Isaac Night * ghoul and goose ♡✷ * Isaac with a sick!reader ♡▽✷ * were mine ✷ * the Addams equation ♡▽ * Isaac as a munch ✷𓏴 * Oh, Isaac ♡✷▽ | Pt. 2 ♡✷ * was that really so hard? 𓏴 * bonding ♡✷ | Pt. 2 ♡𓏴 * thursdays 𓏴 | pt. 2 𓏴 | pt. 3 ♡▽𓏴 * mi musa ♡𓏴 * frustration 𓏴 * Isaac seeking touch drabble ♡ * peep 𓏴 | pt. 2 𓏴 * heated 𓏴 * vestige ♡▽✷ * the duet [part 1] [part 2] ♡ * coffee ♡ * leather gloves 𓏴 * the roommate reassignment ♡𓏴 * talk science to me 𓏴 * sweet boy ♡ [part 2] ♡𓏴 * saccharine sweet ♡𓏴 * anonymous ♡𓏴

Ajax Petropolus ~ retired * dating Ajax hc’s ♡ * in bloom - pt. 1 ♡ | pt. 2 ♡▽ * more than okay - pt. 1 ♡ | pt. 2 ♡ * Ajax falling for a normie hc's ♡ | x normie hc's pt.2 ♡ * just friends ♡ * curious ♡ * real ♡▽ * green eyed monster ♡▽ * Winchester woe ♡▽ * together ♡▽ * Ajax and your insecurities drabble ♡ * caught red handed ♡ * angel ♡ * lessons from Nevermore ▽ * while i'm here ♡▽ * wake up call ♡𓏴 * pretty patient ♡ * paint ♡ | pt. 2 𓏴 * shotgun ♡𓏴 * truant 𓏴 | pt.2 ♡𓏴

Tyler Galpin [playlist] ~ retired * what you’re left with ▽✷ * who do you take me for ♡𓏴 * the future ♡ * cold coffee ♡𓏴 * the car 𓏴 * the greatest thing ♡▽ * rain ♡✷ * hand kink 𓏴 * scent ✷𓏴 |. pt. 2 ✷𓏴 * car ride ♡𓏴 | pt.2 ♡𓏴 * cuddling tyler drabble ♡

tag guide 🍂

tyler galpin > all things tyler (reblogs and own posts) ajax petropolus > all things ajax (reblogs and own posts) isaac night > all things isaac (reblogs and own posts) professor!isaac > all things teacher's pet series weathervane thoughts > thoughts about the show/characters weathervane rambles > personal thoughts/musings cafe radio > character inspired playlists cafe library > absolute favourite reblogs I want to revisit.

He hadn’t seemed to notice as you slipped into the back of the hall and took an empty seat. The class was nearing its end, if you’d calculated correctly, and based on past habits, he was never one for running over, eager as he was to return to his own research. 

You’d missed watching him teach. Missed the familiar patterns his lectures took when he was consciously trying to avoid running away with himself into topics too advanced for the young minds in front of him. Missed the way he’d press his lips tighter at an incorrect answer as if it was that difficult to suppress his harsh corrections in favour of constructive feedback. 

He still rubbed the corner of his notes whenever a question amused him. Still carried the papers in the first place despite no longer needing the reminders. Seven years, another university, several promotions, and somehow he had still remained infuriatingly the same. You were sure the rumours of his distaste for teaching had followed him here, too, and if they hadn’t, it would only be a matter of time. 

He didn’t glance up even as he dismissed his students. The steady procession of shuffling bodies wrapped tightly in coats and scarves to ward off the early winter chill filed sluggishly out the door. It wasn’t hard to catch the quiet discussion of grades as they passed – his marking still as stern as ever. 

You waited until the final stragglers took up their bags at last – a couple of young girls who had delayed tidying away their laptops on the front row, dallying in a still all too familiar fashion until it was clear that attracting their teacher's attention was futile. 

They offered nothing more than vaguely disgruntled looks your way as they passed and you stood. 

“I have a question, Professor,” you called, lingering at the back. “If you have the time.”

There was no disguising the satisfaction his surprise afforded you. His lips parted as he looked up from his satchel, caught entirely off guard by the ring of your voice through his classroom. It took only a moment for it to soften. 

“Always for you, Doctor.”

You couldn't suppress your smile as you made your way down the rows towards his desk, conscious he had abandoned his tidying.

“If subject A has established dinner plans, what is the minimum level of psychological or logistical coercion required to convince subject B to participate?”

Your framing had the desired effect, drawing a soft huff of laughter as he flipped his satchel closed. 

“I’ve missed you.” 

“You always do.” 

For a moment, he simply looked at you, a soft pause as he watched you round the desk, fingers dancing over his lecture notes, glancing over the familiar handwriting and even more recognisable notes, taken from your paper and knitted into his curriculum. You smiled.

“Come here, would you?”

The steady weight of his palm balanced your tip-toed efforts to reach his lips, grinning with the brush of his nose against yours, the familiar nudge of his glasses against your cheek when he inevitably pressed closer, hand flattening against the curve of your waist on instinct. 

“I didn't think you were home until tomorrow.”

You steadied yourself on flat feet again, although he found no reason to retract his hand, his fingers curling fractionally, anchoring you in his proximity.

“I managed to get an earlier flight. I wasn't needed for the last day of the conference, anyway.”

Isaac made no effort to dodge your reach for his glasses, the frames folding neatly in your fingers as you slid them from their perch and dropped them beside his bag. It didn’t take long for you to join them, your weight barely settled against the dull edge before his lips found yours again, unrestricted now by the lack of frames, pressing closer, hungrier, as if entirely forgetting that you were not at home, nor even his office. 

There was no attempt to temper his lack of subtlety, either. The faint catch of his breath as your perfume settled against his lungs only confirmed his relief, the slow, deep inhale enough to betray the solace he found in having you back again, as if it had been far longer than a week since he had seen you last. 

“I would have come to get you if I’d known.” His thumb continued its steady rhythm at your waist, hardly subtle as he sought the hem of your blouse, anxious to brush against the skin beneath.

“Fran picked me up from the airport.”

One dark brow lifted. “Did she now?”

“Mm hm.”

“So I may safely deduce that these dinner plans are hers?”

“Naturally.”

You busied yourself plucking a loose strand of lint from the close-knit weave of his sweater, your gaze dropping from his as he hummed knowingly. He had long since accepted how dangerous you and his sister were when left to your own devices. Ever since the afternoon you'd sat down opposite Fran for coffee, and she'd produced his graduation photograph from her handbag without so much as a hint of shame, he'd known he was hopelessly outnumbered.

Very little had changed.

“I can make time,” he mused.

You glanced back up, previously busy fingers flattening against his chest. The disadvantage of thick knits, you'd discovered over the years, was that despite how well they suited him, they dampened the steady ticks you had come to rely upon for comfort. At the very least, you could still feel the soft hum of it beneath your palm, fading as it trailed across his sternum, pausing against his stomach. 

“So long as I get my favourite dessert afterwards.”

His smirk was redundant, his intent hardly masked by the honeyed drop in his tone, nor the twitch of his fingers against your hip, although you doubted he had any intent to obscure it.

The idea of it prickled across your spine. 

“I think that can be arranged, Professor Night.” 

It was not in your nature to back down from his challenges, nor to shy away from the ardent attempts to fluster. It was only natural, then, that your touch drifted lower, grazing the cool leather of his belt, hooking barely in the loop to tug him more firmly between your thighs. 

“How kind of y-you–,” his voice caught, composure breaking in increments as you ghosted over the full outline of his trousers, “–Dr. Night.” 

Your grin widened as your fingers gave the gentlest squeeze, just enough to draw a quiet gasp, rasping from his throat with the flutter of his lashes, whittling away his composure. 

“The reservation is at eight–” your hand relented, negotiating his urge to press the evidence of his infatuation flush against your warmth, your finger tense where it jabbed into the right of his chest, “–We cannot be late again.” 

He took one shuddering breath, “I make no promises.” 

“Isaac!” 

“Well, if you didn’t wear those dresses that—” 

Your eyes narrowed, your husband’s snark quick to cease. 

“Fine,” he distracted himself suitably, his grip leaving your waist to fidget with the locket against your chest. “I’ll behave.” 

“You’ll be well rewarded.” Your kiss ghosted the corner of his lips as you pushed away from his desk. 

“I believe you onced called this an unethical strategy.” 

“And yet,” you smile, slipping from the wooden desk and smoothing down your clothing again, “I suspect it will be extremely effective.”

The classroom door had barely found its frame again when your back hit the cool stone beside it. The rough, rugged bricks biting into your shoulder blades did little to dissuade the arch of your body into his. His palm splayed broad and steady against the bare skin of your lower back, holding your hips flush to his, unwilling to permit even the slightest of distance between you.

His lips had scarcely left yours since you'd crossed the threshold. Your fingers traced the tick of muscles along his jaw, the protrusion of each under tension, mouth working against your own to betray his incessant want.

Isaac Night, for all his genius, was only a boy after all.

The skin beneath your touch creased, dimpling with the attempt of a smile and a weak laugh, the absurdity of your desire bubbling past his usually impeccable composure. The steady rush of his breath across your cheeks betrayed his reluctance to part even for breath. Each ragged inhale, exhale, forced through his nose as it ghosted across your skin, the tip brushing yours with every slight inclination of his head, lips hungering for yours.

Surreptitious sighs passed between you, muffled by the roll of tongues, the taste of him heavy and bordering on distracting. So much so that it was almost impossible to render the events that had led you here. How you had been walking from class one minute and in his clutches another. How conversation about your upcoming project had dissolved so easily in contact with teenage lust. All it had taken was the brief flick of his gaze from eyes to lips, and whatever good sense either of you possessed was abandoned.

Warmth trailed from every point he held you. The faint traces of the cologne he'd applied that morning still clung to his skin, softened by the almost-sweet scent of his shampoo drifting from the curls that refused to stay where they belonged as he stooped to meet your advances. They tumbled between you, threatening to tangle in your lips until your hand smoothed them back into place, each absent-minded stroke coaxing another soft, beautiful sigh from low in his chest.

He pressed closer still, surrounding you almost entirely as if to shield you from non-existent onlookers – your only company the dust motes unsettled by your abrupt intrusion – as if to consume you, greedy and desperate.

This is what it was like to kiss Isaac Night. A boy as devoted to the artistry of desire as he was the craft of his machines.

As your knees weakened and his strength became your scaffold, you decided there was no superior feeling.