note: a fic that doesnโt sit right with my spirit. another thing on my mind is cockwarming zombie!isaacโฆ specifically where his dick doesnโt work. need my brain to relax for a second.
preview: โCouldnโt wait?โ His voice winds through you with conspiratorial relish and catches in your chest.
โ [ masterlist. ]
His journal lies abandoned on the desk, pages trembling in the draft like frail, papery lungs endeavor one last, desperate gasp, fluttering against the uneven pull of the wind, but your gaze never strays from him. Instead, it is riveted, ensnared by the claim of Isaacโs hands pressing into the hollow of your back. His fingers trace the arch of your spine with inexorable intent, mapping each subtle ridge, each small shiver, each involuntary flex of muscle, as though memorizing you for the next hour, the next day, the next eternity. The warmth radiating from him presses into you with the same leverage he exerts over his machines, a magnetic pull impossible to ignore, effectively suturing your body to his.
โCouldnโt wait?โ His voice winds through you with conspiratorial relish and catches in your chest.
You canโt bring yourself to answer; thought has absconded entirely, dissolved into the air like ether. Every sense is drowned by him, by the heat of his chest pressing against yours, by the relentless gravitation of his body pinning you in place, by the slow, inexorable drag of his length claiming every parameter of your awareness. The stretch feels so good โ a wet, prurient absence you hadnโt known was festering inside you, gaping and hungry, always meant to be stitched closed by Isaac alone, by this exact thickness prying you open inch by devastating inch.ย
The low, reverberating timbre of his groan echoes through the hollows of your spine like a summons. Your knees slacken; your breath fractures into ribbons.
You had promised stillness, yet your flesh delates you, slick, needy, pulsating helplessly in waves of longing. It is treachery of the deepest, most delicious kind: your body professing what your voice canโt form. Every contraction of your cunt is a signal he receives in full, and he groans again: lower, rougher, a subterranean roll that seems to emanate somewhere just under your sternum, vibrating through you.
โYou think I wouldnโt notice?โ he murmurs, voice worn. โDonโt think you can hide anything from me. I feel everything youโre doing. Every tremor, every flutterโฆ youโre practically giving yourself away.โ
A slight shift, a feigned adjustment, accomplishes nothing. Your walls cling, pulse, drip slick heat across him, each flutter a secret, shameless surrender. The drag of him inside you is exquisite in its cruelty, unbearable and necessary at once. Your thighs tremble, and your soaked body wrings him higher. When he moans, it scrapes across the nape of your neck like a hot, serrated whisper, scattering your composure.
Isaacโs cock is heavy inside you, slender, yet pulsing with a slow, insistent insistence that makes your breath hitch. The vein runs like a heated cord beneath your slick walls, each subtle throb a private, intimate drumbeat, pressing into you with a quiet, relentless claim. The head is swollen just enough, a gentle, rounded crown that fits against your deepest heat, pressing without motion, teasing without mercy. Wetness slicks over you both: yours clinging to him, drenching him, glistening along the tender curve where he meets you, and the heat radiates from his body.ย
You concentrate on the vein pulsing insistently against your velvet-soft walls, swollen and straining as if it beats in time with your own fluttering heart. Warmth floods you from the base to the tip, a deep, unrelenting pressure that makes your slickness gleam and pool, dripping with need around him, soaking the groomed hair at the base.ย
โFuckโฆ how do you always feel so good?โ you gasp, voice trembling, chest heaving. โCould cum just like this.โ
โYou know Iโve ditched an hour of work already?โ His voice is low, rough, the kind of coarse sound that makes your pulse stutter. He leans closer, pressing you against him. The scent of him fills your senses, drowning every rational thought.
โShow me,โ he rasps, the word a sonorous edict, thick with amusement and the tremulous undertow of anticipation. His lithe fingers trail from the hollow of your sacral curve, following each subtle undulation, memorizing your flesh. The press of him is relentless, as if your bodies were two pendula caught in perfect, suspended resonance.
โDonโt think I wonโt make you work for it,โ he murmurs. You can feel the weight of him, the way he relishes your helpless surrender, and it drives your cunt slick with need. Every inch of him pressed against you, the stillness forced upon your hips, the gentle drag of his cock nestled warm and pulsing inside.
And you do. Not with motion, not with will, but with every helpless flutter, every squeeze and pulse of your soaked, needy body. Your walls cling, tighten, wrap him, tremble around him as if your body has taken the lead. Thighs quiver, and every shiver sends slick heat over him, drawing low, guttural groans from his throat.
Still, he refuses to move, but he tilts, a minute, devastating calibration that buries him deeper, the kind of shift that makes your vision static out at the edges. Fingers dig into your back, thumbs brushing over your lower belly, grounding you while your trembling, dripping body coaxes him closer to the edge.
Your chest heaves, voice breaking in gasps and moans. The wet press of your body, the desperate, fluttering clench, the way your slick, shivering walls betray every promise of stillness, it is too much. Every sound, every subtle pulse, every involuntary squeeze propels you higher, until the world narrows to slick heat, trembling bodies, and the delicious torment of being utterly undone while remaining frozen in place.
โIsaacโฆ fuckโฆ you feel soโโ
โFeel soโฆ?โ His voice is low, teasing, permeating the air like a command and a caress at once.
You moan, hips pressing against him in reflex, the brief pressure feels intoxicating, your eyes rolling but he holds you immobile, unyielding. โAh, ah,โ Isaac murmurs, voice imbued with amused authority. โRemember what you said โ you promised.โ
Every helpless press of your body against his, every pulse and flutter, is amplified by the restraint. You are trapped, suspended between desire and denial, and the tension coils tighter with each heartbeat, each breath. Your cunt helplessly spasms, gushing around the length of him until the curls around his base lie matted and shining. His jaw clenches so hard the muscle leaps, the sound escaping his throat closer to a wounded growl than breath, cock twitching inside of you.
โFeel so full. Wanna stay like this forever.โ
Heat sluices over his features in a molten, a spasm of want that leaks through the fracture in his composed exterior, mouth dropping open slightly, eyebrows lifting. For a heartbeat you believe his lips tremble, stirred by some clandestine fracture of control he canโt quite smother.
โWell,โ he breathes, husky, the word a concession wrung from him. โHow about you cum. And thenโฆ weโll see.โย
notes: a failed attempt at headcanons (i forgot about the format-style, so they just read as unconnected blurbs).
โ Heโd spent the whole afternoon buoyed by the prospect: his father, of all people, had carved out an evening, a formal dinner, as though the four of you were a family stitched together rather than haphazardly stapled. Lucas kept sending you these bright, little glances, as if your presence might guarantee the manโs arrival.
But the clock performs its gradual death: minute hand dragging itself onward, each click a small laceration until he bleeds out. Clare scoffs and leaves like she had predicted this all along. The chair across from you stays obstinately empty. His grin falters first at the edges, then collapses inward, leaving something brittle in its place.
You reach for him but Lucas recoils into that practiced near-shrug, a gesture meant to trivialize the wound even as it bleeds.
โLetโs just go,โ he says, already half on his feet, escape being the only dignity left to reclaim.
โ When arousal comes for him, his pupils donโt simply dilate, they engulf, black tides rising until thereโs barely a ring of color left. Whatever softness he normally carries evaporates. Whatโs left is the stare of a creature whoโs remembered its hunger.
That slender vein beneath his eye surfaces more prominently, pulsing with a kind of insurgent insistence, as if his body canโt quite keep the truth of his want contained. Itโs the smallest thing, that throb, but it exposes him more than any groan or gasp ever could.
โ Lucas has this reflexive instinct to turn your own words into an echo chamber. Whatever confession slips out of you, he seizes it, moulds it back into your ear in his low, ragged voice. You gasp out something reckless โ โwanna cum all over your dickโ โ and he answers with a sharp, hungry little laugh: โyeah? You wanna cum all over my dick?โ Sometimes it sounds like heโs teasing you, but sometimes it sounds like the words have been punched out of him.
โ He gets embarrassingly earnest about helping you onto the horse, hands at your waist. Your legs are wobbling like youโre mounting a mythical beast instead of a placid animal, and you irately mumble something about needing a saddle.
Lucas just laughs. Of course youโd demand equipment.
โYouโre not riding it,โ he says, grinning so hard it borders on painful. โYouโre just sitting.โ
And he loves โ truly loves โ the way you cling to him, even when your nails dig into the back of his hand: one hand buried in the horseโs mane like you expect it to detonate beneath you, the other crushing his fingers in a grip that is indicative of a final prayer.
The horse shifts. A single, bored adjustment of weight.
Lucas loses it. Another laugh bursts out of him, bright and boyish, because your whole body reacts like youโve survived a near-death experience.
โYouโre okay!โ he insists, still laughing, still holding on to you as though you might evaporate off the creatureโs back at any moment.
โย He takes to your wash days with a grave solemnity. The seriousness would be laughable if it werenโt so endearing, eyebrows knit, his lips set, his fingers working through your hair with the painstaking care of a man afraid you might rescind the privilege if he tugs too hard. He sections, detangles, smooths, all with that dogged concentration he reserves for things he genuinely wants to get right. He hardly speaks during it; concentration lends him a monastic air, as though tending to you in this small domesticity grants him a fleeting sense of competence.
And sometimes the favor reverses. His own hair, stringy and neglected in the long aftermath of his motherโs death, has the forlorn quality of something abandoned to the elements. When you guide him to sit, he obeys without protest, shoulders bowed, expression vaguely chastened but ultimately laden with an ever-present fatigue. You work your curl creams through the freshly-washed strands, coaxing life back into them, his eyes closing as if the act of being cared for is almost too much to bear.
โ He accumulates mementos with the tragic fervor of a man convinced that discarding anything is tantamount to erasing himself. Lucas cannot release what wounds him; he broods over old slights, old griefs, letting them steep in him like bitter tea. Yet the same instinct makes him cling to the smallest relics of tenderness.
Cinema tickets are the clearest proof. You might forget the film entirely, mediocre drama in a half-empty theatre, popcorn that had the same consistency as cardboard, but Lucas keeps the tickets. A corrugated wrapper from a snack you handed him once without thinking. Receipts too, curling at the edges: a dessert you insisted on paying for, a bookstore you dragged him into, a grocery run where nothing happened except that you walked beside him.
He doesnโt arrange any of it. No scrapbook, no journal, no curated shrine. Not like his mom had. He simply places each scrap into a plain box, a little reliquary of inconsequential moments that became, for him, unbearably significant.
โ When pleasure overruns his composure, it blooms at the corners of his eyes. A faint lacquer of moisture gathers there, betraying him long before he can marshal whatever threadbare dignity he thinks he possesses. The overstimulation overwhelms him and his body responds with those involuntary tears, the way a glass sweats under heat. Lucas is a very pretty crier.
