking. “Unless you want to hear me come on his fingers again.”

That gets a sound out of him. Not words. Something rougher. Something worse. A low growl, a small step forward. Isaac doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink.

“You didn’t mind when she did it on yours,” Isaac says, voice like smoke curling under a door.

You grin, teeth flashing like knives. “Boys…”

The silence after that is nuclear. Even the pipes in the walls seem to hold their breath. Rain hammers on the ceiling like fists. Outside, the world is burning or drowning  - you’ve lost track - but in here, in this stale bunker of a hideout, you’re the only storm that matters.

Finally, Tyler breaks the quiet. “Do you even know what’s outside that door?” he snaps, jerking his chin toward the exit. “Guards. Cops. Henchmen. Every bastard we’ve crossed.”

You roll onto your back in Brains’ lap, looking up at him through your lashes. “Then maybe you should stop sharpening knives and start sharpening your tongue, puppy.”

He snarls without sound, but his jaw ticks, his fingers twitch toward the blade he threw. Isaac’s thumb draws idle circles on your hip. It feels like a question. Or a dare.

“You’re playing with fire,” Tyler warns, softer now. “He’s not even… he’s not what you think he is.”

“I know exactly what he is,” you reply, sitting up, stretching like a cat. “I like him that way.”

You stand slowly, enjoying the way both of them track the movement like predators scenting blood. Tyler’s jaw works, but he doesn’t say don’t go. He doesn’t have to. It’s in the white of his knuckles.

“I’m taking Brains for a walk,” you announce, grabbing your jacket. “Try not to miss me too much.”

Isaac rises behind you, silent and towering. His movements are wrong in the right way - too fluid, too still - like a marionette with no strings left to cut. Dirt under his nails, blood dried in his hair, eyes darker now than the tunnel outside.

Tyler sighs but he doesn’t move… Because you haven’t told him to and he listens to you. Both of them do.

You smile, slow and dangerous, as the rain hisses against the door.

The rain slaps the asphalt like it’s trying to erase the city. You walk beside Isaac like you’re not worried he might snap and crush your skull between his teeth. You probably should be… But you’re not. 

You glance at him sideways. He’s staring ahead, eyes glazed but focused. Like something behind them is still burning. 

“You remember her ?” you ask, but he doesn’t answer. “Good. Makes it more fun.” 

You grin and he lets out a noise, low and not quite human. “Why do you want her dead ?”

“Because she hurt me,” you reply, twirling a knife between your fingers. “And because I want to watch what you do when I let you.” 

He stops walking and turns to you. His eyes catch the light wrong, like they’re made of wet bone and something older. 

“You’re not afraid of me.” 

“You don’t want to eat me.” You smile, and his throat flexes. “Do you ?” 

His jaw tightens. There’s blood on his breath. He’s not sure… But he kisses you anyway, sudden and filthy, the kind of kiss that would leave a bruise if lips could bruise. His mouth is colder than Tyler’s, but there’s heat behind it. Starving heat.His hands don’t roam, they grip, crushing your waist like he wants to anchor himself to the only living thing that doesn’t run from him.

You laugh into the kiss - a little breathless, a little mad - and pull back just enough to drag your nails across his jaw.

“Easy, Brains,” you whisper, voice sugar-sweet. “Don’t blow your load before the main event.”

His pupils dilate, wide and black, and he stares at you like you’re the first hallucination he doesn’t want to shake.

“I’m not Tyler,” he rasps, low and cracked. “You don’t have to play games with me.”

You tilt your head, mockingly offended. “Who says I’m playing?”

A beat. Then you flash him a smile sharp enough to cut something. 

“Besides, Tyler would’ve killed her cleanly. Boring and predictable. One and done.” You lean in, eyes sparkling, voice dipped in venom and delight. “You ? You’re gonna rip her apart for me.”

His breath stutters, and for a second, you think he might grab you again, devour you, fuck you, kill you… But he just growls deep in his throat and keeps walking.

You fall into step beside him, your boots splashing through puddles, and start humming something off-key. Something that might’ve been a lullaby once… Or a funeral song.

“You know she called me crazy ?” you chirp, twirling your knife again. “Dragged me down a hallway by the hair. Told the guards I was broken in the head, that I needed ‘correcting.’”

Isaac’s jaw clenches hard enough to crack.

You lean closer, nudging his arm like you’re on a date. “Didn’t like that very much but I couldn’t do anything, not then. Would’ve been a shame to waste my one phone call on a murder charge.”

He glances at you. “And now ?”

You grin, wicked and wide. “Now I’ve got you. And Tyler.”

He stops. You stop with him. There’s something feral in the way he looks at you now, like he’s not sure if he wants to kiss you or drag you into the gutter and fuck you until your legs don’t work.

“You’re the only thing that makes the hunger shut up,” he mutters, half to himself.

Your grin softens, just a little. You reach up and tap his temple, light and teasing. “I’m in your head already ? We haven’t even started.”

His hand shoots out, grabs your wrist, yanks you close - chest to chest, breath to breath - and you laugh, giddy and unafraid.

“Promise me you’ll watch,” he growls. “All of it, don’t look away.”

“I’ll moan if you make it pretty,” you promise, dragging your tongue along your bottom lip.

And when the rain pours harder, the screaming’s about to start.

The house is quiet. Too quiet. You can smell the guilt in the curtains, lavender soap and lemon polish failing to cover the rot of conscience. There’s a Willow Hill uniform folded on the arm of the couch, badge still pinned. Her boots in the corner, spotless.

You’re already grinning.

Isaac slips in behind you like a shadow that learned how to walk. The smell hits you instantly, rust and meat and the sour stink of old blood still clinging to his skin. He hasn’t cleaned up since the last one. 

He doesn’t care. He’s not supposed to.

She’s in the kitchen when you kick the door in; the woman who slammed your head against cold tile and said you were asking for it. The same one who called Brains a thing before the sedatives even wore off. She's slicing cucumbers.

She turns just in time to scream.

Isaac hits her like a goddamn freight train. No words. No pause. Just slams into her and takes her down, nails already tearing at the soft underside of her jaw. She shrieks and gurgles. You stroll in behind him, slow as silk.

He pins her with one hand, fingers splayed like talons, and opens her throat with the other. Not a clean slice, not a practiced cut. He rips it open like it offended him. Her legs kick. Her hands slap uselessly at the floor… And he moans like it feels good.

His hands are inside her chest now, ripping through cartilage like wrapping paper. There’s a crunch. Then a wet, guttural sound that makes your thighs clench and he feeds, face buried in the wreckage of her body.

He laps at the blood like a dog at a dish. You see her spasm - once, twice - before she stops moving. You don’t flinch, but you tilt your head, curious.

He feeds like he’s trying to remember who he was. Like each bite could stitch something real back into him… But it doesn’t. It just makes him wilder. The wet, wet sound of it echoes off the walls. Her scream still stuck in the air like perfume.

You lean against the counter, smiling like a girl watching fireworks.

When Isaac lifts his head, his mouth is soaked, chin to collarbone. But he’s different now. Less corpse, more human. The gray pallor of his skin has faded to something pale and flushed, like blood is finally remembering how to flow beneath it. The shadows around his eyes have receded, revealing lashes too long for a killer and cheekbones sharp enough to wound.

His lips, still dripping red, are full and pink again. His hair’s darker, damp with sweat and rain instead of rot. The curve of his throat pulses with life. Something ancient and elegant stirs beneath the gore, like a statue remembering it's a man. 

A very pretty, very dangerous man.

You blink, surprised by how beautiful he’s becoming and lean on the table, propping your chin in your palm.

“Well,” you remark. “Someone was hungry.”

Blood arcs, splashes across the cabinets and your shirt. You look down, amused, and drag a finger through the smear on your collarbone, slow and lazy and his eyes snap to you. His expression shatters. Hunger, reverence, something primal… and then he’s on you.

You don’t stop him when he licks the blood from your skin. The flat of his tongue drags up your chest, tasting iron, skin and whatever wickedness lives between your ribs. He groans like it’s better than fresh kill, filthier. His mouth closes around the blood at your throat, lips sucking bruises where a necklace used to hang on hers.

You laugh, delighted, threading fingers through his damp curls. He pants against your neck and then you cup his cheek - bloody fingers and all - and tilt his face up to yours.

“You’re my favorite monster.”

His breath hitches. Then he smiles, slow, terrible, almost boyish. “I did what you wanted.”

“You always do.”

He stares at you like he’s not sure if he wants to kneel or tear you open.

“What now ?” he asks, rough and thick.

You lean down, smear a thumb across his bloody mouth, just to lick it and smile.

“Now, Brains… I show you why I’m the only one you won’t eat.”

The woman’s still twitching when he lunges, not at your throat - not to kill you - but to devour. He grabs your wrist, drags your blood-smeared fingers to his mouth and sucks. Groaning like it’s the first real meal he’s had since dying. He tongues between your fingers like it’s your cunt, slow and obscene, and you moan because that’s what it feels like. Hot and filthy and wrong. You’re soaked before he even touches you there.

“You taste better than her,” he rasps. “Sweeter. Hotter. Alive.”

“ So ? Are you gonna eat me, too ?” you tease.

He stares at your neck like he might. Like he wants to. His tongue flicks out, dragging up the blood slick skin of your collarbone to the base of your throat. You tilt your head back and offer it.

“Do it.”

But he doesn’t bite. He just groans, low and ruined, burying his face between your tits and rubbing himself against your thigh like an animal. Like if he doesn’t fuck you now, he’ll fall apart. His mouth finds the blood his hand accidentally smeared across your hip. He licks a stripe through it, moaning, then sinks to his knees.

He yanks your pants down with one brutal motion, grabs your thighs, and buries his face in your cunt like it’s the last brain on earth.

His tongue is cold, not human. It slashes through your folds like he’s craving meaning from your body, lapping at your wetness with greedy groans. He doesn’t ease you into it. He devours. Nose pressed to your clit, tongue fucking into you like it’s a cruel hunger he’s trying to satisfy, over and over again.

You cry out - sharp and helpless - because it’s not gentle, not practiced, not sane. He’s slurping, messy, dragging spit down the inside of your thighs with each breathless gasp. You can feel his moans vibrating inside you. You’re not sure what part of you is slick and what part of you is leaking from the kill, but he’s drunk on it, eyes rolled back, drooling filth and devotion into you.

“Fuck,” you whimper, clawing into his hair. “You’re gonna make me…”

He growls. Loud. Like he wants that. Like it’s what he came back from the dead for. His mouth clamps down, lips wrapped around your clit now, tongue flicking with brutal precision. It’s violent, filthy, soaking…

He’s saying something down there but you can’t make it out, all you hear is your own panting, the obscene suckling, and the squelch of him finger fucking you with one hand while the other leaves marks on your thigh.

Your eyes roll back. You’re trembling. You don’t even want to be sane again. You want to live here, in this madness, on his tongue, with his face between your legs like some deranged altar boy worshipping the holiest part of you.

Your thighs seize around his head, and you scream, raw, primal, a jagged sound that splits the air like gunfire. He doesn’t stop. He groans into you like your orgasm is his oxygen, tongue lapping through the mess, sucking your clit like he’s starving for the way you break. You shudder violently, back arching, hands tangled in his curls as you ride it out, as you come completely undone on his mouth, dripping down his chin. He moans like he’s proud of it, like he meant to wreck you this hard.

“Look at you,” he rasps, voice low and ruined when he pulls back, like the boy he used to be is clawing from the grave for a taste. “You likethis.”

“I love this,” you correct, panting. 

He doesn’t ask, doesn’t warn you, just grabs your hips, lifts you to adjust your position like you weigh nothing, and drives into you in one vicious, perfect thrust.

You scream. It’s not pain - not really - it’s too feral for that. It’s the raw, electric agony of being split open by something you shouldn’t want, the way he fits inside you like your body was carved to be ruined by him. Your spine arches, fingers clawing down his back, scraping flesh, drawing blood that mixes with the already slick mess between you.

He growls like you stabbed him, then fucks you like it’s revenge.

The counter slams into your back with every brutal thrust, edge biting your skin, but you don’t care. You welcome the pain. You thrive in it. It grounds you, pins you to the moment like a butterfly under glass. The wetness beneath you slicks everything, your ass slipping on the surface, your thighs sliding against his hips, your cunt so wet it sounds obscene.

He ruts like a creature that doesn’t know how to be gentle. He’s not fucking you. He’s consuming you. Every snap of his hips is a claim, every breath a threat. His hands roam without mercy, one gripping your throat, the other fisting your hair, and his mouth finds your collarbone, your jaw, your lips, biting and bruising like he wants to leave pieces of himself on your skin.

“Come on, Brains,” you say, delirious. “Tear me apart.”

His snarl is a promise. He slams deeper, harder, rawer, until you're sobbing and laughing in the same breath, delirious from the stretch, the pressure, the utter fucking madness of it. You're already sensitive from his tongue - aching and twitching - and now you’re unraveling like thread in his hands, clenching around him so tight it draws a broken sound from his throat.

You finish first, hard, fast and chaotic, your back bowing, cunt squeezing, slick thighs quivering as your vision whites out.

He doesn’t stop. He can’t. He ruts through it, groaning against your mouth, fucking you through the aftershocks like he’s chasing his own destruction. His breath is hot and ragged, hands everywhere, hips stuttering as he loses the battle with himself.

He cums like a monster, his teeth bared, voice breaking on a snarl, slamming into you so deep it feels like he’s trying to crawl inside. You feel every pulse of it. Every drop. His cum floods you, thick and hot and wrong in all the right ways, and the mess of it - his, yours, hers - drips down your thighs like a river.

You collapse back onto the counter, limp, laughing, ruined but he doesn’t let you go. He stays inside you, buried to the hilt, breathing hard against your skin. Then he takes a step back and leans down, tongue flicking out to taste the mess dripping from between your legs. A low, filthy groan rumbles from his chest as he buries his face there once more, lapping at your overstimulated cunt like he’s trying to memorize your taste.

You whimper, twitching, boneless, fingers tangled in his hair again.

“You’ll kill me,” you warn, breathless.

He lifts his head, his pretty face wrecked, blood and cum smeared across his lips, and stares at you like you’re salvation and sin. His smile is bloody and his hunger is far from gone. His fingers replace his mouth for a moment, pushing into your overstimulated cunt, slow and deep, like he needs to feel how wrecked you are, how full of him. He fucks the mess back into you until your thighs shake and your breath comes out in wrecked little gasps.

You sit up on shaking arms and reach down between your bodies. He’s still hard, still wet from you, twitching against his thigh. You take him in your hand, pump slow, teasing, and lick the drop of leftover release from his tip that coats your finger.

He moans - louder this time, hips jerking - and you stroke faster, watching his muscles tense, his jaw clench and when he cums again, it’s messier - not a snarl, but a whimper - hot, thick stripes splattering across your thighs. You let it drip, smear it with your fingers, still smiling as you suck one clean.

He stares at you like he might lose control again… Or bite. His breath catches. For a second, he doesn’t move, but then he drops to his knees again like something inside him just snapped.

He starts by licking at your ankle, tongue dragging up, painting your skin. Each lap colder than the last. You shudder as he groans into the taste, gripping your calves, your thighs, like you might disappear before he finishes tasting your skin. Then his mouth follows the path of his release, smearing it deeper into your skin as much as he cleans it away. When he reaches the thickest streaks on your inner thigh, he pauses, breath heavy, gaze locked to yours.

Then he bites, just enough to sting. You gasp, half-laughing, half-moan, as he soothes it with a kiss, then keeps going. His tongue laps at the last of it, slow and filthy, lips soft now - almost tender - like he's not just cleaning you, but claiming you.

And when he finally looks up, mouth glistening with his own cum, his voice is wrecked.

“You taste better than anyone I’ve ever killed.”

Your smile sharpens.

“I know.”

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 4 images

💬 18  🔁 109  ❤️ 2075 · Method To Madness (1) || Isaac Night x Reader || 18+ · Blurb: Your rivalry with Isaac was supposed to be academic. Eq

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 3 images

💬 36  🔁 225  ❤️ 5459 · Obsessive || Tyler Galpin x Reader || (18+) · Outline: The guy who made high school hell for you just escaped Willow

[thecharacterchronicler]

Mon Cher (3) || Isaac Night x Reader || Smut (18+)

Blurb: Masks, whispers, and a waltz sharp enough to draw blood lead you to the balcony. Insatiable and reckless, you push Isaac past restraint and he makes certain you leave the masquerade marked, stuffed, and shamelessly his.

Word Count: 3’588

Warnings: Explicit sexual content. Unprotected sex, rough handling, possessive dirty talk, risk of exposure, telekinetic restraint, themes of obsession and possessiveness, dark romance vibes, predator/prey dynamics and high intensity spice.

(( Part 1 )) - (( Part 2 )) - (( Masterlist ))

The ballroom pulsed with heat and shadow. Hundreds of candles guttered in tall candelabras, their wax running down wrought-iron stems. Jack-o’lanterns lined the staircases, grinning grotesquely, while chandeliers swung lazily overhead, their crystals winking like jagged teeth. Masks flashed everywhere - bone-white, feathered, gilded - mouths laughing behind them, eyes glittering with secrets.

The air was thick with spiced wine, sweat, and candle smoke, clinging heavy against your skin. Music swelled from the orchestra at the far end, strings sharp as razors, notes dancing wild and macabre across the vaulted ceiling. It should have been dizzying, intoxicating. But all you could feel was the soreness in your thighs, the dull ache deep inside your body, still stretched and wrecked from the maze. And from the library. And still… not enough.

Isaac’s coat hung over your shoulders, velvet black and smelling of books and ink. It draped like a shield, though nothing could shield you from the weight of the stares that followed your every step. They always stared when Isaac Night deigned to participate in social events, the infamous genius recluse walking into the firelight. But tonight their eyes flicked to you too. To the mess of your hair, the flush of your skin, the faint tear at the seam of your blouse.

He smirked at the whispers. Of course he did. His mask hid only half his face, leaving his mouth bare enough to curl in dark amusement. His eyes burned behind it, black and unreadable, but you could feel the satisfaction radiating off him like heat. He wanted them to look, wanted them to wonder.

The ache between your legs sharpened. Every step reminded you how raw you were, how recently his hands had left bruises on your hips, his body had pinned you into the dirt and yet the hunger hadn’t ebbed. It gnawed sharper with every breath of incense thick air, every note of the orchestra’s fevered hymn.

You adjusted the delicate lace mask tied across your face, glossy black, trimmed in velvet ribbon. It hid the telltale wreckage in your eyes but couldn’t disguise the tremor in your body. Isaac glanced sidelong at you, saw it, and his smirk deepened. His hand skimmed your lower back through the coat, possessive and anchoring. 

You felt the stares follow you as you and him moved deeper into the ballroom. A few students whispered behind masks, the sharp edges of their voices hidden under the swell of the strings. You didn’t need to hear the words to know their shape: Why now ? Why her ?

Isaac didn’t spare them a glance. His hand curved firm around your waist, guiding you forward through the crowd with all the unbothered elegance of a man who’d already won. Every inch of him screamed possession; the mask, the smirk, even his coat on your shoulders.

A space opened on the dance floor, almost against the crowd’s will, as though even masked faces couldn’t deny him when he chose to move. The orchestra shifted into a sharper waltz, strings and piano colliding in decadent dissonance. He turned to you, bowing with a flourish so archaic it should have been mockery but his eyes burned black behind the white mask, and when he extended his hand, it was no jest.

“Dance with me,” he said, velvet soft but edged with command.

Your thighs screamed protest when you stepped to him, when his hand slid to your back and drew you flush against his chest. Pain lanced through you, delicious, unbearable and still you clung tighter, nails catching on the fabric of his shirt where it had fallen open.

The crowd murmured again. He smirked.

He moved with impossible precision, each step measured and magnetic, pulling you across the polished floor as though no one else existed. You clung to him in the wake of it, dizzy with the ache and the want, your mask threatening to slip with every spin. His grip only tightened when it did, possessive fingers biting into your waist, as though daring anyone to look closer.

His head dipped, lips curving dark at the corner. 

“You’re sore,” he remarked, low enough only you could hear.

Your smile cut wicked beneath your mask, though your breath came ragged. 

“Suffering,” you whispered back, your nails dragging at his sleeve, “is my love language.”

The sound he made was halfway between a chuckle and a growl. He spun you hard enough your skirts flared wide, before catching you in his arms again.

The orchestra climbed toward a fevered peak, strings rasping like knives, and he twirled you in a dramatic move. Gasps fluttered across the ballroom. He caught you instantly, your body dipping against his arm, his mouth hovering above yours in a tableau too decadent to be anything but deliberate.

The air punched from your lungs, your body clenching around emptiness, starving for him even here on the polished floor. His smirk deepened at your tremor, his hand steady as iron at your waist. The crowd applauded when he pulled you upright again, oblivious to the ruin in your chest. He bowed his head, mask gleaming, and guided you back toward the shadows.

The applause still rang behind you as you tugged him toward the doors. Whispers trailed your steps like smoke, masked faces leaning together, hungry for gossip. He let you lead him through, smirk curling smug and unbothered.

The air out on the balcony was cold, crisp with autumn. Torches burned in the courtyard below, their smoke drifting toward the black velvet sky. From here, you could see the bonfires blazing at the far end of the grounds, the haunted choir’s hymn still rising from the dark like an echo of your ruin.

You leaned against the stone railing, pulling his coat tighter, your mask catching the starlight. Isaac stayed at your side, watching you with that same fire in his eyes, the mask sharpening his shadowed gaze.

“You wanted fresh air,” he said at last, voice dry silk. His mouth quirked. “Or was that an excuse to drag me somewhere darker ?”

“Both.” Your answer was quick, blunt. The ache in your body throbbed still, soreness coiling with hunger. You tilted your chin, bold. “You don’t actually think I’m finished, do you ?”

For the first time that night, his smirk faltered, not gone, but tempered by something heavier. He stepped closer, his hand brushing your jaw, thumb dragging across the velvet tie of your mask. His voice dropped, dangerous.

“You’ll break if I give you more,” he stated, and for once it wasn’t taunt but truth. “You’re trembling already. Another round and you won’t be able to walk back inside.”

Your breath hitched, but not with fear. The thought alone sent a shiver through you, sharp and wicked. You pressed closer, smile curling beneath your mask. “And ?”

His laugh was low, incredulous, almost fond. He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear, and when he drew back, something small glinted in his ink-stained fingers. A candied violet from the table inside, gleaming with sugar.

“Insatiable little thing,” he said softly. He pressed it to your lips, thumb brushing the seam until you parted for it. Sweetness burst on your tongue while his eyes burned into yours. Cruel and teasing. 

You bit down harder than necessary, lips wrapping his fingers too, licking the sugar from his skin. His breath stuttered just once, sharp and unguarded, before he clenched his jaw. You swallowed slowly. 

“That’s not what I wanted.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, caught between smirk and snarl. “Then say it. What do you want ?”

You tilted your head, feigning thought while heat coiled low and insistent in your belly. 

“You,” you answered simply, letting the word drip like wine, “again and again, until I forget my own name.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. He shook his head once, almost as though scolding, though his thumb still brushed sugar from your lower lip. “Madness.”

“Better madness than ignorance.” You echoed his own words back, and watched his composure crack, just slightly.

For a moment he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, only looked at you as though you were equal parts danger and salvation. Then you stepped into him, hands firm at his chest, pushing until his back hit the carved wood of one of the balcony chairs. The velvet upholstery swallowed him like a throne, gothic arches curling high above his shoulders.

“You don’t get to decide this time,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. You climbed into his lap without hesitation, skirts sliding high as you straddled him. His coat spilled open around you both, cocooning you in black velvet shadows.

Isaac exhaled, a sound equal parts laugh and growl. His hands gripped the arms of the chair instead of your hips, as though testing how long he could let you lead. You leaned close, brushing your masked face against his, your lips hovering just shy of his mouth. 

“You don’t actually think you can resist me, do you ?”

His teeth bared in something feral, his breath hot between you. “Try me.”

You shifted in his lap, settling your weight over him, skirts spilling wide like a curtain of purple and black silk. The chair creaked beneath the movement, and his hands tightened on the carved arms again, knuckles whitening as if he dared himself not to touch you.

The ache in your thighs sharpened when you rolled your hips forward, grinding down over the hard line pressing against his trousers. A hiss tore from his throat, low and jagged, though his grip stayed locked on the wood.

“Careful,” he warned, jaw clenched. “You’re starting something you won’t be able to stop.”

“Good.” Your reply was venom, wickedly sweet. You rocked again, slower this time, savoring the way his body jerked beneath you, his smirk thinning into something darker.

You reached up, tugging at the edge of his mask until it slipped, baring his face, the sharp line of his jaw, the mouth already parted on a ragged breath. You kissed the corner of it, deliberately soft, before sliding down his throat. Your lips trailed fire over the salt of his skin, lingering at the place his ticking pulse hammered wild.

His breath stuttered. His hands twitched, veins taut, still not touching you.

Bolder now, you leaned back, your fingers working the fastenings of his trousers. His chest rose sharp, defiant, but he didn’t stop you. You freed him slowly, your knuckles brushing his length as he exhaled a shudder that sounded like a curse.

His warning growl snapped, but cut short when you slid down, your lips brushing over the slick head of his cock. His restraint fractured, a sound dragged from his chest, head snapping back against the wooden throne. He gripped the arms harder, still refusing to touch you as your mouth closed over him, hot and slow.

Every drag of your tongue broke him further, every hollow of your cheeks coaxed another sound, guttural, strangled, wrecked. His composure crumbled with each languid suck, his hips twitching despite the vice of his control. 

You licked the length of him in one long, languid stroke, savoring the way his breath caught, his jaw tightening behind the mask.You hummed around him, your lips wrapping over the head, tongue circling slow. His thighs tensed under your hands, his cock twitching against your tongue, and still he clung to his restraint, hands fisting at the carved wood instead of tangling in your hair.

You bobbed your head, taking him deeper, the velvet edge of your mask brushing his skin. He hissed through his teeth, his chest rising in harsh, ragged pulls of air. You pulled back with a wet pop, smiling wickedly up at him.

“You taste better than sugar,” you said, dragging your tongue over the bead of wet at his tip before swallowing him again.

His head fell back again, throat bared to the night. A curse tore from his lips in a language you didn’t know, guttural and broken. His power shivered in the air around you, branches stirring, jack o’lanterns flames flickering in time with your slow, torturous rhythm.

Every time he bucked, you pulled back. Every time his hips twitched toward your mouth, you slowed, hollowing your cheeks just enough to make him groan before easing off again.

When you pulled off with a wicked little smile, he looked half-devoured by you already. His voice was raw, dangerous, but laced with awe.

“You’ll undo me completely.”

Finally, you rose, straddling his lap once more, grinding your soaked core over him, smearing him wet against you without taking him inside. Your mask brushed his face again, your voice a whisper against his mouth.

“Better you undone,” you replied, hips rolling slow, “than me unsatisfied.”

And that was the crack that split his restraint clean apart. His hands finally left the arms of the chair, snapping to your hips with bruising force as he dragged you down against him.

Before you could smirk back, he yanked you down harder, thrusting up in the same motion. The wet heat of him split you open, ruthless, burying himself inside you in one brutal stroke. Your gasp tore out ragged, the sharp mix of pain and pleasure colliding like fire.

“God, Isaac.”

“No.” His mouth crushed to your ear, his voice shaking with feral hunger. “Not God, only me.”

He thrust again, sharp, making the chair slam back against the stone wall. His teeth grazed your mask, his breath scorching. 

“You want to exhaust yourself ? Fine. But I won’t be soft. Not now.”

Your body trembled, already sore, already undone from earlier, but his grip gave you no choice. He drove into you with a punishing rhythm, your skirts bunched high at your waist. The chair creaked and groaned with every brutal snap of his hips.

“You’re mad to take me like this, you’re already wrecked and aching, yet you’re begging for more…” he growled against your throat, each word a jagged thrust.

You clawed at his chest, nails dragging across skin damp with sweat. He moved, shifting you effortlessly. In a dizzy blur you found yourself turned around, your back pressed to his chest, still sitting on top of him, his hands forcing you forward until your masked face hovered over the balcony railing.

The courtyard sprawled below, firelight painting every mask, every laughing student. You could see them and if the angle was cruel enough, if anyone looked up, they might see you too.

His body pinned you down, his cock driving into you from under. Your cry rang out into the night air, swallowed only partly by the noise of the party.

“Look at them,” he said, his hips snapping hard. “They have no idea that you’re split open on me.”

You whimpered, your body clenching tight around him, your thighs shaking as he fucked you harder.

“Louder, darling,” he growled, his teeth biting down at your shoulder. “Make them hear. Let them wonder who ruins you like this.”

The firelight below blurred through your tears, your body wrecked and trembling as he kept pounding into you, merciless and possessive, every thrust a vow that you belonged to him, no matter how public, no matter how dangerous.

The laughter and music swelled behind the glass doors, but none of it masked the sounds you made as he drove into you. Each cry spilled raw from your throat into the night air.

Below, students milled in the courtyard. They were close enough that you could make out words in their chatter. Close enough that if one of them tilted their head back at the wrong moment, they’d see you bent over him, wrecked under his grip.

He seemed to savor it, pressing you harder against his chest. His fingers curled tight in your mask’s ribbon, yanking your head back so your gaze stayed fixed on the crowd below. Your body clenched around him, heat winding tight in your belly. The ache was unbearable, every thrust brutal against your already sore muscles, every snap of his hips daring the world to notice.

His power bled into the air around you, impossible to contain. Curtains whipped violently at the open doors, candle flames flared tall inside, glasses rattling on banquet tables. One lantern above the balcony burst, sparks raining over the stone like falling stars.

The students below shouted, startled by the shower of light, heads tilting upward… Too close. Your pulse slammed in your ears, panic and pleasure tangling sharp.

You gasped, but he only rut harder, holding you down. His hand left your mask to grip your jaw, forcing your face sideways until your eyes locked on the reflection in the glass doors. The image was obscene; your mask crooked, his body pounding into yours, your skirt hunched up high enough to reveal the truth if anyone stepped too close.

Your orgasm ripped through you with the force of a scream, clenching so hard around him you nearly dragged him with you. The sound tore free, high and desperate, echoing across the courtyard below.

He lost it. His thrusts turned frantic, messy, each one bruising as his own climax broke. He buried himself deep, spilling inside you with a guttural groan that vibrated against your skin. His power surged outward, rattling the doors so violently you thought they might snap, candle flames exploding behind the glass until the entire ballroom gasped.

Then silence, heavy and dangerous, pressed in around you both.

He collapsed against your back, his mouth at your ear, breath scorching. You sagged against his chest, legs trembling too hard to hold yourself upright. The ache in your thighs throbbed with every twitch, every pulse of his cock inside you. The night air bit cold against your damp skin.

Below in the courtyard, a handful of students still stared upward, confused by the lantern that had burst overhead, by the tremors that rattled the balcony. If they looked harder, if they dared…

But Isaac growled low in your ear, his hips giving one last sharp thrust that forced another whimper out of you. The chair groaned under your weight. The air rattled one more time, sharp as a warning, before his magic finally ebbed, retreating like a tide. The night smelled of smoke, sweat, and burnt wax, heavy as incense.

He slumped deeper into the chair, dragging you with him until your body sagged boneless against his chest. His hand brushed the crooked lace of your mask back into place, slowly, though his fingers shook faintly from exhaustion.

“Three times,” he said finally, his voice hoarse, broken into gravel. His mouth curved against your temple, equal parts smirk and disbelief. “I filled you three times tonight, darling.”

Your laugh came out soft, shattered, more whimper than sound. Your body ached with every twitch, every dull throb of him still inside you, but you tipped your head back anyway, lips brushing the line of his jaw.

 “And you, you didn’t refuse once.” you whispered, smiling wicked beneath the wreckage.

He groaned low in his chest, tilting his head back against the chair. His eyes burned dark, but for the first time that night, the fire dulled at the edges. He was spent. Wrecked as much as you. Even if you asked, he couldn’t have taken you again, not now.

His arms wrapped tighter around you to shield your trembling body from the cold. His breath ghosted against your ear as he muttered, almost reverent:

“I’m exhausted, satisfied and still…I’d do it all again if you asked.” His lips pressed to your cheek, his words tasting like a vow. He dragged his mouth along your jaw, voice hoarse but certain. “I like you full of me,” he continued, his hand pressing low on your stomach as if to feel the proof. “Stuffed so deep no one else could ever fit.”

Heat coiled in your belly at the words, sharp and filthy. You whimpered, shifting against him, but he held you tighter, his smirk curling against your skin.

Later, when he finally helped you to your feet, the mess between your thighs was obscene. Each movement made it worse, a slick reminder of his claim sliding hot and heavy down your skin. You wobbled, sore and undone, and he steadied you with one arm.

“Beautiful,” he said, almost reverent. “Wrecked and mine.”

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 4 images

💬 18  🔁 109  ❤️ 2075 · Method To Madness (1) || Isaac Night x Reader || 18+ · Blurb: Your rivalry with Isaac was supposed to be academic. Eq

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 3 images

💬 36  🔁 225  ❤️ 5459 · Obsessive || Tyler Galpin x Reader || (18+) · Outline: The guy who made high school hell for you just escaped Willow

[thecharacterchronicler]

Mon Cher (Part 2) || Isaac Night x Reader ||

Blurb: Every path in the haunted maze leads back to Isaac Night. He doesn’t just want to catch you, he wants to ruin you. Louder than the screams in the dark, he’ll make sure the whole school knows you belong to him.

Word Count: 3’225

Warnings: Explicit sexual content in a semi-public setting, rough sex with forceful handling, scratching, biting, bruising, telekinetic restraint and environment manipulation (power play themes) , possessive/obsessive talk, dark romance dynamics with predator-prey and IICYIFY undertones.

(( Mon Cher ( Part 1 ) )) - (( Part 3 )) - (( Masterlist ))

The Nevermore grounds had been transformed. Lanterns in the shapes of jack-o’lanterns lined every stone step, their carved mouths leering with sharp-toothed grins. Wax dripped down in glistening rivers, pooling black on the cobbles. Strings of ghostly lights twisted through the bare branches overhead, swaying in the cold wind like restless spirits.

The courtyard smelled of woodsmoke and charred pumpkin, the tang of autumn biting at the back of your throat. Bonfires crackled at the edges of the lawn, their flames clawing toward the night sky, sparks lifting and vanishing into the shadows of Nevermore’s gothic towers.

Everywhere you looked, students had outdone themselves, velvet capes that trailed across the flagstones, masks of white porcelain, feathers, sequins, dripping lace. Fangs gleamed in the candlelight, and painted blood glistened like the real thing when the fire caught it. For one night, the peculiar wasn’t hidden… It was celebrated.

And above it all, the choir sang.

Their voices rose from the steps of the academy, robed figures swaying in time with the melody. The harmony was haunting - dissonant and sharp - as though every note had been designed to raise goosebumps along your skin. The sound carried over the grounds, echoing off the stone walls, seeping into the shadows that loomed at the edge of the courtyard.

You pulled your jacket tighter around you as the cold wind slipped through the open space, carrying whispers and laughter, shrieks from students already braving the maze. 

You walked with Isaac at your side, still flushed and aching from what had happened in the library less than half an hour ago. Your clothes were in place again, but the torn buttons of your shirt rubbed against your skin, a reminder of how he’d lost control. His tie dangled loose around his neck, the ink still smudged into his fingers. You knew if anyone looked too closely, they’d know… but Isaac looked utterly unconcerned.

Smug, even.

His gaze followed you more than the decorations, dark eyes glinting each time you slowed, transfixed by the spectacle. When you shivered, he smirked faintly, tucking his hands into his pockets as if he hadn’t wrecked you across a desk twenty minutes earlier.

Down past the courtyard, iron gates rose into a twisting path. They’d bent the hedges into walls, threading them with black curtains that swayed in the cold wind. Lanterns swung above it all, their light too weak to chase away the dark. From inside, screams cut through the choir’s spooky hymn, some playful, some too sharp.

A growl burst from the shadows nearby, one of the masked students leaping from behind a column. You startled, shrieking before you could stop yourself, and your hands flew to Isaac’s arm.

He didn’t flinch.

His hand caught your waist instantly, steadying you, holding you against him with a grip that was more possessive than protective. You could feel his low laugh rumble through his chest where it pressed to your side.

“Scared, darling ?” he asked, his voice silk and smoke.

You glared up at him, though your pulse betrayed you. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

His smirk deepened as his thumb brushed your side. The choir’s song bled into a sharper note, something that sounded like a warning. Isaac’s hand lingered at your waist, fingers flexing as if he wasn’t ready to let you go yet.

Another noise split the night, this one closer, jagged enough to make you jolt again. You clutched his arm without thinking. He didn’t so much as twitch, only looked down at where you clung to him, grin tugging at his mouth like the whole event had been orchestrated for his amusement.

“Twice now,” he said, leaning close enough for his breath to ghost your ear. “You keep finding excuses to grab me.”

“You wish,” you shot back, though your fingers still dug into the muscle of his arm.

Shadows lengthened against the stone walls. You were about to step forward when a figure lurched into your path. Rotting flesh, sagging skin, yellowed teeth gnashing in the light. The stench of damp earth and copper clung to the air. Its milky eyes rolled back before fixing on you.

You screamed, stumbling straight into Isaac’s chest, your heart hammering. The zombie groaned, dragging one ruined leg behind it. 

Too real. Too wrong.

Isaac’s arm locked around your waist, keeping you steady as his other hand lifted lazily, fingers twitching. The air shimmered, and the thing froze mid-lurch, its limbs stiffening like a puppet with its strings pulled taut. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he sent it staggering backward into the shadows.

It vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

He lowered his hand, expression unreadable but eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. 

“Pathetic,” he said softly, though you weren’t sure if he meant the monster or your reaction.

Your chest rose and fell too fast, your face still buried against him. “That was…”

“Fake,” he interrupted smoothly. His thumb stroked the line of your spine once, softly. “But you were adorable.”

The choir swelled again. The path into the maze gaped wide before you, framed by rusted iron gates. Their spiked arches curved like the ribs of some vast beast, black curtains hung between them, snapping in the wind. 

You slowed, your pulse still unsettled from the zombie. Isaac stayed close at your side, his hand never fully leaving your waist. He tilted his head, studying the entrance like it was some puzzle he’d already solved.

“Still sure this is your favorite event ?” he asked, voice smooth, threaded with amusement.

You tilted your chin, feigning composure despite the goosebumps prickling your arms. “I didn’t say I wasn’t scared. I said I like being scared.”

He smirked, leaning close enough for his words to scrape against your skin. “Then tonight should be bliss.”

Your stomach fluttered, not from the maze, but from the way his eyes lingered on you, dark and hungry. He knew exactly what he was doing. You swallowed, fighting the shiver crawling down your spine. 

“You’re not going to hold my hand through the whole thing, are you ?”

His smirk sharpened. “Why ? Afraid I’ll let go ?”

“Afraid you’ll slow me down,” you shot back, letting mischief spark through your nerves. Then, before he could respond, you slipped free of his hand and darted past the gates, the black curtains swallowing you whole.

“You really want to play this game ?” his voice chased you, soft and dangerous, though you couldn’t see him now. 

The choir’s hymn rose, eerie and discordant, carrying through the hedges as you wove deeper. Lanterns swayed overhead, shadows stretching like claws. Your pulse thundered, half with fear, half with anticipation. Somewhere behind you, you heard it: the scrape of his shoes on stone, the rustle of fabric in the wind.

Curtains brushed your shoulders as you slipped past, their damp fabric cold against your skin. Every turn of the path looked the same; shadows, stone underfoot, leaves rustling like whispers.

Somewhere behind you, footsteps crunched. Slow and unhurried. You quickened your pace. Your breath clouded the air in front of you as you darted left, then right, deeper into the maze. For a moment you thought you’d lost him… Until the lantern at the next bend flickered, then lifted.

You froze, watching as it hovered a few inches higher, flame flaring before it dropped back into place with a clink. The air stirred across your skin, cool and sharp, though no one stood near.

“You’re making me work for it.” His voice slipped through the hedges, low and velvet, carried on the wind. You couldn’t tell where it came from; ahead, behind, or inside your own head. 

Your pulse leapt. You turned sharply down another path, skirts brushing the iron bars woven into the hedge. Then a curtain ahead of you snapped open on its own, the fabric jerking aside with invisible force. The path beyond yawned wide, dark.

You faltered, heart in your throat.

Laughter, low and guttural, rippled through the air. His. So you ran.

Branches clawed your arms as you shoved through another turn, your footsteps echoing too loud against the stone. Somewhere behind you, his own stayed measured, as though he had no need to hurry. The more frantic you grew, the calmer he seemed.

A lantern overhead sputtered, went out, leaving you in near-darkness. You slowed, chest heaving, and caught a glimpse of him through the curtain behind you. Just a silhouette: tall with messy curls.

You spun, pulse hammering, until another lantern behind you swung wildly on its chain, as though shoved by unseen hands. The curtain to your left rustled without wind, jerking open just enough to reveal the black void beyond. Then it snapped shut again, so hard the iron rings clanged against their bar.

“Run,” his voice was so close you almost felt his lips at your ear. “Make me chase you.”

You bolted, panic and thrill colliding in your veins, every nerve alight. The path bent sharply, narrowing. Curtains closed behind you with sharp snaps, one after another, until you were funneled forward, breathless and trapped.

Your chest heaved, breath fogging the cold air. The path split ahead, two curtains billowing in opposite directions. You picked one at random and shoved through, only to find yourself staring at another split. Then another.

The hedges were twisting, endless, the curtains snapping open and shut like a heartbeat. You spun left, but no matter where you turned, the same thing met you: black fabric, iron spires, lanterns swaying. 

A lantern burst above you with a sharp crack, showering sparks that fizzled before they touched your skin. You shrieked, throwing your hands up, and collided with another curtain. This one didn’t yield. Invisible force pressed it against you, pinning you for a breathless moment before it snapped free.

You stumbled through, shaking, and realized you’d circled back, the rusted iron gates loomed just ahead, the courtyard faintly visible beyond them. You could leave.

Relief surged… Until the gates slammed shut.

The iron rattled, locked by no hand you could see. Behind you, the choir’s hymn shifted, voices dissonant, like laughter from the dead.

Your breath stuttered. You froze, heart slamming against your ribs, and that was when you felt like the air itself exhaled.

The maze wasn’t confusing you. He was.

“You thought you could escape me ?” His voice was no longer teasing. It was closer, rougher, feral. “I let you run.”

The gates rattled once more, as though the maze had been sealed. He appeared from behind a curtain, looking less like a boy and more like a specter conjured from the night itself. His eyes burned, black and bottomless, his chest rising slow as though he had never once been out of breath. As if that had been too easy. 

You backed up until your spine brushed cold iron. The chill jolted through you, sharp as fear, but he only smiled, slow and hungry.

“Found you,” he murmured.

Before you could answer, he was on you.

He pinned you against the hedge, his hand closing around your throat, not tight, just there, a promise. His body pressed flush to yours, hot and unyielding, caging you against the iron bars. His lips dragged over your cheek, your jaw, down to the hollow of your throat. His teeth grazed your pulse, sharp enough to make you shiver.

Your hands fisted on his shoulders, the muscle flexing under your palms as his power rippled through the air. The lantern above you swayed violently, the iron groaning with the same pressure that held you still. You could feel it pressing down on every nerve, as though even the night obeyed him.

“Isaac…”

“Shhh.” His thumb brushed your jaw, deceptively tender. “The choir’s already singing for you.”

And it was. Their hymn soared, eerie and exultant, as though it had swelled for this very moment.

His mouth crashed to yours, brutal and consuming. Every kiss was a claim, every press of his body a vow. His hand slid from your throat to your hip, gripping tight as he ground against you, caging you tighter, deeper.

“You’re mine,” he said into your mouth, the words a snarl and a prayer all at once. “Every scream, every breath… Mine.”

Before you could retort, he lifted you effortlessly, or maybe not at all with his hands. Power shimmered through the air, crackling invisible, and suddenly your feet weren’t touching the ground. Your back slammed against iron, spikes digging into your spine, and your skirt bunched at your thighs where his hands - his real hands, hot and rough - pinned you open.

You gasped, clutching at his shirt, but he only laughed under his breath, pressing his forehead to yours. Then his fingers slid between your thighs, pushing inside in one hard thrust, and the sound that tore out of you wasn’t fear.

His smirk widened, lips catching yours in a bruising kiss as his hand worked you open, fucking you on his fingers while his body pinned you tight to the hedge. His teeth scraped your lip, his tongue licked deep, and still his fingers curled inside you, stroking rough and relentless.

“Still full of me,” he rasped against your mouth, his thumb circling brutally around your clit. His jaw flexed, his breath shuddering. “Still dripping from earlier, begging for more. You want the whole school to hear, don’t you ? To know I’ve ruined you twice before the night is through.”

Voices rose in waves, high and haunting, but they couldn’t drown you out. Not when Isaac drove his fingers harder, faster, curling until your cry split through the night, raw and unrestrained.

“Yes,” he hissed, his mouth hot at your ear. “Sing for me.”

The lantern above flared, shadows jerking across his face as his pace grew ruthless. Your nails clawed his shoulders, but he only pressed harder, his thumb unrelenting until your thighs shook around his waist.

The choir’s voices peaked and you broke. Your cry cut through their hymn, shuddering, your orgasm tearing through you as he leaned into your neck, kissing you, his fingers still fucking you through every twitch and clench.

You were still trembling when he pulled his fingers out, wet and slick in the light. He held your gaze as he raised them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low groan. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment, savoring, before he smiled down at you, lips shining.

Before you could breathe a word, he grabbed you by the hips and dragged you down. The stone was cold under your back as he shoved you to the ground, leaves crunching, dirt grinding into your palms. Your skirt was already bunched high, and with a savage tug he hiked it to your waist, baring you fully to him.

His hands fumbled with his trousers, no patience left, shoving them down just enough before he forced your thighs apart and pressed into you. The blunt head stretched you wide, still soaked and raw from earlier, and then he thrust with one brutal stroke that seated him to the hilt.

The sound that ripped out of you was half sob, half scream. His answering sound vibrated against your chest as he collapsed over you, rutting into you with the rhythm of an animal that had finally cornered its prey.

The iron gate rattled behind you, the lantern above flickering with every slam of his hips. His breath came ragged in your ear. You clawed at his back, your nails leaving raw scratches through the fabric of his shirt, and he bit at your throat in return, sucking hard enough to bruise. Every thrust knocked the air from your lungs, your cries echoing through the maze, louder than the choir itself.

And then you heard it.

Footsteps. Voices. Too close.

Your body froze, panic sparking but he didn’t stop. If anything, his pace quickened, brutal and merciless. His hand shot out, fingers twitching in the air, and the curtains whipped violently around you. One by one, they snapped shut, enclosing you both in a cocoon of black fabric. Lanterns dimmed, shadows pressed close, the world outside cut away until there was nothing but the dark, his body, and the guttural sound of him pounding into you.

“They won’t see you,” he snarled, lips dragging against your jaw, his thrusts growing erratic. “No one sees you like this but me.”

The footsteps passed, muffled beyond the curtains, but he didn’t ease. He fucked you even harder, the invisible weight of his power pressing you down, keeping you spread beneath him. The ground trembled faintly. The lantern above burst with a crack, sparks raining over the curtains before fizzling into ash.

You gasped, clinging to him, your climax building fast, drawn out by the sheer ferocity of his pace until your orgasm tore through you again, in shuddering waves.

He lost himself with you. His power bled uncontrolled into the environment, the iron groaning, the curtains trembling like they would tear apart with each brutal thrust. His growl broke into a strangled groan as he buried himself deep, spilling inside you again, hips jerking until there was nothing left but the echo of your cries and the wreckage of his magic all around.

The curtains sagged limp at last, drifting back to stillness as his power ebbed. The lanterns burned low, their light trembling, and the choir’s hymn faded into silence. All that remained was the rough rasp of your breathing, his chest pressed to yours, and the cool stone under your back.

Slowly, he drew back. His eyes burned in the dim light, darker than shadow, softer than you expected. He reached down, tugging your skirt into place with surprisingly careful hands, smoothing the rumpled fabric over your thighs as though the gesture might erase the ruin he’d made of you.

“You’ll never run far enough. I’ll always find you.” he told you, almost tender. His hand lingered at your hem before sliding away.

You shifted under him, your body still trembling, and he reached for his coat. With a sharp flick of his wrist, it lifted off of him on its own, floating neatly into his hand. He draped it over you, wrapping you in its warmth before pulling the lapels closed with a smirk.

“If they want to hear you scream, fine. But your body ? Your face like this ?” He kissed the line of your jaw, slow and possessive. “That’s mine alone.”

When you finally let yourself breathe, his smirk returned, sharp, satisfied, feral and fond all at once. He hauled you upright with one arm around your waist, steadying you when your knees threatened to buckle.

“Come,” he said, tugging you close under the coat, his scent wrapping around you like smoke. “We’ve got a  Halloween party to attend, though I think we’ve already stolen the best part of the night.”

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 5 images

💬 1  🔁 6  ❤️ 142 · Mon Cher (1) || Isaac Night x Reader || 18+ · Blurb: The Nightshades library isn’t meant for games. But when you push Isa

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 4 images

💬 18  🔁 108  ❤️ 2039 · Method To Madness (1) || Isaac Night x Reader || 18+ · Blurb: Your rivalry with Isaac was supposed to be academic. Eq

[thecharacterchronicler]

Love, be afraid || Tyler Galpin x Reader ||

Blurb: You know Tyler Galpin as the sweet boy behind the coffee counter but tonight, after prom, something breaks. And when he looks at you with eyes that aren't quite human, you should be afraid... But you’re not. Because even when the monster reaches for you… he still answers to your voice.

Word Count: 6'036

Warnings: Explicit sexual content, aged up characters, monster elements, mild primal dynamics (possessive language, physical intensity), power imbalance (human/monster tension). This was written in a fever dream, barely re-read, and English isn’t my first language, so if you spot a typo, no you didn’t. 😌

Author's note: I wanted to explore Tyler’s sweeter, more human side while still keeping the primal, dangerous edge of the Hyde just beneath the surface. And yes... due to popular demand, there’s a partial transformation mid-act. 👀 This one’s a little intense, a little tender, and about what happens when you don’t run. I hope it’s good and I hope you like it. 🖤

He hadn’t wanted to go. Truth be told, big crowds made his skin itch. All the noise, the forced smiles, the suffocating pressure of being the sweet, harmless guy everyone liked… But then you asked.

You’d said it with a laugh, a throwaway tone, like it wasn’t a big deal. « We should go to prom  together. You know, since we both have no one. »

And something in his chest had tugged hard. He’d looked up from the counter at the Weathervane and seen your smile - tired, teasing, tucked behind a coffee mug - and it had knocked the air from his lungs.

Just a little.

So he said yes… Of course he did.

Now you’re beside him; his date, even if only technically. Hair done, eyes lined, wearing something that makes his heart stumble. The soft gym lights catch on your dress and scatter across your skin; it hurts to look and it hurts worse to stop. You look like everything he shouldn’t want but does.

He keeps pace with you, shoulder brushing yours just enough to be felt. He’s careful, always careful. Keeps the smile light, the gaze harmless. Keeps the darker thoughts where they belong; buried deep, locked away, somewhere they can’t slip out through his eyes.

He tells himself he’s fine, that this is fun, that you just asked him because you work the same shifts at the café, because he’s safe and reliable, a friend… Not because you might want him too. He doesn’t let himself imagine that.

You lean close to say something over the music - something about how weird it is to see everyone dressed up - and he laughs on instinct. He barely hears the words, too busy watching the way your lips move, too caught on the sound of your voice. He swallows, licks his lips, blames it on the dryness in the air.

You turn back toward the dance floor, hips swaying in time with the beat, and his pulse jumps. He tells himself he’s only watching to make sure you don’t trip in those shoes but his eyes linger a little too long, tracing the line of your dress, the way the fabric catches at your waist before falling loose again. His hands flex uselessly at his sides.

Be normal, he reminds himself. You’re just here to have fun. Don’t stare. Don’t… 

Too late. He already is.

Every movement feels meant for him, though he knows that’s not true. You’re just happy and carefree. Beautiful in a way that makes him ache.

He tells himself it’s enough. That being the one who makes you laugh, who catches your hand and spins you toward the lights, is enough. That being near you, breathing the same air, will be enough.

He’s lying to himself but he’s good at it.

Then the song changes to something bright - something everyone knows - and you grab his hand, tugging him toward the center of the room.

He lets you. Of course he does.

Your fingers fit easily between his, warm and sure, and he follows you like he was made to. The crowd swallows you both in glitter and motion. You’re laughing, hair brushing your shoulders, eyes glinting under the lights, and he stays close, not touching, just near.

Close enough to smell the sweet perfume that clings to you. Close enough to catch the faint shimmer of gloss on your mouth. Close enough that the heat of you blurs everything else.

He moves with you, careful, quiet, pretending it’s the music that’s got him dizzy. But really it’s you.

Always you.

Then he notices it. At first it’s just movement, a classmate slipping between couples on the floor, his jacket glittering under the lights. Tyler doesn’t think much of it until the guy stops right in front of you. He says something that makes you laugh, of course it does, you’ve always been kind, you talk to everyone… But then you look up at him - really look - and Tyler’s breath stalls as recognition hits.

That’s the guy you mentioned before, during a shift at the Weathervane, when the espresso machine was hissing and you were stirring a drink with a straw. You’d been telling him about your last year at Jericho High, about a crush you used to have, about how you’d finally worked up the courage to ask the guy out and he’d smiled, apologized, said he wasn’t looking for anything.

« Nice, right ? At least he was honest. » You’d laughed then, pretending it didn’t sting.

Tyler remembers hating him a little, even then. Some faceless guy who didn’t see you. Who didn’t understand what he’d turned down. And now here he is, standing too close, the music vibrating through the floor, leaning down to say something in your ear.

He goes still. Something deep in his chest tightens, the air catching sharp behind his ribs. Warm first, then hot.

Not again.

He tries to look away. Tells himself it doesn’t matter. You’re just talking. He’s probably apologizing, saying hi, whatever… But then you smile that soft, forgiving smile you give everyone, and it feels like watching sunlight touch someone who doesn’t deserve it.

The guy laughs. His hand lifts, just a brush of fingers at your arm, too casual, too familiar. Tyler’s jaw flexes. He can hear his pulse louder than the bass now. He remembers the way you’d looked at him earlier tonight, asking if your dress was “too much,” teasing him for not wearing a tie. He’d liked that, the small, harmless intimacy of it. Now it feels like a lie.

You turn, catching his eye over the stranger’s shoulder. You grin, bright and unguarded, as if to include him in the joke.

It should bring him back. It should be enough… It isn’t.

His hand twitches at his side, a reflex he covers by running his fingers through his hair. He tells himself to breathe, to stay normal, but there’s a voice under all the noise, a whisper that’s growing louder: She’s not yours.

He hates it. But it’s true, isn’t it?

You’re not his. You never said you were. You’ve never kissed him. You just come early to your shifts, steal the good mug, hum while he works. You talk to him like he’s easy to be around, like he matters, and maybe that’s the problem. Because he knows what he is, what he’s hiding, what it costs him to stand here pretending to be just another nice guy. Every second beside you is a fight not to stare too long, not to want too much, not to imagine what it would be like if he could be someone else.

And now this guy - this same one who once made you feel small - is leaning in again, saying something that makes you blush. Tyler’s knuckles go white around the paper cup he’s still holding. The music keeps pounding, but he barely hears it. Something inside him stirs, heavy and dark, pressing against its cage. He breathes out through his teeth, slowly.

Be good, he tells himself. Just… be good.

But he moves before he can think. It’s smooth on the surface, practiced, even. He steps forward like it’s nothing, like he’s just joining the conversation, easy and harmless but the way his hand slides around your waist is anything but.

It’s not nothing. It’s everything.

You jolt slightly, surprised, but you don’t pull away. His fingers press warm against your side, anchoring you to him. You glance up, laughing a little, light and teasing like you always are.

« Getting handsy, Galpin ? »

Your eyes flick toward the other guy still standing there, still smiling like he doesn’t feel the tension climbing into the air like a spark waiting for fuel. 

Tyler smiles. Or tries to. He keeps his mouth in shape, but his jaw is clenched, the muscle twitching slightly under the skin. His voice is quieter now, pitched lower, just for you.

« He was staring. » The words come out flat. Too honest. Too fast.

The guy shifts beside you. « We were just talking, man. Chill. »

That tone; casual, dismissive, like Tyler’s ridiculous for even reacting, makes something hot curl behind his eyes. He turns slightly to face him, not a full confrontation, just a shift of weight, a straightening of spine.

You catch it. Your brow furrows, and your hand brushes lightly over Tyler’s chest, a subtle anchor.

« Seriously, it’s okay. He’s just… »

« I know who he is, » he cuts in, gaze flicking to you now. It softens instantly, but the softness doesn’t quite reach his eyes, not all the way. “You told me about him.”

Your lips part. You blink, surprised. You had told him weeks ago, you probably didn’t think he’d been paying that much attention but he remembers. He remembers everything.

« You said he turned you down, » Tyler continues, a touch quieter now, the smile curling slightly at the edges, not quite sweet anymore. « Funny how that works. Suddenly he sees you in that dress and now he’s got something to say. »

The other guy scoffs, backing off half a step, but not leaving. « Look, I didn’t know you two were… »

« We’re not, » you say quickly. « It’s not like that. »

Tyler’s pulse thuds hard at your words. Of course you said that, it’s the truth… But God, it stings.

And the other guy hears it, too. His mouth tugs in a little smirk, smug and gone in a blink. But Tyler sees it. He sees too much. The lights are too bright, the music too loud, the world too sharp and suddenly, he feels the creature in him shift, not breaking loose but… aware.

The thing inside him stirs at the proximity of you. At the challenge in the air. So he forces his expression back into something easy, something normal. He lets out a short, practiced laugh.

« Right, not like that. »

But his arm doesn’t move, if anything, it tightens. You look up at him again, slower this time. There’s something like curiosity in your expression now, a faint crease between your brows.

« Are you okay ? »

He meets your eyes and holds them. Too long. Something flickers behind his gaze, not dangerous but… deep. Old. Raw. He can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips where they touch your waist.

He’s being good. He’s trying. So hard.

The other guy finally backs away with some half-hearted joke and a wave, disappearing into the crowd. He breathes. The bass is pounding through the floor now, and someone stumbles past you, jostling you closer into him. Your hands brace against his chest but you don’t pull away.

His hand spreads against your back, holding you just a little tighter. His jaw clenches again. His breath comes too warm, too close, as he leans down and murmurs near your ear, low, quiet, not quite a threat:

« I just don’t want to share you tonight. »

You don’t answer right away, you just look at him. Eyes wide, lips parted, your breath caught somewhere between surprise and something else; something softer, warmer, dangerously close to want and it hits him like a sucker punch, like a nail driven clean through his chest.

He feels it.

The words he just said are still hanging there between you, trembling like a match right before the spark. He hadn’t meant to say it out loud, not like that, not with that edge in his voice, that weight of possession, that note of something too raw to be harmless.

He watches the blush rise on your cheeks, sees your lashes flutter as you blink up at him. You don’t laugh. You don’t pull away. You don’t say no… Instead - slowly, almost shyly - you nod. A tiny, tentative motion, like you’re not even sure what it means yet. Then you slip your hand back into his like it’s the easiest thing in the world, like it’s natural.

« Then don’t, » you say. « Just dance with me. »

Your voice is quiet, nearly drowned out by the bass, but it hits him loud and clear like it’s made just for him. Like you are.

He doesn’t remember nodding, doesn’t remember agreeing but somehow you’re already pulling him back toward the dance floor, and somehow he’s letting you, following without resistance, without thought, like a tide pulled helplessly toward the moon.

A moment later, you’re in his arms. Close. So fucking close.

Your hands settle around his neck, soft and casual, like you’ve done it a thousand times. His own land low at your waist, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress with a kind of reverent desperation, like if he doesn’t hold on, he might lose his grip on reality entirely.

You’re so warm, so soft, so you and he can’t think, can’t breathe.

The music shifts, slows, throbs into something more sensual, more dangerous. People blur around you. The lights melt into color and shadow.

All he knows is you.

Your perfume curls into his lungs, sweet and sharp, already etched into his memory. Your chest presses lightly to his, every breath synced with his heartbeat. He can hear the whisper of your dress as it brushes against his pants. He can feel your lips hover too close to his collarbone. You laugh, soft and breathless, and your mouth grazes the side of his throat. 

That’s it. That’s the moment it starts.

The thoughts flicker across his mind like sparks dancing across dry leaves, fast, bright, out of control… He pictures himself pushing you up against the wall, sliding his hands beneath your dress, feeling the warmth of your thighs open around him, lowering his mouth to the curve of your neck and biting down just hard enough to make you moan, right here, right now, in front of everyone.

And worst of all, he knows he could. He could make you want it, make you beg for it. He knows the pressure of his body against yours would make you gasp. He knows you’d taste like everything he’s ever wanted and everything he was never meant to have.

Stop.

He grits his teeth and tries to blink it all away. The music. The thoughts. The feel of your hands playing with the hair at the back of his neck. But then you shift in his arms - just a subtle roll of your hips, nothing intentional - and it hits him like a bolt to the spine. Heat floods his gut. His breathing stutters.

Be good, Tyler. Don’t take what isn’t yours.

You’re too close, too easy to want and too hard to resist.

His fingers twitch against the small of your back. His grip tightens, not enough to hurt, but enough to hold. He wants to press you closer, to crush you against him, to bury his face in your neck and breathe you in like salvation.

« Tyler ? » You say his name, unaware of everything boiling just beneath his skin. He hears it like a plea, and that’s what breaks him. He lets go of you so suddenly it makes you stumble, a half-step backward, startled. « Wait, what… ? »

But he doesn’t answer. He’s already gone, shouldering through the crowd, head down, chest heaving like he’s about to be sick. He doesn’t hear the music anymore, doesn’t see the lights, doesn’t even hear you calling after him.

He just runs.

Out through the gym doors, into the hallway, and straight into the cold. The air hits him like ice water. He stumbles a few steps, then stops. Plants both palms against the stone wall, chest rising and falling like he’s just come down from a sprint. His forehead presses to the surface, cooling his skin but nothing helps.

The hunger is still there.

The creature is thrumming under his skin like static, clawing at its cage. It had liked that. It had liked the way you fit against him, the way you trusted him, the way you’d leaned in, all soft and sweet and oblivious to the monster you were touching. It wants more. 

It wants you.

And the most terrifying part? So does he.

He hears the door creak open behind him. Light footsteps and a pause. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s you. He can feel you.

« Tyler ? » Your voice is quiet, concerned but still soft, still kind.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

« Go back inside, » he says. The words come rough, it’s not a request.

You don’t listen. Of course you don’t.

You step closer, cautious. « Are you okay ? »

« No. I’m not. » His voice cracks. It’s too honest. You move even closer. He can hear your heels on the ground, feel your presence at his back. He doesn’t turn around. He can’t. « I said go back inside. »

This time it’s sharper and this time, you stop. He can feel your silence behind him like a weight. Maybe hurt. Maybe fear. And that’s the worst part because you should be afraid. You should run.

He exhales hard. His hands curl into fists, knuckles pale. The thing inside him growls at the restraint. He speaks again, quieter this time, like a confession. A surrender.

« I don’t want to hurt you but I think I might. »

And God, it’s killing him because you didn’t do anything wrong. You were perfect and that’s what almost pushed him over the edge.

You don’t move, you just stand there behind him, arms loose at your sides, your breathing soft and steady, too soft and too calm for what he is.

« Please, » he continues. His hands are braced on the wall, but his whole body is trembling. « Just go. »

You step forward anyway and that’s when he finally turns. He spins on you like a storm breaking loose, eyes wild, hair mussed, chest heaving, but it’s not the movement that freezes you. It’s his face.

His eyes.

Wide, not human. They glow faintly, pulsing like something alive beneath his skin. His pupils are narrowed, black slits, ringed in light. The veins at his neck and jaw are raised, almost visible beneath the surface, and there's a shadow in them, dark, inky and wrong.

He sees the flicker of fear in your eyes, and it hits him like a knife.

Good, he thinks. Good. Be afraid. Leave.

But you don’t flinch, you don’t scream… You just breathe.

« Tyler, » you whisper, « what is happening ? »

His chest is rising fast, too fast, like he can’t get enough air. His voice comes hoarse, sharp with warning. « You don’t want to know. »

« Maybe I do. »

« No, you don’t. »

But your eyes hold his, steady and challenging. You take another step. You should be running but instead, you reach for him.

« Stop. » His voice is guttural now, barely his. « Don’t… »

But your hand touches his chest, right over his heart and it breaks him. It’s not fear in your eyes anymore, it’s want. And then you’re pulling him down, or maybe he’s already falling, because the moment your mouth brushes his, he’s gone.

The hunger snaps its chains. The mask shatters.

He kisses you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive, rough and desperate, almost punishing. His hands are at your waist one second and in your hair the next, gripping too tight, dragging you impossibly close. You gasp against his mouth, and it only makes him hungrier. You kiss him back. 

God, you kiss him back.

His body surges forward, walking you backwards until your spine hits the stairwell wall. You stumble, and he catches you without thinking, hands everywhere; hips, thighs, up your back, into the heat beneath your dress like he’s starving.

« I told you to run, » he growls against your neck.

« Then stop kissing me, » you reply, challenging.

But he doesn’t. He can’t.

He lifts you without thinking, gripping under your thighs, your dress sliding high as your legs wrap around his waist. Your back hits the wall again and he groans low and broken as your hips roll forward into his.

It’s too much. Too close. Too good.

Your fingers rake through his hair and tug, hard, and he groans again, this time like it hurts, like it makes the monster purr.

« You don’t know what I am, » he gasps into your skin.

« Then show me. »

The words are your undoing. His mouth is on your throat - kissing, biting, desperate - and his hips grind against yours with enough force to knock the breath from your lungs. One hand fumbles with the hem of your dress, pushing it higher, the other braced against the wall behind your head to keep him steady. Your lips find his again and he growls into your mouth, all teeth and tongue and chaos. 

He’s lost. Fully. Finally.

There’s nothing sweet about this anymore. He wants you, right here, right now and if he’s not careful, if he doesn’t stop, it won’t be just a kiss. It won’t be just fingers under fabric. It’ll be everything. All of him. All at once. And it might kill you both.

His hands are tangled in your dress, his hips pressing into yours, breath ragged, heart racing like he’s seconds from changing, really changing. And for a moment… he wants to. 

That’s what terrifies him. Not the kiss, not the sound you make when he bites your neck, not the way your hands clutch at his shirt like you can’t get close enough, but the fact that he doesn’t want to stop. 

He pulls back like he’s been burned.

« Shit." His voice is hoarse, almost broken. « Shit, shit, shit… »

He lets go of you too fast, like your skin is poison, like he can already feel your judgment crawling over him.

You slide down from where he had you pinned, feet unsteady on the cold ground. He stumbles back a step, then another, hands trembling like he doesn’t know what to do with them now that they’re empty. His lips are wet. His chest heaves. And his eyes are still glowing faintly, still bigger than what they should be. Not human. Not safe.

He turns away from you, like he can somehow stuff it all back inside if he just stops looking at you.

« I wasn’t, I didn’t mean to… »

He can’t finish the sentence, can’t find the part that would make any of this okay. He hears you breathing behind him, feels it, that stillness… That silence. He braces himself for fear. For disgust. For the way people always look at him once they’ve seen too much but it doesn’t come.

Instead, softly, almost too quietly to be real, you speak. 

« Do it again. »

He goes still. Like, completely still. You could hear a pin drop, or his heart shattering.

« What ? » he asks, but it comes out like a plea.

You take a step forward. He still won’t face you. « Look at me, Tyler. »

He flinches but he does and what he sees in your face nearly undoes him. You’re flushed. A little stunned. Lips red, pupils blown wide but not with fear. There’s no fear in you. No judgment. Just the ghost of a smile at the corner of your mouth, and something warmer in your eyes.

« You should be scared. » He says. 

« I’m not. »

« I could’ve hurt you. »

« But you didn’t. »

His hands shake harder. « You don’t know what I am. »

You shrug gently. « Then show me. Slowly this time. »

That nearly brings him to his knees. He steps back again like he might collapse, and runs both hands through his hair, tugging at the strands like it’ll keep him grounded.

The silence stretches between you, fragile and bright, like the moment before a thunderclap. His chest still heaves, but the glow in his eyes fades to a faint shimmer, more ember than fire now. You step closer again, slower this time. He doesn’t move away.

Your hand rises to his cheek. He flinches, but you don’t stop. Your thumb traces the cut of his jaw, the stubble rough against your skin. He exhales through his nose - shaky, uneven - and when his eyes close, it feels like surrender.

The distance between you shrinks until there’s only breath. The music from the gym seeps faintly through the door, muffled and far away. Every other sound drops out. When he finally leans in, it isn’t the wild crash from before. It’s a slow slide of warmth and want, a kiss that trembles at the edges. His fingers brush your hip like he’s asking permission each time they move. You answer by moving closer, your hands finding the back of his neck, your heartbeat climbing to meet his.

He deepens the kiss, tasting hesitation, apology, desire. The kind that hums through every inch of him until he can’t tell where the wanting ends and the fear begins.

« Tell me to stop, » he murmurs against your mouth.

You shake your head. 

He gathers you against him, pressing you back toward the wall of the stairwell, never rushing, never letting go of your eyes for long. The air is thick with the sound of breathing, fabric, heartbeat. His hands find your waist again, then your shoulders, tracing the map of you like he’s trying to memorize it before the night ends.

Every touch feels heavier now, less about heat, more about need. A need to know he’s still human. A need to know you’re real.

When your foreheads touch, he whispers your name like a prayer. His voice is rough, uneven. 

« I shouldn’t want you like this. »

Then another kiss, slower this time. Deeper. Steadier. It rolls through him like a tide, warm and relentless, sweeping away the last of his restraint. His hands slide up, threading with yours, guiding them to his chest like he wants you to feel what you’re doing to him, his heart pounding so hard it almost hurts.

His breath catches. Every inch of you is pressed to him now, and the shape of you burns through the layers of clothing like it’s been carved into his memory.

He’s moving without thought, pulling you tighter, moving the fabric of your dress up, guiding your leg around his hip, hands sure but shaking slightly. You cling to his shoulders, your fingers digging in just enough to anchor him.

He finds the soft lace of your underwear, pulling it aside to bare your heat to him. Warm. Wet. Inviting. The creature inside him roars in his ears, a raw instinct whispering to take what he wants, but he fights it back. He’ll be good. He’ll be human. He’ll do this right.

You tug at his vest, popping buttons, dragging him closer. Your legs tighten around his waist as though you’re afraid he’ll leave you, as though you need him to stay this close. He slides his fingers between your thighs, and the sharp breath you draw makes his head spin.

Nothing else matters now. The music from the gym is only a faint pulse behind the doors, the stairwell scattered with fallen leaves and echoing with shallow breaths. He holds you there, against the wall, and you let him, neither of you caring if anyone sees, as if the whole night has narrowed to this single point where control and wanting meet and tremble.

His hand wrench open his trousers, freeing himself. You gasp again and it sounds like music to his ears. And when he thrust into you, you cry out against his collarbone, the tightness bordering on cruel until your body yields, molten and slick. Each movement echoes against the walls, gravel shifting underfoot, the choked rhythm of your breathing, as he pins you higher, deeper, your heels dangling uselessly at his hips now. 

« Look at me, » he demands, his voice frayed at the edges. A command but not a cruel one.

Your gaze lifts, dazed and wanting, and he feels your pulse hammering beneath his thumb as he traces your throat and it nearly ruins him. Your eyes, glassy and wide, lock on his with a kind of unguarded need that steals the air from his lungs. Your lips, red and parted, tremble with each uneven breath, and the soft curve of your mouth looks so kissable, so impossibly perfect, he forgets how to move for a second.  

There’s a flush rising beneath your skin, warm and glowing in the dim light, your lashes damp, your expression undone. He watches every flicker of pleasure cross your face, every stutter of your breath when he moves inside you, and it doesn’t feel real. You don’t feel real. You look like something pulled from a dream he never thought he deserved, and yet here you are, wrapped around him, looking at him like he’s the only thing you want in the world. And for a moment, it’s too much. The beauty of you. The way you let him see it. The way you look back without fear.

Each slow roll of his hips drives the tension higher, a sweet, dangerous ache coiling low in his belly. He can feel it building, that tight wire of pleasure strung so taut it’s ready to snap with every drag against that swollen ridge inside you.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. His name dissolves into a gasp as he angles deeper, hitting a spot that sparks white behind his eyelids. So he slows, dragging himself almost out before sinking back with deliberate, grinding pressure. 

The tightness of your pussy burns deliciously now. He feels the humid heat of your breath beneath his ear when you arch as his thumb find the silk over your nipple, circling until the peak hardens painfully against the fabric as he moves deeper, slower, grinding rather than thrusting; slow and hungry.

« Tell me you need this as much as I do. » He punctuates the command with a sharp upward tilt of his hips, hitting that deep, spongy place that makes your vision blur. Your moan, raw and unfiltered, echoes off the walls. Somewhere behind, a door slams shut.

« I do, so don’t you dare stop. Faster. » You beg, and he obeys, slamming into you with more force, the wet slap of skin against skin syncopating with the distant music’s dying notes. He feels your inner muscles clench around him, a vise of velvet heat as you dig yours heels into the small of his back, causing a ripple of sensation that pulls a ragged noise from his throat.

His thumb presses hard against your clit through the lace of your panties, a rough circle timed to his thrusts. Sweat slicks the hollow where your neck meets his jaw, warm and salt against his skin. He leans in and licks it like it’s the only thing in the world that matters. 

The taste of you floods his mouth, sharp with salt, threaded with something raw and electric that makes his knees nearly give. You’re trembling, breath catching, and it only makes him hungrier. The creature inside him stirs, feral and restless, but he holds it back for now. Because this - this - feels holy. Your skin. Your pulse. Your scent in his lungs. He wants to sink his teeth in. He wants to stay here forever.

Your mouth falls open, but no sound escapes, just a sharp, full-body shudder as your climax tears through you like lightning striking from the inside out. The force of it locks your throat, steals your breath, every muscle pulling taut around him in relentless, rhythmic waves. It drags a raw, half-broken curse from his lips, and he keeps moving, hips stuttering as if the gravity of you is dragging him under with no hope of surfacing.

And then… Something snaps.

His eyes flare wide, blown pupils devouring every trace of hazel until only black remains, deep and endless, twin voids swallowing galaxies. His teeth bare with a snarl he tries to bite down, but it cuts loose anyway, low, guttural… Inhuman. His jaw trembles. His breath saws in and out.

His hands are still on your hips, but now his fingers curl too tight. Tighter than they should be. Bone under skin. Tendons pulled like wire. Nails stretching, sharpening, not quite claws yet, but close enough to make him choke on the wave of instinct rising like floodwater in his chest.

Not now. Not with her.

He’s supposed to be present, gentle, yours… But the thing inside him wants to own you instead, wants to bite down, wants to leave marks no one else can ever touch. Your body trembles against his, soft spasms echoing through you, and it’s too much; your warmth, your scent, the way you look at him like you’re not afraid, like you still want him even now.

Even like this.

He’s too far gone to stop. His body locks tight, a wave of pressure building in his spine and rolling forward with terrifying force. His hips jerk once, twice, no longer smooth or controlled but sharp, shuddering thrusts, driven by instinct more than thought.

Don’t shift. Don’t change. Stay human. Stay with her.

But he can feel it, feelthe thing under his skin rising, snarling, clawing its way up like it wants to burst through his chest and claim. His vision whites out for a heartbeat as pleasure seizes him, violent and bright, the kind that drags a sound from his throat he doesn’t recognize, half-growl, half-cry, too raw to be anything but real.

His hands brace against the wall behind you, shoulders hunched, arms shaking, trying to hold himself back from tearing into the nearest soft thing: you.

His release punches through him like a wildfire with one final brutal thrust inside you. Hot. Blinding. Primal. His heat floods you, thick and warm, mingling with the slickness already streaking your thighs. And for a split second - just one - he loses the fight.

His claws fully extend. His back arches. His head snaps back, jaw clenched so tight it aches, teeth just a little too sharp behind parted lips. But your hands are on his face, steady, grounding, and you whisper his name like you’re not afraid.

« Tyler… »

He gasps like he’s surfaced from drowning, eyes snapping back to yours. The glow dims. His hands retract, fingers trembling. His breath is ragged and shallow. Sweat slides down the sides of his face, and he slumps forward, forehead dropping to your shoulder like it’s the only safe place left in the world.

You hold him. Arms around his shoulders, fingers still cradling his face, your cheek resting against his temple like you’re not touching something that almost stopped being human a second ago. His body is heavy, shaking, slick with sweat, chest rising in uneven, shallow gasps but he’s not snarling anymore. Not twitching. Not growling through his teeth.

He doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t deserve it.

The monster had come closer than ever before. He’d felt it in his spine, in his teeth, in the way his vision blurred and his hands ached to take instead of hold. He’d stopped fighting for a moment, he knows that. He gave in to the fire because it felt too good, too right.

He was gone, but you called him back.

He shudders. His hands slide to your waist, loose and careful now like he’s terrified to touch you without knowing who he is anymore. His head is still bowed, as if looking at you might make it real, or make it worse.

His voice is hoarse when it comes, like he hasn’t used it in days. « I didn’t think I could come back from this. »

You don’t move. You don’t say that it’s okay because it’s not. Not really. But you’re still here, still close where he thought there would be fear. You tilt his face up, and he lets you. His eyes are his again. Human, bloodshot and uncertain.

« I saw him, » you whisper. « I saw… it. »

His stomach drops. This is it. Now you’ll run.

« And I stayed. » You add.

He breaks. Not loudly. Not with tears or words. Just a slow collapse, the kind that happens inside your bones when someone touches the part of you you thought could never be forgiven. Your hands stay on his face. His eyes stay on yours. And for the first time, he stops wishing he was different and starts wishing you’ll never run away.

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 3 images

💬 36  🔁 216  ❤️ 5302 · Obsessive || Tyler Galpin x Reader || (18+) · Outline: The guy who made high school hell for you just escaped Willow

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 4 images

💬 18  🔁 102  ❤️ 1969 · Method To Madness (1) || Isaac Night x Reader || 18+ · Blurb: Your rivalry with Isaac was supposed to be academic. Eq

[thecharacterchronicler]

Smut Alphabet || Tyler Galpin (Season 2)

A = Against the wall He loves slamming you against cold brick, one hand on your throat, the other between your thighs.

B = Breeding He won’t say it out loud, but he gets obsessed with staying inside until he’s sure you’re dripping.

C = Control Wrists pinned, hips locked down, he decides when you get to cum.

D = Dirty talk “Say it louder. Let them hear who’s fucking you.”

E = Exhibitionism Car windows fogged, Weathervane bathroom door half-open, he wants the risk.

F = Face-fucking One hand in your hair, groaning as you gag around him, watching tears streak your face.

G = Grip His fingers always leave bruises on your neck, waist, thighs, wrists…

H = Hair pulling Tug hard and he’ll moan into your mouth.

I = Intensity Never halfway. Either slow torture until you’re begging, or fast and brutal like he can’t stop.

J = Jealousy sex If someone even looks at you too long, you’ll feel it later; rough, punishing and desperate.

K = Knots (metaphorical) He’ll keep tangling you up in his sheets, his lap, his grip until you’re trapped in him.

L = Lap He lives for having you bouncing in his lap, face shoved against his neck while he mutters filth.

M = Marks Your body is his canvas : bruises, scratches, hickeys everywhere he knows only he’ll see.

N = Neck Obsessed. Biting, sucking, choking, whispering into the curve of it.

O = Overstimulation He won’t stop when you’ve had enough, your whimpers only push him harder.

P = Possessiveness “You’re mine. You stay mine.”

Q = Quickies Bent over a sink, locker room, car hood, two minutes flat, leaving you shaking.

R = Roughness He’s not gentle unless he has to be, feral thrusts, bruising kisses, teeth everywhere.

S = Spanking Hard enough that you yelp, then soothing with a slow rub before doing it again.

T = Throat His favorite place for his hand. For pressure. For claiming.

U = Unhinged Once he starts, there’s no guarantee he’ll stop when you want him to.

V = Voice He wants to hear you scream his name and if you don’t, he’ll make you.

W = Watching Keeps eye contact when he fucks you, smirking when you break and look away.

X = X-rated Filth Keeps his phone full of audios of your moans. Plays them back when he’s alone.

Y = Yours He craves hearing that you’re his, even when you’re wrecked.

Z = Zero mercy When he’s in this mood ? You don’t get breaks, you don’t get control, you don’t get to leave until he’s done.

Reminder: This is purely my own take and mostly inspired by how I write this character. 💕

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 3 images

💬 36  🔁 215  ❤️ 5271 · Obsessive || Tyler Galpin x Reader || (18+) · Outline: The guy who made high school hell for you just escaped Willow

[thecharacterchronicler]

Mon Cher (1) || Isaac Night x Reader || 18+

Blurb: The Nightshades library isn’t meant for games. But when you push Isaac Night past the edge of his precious research, parchment burns, books fall, and control shatters. One brutal kiss at a time, he makes sure you learn your lesson.

Word Count: 3’789

Warnings: Obsessive behavior, rough sex, book ab*se, possessive talk, dark romance themes (blurred lines between tenderness and ferocity).

(( Part 2 (Kofi) )) - (( Part 3 (Kofi) )) - (( Masterlist ))

The Nightshades library had a pulse of its own. Candlelight wavered in tall iron holders, shadows crawling along the stone walls like they were alive. Dust hung suspended in the air, turning the room into a cathedral of secrets, and the faint scent of wax and old leather wrapped around you the moment you slipped inside.

And there he was.

Isaac sat at the long oak table as if rooted there, the surface drowning beneath towers of books and scattered notes. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms taut, a dark stain of blue ink running across the ridge of one knuckle where his pen had betrayed him.

His jaw was tight, clenched as though the sheer force of his will could wrestle the answers from the brittle pages. You wondered if he had even noticed the passage of hours, the candles burned low, and yet he hadn’t moved.

You lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching him burn himself alive. His tie and shirt were half-loosened, collar tugged open as though he’d fought it in frustration hours ago. A dark wave of hair had fallen across his forehead, sweat-damp at the temple. He didn’t even hear you slip in, too consumed by the fortress of books rising around him.

Pages lay in chaotic piles, papers scratched raw with his handwriting. He hunched forward, pen gripped too hard, scribbling like he could beat the knowledge out of the page if he just pressed hard enough.

You padded silently across the floor, fingertips grazing the spines of the nearest shelves. They were cool beneath your touch, centuries of secrets pressed into bindings and vellum, but all you really saw was him; bent over his work, eyes narrowed and wild. A storm of brilliance and obsession.

Finally, you crossed the room, voice soft but laced with teasing when you said; “You’ll drive yourself mad if you keep at it like that.”

Isaac didn’t look up. His pen froze mid-stroke, hanging in the air as though you’d touched a nerve.

“Better madness,” he muttered, jaw still tight, “than ignorance.”

That made you smile. You leaned one hip against the table, brushing a loose page aside with your fingertips until it fluttered over his notes.

“You say that now, but if you go blind squinting at candlelight, don’t expect me to read all this to you. You’ll ruin your eyesight… And your sanity.”

The only sign he’d heard you was the subtle tightening of his grip on his pen. For a beat, he didn’t look up, as if even acknowledging you risked unraveling the thread he was chasing. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted to yours.

God, those eyes.

Dark, rimmed with shadows of sleeplessness, curls loose across his forehead. He shoved them back with an impatient flick, annoyance carved into every sharp line of his face, but the moment his eyes locked on you, the irritation softened into something else.

“Sanity,” he said, voice low, roughened from hours of disuse, “is overrated.”

You smiled despite yourself. You leaned down, brushing your fingers against the nearest open book, deliberately pushing his notes aside.

“There’s a Halloween party tonight. Costumes, bonfires, haunted choir in the courtyard…” A spark lit in you, warmth rising with the thought. “It’s my favorite event.”

That made him pause. His pen dropped on his notebook, forgotten. His expression shifted - not dismissal, not the irritation you half-expected - but something quieter, harder to name. A curve tugged at his mouth, dangerous and almost fond, as he leaned back in his chair.

“Halloween’s your favorite ?”

“Yes.” You tilted your chin, emboldened by the weight of his attention. “Why ? Don’t tell me you hate it.”

“Hate it ?” His laugh was soft, incredulous, and he shook his head. Then he leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, eyes fixed entirely on you. “You should know by now, I can’t hate anything that makes you glow.”

Your pulse leapt, betraying you, but you covered it with a sly tilt of your head.

“You know,” you murmured, fingertips trailing across the edge of his notes, “you almost sound romantic when you forget yourself.”

“I don’t forget myself,” Isaac said, voice low and measured, but there was a rasp to it, like gravel underfoot. He gripped his pen again, as if that alone could anchor him, though the ink on his fingers had already dried to stains.

“Mm.” You hummed, letting the sound vibrate, daring. Then you pressed your palm flat to the table, pushing one of his books an inch too far. Its spine slid over the edge before thudding back onto the wood, just shy of falling.

His head snapped toward it. His jaw tightened. “Careful.”

But you were already reaching for another. You flipped the corner of a page with your nail, watching it curl, then let it fall, deliberate and almost cruel.

“What, this ?” You nudged at the neat stack until one sheet floated to the floor like a dead leaf. “You’ve read these three times already. Four, maybe.”

His voice was a growl, low in his chest. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what ?” You eased yourself onto the table, scattering his papers with the slide of your hips. The wood creaked beneath your weight, candles flickering as though even the air leaned closer to listen. Your knee brushed against his thigh, your breath brushing the side of his face. You bent until your lips ghosted his ear, each syllable featherlight and dangerous.

“Don’t torture yourself, mon cher…that’s my job.”

The silence cracked.

He froze for a heartbeat, and you thought he might pull away… Until his hand shot out, closing around your thigh. Fingers gripped hard enough to bite, anchoring you in place. His notes crumpled beneath your body, pages crinkling under the press of your palm as you steadied yourself.

“Do you think this is a game ?” His voice was sharp, cutting, but his breath came ragged, warm against your skin. His eyes burned, pupils blown wide, storm dark and hungry.

You only smiled, tugging at the loosened silk of his tie. Wrapping it around your fist, you drew him closer, until the heat of his chest pressed against your knees. “It distracted you, didn’t it ?”

His jaw locked, like he was holding himself back by sheer will alone. His gaze flicked downward when you let your free hand trail across your own body, the slope of your collarbone, the faint dip between your breasts. You toyed with the first button of your shirt, slow enough for him to notice, slow enough to torture.

“Don’t,” he rasped, though it sounded nothing like a command, more like a prayer.

But you did. One button, then another, fabric loosening under your fingers as the candlelight licked across newly bared skin. You let the edges fall open just enough to show him what he was pretending not to want. His throat worked around a swallow, knuckles whitening where he still held your thigh.

You teased, your other hand sliding down over your stomach, slipping beneath the fabric.

His gaze darted back to his scattered notes, desperate, almost panicked, as if he could still save himself if he just looked away. But when you tipped your head back against the table, lids half-closed, and let your hand dip lower… he lost it.

“Enough.” The word came out guttural, strangled.

He tore your hand away from yourself, pinning your wrist to the table. His body crowded yours, tie brushing your chest, heat radiating from him in waves. His mouth hovered over yours, close enough for you to feel the tremor of restraint still holding him together. You only arched beneath him, the edges of your open shirt brushing his. Candlelight painted him in gold and shadow; the cut of his jaw, the sweep of his cheekbone, the dangerous fire in his eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he hissed, though his gaze stayed locked on you, unblinking.

“Like what ?” you whispered, curling your free hand around his tie and tugging him closer again, until your lips almost touched his but didn’t. “Like I want you ?”

A sharp breath rattled out of him, his body pressing against your knees where he now stood between them. He clenched his jaw, gaze darting to the rise and fall of your chest. His hand twitched where it held your wrist, as though torn between shoving you away and dragging you closer.

You tipped your head to the side, exposing the line of your throat, your smile wicked.

“Better get back to your books, Isaac. Unless you’d rather…” Your free hand slipped down over your own stomach again. “…study me instead.”

His restraint cracked audibly in the harsh scrape of his chair legs against stone.

He moved in, caging you fully against the table, his mouth just above your skin, hot breath ghosting over your neck. His teeth grazed the barest hint of flesh, not a kiss but a promise.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned, every word vibrating against your throat.

You shivered, tilting your head to give him more. “I know.”

His breath hitched. Just once, quick and sharp, before he shoved the rest of his books to the floor in a single sweep. Leather thudded against stone, pages fluttered. The sound echoed in the vaulted chamber, scandalous and loud in the hush of a library.

He dragged you across the table, the grain of the wood catching under your spine.

“You drive me mad…” he bit out, bending over you, each word a growl against your mouth.

“Better madness than ignorance.” you whispered back, echoing his own words.

And that was the breaking point.

His mouth crashed against yours, bruising and desperate, the taste of ink and dust clinging to his lips. One hand anchored your thigh, the other braced on the table beside your head, veins taut under his skin.

You breathed him in; smoke, books, candlewax, and the metallic bite of obsession that clung to him like a second scent. Every scrape of his teeth, every shuddering breath, every sound of paper crumpling under your body was a hymn to the chaos you’d unleashed. His kiss was all teeth and desperation, a raw clash of want and fury.

You arched beneath him again, spine bowing against the unforgiving wood, and he followed the motion like a man starved, devouring every inch you offered. His tie dangled loose between you, brushing against your bare skin with every frantic movement.

The table groaned under your weight as he pressed harder, his thigh slotting between yours, forcing them apart.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like it was sustenance. His teeth grazed your collarbone, sharp enough to sting, and you shivered, your hand threading through his hair to hold him there.

“I wanted your attention,” you whispered, voice trembling but defiant, “and now I have it.”

His laugh was dark, a vibration against your chest.

“You don’t have my attention,” he corrected, sucking at the soft skin just above your shirt. “You have all of me.”

The words sent a shiver racing down your spine. You tugged harder on his tie until it slid loose from his collar, silk rasping against your fingers. He didn’t even notice, too busy dragging his mouth down the column of your throat, marking a line of bruises that would sting tomorrow.

Your shirt hung open from your earlier teasing, and Isaac’s hand hovered for a beat like he was afraid to touch, trembling with restraint that was already gone.

His jaw clenched, and then he did, his palm flattening against your stomach, sliding upward until it met the swell of your breast. Heat flared through you at the contact, his thumb brushing across sensitive skin, reverent and rough all at once.

You let your head fall back as your own fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt. Each one slipped free with a soft pop, the crisp white fabric of his shirt stretched tight across his chest finally loosening.

He caught your hands before you finished, his grip iron around your wrists, pinning them again to the table above your head. For a heartbeat he hovered, muscles taut, torn between restraint and ruin.

Then, he shrugged out of his shirt entirely, the fabric falling to the floor beside the books you’d already scattered, and went for the buttons of your shirt himself; no patience, no delicacy, just the frantic need to strip away every barrier between you.

His chest was solid, the muscles shifting beneath your touch as though strung tight with restraint. You raked your nails lightly across him, and his breath stuttered, his whole body jolting closer.

Buttons gave way under his hands, some pulled free, some half-torn, until your shirt hung wide open, slipping from your shoulders. His palms roamed immediately, rough and hot against bare skin, mapping every inch as if he’d been starving for it.

You gasped when his mouth followed, open and desperate against the line of your collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. He trailed lower, each kiss darker, rougher, until your chest heaved against his face.

You whispered his name, but it came out as a plea.

He didn’t answer with words, only growled against your skin, tugging at the fabric until it slipped completely away. The sound of it hitting the floor was drowned beneath the scrape of his chair toppling behind him, forgotten.

In the next heartbeat, his hands seized your waist, lifting you just enough to drag you further across the table. Papers crumpled under your body, books skidding out of the way with dull thuds. Candlelight flared as though in response, shadows leaping up the shelves. His grip shifted, urgent, turning you, pressing you forward until your palms hit the table, your cheek brushing a scattered page.

The wood was cool under your bare stomach, your shirt gone, your chest rising and falling against the wreckage of his notes. Behind you, Isaac loomed, his breath ragged, his restraint burned to ash.

“You’re ready for this,” he said, his voice shaking with something darker than hunger. His hands skimmed down your sides, gripping your hips hard enough to brand. “Tell me you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” you confirmed, your voice breaking into a shiver as you spread your palms across the table.

That was all it took.

His hands tore at the last of your clothing, tugging your underwear down in frantic jerks until you were bared to him. He groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating through the space, and pressed himself against you, hard and aching. You pushed back, shameless, grinding against him until he cursed.

The table creaked under the force of his restraint, his fingers bruising your hips.

“You drive me insane,” he snarled, and then there was no more patience left in him.

He shoved his own trousers down just enough, the rasp of fabric harsh in the silence, and lined himself against you. The first press stole your breath - thick, hot, unrelenting - and then he sank in, stretching you until you gasped out loud, your nails clawing at the wood.

“Fuck.” His voice was guttural, broken, as he buried himself to the hilt. He stilled, trembling against you, forehead pressed to your shoulder as though the effort of control might kill him. “So tight, so perfect…”

“Move,” you begged, your voice wrecked, back arching under him.

He didn’t.

His breath came hot against your ear, his chest against your back. You could feel every inch of him throbbing deep inside you, unmoving, unbearable. His grip on your hips tightened, keeping you perfectly still.

“You think you can scatter my notes, tear me away from my work, and get exactly what you want ?” he growled, the words biting but low, a whisper meant only for you. His lips brushed your neck, cruelly soft compared to the way he held you pinned.

“I…” you tried, but the word broke off in a gasp when he shifted just enough to remind you how deep he was, the stretch exquisite, maddening.

“Beg.” His voice was dark, dangerous and sure. “If you want me to move, beg for it.”

You whimpered, nails clawing at the table until pages tore beneath your fingers.

“Please.”

“Not good enough.” His hand slid from your hip to between your thighs, pressing exactly where you needed him until your knees nearly buckled. He didn’t move, only pressed, while he stayed buried inside you like stone. “Say it properly.”

“Please, Isaac,” you gasped, writhing against his iron grip, desperate. “Please, I need you.”

He groaned, the sound feral, as though your words shattered something in him. His voice trembling with restraint even as his body betrayed him. “That’s better. My brilliant distraction, begging on the table…”

Only then did he pull back, slow, agonizing, before slamming back into you with such force the table legs scraped across the stone floor.

Each thrust was brutal, a slam of hips against yours that rattled the table and sent more books toppling to the floor. The thud of leather spines hitting stone mingled with the sharp slap of skin on skin, the noise filling the vaulted library like a liturgy of sin. Pages fluttered around you in a storm of white, catching the light as they fell, like wings from trapped birds.

He gripped your waist so hard you thought you’d stop breathing. He dragged you back into every punishing stroke, his strength absolute, his body using yours as though you were the only thing that could anchor him to this world. The force of him drove you forward with each thrust, your body lurching against the table until the wood burned beneath your skin.

His pace was relentless, punishing, as though every thrust was penance for the hours he’d ignored you.

You tried to hold yourself up, palms slipping on papers, but your arms gave way. Your cheek pressed to the wood and your mouth fell open in a cry that blurred into a moan, his name torn from your throat raw and unrestrained.

The rhythm and the sheer ferocity of him sent you spiraling. He was merciless, his hips pistoning into you with a strength that bordered on worship and punishment at once. Heat coiled low in your stomach, winding tighter with every thrust until you shattered around him.

You clenched hard, spasms rippling through you, dragging a curse from Isaac’s lips. His voice was wrecked, a growl breaking apart into a sound you had never heard from him before, desperate and helpless.

Candlewax dripped in slow rivulets down the holders, the smell of smoke and heat clinging to the air, mixing with sweat and the metallic tang of ink that still marked his skin.

Desperate to muffle your cries, you sank your teeth into his hand where it braced beside your head, biting down hard enough to taste salt and iron.

He groaned at the sting, the sound rough, but instead of pulling away his arm flexed under your bite, as if he welcomed the pain, as if it tethered him even tighter to the moment.

Your nails raked across the scarred wood, then up over his wrist, scoring red lines into his skin. Ink smudged under your fingertips, mixing with the sweat slicking his veins. He hissed at the burn of it, only to rut harder.

He lost it then, pushing into you with abandon, chasing his own end. His pace grew messy, desperate, his moans breaking into a strangled groan as he spilled inside you, hips jerking against yours until there was nothing left but ragged breathing and the echo of chaos around you.

The table groaned beneath your weight, books lay strewn in ruins, and Isaac collapsed against you, his breath hot against your shoulder, his tie still held loosely in your hand.

Your teeth finally released his hand, leaving an angry crescent of marks in his skin. The silence after was deafening, broken only by the gutter of wax dripping into pools at the base of the candles.

For a long moment, he stayed pressed to you, chest heaving, his hand still locked bruisingly tight at your hip as though he couldn’t bear to let go. Then, with a harsh groan, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness made you gasp softly, your body clenching at the loss. His hands lingered a beat longer, almost possessive, before he forced himself to step back.

You heard the scrape of the chair behind you as he shoved it back into place and heavily sank down into it.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up on shaking arms, turning just enough to look at him over your shoulder. His hair was a mess but his eyes still burned like coals in the shadows. His trousers hung low on his hips, but he hadn’t bothered with his shirt.

The light carved golden shadows across the planes of his bare chest, slick with sweat, his muscles taut even in stillness. He leaned back heavily, one arm resting on the arm of the chair, the other draped lazily across his thigh, but his eyes never left you.

You could feel his stare burning over every movement as you bent to scoop up your discarded shirt, tugging it over your shoulders with clumsy fingers, trying to fasten the torn buttons. It wasn’t just hunger anymore, it was reverence, obsession, something darker that you didn’t dare name.

Your chest still rose and fell too quickly, and your hair stuck to your damp skin, but piece by piece you pulled yourself together.

Finally, you turned, breathless. “So you’ll come with me ?”

His mouth quirked, the smirk equal parts menace and promise. Then it softened into something rarer, something that almost looked like fondness.

“Halloween is my favorite celebration too,” he admitted, voice dropping low, as though the confession itself was dangerous. “And with you, darling, every night is Halloween… But if we’re going, we’re staying late.” His gaze raked over you, dark and possessive. “After I’ve had you screaming louder than the haunted choir.”

Your laugh came out soft, broken by the tremor of desire. “You make it sound like torture.”

He pushed himself up from the chair, the wood scraping against stone as he stood. He crossed the short distance to you with slow step and reached out, curling a finger beneath your chin to tilt your face up to his. The pad of his thumb brushed across your lips, lingering there like he was memorizing the shape of them. His gaze burned, unblinking, a vow wrapped in shadow.

“No… Only to live without you, that would be torture.” he whispered, voice rough but certain.

☕ If you enjoyed the chaos, buy me a coffee and I’ll brew up more filth... 👀🖤

📖 And if you can't wait for more; Part 2 AND 3 are already waiting in early access ✨

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 4 images

💬 18  🔁 91  ❤️ 1776 · Method To Madness (1) || Isaac Night x Reader || 18+ · Blurb: Your rivalry with Isaac was supposed to be academic. Equ

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 3 images

💬 35  🔁 204  ❤️ 5024 · Obsessive || Tyler Galpin x Reader || (18+) · Outline: The guy who made high school hell for you just escaped Willow

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 8 images

💬 0  🔁 42  ❤️ 824 · MASTERLIST · Last update: Sep. 2025 All of these contain SMUT, please check the warnings before reading. // Find me on

[thecharacterchronicler]

Smut Alphabet || Isaac Night

A = Authority Acts like he’s in charge until you push him down. Then he smirks and lets you.

B = Begging He won’t say “please” easily. You’ll have to force it out of him and it’ll wreck him when he finally does.

C = Control (Telekinesis) Uses his power to pin you to the wall, spread your legs, or hold your wrists without lifting a finger.

D = Degradation Thrives when you call him “pathetic,” “desperate,” “mine.” His arrogance crumbles fast.

E = Exhibitionism Pretends he hates it, but knowing someone might see you bent over his lab table makes him harder.

F = Fingers Obsessed with using them; inside you, over you, around your throat, all while making you watch.

G = Genius complex He’ll dirty talk like he’s giving a lecture, smugly explaining exactly how he’s going to break you.

H = Hands-off (but not really) He loves making you fall apart without touching you, just his voice, his power, and your own body betraying you.

I = Intensity Sharp, precise, almost clinical at first… until he snaps, and then it’s all teeth and bruises.

J = Jealous streak Cold and cutting when he’s jealous. He’ll make you scream his name just to remind you whose you are.

K = Kisses Always biting, always claiming. He marks your lips red every time.

L = Lab table His favorite place to bend you over. Bonus points if you knock something to the floor.

M = Mouth Sharp tongue in every sense: mocking, commanding, but desperate when he’s between your thighs.

N = Neck Grabs it, chokes it, licks it, bites it. Obsessed with watching you squirm under his hold.

O = Obsession He needs to prove he can ruin you better than anyone else. It’s half sex, half competition.

P = Power play Sometimes he’s smug and cruel, sometimes he’s kneeling with a smirk, waiting for your orders.

Q = Quick-witted Throws filthy one-liners mid-fuck, knowing exactly how to make you blush and curse at him.

R = Restraints Doesn’t bother with rope, your body freezes against the wall under his power until he lets go.

S = Smugness Even on his knees, mouth full of you, he’ll still be smirking up at your wrecked face.

T = Teasing He lives for edging you, pulling away the second you get close, watching your frustration.

U = Unhinged Acts like he’s composed… until he snaps, and then he’s feral, desperate, biting and groaning against your skin.

V = Voice Low, cutting, dangerous. He’ll whisper things that make your knees weak, then laugh when you obey.

W = Watching Forces you to look in his eyes the entire time, power holding your chin in place when you try to turn away.

X = X-rated experiments Keeps mental notes of what breaks you fastest. Might even write it down like it’s research.

Y = Yours He’ll never admit it out loud, but when he’s on his knees, he’s yours completely.

Z = Zero patience If you tease him too long? He’ll snap and fuck you against the nearest surface, fast, hard, and without mercy.

Reminder:This is purely my own take and mostly inspired by how I write this character. 💕

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 5 images

💬 1  🔁 2  ❤️ 78 · Mon Cher (1) || Isaac Night x Reader || 18+ · Blurb: The Nightshades library isn’t meant for games. But when you push Isaa

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 4 images

💬 18  🔁 94  ❤️ 1848 · Method To Madness (1) || Isaac Night x Reader || 18+ · Blurb: Your rivalry with Isaac was supposed to be academic. Equ

[thecharacterchronicler]

Mon Cher (1) || Isaac Night x Reader || 18+

Blurb: The Nightshades library isn’t meant for games. But when you push Isaac Night past the edge of his precious research, parchment burns, books fall, and control shatters. One brutal kiss at a time, he makes sure you learn your lesson.

Word Count: 3’789

Warnings: Obsessive behavior, rough sex, book ab*se, possessive talk, dark romance themes (blurred lines between tenderness and ferocity).

(( Part 2 )) - (( Part 3 )) - (( Masterlist ))

The Nightshades library had a pulse of its own. Candlelight wavered in tall iron holders, shadows crawling along the stone walls like they were alive. Dust hung suspended in the air, turning the room into a cathedral of secrets, and the faint scent of wax and old leather wrapped around you the moment you slipped inside.

And there he was.

Isaac sat at the long oak table as if rooted there, the surface drowning beneath towers of books and scattered notes. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, forearms taut, a dark stain of blue ink running across the ridge of one knuckle where his pen had betrayed him.

His jaw was tight, clenched as though the sheer force of his will could wrestle the answers from the brittle pages. You wondered if he had even noticed the passage of hours, the candles burned low, and yet he hadn’t moved.

You lingered in the doorway for a moment, watching him burn himself alive. His tie and shirt were half-loosened, collar tugged open as though he’d fought it in frustration hours ago. A dark wave of hair had fallen across his forehead, sweat-damp at the temple. He didn’t even hear you slip in, too consumed by the fortress of books rising around him.

Pages lay in chaotic piles, papers scratched raw with his handwriting. He hunched forward, pen gripped too hard, scribbling like he could beat the knowledge out of the page if he just pressed hard enough.

You padded silently across the floor, fingertips grazing the spines of the nearest shelves. They were cool beneath your touch, centuries of secrets pressed into bindings and vellum, but all you really saw was him; bent over his work, eyes narrowed and wild. A storm of brilliance and obsession.

Finally, you crossed the room, voice soft but laced with teasing when you said; “You’ll drive yourself mad if you keep at it like that.”

Isaac didn’t look up. His pen froze mid-stroke, hanging in the air as though you’d touched a nerve.

“Better madness,” he muttered, jaw still tight, “than ignorance.”

That made you smile. You leaned one hip against the table, brushing a loose page aside with your fingertips until it fluttered over his notes.

“You say that now, but if you go blind squinting at candlelight, don’t expect me to read all this to you. You’ll ruin your eyesight… And your sanity.”

The only sign he’d heard you was the subtle tightening of his grip on his pen. For a beat, he didn’t look up, as if even acknowledging you risked unraveling the thread he was chasing. Then, slowly, his gaze lifted to yours.

God, those eyes.

Dark, rimmed with shadows of sleeplessness, curls loose across his forehead. He shoved them back with an impatient flick, annoyance carved into every sharp line of his face, but the moment his eyes locked on you, the irritation softened into something else.

“Sanity,” he said, voice low, roughened from hours of disuse, “is overrated.”

You smiled despite yourself. You leaned down, brushing your fingers against the nearest open book, deliberately pushing his notes aside.

“There’s a Halloween party tonight. Costumes, bonfires, haunted choir in the courtyard…” A spark lit in you, warmth rising with the thought. “It’s my favorite event.”

That made him pause. His pen dropped on his notebook, forgotten. His expression shifted - not dismissal, not the irritation you half-expected - but something quieter, harder to name. A curve tugged at his mouth, dangerous and almost fond, as he leaned back in his chair.

“Halloween’s your favorite ?”

“Yes.” You tilted your chin, emboldened by the weight of his attention. “Why ? Don’t tell me you hate it.”

“Hate it ?” His laugh was soft, incredulous, and he shook his head. Then he leaned forward, elbows braced on the table, eyes fixed entirely on you. “You should know by now, I can’t hate anything that makes you glow.”

Your pulse leapt, betraying you, but you covered it with a sly tilt of your head.

“You know,” you murmured, fingertips trailing across the edge of his notes, “you almost sound romantic when you forget yourself.”

“I don’t forget myself,” Isaac said, voice low and measured, but there was a rasp to it, like gravel underfoot. He gripped his pen again, as if that alone could anchor him, though the ink on his fingers had already dried to stains.

“Mm.” You hummed, letting the sound vibrate, daring. Then you pressed your palm flat to the table, pushing one of his books an inch too far. Its spine slid over the edge before thudding back onto the wood, just shy of falling.

His head snapped toward it. His jaw tightened. “Careful.”

But you were already reaching for another. You flipped the corner of a page with your nail, watching it curl, then let it fall, deliberate and almost cruel.

“What, this ?” You nudged at the neat stack until one sheet floated to the floor like a dead leaf. “You’ve read these three times already. Four, maybe.”

His voice was a growl, low in his chest. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what ?” You eased yourself onto the table, scattering his papers with the slide of your hips. The wood creaked beneath your weight, candles flickering as though even the air leaned closer to listen. Your knee brushed against his thigh, your breath brushing the side of his face. You bent until your lips ghosted his ear, each syllable featherlight and dangerous.

“Don’t torture yourself, mon cher…that’s my job.”

The silence cracked.

He froze for a heartbeat, and you thought he might pull away… Until his hand shot out, closing around your thigh. Fingers gripped hard enough to bite, anchoring you in place. His notes crumpled beneath your body, pages crinkling under the press of your palm as you steadied yourself.

“Do you think this is a game ?” His voice was sharp, cutting, but his breath came ragged, warm against your skin. His eyes burned, pupils blown wide, storm dark and hungry.

You only smiled, tugging at the loosened silk of his tie. Wrapping it around your fist, you drew him closer, until the heat of his chest pressed against your knees. “It distracted you, didn’t it ?”

His jaw locked, like he was holding himself back by sheer will alone. His gaze flicked downward when you let your free hand trail across your own body, the slope of your collarbone, the faint dip between your breasts. You toyed with the first button of your shirt, slow enough for him to notice, slow enough to torture.

“Don’t,” he rasped, though it sounded nothing like a command, more like a prayer.

But you did. One button, then another, fabric loosening under your fingers as the candlelight licked across newly bared skin. You let the edges fall open just enough to show him what he was pretending not to want. His throat worked around a swallow, knuckles whitening where he still held your thigh.

You teased, your other hand sliding down over your stomach, slipping beneath the fabric.

His gaze darted back to his scattered notes, desperate, almost panicked, as if he could still save himself if he just looked away. But when you tipped your head back against the table, lids half-closed, and let your hand dip lower… he lost it.

“Enough.” The word came out guttural, strangled.

He tore your hand away from yourself, pinning your wrist to the table. His body crowded yours, tie brushing your chest, heat radiating from him in waves. His mouth hovered over yours, close enough for you to feel the tremor of restraint still holding him together. You only arched beneath him, the edges of your open shirt brushing his. Candlelight painted him in gold and shadow; the cut of his jaw, the sweep of his cheekbone, the dangerous fire in his eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he hissed, though his gaze stayed locked on you, unblinking.

“Like what ?” you whispered, curling your free hand around his tie and tugging him closer again, until your lips almost touched his but didn’t. “Like I want you ?”

A sharp breath rattled out of him, his body pressing against your knees where he now stood between them. He clenched his jaw, gaze darting to the rise and fall of your chest. His hand twitched where it held your wrist, as though torn between shoving you away and dragging you closer.

You tipped your head to the side, exposing the line of your throat, your smile wicked.

“Better get back to your books, Isaac. Unless you’d rather…” Your free hand slipped down over your own stomach again. “…study me instead.”

His restraint cracked audibly in the harsh scrape of his chair legs against stone.

He moved in, caging you fully against the table, his mouth just above your skin, hot breath ghosting over your neck. His teeth grazed the barest hint of flesh, not a kiss but a promise.

“You’re playing with fire,” he warned, every word vibrating against your throat.

You shivered, tilting your head to give him more. “I know.”

His breath hitched. Just once, quick and sharp, before he shoved the rest of his books to the floor in a single sweep. Leather thudded against stone, pages fluttered. The sound echoed in the vaulted chamber, scandalous and loud in the hush of a library.

He dragged you across the table, the grain of the wood catching under your spine.

“You drive me mad…” he bit out, bending over you, each word a growl against your mouth.

“Better madness than ignorance.” you whispered back, echoing his own words.

And that was the breaking point.

His mouth crashed against yours, bruising and desperate, the taste of ink and dust clinging to his lips. One hand anchored your thigh, the other braced on the table beside your head, veins taut under his skin.

You breathed him in; smoke, books, candlewax, and the metallic bite of obsession that clung to him like a second scent. Every scrape of his teeth, every shuddering breath, every sound of paper crumpling under your body was a hymn to the chaos you’d unleashed. His kiss was all teeth and desperation, a raw clash of want and fury.

You arched beneath him again, spine bowing against the unforgiving wood, and he followed the motion like a man starved, devouring every inch you offered. His tie dangled loose between you, brushing against your bare skin with every frantic movement.

The table groaned under your weight as he pressed harder, his thigh slotting between yours, forcing them apart.

You gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound like it was sustenance. His teeth grazed your collarbone, sharp enough to sting, and you shivered, your hand threading through his hair to hold him there.

“I wanted your attention,” you whispered, voice trembling but defiant, “and now I have it.”

His laugh was dark, a vibration against your chest.

“You don’t have my attention,” he corrected, sucking at the soft skin just above your shirt. “You have all of me.”

The words sent a shiver racing down your spine. You tugged harder on his tie until it slid loose from his collar, silk rasping against your fingers. He didn’t even notice, too busy dragging his mouth down the column of your throat, marking a line of bruises that would sting tomorrow.

Your shirt hung open from your earlier teasing, and Isaac’s hand hovered for a beat like he was afraid to touch, trembling with restraint that was already gone.

His jaw clenched, and then he did, his palm flattening against your stomach, sliding upward until it met the swell of your breast. Heat flared through you at the contact, his thumb brushing across sensitive skin, reverent and rough all at once.

You let your head fall back as your own fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt. Each one slipped free with a soft pop, the crisp white fabric of his shirt stretched tight across his chest finally loosening.

He caught your hands before you finished, his grip iron around your wrists, pinning them again to the table above your head. For a heartbeat he hovered, muscles taut, torn between restraint and ruin.

Then, he shrugged out of his shirt entirely, the fabric falling to the floor beside the books you’d already scattered, and went for the buttons of your shirt himself; no patience, no delicacy, just the frantic need to strip away every barrier between you.

His chest was solid, the muscles shifting beneath your touch as though strung tight with restraint. You raked your nails lightly across him, and his breath stuttered, his whole body jolting closer.

Buttons gave way under his hands, some pulled free, some half-torn, until your shirt hung wide open, slipping from your shoulders. His palms roamed immediately, rough and hot against bare skin, mapping every inch as if he’d been starving for it.

You gasped when his mouth followed, open and desperate against the line of your collarbone, teeth grazing, tongue soothing. He trailed lower, each kiss darker, rougher, until your chest heaved against his face.

You whispered his name, but it came out as a plea.

He didn’t answer with words, only growled against your skin, tugging at the fabric until it slipped completely away. The sound of it hitting the floor was drowned beneath the scrape of his chair toppling behind him, forgotten.

In the next heartbeat, his hands seized your waist, lifting you just enough to drag you further across the table. Papers crumpled under your body, books skidding out of the way with dull thuds. Candlelight flared as though in response, shadows leaping up the shelves. His grip shifted, urgent, turning you, pressing you forward until your palms hit the table, your cheek brushing a scattered page.

The wood was cool under your bare stomach, your shirt gone, your chest rising and falling against the wreckage of his notes. Behind you, Isaac loomed, his breath ragged, his restraint burned to ash.

“You’re ready for this,” he said, his voice shaking with something darker than hunger. His hands skimmed down your sides, gripping your hips hard enough to brand. “Tell me you’re ready.”

“I’m ready,” you confirmed, your voice breaking into a shiver as you spread your palms across the table.

That was all it took.

His hands tore at the last of your clothing, tugging your underwear down in frantic jerks until you were bared to him. He groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating through the space, and pressed himself against you, hard and aching. You pushed back, shameless, grinding against him until he cursed.

The table creaked under the force of his restraint, his fingers bruising your hips.

“You drive me insane,” he snarled, and then there was no more patience left in him.

He shoved his own trousers down just enough, the rasp of fabric harsh in the silence, and lined himself against you. The first press stole your breath - thick, hot, unrelenting - and then he sank in, stretching you until you gasped out loud, your nails clawing at the wood.

“Fuck.” His voice was guttural, broken, as he buried himself to the hilt. He stilled, trembling against you, forehead pressed to your shoulder as though the effort of control might kill him. “So tight, so perfect…”

“Move,” you begged, your voice wrecked, back arching under him.

He didn’t.

His breath came hot against your ear, his chest against your back. You could feel every inch of him throbbing deep inside you, unmoving, unbearable. His grip on your hips tightened, keeping you perfectly still.

“You think you can scatter my notes, tear me away from my work, and get exactly what you want ?” he growled, the words biting but low, a whisper meant only for you. His lips brushed your neck, cruelly soft compared to the way he held you pinned.

“I…” you tried, but the word broke off in a gasp when he shifted just enough to remind you how deep he was, the stretch exquisite, maddening.

“Beg.” His voice was dark, dangerous and sure. “If you want me to move, beg for it.”

You whimpered, nails clawing at the table until pages tore beneath your fingers.

“Please.”

“Not good enough.” His hand slid from your hip to between your thighs, pressing exactly where you needed him until your knees nearly buckled. He didn’t move, only pressed, while he stayed buried inside you like stone. “Say it properly.”

“Please, Isaac,” you gasped, writhing against his iron grip, desperate. “Please, I need you.”

He groaned, the sound feral, as though your words shattered something in him. His voice trembling with restraint even as his body betrayed him. “That’s better. My brilliant distraction, begging on the table…”

Only then did he pull back, slow, agonizing, before slamming back into you with such force the table legs scraped across the stone floor.

Each thrust was brutal, a slam of hips against yours that rattled the table and sent more books toppling to the floor. The thud of leather spines hitting stone mingled with the sharp slap of skin on skin, the noise filling the vaulted library like a liturgy of sin. Pages fluttered around you in a storm of white, catching the light as they fell, like wings from trapped birds.

He gripped your waist so hard you thought you’d stop breathing. He dragged you back into every punishing stroke, his strength absolute, his body using yours as though you were the only thing that could anchor him to this world. The force of him drove you forward with each thrust, your body lurching against the table until the wood burned beneath your skin.

His pace was relentless, punishing, as though every thrust was penance for the hours he’d ignored you.

You tried to hold yourself up, palms slipping on papers, but your arms gave way. Your cheek pressed to the wood and your mouth fell open in a cry that blurred into a moan, his name torn from your throat raw and unrestrained.

The rhythm and the sheer ferocity of him sent you spiraling. He was merciless, his hips pistoning into you with a strength that bordered on worship and punishment at once. Heat coiled low in your stomach, winding tighter with every thrust until you shattered around him.

You clenched hard, spasms rippling through you, dragging a curse from Isaac’s lips. His voice was wrecked, a growl breaking apart into a sound you had never heard from him before, desperate and helpless.

Candlewax dripped in slow rivulets down the holders, the smell of smoke and heat clinging to the air, mixing with sweat and the metallic tang of ink that still marked his skin.

Desperate to muffle your cries, you sank your teeth into his hand where it braced beside your head, biting down hard enough to taste salt and iron.

He groaned at the sting, the sound rough, but instead of pulling away his arm flexed under your bite, as if he welcomed the pain, as if it tethered him even tighter to the moment.

Your nails raked across the scarred wood, then up over his wrist, scoring red lines into his skin. Ink smudged under your fingertips, mixing with the sweat slicking his veins. He hissed at the burn of it, only to rut harder.

He lost it then, pushing into you with abandon, chasing his own end. His pace grew messy, desperate, his moans breaking into a strangled groan as he spilled inside you, hips jerking against yours until there was nothing left but ragged breathing and the echo of chaos around you.

The table groaned beneath your weight, books lay strewn in ruins, and Isaac collapsed against you, his breath hot against your shoulder, his tie still held loosely in your hand.

Your teeth finally released his hand, leaving an angry crescent of marks in his skin. The silence after was deafening, broken only by the gutter of wax dripping into pools at the base of the candles.

For a long moment, he stayed pressed to you, chest heaving, his hand still locked bruisingly tight at your hip as though he couldn’t bear to let go. Then, with a harsh groan, he pulled out. The sudden emptiness made you gasp softly, your body clenching at the loss. His hands lingered a beat longer, almost possessive, before he forced himself to step back.

You heard the scrape of the chair behind you as he shoved it back into place and heavily sank down into it.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up on shaking arms, turning just enough to look at him over your shoulder. His hair was a mess but his eyes still burned like coals in the shadows. His trousers hung low on his hips, but he hadn’t bothered with his shirt.

The light carved golden shadows across the planes of his bare chest, slick with sweat, his muscles taut even in stillness. He leaned back heavily, one arm resting on the arm of the chair, the other draped lazily across his thigh, but his eyes never left you.

You could feel his stare burning over every movement as you bent to scoop up your discarded shirt, tugging it over your shoulders with clumsy fingers, trying to fasten the torn buttons. It wasn’t just hunger anymore, it was reverence, obsession, something darker that you didn’t dare name.

Your chest still rose and fell too quickly, and your hair stuck to your damp skin, but piece by piece you pulled yourself together.

Finally, you turned, breathless. “So you’ll come with me ?”

His mouth quirked, the smirk equal parts menace and promise. Then it softened into something rarer, something that almost looked like fondness.

“Halloween is my favorite celebration too,” he admitted, voice dropping low, as though the confession itself was dangerous. “And with you, darling, every night is Halloween… But if we’re going, we’re staying late.” His gaze raked over you, dark and possessive. “After I’ve had you screaming louder than the haunted choir.”

Your laugh came out soft, broken by the tremor of desire. “You make it sound like torture.”

He pushed himself up from the chair, the wood scraping against stone as he stood. He crossed the short distance to you with slow step and reached out, curling a finger beneath your chin to tilt your face up to his. The pad of his thumb brushed across your lips, lingering there like he was memorizing the shape of them. His gaze burned, unblinking, a vow wrapped in shadow.

“No… Only to live without you, that would be torture.” he whispered, voice rough but certain.

☕ If you enjoyed the chaos, buy me a coffee and I’ll brew up more filth... 👀🖤

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 4 images

💬 18  🔁 91  ❤️ 1776 · Method To Madness (1) || Isaac Night x Reader || 18+ · Blurb: Your rivalry with Isaac was supposed to be academic. Equ

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 3 images

💬 35  🔁 204  ❤️ 5024 · Obsessive || Tyler Galpin x Reader || (18+) · Outline: The guy who made high school hell for you just escaped Willow

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 8 images

💬 0  🔁 42  ❤️ 824 · MASTERLIST · Last update: Sep. 2025 All of these contain SMUT, please check the warnings before reading. // Find me on

[thecharacterchronicler]

✨ I must have been possessed last night ✨

What was supposed to be a one-shot turned into a 3-part Isaac Night x Reader series: minimal plot, maximal smut. Each part is already live on Ko-fi (all-access for members, or in the shop for supporters).

I had too much fun writing these, and I think it shows.

🖤 Part 1 started as a challenge to write Isaac and Reader with that Morticia/Gomez-style devotion and a few nods to the original movies.

Blurb: The Nightshades library isn’t meant for games. But when you push Isaac Night past the edge of his precious research, parchment burns, books fall, and control shatters. One brutal kiss at a time, he makes sure you learn your lesson.

🖤 Part 2 let me dive into predator/prey dynamics (in the same energy as my Tyler Galpin series). Not Isaac’s POV, but I’m keeping the idea of a rewrite in the corner of my mind. Definitely darker, definitely IICYIFY coded.

Blurb: Every path in the haunted maze leads back to Isaac Night. He doesn’t just want to catch you, he wants to ruin you. Louder than the screams in the dark, he’ll make sure the whole school knows you belong to him.

🖤 Part 3 was pure fun and indulgence. Masks, public risk, gothic chairs, and the kind of filthy Addams-coded obsession that makes me grin while writing it.

Blurb: Masks, whispers, and a waltz sharp enough to draw blood lead you to the balcony. Insatiable and reckless, you push Isaac past restraint and he makes certain you leave the masquerade marked, stuffed, and shamelessly his.

They’ll be up on Tumblr and AO3 eventually (no set schedule yet). For now, I hope everyone who grabs them early enjoys them as much as I did while writing. 🖤

[thecharacterchronicler]

you know what id love? tyler turning into the hyde WHILE in fem reader and fem reader just losing her mind lowk😋 BUTTT also both virgins so its 100x better:3

Okay… I have thought about him shifting mid-thrust too, I just never dared to write it 😅 If it's a request though… well, who am I to say no... 😏

[thecharacterchronicler]

Method To Madness (2) || Isaac Night x Reader || 18+

Blurb: The Rave’N was supposed to be nothing, music, dresses, a meaningless spectacle. But when Isaac loses control, humiliation turns to obsession, and obsession to hunger. In the lantern-lit gardens, among roses and whispers, he worships you.

Word Count:  6'250

Warnings: Filthy, explicit smut including jealousy, humiliation / bullying themes, telekinetic restraint, possessive behavior and oral worship.

(( Part 1 )) - (( Masterlist ))

The greenhouse was always too warm, the air thick with earth and moisture, steam clinging to the glass panes. He hated it, except for today, when you sat beside him instead of across the room.

Not that you looked at him. You never did. You wrote like the ink might vanish if you didn’t capture every word, neat, quick strokes that betrayed just how sharp your mind was. He should’ve been focused on Marcellus’s lecture, but his eyes found you instead, tracing the shape of your wrist as it moved, the delicate shift in your breathing when your thoughts went elsewhere.

He knew those signs now.

Your gaze clouded, just slightly, pen faltering as your attention slipped beyond the room. A vision. You tried to disguise it, kept your back straight, your lips pressed together like nothing was wrong. But he could see the strain, the way your hand twitched like you were arguing silently with someone only you could hear. Your spirit guide.

“Not now,” you whispered. It was so faint no one else would have noticed, but he did.

Your pen tapped sharply against the desk. He realized you were arguing under your breath, with that spirit guide of yours. He hated it. He hated how intimate it seemed, how it claimed your focus, dragged you into a world he couldn’t touch.

He wanted to drag you back.

His knuckles whitened around his pencil. He imagined what it would take to silence that distant voice in your head, his hands in your hair, his mouth at your throat, making sure the only name you could manage was his.

Stop. 

The thought was too loud. He locked it down. There were too many mind readers in this class and no one else was allowed to glimpse the shape of you in his head. No one else deserved to know what you looked like on his desk, undone and restrained. That memory was his. Only his.

A question rang out. “Which stabilizing agent best preserves frostvine sap ?”

You didn’t even hesitate, snapping back to yourself. “Salt of silver.”

“But only if harvested during the waning moon. Otherwise the compound corrodes.” Isaac added, smoothly, without looking up.

A pause, then Marcellus nodded, satisfied. “Correct. As expected from our top pair.”

Top pair. Rivals turned… whatever this was. The rest of the class shifted, whispering. They had expected another duel, two egos colliding until sparks flew. Instead, you and he finished each other’s answers like you’d practiced, like you were aligned.

You dropped a glass vial. It rolled across the tiles with a sharp clink. You bent to reach it, hair falling forward, skirt riding just enough to undo him. His ticking pulse kicked. He didn’t let you pick it up. Invisible forces of his will lifted the vial cleanly off the ground, set it back onto your desk. You froze, blinking at it, then at him. He smirked, eyes already back on his parchment.

Telekinesis had its uses.

Marcellus’s lecture circled back to you. He gestured between you both, as though it were obvious you would answer as a pair.

You stirred from your half-trance, pen resuming its steady glide. “Myr roots don’t thrive in direct sunlight.”

“And the toxins are only lethal if ingested raw. Processed, they’re harmless.” He added, flatly but sure.

“Correct.” Marcellus looked smug, as though he’d proven some private theory. “See how balance outperforms competition ?”

The class snickered. You stiffened beside him, like you wanted to argue but you didn’t. Not with him. Not anymore.

The bell chimed, sharp as breaking glass.

Chairs scraped, books snapped shut, students surged toward the doors. You stood, collecting your things. He didn’t. He sat, watching as you tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear, as you murmured one last thing too low for him to catch, probably to Sidonia.

The air was too hot, his shirt sticking uncomfortably against his back. But it wasn’t the heat of the greenhouse making him restless. It was you.

Always you.

He let the others file out first. No rush. He had no interest in the chatter, the squeals about dresses for the Rave’N, the exchange of perfumed notes passed like contraband but when you left, he followed.

The greenhouse door swung shut behind him, humid air giving way to the cooler breeze of the quad. Students spilled across the lawns in clumps, laughing too loud, flirting too desperately. He ignored them all, except for one. He searched for you. 

Always did.

At first, he told himself it was tactical. Rival turned partner, he needed to know where you were, what you were doing, if you were preparing to one-up him again. Except you weren’t, not anymore. 

And still his eyes found you. Every time.

There, by the fountain, notebook in hand. You weren’t laughing with anyone, just writing, head tilted like you were listening to someone no one else could hear. Spirit guide again.

His jaw clenched. He forced himself to keep walking, cutting through the crowd with long strides, books under his arm. If anyone asked, he wasn’t looking for you. He never looked for anyone. He had no reason to… But when he didn’t find you in a room, it felt wrong. And when he did, like now, pen between your fingers, lips moving faintly with words not meant for him, it felt worse.

He saw you everywhere.

In the library, tucked between towers of books that leaned precariously, your pen scratching furiously while your gaze occasionally went glassy with a vision. He lingered longer than he should’ve, pretending to search the stacks, watching the way your hand froze mid-word when you slipped into that other place. He wanted to know what you saw. 

In the dining hall, you sat at the edge of a crowded table, not speaking much, picking absently at your food while your lips moved just slightly. He’d clenched his fork until the metal bent. The noise around you barely touched you; it infuriated him that your world could exclude him so easily.

Even in the corridors, between classes, he noticed the flick of your eyes toward him when you thought he wouldn’t catch it. He always caught it. You didn’t glare the way you used to but you didn’t smile either. That unsettled him more than hatred ever had.

Worse still were classes, when professors posed a question and you answered swiftly, only for him to finish the thought before anyone else could respond. Your pencils scratched in sync, a rhythm too natural to be coincidence. The rest of the class shifted uncomfortably, as though watching a storm lose its thunder. Rivals weren’t supposed to move like this… like matched gears.

And still, you didn’t speak to him outside of it. You sat beside him, brushed his sleeve, let him complete your arguments without a word. Then you’d stand, walk out, and leave him burning. He told himself it didn’t matter. He didn’t care. He had work to do, theories to prove, calculations to refine. But every time the greenhouse emptied or the library hushed, his eyes searched for you first.

It wasn’t tactical anymore. It was compulsion.

The Rave’N. He’d heard enough about it to last a lifetime. Costumes, dresses, pointless music. Everyone buzzing like it was the pinnacle of their academic career. He couldn’t care less. Wasting hours under chandeliers while idiots tripped over each other to sneak kisses in corners, why bother ?

He had better things to do. Equations to refine, prototypes to sketch. Things that mattered.

Or so he told himself.

“Of course you’re not going,” Françoise said, leaning against the library table where he’d spread his notes. She twirled a pencil between her fingers, watching him with that sharp, irritating smile of hers. “You never do. Social events, fun, relaxation… All foreign concepts to Isaac Night.”

He didn’t look up. “You’re annoying.”

“You should try it.” She dropped the pencil onto his page, right across his half-finished diagram. “Just once. Put on nice clothes, dance like a normal person, pretend you’re not plotting world domination. You might even survive.”

His mouth curved faintly, humorless. “Survival rate at dances is statistically low, there’s a high risk of death by stupidity.”

Françoise rolled her eyes. “And yet… rumor says you’ve been orbiting someone. Sitting with them. Finishing their sentences.” Her gaze sharpened, smug. “Planning to drag them with you to your lair when no one’s looking ?”

His hand stilled. For once, the sarcasm caught in his throat.

Françoise’s smirk widened. “So that’s the plan, hm ? You hate the Rave’N, but she doesn’t. And you’ll only go because you want her in a dress, and because you’ll want to finish the night in another way.”

He forced his eyes back to his notebook. “Hypothesis rejected.”

“Hypothesis confirmed.” She nudged his arm with infuriating accuracy. “Don’t think I don’t see you searching for her in every room. It’s pathetic, really.”

He didn’t answer, couldn’t, because she wasn’t wrong.

The Rave’N was a waste of time, a circus, but if it got him closer to you, if it meant seeing the look on your face when he asked, if it meant ending the night with you somewhere private… Maybe it wasn’t so useless after all.

But he told himself he wouldn’t. Asking you to the Rave’N would mean admitting he wanted something as trivial as a dance. It would mean lowering himself to the level of every other idiot begging for a partner. And Isaac Night didn’t beg. Dances didn’t matter. You’d already seen more of him than anyone else ever would, what happened on his desk was proof enough that you belonged exactly where he wanted you.

But still…

He caught himself drafting scenarios in his head, weighing outcomes like experiments. What if he asked and you said yes ? The look on everyone’s faces when you arrived at his side; shock, whispers, fascination. What if you declined ? The flash of your eyes, the quirk of your mouth, Sidonia whispering some smug nonsense in your ear while you walked away…

He slammed the thought down. Too messy. Too human.

And yet his pencil hovered over the page, not on blueprints or calculations, but drawing lines that curved into the outline of a dress in black and white, sharp angles, sleek. For one night only.

Pathetic.

He shut the notebook with a snap, shoving it into his bag. He wasn’t going to ask. He didn’t need to. But the next afternoon, crossing the quad, he heard it anyway.

“… Yeah, he asked me this morning. Can you believe it ? Him of all people ?”

Your voice.

His head snapped toward the fountain where you stood with another student, Larissa, maybe, or one of the sycophants who trailed you for scraps of your brilliance. You were smiling faintly, shrugging.

“I already said yes. He’s not exactly a friend, but… it’s just a dance.”

Isaac’s blood went cold.

You - you - had accepted some half-witted parasite who wasn’t worthy of standing in your shadow. Something twisted, sharp and hot, in his chest. He forced his face smooth, forced his steps steady as he passed by without a word, but his mind was screaming.

His room was silent, save for the scratch of graphite on paper.

Equations sprawled across the page, neat, perfect, unyielding. He should’ve been efficient, precision was his nature, but every time he calculated, your voice slipped in between the numbers. Every time he drew a line, it curved into the outline of your mouth. He tightened his grip until the pencil snapped in half.

Pathetic.

He shoved the broken pieces aside and reached for another sheet, this one already cluttered with a half-finished diagram. His telekinesis stirred at the edges of his control, tugging at the compass, the ruler, the spare bolts he kept in a dish by the desk. They rattled violently, metal clinking in rhythm with the irritation thrumming in his chest.

You’d said yes to someone else. Someone beneath you. He should’ve laughed. He should’ve dismissed it as proof of your stupidity, proof that your brilliance had blind spots like anyone else’s. Instead it lodged in him like a splinter.

His pen cut across the page too hard, slicing the paper. He cursed under his breath, dropped it, flexed his hands. The objects on his desk trembled, lifted an inch off the wood before slamming down again.

You distracted him even when you weren’t in the room. Worse, you ruined him. His efficiency, his focus, the razor-sharp mind he prided himself on was gone the moment you laughed, the moment you whispered to that damned spirit guide instead of to him.

He should’ve locked it down. Instead, he found himself on his feet, pacing, running a hand through his hair. The mirror by the dresser caught his reflection, pale and furious, shirt collar undone, eyes shadowed. He hated what he saw.

Françoise’s gift hung from the wardrobe door. A suit, black and sharp, with a white bowtie draped beside it. He’d sneered when she presented it. Wasteful. Pointless. Now, he crossed the room and touched the fabric, fingers curling into the jacket’s lapel.

If you thought you could parade yourself around the Rave’N with someone else, you were wrong. If you thought he’d let the academy whisper about you on another’s arm, you were very wrong. You belonged with him. Not an idiot. Not anyone else. Him. And if it took tearing the Rave’N apart brick by brick to remind you of that, so be it.

He shrugged into the suit, fastening the buttons with deliberate precision. The fabric fit perfectly, Françoise’s doing, no doubt. He adjusted the cuffs, smoothed the jacket, fastened the bowtie around his neck. He looked at himself in the mirror, and for the first time that day, he smiled. 

Cold, crooked and dangerous.

The party was louder than he’d expected.

Crystal chandeliers dripped light across the hall, scattering over masks, gowns, polished shoes. Music swelled, strings sharp enough to cut through the chatter. Couples twirled on the marble floor, the air heavy with perfume and expectation.

Isaac stepped inside, suit perfectly pressed, bowtie fixed. And the room stopped. Whispers spread quick, darting from mouth to mouth.

“Is that… Night?”

“He never comes.”

“He looks…God, he looks…”

He ignored them - he always ignored them - but their stares clung anyway, sticky, desperate, as if the sight of him at a dance was more impossible than a ghost.

Françoise materialized at his elbow, her normie boyfriend trailing behind her in some ridiculous costume. “See? Not so hard,” she teased, voice pitched too low for anyone else to catch. “You look like an actual human for once.”

Isaac didn’t answer. His eyes had already found you. Up the stairs, near the balustrade, where the light gilded on every line of you. Black and white silk. A gown that moved like water when you shifted. Hair tied up into perfection, neck bare. You weren’t just beautiful, you were ruinous. And standing beside you, grinning like he’d won some prize, was your date.

Some idiot.

Isaac’s stomach turned, sharp and ugly. His jaw tightened, the muscle ticking as his gaze tracked every flicker of your smile, every subtle tilt of your head as you pretended to listen. You weren’t really listening. He knew the look you got when your mind was elsewhere but that didn’t matter. The idiot thought you were his.

His fists clenched at his sides.

Françoise nudged him. “At least try to look like you’re enjoying yourself. No one believes you came here to socialize, but you could pretend.”

“Fun,” her boyfriend added, his arm slung too casually around Françoise’s shoulders. “That thing normal people have? You should try it.”

He didn’t look at them, didn’t blink. He was fixed on you like a predator sighting his prey, calculating distance and timing. 

He let the idiot spin you clumsily on the dance floor, let him trip over his own shoes while you kept your chin high and your smile faint. He stayed in the shadows at the edge of the hall, glass in hand he never touched.

Every step you took in that dress was a knife. The fabric clung to your waist, slid over your hips, caught the light at the soft swell of your chest. The pale gleam of your collarbone mocked him, daring him.

And all he could think was how easily he could strip you bare with a flick of his power. Button by button, seam by seam, until that silk puddled at your feet in ruins. He imagined dragging the dress up over your thighs, not even bothering to take it off properly, just tearing the hem so he could shove himself into you, hard and deep, while your date and every other idiot watched you scream his name.

He pictured you pressed to the cold marble wall, legs spread wide by invisible hands, his jacket over your shoulders like a brand while he fucked you rough enough to leave bruises. He saw your lipstick smeared, hair tangled from his fists, your eyes rolling back when he made you come so hard you forgot every word but his name.

He nearly groaned aloud at the thought of your panties - delicate but ruined - sliding down your thighs, the damp patch proof that you wanted him even as you pretended otherwise. He wanted to taste you there, tongue buried in you until your knees gave out, then shove you down onto the floor and take you again, harder, messier, until you couldn’t stand tomorrow.

And worse, he wanted to make you beg again. Loud, unashamed, desperate. He wanted the entire school to hear that you belonged to him.

A sharp gasp broke his focus.

His head snapped to the side. A mindreader - one of the older students - stood a few feet away, head tilted, eyes wide in shock as if he’d just glimpsed a monster.

Right. His thoughts.

Isaac’s mouth curved into a thin, humorless smile. He inclined his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge the intrusion. The student paled and looked away fast, pretending to rejoin their friends, but he saw the tension in his shoulders, the way he moved like prey too slow to escape.

He reined it back, forced his mind to flatten into silence, though his artificial pulse still hammered. No one else deserved to know what he thought when he looked at you. No one else was allowed to imagine you like he did.

Back on the floor, you laughed politely at something your date said. He could tell it wasn’t real. He knew your real laugh - bright, sharp, unstoppable - and this wasn’t it. Still, the sound was enough to twist his chest, enough to make him want to drag you off the floor and remind you what it sounded like when it belonged to him.

But he didn’t move. He stayed in the shadows, simmering, eyes fixed on you like you were the only person in the room… Because you were.

He thought he’d mastered stillness. That he could keep to the shadows, let the night grind itself out, and leave before his control cracked… Until you looked at him. Across the crowded hall, light dripping from the chandeliers, your gaze cut through the silk and noise and landed squarely on his. It was only a moment, a heartbeat, but it locked him in place.

That idiot werewolf wasn’t at your side anymore.

Just you, standing in the glow of it all, looking at him like you’d been searching for him without knowing it. Your lips parted, the faintest catch in your breath visible even from across the floor. And then, your eyes went distant. He recognized it instantly. The glassy glaze, the shift in your posture, your hand tightening on the nearby banister like you needed grounding; a vision, right there in the middle of the dance.

He watched you slip away seconds later, spine rigid, dress trailing as you pushed through the doors and vanished into the corridor beyond. He didn’t even think. He followed, but lost your trace. Instead, he found the idiot.

Outside, your date leaned against the balustrade with a cluster of friends, his pack, half-drunk on cheap contraband, laughter spilling too loud into the night. Isaac slowed, listening.

“She’s so weird, man. She just goes blank, like she’s not even here.” More laughter. “And then she’s muttering under her breath, like she’s arguing with air.”

“I swear, half the time I hang out with her, I don’t even know if she’s with me. Creepy as hell.” Another chimed in.

Isaac froze.

Weird. Creepy. Arguing with air.

It was nothing he hadn’t heard about himself. He was used to whispers, to being labeled cold, broken, mechanical. He’d worn it like armor. But you - you - were brilliant, sharp enough to cut, brighter than any of them could ever comprehend and hearing them reduce you to a punchline made something inside him snap.

His fists clenched at his sides, nails digging into his palms. The lamplight caught the faint gleam of metal beneath his shirt as his telekinesis stirred, rattling the iron railing behind him. The boys didn’t notice. They were too busy laughing at you.

He saw red. He stepped from the shadows, and his voice came out low, calm, and lethal.

“Say it again.”

The laughter stuttered. The werewolf smirked, still half-drunk. “What’s it to you, Night ?”

He didn’t answer, he didn’t need to. A flick of his fingers and the boy’s feet left the ground. The laughter turned to shouts as your date was yanked up, up, higher, until his arms flailed wildly, his shoes scraping against nothing. Gasps rippled from the other students in the quad as he lifted him higher still, dangling like a rag doll in the night sky.

“Put me down !” the idiot yelped, his voice cracking.

Isaac tilted his head, expression unreadable, though his lips twitched at the edges. “Oh, I will… Eventually. But this view is much more flattering.”

The boy twisted, howling as his belt gave a little under the strain, his trousers biting into his hips. His friends tried to intervene, but one glare from him and the iron benches rattled violently, a warning enough to send them stumbling back. 

Gasps and laughter erupted too, not at Isaac, but at the pathetic figure swinging helplessly above the quad, his shirt riding up, his legs kicking uselessly. The boy whimpered as he twitched his fingers, hoisting him another few feet. His trousers slipped lower. The crowd howled. Isaac almost smiled. Almost. And then…

“ISAAC !” It was your voice, sharp and furious, slicing through the night. You came running from the hall, silk skirts gathered in your fists, eyes wide with horror. “Put him down ! Stop this, now !”

He didn’t move, didn’t even look at you. His gaze stayed on your date, the invisible tether taut, the boy’s terrified breath audible even from here.

“He called you creepy.” His tone was flat, dangerous. “Mocked you, laughed at you.”

“Isaac, please.” You grabbed his arm, shaking, pulling. “This isn’t you !”

But it was. It was exactly him. And the worst part ? He didn’t want to stop.

The boy dangled higher, Isaac’s power crackling invisible around him, trousers slipping inch by inch. His mouth curved into something cruel, unhinged. 

“Not so funny now, is it ?” He shouted at your date, before he leaned down, close enough that you could feel his breath against your ear. “Don’t you see ? They mock you because they’re afraid. They mock you because they can’t comprehend you. I won’t allow it.”

You gasped, voice cracking. “You’re scaring me.”

Something dark twisted in his chest at that. He pressed his forehead against yours, his free hand cupping your jaw almost tenderly, his power still holding the boy above. You trembled, torn between fury and something you couldn’t name. His hand was gentle, almost loving, but his other fingers twitched and the werewolf let out a strangled scream as his belt finally gave way. Only Isaac’s power kept him from plummeting bare-assed into the quad.

The crowd was in hysterics now, shrieking with laughter, egging him on, and his smirk curved slow, smug and cruel. 

“Romantic, isn’t it ?” he murmured against your hair. “I’m proving to the world that you’re untouchable. That anyone who laughs at you will choke on it.”

Your nails dug into his suit sleeve. “Isaac, please.”

For the first time, he faltered. Not at the word, but at the way your voice broke around it. He looked at you - really looked - and saw the tears brimming at the corners of your eyes.

Your date still dangled above. Isaac could’ve dropped him, humiliated him fully. But instead, with one sharp flick, he hurled him sideways. The boy crashed into the fountain with a splash that drenched half the onlookers.

Silence followed, stunned and heavy.

He straightened, adjusting his cuffs. The werewolf sputtered in the fountain, his friends rushing to drag him out, but he didn’t look at them again. His eyes stayed on you.

Always you.

The fountain still echoed with splashes and sputtered curses when your skirts swished, shoes striking the stone as you bolted toward the garden doors.

The crowd’s whispers swirled around him, hot and eager.

“Did you see that ? He could’ve killed him.”

“Night’s lost it. He’s terrifying.”

He didn’t care. He’d always been terrifying. Tonight, he’d only confirmed it. But the way your shoulders shook as you fled - anger, fear, something more tangled - that he couldn’t let go. He cut through the murmuring throng, suit immaculate despite the chaos he’d caused. Every head turned to follow, every whisper sharp with awe or horror, but he barely heard them.

The night air hit cool as he stepped into the gardens. Lanterns glowed low along the hedges, couples pressed into shadows, lips fused, oblivious. He scanned the paths, mechanical pulse quickening, until he saw you.

You were by the rose arbor, fists knotted in your skirts, chest rising and falling too fast. The moonlight painted your face pale, your eyes bright with fury and something else, something raw that made his chest seize. He approached without hurry, footsteps deliberate on the gravel. 

“Running solves nothing.” His voice was calm, sharp as ever, but inside he was unraveling.

You spun, eyes blazing. “You humiliated him ! In front of everyone ! Do you have any idea…” Your voice broke. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done ?”

He stopped a few paces from you, tilting his head, studying you like a puzzle. “Yes. I made him pay.”

Your laugh was sharp, ragged. “By nearly killing him ?”

“By reminding everyone what will happen when they mock you.”

You stared, trembling, torn between fury and disbelief. “I didn’t ask you to fight my battles, Isaac. I can handle myself.”

His smirk returned, faint and crooked. “Perhaps, but I enjoy handling you more.”

Your breath caught, heat flashing across your face even through the anger. You hated it. He saw you hating it. And he drank it in.

He took a step closer, voice low, threading through the night air. “Tell me, did you feel powerless watching me hold him there ? Or did some part of you enjoy it ? Knowing I’d strip him bare if it meant proving you belong to no one else ?”

You gasped, stumbling back against the arbor, roses brushing your shoulders.

His smile deepened, dangerous, tender… And unhinged. The garden hummed with secrets. Couples slipped into alcoves, pressed together beneath the lanterns, their whispers and laughter rising and falling like background noise. Lantern light gilded the curve of your cheek, the pale line of your throat. he stepped closer, slowly, until the roses brushed his shoulder too.

“You hate me for it,” he said, voice soft, teasing. “And yet you ran out here instead of away.”

You glared, but your hand clenched in your skirts betrayed you.

“Careful,” he murmured, lowering his head, “or people will think you wanted to be caught.”

Your lips parted, words failing for once. It thrilled him, seeing you speechless, seeing you off-balance. Around you, the garden swelled with the muffled sounds of kissing, giggles, silk brushing against stone. The whole place pulsed with intimacy, oblivious to the chaos just outside.

“I had visions all night.” You finally whispered. “The future kept shifting, changing, rearranging, like every choice we made pulled the night into a different shape.”

He leaned in, close enough that his breath stirred the loose strands of your hair. “And ?”

Your gaze flicked back to his, steady now, unflinching. “It always ended here. No matter what I saw. Every path led to us, alone in the gardens.”

His smirk curved slow, dangerous and satisfied. “It’s destiny, then.”

You swallowed, but you didn’t step back. Not this time. His hand brushed yours, just a graze of skin against skin, enough to make the air tighten. 

“Then why fight it ? If fate insists on handing you to me…” He bent closer, lips almost brushing your ear. “…who am I to argue?”

The roses trembled against the arbor as his power stirred. Vines shifted, slithering down as if alive, until they coiled neatly around your wrists. You gasped, tugging instinctively, but the thorns only pressed lightly against your skin, enough to remind you of their bite, never enough to draw blood.

He smirked at your wrists strained, your hips arching against him anyway, defiance laced with want. He pressed his knee between your thighs, grinding you into the roses until petals rained down around you. 

He shoved your skirt higher, baring you to the cool night air. His hand slid beneath the thin fabric of your panties, fingers tracing through slick heat that made him groan into your ear. 

“Tell me again, do I still scare you? ” He asked.

The vines tightened just enough to keep your wrists above you, roses brushing against your skin like they wanted to hold you there too. He stood back for a breath, just looking at you, the rise and fall of your chest, the silk of your dress bunched high from his fist.

God. He’d built machines, equations, entire theories around order and precision and none of it compared to this chaos.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmured, and he meant it. His voice cracked like the truth hurt.

Your lips parted, no fear there now, only heat. That was all it took. He dropped to his knees, uncaring that thorns snagged at his trousers, that petals crushed beneath him. His hands peeled your panties down, baring the soft heat between your thighs, invisible pressure coaxing you wider as if even the night itself wanted to witness.

He leaned in and breathed you in, his forehead pressing briefly to your thigh like a prayer. Then he opened you with his hands and his mouth was on you. The taste hit him like electricity, sweet and intoxicating. He groaned against you, dragging his tongue through your slick heat with no finesse, no calculation, just hunger.

Above him, you moaned, head tipping back against the leaves, wrists straining against the vines. He smirked into you, because you looked like ruin and divinity all at once, and he was the one tearing you apart.

He licked deeper, harder, mapping every shiver, every gasp, adjusting as though your body was the only equation that had ever mattered. His hands dug into your thighs, holding you steady as his tongue circled your clit again and again until you cried out his name.

Yes, louder. Let the roses remember.

You were so responsive, so eager, your hips rocking helplessly against his mouth. He was dying for you to come, aching to feel you break apart on his tongue, just for the thrill of giving you everything you could have asked for.

Your thighs trembled, your moans turned sharp, frantic. He sucked harder, flicked his tongue in rhythm, and when you shattered, he nearly lost it himself. The vines creaked as your wrists strained, your body arching, voice breaking on his name as you came against his mouth.

He devoured it. Every pulse, every quake, every drop of you was his, and he swallowed it like salvation. When the shudders finally eased, he slowed, softening, kissing you through the aftershocks with reverence. His grip eased too, smoothing his thumbs over your hips as if to soothe, as if he hadn’t just undone you under the starry night sky.

Only then did he pull back, lips slick and eyes dark. He looked up at you like he’d just rewritten the laws of physics, and found the answer carved into your skin.

“You taste like fate.” 

The vines loosened, slipping free from your wrists like they’d only been waiting for him to release them. Your hands fell, shaky, and found his hair, tugging him up to you. He rose, lips meeting yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue as lantern light swayed above, petals littering the ground around your feet. And for a moment he thought you were going to fold into his chest, let him hold you against him until your heartbeat steadied… Instead, you kissed him harder, teeth clashing, desperate, then began to sink.

His eyes widened. Words caught in his throat. You dropped to your knees on the ground. The silk of your dress spilled around you like water, crushed roses staining the hem. Lantern light caught in your hair, glowed against the flushed heat of your face as you looked up at him.

Holy. Ruinous. His.

He should’ve stopped you. He should’ve pulled you back up, should’ve clung to the last scraps of composure he had left. But when your hands went to his belt, nimble, certain, he went still, every muscle locking, his breath a ragged scrape in his chest.

The buckle gave, his trousers shoved just far enough, and then you freed him. His cock strained against the cool night air, heavy and aching, flushed dark with need. He hissed through his teeth at the relief of it and then your fingers wrapped around him.

“Fuck.” The word tore out of him, uncalculated and raw. His head slammed back against the arbor, leaves trembling with the force.

He looked down at you, on your knees, lips parted, eyes locked on his as you stroked him once, twice, slow and deliberate, watching the way his body jolted with every movement.

Then your mouth opened wider, and he disappeared inside it.

He groaned, the sound ripped from deep in his chest. Heat, wet, velvet, the suction making his knees nearly buckle. His hand tangled in your hair without thought, not forcing, just holding, anchoring himself as your tongue traced him, flicked against the sensitive underside.

He gasped, eyes burning as he watched you take him deeper, watched your lips stretch around him. You moaned in response, low and hungry, the vibration shooting up his spine. His cock twitched in your mouth, his hips jerking forward before he caught himself. He was unraveling, control fraying with every pass of your lips.

You shifted, bracing one hand on his thigh, the other still stroking what you couldn’t fit. The enthusiasm in every flick of your tongue, every hum of approval, it destroyed him. This wasn’t submission. This was choice. You wanted this. You wanted him.

His vision blurred. He was supposed to be the one in control, the one orchestrating outcomes like equations but you had him begging silently, every muscle trembling as your mouth worked him faster, wetter.

“Don’t stop…” His voice cracked, his grip in your hair tightening. 

You hollowed your cheeks, took him deeper still until he hit the back of your throat, gagged slightly, then did it again, on purpose, your eyes watering, still fixed on his face like you wanted to watch him break.

He nearly lost it. His thighs shook, his chest heaved, every nerve ending set alight.

Fate. Destiny. Inevitable. 

Pleasure snapped hard and fast. He groaned your name, guttural, his hips thrusting into your mouth as he spilled down your throat. You swallowed him greedily, every drop, your eyes fluttering shut in satisfaction before you pulled back, lips slick, breath ragged. The sight hit him harder than any orgasm ever had: you kneeling, mouth swollen and wet with him, petals clinging to your skin.

He dropped, couldn’t help it, knees hitting the earth as his hands cupped your face, dragging you into a brutal kiss. He tasted himself on your tongue, groaned into your mouth, kissed you again and again like he couldn’t bear to stop.

“Beautiful,” he whispered against your lips, forehead pressed to yours. His voice was rough, almost broken. “You’re so fucking beautiful. And brillant. Perfect.”

The vines around the arbor swayed with the night breeze, lanterns swinging gently above. Roses lay scattered across the ground, crushed beneath your knees, clinging to your dress, your hair. The whole garden looked like it had bent around you both, sealing the vision he’d never let go of.

For once, he didn’t think about equations, or inventions, or control. He only thought about you. Your lips, your hands, your mouth, the way you’d chosen to worship him back… And he knew, with terrifying certainty, that every path, every future, every outcome in your visions would always lead to this.

☕ If you enjoyed the chaos, buy me a coffee and I’ll brew up more filth... 👀🖤

📖 And if you can't wait for more; Ko-fi members get fed first. Early access + extras right here. ✨

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 8 images

💬 0  🔁 34  ❤️ 663 · MASTERLIST · Last update: Sep. 2025 All of these contain SMUT, please check the warnings before reading. // Find me on

[thecharacterchronicler]

Will you wite more Tyler stuff or you're on your Isaac era? I'm hungry for both and you write so damn good🫶

Haha I’m still completely obsessed with Tyler, so there’s plenty more coming for him 😏 Isaac’s just my latest hyperfixation… which is why I started a new series that actually has both of them 👀🔥

[thecharacterchronicler]

please please please make more Coriolanus snow stuff (I just read everything you made on him)

Aww thank you so much 🥹 I’m really glad you enjoyed my Coriolanus fics! For now I feel like I’ve explored what I wanted with him, so I don’t have more planned at the moment. But never say never 👀 who knows when inspiration (or Snow himself) will come creeping back in 😏

[thecharacterchronicler]

Puppy (1) || Tyler Galpin (x Isaac Night) x Reader || 18+

Blurb: You burned down Willow Hill to free the chained monster behind the glass. He calls you psycho, you call him puppy. Now you’re running through the woods, high on blood and fire until you finally let him off his leash...

Word Count:  5'322

⚠️ Warnings: Unhinged explicit smut. Blood, mental instability, psychiatric hospital setting, biting, breeding kink, butchering Tyler's character with absolutely no remorse, possessiveness and manipulation as flirting. 

Author's note: This is not exactly an AU, more like me grabbing canon by the throat and whispering “but what if I make it worse ?” There’s no Françoise in this version, so Tyler and Isaac are not related... If you catch my drift 😏 As for everything else? I'm still messy, horny and completely feral. You’ve been warned.

(( Part 2 ))

The alarms are already screaming when you slip back through the staff door, sirens bleeding red across the linoleum. You smooth your hair with both hands, tucking the hospital bracelet out of sight, hiding the little detour you just took. You’re a patient here - everyone knows that - which makes your presence unimpressive and perfectly invisible. You’ve learned the rhythms: when the nurses round, which guard takes the corner shift, where the supply closet hides its secrets. You’ve been watching for weeks. Tonight feels ripe.

By the time you step into the common room, your grin has shrunk into something sweet and harmless.

A few patients look up from their games, wide-eyed at the alarms that went off. One woman rocks and hums to herself, another presses her face to her knees and sobs into shaking hands.

You ? You’re calm.

You plop into a battered vinyl armchair, swing your legs up, and flip through a deck of cards like you’re playing solitaire. The noise - sirens and shouted orders - makes a fun background for whatever you’re about to do. You tap a finger on the table, counting the seconds like a metronome.

“Crazy night, huh ?” you chirp at the man twitching across from you. He doesn’t answer, just stares at the flashing lights. You giggle, kicking one foot lazily. “Don’t worry, I’m sure everything’s fine. Just a monster rattling the walls, happens all the time.”

The intercom crackles: “Unit D, lockdown initiated. All staff to containment…”

Right on cue, half a dozen guards sprint past the windows, keys jangling, boots thundering. You crane your neck like a curious child, eyes wide and lips pursed. When they’re gone, you lean back, rest your chin in your palm, and whisper under your breath;

“Go on, puppy. Show them your teeth.”

Another patient shushes you, nervous and frantic. You bat your lashes, feigning contrition, then giggle again, too bright for comfort.

It’s all fun and games until the head nurse bursts in, ordering everyone against the walls. In the shuffle, you “accidentally” hook your foot on the medication cart. Bottles orbit and scatter across the linoleum, a glittering spill. Someone shrieks, someone laughs. 

It’s beautiful.

You laugh too, covering your mouth with both hands like a child caught stealing cookies. “Oops.”

Chaos intensifies.

Patients dive for the pills, guards slip on the scattered capsules, a flailing hand slams into a nurse’s arm. In the breathing space of disorder, you twirl through the mess, humming off-key and slipping pills into the hidden pocket of your robe like party favors.

You don’t linger to enjoy the spectacle. The supply closet gives you exactly what you came for: a rusted tin shoved beneath a stack of gauze, full of old matches. You pluck one out, strike it on the box, and a tiny flare blooms in your palm like a stolen sun.

Smoke curls fast, hungry. You tug down a curtain, press the ember against the fabric, then shove it under the window frame. It catches quick, licking upward. You light another, then a third. Each match feels like another candle on a cake you plan to eat in the dark.

Then you walk. Because chaos is a symphony and you are its conductor.

You’ve been watching the zombie for days. Every time the guards toss scraps into his pen, every time he lurches into the glass with cloudy eyes and drooling lips, you linger. Fascination, not fear. He’s pathetic, terrifying, and beautiful in the way only broken things are.

Tonight, you finally pay him a visit.

His unit is half-cell, half-junkroom, forgotten by staff who call him a dozen cruel nicknames, none of them very clever. You’ve chosen a better one. Brains. Short, sharp, perfect.

The heavy lock is designed to keep the stupid and the hungry from touching anything they shouldn’t. It doesn’t stop you. The door groans open, and he stirs. At first sluggish, then with a slack, pleased grin that shows too many teeth. You approach, meet his cloudy gaze, and feel no guilt at all.

“Go on, Brains,” you whisper, tapping your thumb to his forehead like a start button. “Fetch some food and free your friends. Make it messy.”

His grin widens into something almost joyful. Then he lurches into the hall, a clattering, slobbering shadow. He slams against the nearest ward door until wood splinters, until a nurse shrieks and patients flood the corridor like a tide.

Perfect.

You glide through the growing chaos, still humming off-key. A guard lunges at you, but you hook his ankle with a neat flick and send him sprawling. Orange light from your fires licks at the ceiling, smoke curls like a lover’s breath, the intercom spits garbled orders no one follows… But you can’t stay to admire the mess.

Your endgame waits deeper in the cellblock.

The corridor smells of bleach and old fear, but when you push into his wing the air tastes different: damp brick, the metallic tang of blood, the scent of something wild that’s been caged too long. Your pulse quickens as you follow the sound of chains rattling, a low animal growl, tension coiled like a taut wire. By the time you see the dark fall of his hair, your grin is already sharp enough to cut.

He’s folded on the cot, wrists raw where the chains bite, a heavy collar snug at his throat. The yellow light throws hollows across his face, but you know what slumbers underneath: the Hyde. The stories. The way people whisper his name in fear.

Most people steer clear. You don’t.

“Hello, puppy,” you purr. “Or should I say… beast ?”

He lifts his head slowly. The look he gives isn’t human. His pupils blown, jaw a hard line, shoulders straining at the restraints like he could tear them free with a thought. The collar clamps at his throat, a ring of metal meant to be a leash; it only makes him look more dangerous.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he growls, voice low.

“Mm.” You tilt your head, grin sharp. “That’s precisely why I am here.”

You saunter to the console that keeps him tamed and still: a cluster of switches, a dial, a panel of red buttons that make the machine hum like a sleeping animal.

“This one looks fun,” you say, tapping a finger against a toggle.

“Don’t.” His warning slices the air, urgent and brittle.

You press the button.

Electricity screams through the wiring. His body jerks, chains clanging hard enough to throw sparks. A low, guttural sound slides out of him, Hyde bleeding into the noise. You watch every twitch, every shudder, delighted at the way his muscles contract under his skin.

“Ohhh,” you coo, leaning back in the swivel chair, crossing your legs like you’re at a theater. “That was fun.”

“You’re insane.” His glare burns, but it doesn’t reach your grin.

You twist the dial a notch higher. He arches, a high choked noise tearing out of him. Sweat beads at his brow. You keep the shock small enough to wake him, not to break him. You want him hungry, not dead.

“You like this, don’t you ?” you ask, voice soft and dangerous. “You like that I’m not screaming and running. You like that I want to watch.”

His chains groan as he strains against them, metal protesting. The restraint hums through the collar; the bolts in the wall scream under the pressure.

You stand and saunter to the glass partition that separates the common corridor from his cell. The reinforced pane hums faintly, scored with scratches… Memories of him trying to get free. He paces inside, shoulders heaving, claws half-formed, eyes fixed on you with a hunger so physical you can almost taste it.

You press your palms to the cold glass and lean in, treating the barrier like a lover’s skin. “Usually I prefer tentacles,” you say, voice silky. “But I suppose I could… accommodate myself to claws.”

His hands slam against the glass where yours rest. The vibration runs up your arms, catches in your ribs. He bares teeth - too many - and the sound he makes is more animal than man.

“Oh, there he is,” you whisper, tilting your head. 

His breath fogs up the glass. He looks like he wants to say something, maybe tell you to leave, maybe warn you… But whatever’s inside him now, it won’t let him speak. It just growls, low and rough in his throat.

You lean in closer. Then, slow and teasing, you lick a line across the glass, right where his face is. He jerks like he felt it. You laugh, bright and sharp.

“God, you look hungry,” you remark, eyes shining. “I love that.”

The sirens wail louder. Red lights strobe down the corridor. Smoke creeps in under the reinforced door like a promise kept. You sigh, like you’ve just been pulled out of a really good dream. You’ve had the keys of his cell for a week, thanks to a little mischief, a lot of charm, and a coffee spill that wasn't so accidental. You kept them tucked in your sock like a secret. Now ? Now they’re exactly where they’re meant to be.

The lock on Tyler Galpin’s cell isn’t even hard. Two pins, one twist of the key, and the door sighs open like the place itself is tired of keeping him. And the moment it swings open, heat rushes out like breath from a dragon’s mouth. Tyler’s steps forward before you can speak, the chains at his neck and wrists pulled so tight his veins are bulging. He looks like a storm caged in skin.

“About time,” he growls.

“Yeah, yeah.” You hum, stepping in like it’s a playdate. “Time flies when you’re flirting with monsters.”

You make quick work of the restraints, heel to the floor brace, twist at the collar lock. He shrugs off the weight like it’s nothing. His eyes darken. His chest heaves.

“The Hyde wants out to play, doesn’t he ?,” you say softly, watching the smoke swirl around you both. 

He doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t need to. The growl low in his throat tells you everything.

Somewhere back in the main unit, Brains is doing exactly what you asked. Eating god knows what - or who - stirring the pot. It’s chaos now.

Perfect.

You reach for Tyler’s hand. It’s hot - too hot - but you don’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away.

“Come on,” you grin, tugging him down the corridor. “Let’s make a mess.”

The hospital is falling apart. Alarms scream from every wall, a mechanical choir shrieking in disharmony. Red lights pulse overhead, painting everything in flickering hellfire. Smoke curls down the corridors like it’s alive, licking at tile and metal and flesh.

You don’t walk, you don’t sneak, you run straight into the fire like the world is ending and maybe it is.

He stays close, heavy footfalls matching yours. There’s no time for smiles, no time for talk. Just motion. Just panic. Just the overwhelming yes of it all: yes, you burned it down, yes, you freed the Hyde, yes, you’re running straight through the wreckage you created.

Down the corridor, someone screams. A patient ? A nurse ? You don’t stop to check.

Tyler shoves a gurney out of the way with one hand, chains rattling from his wrist. You duck under a ceiling tile that crashes down in a cloud of dust.

“Left !” you gasp, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the west wing. He doesn’t resist, he follows without question, wild-eyed, sweat-soaked, beautiful.

A nurse barrels around the corner and freezes at the sight of you both. You offer her a sweet, sugar-sharp grin and toss a handful of pills at her feet like a flower girl scattering petals. She shrieks and scrambles back.

Footsteps thunder behind you. Guards. You recognize the voice of the one who once tied you too hard to your bed. He’s yelling orders. “Stop them ! Sedate if you have to !”

But he’s too late. 

Tyler pulls you faster, down another hallway where the smoke is thicker, where the power is flickering, where the locks have failed. Doors hang open. Patients scream and stagger through the chaos, babbling, laughing, sobbing. One runs past you with blood on his hands and glitter on his face. Another throws a tray like a discus into the wall.

“God, it’s beautiful,” you pant, breath catching in your throat from the smoke and the sprint.

You reach the last hallway to the east side exit. The fire is climbing the wall, blooming up the paint like flowers. Tyler kicks the double doors. They don’t budge.

You throw your weight at the emergency bar.

Clang. Still locked.

He steps forward and slams his shoulder into the steel, once, twice, then it gives with a shriek of twisted metal, and cold night air punches into your lungs.

You both stumble out into the dark.

Behind you, Willow Hill burns but you don’t stop to watch it die. You bolt across the back lot, past the chain-link fence you cut days ago, past the broken security camera, past the sagging willow tree that gave the place its name.

Behind you, someone shouts. A gun fires. The bullet misses you but sparks off a pipe and you shriek, not from fear, but from sheer adrenaline joy. Tyler grabs you again, palm to your ribs, yanking you behind a rusted ambulance. You breathe hard against his chest, eyes shining.

“Not now,” you whisper, nose brushing his collarbone. “Not yet.”

He nods once, tight, jaw clenched. You can feel the tremor in him, the Hyde pacing just beneath the skin.

You break for the trees and the woods open their mouth to swallow you whole into a snare of shadow and fog. Twigs snap like bones underfoot, mist clings to your skin like a second breath, and branches claw at your face with skeletal hands. You don’t stop. Neither does he. The forest blurs around you, tangled and endless, moonlight slicing through the haze.

Behind you; boots, shouting and the crackle of radios. They’re still chasing. Still stupid enough to think they can catch you.

You laugh, giddy, breathless and cracked wide open with adrenaline. “God, they really want us back in our boxes, huh ?”

Tyler grunts beside you, chest heaving, still human, still fighting the thing clawing behind his ribs. His jaw is tight, throat working, hands still bloody from the cuffs. The monster is under his skin, pacing, growling, twitching in his muscles like it’s trying to climb out. You can smell it.

You want it.

“They’re going to catch us, tie us down, drug us up, put me in a pretty white jacket and lock me in the dark.” you taunt sweetly, and he stiffens at that. You lean in, brushing your lips against his ear with a breathless whisper: “Unless you let him out.”

He stumbles, just a beat, as if the words hit something raw.

“They think we’re prey,” you pant, ducking behind a rotted tree trunk. You grab his face with both hands, wild-eyed, grinning. “So now prove them wrong. I want to see it.”

He growls - a low, broken sound - and you feel it vibrate in your fingertips. The boots are closer now. You can hear one of them panting hard and calling out; “We saw them ! Over here !”

Tyler snarls. His eyes blow wide, veins flash black across his neck and jaw. You see the monster rising in him, cresting like a tide.

“Yes,” you gasp, delighted.

He doubles over with a groan, hands on his knees, shoulders twitching violently. You step back just as the first guard crashes through the clearing behind you, flashlight beam slicing the dark.

You don’t scream. You don’t run. You watch… And Tyler breaks.

Bones crack. Flesh tears. The scream that rips from his throat turns feral, guttural, then something else answers it. A snarl, deep and wet and full of ruin.

The guard lifts his weapon too late. Tyler lunges, too fast, too strong, too gone. He hits the man like a thunderclap and they both go down. You laugh as blood hits the leaves. It paints the fog in pink mist. Another guard yells and tries to flee but he is on him before he takes three steps. Claws now, teeth now, eyes glowing like fire through the trees.

You turn in a slow circle as the screams rise, basking in the chaos like it’s music. Shadows dance. Flesh tears. Someone begs for help. You sigh, dreamy, and perch on a fallen log like a queen watching her hound rip through a banquet.

When the noise fades, when the last ragged breath leaks out into the dirt, Tyler returns to you. Blood-slick, panting, chest rising and falling like a war drum. His eyes still burn. His hands still twitch.

And you are absolutely, breathtakingly delighted.

“God,” you murmur, breath hitching as you step into his space. “You’re beautiful when you kill.”

He doesn’t answer. He’s still half-monster, still vibrating with aftershock. You reach up, run a finger through the blood on his cheek, and suck it clean with a hum. Then - soft and efficient, disturbingly domestic - he strips the dead guard’s jacket from his shoulders, tugging his boots off too. His hands move with the same precise hunger you’ve seen when he rips things apart; now they slip into fabric like a tailor, like someone who knows exactly what to take to disappear.

You help. There’s a ridiculous choreography to it: you pull off the guard’s belt, wedge your thumb under the collar, peel the nameplate away and tuck it into your pocket like a trophy. When Tyler finally stands, the new jacket hangs off his broad shoulders and the boots slump heavy and ludicrous on his feet like a grotesque parody of a man in uniform.

“You look ridiculous,” you tell him, delighted. “Perfect.” 

You steal one of the guard’s caps and slide it low over your eyes, like a mask and together, you disappear deeper into the woods.

The smell of the street hits you for a second; wet asphalt and gasoline, the world outside a bright, stupid normal. Then you duck into a grate and the noise of the world becomes a thin screaming above. The sewer stinks like sulfur and old rain and something alive. It’s homey in a way: dark, secretive, full of swallowed things. 

You laugh aloud, the sound bubbling off concrete.

“We’ll be ghosts tonight,” you tell him, leaning your head against his shoulder after you slide down the slimy ladder.

He answers with a noise like approval and an elbow that knocks you playfully in the ribs. He moves differently in the damp, more animal than man, each step sure, predatory. You arrange the dead man’s jacket across his shoulders and pull the cap down harder, a ridiculous coronation for a fugitive queen.

In the dark water below, rats scatter at your passing, offended by the intrusion. The sewer swallows your laughter and the memory of the hospital burning like a bright bruise behind you. Up above, lights blink and sirens whine. Below, you have each other and the dark.

You grip his hand again, tighter. He hums, a low sound that might be contentment, might be a vow. It vibrates through your knuckles and into your bones. Together you move down the tunnel, two pieces of dangerous glass, giggling, filthy, certain of everything except the world that tried to keep you caged.

Ahead, the sewers divide into hungry black veins. One of the tunnels bends into a dry alcove, a hollow where old bricks bow inward and the drip-drip of water is a lazy metronome. Tyler slams the grate shut behind you, chest heaving, skin still twitching with feral echo. He looks wrecked, bloody, shaking, torn between shame and hunger.

You spin in the half-light, arms out like a ballerina. The stink of rot and rust coils in the air like smoke, but you breathe it in deep… Freedom smells like blood and burning.

“You’re a psycho,” he mutters.

You stop spinning with a flourish, arms out. “Finally,” you breathe, grinning wide enough to hurt. “Someone gets me.”

He doesn’t laugh. “Why did you free me ?”

You take a step closer. He tenses like an animal expecting a trap.

“Felt like it.” You shrug.

“No one does something like that just because they feel like it.” He scowls.

“I do.” You prowl forward, your grin all teeth. “I wanted to see if the stories were true. If the Hyde was real. If the monster everyone whispers about could still kill.”

He flinches, almost imperceptibly. His eyes flash.

“You don’t know what I am.”

“Oh, I do.” You reach out, sliding a finger down the bloodied front of his stolen uniform, smearing dried red into the fabric. “You’re teeth and claws and rage… and it makes me wet just thinking about it.”

His breath catches, fists clenching. “What the fuck is wrong with you ?”

You tilt your head, as if considering it seriously. Then beam. “Everything.”

“I should’ve left you there.”

“You didn’t.” You trail your finger higher, let it linger on the edge of his collarbone. “You came with me.”

“You made me.”

You raise your brows. “Did I ? Or did part of you want to run ? Want to tear through the woods and not stop until you killed ?”

His silence answers for him.

After a beat, he huffs and jerks his chin toward you. “What’s your name ?”

You smile sweetly. “I liked it when you called me psycho.”

He rolls his eyes. “That can’t be your name.”

“Sure it can.” You give a dramatic little curtsy. “Or Baby. Or Trouble. Or Nothing-Left-to-Lose.” You step closer until you’re toe to toe. “And I’ll call you Puppy.”

He flinches like you hit him. “Don’t call me that.”

“Ohhh… but it suits you. All bite. All bark. All those pretty noises when you growl.”

He catches your wrist suddenly, fast and hard. Slams your hand against the wall behind you, fingers digging into your skin.

“Stop.”

“Make me.”

One second he’s glaring. The next he’s on you. Hyde hot in his blood. Mouth devouring yours like punishment, like hunger, like he needs to taste your spine to believe you’re real. His hands are brutal, tearing at your clothes, dragging fabric aside like it insulted him.

You gasp into the kiss, laughing through the heat. “That’s it,” you pant as he shoves a thigh between yours, grinding hard. “That’s my monster.”

He breaks the kiss just long enough to growl, “Careful what you ask for.”

“Why ?” you whisper, eyes glittering. “Are you afraid I’ll love it ?”

His hands are everywhere, rough, frantic, uncoordinated like he’s trying to memorize you with his palms. He tears at your clothes until your breasts spill free, his breath hitching when he sees skin.

One hand grabs your jaw, tilting your face so he can drink you in, the other drops to his belt. You hear the hiss of leather, the rasp of a zipper, and then he’s fisting himself, already hard, already leaking. He groans low and filthy at the sight of you, grinning like the devil herself. You don’t even blink when he presses the blunt head of his cock against your thigh, smearing precum on your skin like a claim.

He lifts you clean off the floor, your back slamming into the bricks as his hips rut forward with zero finesse, all fury. Your fingers claw down his back, your body already aching for more.

“Come on, puppy,” you gasp. “Bite.”

And when his teeth sink into your throat - not gentle, not human - the pain sparking hot into your belly, you shudder, laughing and crying out in the same breath. His hands shove your thighs apart, lifting you even higher up until your feet dangle, and he buries himself inside you in one brutal thrust.

The sound you make echoes down the tunnel; half scream, half cackle. The bricks are wet and crumbling, your back scraping raw every time he slams into you. He looks like a beast unleashed, but you can see the hesitation flicker in his jaw, like a leash he still hasn’t let go of.

And you laugh. You laugh like it’s the funniest joke in the world.

“Is this it ?” you gasp, nails dragging down his back hard enough to draw blood. “The big, bad Hyde ? You fuck like you’re scared of breaking me.”

His snarl vibrates against your throat. “I will break you.”

“Then do it !” you shriek, grinning wide, eyes bright. “Choke me, come on, puppy, I want your hand around my throat while you ruin me.”

He growls, feral, but his hand shoots up, fingers curling around your neck. He squeezes, not enough to cut air, just enough to make your pulse hammer against his palm.

Your moan is obscene. “Harder,” you hiss, teeth flashing. “Don’t let me breathe unless you’re inside me.”

Something snaps in him. His grip tightens, cutting your breath in ragged shudders as he fucks you harder, hips pistoning, brick dust raining down with every slam. You writhe against him, eyes rolling back, manic laughter spilling past your lips until he shoves two thick fingers between them, silencing you with the taste of iron and skin. You suck them down like candy, moaning around them, eyes glazed with hunger.

He stares, half horrified, half undone. You pull his fingers free with a wet pop, panting, smiling sharp enough to cut. He grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head back until your throat is bared, teeth scraping your skin. He fucks you harder, deeper, claws digging into your thighs as he holds you pinned like a doll he means to break.

You’re delirious, demanding more with every ragged breath. “Break me, snap me in half… Make me bleed for you. I want it. I want you.”

He slams into you, relentless, brutal, fucking you until the wall itself feels like it’s going to collapse. Your screams echo, manic and gleeful, cut short again when he shoves his hand over your mouth, muffling you. You bite his palm and he groans, rutting harder, rougher, until you come undone around him in violent spasms.

You laugh through it, laugh like you’re burning alive and loving every second. He keeps going like a beast starved too long. Your thighs ache from the way he’s holding you open with nails digging into flesh, but you’re drunk on it.

“Harder,” you choke out, voice muffled against his palm. “I want you to break me.”

His hips snap so deep you swear he’s trying to split you in two. The sound of it is obscene, flesh slapping, nails scratching, your manic laughter turning into gasps swallowed by his hand.

You wrench his palm off your mouth, breathless and grinning so his hand clamps around your throat instead, harder this time, cutting your air until black edges crawl at your vision. The pressure makes every thrust sharper, hotter, dragging you closer to the edge again with every ragged slam.

You’re half-gone, body convulsing, when he shoves his fingers back between your lips, silencing your screams with the taste of him. You gag around them, drool spilling down your chin, and the sight makes him groan, pushing into you with feral abandon.

Your second climax tears out of you like violence, spasms ripping through your core, walls clenching so tight he snarls against your throat. He bites down, teeth sinking hard enough to draw blood, and the sting sends you over again, a third orgasm crashing through you while your laugh turns into a broken sob.

His rhythm stutters and with a roar that echoes down the tunnel he comes, hot and brutal, spilling into you as his body shudders against yours. He fucks you through it, grinding, snarling, hips still snapping like he can’t stop claiming you even as he empties himself inside you.

When he finally slows, both of you are wrecked. Sweat, blood and spit smeared over skin, brick dust clinging to every bruise. He keeps you pinned, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

“Don’t pull out,” you whisper. “I want you to stay inside me.”

His head jerks back, eyes still wide, face stricken. “What ?”

You hook your legs tighter around him, grind down on his cock, still twitching inside you. “I want you to breed me. Stuff me so full I can’t walk. Put a monster in me and make me yours forever.”

He snarls, part horror, part hunger. “You’re fucking insane.”

“Exactly.” Your nails scrape his jaw, forcing him to look at you. You lick his blood off your lips, grinning sharp. “And you fucking love it.”

The tunnels finally spit you out into a narrow brick-lined stairwell, slick with moisture and echoing with the ghosts of your footsteps. You’re both breathing hard, boots scraping against stone, blood smeared like ink down your arms. The place smells like rot and iron, but it’s familiar, your kind of place.

You lead the way, dragging Tyler up by the wrist like a naughty dog on a leash, your shoulder bumping his chest with every steep step. At the top, behind a nest of rusted pipes, you crouch and dig under a loose stone. Your fingers come up dirty and trembling - but triumphant - with an old brass key. You shove it into the lock, twisting hard.

The hinges groan like something dying as the steel door creaks open into a hidden room. Dust blooms in the air. It's dim, lit only by a broken lantern in the corner and the moonlight slicing through cracks in the boarded windows. The space is packed with old furniture: a tattered velvet couch, a cabinet stuffed with stolen supplies, a makeshift bed on pallets. Shelves sag under the weight of canned food and liquor bottles with no labels.

You step inside like it’s a cathedral and spin, arms thrown wide, hair whipping around your face.

“Welcome to our little kingdom,” you croon, voice syrupy with triumph. “Perfect for monsters on the run.”

Tyler doesn’t answer. He collapses onto the old couch like his bones are smoke, head tipping back, blood crusting along his jaw. He drags both hands down his face with a groan, smearing dirt and sweat and war paint across his skin.

You crawl into his lap without asking, straddling him like a throne. You bite his jaw - hard enough to leave a mark - and whisper against his ear; “Bet I can make you forget the world with my cunt again before sunrise.”

He chokes on a laugh and shoves at your hips, but it’s weak, lazy. His eyes are already darkening, pupils wide, hunger not entirely sated.

“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters, voice rough and warm against your throat.

“That’s the fun part.”

You curl tighter against him, legs over his lap, head against his chest. You can feel his heart, still thudding wild like it doesn’t believe you made it out.

You giggle into the curve of his neck, dizzy on smoke, blood and adrenaline. The world is still burning, but here, in your stolen corner of it, you’re filthy and ruined and more alive than you’ve ever been.

The quiet stretches, soft and strange. Tyler’s breathing slows. You let your eyelids drift, your fingers tangled in his torn, stolen shirt… And then a sound rises.

Thump.

Drag.

A wet, slurping growl.

It echoes up the stairwell like a bad joke with teeth. You sit up slowly, grin blooming sharp and wicked. Tyler groans.

“Tell me that’s not…”

“Brains,” you whisper, delighted. “He followed us home.”

☕ If you enjoyed the chaos, buy me a coffee and I’ll brew up more filth... 👀🖤

Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 8 images

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Post by @thecharacterchronicler · 3 images

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