Chapter Eight #2
Isaiah relaxed into the nips and pulls, growing more intoxicated by it with each tug of teeth and knead of Hiker’s hands.
The gripping, the biting, the grinding: it placed Isaiah so perfectly and deliberately in his own body, reminding him that he was alive.
Whatever was to come, he could, right now, still feel the pinch of teeth and the scrape of nails, could still smell the deadly sweetness beneath Hilker’s coconut lotion, could still have every nerve in his body lit up as it was taken advantage of in the worst and best way possible.
He should not have agreed to this, Isaiah realized. He was going to enjoy it far too much.
As Hilker kissed him, he managed to strip off his lab coat in three easy motions, dropping it to the ground around their feet. He stepped over it, pushing Isaiah back. Something slid along the lab bench behind them, clattering to one side.
“You okay, Iz?” Landon shouted.
Isaiah froze, Hilker coming to a stop just after.
Hilker’s brow lifted.
Isaiah swallowed. “Yeah, the bastard just dropped something,” he lied, then hissed at Hilker, “Careful.”
Hilker’s smirk only widened. “You don’t want your princess to know you’re fucking the enemy?
” he teased, soft enough that Landon couldn’t hear—like their whole conversation, Isaiah realized, both of them quieting without even thinking about it.
He gave an extra tug at Isaiah’s locs, pressing his mouth to Isaiah’s earlobe. “Then you’d better not make a fuss.”
The ache that stirred in Isaiah’s center made him want for nothing more than to moan aloud, but he bit his lip and gave the tiniest whimper instead. “Fuck.”
“Oh, I am,” Hilker promised. He grabbed at the back of Isaiah’s thigh, sliding his hand up beneath his gown until he was cupping Isaiah’s ass, flesh on flesh.
Isaiah shifted against the way that sensation coursed through him, seeming to take over his mind after so many weeks of not being touched. He yearned for more, for less, for all of it, for nothing—dear fucking god, what was wrong with him?
Hilker was already pushing the gown off Isaiah’s shoulders, not bothering to untie it, just letting it hang there, Isaiah’s skinny chest half-exposed as Hilker bit the meat of Isaiah’s shoulder hard enough that he knew this bruise would last far longer than any of the scientist’s experiments—should Isaiah live to see it.
No more death thoughts, he decided. This was his last time, and he was going to enjoy it, damnit.
Isaiah wrapped his arm around Hilker’s waist, fiddling delicately with Hilker’s hair, purposefully soft in all the ways Hilker was harsh with him, and it seemed to be just what Hilker needed.
He bit down again, sucking with his tongue and teeth on the sensitive skin on Isaiah’s throat, and Isaiah held back another moan.
He let his hips bump timidly against Hilker’s and was rewarded with a sharp grinding, so sudden and thorough that he wanted to scream.
If he hadn’t been hard before, he was now: hard and aching, so stupidly aware of all the places he hadn’t been touched in the last three months.
“Please,” Isaiah whispered, and he didn’t know what he was begging for, he just wanted to beg. Wanted to be denied or filled or both. Wanted his own part in this.
Hilker rewarded him with a shove, pressing him into the wall of the lab as he caught Isaiah’s mouth again, once, twice, before hissing, “You’ll get what you deserve.”
He could feel Hilker’s fingertips at his hole and he arched against the ache, releasing a shuddering breath. “Nuhhuh,” was all he managed in response, clinging to Hilker’s neck.
Hilker removed one of Isaiah’s hands forcefully, pinning it to the wall behind him, and kissed him again, scraping his fingernails against Isaiah’s opening in time to the motion of his teeth.
It made Isaiah want to beg again, made him feel faint and fluid, undone and stripped bare.
When Hilker let go of his wrist, he was almost disappointed, until the unzipping of the man’s pants followed.
He tipped his head back and let Hilker pull away, let him dig something out of his bag, not really looking, not really letting himself leave the suspension of the moment, the hot tension holding his soul aloft so he didn’t hate himself until later.
Hilker returned, his fingers and dick already coated in something slick and dripping.
As he leaned in, one hand working its way back under Isaiah’s gown, he caressed Isaiah’s cheek with the back of his other. “I will make you feel better than you could ever dream.”
Better.
Dream.
Isaiah caught him by the arm. His arm shook. “Stop,” he whispered.
Hilker froze. A twitch of confusion crossed his face, then disappointment, but he started to draw back before Isaiah caught him yet again.
“Not— Not stop— Just— Go back to what you were saying before.” He knew he looked pathetic—was pathetic—but he couldn’t help what he wanted. “Don’t be nice to me.”
A new set of expressions hit Hilker: confusion again, then relief, and pure joy. He licked his lower lip, his mouth forming into a smirk after. “In that case, I’m going to fuck you like the little slut you are.”
The most pitiful sound threatened to come out of Isaiah, and he felt his eyelashes flutter, the blood rushing to his face and his dick in equal parts. “I’m not…” he whimpered, opening the door for who knew what. He could hope though.
Hilker pressed his hand back under Isaiah’s gown, finding his opening with one soft caress before shoving a single finger inside as he hissed, “You, my pretty thing, are such a fucking whore.” With each word, he pressed and twisted and retracted, thrusting two, then three, fingers into Isaiah.
“You’re giving yourself to me for crumbs, letting me dirty your fresh, new body. ”
Every motion, every word, every hushed breath and tiny scrape of Hilker’s nails set Isaiah alight.
He felt himself burn, not like a holy silver infliction, but like the sun itself was blazing inside him, centering his whole being lower and longer.
He bit down on his tongue, but it could barely muffle the moan that slipped out of him.
Isaiah made the sound again as, with his free hand, Hilker gripped his hair and twisted him sidewise, toward the clean, empty lab bench that butted up against the wall. As he leaned in close, he growled, “You’re a filthy little bitch, and I’m going to take you the way you deserve.”
The shiver of desire that rolled through Isaiah made his dick swollen and needy, and after months of minimal attention, every gust of a breeze against it felt like relentless exposure. His body gave a buck as his length touched the edge of the bench through his dressing gown. He whimpered.
Hilker pressed his fingers deeper inside Isaiah and pushed him forward, cupping his other hand against Isaiah’s lips. “Shh. You wouldn’t want your princess to hear, would you?”
That almost brought yet more noise from Isaiah’s lips, but he forced himself to part them instead. Hilker’s fingers slid across his tongue, gagging him. Isaiah’s hole went loose as Hilker’s other hand pulled out.
The moment of nothing left Isaiah in such suspense, empty and aching, only for Hilker’s dick to enter him with enough force to press him deeper across the counter.
He muffled his scream into Hilker’s fingers, clamping his own hand over his nose to quiet himself further.
As he was forced against the top of the bench, Hilker thrusting onto him in such erratic, reckless bursts that it left a trail of raging fire through his aching insides, he could see himself in the reflection of the large, metal machine to their right: see his ass bared, the gown pooling around his hips, Hilker’s hair coming loose from its bun, Isaiah’s own locs tousled and spread around him, fingers shoved into his mouth and across his nose, his eyes wide.
He looked subjugated, degraded, pathetic.
And he felt it.
He’d told Hilker, back when he’d first brought in the unholy gold, that he’d had enough pain—but he hadn’t had enough of this pain. He hadn’t known this was a pain he could feel from Hilker, this raging thing, peeling him apart in waves of pleasure.
Isaiah pressed himself forward against the lab bench, submitted to the weight of Hilker’s dick inside him and the friction of his thrust, and watched himself be taken.
In a snap like thunder, Isaiah came.
It was there, and then gone, hot and blazing with glory one second and fizzling into obscurity the next. Isaiah tried to spit Hilker’s fingers out. He was still thrusting, pushing himself into Isaiah so hard it rocked Isaiah’s body, crushing his newly sensitive parts and—
Then he wasn’t. He’d pulled out, his fingers freed from Isaiah’s mouth, and Isaiah wasn’t even sure whether the man had come or not, but he was already pulling his zipper awkwardly back up by the time Isaiah managed to peel himself off the lab bench.
Isaiah breathed in, then out, and all he wanted to do was crumble into Justin’s arms.
But he didn’t have Justin’s arms anymore. He didn’t even have Landon’s arms, until Hilker opened the door to their cell. All he had was the slightly disheveled, flush-faced villain in front of him, and his own aching ass.
Isaiah breathed in, then out again. “I’m gonna… I need a minute.”
Hiker looked at him. His jaw moved, then his tongue. He looked away. “I have to get the door codes,” was all he said in the end.
And he left.
He left, and Isaiah cried alone, one hand over his mouth and the other holding shut his nose, sitting on the lab floor and truly feeling the chill of the cold, hard world for the first time in years.