title: I caught myself (and so did the enemy)

fandom: teen wolf

pairing: Stisaac (I like it even though it sounds like a disease because their relationship can't be anything near healthy) or I guess if you prefer, Isles

summary:"Yeah- yeah, okay." Because he can handle when they're the sarcastic spazz and sassy werewolf pair.

warnings: season one and two

a/n: Wrote this two days ago but couldn't decide if it was done or not. Oh well. I adore Isaac Lahey like I adore cuddles. So I did a character request for Isaac since no one did and finally, he is listed.

He never really used to have a handle on everything in life but now the handle might be broken.

He could complain but then he'd be lying and not in the horizontal position anyways he's all but given up on lying to a werewolf, exhausted of hearing his own glitches and catches in his heart. But that doesn't mean he can't have that futile inner argument on how he's not sleeping with the enemy while he's alone in bed because that can never really happen when Isaac Lahey is in his vicinity.

Because sometimes he forgets to catch himself.

take the good

Once his innards aren't panicky and his heart isn't thumping hollowly in his chest and spurred about so restlessly, he basks in what they are because how can he not? After lazily entwining in each other from good-natured tussling, it surges until languid touches and kisses have been forgotten and heat is all there is. All he can feel.

Isaac's laps at every mole on his body with a certain determination that has him give a weak laugh so he can't help but make a joke, something about dogs; he never really gets it out. It transforms into a breathless sound, something he didn't know he could make but then Isaac makes it too and it's beyond amazing.

His mouth gaps open, and tongue darts in, probing for some unknown. It's different from his searching; he knows what he's looking for, a way in. When he finds it, aggression takes hold. Isaac lets him but only for a while before he's pouncing and wrestling.

His fingers fumble on the healed scars blemishing Isaac's skin; they'll never leave even though the werewolf's skin has reknit itself on countless occasions. He kisses them more than he kisses Isaac's lips and then he catches himself and decides Isaac's mouth deserves his attention too.

Pink lips become red and bruised, shiny from his tongue. His lips must mirror Isaac's because Isaac's eyes dart from his lips to his eyes and to his lips again. There's a glow in Isaac's eyes, they flicker and darkened considerably.

Isaac stares from above with those golden irises that have long since become a fetish, so much so that whenever he's near Isaac he gets a tad one minded. The way Isaac stares at him is something he handles well, he thinks. He can take the lust filled gilded gaze but when Isaac's eyes are blue, there's depth that he finds himself drowning in and he feels vulnerable.

Isaac sees too much of him and he has to hides his face into the neck above.

He can see with much more clarity than he would like but he asked for it. He sees that Isaac overly visits the graveyard, sees his eagerness to please, sees the introverted damaged teen underneath the sass, sees that he really isn't that bad of a writer but mostly he sees Isaac in that corner, cowering from the oh great and mighty fucking Alpha over and over again in his head. It's not only the Alpha, its years of being battered and he's not stupid, the Alpha inflicts pain. He sees it in Isaac's eyes when he comes.

Isaac tells him, "to take the good with the bad." The phrase makes his belly coil.

and sometimes the bad

Every now and then there's an ugly sneer, full of impudence and blind allegiance put on just to mock on Isaac's face and then everything is easier that way because he can glare back with the same hatred and cynicism with an easeful fluidity. And it's like killing two birds with one stone.

He's takes it in stride. The unbridled anger leaves bruises and rare scars, ones that Isaac traces with his tongue in what he doesn't think is a silent apology, not when it suspiciously resembles the word mine.

They don't address it. Things can't get even more complicated than they are.

But sometimes when he just can't anymore, and it all spills over and his body betrays with salty drops dampening his cheeks, Isaac licks them away. And when he tells Isaac not to touch him because he deserves to plunge off the edge after finally being pushed by guilt that's eating at him and loyalty that's distorted, Isaac doesn't let him.

And sometimes, he's the one placating Isaac, breathing into him. On top, kissing and touching and babbling his regular nonsense, nothing of importance when Isaac's looks drained. Isaac curls himself into a ball right in his lap. Once when he came home from school, he saw Isaac pick up his framed treasured picture of a woman, the werewolf held it for a while and set it down gently. He understands. Isaac misses the warmth and unconditional love that is his mother, he does too. He thinks maybe that's why they're both suckers for cuddling, always draped in a mess over one another.

They're a fissured mess, reminiscent of a two way mirror except Isaac's side is cracked, much closer to shattering. He's got a bit more withstanding.

when it's okay

He's sporting a bruise; it gets worse before it gets better. Isaac sees it when it's at its worst. It's not that bad but it hurts like a bitch. He makes jokes of it, goes for comedic relief because of the look on Isaac's face, makes comments like, "don't people know that I have a low tolerance for pain" and "why is my baby always dragged into everything?"

Isaac doesn't laugh. He more or less gawks at the bruise closely with poorly concealed obsession.

So he fidgets.

"You need to put ice on it."

"Yea. Thanks for stating the obvio-," Isaac's hand comes prodding softly and everything stops. A screeching halt. He's usually moving a mile a minute, stopping is hard but Isaac gets him to do it with a touch.

He breathes out, "it's okay."

Then Isaac grins and says, "Enough with the plaids and the hoodies," and presses a kiss to his lips, "takes forever to get you out of it." It's a full circle but everything moves again.

"Yeah- yeah, okay." Because he can handle when they're the sarcastic spazz and sassy werewolf pair.

Instead of plaid and hoodies, he's clothed in bright blotches of hickeys and handprints.

…

The spray of the shower is lulling; it feels even better. It's meant to erase but they both eventually climb in.

The shower washes all, soap, cum, sweat and secrets.

He vaguely remembers when he used to take them to steady his heart back when breathing wasn't easy.

Isaac runs a hand over him and it hurts briefly but in a good way.

It's not exactly easy now, just easier. Especially with Isaac breathing into him.

…

Isaac's too friggin' attractive, not pretty but, he has to force himself to think the word, beautiful. It makes him painstakingly aware of his own face; oddly enough it's not insecurity. The werewolf is long and slender, yea he knows because he fucking stares but Isaac stares too and he's not even fucking subtle with his stare, so it's okay, right?

The screen in front of him keeps flickering to the screen saver and the pen in his hand is twirling between his fingers. The tip of the pen's cap is moist, and near the point of caving in with no return but his teeth isn't letting up.

"Research?"

The pens' cap snaps and falls. He jerks at the voice, mouthing, "oh my god."

Blue eyes light up with a smirk, always there at first, "You really need to relax. You're so jumpy."

"What the hell, man? Make noise or next time I'll scream in a very manly way and my dad is going to come up here and kick your little werewolf ass, not that I need help kicking your little werewolf ass but you know… he'll skin you and I may be a member of PETA but he's not," He may or may not be flailing during his monologue. "And you're the cause of my tension, the very foundation, there's no footing without you." His babbling could go on and on but it stops. Isaac's closer, much closer. Isaac presses his nose right into the soft thin skin behind his ear, inhales and licks.

The bastard has that stupid smirk, "what? No more?"

to forget the fall

It's mostly him but not always. Isaac strokes his neck, licks at it -in spite of his lame protest of avertable evidence- fucking whines against it –the same whine that sounds sort of broken when he pulls out to cum- and slipups because there's a bit of fang and an anguished hum. He's forced inward, away from Isaac and then Isaac says he needs to leave.

But they continue this ache of a suffering and this time he's the one to forget.

Except it's not fair because he's taking and Isaac's giving and it starts in at him all too fast so there's no backpedaling. With realization dawning, he thinks Isaac's "worse than fucking Adderall."

Isaac laughs.

Because once again his brain decided his mouth should have a mind too so he colors because he forgot to catch himself.

Isaac does it next and he follows.

He's wrecked, pretty much ruined because he knows what another warm body with his feels like and not just any, Isaac's. He's been lured in by the possibilities of another.

Their bodies are moving together in rhythm which continues to surprise. When his heart thuds in tune with Isaac's, it takes him a minute to find his. Somewhere along Isaac's fingers interlinked with his and it feels like his stomach dropped out. Isaac says, "You're amazing."

Oh.

He feels too high-strung all at once and suddenly he's fisting the sheets-

Oh My God. "I'm- I can't-"

And he forgets to breath, forgets that they are not one but two people. Sweat beads his brow, his mouth is partway open like he can't get enough oxygen in. His throat is hollow and he has no words. For once. Then he feels like a man absolved and a man burdened and it's too much. Isaac forces air down his throat.

He comes in spurts.

but there's a catch, always

Showering requires moving and he just can't right now. He reeks, he has to, sweat and cum can't be a good combination but Isaac's snuffling him like he's some wonderful bouquet. He winds his fingers in sweaty curls and tries hard not to suffocate in the harsh gravity of what they just did, what they've been doing. He's unbalanced. He's fucked. He's spoiled. He wonders if he can overcome his greed.

Isaac wraps them –both all too pliant- in something that feels solid, and whispers to him words that shouldn't be said, shouldn't be thought. It feels good though and he wants to whisper back words that plague him.

But he catches himself or maybe he doesn't. No. Not at all.

He turns his back to the enemy, giving Isaac an opening but Isaac never does, never takes. Instead there's sticky warmth against his nude back and Stiles bites back a shameful sob because he'll sleep so soundly, so peacefully with the enemy's familiar breathing in his ear.