Summary: You've had an incredibly irritating day and your boyfriend is no help, so you take it out on him.
Word count: 2.3k
You hated everything about today. You woke up late, your hair wasn’t cooperating, you left your algebra notebook on your desk, you were partnered with an idiot for a project in alchemy, and had to do the work of two people. Nothing was going right. Once you got out of class, all you wanted was your boyfriend– Isaac Night. Most of your classmates were surprised he was in a romantic relationship, but not surprised it was with you.
As soon as that final bell rang, you nearly sprinted to Iago tower. You enclosed yourself in the elevator and sent it up to Isaac’s lab. He was so focused on his task that he didn’t even notice the creaking and squealing of the old, rickety elevator climbing up to his floor. He was researching, reading through a book on the reanimation of corpses, and making notes in the margins. Once the elevator came to its literally screeching halt, you sauntered over to stand behind where Isaac was, sitting at his desk.
“Hello, darling.” You called out to him in a sing-song voice.
“Hey.”
That was it. All he had to say to you.
“What’re you working on?” You asked, trying to get him to say something more– to pay any attention to you.
“Research.”
Another simple, one-word answer. Fine. One more chance. You bent down to wrap your arms around him from behind.
“I missed you.” You commented, desperately trying to get anything from Isaac.
“Mmhmm. Missed you too.” He was so dismissive, so cold. That was enough. Today had been awful, and this was the cherry on top. That was the tipping point. You were going to take out all of the inconveniences from the day on him; on his body.
You withdrew your arms and stormed off. Not to leave, but to retrieve something. You went to one of his various supply closets and found exactly what you were looking for– chains. You carried them back to where Isaac was sitting. You grabbed the chair’s back, swinging him to have no choice but to look at you.
“What do you need?” He sighed with annoyance.
“Attention would’ve sufficed if you had given me any. But you haven’t, and I have had quite the shitty day, so now I’m going to fuck you until you’re so overstimulated you cry.” You spoke, an irritated smile on your face.
He simply stared at you, fully at a loss for words. His heart dropped, but so did his blood flow. He loved it when you were like this; sexy in a way that is almost scary. However, his love for it didn’t make him any less bratty about it.
“Strip.” You ordered. You had no time for his runaround.
“And if I don’t?”
“I can switch it from overstimulating you to edging you if you want to fight me on this.” You stated, firm and aggressive. He sighed before standing, beginning to remove his clothes, slowly unbuttoning his collared shirt. He continued to put on his irritated facade as he tossed it to the ground. He acted oblivious and stopped there, leaving his black pants on and sitting back down. Oh, he was begging for punishment.
“All of it.” You demanded. He rolled his eyes before kicking off his boots, then grabbing at his belt, pulling it out of the loop and pin. He then proceeded to slowly unbutton and unzip his pants. He stood to push them down and off.
“That’s my good boy.” You praised. It was what he was supposed to do, but you knew those words would send shivers down his spine. He was already half-hard by the time he shed his bottoms, and between that and the way you were talking to him, it became very difficult to keep up this uninterested bit.
You pulled him in for a deep kiss, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck, entangling one hand in his hair. You did actually kiss him for a bit, but soon moved your arm to hold his waist tightly. You used the leverage your hand in his hair gave you and yanked him to lie on his experiment table with a growl.
“Stay still. The more disobedient and bratty you are, the longer it will be before you get to cum.” You hissed before picking up the chains you had found earlier. You wrapped them around his waist and the table, keeping him stuck where he lay. You then strapped down each of his wrists.
“Now you’re officially at my whim.” You announced with an excited smirk and a sweet tilt of the head. He was finally starting to give up the bit, looking at you with pleading eyes, his eyebrows strung together. As if he hadn’t brought this upon himself.
“Oh, what baby? Finally ready to put down the nonchalant false dominance? Finally ready to pay attention to me?” You teased. He nodded, feeling embarrassed; he was all too excited for what he knew was coming.
“Keep your eyes on me, dear.” You smirked, poking his chin. You decided to return the favor and unbutton your shirt as slowly as you could, exposing just a bit more skin with each button. Isaac watched eagerly; he couldn’t peel his eyes away from your hands, fantasizing about how they’ll feel on him in a few minutes. Eventually, the white cotton slipped off your shoulders. Your hands tugged at the elastic band of your skirt, pulling it down and letting it fall to the floor. You stood there in just your underwear, black bra, where he wished his hands could be.
“You’re so beautiful, my sweet raven.” He commented, taking in the sight.
“Thank you, but flattery won’t make me let you cum any sooner.”
Isaac gave you a pout, but you ignored him. You reached back and unclipped your bra, pulling the straps down your arms slowly, sensually, making a show of it. As soon as it was off, you felt an invisible hand pinch your nipple, followed by the pad of a finger rubbing it in circles. You couldn’t bring yourself to be mad at him for this.
“So desperate to touch me, you use your DaVinci, huh?” You teased him, but with no anger in your voice, more of a mocking tone. You weren’t going to add to his punishment for this. This time.
“I need to touch you. In any way.” He whined.
“Oh, but baby, you had so many opportunities and you chose to be a brat, so now you’re under my control entirely.” You cooed, faux sympathy in your voice as you held his jaw.
“Please… anything..” Isaac’s voice was quiet and rasped with need, making it clear it was getting painful. He was going to get what he wanted, but it wasn’t going to end for a long time. You rolled your eyes before sliding your panties down your legs to the ground. You then climbed on top of him, causing his mechanical heart to tremble in his chest. But you couldn’t make it that easy just yet; one more final act of teasing him was in order.
Straddling his legs, you bent down, pressing your tongue to his throbbing, leaking cock. Starting from the base, you licked a thick stripe from base to tip, paying extra attention to the veins and the head. He thrashed in his chains, being unable to grasp at your hair or shirt or anything, was unbearable. That was all you were going to give him anyway; this was about taking out your frustrations, not getting him off, especially after the way he had behaved. You pulled back and let your eyes meet his. Once his gaze was locked on you, you spat into your hand and gave him one stroke, making sure everything was as prepared as possible. He took a sharp breath in through his teeth; the desperation was really getting to him, and this was only the second time you had given him any kind of contact.
You readjusted yourself, now hovering over him, lined up but not quite giving him anything yet. You grabbed his jaw, forcing him to look you in the eyes.
“You are so adorable when you’re like this. Desperate, pathetic, and at my mercy. No one else could ever get such a rise out of the great genius himself, Isaac Night.” You mocked him, but in such a seductive tone, there was no way for him to take any offense.
“Please, darling… it’s hurting… let me inside..” Isaac breathed out. His lack of control here drove him insane. Fine, you decided to finally give in to him and give him what both of you needed. You sank down on just the tip, not giving in to him entirely; you needed to see his reaction to each inch, drink in his whines. He fought his instinct to use his DaVinci to pull you down the rest of the way, tired of the endless teasing.
“Fuck, (y/n), if you’re going to fuck me, please just do it, I can’t take it anymore.” He had barely finished his rude comment before you sank all the way down on him in one foul swoop. He nearly screamed your name. Feeling you consume him in his entirety was so much to take in at once, but so blissful. His wrists yanked against the leather keeping them at his sides, instinctively going to grip your hips as his tether to reality.
“You have no control this time, baby. You get whatever I give you.” You commented before, slowly, tauntingly rolling your hips over his. You lifted yourself slowly, lowering yourself back down quickly. You had full control; you could fuck him just the way you wanted to. He was a beautiful mess under you already. Why not make that condition even worse and get yourself off at the same time? You picked up your pace, listening to him seethe and groan under you. He looked absolutely perfect; his hair was messy and had fallen around his head on the cold metal table he was chained to, his eyes were rolled back into his head, eyelashes fluttering, and his mouth agape. It was almost too perfect, and it was all because of you.
You leaned down, pressing a kiss to his jaw before whispering.
“You’re so beautiful when you’re a mess like this… It’s amazing to see the cold genius, Isaac Night, vulnerable and destroyed… Who would’ve guessed..”
You lifted yourself back up and pressed your hands to his chest just above where the chains rested, careful to avoid the delicate metallic cavity. It helped to keep you steady, bouncing like your life depended on it. He wasn’t going to tell you, but you knew from the way he moaned low and thrashed in his shackles that he was getting close, so you halted your movements entirely. Sitting entirely still on top of him.
“I’ll let you know when you can cum, might even let you do it earlier than I’d like if you beg good enough. But not yet.” You explained with a soft tone as if you weren’t torturing him. You could tell by his facial expression that he was irritated by the edging, but he knew better than to voice it. You sat there for a few moments, just looking down at him and waiting for his peak to subside. But it wasn’t long before you resumed. Then, of course, it wasn’t long after that you stopped again, eliciting a strained whine from him.
“I know I misbehaved, but how many times are you going to do this to me?” Isaac asked, the agony clearly getting to him.
“I’m not sure. I’ll just keep going until I’ve made myself cum on your cock. So, the more you hold yourself back, the sooner I cum, which means the sooner you cum.” You sighed, running a hand through your hair to push it back. He nodded. Irritated, but he understood. Little did he know, it wasn’t going to be much longer. A few moments later, you were propped back up on your knees, bouncing, rolling your hips, working yourself open just the way you needed it. His pleasure wasn’t a concern— if anything, you were trying to suppress it. You were simply focused on using him as a toy to get you off.
It didn’t take too much for you to feel the familiar coil in your stomach, the muscles in your lower abdomen tightening. You rode it out for as long as you could, but it quickly became unbearable. He knew you; he knew when you were close by the way you tightened around him and got increasingly vocal. He knew this would be the best time for him to ask.
“Dove… can I please cum?” He spoke in a soft, ragged voice. He was beyond fucked out, melted into a pool under you, just waiting for you to give him permission.
“Fuck… yes, baby… go ahead…” You breathed, teetering on the edge but fighting it in an effort to milk his release from him. It was functional. Within seconds of your permission, his hips bucked, chest and waist thrashing against his chains. Your name and little curses poured out of his lips while his eyes fluttered shut. The sight and sounds were plenty enough to plunge you into your own orgasm, riding it out not only for yourself, but for him too.
Once the two of you had both come down, you laid against his chest, breathing heavily. Your hand eventually reached out to one of his, unbuckling the leather strap around it. As soon as his wrist was released, he wrapped that arm around your shoulders, holding you and pulling you close enough to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.
“That didn’t do much to discourage me from being an asshole, you know.”
A/N: Hello all I am SO sorry for the hiatus, there is much happening in my life irl and I was unfortunately forced to neglect you all. But, this kind of hits three different requests at a time - "reader ties him up and FUCKS him", "reader ties Isaac up and treats HIM like a pet", "edging".
— synopsis: You wanted your first time to be perfect. Every kiss, every touch, every moment needed to fall exactly into place. Perfection wasn’t a hope; it was a demand. So you tied Isaac down, stripping away his control, determined to move him as you pleased until the night matched the script in your mind.
— warnings: p in v, bondage, oral (m receiving), cum refusal, cowgirl, pet names (good boy), unprotected, virgin reader, super subby isaac!
— song recs while reading: “show & tell” — melanie martinez + “all that she wants” — ace of base
(thank you @isaacnightgooner for the request and I hope you enjoy !)
The kitchen smelled like cinnamon and browned butter. Apples hissed and softened on the stove, their sweetness clinging to the air, filling the house like a spell.
You rolled the pie crust in slow, even strokes, each edge perfectly symmetrical. The ritual calmed you. It was the only way to quiet your pulse.
The door to the workshop slammed shut somewhere down the hall. Heavy boots followed, too quick, like someone sprinting from a nightmare. You didn’t look up as the sound came closer; you pressed the crust into the tin, careful not to tear it.
Isaac appeared in the doorway. His shirt was half undone, his hands stained with grease, hair falling over eyes that burned darker than usual.
He looked worn, frayed, but what clung to him most wasn’t exhaustion. It was hunger.
“Smells like heaven,” he rasped. “Apple pie?”
“Yes.” Your tone was soft but flat, focused. “It’ll be done soon.”
He crossed the room in three strides, bracing his palms against the counter to box you in. His breath hit the back of your neck, hot and uneven.
“I can’t wait anymore,” he muttered, voice cracking. “I’ve been in that lab all day thinking about you. I’ll do anything, anything, just give me one night. Please.”
You didn’t look at him. You kept smoothing the crust, sealing the edges with slow, deliberate pinches. You knew this day would eventually arrive.
“One night?” you asked.
His grip tightened on the counter. “One night. However you want it. However you need it. Just, let me have you.”
Finally, you turned. Flour still clung to your fingers. Isaac stood inches away, eyes dark, lips parted, his clockwork heart ticking like a frantic metronome beneath his shirt.
“Anything?” you said.
He nodded once, hard. “Anything.”
You let the word sit between you like a blade. Then you reached out, brushing a pale streak of flour across his chest, leaving your mark on him.
“Then go to the room,” you murmured, voice low but commanding. “Strip. Sit on the edge of the bed. Wait for me. If you want me tonight, Isaac, you’ll do it my way.”
His eyes flickered, defiance, want, a flicker of shame, and then he let out a low sound that was almost a whimper.
He turned from you, shoulders tense, and walked toward the bedroom without another word.
You watched him go, then turned back to the pie. The crust still needed venting, the filling still needed cooling.
Precision mattered. Control mattered. You would not rush this.
…
By the time you slid the pie into the oven, the house was quiet again. The smell of sugar and cinnamon clung to your clothes, to your skin, grounding you as you wiped flour from your hands. You didn’t hurry; you refused to. If Isaac was desperate enough to beg, he could learn to wait.
The bedroom door was ajar. You pushed it open slowly, savoring the sound of the hinge.
He was exactly where you’d told him to be. Perched on the edge of the bed, shirt discarded on the floor, trousers half undone, chest heaving. His head snapped up the second you entered, eyes glassy, restless. The muscles in his thighs trembled with restraint, his fists tight against his knees.
“Good boy,” you said softly.
Isaac groaned at the words, dragging a hand through his hair. “Don’t, don’t say it like that. I’m losing my mind here.” His voice cracked, pitifully raw. “Please. I need you. Just tonight, just once.”
You crossed the room with measured steps, eyes never leaving him. He looked at you like a starving man watches a meal, but still, he stayed seated.
He obeyed. That was enough to stir something hot and electric in your chest.
You stopped before him, tilting his chin up with flour-dusted fingers. His skin was warm, his clockwork heart pounding so hard you felt the vibration in his throat.
“You said you’d do anything,” you reminded him.
“Yes,” he whispered, breathless. “Anything. Just, please, don’t make me wait. I want you so badly it hurts.”
You leaned closer, your lips brushing his ear. “Then be still. Be quiet. Be my doll.”
Isaac whimpered, a helpless sound breaking from deep in his chest. His hands twitched, as if he wanted to touch you but didn’t dare.
His restraint thrilled you. He could barely keep himself together, and yet, he was giving you everything.
You stepped back slowly, admiring him like a collector inspecting her most fragile piece.
“Do you understand what that means, Isaac? You don’t get to move. You don’t get to beg. You sit here and let me decide what happens.”
His throat bobbed. “I—yes. Yes, I understand.”
“Good.”
You pressed him back against the headboard, pushing until his shoulders met the wood. He let you, even tilted his head back, swallowing down a moan. His hands twitched again on the sheets.
“Hands behind your back,” you ordered.
Your voice came out steadier than you expected, though your palms were damp against your apron. Isaac froze, eyes flicking up to yours like a starving man who’d just been offered bread.
For a heartbeat, he looked ready to argue, to whine, but then his chest heaved and he obeyed, crossing his wrists behind him like you’d asked.
“Perfect,” you murmured, moving to the nightstand. Your fingers brushed over the drawer handle, pulling it open to reveal the coil of silk cord inside. Smooth, cold, perfect.
You held it up where he could see, and the look on his face almost undid you, the way he shivered, the way his mouth fell open like he might beg.
But this wasn’t about him. Not tonight.
Loop by loop, you bound his wrists, the silk gliding like water over skin until the knot was snug, neat, unyielding.
He flexed once, testing, and groaned low in his throat. “You’re going to ruin me,” he muttered, voice hoarse.
“Quiet.” You tugged the knot tighter. “Dolls don’t speak unless spoken to.”
His breath hitched. A whimper slipped from him, desperate and small, but he obeyed.
You sat back on your knees, studying him. Isaac Night, brilliant, cruel, unbearable Isaac, reduced to this.
Stripped of sharp words, stripped of power, left trembling under your gaze.
You should have been afraid. You should have faltered. Instead, something inside you bloomed, hot and steady.
Your heart was racing. Not because he was bound, but because this was yours. Your first time. The moment you’d dreamed about in secret, playing over and over in your mind. And now, here he was, tied, helpless, begging.
You leaned in, brushing flour-dusted fingers down his jaw, then along his throat. His pulse thundered beneath your touch, mechanical and human all at once. “You’re mine tonight,” you whispered.
His lips parted, trembling. “Yes. Please. I’ll be anything you want. Just don’t, don’t leave me like this.”
You smiled faintly. His words were sweet, but they didn’t matter. You’d been craving control for too long.
Your fingers slid lower, trailing over his chest, pausing at the faint tick beneath his ribs. Then further, lower still, until your palm pressed against the heat straining in his trousers.
Isaac gasped, hips jerking helplessly, a broken moan falling from his lips. He looked wrecked already, bound and trembling and desperate.
And you hadn’t even started.
You slid off the bed long enough to peel your apron over your head, tossing it onto a chair. Cinnamon and sugar still clung to your skin. The smell of apples baking downstairs filled the room, warm and soft, a domestic sweetness at odds with the sight of Isaac tied and trembling on the bed.
You knelt back over him, your knees bracketing his thighs, your fingers drifting down his chest again. His skin was fever-warm under your touch, threaded with cool metal where it met flesh. You dragged your nails lightly across hid heart and watched him shudder.
“Stay still,” you murmured.
He swallowed hard, nodding frantically, his breath hitching. “Yes…” he whispered, but didn’t dare say more.
You undid the remaining buttons of his trousers with slow, deliberate movements. This wasn’t for him. It was for you to savour the power of unwrapping something that had always felt untouchable.
When you drew the fabric down and freed him, Isaac made a choked sound, hips twitching involuntarily, and you pressed a palm flat to his stomach to pin him.
“Don’t move,” you warned.
He went rigid, chest rising and falling, eyes wide and glassy. “Please,” he breathed, almost soundless.
But you weren’t listening to him. You wrapped your hand around him carefully, like you were holding something precious and dangerous at the same time.
The heat shocked you; the pulse against your palm was heavy, insistent. Your fingers trembled, not from fear, but from the thrill of it.
You stroked once, slowly, watching him writhe under you, his bound wrists digging into the sheets. It wasn’t smooth, it wasn’t practiced, but it was yours.
The first time you’d ever taken someone in your hand like this, and it was Isaac. The man who had always been above you. The man who was now shaking for you.
He made a low, broken noise, hips lifting slightly before he caught himself. “Please,” he whispered again. “Please let me—”
You tightened your grip just enough to make him gasp. “Isaac.” you warned.
A shudder ran through him. He bit his lip hard enough to leave a mark and stilled, his whole body taut with restraint.
You leaned down slowly, your breath ghosting over him. You were trembling too, but with anticipation. This was the moment you’d thought about so many times, not him, not his pleasure, but the act of taking, of choosing.
You parted your lips and took the tip of him into your mouth, slow and tentative. The taste was sharp, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant.
Isaac made a noise, a high, helpless whimper, but you didn’t look at him. You closed your eyes and focused on the sensation: the warmth, the weight, the way your lips stretched around him.
You went a little further, a little deeper, your tongue flicking experimentally against him. His thighs trembled under you, but you kept your hands firm, holding him down, dictating the pace.
This was yours. Your first time. Your mouth. Your choice.
You drew back slightly, licking the taste from your lips, and whispered, “You don’t get to come until I decide.”
Isaac let out a ragged moan, his head tipping back against the headboard. “Yes…”
You smiled faintly, your heart hammering.
Then you leaned back down, taking him deeper this time, slow and deliberate, your tongue and lips moving exactly the way you wanted, not the way he needed, but the way you wanted to learn him.
His wrists strained at the bindings, his body quivering, soft sounds spilling from his mouth. He was desperate, undone, and you felt yourself grow steadier with each second, like every movement of your mouth was carving a new kind of power into you.
You sucked a little harder, swirling your tongue until his moans grew louder, rougher, but you never sped up. You held the rhythm you’d chosen, tasting him, learning him, using him.
And when you finally drew back to breathe, a thin string of saliva connecting you, Isaac was trembling violently, eyes blown wide, jaw slack.
“You’re so beautiful..” you murmured softly, almost to yourself. “Now you’re perfect.”
You sat back, straddling his thighs. Your own body throbbed with need, the ache between your legs building with every whimper he gave you.
You’d touched him. You’d tasted him. And now, finally, you were ready to take what you’d wanted for so long.
Isaac’s eyes snapped to yours, wide and pleading. “Please,” he rasped, voice broken. “Please, let me fuck you, I can make you feel-“
“No.” Your voice was sharp enough to cut. You reached down and gripped his cock, stroking once, slow and firm, watching him groan helplessly. “You don’t get to fuck me, Isaac. I get to fuck you.”
The words made him whimper, a raw, pitiful sound. He tried to move his hips, but you pressed your free hand to his chest, pinning him down.
You shifted forward, hiking your skirt up over your thighs, and ripping your panties off, baring yourself to him. Your skin burned under the cool air, your pulse loud in your ears. For a moment, nerves trembled through you, the sharp knowledge that this was your first time, that nothing would ever be the same after this.
And then you looked at him. Isaac Night. The man who made you ache with obsession. Tied, trembling, begging. Completely yours.
The fear dissolved into hunger.
You lined him up, the head of his cock brushing against your slick entrance. He groaned so loudly it shook through you, his bound hands jerking behind his back, but you ignored him.
Slowly, carefully, you sank down onto him.
Your breath hitched, your body stretching around him, the burn sharp but electrifying. Isaac let out a strangled moan, his head slamming back against the headboard, his whole body trembling as you took him inch by inch.
“God-fuck,” he gasped. “You’re-so tight, so warm..please”
“Quiet,” you hissed through your own shuddering breath, forcing yourself lower until he filled you completely.
The fullness was overwhelming, a pressure that made your toes curl, your nails dig into his chest. Pain and pleasure tangled in your stomach, and you held onto it, savouring it.
You stayed still for a moment, your thighs trembling as you adjusted, your breath ragged. This was it. Your first time. The moment you’d imagined, dreamed, obsessed over.
And it was perfect. Not because he was inside you, but because you put him there.
You began to move, slow at first, rolling your hips carefully, testing the stretch, learning the rhythm that suited you. Isaac was falling apart beneath you, groaning, begging, his wrists straining at the ties.
“Please,” he moaned. “Please, let me move- let me touch you I can’t-“
“You can,” you snapped, rocking harder, finding a pace that made your whole body sing. “You’ll stay still. You’ll take it. You’ll let me have this.”
He whimpered, eyes squeezed shut, chest rising and falling in ragged bursts. “I’ll-fuck-I’ll do anything. Just, don’t stop, please, don’t stop.”
You dug your nails into his shoulders, riding him harder, chasing the heat coiling low in your belly. Every sound he made, every twitch of his bound body, only fueled you more.
You were the one in control. You were the one deciding the pace, the depth, the rhythm. He was just your doll, a vessel for your first time, trembling and undone beneath you.
The pressure built, higher and higher, until your moans filled the room with his. His begging, your gasps, the creak of the headboard, the faint ticking of his clockwork heart, all of it folding into one fevered rhythm.
You leaned close, your mouth at his ear, your voice breaking. “You’re mine.”
“Yes,” he sobbed, shaking, his cock throbbing deep inside you. “l’m all yours,”
You slammed down harder, the sensation overwhelming, sparks tearing through your body as release crashed over you. Your whole body clenched around him, your moans sharp and desperate as you came, finally, on your own terms.
Isaac cried out at the tightness, his voice wrecked, his body trembling violently. He was so close, so ruined, but still he didn’t dare come without permission, his cock pulsing helplessly inside you.
You stayed seated on him, gasping, trembling, your body still humming from the peak. You reached up, gripping his jaw tight, forcing his teary, desperate eyes to meet yours.
“Look at me.” you said, watching his eyes dart around in the warm evening light.
His eyes snapped to yours, wild, wet, desperate.
“Do you want to come?” you asked, your voice dark.
“Yes,” he groaned immediately. “Yes, god, please. Please let me,”
You let a slow smile pull at the corner of your mouth. “Then beg.”
He shuddered, the sound that left him low and broken. “Please… let me come,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I’ll be good, I’ll do anything, I’ll be whatever you want, just-please-“
You leaned forward until your lips hovered just over his ear. “Then come for me, Isaac.”
The words were all it took.
His whole body arched off the bed, a raw sound tearing from his throat as he spilled inside you, hot and trembling. The ropes creaked as his wrists strained, but they held; he had no choice but to ride out the release under your weight.
You kept him there, sitting deep on him, holding his jaw so he had no choice but to stare at you while he came undone. His clockwork heart ticked wildly, the rhythm frantic and uneven, like it was echoing his climax.
“My gorgeous boy,” you whispered, watching him shudder, the power of it flooding through you.
Isaac let out a shivering breath, eyes glassy, chest heaving as aftershocks rippled through him. He looked ruined, worshipful, his whole body slack against the bed as if you’d taken every last ounce of control from him, and you had.
Slowly, you eased off him, your thighs shaky, your body still sensitive from your own release. You smoothed a hand over his face, not gentle, but claiming. “Mine,” you murmured.
He nodded weakly, still panting, his voice a rasp. “Yours.”
The sound of it, the way he said it without hesitation, without resistance, sent another shiver through you.
This was your first time, and you’d made it exactly what you wanted.
And Isaac Night, for all his begging and trembling, had been exactly what you made of him.
please lmk if you enjoyed and remember, reblogs are always appreciated and requests are always open! 🫶🏼
This is all that I imagined and more. The way the reader is protrayed as in control in EVERYTHING, even when baking. You portrayed her exactly how I imagined. AND ISAAC? Good lawdddd every time he asked to touch her and fuck her and she said no I lost it. Truly incredible. Thank you so so so much for fulfilling the request🙏
— synopsis: To you, Isaac Night is more than a man…he’s a specimen, a ticking enigma with a clockwork heart you ache to unravel. You keep him chained in your lab, your little lab rat, your perfect experiment. Yet instead of breaking, Isaac thrills beneath your gaze. He understands the hunger in your eyes, the reverence for creation, the beauty of control. Captive and captor blur into one obsession, two mad scientists reveling in the same twisted joy.
— warnings: heavy smut, bondage, masochism, sadism, spit play, p in v, oral (f receiving), switch isaac, bruising, marking, blood consumption, biting, relatively toxic relationship between the two.
— song recs while reading: “your love” — she wants revenge + “sour times” — portishead
“Chains look beautiful on you, Isaac.” You smiled, walking into the laboratory.
Isaac didn’t even flinch when he spotted you in the doorway, nor did he fight against the restraints that pinned his hands above his head. Instead, he grinned psychotically, his teeth glaring in the dim lighting of the dingy room. The room itself reeked of sharp chemicals, rust, and oil, its walls lined with several glass jars and scattered tools. The air was thick with the hum of machinery left unfinished, shadows cascading Isaac’s body and wrapping his limbs in strips of black and white as if he was a specimen on display.
Your boots clicked against the concrete floor as you moved closer to him, each step echoing in the stale silence. The closer you got, the more obvious the ticking became. Oh how you loved Isaac’s glorious clockwork heart. You didn’t care for the flesh or bones that covered the heart, you only cared for the mechanical churn of the gears spinning and pistons flexing. Isaac night was simply a shell, fragile and temporary, who was destined to decay. What excited you was what was inside of him, the perfect rhythm that outshone the weakness of blood and bone.
The heart ticked and whirred beneath his ribs, steady and flawless, a melody so perfect it made your breath catch. The rest of him could rot, you couldn’t care less, but oh…that heart of his, that beautiful machine, you adored it, craved it even.
“Do you hear it?” Isaac cracked with mania, his eyes glistening as he lolled his head towards you. “Every cog, every wheel, it sings when you’re near.”
Your gaze locked on the faint rise and fall of his chest, the subtle glimmer of brass beneath stretched skin where the machine met flesh. His wrists strained lazily against the shackles, not in resistance, but to show himself off better to you. He wasn’t fighting, he was presenting himself.
You scoffed, shaking your head as your eyes met his.
“Isaac,” you murmured, almost absentmindedly, as though testing how his name sounded in your mouth. “Do you realize how little you are compared to the miracle inside you?”
He laughed, delirious and unafraid, tilting his head back with a clatter of chains. “Yes,” he whispered, eyes blazing. “And that’s why I love you for it.”
But you didn’t love him. Not him. Only the ticking, only the brilliance of brass and copper that had defied mortality. His heart wasn’t just a machine, it was devotion, eternity, worship. And you could tear him apart piece by piece, not out of malice, but out of reverence for the creation he carried.
Your hand hovered just above his chest, not quite touching, but close enough to feel the faint vibration of the gears turning beneath his skin. The sensation sent a shiver of hunger down your spine. The pulse of that machine thrilled you more than anything else ever could, a reminder of what brilliance could outlast fragile human life.
You leaned closer, your breath grazing the hollow of his throat as your gloved fingertips finally pressed against the outline of brass hidden beneath his ribs. His grin faltered into something harsher, his eyebrows furrowing as he looked at you with adoration.
You couldn’t help but notice, his stare was piercing into your soul, and you swore you could feel your stomach tighten at the way he licked his lips.
“You think I’m looking at you,” you whispered, voice sharp and quiet, “but I’m not. You’re just scaffolding. What I want is deeper.”
His laugh came ragged and broken, echoing off the iron walls. He tilted his head, pressing his temple against the cold chain above him, exposing himself further. “Then take it,” he rasped, his voice strung tight with mania. “Strip me down until there’s nothing left but the heart. Isn’t that what you adore?”
He reached for the chain so his wrists rattled. The movement was theatrical, pleading. “I built the heart to be tested,” he said, each word careful. “I built it to survive your curiosity. Hurt me in the name of study. Hurt me and then look at it… really look at it, and tell me it’s beautiful. Tell me you broke me because you wanted the machine more than the man.”
“Break the rhythm if you must,” he murmured, eyes shadow-dark. “Make it skip once, twice. Hear how it rights itself. Hear how it insists. That’s the sound I live for, not the pain, not the blood, but the proof that it endures. Prove to me you can destroy and adore in the same breath.”
“You’ll be careful,” he told you, not a question but a dare.
“Do it,” he said finally, softer than a blade. “Take me apart. Hurt me until you’re sure.”
The invitation was absolute. He had offered himself as both altar and sacrifice, and all that remained was the small, dangerous act of accepting.
Isaac’s obsession with your praise had grown feral, gnawing at him from the inside out until it eclipsed every shred of self-preservation. He didn’t care for his body, didn’t care for the pain, didn’t even care if you tore him apart completely, all he wanted was to hear you say it. To hear you confess your awe, your envy, your hunger for the clockwork heart beating beneath his ribs.
It wasn’t love he sought; it was recognition. Each tick was his proof that he had built something purer, smarter, more enduring than flesh or morality. In his mind, every shudder, every rivet, every gleam of brass whispered the same taunt: you could never make something like this.
This was his sick and brilliant victory, to turn his own body into a challenge, to chain himself and still make you tremble, to force you to worship not the man but the machine, because the machine was the part of him no one, not even you, could ever surpass.
Your lips parted before you could stop yourself. The words slid out like a confession, quiet at first, then firmer, darker. “It’s perfect,” you said. “It’s everything you wanted it to be. Nothing I make will ever come close.”
Isaac went still, utterly still, as if the world had paused to catch the sound. Then, slowly, a shudder rippled through him, not weakness, but something closer to ecstasy. His grin spread into something monstrous, eyes gleaming with victory.
“Again,” he whispered, the chains rattling as he leaned forward, voice low and reverent. “Say it again.”
You stepped closer, breath grazing his ear. “Your heart is beautiful, Isaac. More beautiful than anything I could ever create.”
A sharp laugh broke from his throat, part joy, part hunger. He tilted his head back, exposing his chest to you as if it were a shrine. “Yes,” he hissed. “That’s it. That’s the truth. You see it now, you feel it. My genius. My machine. You’ll never match it, and you’ll never forget it.”
In that moment, he wasn’t a prisoner, and you weren’t a captor. He was a prophet in chains, a man who had turned himself into a weapon of awe, and you were his witness, your dangerous praise the ritual he’d been building toward all along.
Isaac’s chest heaved, the steady tick of the clockwork buried inside him filling the silence between you like a metronome. He leaned into the pull of his restraints, muscles taut, chains trembling as though they could sense the moment had shifted. His grin sharpened.
“Unchain me,” he murmured, not a plea but a command dressed as devotion. “If you adore it, if you truly see what I’ve made, then let me show you how it moves without the steel holding me still. Let me prove to you it’s more than a display piece, more than a mechanism in a cage. A masterpiece doesn’t belong in shackles. Don’t you want to witness it fully? Don’t you want to know how it sings when it’s free?”
You circled him like a collector examining a prized specimen, fingertips grazing the iron, not yet the locks. “And if I do?” you asked, voice cold but edged with delight. “If I let you loose, what stops me from dismantling it myself the moment you falter? What stops me from laying you out on this floor and showing you that every masterpiece, no matter how brilliant, bleeds the same?”
His laugh was low, fevered. “Nothing,” he said. “That’s the beauty. I want you to hold that power over me. I want you to test me, break me, perfect me, again and again. But you can’t do that while I hang like some carcass. Unchain me, and I’ll give you what no creation of yours ever could: a living machine that adores its maker enough to risk being destroyed.”
The keys in your pocket suddenly felt heavier, your pulse syncing to the faint tick in his chest. He was right about one thing, you wanted to see it move, to test the limits of a creation that wasn’t yours but could belong to you, if only you dared to set it loose.
Your hand slipped into your coat pocket, fingers brushing the cool bite of the keys. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to the steady tick of his heart, a sound so measured and inhuman it felt like it could crawl beneath your skin. Isaac watched you with a stillness that was anything but passive; it was a predator’s patience, a machine waiting for a command.
You drew the keys out slowly, letting the metal glint in the low light. His grin widened, but you kept your gaze sharp, clinical, as though you were still in control of a specimen, not a man. “If you move before I say,” you warned, voice soft but precise, “I’ll drive a scalpel through the housing and seize the mechanism where it stands. I know exactly which point to press. One wrong angle, one flick of my wrist, and your genius dies in my hand.”
Isaac’s chains rattled as he leaned forward, breath coming fast now, but not from fear. “Yes,” he hissed. “That’s what I want. Hold the blade while you free me. Let me know I’m still at your mercy.”
One by one, the locks clicked open. The sound was intimate, obscene, like opening a secret you weren’t supposed to touch. The iron fell away from his wrists, clattering to the floor, and he rolled his shoulders back with a shudder that was almost bliss.
He didn’t lunge. He didn’t run. He stood there, wrists red and raw, head bowed slightly, not in submission but in offering. “Now,” he murmured, voice low and electric. “Tell me what you want me to do. Tell me how to prove it was worth unchaining me.”
Your eyes lingered on the angry red marks circling his wrists, then drifted lower, to the faint glow pulsing beneath his ribcage. The temptation to press your palm flat against that humming core was sharp, but you didn’t indulge, not yet. Instead, you let the keys fall from your fingers and stepped closer, until the scent of metal and sweat clung to the space between you.
“Prove it,” you said, each syllable deliberate. “If your heart is worth all this, worth my time, my chains, my hands, then show me how it beats for me. On your knees, Isaac. Worship the one who holds your genius in her grasp.”
For a moment, silence stretched thin. Then his lips peeled into that crooked grin, hungry and reverent all at once, and he sank down with no hesitation, the clatter of chains at his feet like a hymn. The dim light caught in his wild eyes as he tilted his head back to look up at you, the sharp lines of his face twisted in fevered delight.
“You want to hear it while I serve?” he rasped, fingers already twitching toward your hips. “The gears straining, the rhythm quickening, proof that even a machine can tremble for its maker?” His laugh was broken, worshipful. “You’ll feel every tick when my mouth is on you. I’ll make the heart beat for you, louder than it ever has.”
Isaac dropped fully onto his knees, chains pooling around him like an offering bowl. His hands made their way to your pants, his grin not faltering. If anything, his grin had sharpened, baring teeth like a man intoxicated by his own surrender.
“Look at me,” he whispered. “I was built for this. I made myself into something worthy, something you can’t resist dissecting.” His chest rose, the faint glow of his clockwork heart pulsing brighter as if it knew the role it was meant to play. “Let me worship you with it hammering in my ribs. Let me prove the heart beats for you.”
You tilted his chin up with two fingers, the way one might inspect a specimen under glass. His eyes burned with mania and adoration, and for a moment you almost believed him, believed that his invention was more than machinery, that it truly lived to please. Almost.
“Careful,” you murmured, your thumb brushing across the line of his jaw. “If I decide the rhythm is off, I’ll carve the casing open and still it with my own hands. You’ll be silent forever, your genius wasted on a failed experiment.”
Isaac shuddered as though the threat itself was ecstasy. “Then give me the chance to keep it alive,” he rasped. “Give me the chance to make you praise it again. Tell me when you hear the gears falter, and I’ll push harder. I’ll make it sing until you admit it’s perfect.”
When you finally let his hands rest against you, his breath caught audibly, a hitch in the otherwise steady metronome of his chest. He pressed closer, reverent, like a worshiper at the altar of their god, every movement deliberate, every sound a plea for your approval. The clockwork tick deepened, echoing against your body in a rhythm that grew faster, almost frantic, as if his creation itself were desperate to be acknowledged.
Isaac’s hands finally latched onto your pants tightly, pulling down the zipper and ripping off your jeans as quickly as he could. The cold air hit your core harshly, the dim lighting raining down on Isaac’s features beautifully.
Your pulse quickened, your head spinning and ticking just like the whirring of his heart. Oh how you loved listening to him as he moved beneath you, his hands latching onto your inner thighs. Isaac pushed you back slightly, putting your back to the wall and lifting one of your thighs till it was on his shoulder.
His fingers moved swiftly, his left hand ripping your panties in one swift motion.
His tongue made it’s way to your weeping hole, your core already dripping with slick. Isaac couldn’t help but snicker, admiring the way you were already leaking for him when he had done nothing. Slowly, his tongue entered your walls, your pussy clenching around his tongue.
Your hand shot up to your mouth in an effort to cover your moans, yet nothing could help you when Isaac was working you so well.
“Oh fuck, Isaac—“ you groaned, your other hand making its way into his long, ragged curls. As you pulled on his curls, Isaac moaned against your pussy, the sting of your grip making his eyes roll to the back of his head.
The sounds echoing in the room were lewd, both of your moans bouncing off of the walls.
You could feel yourself getting closer, each lick of his tongue against your clit bringing you closer and closer to your breaking point. Before you knew it, you were pushing his head deeper into you, riding his face as you came.
“Shit—Ah, that feels so good”
Isaac didn’t even protest as you drove yourself into him, his nose deeply burrowed near your clit. Instead, he continued to lick and clean you all up, swallowing every drop that you gave him.
To say you were shocked was an understatement.
After you came, you looked down at your beautiful little lab rat, his eyes glistening with ecstacy. You couldn’t help but notice the evident tent that had appeared in his pants, causing your stomach to churn with pleasure once again.
Before you could even speak, Isaac was scrambling to his feet and pulling one of your hands to his heart, placing it on his glistening clockwork masterpiece.
“Let me fuck you, please. Let me prove to you that I can do so much more.”
Isaac’s fingers tightened around your wrist, not to restrain but to anchor himself as if he might unravel if you pulled away. The tick of his heart under your palm sped up, each beat sharp as a blade. He moved closer until the glow beneath his ribs cast faint light across your hands, like molten gold flickering under glass.
“I built it to outlast anything,” he whispered, forehead nearly against yours now. “Pain. Heat. Pressure. I built it to take you.” His breath was ragged, reverent. “You’re the only one who’s ever been allowed this close. You’re the only one it would survive for.”
You looked up at him, nails grazing his throat. “If I let you,” you murmured, “it will be under my conditions. You’ll move how I tell you to. You’ll stop when I say. If I feel the gears strain, I’ll end it myself. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he breathed, eyes alight with mania. “Yes. Command me. Use me. Make me prove it.”
He caught your hand and pressed it flat against the thrum of his heart again, the pulse hammering so violently it almost vibrated against your skin. His body trembled, but not with weakness, with the tension of a predator waiting to be unleashed.
“Say the word,” he growled. “Tell me to move, and I’ll show you everything the machine can do. I’ll make you feel it, every turn, every spark, until you believe it’s more alive than either of us.”
“Fuck me, Isaac Night.”
Isaac immediately lifted you up, carrying you to the small table that stood still at the corner of the room. He placed you harshly, your wet core alredy leaking onto the wood that glistened in the grim lighting.
Isaac scrambled to undo his belt, his hands twitching as his heart continued to beat rhythmically. When he unbuckled his belt, his hard cock sprang free, the red tip bulging and angry as the pre-cum dripped down his length.
Isaac’s hand made it’s way to your mouth, his palm only seconds away from your plush lips.
“Spit.” He commanded.
You did so, spit pooling in his palm as he grinned. He brung his hand right back down to his erection as he pumped himself a few times, lining his dick up with your tight hole as he bit down on your collarbone.
Your protest died on your tongue as he plunged into your cunt, a gutteral scream bouncing off of the walls.
He continued to lick and kiss at your neck as his dick abused your pussy, your tight hole clenching around him several times. You never expected Isaac Night to be this big, your eyes watering every time he pulled out and pushed back in, 10 times harder than before.
Your eyes rolled back in ecstacy, the pain of your neck and pussy clouding your mind. You were so overwhelmed with pleasure you weren’t even aware of the blood that was dripping down to your collarbone until Isaac pointed it out as he stopped lapping at your neck.
“Oh my….looks like I got a bit carried away..” Isaac’s fingers brushed the blood off of your collarbone, the red liquid glistening on his fingertips.
Your stomach was churning, but you couldn’t help but moan as Isaac brung his fingers to his mouth, his tongue rolling over the blood as he licked your blood off of his hands.
His spit covered his fingers, yet you absentmindedly stuck your tongue out, urging him to put his fingers in your mouth.
He smirked, stuffing your mouth with his fingers as he continued to pound into your aching cunt.
Quicker than you could register, you were coming undone on Isaac’s cock, your pussy clenching around him as you saw stars.
Isaac groaned as you sucked him in further, riding out your climax.
Isaac came soon after, hot spurts of cum spilling into you. You felt yourself lose your grip on reality, the high becoming too much.
“Isaac— Too much— fuck”
Your voice was a command, not a plea, but the moment the words left your lips, he froze. The glow beneath his ribs pulsed erratically, gears shuddering like a machine pushed beyond its limits. He drew back just enough to search your face, sweat and mania gleaming in his eyes, his grin faltering but not vanishing.
For the first time, silence thickened between you, broken only by the uneven tick of his heart. Slowly, he rested his forehead against your shoulder, chest still heaving, the rhythm inside him struggling to steady. “You felt it,” he rasped. “You heard it sing for you.” His voice was cracked glass, equal parts triumph and desperation. “Tell me you’ll never forget it.”
You let your hand linger over the trembling glow in his chest, fingers splayed across the heat of his invention. A masterpiece on the edge of breaking.
“Rest,” you whispered finally, your words carrying both order and promise. “You’ve proven enough for tonight. But don’t mistake mercy for weakness, Isaac. This heart is mine to destroy as much as it is yours to flaunt.”
He shuddered with something close to ecstasy at that, a fevered laugh trembling against your skin. “Yes,” he murmured. “Yes… break me tomorrow. As long as you keep looking.”
And though the lab was quiet now, the hum of his machine still pressed between you like a vow: this wasn’t an ending, only the pause before the next experiment.
please lmk if you enjoyed, and remember, reblogs are always appreciated and requests are always open !
wordcount: 2.7k
content/warnings: smut 18+, oral (f!recieving), praise kink, sub/bratty Isaac, cumming untouched, he defo steals your underwear, fwb situationship, isaac is taller tha reader (but at nearl 6'3 isn't he taller than most people?), school skirts and thigh-high socks. - because why not.
a\n notes: Two people are to blame for this. Firstly, @isaacnights for making me see Isaac in a new, frankly pathetic light, and @ghostandrazor for the ending of 'tear you apart' making my brain run off with the idea of Isaac getting off on readers pleasure alone. Well done, girls, I hope you're happy now | masterlist
Isaac always wanted things he couldn’t – or at least wasn’t supposed to – have.
He wanted to live, so he crafted his own heart. He wanted Franciose safe, so he started designing the machine to make it so. Now, he wanted you.
You were an equation he hadn’t managed to solve. A thorn in his side. A catching mechanism in his heart that drove him close to insanity on a good day.
He tutored you not because he enjoyed it, not because – as with so many others – it gave his educational superiority complex the fix it needed, but because you enjoyed it. You enjoyed the time with him in your own way. You liked his attention, wholly on you.
And that went straight to his head, rendering him dizzy nine times out of ten.
And you knew that, of course. If not from the way he would halt his work when you entered his tower, then by the way he fell to his knees as soon as you so much as pulled at the hem of your skirt.
It was base, his desire for someone who cared so little about him in return. He was a means to an end — that end being your own pleasure — and he knew it. It didn’t stop him hating it, how his resolve crumbled around you.
He thought himself better than adolescent lust, but the flutter of your lashes and purse of your lips would have made his heart stutter, had he had one. He wondered on more than one occasion if this was all a defect, a foolish error his younger self had failed to notice in the mechanism that resulted in increased, overwhelming blood flow.
It was a witless line of enquiry. But he refused to settle for the glaring truth that he was, in a word, addicted to you. Addicted to the way you didn’t want him. Not in the way that mattered.
Each Thursday after classes, the groaning of the elevator would signal your arrival. If he could appreciate anything about the arrangement it was your penchant for punctuality, it was always 5pm, near the dot, that the old gate creaked open.
You’d follow the same routine – call his name, slump your blazer and bag off your shoulders and set up shop at his desk, dumping out books you both knew would barely be touched. Your studying was performative at best, this he knew well. You’d set down your bag and rifle through for your notebook just to kill the time. Just to feel him linger behind you, to wait to see how long it would take before one of you snapped.
Today, however, he was determined to not break.
He’d had enough – was at the end of his tether, so to speak. He’d made no progress on rectifying his sisters condition, and not for lack of trying. Every time his mind focused, he’d catch the lingering smell of your perfume, or hear your voice across a classroom, and he would be wound up until beyond midnight.
And so, the elevator groaned, bag hit the ground, coat slung over his chair, notebooks clattered to the desk top. But not once did he answer you as you rambled about classes, nor did he look at you, even. His focus remained trained on the papers before him, although his pen didn’t move.
“Isaac?” You leveraged yourself up onto his desk, kicking off your shoes after such a long day, each clattering to the metal floor, and shuffled so that he had no choice but to acknowledge you. He sat back in his chair slowly, unimpressed. “How long are you going to play this game?”
“I’m not playing any game.”
His counter came all too quickly, voice pitched just slightly too high. You huffed, unable to stop your smirk as you leaned forward, tips of your socked toes resting on the edge of his chair, just nudging against his thighs.
“Really?” You picked at his tie distractedly, rolling the fabric between your fingers. “Then why are you trying to ignore me?”
“Because you are proving too much of a distraction.”
It didn’t take much to read Isaac. He believed himself to carry an air of mystique, and to the untrained eye perhaps he did. But his face was unforgivingly emotive, especially when he was in one of his moods. And it was very clear to you now that he was sulking, as he so often did when he didn’t get his own way with the universe.
“You’ve never complained about tutoring me before,” you tutted, glancing up to find his eyes already locked on yours with unblinking intensity. You knew very well it was not the tutoring he was referring to.
“I cannot afford to waste my time on idle fancy,” he pressed.
Your smirk only deepened. “Oh Isaac,” you wrapped the tie around your fingers once, forcing him to sit a little straighter, “for such an impressive mind you’re a terrible liar.”
Another wrap, another tug closer. He came with it willingly.
“I think—“ you mused, another wrap. Another tug. “—that you want this too much. For someone else to be in control for once. To look after you – and that scares you.”
“I’m not scared.” You realised his argument was supposed to be punctuated with a scoff, but the sound died in his throat.
Most importantly, he failed to deny the rest.
He was so close to you now that his breath fanned over your cheeks, stuttered. You knew if his heart could have sped up, it would have.
His eyes had dropped to your lips now, flicking back and forth as you brought your spare hand up from the desk, pushing his hair back, forcing him to meet your gaze again.
His gasp was like a reward.
“Isaac—“ you drawled his name, more than satisfied when his throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing, “—you know all you have to do is ask.”
His voice cracked, the dying whimper leaking from his throat. Even in the dim light you could make out the teary smudges at his waterline, parted lips chapped and bruised from his own teeth.
“Please.”
It was quiet, so quiet you barely heard it.
“Say that again.”
It was cruel, you knew it was cruel, but with his tie wrapped around your fist, the fabric pulled taut as you looked over him, you didn’t see another way.
He swallowed thickly, as if to utter the word again burned his tongue. “Please.”
More concise than the first, articulate, almost, yet still underpinned with desperation.
You wound the tie further around your fist, dragging him towards you, his nose brushing yours, his eyes hooded as they dropped to your lips, heavy breaths fanning your skin. “You’re so pretty when you beg.”
Another whimper, stronger, this time, more sure of itself, as he had the audacity try and lean towards you, to close the gap.
You let the tie go with a shove, his body dropping back suddenly against the wooden spindles of the chair.
Wide eyes followed you as you stood from his desk, clicking your tongue. It was disappointing how such a good student seemed to struggle so ardently with following orders.
Isaac’s chest heaved, confusion melting into bitterness as his frown hardened.
“What are you—“
A cursory glare stopped his assault on his tongue. It was funny, really, how hard he tried to regain control of any situation as soon as he felt his grip slipping. It was funnier how he didn’t realise he was never in control in the first place.
“You know the rules, Isaac.”
He stood abruptly, his temper getting the better of him once again, his fists clenching by his sides as he loomed over you, stepping so close as to share your air.
“You’re still doing this?” He pressed, studying your face for any sign of a crack. He clearly didn’t find what he wanted, jaw tightening. “You’ll sleep with me, but you still won’t kiss me?”
The best you could manage was a withering laugh. “That isn’t what this is,” you reminded him. He huffed, but didn’t step away, tongue rolling into his cheek, glancing anywhere but you like some child being told he couldn’t have dessert.
“Now, are you going to be good?”
His jaw tightened, blown pupils flicking between yours. Isaac may have towered over you, forcing your head back to meet his glossy gaze, but not once did he ever feel imposing. Not when he was pouting like a baby.
He didn’t answer, at least not verbally. Rather his head inclined just a fraction, some semblance of a nod, as if the words were too unbecoming.
“Good boy.”
You barely made it through the praise before his head dipped, lips attaching themselves to your throat, brushing along the collar of your uniform shirt in the recklessness of it.
His lips were slightly rough, chapped as they dragged over your pulse point, so lost in your scent and the quickening pulse beneath his lips that he didn’t even think to smirk as you gasped.
Hurried hands palmed at your waist, dragging you unsteadily back towards his desk, lips only ceasing their assault briefly as your body jolted as he incidentally slammed you against the edge.
It took mere seconds for his hands to scramble beneath your thighs to lift you, palms bunching the fabric of your skirt in the process, hiking the fabric up until it barely covered you.
He wasted no time stepping between your thighs, attempting, you realised, to angle his hips against your own, a pitiful effort to gain some kind of friction.
“Na-ah,” your palm pressed against his chest firmly, being careful to settle on the right of his heart, “you’ve got some making up to do.”
The snarl that left his lips was nothing short of pathetic. Isaac had been needy before, puerile, even, but this was outright bratty. He was throwing a temper tantrum.
His head dropped to your shoulder, a sharp exhale leaving his nose, not from any distaste for the idea, but from pure frustration, his trousers were uncomfortably tight as it was, and you knew this would only make him worse.
Your fingers threaded into his hair, lips ghosting the shell of his ear just briefly before he dropped back into his chair once again, rough fingers tugging you to the edge of his desk, not caring when the calluses caught the skin or your skirt fabric chaffed.
He didn’t hold back. His lips dipping to the exposed skin just above your knee. The edge of your sock, stretched and slightly loose from years of being hastily tugged up between classes, sagged a little, slipping further down as his hand ghosted up the expanse of your leg. His touch featherlight, yet searing, all at once.
This, you were reminded abruptly as his lips dragged closer to your cunt, chapped skin snagging between languished kisses, was why you couldn’t let him kiss you.
Because Isaac Night had the power to intoxicate you from the lightest of touches, from just a modicum of his attention, and it would be all too easy to get drunk on him.
And then, you feared, neither of you would see the light again.
You were pulled back to your senses by your own moan, Isaac now mouthing at the already damp fabric you excused as underwear, his watering mouth only making it worse.
A gentle tug on his curls was all he needed to finally hook his fingers around the edge of the fabric, dragging them with no small degree of desperation down and off of your legs.
Although he’d tried to distract you, tongue immediately returning to flick between your folds, you knew him well enough to catch the way his hand disappeared into his pocket, the lace tucked away for later.
You would have scoffed if it weren’t for your sigh, fingers tightening in his hair much to his approval as he dragged your slick up over your clit, rolling it beneath his flat tongue messily, before he let his head drop again, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as his brows furrowed in concentration.
It didn’t take long for him to start lapping at your cunt like he was starving, tuning in to every buck of your hips, the hiccuping of air from your lungs as you practically ground against his face, his nose bumping against your swollen bud every time he delved lower, pressing his tongue into you, revealing the way you fluttered against him.
“Fuck, you’re perfect—" clammy fingers tugged at his curls again, the dull sting against his scalp forcing the involuntary snap of his hips against air, his chair protesting, creaking with the force of it.
He showed nothing else dedication like this besides his work, especially as one hand released its bruising grip on your thigh, long fingers pressing into you quickly.
He needn’t waste time letting you adjust, not with the way your walls practically pulled him in, clenching immediately around his digits as they curled, perfectly, to where you needed him most.
Your mind had already started to turn hazy, praise tumbling from your lips as you watched him lose himself entirely between your thighs, his hips fucking up against nothing everytime the word ‘beautiful’ landed against his ears.
Even now he whined, the sound teasing your clit as he latched his lips around it, suckling pathetically, his fingers not once relenting as if making you cum was an experiment he was losing his grip on.
“Good boy, right there—“ your gasps betrayed you, your eyes scrunching shut despite yourself, the pressure in your stomach building at such an alarming rate that it shocked even yourself, your toes cramping as they curled, fingers of one hand pressing painfully into the desk, the others scratching at his scalp in a way you were sure had to be painful. If he cared, he had a funny way of showing it.
He was getting good at this – ridiculously so – every reaction catalogued, filed, studied meticulously. Practise really did seem to make perfect.
The cold metal of his signet ring brushed your thigh with each curve of his fingers, the difference practically burning your flushed skin as your breath hitched, “don’t s-stop,” every flick of his tongue was draining the control from you, becoming your undoing. “Doing so good—“
The chair beneath him creaked again as he fidgeted, groans pouring from his own throat, melting into your cunt as he pulled your clit between his lips, fingers curling harder, faster, until at last you snapped.
“Fuck!” It took both his hands to pin you down as your hips bucked, rutting against his face as his tongue continued to lap at your sweetness, drinking it as if it were the only thing sustaining his life. Only ever wanting to be good for you.
Chest heaving, your fingers unfurled themselves from his hair, attempting to stroke down the unruly mess you had made as he finally sat back, cheeks and chin glistening, coated, in your slick.
His stillness confused you. It usually didn’t take him long to beg for more. He remained hunched, shaking fingers still palming at your thighs, which you realised now were marked from his digging nails.
Then, you noticed.
“Oh Isaac,” you tutted, forcing your breath to even out so as to amplify the disappointment. “Again?”
He could barely meet your eyes. You just about made out the clenched jaw and reddened cheeks, not just from embarrassment but rage, hidden beneath his wild hair. His hands positively shook as you destroyed his image word by word.
You weren’t sure who he was most angry with, you for treating him this way, or himself for allowing you to.
“Not to worry,” you edged your skirt back down your thighs again, not bothering to ask him for the underwear poking from his pocket (he needed them more, afterall). You leaned forward on the desk so as to reach out to him, fingertips grazing his chin, forcing him to look up at you as your own gaze settled on the darkened stain on his trousers – another uniform ruined.
content warning: power imbalance, smut, hand jobs, blow jobs, biting, comeplay, jealousy, toxic relationships, angst, sexual inexperience, normie!reader, one-sided francoise night/reader, possessive behavior
notes: most normal person in this is eli and he dies immediately, so! whole family crazy asf. i need you guys to know that i suffered immensely to write this fic, please reblog, comment + like. tell me things you enjoyed, stuff you’re curious about!
word count: 10.2k
preview: You have a monopoly on his thoughts the way a problem does: irritating, inexhaustible, insistent on being solved. And unlike problems, you do not yield to solution.
When Isaac kills Elijah Sinclair, he uses his hands.
It is not intentional. It is not because hands were optimal, not because some primal urge overrode protocol. Isaac, a man whose temperament inclines less to sentiment than to salvage, does not brood on the improvidence of the act. Sinclair, however pedestrian in wit, is still an auxiliary subject: a mobile container of fluids, tissues, cells, each with its prospective yield. Isaac Night is a man of science and the point… the point is never mourning the foregone; it is extracting what remains available.
This is how he rationalizes Elijah Sinclair’s imminent death.
The plan itself had been deceptively simple in design: the clean insertion of a needle into the Normie’s neck; the swift sequestration of the subdued subject to the clocktower; the gradual extraction of all the biological dividends that could be extricated from him. Isaac had charted the situation with the precision of someone who prefers the predictability of protocol over improvisation. Every step is taken into consideration, he leaves no stone unturned, every variable listed, every outcome predicted. Until there was a flaw, unforeseeable, subtle. Recognition. The human variable was a persistent anomaly, refuses to be tamed by protocol or procedure.
Sinclair loiters against his car, posture slack insouciantly. As Isaac approaches, those indolent eyes hone in on him, the flicker of nascent recollection animating them.
“Do we know each other?”
Isaac’s reply is cool and detached, “y’know, I can’t say that we do.”
But it doesn’t take long for Sinclair to snap his fingers as though nabbing the tail of a fugitive thought. “Shit, you’re one of them.”
Isaac’s eyelids close briefly, sighing in irritation. The smile does not reach his eyes when he opens them. The Outcast spiel is a customary one, one he’s overly familiar with.
Sinclair grins, backs of his legs pressed to his vehicle. “Don’t know what she sees. Whatever magic tricks you’re pulling, she’ll move on. And when she does? She’s got me.” His teeth flash, unknowingly sealing his fate.
Isaac has endured such tirades before: the tedious chest-beating of men whose hormonal surplus seemed to drown out whatever vestigial faculties they possessed, but this time it needled. Against his better judgement, he registers offense, as if some furtive nerve had been struck. That tolerant smile stiffens, his expression compressed to a blade’s gleam like something poised to cut. Sinclair drones on, blissfully ignorant, his declarations pelting the air.
Inside Isaac, something curdles. The churn starts low in the pit of his stomach, thick and bilious, climbing until it presses against his chest. A sickness of recognition, a bodily recoil so instinctive it arrives before reason.
Sinclair is still rattling off, but Isaac does not process a word. His lips twitch into a snarl, and suddenly he lunges, his body moves without consultation of mind. Choler inhabits his thought; his telekinetic faculties forgotten, his hands clamp around Sinclair’s throat. The man flails, claws at him, shouts, panics. Isaac does not let up. He drives him down, feels the frantic pulse beneath his fingers, the gasps turning into wet rattles before they fully cease, watching the life drain from those glassy, taunting eyes.
Francoise appears not long after, her gasp arriving before her words. She hurries to Isaac’s side, hands hovering uselessly, twitching with the impotence of broken tools. “What did you do?” she hisses; not out of pity for Sinclair, but out of dread for her brother. Thoughts crash through her in succession, but the one that sticks, stubborn and unshakable, is you.
Isaac looks at the corpse with the tranquil neutrality of a man regarding a finished equation. The solution is reached. There is, for the moment, peace.
The days feel lighter for Isaac, a paradox that he accepts without interrogation. Sinclair is excised, subtracted from the equation and you don’t seem to notice (or if you notice, you don’t seem to care). This indifference intoxicates him: indifference is not loss but aperture, a clearing into which you step, and in stepping, you draw nearer but not outward into anything like suspicion or grief, but inward, toward Francoise, toward him.
Francoise has always been porous to Normies, her predilection is a deeply rooted yearning for the narcotic lull of ordinary life. She craves the safety of the cocoon you provide. She has always been taken with you. Your elaborate wardrobe, your array of cosmetics, your unapologetic admiration for your culture and traditions. Every gesture, every habit that distinguishes you from her cloistered world becomes for Francoise a guide, a template she wishes to replicate. She shadows you with the fervor of an acolyte, following you in your footsteps.
Isaac sees it though with a clarity, the subtle thrill lurking beneath Francoise’s carefully measured concern, the way her eyes catch a secret light, a silent hungry delight at the thought of Sinclair’s absence and all the stolen moments it promises: more time basking in your company.
He understood it then in a way he had not before, remembering how she deliberately abandoned her carefully scheduled arrangements, those long discussions where they had planned to excise the monster from her. You had been siphoning her attention, drawing her into a gravitational field not of his making. The sensation was a loss of control: a resource slipping from his fingers into someone else’s custody.
Isaac observed all of this in silence. Irritation had needled at him: Francoise had once again tethered herself to someone else, and you, unreasonably, had allowed it. He had half expected you to recoil once you sensed her dependence, that familiar unease others betrayed in her presence. But you did not recoil. You accepted her attachment, even accommodated it.
You crossed the threshold into his laboratory with a natural ease, the kind that speared his irascibility before he even fully registered it. Francoise sat, calm, expecting you, a silent enabler to your intrusion into this sanctuary. Every step you took seemed to claim the room, pressing against the arrangement of instruments and glassware, drawing his attention in ways both vexing and quietly disarming.
Francoise, as curious as she was, had importuned you with a myriad of questions which you answered effortlessly and he was content to observe.
You’re ensconced in the quietude of the lab, where Francoise hummed in tandem with the ticking of the tower, your fingers moving with deliberate care, weaving your hair into intricate braids.
“Does it really take that long?”
You had laughed, a bright, lilting sound that echoed like startled birds in the lab. “Girl, yes,” you said, letting a small, melodramatic groan escape as if the very air around you weighed on your limbs. Your arms stretched with aggrandized languor. “My arms are killing me.” Then, inching forward, you dip the ends of your hair into a bowl full of boiling water.
“Why are you doing that?”
Isaac was the one who answered, “It’s a sealant. The heat softens the fibers.”
A look of surprise crossed your features, then a smile spread on your lips like a gradual sunrise. “So, he does talk,” you said, tone imbued with mirth, as if you had just uncovered a rare specimen in his own lab.
“Oh, I’ve been talking,” Isaac said, voice clipped, a tad cruel, but measured. “Though I suspect your brain filtered most of it. Frankly, it’s remarkable you even comprehend the basics of—” His gaze drifted over your hair, assessing, calculating, then he fell silent, leaving the thought curtailed, pointed in its implication.
You blinked, slightly peeved. “Discussing your little experiments in jargon you think I won’t understand isn’t the same as having a conversation.”
“These ‘little experiments’ are more than you’ll ever amount to in your entire life.”
“Isaac, you promised,” Francoise admonished.
He relented with a tight smile, “I didn’t think you’d be interested, is all.”
You narrowed your eyes for a moment, then to Francoise: “I’m getting ready for my cousin’s wedding on Saturday,” your gaze lingering on Isaac while he attended his work. “They’re always long but no one is turning down free food.”
You place the steaming bowl aside, lifting the next instrument of your meticulous ritual. Pipette in hand, movements measured, ceremonious, steadying the tip at your wrist. Francoise leaned in, elbows resting on the counter, her face cradled in her hands, eyes tracing your hands with a gentle fascination. “You keep it on for an hour, right?”
You paused, the pipette poised in your hand, then let a faint, almost vindictive twitch unfurl at the corner of your lips. “Why don’t we ask Isaac?”
His head snapped up. His earlier derision had drawn out your own, and now he was fully alert. For Isaac, it was not insignificant. He was accustomed to observing from the periphery, yet your voice pinned him like an insect under glass, his name in your mouth felt sharp, unfamiliar in its warmth.
“The longer you keep it on, the more pigment shows through.” The words came out clipped, almost brusque, as though he was shutting down an intrusion rather than answering a harmless question. But the way your eyes caught his own made him restless, because you did not seem chastened — you seemed entertained.
“Wow, Francoise,” you intoned, and he pinpointed the tone immediately. “A real genius, huh? You know what… maybe I do have it all wrong. I’d just about give it all up to be holed up in some tower after graduating, nothing but dusty old books to keep me company. Maybe then I’ll amount to something.”
“Don’t be mean,” Francoise chided, the suppressed giggle hidden behind her fingers, tangibly delighted at the exchange, but Isaac felt something else: a faint sting of irritation braided with something lighter. You were teasing him, and he did not know whether he resented it or welcomed it.
Your affront sounded more playful than offended. “What! Am I not allowed to return the favor?”
And then you grinned at her.
“She’s perfect,” Francoise breathed one night, holding the top you had lent her to her nose, inhaling your scent as if memorizing it, her voice hushed and full of reverence as though she were sequestered in a confessional booth.
Isaac said nothing. He did not fully comprehend Francoise’s mercurial wants but he loved her, and love, in his practice, meant endurance: allowing her indulgences until novelty exhausted itself. She always grew bored.
Except not this time.
Francoise did not loosen her grip, instead she tightened it. She curled herself around you like a cat discovering its sunbeam, unembarrassed by the dependency, and what was even worse, was that you permitted it. He half expected recoil from you, anticipated the familiar recoil others exhibited when confronted with Francoise’s appetite for attachment. Yet you did not retreat. You absorbed it, you accommodated it.
And Isaac, though he ought to have resented this trespass, found himself instead suspended in that same clearing, lighter, because though Francoise clung, you did not shake her off, and where she clung, he remained proximate too.
At first, Isaac explains you to himself in the same terms he explains all phenomena: a series of variables, an arrangement of surfaces and behaviors to be observed and classified. He notes the gentle slope of your features, mentally indexes your reactions and how you interact with the people around you. He tells himself these are social signifiers, external codings no different from plumage in birds or chemical markings in insects. Useful to note, irrelevant beyond that.
Francoise’s descriptor of you is skewed by limerence. Isaac does not share his sister’s delusion.
He sees you as you present yourself: you are not particularly kind, allowing your capricious moods to dictate the climate of an entire week. You surround yourself with deplorable company and you move among them with a kind of predatory ease. Vindictive, quick to anger, and gifted with a memory that hoards every slight, you navigate life with an ineradicable degree of spite, and wait for your opportunity to repay it.
But the longer he watches, the less his notes remain detached. Observation metastasizes into fixation. He records the tilt of your head when you laugh, the cadence of your footsteps on corkscrew steps, the way you treat Francoise’s eagerness not as weakness but as invitation, how your speech pitches when you’re pleased. None of it belongs in a ledger, all of it fundamentally banal, and yet he cannot stop compiling it. The data accrues, becomes a constellation.
This is how Isaac falls: incrementally, with a slow suffocation of resistance, the realization that every effort to explain you only fixates him more tightly to you. You have a monopoly on his thoughts the way a problem does: irritating, inexhaustible, insistent on being solved. And unlike problems, you do not yield to solution.
His body knows before his mind concedes.
And still, he does not say anything. His affection conducted in the surreptitious privacy of glances and observations.
Your aggravation proliferates when a week passes and you still haven’t heard a word from Eli. He has never been indispensable but his presence has at least provided a pulse of attention to punctuate your days. The arrangement between you had always been casual. He offered you a measure of interest without any strings attached, and you in turn granted his closeness. He had accepted your stipulations without protest: you were not a couple, nothing exclusive, you were free to come and go as you pleased.
But the premise, fragile as spun-sugar, carries its own implicit clause. Whatever this was could dissolve at any moment, and you both knew it. A gossamer-thin tether, already strained, that would snap the instant Eli’s attention strayed elsewhere.
You never pretended otherwise. You liked the attention but you did not need it. Eli required more than you were willing to give, and so you gave him nothing beyond the bare minimum. When his silence stretches on, your irritation exacerbates out of principle. The absence disrupts the arrangement: he was supposed to orbit you, not the other way around. You don’t like to be left in the dark.
“What?” Your voice cleaves harsher than intended when you catch the sidelong glance of one of the Outcasts lingering nearby, their gaze grazing over you like nails on a chalkboard. “Do I have something on my face? No? Then move.” The words slice, leaving them scuttling aside, but the irritation lingers, a residue you can’t quite shake.
Francoise waits just beyond the ornate iron-wrought gates, and she, in tune with your emotions, registers the disturbance. She hovers in that nervous space between wanting to fold herself into your arms and fearing she has somehow incurred your displeasure.
Something is wrong.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, voice tentative, her body edging closer toward yours as if her closeness begets reassurance.
“Francoise!” Relief bursts out of you in the form of her name. You pivot toward her, your exasperation already on exhibition. “Eli ghosted me. I knew I shouldn’t have given that loser a chance.”
In hindsight, she knows she should have prepared for this. The past week has been perfect according to her: your attention was on her. But she hadn’t counted on the moment when his absence would make itself known to you.
She falters, words stalling, then seizes one of yours and it’s something you’ve said before. She polishes it into a consolation of sorts. “Boys are stupid, especially Eli,” she declares. The mimicry is uncoordinated, like she doesn’t know how to wield it properly, but it carries the force of devotion, and she hopes that’s enough.
It is. your anger assuaged by the balm of her regurgitated words and you grin, and loop an arm into hers. “Who?”
Her answering grin is immediate and she leans into you, her shoulder grazes yours, testing how long the contact can linger before you begin to register it as anything other than innocuous.
The clocktower augments your intrusion, every footfall ricochets too loudly, every intake of breath announces itself as an unwelcome arrival. Dust hangs in the air, visible in shafts of fractured light, so thick you could pretend it’s not dust at all but the residue of lives half-lived here and abandoned. The machinery ticks and grinds as if out of spite, its rhythm stubbornly irregular, reminding anyone foolish enough to listen that time is not a comfort but a cudgel.
You do listen. You can’t help yourself. Each metallic cough and gear’s groan inserts itself into your bones until you are sure you are clanking in sympathy, a moving cog in Isaac’s private cathedral of steel.
“His organs are intact. No reason to discard a body,” Isaac intones, voice measured, as if tallying reagents rather than adjudicating life and death. The words land with the calm of inevitability, yet beneath them wreathes the mild satisfaction of someone who has eliminated a variable he would not tolerate.
“The police, Isaac,” Francoise hisses, panic fraying her whisper. “You know she’s noticed, right?”
You freeze mid-step. The words snag like a hook in the chest, drawing attention to yourself you had not volunteered. She’s noticed. The pronoun presses into you, intimate and accusatory, and the knowledge is heavy, unavoidable.
Isaac tilts his head, curiosity lacing the question more than fear: “Has she?”
Francoise’s insistence is urgent: “We need to get rid of the body. Now.”
A wire catches your foot; you stumble, clatter into a machine. The sudden noise shreds the conversation, leaving only the tension between them.
Isaac’s voice reaches you first, low, coaxing, intimate in a way that only you could receive without alarm. Your name leaves his lips in croon: “I know you’re there. It’s okay, you can come on out.”
You falter, weighing all potential exits. The lift is a joke: sluggish as molasses. The stairs are worse, corkscrewing out of reach on the far side, requiring exposure, the long trudge of prey pursued. That leaves only forward, the coward’s bravado of pretending you chose to step into the open.
So you do. One foot, then another, your pulse skitters like a jackrabbit’s, frantic enough you half expect the sound to give you away. You fix your eyes on Isaac as though that might anchor you.
And Isaac smiles. He tilts it at you the way a butcher might soothe livestock, smoothing the animal’s panic before the knife descends.
“Hello,” he says, gentle as a lullaby, deceptively soft.
It was soothing, for a moment, to let your eyes unfocus, until the comfort betrayed you. The respite lasted only long enough to betray the ambush: Francoise’s hasty concealment had been exactly that: hasty. Inept. The cadaver had not been spirited away so much as tucked under the rug like a child’s misdeed. Two legs protruded, pale and insolent, broadcasting their existence as if to taunt your credulity. And with that glimpse, panic resumed its racket, a trapped bird smashing itself stupid against the bars of its gilded cage.
“What the fuck did you do?” you blurt out, and unthinkingly you inch closer even though every nerve in your body is screaming at you to stop.
Isaac steps closer, carefully. “You missed quite the performance.”
You let out an exhale of disbelief, taking a step back when another wire catches your foot; you stumble. He is there instantly, catching you, the press of his chest against yours almost unbearably close. You push, he yields slightly, just enough to let you think you’ve won, then recovers with fluidity and you make eye contact with Eli’s corpse.
The body is no longer a body, but a stage for putrescence. The skin slackens and peels, colours blooming in shades of gangrenous green, jaundiced yellow and violet. The belly balloons, swollen like a womb distended with nothing but gas. What seeps from the mouth is not speech but a dark syrup, thick, unctuous, as though the body excretes its own silence.
You notice the lack of miasma in the air. The thought arrives slyly, intruding without your invitation: Isaac must have treated it, preserved it, as though he could defer the inevitable disintegration of meat but the same meticulous nature had not been spared for Eli’s appearance. He sullies your remembrance of him, whether this is intentional or not, you don’t know.
Inside your chest, emotion riots, a tangle of instincts clawing to take precedence. But there is no grief. You wait for it, demand for it to crawl up like a corpse from the grave, but it refuses you. What surges instead is the greater obscenity: the awareness that you do not feel bad.
You tremble; your knees refuse to cooperate. You fold. Isaac instantly holds you in his arms, folds with you, transforming your collapse into an act of grace, pinning you to him in a way that feels nothing like salvation and more along the lines of possession. Your head rings; the room tilts. You don’t notice him parsing your face, watching each expression alight and vanish, indecision written in microsecond shifts, until one emotion fixes and solidifies: fury. You wrench yourself free, twisting in his hold.
Your hand moves to slap him.
A hand grabs your wrist midswing, but not to stop you. Only to moor you, to remind you that you can let yourself go, that it’s okay. You twist, shove, and he allows every movement, every strike, his calm presence amplifying the ferocity of your actions, rabid like a wild animal.
The fist that cracks against his cheek he does not anticipate; until now your movements have been nothing but flailing, noise without aim. This lands. He reels, surprise splintering the composure he dons like a labcoat. For a moment, displeasure flickers like a light switch, before he reins it in, recaliberates, and straightens, the gesture reabsorbed into poise as though the lapse had never existed.
You shove again, sharper this time, and he leans into it. He lets the force guide him closer rather than push him away. His hands hover near yours, twitching in anticipation. When you strike, he doesn’t block outright; he catches your wrists just long enough to redirect, to guide, to invite.
You vaguely hear your name being called by Francoise, but the blood rushing through your head stymies it from reaching you.
You twist, try to push him off balance, and he flows with it, arms brushing yours, fingers grazing your forearm, a brush of skin that sets your nerves alight. Every motion is a tease: he does not overpower, does not end the fight, only shapes it, letting your strength meet his without ever fully conceding control.
The clocktower groans, a cacophony of iron and pendulum, gears grinding like the teeth of an unrelenting predator. Your fists strike again, and again, each impact a declaration of your anger, a corporeal litany. Isaac remains a study in endurance, his calm, his unyielding patience, is intolerable to you.
You shove him into a console of his making; your arms ache, your lungs scream for air, and still, he yields nothing, only the merest concession, a lean here, a minimal shift there, as if every motion of yours were a statement he is eager to receive, not evade. Your unmitigated rage finds no outlet in resistance, and the intensity of that absence roars louder than the machinery itself.
And then, a voice, fracturing, cutting through the tumult: “Stop!”
Francoise.
She bursts from where she had been rooted stagnant, a sudden flare of humanity in the mechanical cathedral, her eyes wide with alarm, fingers pressed to your chest in a futile attempt to stave off further contact. “Enough!” she cries, a demand you’re not used to hearing from her.
Your gaze snaps toward her, chest heaving, pulse hammering in your temples, and for a heartbeat the violence wavers, suspended between the two of you like a held breath. Isaac's composure is absolute, if not a little breathless. You can’t figure out why he didn’t use his powers.
She steps between you, hands bracing against your shoulders, eyes searching yours with the gravity of one who loves fiercely and fears loss. “You can’t,” she says, voice trembling but resolute.
The words strike, a counterweight to the frenzy, and you falter, muscles trembling with exhaustion and adrenaline but then you remember her earlier words and the anger builds back up. “You,” you seethe and she lets go of you as though she’s been branded by a hot iron. “You were a part of this.”
“No!” Francoise cries out vehemently, dismay coloring her voice, upset that you would even think that of her.
Isaac’s gaze sharpens, registering the familiar, perilous signs of his sister’s spiraling emotions, the hurt and frustration twisting in her, the precursor to an unabating storm. He does not attempt to temper your anger, only inclines his head slightly, measured and deliberate. “It was me,” he admits.
The admission presses against your ribs like iron. Anger, disbelief, and exhaustion collide, and your body tenses, ready to fling itself from the suffocating weight of the room. You don’t wait for another word, don’t pause for explanation. With a brisk motion, you wrench yourself free from the halo of his calm, brushing past Francoise, who recoils instinctively.
Isaac does not move to stop you, eyes following you out of the room.
Isaac has long since come to terms with the fact that he is not a man prone to impatience, particularly when it comes to his work. Time in the lab is a measured thing, a patient stretch of hours spent wrangling with the irreducible laws of nature. This, he can abide, but he has no patience when it comes to you.
And so, naturally, he abandons the pretense of patience altogether. If you will not come to him, he will go to you.
There you are, in the midst of one of your familiar haunts, where your voice cannot help but rise above the others in a self-assured manner. Isaac knows that grin on your face before it even reaches full bloom. It is a weapon, a prelude to some particularly biting rejoinder, the very sort that will leave your companions awed.
His eyes scan the scene: a group of dim‑witted sycophants crowd around you, content in their own reflections, their banter tumbling over itself in a kind of vacuous reverence.
But Isaac is never one to defer to this kind of thing, no matter how effortlessly you hold the stage. And when your smile falters, a slight dip in its angle, he knows that you are already constructing the perfect dismissive response in your mind.
The sneer of your lips is a cutting, almost surgical thing. The moment he approaches, you notice him, your eyes narrowing with practiced coldness. A subtle act of disapprobation. The smile vanishes altogether, replaced by the arch of a brow, the quiet, reflexive distaste only someone who truly knows you can read.
“What are you doing here?” you ask, and Isaac bets that your words are not an inquiry, but a challenge.
He almost feels the air tighten between you, the expectancy that follows in the wake of your question. He smiles, offering the barest gesture of politeness to your companions, letting his eyes flick over each of them with the efficiency of a man surveying a series of chess pieces.
“Are there laws prohibiting me from talking to an old friend?”
“Isaac,” you warn, though he is certain it is meant more to preserve the fragile illusion of control than anything else. “I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Really?” Isaac’s voice drops an octave, lowers itself into something intimate and prodding. “But we have so much to talk about.”
There is a pause. A breath. A beat of recognition. “I promise it won’t take long,” he continues. It feels false even as the words leave his mouth. The tone suggests as much.
You falter, words stuck somewhere between your throat and your chest. “Okay,” you manage at last, a fragile concession to the moment. Turning, you offer the girl you had been speaking to a tentative embrace, brief but full of warmth. In that rush of motion, you do not notice the almost imperceptible slackening of Isaac’s smile, a subtle fracture in his usual composure. “I’ll see you guys later,” you add, your voice a fragile thread attempting to stitch together civility from the disjointed fragments of your exit.
When you turn to Isaac, he smiles pleasantly. You wait until your friends’ voices recede into the distance before you lay your caveat bare. “We’re going somewhere public,” you say. “I’m not letting you second‑location me.”
“Believe me, if I wanted you dead, it would have happened already.”
You shake your head, scoffing in disbelief. “What the hell, Isaac?”
“After everything,” he says, and he sounds a little breathless when he does, “you’re still surprised.”
You find nothing to say to that.
He tilts out of the way, head inclining in a parody of courtesy. “Lead the way.”
The walk is brief but unbearable. He keeps exactly half a pace behind, a shadow with impeccable posture. You resent how unhurried he looks, hands folded behind his back like a man out for a stroll, while your eyes flick constantly to shopfronts and alleys, already plotting exit strategies. Twice you think about bolting, but you recall his abilities and reconsider this option.
There’s a quaint cafe not far that you like the pastries of, and the roads on the way there are semi-populated, the evening is encroaching fast and you want to get out before night takes over.
Isaac, however, has other plans. He takes off his coat, placing it onto the seat next to him and sits down leisurely. “Didn’t know cafes stayed open this late,” he comments off-handedly, sliding the other menu across the table as though he’s issuing paperwork and exploring the contents of his own, he grimaces, rictus-like. “I’ll need a minute. What about you? You always liked the food more than the drinks.”
“Isaac,” you exasperate, “what are we doing here?”
“We,” he emphasizes, “are eating. I’m hungry.”
“You just made a face, you don’t like anything on the menu.”
He grins at you, pleased at the observation. “Coffee, then. What about you?”
“I don’t know, Isaac,” and you lean closer, your tone hushed, “maybe you can start with telling me why you killed my fucking boyfriend?”
Isaac’s grin drops, his lips curl into a sneer. There is no gradual dispersing of his smile, he does not try to conceal the fact that he is displeased with the new denomination you’ve pinned on Sinclair. “He,” Isaac hisses, the syllables rife with contempt, “was not your boyfriend. You’ve never called him that before… don’t tell me you’re getting all sentimental now.”
You straighten up, taken aback at the level of vitriol suffused in what Isaac was saying. You haven’t been at the end of the genuine mockery from him for some time. You don’t say anything for a moment, using this opportunity to survey the man sitting across from you and slowly, you begin to piece things together, eyebrows smoothing out from your furrow: you note the clean pressed shirt, his usual unkempt hair, relatively tamed into a slickback style.
Your body deflates, your eyes scour over the menu. “A croissant.”
For a moment Isaac’s face arrests: blank, trying to make sense of the conceding, the sudden turning down of the argument.
He delicately drums his gloved fingers on the table, once, twice, vetting over your face before rising to make his way over to the counter. You take the reprieve greedily. Your brain careens into theories, trying to make sense of what’s happening. Your brain is already allocating conjectures that don’t align with your perception of Isaac Night because that would mean…
It would mean that he likes you.
Or, your brain reasons, as an addendum, and it seems more plausible than anything else: he’s avid in his manipulation, utilizing this avenue does not seem like a stretch for him.
When he comes back, he places down a plate in front of you and gives you a bottle of water.
You look at the croissant dubiously, then back up at him and you reach for the bottle of water, slowly unscrewing the cap and then you decide to try something. “I don’t go on dates with someone who’s murdered my boyfriend.”
His body goes still.
You let the provocation hang in the air and then twist the knife with a voice lacquered in something almost affectionate, almost cruel. “I can see why you’d be jealous of Eli. He fucks good.”
It’s effective: it manifests with a brief tick in his brow. Isaac’s riposte is whip-fast, mouth quirks into an irritated smile, his gloved hand waves its dissent in the air. “Not anymore, he doesn’t.”
Your chest tightens, your pulse you can feel drumming against the cage of your ribs, threatening to unravel the careful composure you have been cultivating since entering the cafe. You lift the bottle of water to your lips, sipping in an almost abstemious fashion, though the dryness of your mouth makes the act feel desperate, necessary only to delay the impending vertigo of anticipation. Each swallow echoes faintly in the empty booth, a small percussion to the taut silence stretched between you and him.
“Isaac. Why are we here?” You try again.
He seems to be weighing his options. “Francoise misses you, she’s worried you’re going to go to the police.”
The words hover, heavy, almost tangible, settling into the booth like dust motes in the late afternoon light. “And you? Are you worried?”
“No, because you’re not going to the police.”
You bristle at the assured tone he governs. “You-“
He interrupts you with the kind of quiet authority that compresses the air between you, folding it into his will. “If I was going to kill you, I would have done it already and if you… were planning on turning me in, I wouldn’t be here right now, sitting across from you in a booth.”
With the stillness of a guillotine held in the air, suspended over your thoughts, waiting for the inevitable drop, your body responds before your mind can fully comprehend: your pulse flares, your fingers curl reflexively around the rim of the glass, knuckles blanching.
After a long interval, he speaks again, quieter this time, his voice a delicate tremor against the weight of his usual composure. “I don’t know why I kept it,” he admits, the phrasing cautious, as though he were stepping into uncharted territory of confession. “But I wanted to see how you would react.”
“Why?”
“Don’t you know?”
You swallow.
“I think I’m a bad person,” you disclose in tu, there is an unidentifiable emotion swelling in your chest, you think it's a surfeit of love, you think it's grief and he smiles so fondly at this admittance.
“No, you’re not,” he says with such conviction, like he’s known you for your entire life. “For you, the pain will come later. It always does and when it does, I’ll be there.”
Strangely, the dynamic falls back into place, even with the fraught tension permeating the air, but you elude it. Francoise wants a picturesque relationship, neat and framed, a diorama of smiles and sanctioned affection, and so she welcomes you back with open arms, though the edges of her calm betray the sawtoothed undercurrent, the eruptive hyde-teeth she barely restrains. You notice the way she hesitates just long enough for the shadow of irritation to flicker across her features when your attention drifts to her brother rather than anchoring itself to her: a near capitulation to the truth: you are a force she cannot domesticate.
Isaac’s disposition contains a modicum of warmth, as if it were a catalyst to be titrated with care rather than a spontaneous effusion. Maybe it had always been there, lurking beneath the contours of his gaunt face and the strict geometry of his gestures, and maybe you had simply not been attending to it, too absorbed in the calculus of his habitual severity. When your gaze brushes over him now, the smile that had previously read as cold, as infinitely calculating, takes on a tenor of tenderness, subtle but undeniable, a shift almost imperceptible unless one had been trained in the recognition of infinitesimal change.
He does not approach you with words or overt gestures; rather, he is content to occupy the same space. It is as if the conversation at the cafe never took place, folded neatly into some recess of history, and yet the residue of it lingers, like a faint chemical trace that insists upon recognition even when denied.
It annoys you.
So you rope another poor soul into the equation. If it worked last time, it’ll work this time. If jealousy was the catalyst last time, then you’d use it again.
This time, though, you calibrate the variables differently. The substitute is not some random Normie, but one of his own: an Outcast, a gorgon, to be specific.
Obviously, there is no curiosity on your part. Isaac has already conducted the reconnaissance, delineating the abilities of every Outcast who used to pass through the school like insects pinned and labeled in a specimen drawer. You know the gorgon’s capacities as well as he does. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is the performance of curiosity, an exhibition mounted for a single spectator. So you ask questions you already know the answers to, laugh at demonstrations that hold no surprise, lean forward in what looks like fascination and the gorgon’s apprehension morphs into something panegyrized as he preens under your attention.
You lay it on thick when you see that Isaac is around.
You lean closer to the gorgon, letting your voice drop to a conspiratorial murmur, inviting him to a side of town the Outcasts hardly frequent.
He frowns. “That side of town?” The serpents in his hair shift nervously.
You step closer, letting the warmth of your body press into the space between you without closing it entirely. Fingers hover near his hand, brushing the edge of his sleeve, the faintest contact that sends a ripple through him. “I mean,” you murmur, slow and teasing, the innuendo thick in your tone, “we don’t have to go all the way.”
Despite the act, the blush that spreads across his face pleases you.
You lean in, intent on closing the distance, when the sensation arrests you. At first it’s nothing, a dulling as though your limbs belonged to someone anaesthetized. Then the numbness cements, pinning you where you stand. You think for a second that the gorgon has accidentally revealed his faithful serpents to you but in the corner of your vision, Isaac’s treacherous hand retreats, casual. The recognition lands with a thud heavier than the paralysis itself: he has chosen to exert what he shouldn’t. Powers weaponized against you.
Isaac releases you the instant he has you, and yet for you the seconds dilate into something approaching eternity. The betrayal stings.
Your face becomes a blank canvas, stone-cold.
“Are you okay?” the guy you had been flirting with asks, worry threading his voice like a hesitant chord.
Your smile is a blade, a knife of politeness masking everything beneath. “Yeah… give me a second.” The words are casual, but the meaning is precise: your attention has already shifted. Then you move, deliberately, stalking toward Isaac as if the world had condensed to a single trajectory. You already know where he’ll be. Every step you take is laden with purpose, carrying the weight of unspoken warning.
The laboratory door swings open, and his voice cuts through the space, biting: “Finally—”
“No,” your reply slices across him, firm and resolute. “You don’t get to talk right now.” The simplicity of the sentence belies the command embedded within it. It is an assertion of presence, a reclamation of control.
Isaac’s grin doesn’t reach his eyes, it feels like he’s mocking you. There is a new hardness in his eyes now.
“You’ve never done that to me, you’ve never—” Your voice falters on the edge of vulnerability, as if the sentence threatens to betray more than you intend. But you recover almost instantly, smoothing your features as though ironing out an inconvenient crease. He will not have the satisfaction of seeing you unsteady. “You’ve never used your power on me,” you say, each word deliberate, clipped, a statement for the record and the anger — the anger has no interest in moderation. It arrives as a deluge, an inundation that drowns its accompanying emotions on contact.
“I thought you liked me!” you blurt out, a paroxysm of your rage, body heaving and in the back of your mind embarrassment prickles.
Isaac leans slightly forward, lips pressing into a hard line. “If you know… why flirt with others?” he snarls. “You knew I’d notice. And yet… you still chose to test me. Felt heavy, didn’t it? Frozen in place… not being able to move.”
Your stomach twists uncomfortably.
He sees it. The tension in your shoulders, the stiff set of your hands, the way your eyes incensed with both anger and something else he cannot control.
Isaac pauses, the acerbic curl of his mouth fading, his body subtly shifting back. “I suppose, I’d say that we’re now even,” he says.
“We’re not even,” you say, and you feel a degree of clarity you hadn’t before, everything falls in place and all those messy emotions finally click into place. Everything comes pouring out. “You’re holding my transgressions against me, but you’re the one who spent all that time watching, not making a move, and when I thought— just when I thought when we’d made progress, you go back to how things used to be. And you’ve killed someone who loved me, genuinely loved me. I don’t understand, you don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to want me either.”
“I do,” he interjects, abrupt, unpolished. “I do want you.”
The confession is raw, stripped of ornament. It should soothe; it doesn’t. Instead, it hangs in the air, plaintive and insufficient, the bluntness itself is an insult.
“You didn’t love him back, though,” Isaac murmurs, and the phrasing, though blunt, is not accusatory. It’s diagnostic, confirming what he already suspects, and yet there’s a tremor of hunger beneath it.
Your seethe betrays you, and he sees it instantly, yet he does not recoil. Isaac never recoils. He inclines closer, as if your anger were proof of vitality, evidence that you are still gloriously alive to him. He amends, not to erase the sting of your emotion or to spare you from the weight of his observation, but to show you the purity of his intent. “It’s okay. I don’t think of you as any less for it. You don’t have to defend yourself to me.”
Your brows furrow, trembling as if unsure which emotion to settle on.
“Emotions are strange, aren’t they?” he asks. “We are a slave to them… an emotional weakness that we can’t make sense of. They strip us of any rational thought.”
His words drift, as though no longer addressed solely to you.
Then his attention snaps back. “And yet…”
You wait, fraught, breath caught.
“I won’t pretend it was there from the first time I saw you. I was content to leave you alone. But I’ve tried — silence, distance, time.” He lets the words fall one by one, like evidence being laid out. “None of it worked. I care about you.”
His mouth twitches, a flicker of something near a smirk, as though the absurdity of it entertains him, not laughter, but the grim satisfaction of witnessing a truth finally acknowledged. “Or ‘like you,’” he amends, crisp, unyielding, “as you so simply put it. Call it what you will. It is yours, and you have it, it doesn’t matter if you accept it or not.” He speaks with the unshakable authority of a theorem. There is no apology, no petition, only the sterile, terrible fact, luminous and undeniable in its unadorned lucidity.
“Take off your gloves,” you command.
Isaac’s brow twitches, a telltale sign of confusion. “What?”
“Your gloves, Isaac. Take them off.”
He hesitates. Then, slowly, he lifts one hand to his mouth, teeth catching the leather, tugging it loose. The second comes away without the same ceremony, stripped clean in a single pull, now that one hand is bare.
He folds his hands behind his back.
Your pulse accelerates.
“Show me you want me.”
A breath escapes him as though it were expelled by force, a subtle surrender. He laughs breathlessly. “Tell me how and…” he steps closer, into your space, hands reaching for yours, voice lilting facetiously. “I’ll position myself accordingly.”
It should feel like a cop-out, but for someone like him, it doesn’t so you take it as it is. You notice his throat bob in anticipation, the prospect of rendering him nervous excites you, though no other prodromal signs of nerves are apparent.
Your hands go to unbutton his pants, slowly - you’re not exactly teasing him but you want to savor each and every single one of his reactions, like he has been doing with you.
When you reach for his cock, he’s not as prepared as he thinks he is, his hands brace themselves on your shoulders, anchoring himself down.
“I’ve done this before,” he admits, unabashedly, as if confessing to having once jaywalked in an empty street rather than unveiling something that slices straight through your composure.
The words hang in the air, and hypocritically, you feel jealousy, nauseating and uninvited, swells at the back of your throat. It is never subtle. It doesn’t creep. It pounces, claws bared, leaving you with that sour-metal taste of humiliation you can neither spit out nor swallow. It has no rightful place in your mouth, not after you had paraded around attempting to rouse his own jealousy and succeeding.
A small part of you questions Isaac’s composure, how he had kept it together after watching you flirt with other people. Then, a small thought, unbidden comes to you: he hadn’t. It’s a thought that shouldn’t please you as much as it does, but emotions are a complex thing, you never understood yours.
And so you lash out because that is what jealousy does — it renders you wild. Your mouth curls before you have decided, your tone a deliberate laceration, like you’re trying to diminish him for his lack of experience: “What, a handjob?”
The word detonates obscenely between you. It is not sophisticated. It is the linguistic equivalent of grinding a cigarette butt into silk sheets, a deliberate desecration. A term with all the grace of an instruction manual, stripped of glamor. It is teenage fumbling in the dark, static on a radio channel when you drive through a tunnel. That is why you select it. You would rather defile the moment than admit it wounds you.
“No,” he rectifies, and there is no shame in the correction, Isaac isn’t flustered by it. “Getting off.”
The clarification, calm and scrupulous, strips the barb from your sneer. And then he adds, soft, lethal: “I was thinking of you.”
The words land with a violence no volume could achieve. It is the casualness that ruins you, the lack of ceremony, as though this revelation were nothing more than a grocery item mentioned in passing. And in that moment, you are undone, because jealousy has been outflanked by something more dangerous: possession.
The breath comes rushing out of you, and you feel his nose nudge against your cheek when he smirks. “You’re beginning to understand what it was like for me.”
You don’t need to confirm it. He already knows it to be true.
“You’re making a mess,” you stay instead, highlighting his plight, then your voice dips into a ridiculing coo when you tighten your grip, around him and Isaac’s mouth gives a betraying quiver. “You won’t last if this is how much you’re dripping all over my hand.”
You draw your hand back, deliberately unhurried, and the pause becomes its own provocation. Into your palm you spit, you spread it along the expanse of your hand with the sweep of your tongue and you think, he must like it because his eyes follow the movement of your tongue with rapt attentiveness.
“I don’t even think I need to do any of this,” you remark. For all the affectation of effortlessness, you want him to see how much command you wield: that you can take or withhold, that your ministrations are elective, not compulsory.
When your hand returns, his body answers before he does. His cock jerks against your palm, obstinate, as if it has resolved on its own that you will be complicit. His eyes, when they meet yours, have shed the whites entirely; they are devoured by stygian, pupils flooded wide in that primitive dilation that reduces man to animal. He looks at you with the focus of hunger that annihilates any social decorum.
The faint twitch of his lips denounces his struggle: whether to bare teeth or smirk. He is poised on the hinge between violence and reverence, both impulses colliding in the same breath. It would be comic if it weren’t so electric: the posture of an animal that pretends restraint, though its whole body is already lunging.
“Kiss me,” he rasps, the words emerging not as request but compulsion, scraped raw from his throat.
“Always so demanding.”
He scoffs, “oh yeah, it’s me who’s the demanding one.”
You smile, and then you tug him into a kiss.
You’d meant to be gentle, you remind yourself, you’d meant sweetness but it’s obliterated under the sheer force of his want. He kisses like he’s starving, like he’s trying to eat you whole, every bite at your lip proof he doesn’t know how to take without tearing.
“I was going to be so nice to you,” you manage between breaths, your voice mockingly mournful, though the words are smeared by the press of his mouth still chasing yours. He groans against you, chest heaving, as if he can’t bear the thought of you withholding even now.
You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, see the gloss of spit and red, and laugh at how quickly composure is drowned in the filth of wanting. “If you don’t know how to kiss, then don’t try to take over.”
“How else am I supposed to learn?” he snaps back, lips trembling, teeth pressing into yours again, the words defiant.
You twist your head slightly, teasing, letting him catch only part of your mouth before pulling away again, leaving him whimpering and pressed into empty space. “You learn by listening,” you murmur, dragging a finger along his jaw, over slick spit and damp skin, “not by shoving yourself forward like a fucking animal.”
He whines, low and unrefined, and you tug him back anyway, mouths colliding in a tangle of wet insistence, spit stringing, breath mingling.
He cants his hips into your fist, rutting like the motion itself has stripped him of any shame. The pressure drags another spill from the head, a hot, translucent rope that clings stubbornly before surrendering to gravity. It slides down the length of him in erratic trails, gathering at the thick root where it mats into the dark curls, gluing hair to skin. Every fresh pulse adds to the mess: sticky gloss coating the shaft, slicking your palm, stringing between your fingers when you squeeze tighter.
You can feel it tack against your skin, the slippery resistance that makes each movement louder, wetter, indecently audible. He’s soaking himself in his own undoing, smearing your hand, and still he can’t stop thrusting into it as if desperation might wring him clean.
There’s something almost abject in the sight: not the sculpted body he pretends to own but a leaking, straining thing, his cock a faucet he cannot close, his breath fractured in tandem with the obscene slickness gathering everywhere.
“Close. I’m—“
You feel the twitch in him, the way his hips sputter almost without thought, the slick pulse at the tip that tells you he’s about to come. “No,” you say firmly, and your hand eases just slightly, enough to let him register the denial.
He shudders, nearly trembling against you, a raw guttural sound spilling from his throat. His grip on you tightens, hips pitching forward even as you pull back, desperate for the friction he can’t quite get. The slick sheen of him glistens under your fingers, dripping where your palm once held him, hot and sticky and utterly uncontrollable.
You watch, fascinated, as his body fails him: thighs quivering, jaw twitching, lips parted in tattered gasps. He tries to will himself into stillness, to obey the command, but the need has grown beyond reason, beyond restraint. Every shudder, every whimper, every slick strand left on your palm screams his want and how deliciously futile it is to deny him.
“Isaac,” you tap his cheek, a gentle slap along the slick, damp skin. For a heartbeat, if the haziness won’t clear up, but your voice brings him back.
“There you are… not yet,” you hum. “Need you to hold on a little longer. Wanna spend more time with you. You can do that for me, can’t you?”
His chest heaves, the slick sheen on his lips betraying his need, yet his eyes rekindle with defiance. He licks his lips, jaw tight. “I can,” he says, voice clipped, pride weaving through the desperation, even as he trembles under your hand, you can see the stubborn insistence of ego refusing to vanish entirely.
You incline your head toward the chair, and he eases himself down, weight settling with a quiet, deliberate shift. Your hands find the waistband of his pants; he lifts his hips, helping, and the fabric slides off in a slow surrender.
Your throat feels dry at the sight before you. Legs slightly apart, the thick flesh of his thighs pressing into the chair, taut and glistening with heat, every line of him straining just enough. Your fingers twitch, hovering, before they reconsider the course of their action, making their way over to his shirt instead.
He tenses.
You pause.
“Too much?”
“Wasn’t expecting it,” he concedes. “You can keep going.”
You do, slowly, so he can stop you if he needs to. Your fingers brush against the clockwork heart, and the instant reaction sends a hot flush through you, cunt throbbing, slick and pulsing. His hips jerk sharply, fucking into the empty air, cock drooling.
You mentally file the reaction away.
Then you get onto your knees, ignoring how the cold floor feels biting into you.
You lick at the trail of hair at the bottom of his stomach, feeling his cock twitch beneath you, then you ghost your lips to the thick of his thighs and bite into the flesh. His hands grip the arms of the chair, knuckles white, muscles coiling, the hitch of his breath, ragged, uneven, as he bends into the bite.
“Fuck- don’t… don’t stop,” he rasps.
You ease up slightly, pretending reluctance, teeth grazing the tender skin there. His thigh jolts with a mind of its own, smacking your jaw with a wet, insistent thud. Each twitch sends a shiver through you. His breath comes in rough-hewn pulls, uneven and ragged, chest rising and falling like a storm-tossed wave, each hitch a wordless plea, a demand tangled with want that claws at your restraint.
You feel the weight first. A hot, sticky heaviness pressing against the side of your cheek. When you glance up, you almost laugh at the sight: Isaac, head tilted, eyes trained on you, watching with unnerving clarity. His hand wraps around the base of his dick, guiding it, slightly grinding his hips against your face, smearing your cheek with the wet sheen dripping down his length.
It’s obscene how much there is, thick strings of slickness dragging across your skin, glistening in the low light, smearing your lips, your jaw. Every slow push leaves another sticky trail, and he hums low in his chest as if testing you, painting you with his mess.
The weight drags along your cheekbone, the corner of your mouth, hot and slick, precome drooling so freely you can feel it slide, wet and warm, down your chin. The smell of him, saline, musky, floods you, and every grind of him against your skin makes your cunt throb, your thighs clenching tight against the cold floor.
You laugh a little breathlessly, and bite again, harder this time, marmoreal teeth pressing into warm, resistant flesh, tasting the tension under his skin.
Isaac bears it. His jaw flexes, molars rasping as if he’s grinding them to dust. His voice is low, gravel-thick, cutting into the air: “You can bite harder than that.”
You lean one side of your cheek into his thigh and look up at him, a laugh in your eyes. “Don’t want you cumming all over my face.” You spare him the humiliation of letting him know that he’s already drenched half of your face with his precome already.
“Isn’t that the plan?”
“The plan was in my mouth.”
The words barely leave your lips before he snaps, hips spasming hard, cock pulsing slick and hot against your palm. His jaw clenches, muscles bunching like coiled steel, and a low, guttural sound rumbles from deep in his chest, an amalgamation of a growl and a groan. Every fiber of him tenses, hips snapping, skin slick with the heat of it, wetness dripping freely over your hand.
Your hands clamp onto his hips, holding him to the chair. You let your mouth descend, slick from your spit and his slick, and the instant you take him in, he howls, a gravelly, ragged sound torn from his chest, hoarse, full of need and surprise. You moan at the sound, and the way his hips try to twist in the chair, has you grinding your cunt against the heel of your foot, each roll of your hips is insistent.
You dip your head, letting your tongue trace the raised ridge of a vein. Each pass is an exploration without haste, following the taut line beneath the skin that pulses with the weight of his blood. The heaviness feels comfortable on your tongue, the warmth of him presses against your mouth.
His hips jerk again, harder, faster, and you hum around him, lips and tongue slick and warm, responding to every pulse, every frantic moan. You hadn’t expected him to be this loud, he’s taut, even as his body betrays the sheer need he’s trying to control, and you ride it, every wet, hot tremor mirrored in your cunt, grinding against your own heel as your pleasure spirals.
When he notices that you’re faltering, mouth slack, breath catching in little hiccups while he thrusts shallowly into your mouth, he tilts his head, trying to figure out what you’re doing, eyes narrowed as he studies you with a furrowed brow and when the realization flickers over his face, his mind sharpens. His hands clamp gently on your cheeks, palms steadying you, thumbs tracing the contours of your jawline before coercing your face up to parse it, raptly watching your eyes roll to the back of your head, your hips stuttering as you come with a muffled cry.
“Fuck!” His voice cracks at the sight, wrecked and desperate, rutting into your mouth, wild and feral. His vision blurs, the world tilting and darkening at the edges, and a guttural, strangled moan tears from him as he comes hard, teetering on the edge of blacking out, swallowed by the rawness of himself. His moans are strangled, half-choked, spine arching, every nerve screaming as the tremors of his release shudder through him, leaving only the primitive pulse of himself, trembling, panting, devoured by the urgency that drives him beyond thought.
His come, thick and saline in taste, spills down your throat, the excess fluid leaking down your jaw and onto your clothes. Your senses reel, but you come back to yourself faster than he does, mind clearing even as your body still trembles. Your tongue laves over him and he shudders involuntarily, a concatenation of micro-convulsions racking his body while his hands shake against you.
You let yourself shift, releasing him from your mouth when you feel like he’s had enough, the tremor of his body a residual echo, raising yourself up to his open mouth.
You playfully kiss his peeking tongue, mouth wet, and when you retract to admire his face, you catch him licking his lips, eyes still blighted with voracious want. His bare hands act on their own, possessing their own thoughts, clambering desperately on your hips, drawing you in closer. He doesn’t do anything except feel, knead the skin over fabric, before impudently inching towards the hem of your shirt, nails digging in and attempting to get closer to flesh.
You ignore the ache to be filled, that gnawing hunger tugging at your core. “Alright, you’ve had your fill,” you say, vaguely amused, eyes raking over his dishevelled countenance, taking stock of his condition. You’re not surprised by his eagerness; Isaac wants to push his body beyond human constraints. His body doesn’t agree but he rarely operates in congruence with the flesh that holds him.
You draw back slowly, letting the space between you feel like a soft exhale.
He opens his mouth to voice his dissent.
You stop him, using the length of your fingers to brush back the tendrils of his curls, loosened by exertion, damp with sweat. “There’ll be time for everything,” you promise and the inference of the words has him stilling before he leans into your touch.
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