#blamemonroe

It isn’t an order, Paul never did. That was more a trait typical of the other Seed brothers. So maybe it’s why Issac is moving closer before he can think of stopping himself. It’s instinct now, obeying that feather soft voice in hopes of doing right and drawing out that smile. Anything to make him happy. Issac isn’t sure if it’s remnants of his conditioning or if it’s earnest. He remembers the first meeting Paul, remembers the haze and how numb his mind felt with only one clear order.

Protect.

And then Paul touched his shoulder, asked his name. Issac doesn’t remember much from those early days. Caught between recovering from his training and relearning how to exist as a person rather than a tool, well, Issac only ever had the Herald as his guiding light. It feels almost inevitable that when he realizes that somewhere along the way devotion slid seamlessly into affection, into adoration, into something that felt dangerously akin to love.

Standing close now, he feels it, tight like a collar CHOKING him until each breath burns.

Paul looks at him with bright blue eyes and Issac is all too aware of the way those fingers cards through his hair. Almost like an invitation. Like there was more than the gentle kindness, as if the apostle intended more than merely drawing him in close to soothe the restless temper in his veins. His eyes fall close, tense shoulders slump, and he can nearly feel Paul’s warm breath at his cheek and along his throat. Surrender feels common place these days when the herald touches him, speaks to him. What cuts through the haze, has his senses sharp and attention fixed through the haze, is the soft slow pressure of warmth at his mouth.

Oh.

So this is what it was like to kiss him.

It feels like instinct, as though the wounded animal in his veins knew best what to do. To yield at first, his hands uncertain of where to touch and if he was allowed to ruin the purity Paul held. There are teeth at his lip, sharp, and Issac recoils only a fraction as he feels blood run slowly down his chin. Paul meets his gaze, lips red and tongue darting out to lick the taste of him clean. “I won’t break, Issac.” Confusion surfaces only a moment until he feels Paul’s thumb rub along his lip painting skin bright red. It’s a strange mix of pain and pleasure that has him swaying, pressing in closer as Paul’s arms winds slowly around his shoulders.

“I won’t break.”

Of course he wouldn’t, it was silly imagining Paul breaking because of him. Even when his fingers are too rough, pulling and ripping fabric as he lunges forward chasing those lips hungrily. There is the taste of copper, the warm pressure of fingers digging in at his shoulders and twisting in his hair. As if Paul wants this, wants him --

Issac feels like such an idiot.

He had assumed so long that Paul was only naturally kind, naturally gentle with everyone. Those touches weren’t exclusively his so he never-- “Issac, where are you wandering?” It’s that whispering voice at his ear that grounds him. “No where far from you,” lips press to the hollow of Paul’s throat biting a slow path as his fingers trace each rib, following the curve of his spine.

Two steps backward, Paul’s hands guide and pull.

Issac’s shoulders hit the wall and he’s held captive by those blue eyes wondering when the apostle decided to TAKE instead of GIVE. Breath rattles free, his head falling back hard, when Paul takes and takes and takes. And why shouldn’t Issac give him everything, why shouldn’t he yank Paul’s head back as he does now and turn to pin him hard against the wall. He’s chasing his mouth, licking along his teeth and swallowing the moans rattling free. Those blue eyes are glassy when they part, as if Paul were as delirious as he was by the time Issac’s hand curls around his cock and strokes slow at first but then with growing intensity.

“Please,” Paul is breathless, hips arching into Issac’s hand and god if he doesn’t feel so lost in those glassy eyes begging him, pleading for him. Issac would give him everything, fingers close around Paul’s throat dangerous and yet--

An answering moan flutters out.

“Not here,” Issac’s voice wavers on Paul’s mouth, gasping breath lost on his tongue. “You deserve so much more than this.” Paul gives him a look, almost sympathetic, he doesn’t know and maybe he doesn’t care. But it’s the first time since he’d moved to Hope County that something makes sense. So he carries Paul to bed and lays him out across the sheets like he’s something precious, something to be revered and admired.

Issac’s fingertips trace the quiver of Paul’s lungs as he smiles down at him.

It’s so easy to sink down between those spread legs, to press his lips against a trembling thigh and confess. Months, god it feels like years, and there’s a certain inevitability that comes with seeing Paul at last not as the messiah’s brother, an apostle, or even a herald of the Lord. He was a man beneath Issac’s hand, a man looking at him with affection he felt mirrored in his soul. He could love this man, he does, Issac is certain of it as Paul’s breath quickens at his touch.