kento's wife

That was how you found yourself being led rather sullenly by a conversely enthusiastic Gomez through passageways you hadn’t even known existed just half an hour prior. Each twist lead you invariably into more confusion, so much so that you knew any attempt to retrace your steps without the practised ease of your best friend’s ‘Bubbeleh’ would prove fruitless, while an attempted escape through the usual halls would result in at least a week's detention. Neither was a particularly alluring option; the realisation only made the foolishness of your forced decision feel that much heavier. 

When Gomez all but sent you toppling through the door to his room, having crossed the small passage of open hallway with alarming speed, you had half a mind to slap his hand away, tired as you were at midnight on a Friday after what had proven to be a particularly long week. However, the door had opened, a firm hand landed against your back, and the door clicked shut so quickly that you had hardly registered his swift ‘good luck’ before his dull footsteps could be heard retreating over carpet back to the passageway in a rather overdramatic attempt to avoid being caught. 

From where you stood, pillow pathetically limp in hand, Isaac Night looked almost like a normal boy – perhaps he would have passed as one, too, had his scowl not etched itself so deeply in his forehead that you feared his skin might crease permanently. 

“What on earth are you doing here?” 

The book in his lap snapped shut, his now unoccupied hand tugging the comforter further up to cover the bare expanse of his chest, and the ticking heart inside it. 

“Roommate reassignment. Didn’t you get the memo?” 

“No, I was not made aware.” 

It was offered without much fanfare, a slow huff seeping from your lungs as you shrugged off your dressing down and slung it over the back of Gomez’s desk chair. The room, you noted, was surprisingly tidy for a boy’s dorm, although you suspected that had more to do with Addams’ particular roommate than his own habits. Isaac shuffled again behind you as you sat unceremoniously on the edge of your temporary bed. Gomez appeared to at least have had the decency to change the sheets for you, you noticed as you tossed your pillow up against the headboard. 

Isaac grumbled something you didn’t quite catch, his book thumping against his nightstand. 

“May I ask how long this… reassignment is pencilled in for?” 

“If I can help it, just the night.” Your hips shuffled on the mattress, poised fingers pressing against it in spots, unamused. “Why do the boys' mattresses always seem to be made of straw?” 

“The girls have better?” Isaac sounded genuinely curious; instead of a deep frown, his brow had risen slightly, and the air of dissatisfaction dissipated somewhat as he pressed himself to sit up straighter. The duvet slipped again, but he made no great effort to retrieve it this time. 

“Much better.”

With a considering tilt of his head, he twisted at the waist, allowing him to dig under his pillow for what you assumed to be a night shirt, and hoped wasn’t a gun. Although, that would be one way to ensure a sound night's sleep. 

“And just how, exactly—“ he paused, tugging the shirt over his head, a loose thing with long sleeves, slightly threadworn at the cuffs (you’d live to see another day, after all) “—have you managed to test enough boys beds to come to such a solid conclusion?” 

It had been huffed with a degree of lightheartedness. Isaac was, after all, a resolute man, loyal to fact over exaggeration, accustomed to picking up on people's hyperbole rather than letting it sit. 

You eased yourself back against the headboard, tugging at the edges of the covers to ease your legs beneath. “Not all of us spend our evenings in book clubs, Isaac.” 

Where you had expected some kind of short circuiting, a double take at the very least, at your sudden candour, he laughed. A short, breathy thing as he refluffed his pillow. 

“Figures.” 

“Excuse me?” It came out as more of a scoff than you intended. 

He held his hands up in a comedy of a peace offering – surrender and apology mixed into one. 

Unlike many of your peers, you usually had no particular problem with Isaac. He was strange and rude, but there was something to be appreciated in the way he often seemed to forget to filter his thoughts, nor dumb them down for the sake of those who clung to him like some faith healer – or cult leader – you supposed it was the same difference. 

“I’ll have you know a girl is more than entitled to—“ 

“I really meant nothing by it,” he offered, already sensing the speech burning in your throat, "nor do I have any interest in what you get up to as part of your... extracurriculars. Let’s just sleep, hm?” Although phrased as a suggestion, the purposive settling of his head into his pillow encouraged you to take it more as an insistence. “Then we can put this whole inconvenience behind us, and you can return to your royal suite.” 

You were in half a mind to continue the argument that sat on your tongue, but the pull of sleep didn’t sound altogether too awful to the sting behind your tired eyes, even if giving in to him would knowingly stoke his satisfaction. 

“Fine.” Your head hit your pillow with decidedly more force than his had. “But don’t think you’re getting away with that.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

The lamps flicked off without him reaching for them, plunging the room into near complete darkness save for the thin sliver of moonlight that broke across the floor between the two beds. 

You shuffled from one shoulder to the other before resettling on your back. 

“Isaac?”

A huff came before his voice: “what?”

“Have you really never felt one of the girls' beds?” You failed in your attempt to suppress the smirk that tugged at the edges of your mouth. 

There was an odd silence for a moment, heavier than it had been a moment before. 

“I know what you’re trying to do.”

“I’m not doing anything.” 

A disbelieving hum was satisfaction enough as you fixed your gaze on the ceiling. “No. I have not yet found myself with the opportunity to… test out the girls beds.”

“Huh. Figures.”

His mattress protested as he turned on his hip, propping himself up to frown at you through the dark. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I really didn’t mean anything by it.” 

He hesitated, “How do you know I haven’t had girls in here, huh?” 

Your smirk stretched to a grin at the sudden strain in his tone, an ingrained urgency that seemed unbecoming of the boy genius. “I really don’t see how that is relevant to trying out mattresses.” 

“You’re infuriating.” 

“So I’ve been told. Goodnight, Isaac.” 

His bed creaked again as you could only imagine he flopped back down.

It was after the fourth attempt at making yourself comfortable on your right shoulder that Isaac’s irritated breath broke the quiet of the room. 

“Will you just settle?” 

You admit your responding sigh was on the dramatic side, propping yourself up on your elbows, your tired eyes just about making out the odd angles of his hair sticking up from the friction of his pillow. It was funny how he somehow looked more like the mad scientist now than he did in his lab coat.  

“One, this bed is the most uncomfortable thing in the world – Gomez must be used to sleeping on nails to ever pass out here. Two, this room is freezing.” 

“It’s chilly, but the ideal temperature for sleep is typically around—“

“It’s fucking fridgid, Isaac.” 

“Maybe you should have worn more than just those shorts and that excuse of a top, then.” 

“My clothes have nothing to do with it.” You sat up fully, immediately tugging the duvet back up over your shoulders as it slipped. “Besides, I had dressed originally with the expectation of sleeping in my own bed – you know, that nice warm comfortable one?” 

You weren’t sure if his irritated sigh was at you or at the steadily unpeeling truth that the girls' dormitories were altogether more accommodating than the boys. “Then just use another blanket.” 

“I have.” 

“Oh for God's sake—“ eyes adjusting in the dark, you could just about make out Isaac turning over, settling on the shoulder to face you, before lifting his duvet. “Come here.” 

Whatever you had been expecting, it was not this. For a moment, your brain failed to supply a response, stuck between a scoff and a protest. You waited for a punchline that didn't come. 

“Hurry up before I freeze waiting for you.” 

You got up before you could think better of it, the soles of your feet aching against the cold wood floors. “I thought you said the perfect temperature for—“

“Do you want me to change my mind?” 

Slipping in beside him was more awkward than either of you had anticipated in the minute amount of time you had considered the potential solution. The bed was too uncomfortably small for two people in any rational situation; although your rationality had disappeared alongside the feeling in your fingers around five minutes ago. You shuffled awkwardly, very aware that this was the closest you had ever been to Isaac, as your chest didn’t so much as brush, but rather pressed against his own. 

“Fuck, why are you so cold?” 

“Bad circulation. Can you— just lay still.” He settled the duvet over you, tugging it back and forth a few times to ensure it covered you both. 

“Is that why you always look like a Victorian ghost child?” 

His fidgeting paused, and you were half aware of the way he looked down at where you had settled on his pillow. “I beg your pardon?” 

You ignored the way his breath brushed against your cheeks, still minty from brushing. “You always look like death reincarnate.” 

He remained still for a fraction longer, the tick of his heart (much louder now that you were so close) accompanying his momentary buffering. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.” 

The notable uncertainty was strangely satisfying. “Isaac Night, speechless?” 

Intentionally or not, he drew himself closer, his thigh, clad thankfully in surprisingly soft pyjamas, pressing rather awkwardly against your own as he shuffled down the mattress. “Well it isn’t every night someone gets into bed with you and proceeds to hurl insults. You could very well have done that from the comfort of your own bed.” 

“Yeah, well, my bed was freezing.” 

You felt his sharp exhale as it brushed your forehead, and for a moment, the pressure of his chest against your body alleviated, offering a brief respite from the rhythmic thrum of his heart, but with it the odd warmth that had started to settle between you. It returned with his subsequent inhale. “You don’t seem to think this one is much better.”

“It’s a bit better.” It felt strangely natural to allow your body to relax a little further, your muscles seeming to soften in response to his. 

“So glad.” His general unimpressed air returned. “Now will you go to sleep?” 

You said nothing in return, rather you allowed yourself to accept the unavoidable propinquity required to avoid tumbling off the edge of the bed and onto the frightfully cold floor. Isaac appeared to catch onto the subtle way in which your body relaxed tenuously into his own, and in the second shock of the evening, his arm, once balanced precariously along his side like some nutcracker soldier, draped itself awkwardly over your side, instead. His hand was tucked neatly against the low of your back, as proper as it could have been, as it smoothed over the material of what he had rightly called a poor excuse of a top, as if to catch your skin in the process would have been the weirdest thing to happen in the last 10 minutes.

The silence settled again, his breathing evening out far quicker than yours could. 

“Isaac?”

The breathing hitched. This close, you could see the way his throat bobbed with an apprehensive swallow before a voice much further inclined to drowsiness broke through. “What?” 

“Thank you.” 

It took him a moment to respond – long enough that you counted the slow rise and fall of his chest and wondered if he’d already drifted off. When he spoke, it came muffled.

“Anytime.”

You tilted your head slightly, his chin brushing your forehead with the movement. “You mean that?”

A faint huff of breath followed, something like a sleepy laugh. His arm tightened just a fraction as he shuffled, the leg that had wandered accidentally earlier seeming to wind more securely between yours, then stilled again. “Surprisingly, yes.”

“You’re oddly sweet, you know that?” you murmured.

“You’re making me regret this,” he said, though the words lacked any real bite, his voice already slipping further under.

“Goodnight, Isaac.”

“Goodnight.”

You stayed still this time, far easier under the growing weight of his arm, listening as his breathing evened out, slower now, steadier, certain he’d finally fallen asleep. 

Yet, you could have sworn you felt his lips brush your forehead.

You noticed the warmth first. 

Not the vague, residual heat of thick blankets, but something far more immediate, close, a weight across your waist, the soft tick of the clock, the effort of sunlight pressing against your closed eyelids, trying to rouse you. You permitted yourself a few more hazy seconds of comfort. 

Then your mind caught up. It wasn’t the clock. 

Isaac. 

Somewhere in the night, the already marginal distance between you had shrunk further. His arm, it seemed, had drawn you closer, his leg still hooked loosely around yours, anchoring you in place as if he feared you might slip away while he slept. 

More pressing, however, his face was obscenely close to your own – far closer than you remembered. His eyes were still closed, lashes resting dark against his pale skin. The scowl you had grown so accustomed to was gone, replaced by something disarmingly soft. His lips were parted slightly, breath warm where it ghosted over your cheek. 

As your eyes adjusted, you could have counted the sparse freckles across his nose, or the subtle spattering of stubble that seemed to have materialised, patchy and fine, overnight. 

The impulse to shift was immediate, instinctive. To disentangle and put distance between you again. Yet you stayed impossibly still, caught between your rational brain’s insistence that this was a mistake, and the unsettling awareness of how natural it felt to be pressed against him, and how easily your body seemed to fit against his. 

His fingers flexed against your back, his palm splaying flat against the curve of your spine, framing the bone, thumb pressing gently into your skin. You noticed, now, how his fingers had migrated beneath the thin fabric he had been so careful to smooth over the night before.

Your breath hitched. 

His lashes fluttered. 

You barely had time to register it all before his eyes opened. His gaze focused slowly, sleep-heavy, fluttering a few times in an effort to blink away the bleariness. It was fascinating to watch how quickly his usual practised sharpness set in with the dawning realisation of your arrangement, yet his hand didn’t move. 

“Oh.” It was murmured, rough with sleep. 

“Hi,” you whispered before you could stop yourself. 

For a moment longer, neither of you moved. Then, Isaac’s eyes flicked once – just once – taking you in properly now. The nearness, the angle of your faces, the fact that your noses were almost aligned. His breath hitched, stuttering slightly against your lips, the warmth of it horrifyingly inviting. 

“You’re…” He trailed off, yet his frown didn’t deepen as you expected it to. 

“Still here,” you supplied softly. 

“Yeah.” A pause. You had never known Isaac to say so little, nor say it so roughly, his voice unpolished with sleep, catching on his words. To your terror – or your satisfaction – you were yet to decide, his lips twitched. Not quite a smile, but something close to it, potentially brushed off as a simple acknowledgement of the whole situation, but as his gaze lingered on yours, you found that line of reasoning harder to reconcile. 

This close, you could see more of the colour in his irises. So often, people described them as cold, near black, as inhuman as the heart inside his ribs. But at this distance, in the morning sunlight, you could see the warmth in them, and for one suspended moment, you considered studying them for hours. 

His hand still hadn’t moved. 

“How did you sleep?”

The question came with far more sincerity than you had expected from Isaac, twinged with a curiosity you hadn’t heard from him for anything besides your bioengineering homework. 

“Good, actually.” You decided against admitting that, despite the absence of your own bed, it was one of the best nights’ sleep you had had since the start of the school year. 

“So the boy’s beds aren’t as bad as you slated them to be?” 

“I’m not sure the bed was the deciding factor.” The laughed confession escaped you before you could consider the weight of it. Isaac didn’t laugh with you. You felt the shift rather than saw it, the way his attention sharpened, settling fully on you now. 

“Oh?” he said at last. It was difficult not to fixate suddenly on the way your hand had been curled against his chest, the slow pins and needles spreading from your fingertips drawing your eyes away from his for one secure moment to where you brushed the fabric of his shirt. 

“Did you?” you asked, quietly. He considered it for a moment, gaze dropping briefly before returning to yours. 

“Yes,” he said, inhaling steadily, “I did. We should probably—”

“Probably,” you agreed, though neither of you attempted to finish the thought.

Shuffling your hips first in an attempt to edge your way out of his embrace was probably your first mistake. The instinctive tightening of his arm to prevent you from falling off the edge was his. You both froze, with the small exception of the smile that teased its way onto your lips. 

“Your circulation doesn’t seem all that bad this morning, Isaac.” 

“I—” If Isaac had previously been half-asleep, he was suddenly very awake. “It’s the morning, it’s normal—”

“I’m not saying it isn’t.” 

The firm outline pressing against your upper thigh was undeniable, heavy against the curve of your muscle; the material of his cotton pyjamas strained taut against your bare skin. A good friend would have simply brushed it off, retreated, slid from the bed and put on their dressing gown for the stealthy return to their own dorm. Instead, your thigh pressed upwards imperceptibly, the movement slight enough to be passed off as incidental. You both knew it was far from it, but the knowledge did nothing to suppress the gasp his lungs demanded, nor the dig of his nails against the flesh of your back. That wasn’t normal. It was desperate. 

“Isaac?” He didn’t dignify you with a verbal response, settling for a grunt of acknowledgement instead, as if he didn’t trust his voice. “Have you ever had girls in here?” 

You suspected you already knew the answer to the question hidden beneath the words you had used. The strain in his voice the night prior had been subtext enough, but you needed to hear it from his lips. 

It took a moment, but it came: “No.” 

He was avoiding your eyes now – an impressive feat given the proximity of his face to yours. His head had tilted up, gaze fixing skittishly above your head, flicking between the room behind you and the headboard. 

You weren’t sure when the decision took root, but you lifted your head just enough to press your lips to the edge of his jaw, the uneven stubble scratching at your dry lips as you caught the curve of the mole that had taunted you for the last three years.  

“What are you doing?” He said it as if he intended it to be severe, tilting his attention back down to examine you, but the breathiness of it betrayed him. There was a quiver present that was unusual for him, but could hardly be excused as him having just woken up. His lips nearly brushed yours with how you had shuffled up the bed, so close that just a minute inclination of his head would close the gap. 

“Do you want me to stop?” A glance at his lips and back again, the impulsive drop of your tone to little more than a whisper, and he was hooked. You could see it in the way his pupils seemed to widen, searching mercilessly between your own as if destined to find some hint that this was a cruel joke. Another carefully choreographed shift of your thigh seemed to be enough to convince him that it was not. 

There was something charmingly innocent in the way he lost trust in his usually overactive voice, opting instead to shake his head as best he could with his cheek still pressed against his pillow. His lips parted with the increased demand for air, the subtle draw deepening into a gasp as your hand lifted and you wove your fingers into the roots of his hair, brushing the unruly strands from his cheeks, freeing them from where they had caught on his lashes. His neck craned with the gentle brush of your fingers, nails just catching his scalp, as if worried you might retract your touch, hyper-responsive to even the most modest terms of affection. 

“Will you let me take care of you?” 

A nod, this time, quick and desperate, lips still parted, but eyes fluttered shut, the picture of bliss. 

“Need to hear you, Isaac.” 

“Yes.” 

It was resolute, no hint of falter besides the twitch of his throat forcing a swallow against his drying mouth. 

Your hand left his hair only to cup the sharp expanse of his jaw, and again, his instinct required him to follow the warmth of your skin until his lips brushed yours at last. His pulse stuttered beneath your fingertips as you pressed yourself against him more insistently, bidding him to follow your lead – and follow he did. It was more of a question at first, as if he was testing your own consent before settling again, giving way to his quiet curiosity. The hand on your back crept slowly until it grasped the flesh of your hip, his desperation palpable but tempered with restraint, the hum of nerves settling in his stomach. 

Your own palm drifted, brushing over the curve of his shoulder, down the lean muscle of his chest, catching the ridden-up hem of his shirt and delving beneath, setting against the tensed expanse of his stomach. He twitched unmistakably at the alien sensation of another's hands on him, accompanied by another gasp against your mouth. Your fingertips lingering along the soft trail of hair that sent your mind reeling before settling against his diaphragm, curving around the noticeable ridges of his ribs and pressing just enough to ease him backwards, the clement action responded to promptly. 

For the first time, Isaac’s mind seemed to kick in, adjusting you with little complaint so that your knee came to rest between his thighs, both palms taking full advantage of the opportunity to balance you atop him, clasping urgently against your hips, working under the creased fabric of your shirt. 

The broken sound drawn from his lips as you pulled back was so unlike him, you wondered if he had been swapped in the night. Yet his familiarly wet brown eyes pleaded with you as you sat up straight, straddling against the trembling muscle of his thigh. 

“Shhh, just thought you’d prefer this—” Your top lifted over your head easily, and the whine came again, wandering hands drifting without thought to frame your freed breasts, an exploratory thumb brushing over a raised nipple, the flick tentative and a little too rough, his near-black eyes watching each of his imperfect movements carefully. 

“T-teach me how?” The rasp of it settled deep in your stomach, fluttering at the unexpected hopelessness of his plea. 

“How to what?” Your smirk was cruel; you recognised that, watching as he shifted beneath you, the stretched fabric of his pyjamas darkened deliciously under the strain of his cock. 

“How to touch you.” 

Your hand settled over the back of his, pausing as the tendons flexed beneath your palm, bidding him to relax as you guided him to cup your breast more confidently, adjusting the pressure of his as he sat up, lips chasing yours again as if he would suffocate without them. The subsequent tension in his thigh was unintentional, but unignorable, your hips grinding of their own accord against the thin seam of your sleep shorts, desperate for the friction of his body against yours but thwarted by the immodest scraps of now-slick material between your thighs.  

You risked abandoning his hand – he always was an astute student – to flirt with the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing the skin beneath just barely until he acquiesced and drew back just enough for you to drag the fabric over his head, his curls bouncing back against his cheeks far too prettily for first thing in the morning. 

It took a moment to remind yourself that this was supposed to be you taking care of him as our body pressed deeper into him, a splayed hand between your shoulder blades anchoring your chest to his, the alien metal of his heart disconcertingly cool against your heated skin. When his lips found solace at your throat, however, rushed and messy, those scraps of sense evaded you. His teeth clashed a little against your pulse point, the profuse lack of skill driving it higher still, the whole ordeal novel – to be in the lap of Isaac Night and hold superior knowledge. 

His fingers ghosted over the crease of your hip, buried beneath the hem of your shorts, slow enough that you could feel the apprehension, a silent repeat of his previous request as he inched closer to the heat between your legs. 

His lips faltered in their unfettered path, heated breath catching the slick skin. “Please?” His voice, barely above a breath, caught something in your chest. Reducing him down to nothing more than a desperate mess did wonders for your ego, your legs shifting awkwardly to remove the last of your sleep set before straddling him fully, pressing, now, against the ridged outline of him. He bucked up on instinct, the weight alone enough to drag a whimper from his lips as the material stained with your slick. 

His hand acquiesced to your own as you led him to where you suddenly needed him. It was far harder to focus on educating him as the disappointing ache of your cunt clenching around nothing only grew, your body betraying you. His fingers traced your folds tentatively under your guidance, the groan that emanated from his chest matching your own at the friction. 

“That’s it – fuck.” The angle was awkward for him, you realised, but it did nothing to temper his eagerness. His instinct seemed to kick in, one tenuous circle of his fingers followed another, gliding with ease over the sensitive ridges of your clit, his inexperience doing nothing to reduce the steady build of heat as you dripped unashamedly onto his palm. 

“Is this right?” 

He was watching your face patiently, gaze flicking across the contortions of your brow as your hips ground down against his fingers, willing them for more. 

“Y-yes, yes, you’re – oh!” His digits pressed deeper, curling until they brushed perfectly inside of you. 

“Like that?” 

“Fuck, yes, like that, Isaac.” 

Praise, you realised, was his leading motivator, a high, reverberating moan echoing off the high ceilings of his dorm room as he experimented, working against the needy suck of your cunt against his fingers, allowing you to grind down on the palm of his hand, grasping his wrist to hold him still with a grip that must have bordered on painful yet only seemed to inspire him deeper, quicker. His gaze strayed to where you rode his hand, thighs struggling with the effort of rolling against him. His barely held-back whine would have led you to believe it was his cock filling you, his receptiveness to the chasing of your own pleasure staggering. 

“You’re do-doing so good,” another unabashed mewl softened his features, his lip had been dragged between his teeth so tightly you could only imagine it hurt. You pressed his palm impossibly closer to you, the wet sound of it almost humiliating as you anchored his fingers deeper into your heat. “Feel that, hm?” He took a moment to focus, the curling of his fingers never slowing, each twitch imperfect but no less maddening. His breathing quickened with your own as you tensed around his hand, the revelation of bringing you to the edge almost too exciting for him. “Gonna make me cum, just – don’t stop.” 

Your hips ached with the effort, labouring against his fingers in an effort to help him, just this once – to give him the ego boost neither of you knew he still needed. 

“I didn’t think you could look any prettier.” 

The shock of the words alone had you spasming helplessly, gushing onto his palm like some wild thing, as if you were the virgin under his tutelage. You half imagined gasping his name as you shuddered, grasping at him in some attempt to stay upright, hardly aware of the way his fingers refused to let up, the hand not occupied with your cunt settling against your hip in some pathetic attempt to steady you. 

It was only as you grasped again at his wrist, your nails relieving themselves from his shoulders, that he relented, mumbling a soft apology.  

“Please tell me you have condoms?” 

He nodded far too enthusiastically, swallowing hard at your sudden lack of composure. “In the drawer.” 

He let you lean over him, digging through the contents of the nightstand until you found them buried at the back. You recognised the packet immediately, the same ones you often found in your dorm room trash can. It took a second to suppress a laugh at the idea of Gomez likely forcing a resistant Isaac to have some ‘in case’. 

Perhaps you had something to thank his roommate for after all. 

His eyes widened as you sat back more quickly than he anticipated, his fingers trapped between his lips, cheeks flushing further as if he were some kid stuck with his hand in the sweet jar. 

“You could have asked if you wanted a taste.” His cheeks only darkened again, his fingers emerging from his mouth satisfyingly clean, his lips parting a few times. “Next time, huh?” His jaw clamped shut at the implication. 

“Next time?” 

You replied only with a smirk, already working to drag the frankly ruined trousers from his hips. He shifted as if suddenly awkward, your gaze snapping from his hips to his face. 

“I’m sorry, It’s just—” 

“Hey, it’s okay.” Your hands paused, setting the fabric back against his skin. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“N-no!” He seemed to cringe at his own desperation. His cock twitched between you, betraying his desire. “Not exactly used to anyone seeing me like this.” 

“Do you trust me?” He pondered you for a moment, and you could almost hear him running the calculations in his head. 

“inexplicably, yes.” 

He let you drag the pyjamas fully from him, this time, his cock already leaking as it snapped against his taut stomach, so hot beneath your touch you were surprised he had lasted this long. 

“Doing so good for me, trusting me like this.” There was a noticeable buildup of moisture on his lashes that hadn’t been there seconds earlier, threatening with every subsequent blink to sully his flushed cheeks. 

You took him in your palm deliberately, relishing in the small jolt it sent through him, his stomach tensing, almost sending him slipping from where he sat pushed up on shaky arms. You brushed against him more resolutely, twisting your wrist just enough to elicit a groan, low and broken, from his chest, before sitting back and tearing open the packet. Any more, you realised and you would have both been disappointed, his body hyper-responsive to every languishing touch.

His own slick made it easy to roll the latex over him, each measured drag of your palm against him encouraged by a buck of his hips, impatient as each touch teased more. His breathing surged as you rose over him again, settling not over his thighs, this time, but placed perfectly to drag his strained tip through the deluge his previous ministrations had resulted in. His body protested again, forcing itself up as if drawn into you. 

“Ah-ah, slow down, baby. Don’t need to rush things.” 

The name didn’t do anything to placate him, his fingers digging into the rough mattress below him as you grasped him more firmly, and sank, inch by inch, until your thighs bit into his. He sat deeper than you imagined, the weight of him making your breath hitch, your walls quivering palpably, drawing the softest flutters of breath from his chest.

“Oh fuck.” The pulse of him was far from promising as you remained seated in his lap, his hands flying to grasp at your hips at your first attempt to move. “W-Wait! Just, give me a second.” 

Your hand slid into the soft curls by his temple, brushing the sweat-slick strands from his forehead; his neck tilted with the movement to expose his throat. “I have to move at some point, Isaac.” 

“I know,” frustration boiled in his tone, his thighs shifting beneath you restlessly, “I just, I–” 

“I’m not going to judge you for busting quick.” His eyes widened at the brashness of it. “Just let me move, please. It’s torture.” 

His grip on your hips alleviated, setting behind him again as you rose slowly, not faulting as you rode him, the slick sounds of your arousal drowned out by his ragged breaths. He was already coming apart, his eyes screwed shut against the squeeze of your muscle around him, the exquisite drag of his length stretching you out, your warmth driving him to near madness. 

“W-Wait!” 

It was with a smirk that you continued, your palms pressing his cheeks, angling his head towards your lips again to silence him, still tasting the remnants of yourself on his tongue as his jaw fell slack with a defeated groan, the rest of his body going rigid, giving into the contractions of your cunt around him, your slick matting into the unruly hair at his base. 

The threatened tears slid over his cheeks, catching against the tips of your fingers as you held his face, preventing his retreat as he continued to throb inside you. “F-fuck I’m sorry, I didn’t–” 

Another kiss stopped his babbling. “You’re good. You held out a lot longer than I thought you would, hey–” your fingers angled his jaw, forcing him to look at you as he tugged his head from your grasp. “You’ll get better with time.” 

His red-rimmed eyes searched yours for a moment, oddly vulnerable for Isaac, before fluttering closed with a curt nod. Your lips brushed his forehead as you lifted yourself, moving to settle back against your heels when his hand tightened around your forearm, tugging you unceremoniously back down against him. 

“Isaac, we need to cl—” 

“Just, indulge me for a moment, will you?” The flick of his right index finger and his soft hiss made you realise he was dealing with the matter more efficiently, the condom deposited neatly in the trash. Another had the rumpled comforter draping across you both, covering you with more ease as he tucked you tightly against himself with a subtle flex of his right palm. You pretended not to notice the way your limbs were momentarily not entirely your own, letting yourself sink into him as he desired. 

His hand returned to your back, dragging a slow pattern over the skin he had so precariously avoided the night before, your head nestled far more comfortably into the crook of his shoulder than it had been sharing his pillow. You knew you didn’t imagine it this time when his lips ghosted your hairline. He lingered there for a second longer than necessary, his breath warming your temple, as if testing whether the tenderness might frighten you off. 

“I almost understand Gomez’s insistence on indulging Morticia, now.” 

His voice rumbled beneath the hand on his chest, curling with a laugh. A cursory glance upwards surprised you with a sight you’d rarely been privy to before — Isaac was smiling. 

“Almost?” you murmured.

The way his chin creased as he angled his head to take you in, curious gaze assessing your countenance. “Perhaps I will understand fully when I’m able to keep from embarrassing myself.” It was your turn to smile, his self-depreciation flippant in the afterglow. 

He hesitated, tongue briefly wetting his lips before he spoke again, his voice lowered, stripped of its usual certainty. “Will there really be a next time?”

Your finger drifted over the cool metal set into his chest, following the edge of roughened skin, watching the small gears move with quiet diligence beneath your touch. “If you want there to be.”

“I do.” The answer came too quickly, too sincere not to make you laugh softly.

“Maybe,” you said, settling closer, “you can try out the girls’ accommodation next time.”

“Yes,” his arm tightened just a fraction. “I think that’s only fair.”

Bonus: “You drool, by the way.” He stiffened beneath you. “I do not.” “You do,” you whispered, barely holding back a smile. “It’s endearing.” “Were you watching me sleep?” “Only because you looked peaceful.” He exhaled, defeated. “You find this amusing, don’t you?” “Oh, absolutely.”  "Wonderful."