christophersmiddlefinger

A part of him wanted them to somehow scar. A permanent reminder of what he caused.

Why did he care so much? She was a random girl and it wasn't like no one had ever taken pills to kill themselves before. His own pills had probably killed someone already - not that he could know for sure, because it's not his business.

Chris sells to people he hates, likes, people who are perfect, people who are assholes - it just doesn't matter. He does his job and tries not to dwell on it because he can't afford to.

Sunny had formed a room in his mind. Following him around like she had actually passed away and turned into an angel on his shoulder.

Same days he felt like a fucking creep, constantly thinking about a girl he no longer had anything to do with. But she was so constant - more consistent than any thought or emotion he had felt.

Eventually he realised he craved her.

Walking around hoping to bump into her, wanting her to just appear there for him - whether to punch him, ignore him or let him treat her right, he didn't care. He’d become secure in the idea his purpose was to protect her, ignoring how badly he’d failed at that so far.

Chris smoked in the alleys opposite from the school entrance. Watch how some days her brother would drive her home, bus other days and reluctantly walk home the rest of the days. He imagined himself intervening but never did.

It became routine for Chris to find a bench he knew she had to pass on the opposite side of the street, all of this just so he could remember she existed outside of his mind.

He was desperate for a glance, her to know he was looking out for her. A part of him was relieved that she never did, afraid she’d find the opposite of comfort in it.

When she was out of sight, he’d sit with his thoughts. A mix of praying for a different life and reminding himself that this was his punishment.

“Hi,” she spoke softly, Chris whipped his head to the side to see her, not having noticed her walk towards him.

He felt the most exposed he ever had been, interrupted from his staring at the other side of the street while he smoked, waiting to see the girl who now stood to the side of him.

He felt caught - hoping that she wouldn’t realise why he had been sat there.

Chris cleared his throat, “Hey,” trying to act casual, straightening his back when he processed himself hunching over.

“Are you um, waiting for someone?” Sunny gestured towards the space on the bench next to him.

He shut his mouth realising it was partially agape - behaving as if he'd had the first sighting of a real life angel, which was obviously the exact way it felt for him, having her so close to him after so long. Chris shook his head, taking a drag to calm his nerves and gesturing to offer her the space next to him. His movements were growing smoother and more confident despite how he felt.

She sat herself down, staring at her lap and fiddling with the hem of her clothing, itching to speak but not yet scratching it. Chris felt the exact same way.

“Im,” she breathed to calm her nerves. “Im sorry about my brother.”

He looked over to her, noticing the glassy sheen of a heartbreaking mix of guilt and sympathy over her eyes.

“It’s fine, I deserved it anyway,” caring more than he wanted to admit out loud but revealing himself anyway.

She seemed completely shocked by his words. “What? No you didn’t-”

“You could've died.”

“And I wanted to. I don't think you give a sanity check to everyone you sell pills to.”

“That doesn't matter. My pills, your injury, I get punched in the face.”

“So, we’re even.” she stated gently, an amount of joy and calm in her voice that Chris couldn't understand.

“What?”

“I forgive you. I-if you were wondering.” she watched his body tense up all apart from his eyes. He stared kindly like it was the nicest thing anyone had ever done for him - like he needed it. “I don't think you should have to be forgiven but, if that's what you need then I forgive you.”

Chris stayed quiet, processing the fact that it was exactly what he wanted to hear, despite not feeling like he deserved it. He faced forwards, taking another drag and breathing deeply.

Sunny slowly stood up, wondering if she had pushed too far and made the conversation weird. She brushed off her clothes to make sure she looked okay, grabbing her bag from the side of her.

Chris only looked up at her when she walked away, eyes meeting hers when she turned back to check if he was looking. She gave a small smile as she kept walking, which Chris unwillingly mirrored.

He needed her more now than ever before.

Matt and Nick were talking, Chris wasn't listening.

“And we can get there for 7 and- Nick, he’s not fucking listening.” Chris hadn't even noticed the conversation turning to him.

His brothers stared at him intently, waiting for him to look up and notice.

“Jesus, what the fuck?” when he did look up, their focused gazes made him nearly jump out of his skin.

“We’re talking to you, Chris, are you dumb?” Nick spat out, wanting this conversation over with just a little more than Chris did.

“What's wrong with you?” Matt spoke slightly more gently, watching the way his brother pushed at his forehead to relieve his headache.

“Doesnt matter.”

“Chris.” Nick ordered.

He sighed, rolling his eyes but following orders anyway. “I sold a girl some pills and she tried to kill herself with them. Almost died and it's my fault.”

“That was you?” words fell out louder than Matt had intended.

“Yes and I feel like shit already, you don't need to make it worse.”

“Okay wait, how is it your fault?” Nick began his attempt to use logic to comfort his brother. “She wanted them and you sold them. you didn't know she was gonna use it for that.”

Matt vocalised his agreement with Nick while Chris worked up the courage to give away the last piece of detail, making it more definitively his fault.

“She told me she needed enough to kill someone.”

“Okay, youre just a fucking idiot.” Nick laughed from both confusion and to relieve the tension building up in his body.

“She had fucking bruises, I thought it was for someone else!”

Chris had turned the conversation into silence, a moral dilemma shutting everyone up. A part of him was glad for the silence, until Matt broke it.

“Why don't you talk to her? And you could- and he’s walking away.”

The rain was hammering down and Sunny was late.

Chris had parked opposite to the school entrance, waiting to catch a glimpse of her but ending up enduring the irritating choir of people leaving classes laughing and talking, as if they were vaguely interesting. He was growing concerned on her whereabouts until he saw her running out the doors, art book in hand.

She sprinted down the street, making Chris wince in preparation as she seemingly didn't care of the likelihood she could slip from the wet concrete. Raincoat held over her head as if she hadn't had the chance to put it on properly. she ran but had to watch the bus leave the stop before she could get remotely close.

A frown formed on her face, turning into a gasp when she realised how soaked her sketchbook had got. She hurriedly covered the book with her coat, letting herself get hit by the rain and looking like a sad abandoned wet dog.

He watched intently, forgetting he could be looked at too.

When she met his eyes, his whole body flamed up. He let them hold the gaze for a moment, conflicting thoughts on what to do. Her eyes seemed to silently beg.

With the car window down, he gestured his head to the side to signal her to cross the street to get to him. Chris leaned over the console to open the passenger when she got close, meeting Sunny's eyes as she climbed in.

“You good?” he spoke out despite the lump in his throat.

“Yeah, um, sorry i-”

“Dont worry about it.” he comforted, earning a small smile from her. “Your book thing okay?”

“Oh! Yeah, it's okay, I just didn't wanna ruin it walking home,” she laughed.

“It's okay, I get it. I owe you anyway.” he finally returned her smile, still a little unsure of himself.

It was unlike him to laugh, the sound foreign as it slipped out.

On the drive to her house, Sunny unknowingly demonstrated her ability to fully relieve the tension in his body. Talking about nothing and everything at the same time, giving Chris glimpses of parts of her life that he didn't know about. The life of hers that he wanted so badly to be involved in.

His heart broke a little when they reached her house.

“Did you wanna come in?” until she managed to fix it all over again.

“I, what about your brother?”

“Not home.” Her eyes begged again, a small waiting smile as she blinked up at him like he meant something. “You owe me, you said so.”

“Yeah,” he spoke softly, watching her smile grow when he answered, “Okay.”

Sunny was nervous as she let him into the house, hoping she remembered correctly that she didn't leave her room in a mess.

She explained the various rooms, essentially walking him upstairs. This type of routine wasn't new for Chris. However, he was sure he knew what type of girl Sunny was, and that wasn't the message she was intending to send.

The door opened to her clean room - Sunny invited him in, almost proud of her space.

Chris hadn't had time to notice the scattered details when he was there before, trinkets that were so fully Sunny that he wished he could permanently be in her space.

“I have a question.” she spoke softly as he scanned her room, interrupting his thoughts. “Have you, um, been following me?”

He was taken back by the question. It wasn't an exact yes but he couldn't fully say no.

Sunny walked to place her belongings on her desk and herself on her bed, letting Chris decide whether to lie or not.

“I don't follow you, I just- Watch.”

“I just wanna know why.” She invited him to sit next to her.

“I guess I just felt bad.” he rested his head back on the headboard, hiding from her eye contact.

“You really don't need to feel bad.” she frowned, eyes magnetising his as they met each other’s again. “I’m okay.”

In the second between his next action, he felt like his soul might burn and die if he didn't close the gap between them. Chris leaned forward, hand gentle as it held her face. His lips met hers, moving to hold the back of her neck and deepen the kiss once she’d reciprocated it.

Just the kiss was enough for Chris to know he could die happy - having been deemed worthy enough by Sunny to share that with her. Then he remembered who he was, and what he’d done - breaking the kiss and taking the opportunity to stare into her eyes.

“Why’d you stop?” her sad voice felt like a punch to the gut, but that he would've preferred.

“I’m sorry.”

“Why though?”

“I’m not good, I can't be good for you.”

“Please don't say this is about the pills-”

“It’s everything. You should be safe.”

“It's just a kiss.” Chris wasn’t sure whether her words hurt or helped. “We don't have to figure anything out right now.”

He hesitated. This clearly meant a whole different thing to Chris than her, but he was definitely going to take anything he could get when it came to her. He previously thought he was doomed to watch her live on after he almost killed her, but now she was staring up at him, waiting for another kiss.

“Can I kiss you again?” Sunny smiled widely in response.

©mi-co-uk

In most circumstances the mass of the imposing edifice would have sufficed, its familiarity lending a gravity Isaac seemed to be fond of. This was his laboratory, the one place where he’d become inured to the utilitarian austerity. But tonight the clock tower strikes you as too impersonal, brumal in the marrow. Farcical, really: you’re projecting your own unease onto him, imagining his detachment as an echo of your own discomfort. He chose the venue, after all. A test of endurance, he’d elusively called it; his comfort irrelevant, yours negotiable… he has a way of talking you into things.

“Out of all the places, you choose this. It feels so…” You shake your head, rummaging through your internal lexicon, languorously blowing air out through your lips when you come up empty.

“Clinical?” Isaac supplies unhelpfully. “Well. That was the intention. Comfort is a variable to be introduced later. I just want to see how much this body can take as it is with no other factors involved.”

You fix him with a deadpan stare. “Way to make it sound completely sexless. Extreme turn on. We can’t ever just have sex like normal people?”

This amuses him greatly, he scoffs out a laugh, mirth glittering in his eyes as he steps closer to you. “The irony isn’t lost on you, I hope.”

“Excuse you. My ideas are hot,” you retort with mock indignation, draping your hands at the nape of his neck, fingers teasing the soft curls there. He tilts his head, not conscientiously, but enough to bare the column of his throat, that pale expanse so often guarded and clothed, now a knowing vulnerability. “And they don’t involve you pinned to a cold table like a frog in science class.”

“I have a feeling…” his voice dips into a lower octave, “you’ll enjoy it more than you know. Have I ever led you astray?”

“Only all the time.” You sigh with exaggerated resignation, stealing a page from his repertoire of melodrama. Then, softening, you tilt your head, lips curling into a smile both mischievous and conciliatory. “Wouldn’t it be better if you were comfortable, though?”

His eyes are blown stygian-black, swallowing the brown when you pull back just far enough to look at his face. He drags air in through his open mouth, shallow, greedy little pulls, breaths you can hear even with the tower’s droning hum.

“Sounds good, huh? Don’t you want that?” you coax, pulling him closer. 

He blinks, the haziness clearing for a moment and then he laughs. “Ah, nice try. Almost had me too.”

You groan, forehead dramatically pressing into his chest. “This is such a tedious way to say you have a kink.”

Isaac smiles, dimples punctuating the angles of his face, arms curling around you in a hold that is tender, knowing, and completely undenying of your accusation.  “And you’re still going to indulge me.”

You roll your eyes with the affectation of an exasperated lover, like you weren’t already familiar with this. “You’re ridiculous.”

When he pulls away to lie down supine on the surface, the movement is almost routine. His body tenses only momentarily at the glacial bite of the slab beneath him, pallid skin leeching warmth on contact. He arranges himself with the composure of someone rehearsing compliance. He is betrayed by the manicly fervent glint in his eyes and the anomalous rise and fall of his chest. “Ridiculous — and flat on my back, waiting.”

You trail your fingers over the expanse of one of his arms, charting the tendons, bones and veins before the restraints snap shut. “You’ll last five minutes before you start complaining.”

“Then, you’ll just have to keep me still, won’t you?” He lifts his hand to check the restraints are secure and then humming satisfactorily when he is pleased.

“Yeah,” you agree, planting your whole palm against his face and nudging until his head tips back onto the surface. “I guess I will.”

“Heavy-handed,” he notes in a breathless muffled sound, lips open against your hand.

You shift your hand to look at him. “Don’t sound too excited,” you say, the words come out low and teasing. You move your hand deliberately, letting your palm explore the planes of his body tracing a familiar map, each brush over his chest, the slight dip of his stomach, sending faint shivers through him. Your fingers linger, pressing just enough to feel the tremor beneath.

His eyes follow your hand, dark and alert, tracking each motion, betraying the taut line of anticipation coiled along his spine. You notice the slight tilt of his head, the subtle arch of his chest, the way his fingers flex slightly at his sides, preparing to resist but eventually surrendering to your attention.

“Enough with the build-up,” he snaps impetuously. 

“You’ll take what I give you.” You parry without hesitation, brows raising. “Now. Repeat that back to me.”

His breath comes out in a rush. For half a second you believe he’ll acquiesce to your request, and the anticipation ferments, only for him to shut his mouth with stubborn deliberation.

“Isaac.” Your warning lingers.

He grins up at you. An intentional provocation. 

It’s enough to engender a modicum of irritation; you tongue the inside of your cheek and allow the feeling to gather heat. Then you try on his expression, a simulacrum of his smile, only yours has teeth. Sharper, meaner, it courts as much as it threatens.

His falters. What he meant as a smirk curdles, a fissure of doubt cleaving the expression. An eyebrow twitches before he gathers himself. Too late.

Your palm glissades lower, brushing over his abdomen, and you feel the tiniest jolt beneath your touch, a shiver that runs through him despite every effort at composure. You pause, just long enough to let him feel the weight of your deliberate presence.

Isaac inhales sharply, chest rising with a rhythm that quickens in the faintest increments, and you notice the micro-movements he cannot conceal: the twitch of muscle beneath your fingers, the faint curl of his lips, the way his eyes darken with focus and desire. You press a little more insistently against his stomach, hand steady, not forceful, but enough to command attention, and feel the muscle contract, and then the abrupt twitch below, graceless and undeniable, knocks the breath out of you.

You take his dribbling cock in your hand. At once his body locks, shoulders snapping tight as if he’s bracing against some unseen strike. His breath catches, shallow, truncated, before he forces it back into the rhythm of his clockwork heart. The tension runs through him in rigid lines, from the hard plane of his abdomen to the clamp of his thighs against the metal surface.

You begin to move your hand. For a while he manages it, breath rising in neat surges, chest taut as he tries to stay even. But the carefully constructed mask wavers: a ripple quivers beneath your palm, his stomach contracting against the touch, his breathing edging louder, more uneven. You keep your pace measured, cruelly steady, the slick sound of it rising in the brief hush between his breaths. His throat bobs, words swallowing themselves down. .

The pulse in him grows frantic; your hand glides over the spill, each pass slicker, lazier, indulgent. You’re in no rush and neither is he, but his body doesn’t seem to register that when he jerks under your hand, a tremor runs through his thighs. You press your thumb to the leaking head and he flinches, jaw tightening as though he’s holding himself back from speech. When you draw your hand down again, he exhales on a sound perilously close to a groan.

His composure buckles by degrees: the arch of his back collapses, his breaths turn guttural. He’s coming apart, body caught between wanting to retreat and wanting more of what’s undoing him. You drag it out slowly, until his hips start to move without permission, small, involuntary thrusts seeking your hand.

When you start to pick up on the fact that he’s close, his abdomen seizing, mouth open on a soundless curse, you release him. The sudden absence makes him shudder. 

It takes him a moment to reconstitute himself, to retrieve his breath from wherever it scattered. With a final exhale, he turns to look at you, a fervent glint in his eye that makes him look a little crazed and feverish. 

 A breathless demand: “Again.”

“That was fast,” you comment, eyes as dark as his own. 

“It was,” he concedes, gaze skittering from one of your eyes to the other, appraising, pausing only long enough to deem the verdict satisfactory. “Restraint on my part is unnecessary. You’re taking care of that.”

You hum. 

Then you start again. A hand carefully circles around the length of him, and this time you can feel the throbbing more insistent, the veins protruding. 

“So pretty,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” His voice fractures under the strain, coming out wrecked. 

Your eyes lift, meeting his, and your free hand drifts to sweep the curls from his brow, fingers tracing a path that is at once tender and inquisitive, wandering across the contours of his face. “Yeah. Even prettier when you come. Not gonna keep me waiting too long, will you?” 

“I-“ He opens his mouth to speak, hesitating: the articulation of his desire momentarily suspended by that internal clock that governs him, a man perpetually mediating between impulse and restraint. Finally, with a careful, almost reluctant exhalation, he yields with a compromise: “Let’s get this out of the way first.” The faintest quiver betrays the friction between what he wants and what he’s personally conducted.

He lifts his hips, a subtle elevation, as though in this minute shift he might summon some hidden cadence from the unrelenting pumps of your hand. You do not falter, do not temper the fluid insistence of your rhythm; it pulses on inexorably. His breath deepens and presses warmly against your skin, a living current that stirs the nerve-endings in exquisite awareness, while his torso twists with a sinuous, hypnotic grace into your hold, every curve and taut line of muscle revealed in sharp relief. You feel the gentle quiver along his arms, the faint shiver undulating beneath the skin, the delicate pulse of blood and life beneath the surface.

It endears you so much: this lack of composure under your hand, the way his body opens itself up to you and then seems to pull itself back. Fingers twitch, muscles coil and uncoil with a subtle insistence, and his chest rises unevenly, proof of how exquisitely short-lived his fortitude really is. “You have a very low tolerance,” you comment fondly.

“When it comes to you…” The pause is unnecessary, but then again, much of his syntax comes with emphasis and flourish. “I’m not surprised.”

You press your lips to the side of his face, lingering over the mole that resides there as if it were a secret you had been entrusted with, a small geography of him you carry in your mouth. Then your mouth finds his, soft and unhurried, a kiss offering of closeness so quiet it almost trembles.

He meets you with astonishing gentleness, lips cloud-soft against yours, as if afraid to disturb the fragile intimacy. When you pull back, even slightly, there is an instinctive tilt of his head, a brush of his lips toward yours, chasing the warmth you left behind before you twist your hand at the head of his length, spreading the streak of translucent fluid across it and his mouth falls open. 

“You’re being so good,” your voice dips into a reverential tone before you open your mouth, almost mockingly, as a parody of his own, brows creasing in faux sympathy. 

“I’ll take what you give me,” he finally concedes breathlessly, leaning up for contact.

Your eyes soften, voice lowering into that insinuating register that is almost an amalgamation of compassion and threat. His defiant postulating isn’t for show, it’s in the marrow of him but you, you’ve learned the infrastructure,  the way it bends and collapses, and you know where to press until he turns pliant. “You were always going to.”

The words fall between you, preordained. Silence convenes around them. You watch the minute disturbances and let them crest and ebb before you move. The brief frown that ghosts across your face dissolves as you read the tension along his body, gauging his disposition and allowing the silence for the word to leave his mouth, until you find no misgivings, no hesitation that he’s unwilling to take whatever you offer.

“Keeping that big mouth of yours shut was never going to convince me otherwise,” you say at last, almost tenderly. “It only taught me where to listen.”

He grits his teeth when you tighten your fingers slightly, a sound too soft to be a growl catching in his throat. Heat gathers where your skin meets his. The clocktower plocks somewhere above, its pendulum steady, while the rest of the room collapses into a narrow corridor of sensation. You feel his cock pulse against your palm, the tick fast and insistent. The moonlight pools in the hollow of his collarbone, and for a moment you can’t tell whether the tremor that passes between you belongs to him or to you.

You lean forward, a slow line of saliva slips from your mouth and over the head of his cock. His eyes flutter open, half-lidded; they’re glassy with effort, trying to keep the world in focus through a lens that keeps fogging. He tilts his head up to look at you properly, a quiet groan slipping past his lips when you rotate your grip slowly, deliberately, letting your fingers trace a spiraling path that coils through him like molten silk. 

A sudden wave overtakes him, and his foot slams down, bracing itself onto the cold metal, the sharp impact sending a ripple through every coiled sinew and muscle. His knee bends instinctively, thigh arching and folding and a shiver runs along the line of his torso, quivering beneath your hand. Heat pulses from him in thick waves, glistening across skin.

“C’mon. C’mon—fuck me!” he snarls out, half out of his mind, lifting his hips to thrust himself into your hand.

Your body feels hot all over, something molten coalescing in your core, a thick, undulating heat. He thrashes against the restraints. The veins in his neck protrude, his muscles straining. His head jerks from side to side, his face contorts. You pin his hips to the table, and speed up, teasing the precipice of release, then withdraw,  releasing him.

“No!” he shouts, skull striking the hard surface with a dull echo.

Your mouth is too dry to even summon a laugh, tongue pressed thick against the roof of your mouth as the heat pooling low in your body hums like restrained electricity. His hips jerk frantically and your eyebrows shoot up in a flash of startled recognition before your fingers splay on his hip, nails digging into the cadaverous planes of his skin, pressing just enough to impede the relentless writhing.

“Stop,” he gasps, the decadent sting of pain making him delirious. “Stop, that won’t do anything.”

The plea fractures on a gasp; his whole body jerks, then folds into stillness. For a moment he seems not to know where he is.

You realize the pain is accelerating the impending release and let go. The heat between you disperses into the air, sharp and metallic, the room itself seeming to breathe again after holding its lungs too long. There’s a lapse of silence save for Isaac’s labored breaths, eyes closed as he tries to regain his composure. he exhales shakily, eyelids fluttering. 

You observe the incremental recalibrations of his body: a swallow convulsing the slender column of his neck, fingers flexing as if slowly regaining dominion over them, the chest’s fitful rise rehearsing the idea of calm. The rigidity ebbs from him, molecule by molecule, and color returns in waves, a slow marbling of vitality across pallor.

Only then does he turn his head, eyes fluttering open with a wild lucidity, febrile and manic still flickering behind them.

“Again,” he says hoarsely. “Let’s go again.”

You scoff, a disbelieving laugh spilling from your lips, cadenced like wind rattling the eaves of a long-abandoned building, eyes tracing the minute convulsions of his frame. Only when you have adjudicated every quake, every quiver of sinew and pulse, do you incline your head with a slow, deliberate nod of amused assent. “Alright.”

Your hand’s descent acts as an invocation, and a strangled sound absconds from him, curling upward into the vaulted air. His teeth seize upon his lower lip while the body beneath your gaze stiffens and yields in oscillation, a reticent liturgy of restraint and want.

His wrists strain against the leather, the motion taut and convulsive, as though some private storm were gathering in the sinews. The straps bite into his skin, embossing it with the raw, reddened crescents.

“You’re hurting yourself,” you murmur, the words less reprimand than observation, your voice slipping into the charged quiet between you. It hangs there, tremulous, like light caught in dust motes.

He doesn’t answer. He scarcely registered it. The breath saws through his throat, his body vibrating with a fervor that seems to reject the very idea of containment.

“Isaac.” You intone his name as a command, each syllable measured, sovereign, with an authority that brooks no argument. “You need to calm down.” Your palm rises, deliberate, and settles against the curve of his jaw, warmth grounding whatever it is that coils through him like a restless current. He inclines toward it, leaning into it, searching for the tether of your presence. “Breathe.”

He listens with a shaky exhale, lips trembling, perspiration accumulating on his brow, tension unspooling. 

“That’s it. Look at that, you’re doing good,” you praise fondly. “Keep holding on, we’re going again.”

He wets his lips.

The skin on the length of his cock moves under the glide of your hand, and he shudders, an involuntary spasm that travels up his spine and radiates to the tips of his fingers and toes. Each deliberate glide is a spark and he is helpless against it, body coiling and uncoiling like a living thing that has forgotten all purpose except this one sensation. His chest heaves with shallow, uneven breaths catching in his throat, and his lips part in wordless gasps that flutter like butterfly wings, half sounds, half moans, as though even language cannot contain what wracks him.

His hands grasp at the air, at the slab beneath him, at nothing at all, fingers curling and unclenching in a rhythm dictated entirely by the tidal wave rolling through his body. The veins along the shaft pulse insistently under your palm, slick and vibrant, each beat of his heart is a need that reverberates into your own awareness. He thrashes subtly, hips twitching in futile, half-conscious attempts to chase the impossible high that slides down his spine in molten waves. Every brush of your thumb, every teasing pressure, drives him deeper into the chaos of his own release, until his mind is a haze, fogged and delirious.

A low, guttural sound escapes him, rough and ragged, spilling from his throat in defiance of all composure. His eyes half-roll, glassy and unfocused, and he cannot think, cannot form a sentence, cannot do anything except feel, feel, feel, as your hand orchestrates the tremors that run through him in unrelenting succession. The world collapses, until it is only you, only him, only the relentless, consuming flood of sensation that leaves him shaking, undone in your grip.

You let go.

The sob that falls from his lips is nothing short of mirific, raw and unguarded, spilling from him in a tremulous cascade of sound that makes your chest ache with a strange, avaricious fondness. 

When the restraints finally click open, your brows lift in mild surprise, the noise startling in the quiet of the tower.

“Really? This whole time you could've just opened them yourself?" 

He doesn’t grace that with a reply. The subsequent movement is instinctual — a surge, a lunge; he catches you in his arms, hands clutching, twisting you into his lap, you tumble with a peal of laughter escaping you before you can stop it. The kiss that lands on your mouth is fevered, graceless, so full of need that it startles you before you melt into him.

“Oh,” you croon, pulling back just enough to let your gaze roam over his twitching body. “Baby. Baby, you’re alright. I’ve got you.” Your hand drifts along the taut line of his thigh, a gentle stroke, feeling the muscle contract under your fingers, warmth spreading from the contact like spun silk. Your voice softens, threaded with adoration and amusement. “Been so good holding on, letting me have you like this,” you murmur against his lips.

“I need to come,” he says finally.

Your lips twitch into a wisp of a smile as you begin to draw back,  only to feel his grasp harden, a possessive vise that yanks you nearer, hauls you in, as if he could fuse your very flesh into his own. “It’s okay,” you laugh. “Gonna give you what you want. I’m a little hot, gotta lose the shirt.” 

There is no balletic flourish, just the brisk yank of fabric over your head, the shirt flung to the floor like a discarded thought. Then you’re on him again, your bare skin pressing into his, an anchor of heat that seems to dissolve his rigid edges until he thaws, molding to the contours of your form. His back is a sweat-slick and feverish constant against the softness of your chest, your legs twining around him with a tender, confident hold, as if you're claiming a space that already feels like home.

“You’re being quiet,” you note. 

His curls tickle your neck with the impetus of the movement, shaking his head briefly. “I’m fine.”

“Isaac.”

He’s reticent for a beat. “Overexertion,” he concedes. “Nothing serious. Just mild cognitive dissonance…  tired, mostly.” 

“You wanna st—”

“No.” He interrupts, clipped, effectively truncating your sentence. “I need to come.”

When your hand slides down his body and grips his cock, the sigh of relief is a quiet hymn to capitulation, His head lolls back, heavy with abandon, and you shift instinctively, rising just enough to offer a cradle for his fall, your body a gilded sanctuary for his unraveling. The heat of it pulses under your fingers, already slick with his precome that smears itself across your palm. “Fuck, you’re a mess already,” you mutter, your breath hot against his ear as you start to stroke, slow at first, letting the wet slide build. His sigh is ragged, a broken sound, and his head drops back again, heavy and helpless. 

“Look at this,” you say, dragging your palm back up, letting the slick skin of his cock glide under your touch, the friction teasing out another bead of precome that spills over the tip and rolls down the shaft. It’s leaking nonstop now, a slow, constant dribble that coats him, making every pull of your hand wetter, sloppier, until your fingers are practically slipping through the flood of it. You tighten your hold, dragging down again, feeling the heat and the pulse of him as more precome seeps out, dripping onto your wrist in warm, messy rivulets. “You’re soaking my hand. Can’t even hold it together, can you?” His hips jerk under your touch, a shuddered gasp slipping out as more of his fluids spill over, making the mess worse, trickling down to pool at the base. Your fingers drag it back up, the slickness letting you twist your hand just right until he’s trembling, barely holding on.

His hips twitch, a sharp jerk into your hand, and a choked groan tears out of him. “Don’t—fuck, don’t stop,” he rasps, voice raw and wrecked. Your hand keeps working, dragging slowly along his cock, the skin glistening as precome keeps spilling, soaking everything — your fingers, your palm, even dripping down to wet the inside of your forearm. “Just like that,” he chokes out, barely coherent, his body shuddering with every wet, dragging stroke. “Keep going.”

His body’s trembling now, hips jerking into your hand with desperate little thrusts, and his breath comes in sharp, broken pants. “I’m—I’m close,” he hacks out, voice shredded at the edges that your cunt aches hearing him. 

“Then let go,” you coax into his hair, tightening your grip, sliding faster through the wet heat, the squelch loud and obscene with every drag down his length. “Come all over my fuckin’ hand.” Your thumb swipes hard over the tip, smearing the dripping precome back down, and that’s what breaks him. His whole body locks up, a raw moan ripping out of him as he comes, hard and violent, thick ropes of his release flooding out, splattering across your knuckles and spilling over your fingers. It’s a deluge, hot and sticky, pouring out in heavy spurts that coat your hand, dripping down to pool at the base of him and trickling onto his trembling thighs.

His orgasm seems endless, his cock twitching with aftershocks, each pulse pushing out another dribble that seeps into the mess already covering your skin. His eyes are shut tight, face twisted in raw unadulterated pleasure, but yours are wide, blackened with lust, pupils blown as you drink in every inch of body, ruined in its debauchery. 

Your hand finally lifts from him, sticky and saturated, but Isaac doesn’t flinch or snap out of it. He lets the residue smear further, letting you trace it over his stomach, careless, indulgent. His chest rises and falls like a fragile drum, shallow breaths catching at odd intervals, and he hums a low, half-lost sound somewhere between a chuckle and a moan.

He lets his head tilt back, curls brushing against you, eyes half-lidded, glassy with haze. “Very… modernist,” he drawls, tone teasing, though the words stumble over the subtle quiver in his lip. 

You lean closer, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, letting your hand linger, thumb proprietorially tracing the glinting streaks of him. “Still talking? Must’ve gone easy on you.”

“Mm. That’s debatable,” he breathes, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re—ah—alarmingly efficient.”