Hold Me Closer | Stisaac (Serendipity, Book 1)

Chapter 1 (Revised April 2024)

Loving can hurt
Loving can hurt sometimes
But it's the only thing that I know
When it gets hard, you know it can get hard sometimes
It is the only thing that makes us feel alive
- Ed Sheeran, 'Photograph'

Stiles didn't know how long he'd been walking for.
He didn't even know where he was. He only knew that it had been hours, that it was dark and cold and his body hurt and he wanted a damn drink. Several drinks.
Stiles looked around at the shops, food trucks and bars and realized that he was way downtown, in the busiest area of the city. Watching throngs of people bustling about the street with laughter and chatter, he wondered if he would ever feel like them again. Carefree. Joyous. He didn't think he would. The anxiety-riddled people rushing by with forehead creases and a battlefield march seemed more like his destiny.
Groups of women passed him by in tight, revealing clothing, clouds of vanilla and overly expensive perfume clinging to the air around them. Men walked around with their girlfriends and boyfriends, some looking astoundingly bored as their lovers stopped at every shop window to look inside at the things they'd probably never buy. The strong scent of greasy foods mixed with the sweet scent of the bakery down at the corner of the street turned his stomach. Maybe he'd go down there and get one of those fresh pierogi...
A bright orange and blue neon sign caught his attention.
THE DIVER
The lopsided last letter on the sign hung on for life as it flickered. Stiles headed straight for it, following the sound of pool cues hitting their targets that clanged through the wooden entrance door, which was propped open with an old dining chair.
As Stiles entered the bar, he saw that it was very accurately named. Small and dimly lit, it smelled of sweat, dirt, and cheap, greasy food. Thankfully, it wasn't very busy. About a dozen or so people lingered in various states of intoxication. Most of them sat at one of the many small circular tables spread around the room, nursing or throwing back their drinks with hopeless abandon. One had even fallen asleep with his head on the bar. Someone had shoved a folded towel beneath his head.
To the right of the entrance was a small arcade, broken-down and unused. Two pool tables were shoved in the center of the room, awkwardly placed in the middle of a group of the small tables. The men at the tables struggled to play in the tight space. In the far left corner of the room was a small stage, devoid of people but cluttered with musical equipment and a lopsided stool placed before the microphone stand. The walls were cluttered with neon signs and what appeared to be random framed photographs of anything and everything. A car in a junk yard, a sepia-toned wildflower, an empty city street.
A short brunette woman stood behind the bar. She stared at the only awake and coherent patron sitting at the bar with wide, glazed eyes and a hand on her hip. She seemed to be debating whether she wanted to kick him out, force him to order something just so she'd have something to do, or ignore him entirely. The man was tall but skinny, slightly hunched over the bar. His head of curly dirty blonde hair was hung low. He slowly rotated his body back and forth on the swivel stool, almost ritually.
Stiles plopped onto the stool beside him. The bartender pounced, greeting him with a relieved smile and overly enthusiastic tone. "What can I get for ya?" she asked.
"Vodka on the rocks," Stiles said immediately. "Keep it coming, please."
The bartender slapped two napkins down on the bar and returned a moment later with two glasses, thunked down on each napkin. Stiles handed her a crumpled twenty-dollar bill from the back pocket of his jeans and his driver's license. She glanced at it and handed it back to him, shot the other patron a look and resumed her previous, statuesque position.
It was warm in the bar, Stiles realized, as feeling returned to his fingertips and cheeks. As the cold faded from his body, the pain increased. His entire body throbbed, especially his chest and right cheek. Stiles took a big gulp of his drink, not even blinking as it burned its way down his throat.
Something crashed onto the bar. Glass shattered. Stiles choked on his drink in surprise and turned toward the commotion. The blonde man caught his gaze, his face bright red as he scrambled to mop up the mess he'd made of his drink with his napkins. The bartender darted over with her hand towel and waved the man's hands away.
"I've got it, it's fine," she said, clearly annoyed. She plucked up the broken remnants of the man's glass, wrapped them in another hand towel and set the mound on the shelf beneath the bar.
"I'm so s-sorry," the man stammered. "I don't k-know what h-happened, I'm sorry!"
"Shit happens," the woman replied, wiping up the mess with her towel and tossing that beneath the bar as well. Schlop. "It's fine."
She whirled around and disappeared through a discolored swinging door set in the wall behind her. The man sighed deeply and dropped his head to the bar with a painful-sounding thud. A Polaroid camera sat on the bar by his head.
"Are you okay?" Stiles asked.
The man straightened, his glasses now askew on the bridge of his nose. He fixed them. "Y-yeah, I'm okay. Just dropped my camera."
"Is your camera okay?"
The man picked up the camera and examined it quickly, flipping it around clumsily in his hands before setting it back down on the bar. "It's fine. Luckily, it isn't wet."
"What kind of Polaroid camera is it?"
"A P-Polaroid OneStep 600."
"You a photographer?"
He shook his head. "No. I'm not that good. I just like taking pictures...s-sometimes. I don't take them much. I mean, I'm a photography assistant, but..."
"Are you a picky photographer? Is that why you don't take many photos?"
"Uh, y-you could say that." The man smiled nervously at Stiles and averted his gaze.
"I'm Stiles."
The man looked back at him. "Isaac."
"So, what were you drinking? I'll buy you another."
Isaac's smile disappeared, melting into a look of stress. "Oh, no. No, t-that's okay. Really. Thank y-you, though."
Stiles stared at Isaac, intrigued by his nervousness. He bit his lip to hold back laughter as he waited for Isaac to say yes. Isaac's face relaxed after a few seconds as he saw the look on Stiles's face. Isaac swallowed, his cheeks blushing red.
"It was a Sex On The Beach," he answered, his face morphing into a deep tomato shade.
Stiles laughed, waving to the bartender who had just reappeared from her hideaway with a fresh, cheerful look about her. Stiles repeated the drink to her and she made it, sliding the pinkish-orange drink over to Isaac with a smile and a shake of her head. She asked him not to make a mess this time, but she left another towel on the bar top just in case.
"That's an interesting drink choice," Stiles teased. He watched Isaac's fingers dance around the glass, tapping it and caressing it.
"I just like the taste. Especially here. They put coconut juice in it or something, it's really good."
"Do you mind if I taste it? I've never had one before."
Isaac shook his head, a small smile lifting the corners of his lips as Stiles reached over and plucked the glass from Isaac's nervous fingers. Stiles took a sip and set the glass back down.
    "That's pretty good. Is that peach?"
Isaac nodded. "It has vodka, peach schnapps, orange juice, cranberry juice, and, like I said, they like to put coconut in it here...You, uh...You look like you've had a rough day. You okay?"
"What?"
Isaac gestured to his own cheek. "The bruises. They look like they hurt."
"Oh," Stiles said. "Yeah. I guess I kind of forgot for a minute." His stomach tightened as he remembered. Thrown fists, yelling, the taste of his own blood. He took a gulp of his drink.
"That's one way to put it. I don't really want to talk about it. Came here to forget about it, and get drunk and, uh...It was actually working."
"That sounds good to me," Isaac smiled, looking at Stiles strangely. It wasn't a look of sadness, or a look of pity, as Stiles was accustomed to. It was something different, something that made Stiles smile back.
As they drank more, Stiles noticed an ease creeping into Isaac, a looseness in his shoulders and a confidence in his voice. He sat up straight and his stutter faded considerably. He spoke freely and laughed even freer.  Stiles found himself getting distracted by Isaac's pink lips and perfect, white teeth. From the way Isaac looked at him, curiously with an almost permanent half-smile on his face, Stiles thought and hoped that he felt the same.
Soon, Stiles was buzzing, his body warm and vibrating with the liquor. He felt himself relaxing as well, forgetting what had brought him to the bar in the first place.
"Do you want to go somewhere else?" Stiles asked.
"Sure. You have somewhere in mind?"
"There's a park a few blocks from here. We could go there."
Isaac nodded. "A walk sounds good right now. Let's go."
They downed the rest of their drinks, paid, and left, the cold night air a welcome invasion to the warmth of the alcohol. Stiles led the way to the park, hands shoved into his jean pockets while Isaac fumbled with his camera.
"So, did you grow up here in Portland?" Isaac asked.
"No, I lived in Springfield up until a few years ago. What about you?"
Isaac shook his head. "Nah. I moved here from Nevada when I was about fifteen."
"You go to college?"
"I was going to. I got accepted to Berkeley and I wanted to get a degree in psychology but uh...After my grandmother got sick, I just didn't really wanna go anymore. Didn't wanna leave her, you know? She was in remission for a long time, but.."
"Oh. I'm sorry. That sounds rough."
"Thanks."
"What's your grandmother's name?"
"Cindy."
"What about your parents?"
    Isaac swallowed. "They both passed away. My mom when I was thirteen. My dad passed just a couple of years later."
"Wow, I'm so sorry. I relate. My, uh, my mother died when I was sixteen. She was an amazing woman. I miss her all the time."
"Yeah. So was mine."
They walked in silence for a moment. It was a little heavy, but not uncomfortable. Stiles felt strangely at ease; the discomfort he felt came mostly from the resurfaced pain of his childhood, and not the fact that he'd just exchanged possibly the most personal detail of his life with someone he'd just met.
To lighten the mood, Stiles changed the subject. "So, when was your first kiss?"
Isaac grimaced. "Oh, God. I was thirteen. It was, uh, a boy named Daniel. It was gross and wet. Very wet."
Stiles laughed. "Uck, same here. Except it was too dry. It was like kissing sandpaper."
"Tell me about the first time you got drunk."
They turned the corner and arrived at James Maine park. Surrounded by a tall chain-link fence with an opening for the entrance, the park was dark, lit only by a couple of streetlights inside the play structure pit that loomed in the center of the park. The rest of the large park was grass, walkways, and trees.
The play structure was basic, with a bridge and a few slides, but Stiles's favorite part was the giant merry-go-round. He raced for it, his reply to Isaac lost on his lips. The alcohol made him stumble a bit and for a second he wasn't sure he'd actually moved at all, and then suddenly he was throwing himself onto the toy. He rammed his knee into the handle bars as he sat down, but paid it no mind. Isaac followed him, laughing as he sat down.
"I'm guessing that merry-go-rounds were your thing as a child," Isaac said.
"Yes! I used to beg my father to get one for the backyard. I always loved them. It was just a reminder that something was good once, you know? Any time I come to a park that has one, I'll sit on it for hours. I love coming here at night and just watching the stars on it. I don't know why. Anyway," Stiles rotated himself and scooted back to lean against the bar so he could look at Isaac. It was uncomfortable, but gave him the support he needed. "to answer your question...The first time I got drunk, I was fifteen. My father was out late at work so I got into the liquor that he would hide in his room. To this day he still doesn't know that I know where he hides it. All I really remember was watching The Bodyguard for hours and trying to sing like Whitney Houston. Pretty sure my neighbors hated us after that."
Isaac roared, probably imagining a young Stiles prancing around his room, squealing along to I Will Always Love You. Stiles, not liking the pressure of the bar against the back of his head, lay down on his back instead, though he kept his head turned toward Isaac. He gently pushed off the ground with his feet, forcing the giant metal cylinder into a continuous, calming rotation. Isaac pulled his knees up against his chest, crossed his arms over them, and rested his chin on his forearms.
"You seem like you would've been a good friend to have growing up," Isaac said.
"I like to think so. I'm pretty awesome, if I don't say so myself."
Isaac laughed. He stared up at the sky. Bright white stars scattered about, sources of light within the inky black. "You were right. There's something beautiful about looking at the night sky on this death trap."
Stiles sat up. The rotation halted. "It's not a death trap," he laughed.
"It really is."
"Yeah, you might be right..." Stiles chuckled. He looked at the stars. "Do you want to come back to my place? Not in a weird murder-y, Netflix-and-Chill kind of way—you can say no, it's not a big deal, I just—"
"I would love to," Isaac said.
Stiles met his gaze. "Cool. It's about a twenty minute walk. You okay with that?"
"I am." Isaac smiled coyly.
Stiles lived in a decently-sized one-story house dead in the center of a fairly middle-class neighborhood. Although far from being the most impressive dwelling on the block, it was certaintly the most colorful and expressive. It undeniably stood out from the other homes; where they were basic, eerily similar, and drably painted, Stiles's front porch was a bright, almost pastel blue that clashed nicely with the white house and green trim. A cobblestone walkway leading to the porch was lined with small rainbow-colored garden lights, culminating in a rose garden that ran the width of the house. Only two roses held on for dear life against the winter weather; both had lost most of their petals and the few that remained were sure to crumble and wither away soon.
By the time they arrived, Stiles's buzz had worn off quite a bit. Luckily his body was too cold now to hurt much, but his mind was a different story. With each step, his heart grew heavier, although he wasn't entirely sure why. Chris had stormed out, and Stiles would be gone before he returned—but this time he wasn't coming back.
Stiles led Isaac into his home, flicking on the entryway light and hanging back to shut the front door.
"I like the...minimalism," Isaac said, gesturing to the white, empty walls and plain black leather furniture in the living room.
Stiles laughed bitterly. "Yeah, my...roommate doesn't like a lot of decoration. Or anything, really. It was a whole week-long fight to convince him to paint the porch." He also ruins any decorations that we do decide to put up, Stiles thought to himself.
"I would hate living like that," Isaac said. "It wouldn't feel like a home to me."
A small entryway branched out into three directions: the living room to the right, the kitchen to the left, and a hallway straight ahead that led to two bedrooms and the bathroom. An island counter acted as a petition separating the kitchen from the hallway.
"It doesn't feel like home," Stiles said under his breath as he swerved around the counter and yanked open the freezer, using the entryway light to guide him. He pulled out a bottle of tequila and snatched two shot glasses from the top of the refrigerator simultaneously, slamming the freezer door shut with his elbow. He set the goodies down on the counter.
Isaac averted his gaze with a roll of his lips and an awkward, curt nod; he must've heard Stiles's comment. Isaac approached the island counter but lingered on the side opposite Stiles. Hands in his pockets, he seemed suddenly unsure.
Stiles, assuming that the fading intoxication had begun to drain away the confidence and ease that Isaac had developed, quickly filled the shot glasses and downed his while sliding Isaac the other. Isaac tossed it back with little more than a grimace. His eyes raked Stiles up and down for a moment before settling on Stiles's lips.
"...I hope you don't mind," Isaac said quietly, his voice unsteady. He seemed to be struggling with something—his jaw clenched, his eyebrows just slightly furrowed. His eyes darted away and back again twice before re-catching Stiles's gaze. Stiles had assumed correctly; the lack of alcohol and the long walk had forced a tight nervousness back into Isaac, from his voice to his shoulders to the twitching thumbs sticking out of his pants pockets.
"I'm sorry, I didn't hear that first part. What was that?" Stiles refilled their shot glasses and promptly drained his.
"You're beautiful," Isaac said, louder. "Like, r-really freaking b-beautiful."
Stiles breathed out a stunned laugh. The tequila sliced a path of warmth down his throat and across his chest. He smiled, but he was the one to avert Isaac's gaze now. His cheeks burned, and he wasn't sure the alcohol was entirely to blame. "Thank you."
Stiles moved around the island counter as Isaac drained his second shot, his eyes closing for a second as if willing the alcohol to hurry up and re-cast its courage-inducing magic.
"I hope that you don't mind," Stiles said, sliding into place mere inches from Isaac, "but there's something that I've been wanting to do all night."
Isaac smiled timorously. "And what's that?"
"Can I kiss you?"
Isaac's cheek blushed scarlet. He let out a little gasp of a breath, almost reminiscent of disbelief, as he replied. "Of course."
Stiles swallowed and slowly leaned forward. His heart beat faster and faster and then stopped altogether as their lips met. He closed his eyes. Something exploded within him. Blood rushed through his body, to his head, fizzing and tingling all through his veins, shooting into his fingertips. A hot flash sent a chill through his spine and stomach. His head swam and his chest seemed to freeze; he couldn't breathe. The tequila coursed through him just as intensely, flashing his body hot and cold, hot and cold, as it collided with the electricity that crackled over his skin. Stiles gasped against Isaac's soft, warm lips and broke away slightly, just enough to look into Isaac's blue eyes.
"Is it getting hot? Or is it just me?" Stiles asked, genuinely wondering about the bead of sweat that had emerged on his forehead.
Isaac licked his lips—his perfect, pink, gorgeous fucking lips—and swallowed. "I think it's both of us."
"I'm being totally serious right now. Like, I'm kinda getting hot flashes." Stiles waved his hand at his own face, producing an entirely underwhelming gust of cool air. "You definitely aren't helping."
Isaac drew his head back slightly. His mouth opened and shut as he struggled to find words. "Oh..."
"Oh, no no no no, that's not what I-" Stiles held back a laugh. "I meant that in a good way."
Isaac bit back a smile and looked down at his feet. "Oh."
Stiles kissed him again. Talking was overrated now. Talking only increased the option of inserting his foot into his mouth and ruining this moment that seemed to be turning Stiles's world lopsided (although, that feeling could've been the alcohol?). The taste of cold tequila on Isaac's lips was strangely arousing. Isaac shuffled a little closer to Stiles, hesitantly resting his hands on Stiles's hips.
"Your glasses are really cute," Stiles observed.
"I've never heard that before."
Stiles chuckled, but then realized that Isaac wasn't joking. He pulled back, surprised. "Wait, really?" Isaac nodded. "Then I'm glad to be the first."
They kissed again, harder this time. Stiles walked backward, wrapping his hands around Isaac's elbows and tugging him along until his back collided with the refrigerator. It squeaked in agitation but Stiles barely heard it over the sound of his blood pumping in his ears. Isaac opened his mouth to breathe. Stiles flicked the tip of his tongue over Isaac's bottom lip, asking for permission to go further. Isaac tightened his grip on Stiles's hips: permission granted.
Their tongues slid together instantly, slick and hot.  Stiles pulled his tongue away. Isaac gripped his hips harder and whispered a moan against Stiles's lips in complaint. Stiles danced the tip of his tongue around Isaac's, teasing him and relishing the grip of Isaac's fingers on his hips as it grew tighter and tighter. He flicked his tongue against the roof of Isaac's mouth and back down to graze over his bottom lip so lightly, in such a way that Stiles knew it would cause Isaac to break with the resulting tickle.
He was right.
Isaac loosened. Where his tongue had been still, as if waiting for courage or acceptance or permission to move, it now took control. Isaac licked into Stiles's mouth with a hot exhale of breath, sliding his tongue over Stiles's with a force that made him dig his fingernails into Isaac's elbows. Isaac pressed himself against Stiles now, his legs spread just enough that he could squeeze Stiles between them. The tightness of their bodies together sent another jolt throughout Stiles's body.
Stiles slid out of Isaac's grip, though keeping a hand in place on one of his elbows, and backed into the hallway. He ran his free hand along the wall of the hallway, searching for the light switch, but not liking the loss of pressure of Isaac's body against his own. Stiles paused and pulled Isaac into him once more, also using the moment as an opportunity to kiss him again. He stumbled over himself and bumped into the wall, so he absentmindedly resumed his quest for the light switch, though he was more focused on the fact that Isaac had just sucked on the tip of his tongue like it was a fucking lollipop.
With a groan, Stiles gave up on the damn light switch and continued walking, half-sliding his body along with his fingers across the wall, waiting for empty air to greet his hand and alert him to the bedroom.
"You taste like tequila," Isaac said.
"You taste like Sex On The Beach."
Isaac laughed, vibrating Stiles's chest. Chills ran down his spine at the sensation. Stiles broke away from Isaac and hurried down the hall to the bedroom; he couldn't wait any longer. He needed Isaac now. He burst into the room and tripped over a pair of shoes in the doorway.
From behind, Isaac caught Stiles around the hips and righted him so he didn't fall. Stiles rotated himself and wrapped his arms around Isaac, pulling him quickly to the bed. They fell onto it as one, Stiles flat on his back. Stiles opened his legs as they went down and Isaac slid between them instantaneously.
Something hard slammed into the back of Stiles's head. He exclaimed, sitting up. He twisted around to see what it was and his stomach sank. He'd forgotten.
His closed, fully packed suitcase sat on the bed where he'd left it earlier that night. He shoved it away and it hit the ground with a resounding thud against the hardwood floor. His eyes then caught the broken vase, shattered on the floor by the bedside table, wilted roses amid the broken glass.  His stomach turned to ice.
"What happened?" Isaac asked, lifting his torso up a bit to properly look down at Stiles.
"Nothing. I'm just clumsy."
Isaac didn't seem to believe him, but he let Stiles pull him into another kiss anyway. Isaac's hands moved up his body like fire, starting with his thighs and trailing up his hips, stomach and chest. He rucked up Stiles's shirt in the process. Stiles lifted himself up, yanked the shirt off and threw it to the floor. Impatiently, he pushed his fingers underneath Isaac's shirt and pulled it up over his head. Stiles pulled Isaac down, colliding their hot, naked chests. Isaac moved his attention to Stiles's neck, interspersing pecks, opened-mouthed kisses and flicks of tongue.
The ice in Stiles's stomach melted as the wet warmth of Isaac's tongue ran along his neck, eliciting goosebumps that prickled across his skin.
Isaac's hardness pressed against Stiles's hip. Stiles ran his fingers down Isaac's sides and slid them beneath the waistband of his jeans and underwear, just enough for his fingertips to explore the hot skin beneath. As a result, Isaac pushed his hips down with just enough pressure to make Stiles moan at the sensation of Isaac's hardness pressing against him.
    Isaac gasped against his neck, seemingly egged on by the sound he'd just pulled from Stiles's lips. He trailed his tongue down Stiles's neck, over his collarbone and to the center of his chest. Then he kissed him—full, open-mouthed, tongue-heavy kissing, down to the waistband of his pants, his lips ghosting gently across the dark hair on and beneath Stiles's navel.
Stiles curled his fingers into Isaac's hair as Isaac slid his fingers beneath the waistband and pulled it down enough to lick a stripe over his hipbone. Isaac unbuttoned the pants with surprisingly nimble fingers, tongue still pressed to his skin. Then he suddenly nipped at the wetted flesh; Stiles arched his back at the soft bite of Isaac's teeth. Isaac used that as an opportunity to pull Stiles's pants down, down, down, kissing and licking every new bit of exposed skin until he'd reached the middle of Stiles's thigh and the pants were smushed down to his knees.
Stiles pulled Isaac back up for the filthiest kiss yet, curling his fingers into his silky hair. The slick slide of tongues, a clash of teeth and gums, a wet sound as they devoured each other hungrily. Isaac's hand continued to explore Stiles, running fingertips and palms over his thighs, stomach, knees, thighs again, and then—
Isaac gently bit Stiles's bottom lip. "Do you never wear underwear or is it just my lucky night?"
"If I had it my way, I wouldn't wear clothes at all," Stiles replied. "They're constricting. I hate them."
Isaac laughed. "That's hot."
Then he pressed his palm to Stiles's exposed hard cock. Stiles couldn't help it; he thrust his hips upward, a shockwave coursing through his body. Isaac licked Stiles's tongue again, bringing his other hand around to cradle the side of Stiles's face in an effort to deepen the kiss, though he couldn't really get much deeper. But he seemed to want to, and Stiles wished he could. He couldn't get enough of it, the wet slide of tongue on tongue, always searching for a new thing to taste.
Stiles gently pushed Isaac's hand away from his cock and brought his hands to Isaac's lower back, softy pushing down. Catching the hint, Isaac ground his hips down, hard, rubbing their cocks together. Even though it was jeans-on-flesh, it felt so fucking good that Stiles's head swam.
"Get those pants off," Stiles ordered, "or I'm going to lose my mind."
Without hesitation, Isaac flew off the bed and removed his pants and tight boxer-briefs in one fell swoop, while Stiles forced his pants to his ankles and ripped them off, tossing them across the room.  Something inside Stiles broke at the sight of Isaac's perfectly chiseled ivory body, his hard v-line and hip bones and the way his cock bounced free from its restraints. Him and Isaac reached for each other in unison, Stiles pulling Isaac back down on top of him just as much as Isaac threw himself down.
Stiles ran his fingernails down Isaac's back as he bit his neck with the perfect amount of pressure, it seemed, judging by the torn growl of arousal that ripped itself from Isaac's throat.
Isaac moved like water; he slid to the side and suddenly Stiles was on top of him, straddling his hips. Stiles aligned their cocks and wrapped his hands around them both, switching up his pressure and speed with each different expression that crossed Isaac's face—shut-eyed, open-mouthed, furrowed brow, a gasp as his head fell back against the bed and he thrust upward, or wide open eyes that ravished Stiles with a hunger, a lust, unlike anything he'd ever seen before. No one had ever looked at him that way before—he didn't even know it was possible to look at someone that way—but he suspected that Isaac was seeing the same look in his eyes, too.
    Stiles lost himself in Isaac and his hot, hard body, clumsily scrambling for lube and a condom from his bedside table while trying not to take his hands off Isaac for more than a second. He rolled over, once again pulling Isaac onto himself, but this time speeding his legs wider and bringing them up to wrap around Isaac's waist.
When Isaac was inside of him, Stiles felt like he could finally breathe. All the pressure and anticipation exploded with fire in his stomach. He couldn't get close enough to Isaac, even when he was thrusting into him, pressed completely to his own body so that he felt all of Isaac's muscles working, felt his racing heartbeat and the scratch of Isaac's happy trail and small patch of hair at the base of his cock. Isaac thrust harder and harder each time Stiles begged him to, his lips gasping moans of pleasure against Stiles's ears and neck, sending chills through his body each time.
Stiles rode the waves of pleasure in complete and total abandon, immersing himself in the release, in the distraction, in a feeling he hadn't felt in so, so long. He clung to Isaac like he was a life-saver in the middle of a stormy ocean. And maybe he was.

We keep this love in this photograph
We made these memories for ourselves
Where our eyes are never closing
Hearts were never broken
And time's forever frozen, still
So you can keep me
Inside the pocket of your ripped jeans
Holding me closer 'til our eyes meet
You won't ever be alone
- Ed Sheeran, 'Photograph'