Stiles recoils from the blow, eyes wide with surprise. Isaac is breathing hard, face sheet pale, his fists trembling at his sides. Stiles licks his mouth – he tastes copper, salt, and when he touches his lip with his fingers they come away smeared red. Isaac got to his feet so fast – the covers are half off the bed with the force of it. Stiles is lucky he hadn't wolfed out.
"Don’t touch me," Isaac says, voice shaky. Stiles hasn't been sleeping and he hasn't been eating and he's certainly traumatized but he's not deaf. He takes two steps back. His back is to the open window. He can feel the waft of night air against the nape of his neck.
He wonders if Isaac still thinks he's possessed. He wonders if anyone he loves will ever trust him again.
"I know it's you, Stiles," Isaac says. He’s clenching and unclenching his fists, testing his restraint. "This isn't about you."
"Okay," Stiles says. "Okay, yeah." He can't catch his breath, and his mouth tastes like blood –
"Stop," Isaac says. "Stop thinking. This isn't about you. It’s about you not touching me until I know you're going to, because I've been punched in the face a lot recently. You don't get to take the blame for this, you selfish asshole."
Stiles's head snaps up at that, and Isaac’s cheeks are flushed with anger. At least he isn't terrified anymore. Stiles waits for him to snap his teeth, snarl, but he doesn't.
"I –" Stiles starts, and part of it is how Scott refuses to blame him for anything and how Lydia keeps giving him these sympathetic pats in the hallway and how his father will barely make eye contact but still hugs him all the time. Part of it is that now Stiles has experienced real power and on some level he's still hungry for it. He’s scared of what he could do with that hunger.
Isaac is looking at him, calm but still angry, shirtless, standing next to the bed in Scott’s house that used to be reserved for guests, and is now where Isaac lives. It even has some of his things in it. Isaac knows about power – all kinds of power. He knows how things change and other things stay the same.
"Stop looking at me like that," Isaac says. And then, "You're still bleeding."
Stiles wipes the back of his hand over his lip, feels the sting of ruptured tissue, the wet slide of smeared blood. He’s in Isaac's bedroom and he's not sleepwalking but he still can't rationalize his presence here. Climbing through the window at night, touching Isaac while he’s sleeping. Kissing him. Stiles is sick.
Isaac sighs. His fingers uncurl at his sides and spread wide, deliberate. He sits on the edge of the bed and beckons Stiles forward with of crook of his right hand. "Calm down. Come here." He pauses. "No sudden movements."
Stiles stays frozen for a long moment, but he needs the touch, and so he goes. Isaac is still when Stiles straddles him, legs splayed wide over Isaac’s lap. He could say he doesn't know why he's here, but he’d be lying. Isaac doesn't like him and therefore doesn't pity him – Isaac is angry at the things Stiles did, the way Stiles fed on them and liked it, and that's what Stiles needs right now. No more hooded eyes. No more tentative frowns and cut off half-sentences. Blood in his mouth and fingers pressing bruise-hard into his hips and ass. Stiles leaves red smears on Isaac’s skin when he kisses his neck.
“Why are you here?” Isaac asks as he pushes both hands down Stiles’s sweatpants in the back, cupping his ass. He uses the leverage the hoist Stiles forward, and Stiles forgets, even now, that Isaac is so much stronger than him. Moving Stiles around is nothing to him.
He can’t imagine that Isaac doesn’t know the answer to his question, which just means that Isaac wants him to admit it out loud.
“Because – you don’t make me feel worse,” Stiles says. His hands are on Isaac’s shoulders, fingernails digging in whenever Isaac pulls him forward. The friction is maddening. Isaac is wearing boxers and Stiles has his sweats on but he still feels Isaac getting hard. These stupid, needy noises keep spilling out of Stiles’s mouth, unbidden, and when he bites his lip to hold them in he splits the skin open again. It stings, and he gasps, and Isaac pulls him forward, fingers pushing hard into Stiles’s skin, pulling Stiles onto his dick.
“Why are you letting me do this?” Stiles asks, half-gasp. Even now, he has to ask; he’s never been good at keeping his mouth shut.
“Because I can,” Isaac says. “Because I like that you smell like blood. Because I can smell on you how much you need it.”
Isaac pushes his nose against the hinge of Stiles’s jaw and breathes in. Then he brushes the fingers of one hand between the cheeks of Stiles’s ass, a tease or a warning. Stiles makes a noise like a gut-punch, pushes forward and back and then stills completely.
He wants it to hurt. He wants it to leave marks. He wants not to have to think anymore.
“Please,” he says, more urgent than he means to, and he’s not sure exactly what he’s asking for. When is he ever, really?
“Scott’s worried about you,” Isaac says. He says it like it makes him angry. “They all are – I get it, poor Stiles, possessed and feeding off the pain of his friends. You almost killed us.”
Stiles should say something here, but he doesn’t want to, is the thing. He swallows the taste of his own blood, and ruts forward, into the humid friction between them.
“Do you remember enjoying it? That’s what I want to know. Were you there, inside, feeling all of those things?”
“I –“ Stiles says, cutting off with a gasp when Isaac scrapes blunt, human fingernails over the curve of his ass. The pain is like a radiating heat, and Stiles just wants to lean in. “I could – I felt all of it.”
They’d asked him, after, how aware he’d been, but no one bothered to ask if he enjoyed it. They all assumed that he hadn’t.
The truth was he had, he’d enjoyed every second of it, on a base, instinctive level, even as he tried to resist, and when he thinks about that now he wants to vomit. If he hadn’t liked it so much would he have tried harder to fight back? Would he have lasted longer?
He tenses, and Isaac must feel it. He makes an annoyed noise, a growl, in the back of his throat, and rolls them over. He splays Stiles across the bed, underneath him, and tugs Stiles t-shirt up to his nipples, his sweatpants down to his knees. Isaac kicks off his boxers, and then pushes back in. Stiles can feel the wet head of Isaac’s dick in the crease between his hip and thigh, and he arches his back.
“You’re feeling sorry for yourself again,” Isaac says. His hips are moving, languorous, out of step with the way Stiles needs.
“Please,” Stiles says, for a second time. “Isaac.”
Isaac presses his mouth to Stiles’s neck, scrapes his teeth, hard, against the tendon. Moves up to Stiles’s jaw, his cheekbone, all teeth and tongue. Stiles’s dick pushes against Isaac’s stomach every time they come together, but it’s not fast enough. Not enough enough.
“Do I feel sorry for myself, Stiles?”
“N-no,” Stiles says, gritting his teeth. He wonders if they’re stained with his blood.
“Then you don’t get to, either,” Isaac says, and his fingernails are back, harder, raking down Stiles’s side, over his ribs and stomach and hip. “Fucked up shit happens, and you don’t get to choose how or when. You just get to deal with the fallout.”
Stiles could say something, here, and maybe he would, but Isaac kisses him, then, on the mouth. He’s brutal, pushing his tongue past Stiles’s teeth, licking into him. Stiles’s lip, just barely scabbing, splits open a third time, bleeding between them, and Isaac laps it up and presses in.
Stiles is harder than he can ever remember being, smearing precome on Isaac’s stomach when they thrust together. Isaac finally, finally picks up speed, and Stiles curls one hand around the back of Isaac’s neck, the other twisted into the bedspread beneath him. They’re just rutting together now, skin slippery with precome and sweat, making the slide easier. Stiles would let Isaac fuck him, probably, would let Isaac choke him with his dick, anything to make everything stop for awhile, but this is enough, for now. The hot slide of Isaac’s dick into the bowl of his hip, the fiction of Isaac’s skin against the head of his cock.
Stiles thinks he could come just from this, but Isaac bites into his split lip and wraps a hand loosely around both of their dicks, and that’s fucking it. Stiles feels like he’s convulsing, whiting out with the force of his orgasm. He watches the splatter of semen on Isaac’s stomach, and when Isaac pulls out of the kiss and tucks his head into the crook of Stiles’s neck, Stiles can feel Isaac coming in pulses against his skin. It’s warm and wet and sticky, sliding down to pool in his belly button and the curve of his hipbone. Stiles leans his head back, looks at the ceiling. The watermarks on the plaster, the lone glow-in-the-dark star Stiles and Scott managed to get up there when they were five.
He’s panting, and Isaac is heavy, and they’re both filthy. Isaac has his teeth set into the skin of Stiles’s neck, worrying at it. Stiles keeps swallowing blood. He feels blank, emptied out, and that’s better than he’s been in a month. It’s a relief, to be thinking of nothing.
It’s then that he knows for certain he’ll be here again.
He counts to thirty in his head, slow – one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi – and then wriggles out from underneath Isaac. Isaac flops onto his back, watches at Stiles pulls down his shirt, pulls up his sweatpants. He’ll wash off the come when he’s home. He has to get back before his dad notices he’s gone – there’s still a fear, maybe even one that they share, that Stiles will start sleepwalking again.
He climbing over the windowsill when Isaac says, “See you in school tomorrow.”
Stiles turns to look over his shoulder. Isaac hasn’t even pulled up his boxers. He rubbing his fingers through the come on his stomach, smearing it around, and Stiles feels his face heat up.
“Yeah,” he says, and then he’s gone.