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Stiles the Good Samaritan and the Eventful Car Ride

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Stiles watched Jackson stumble to his car and sighed, deeply annoyed with himself because his sense of responsibility wouldn't allow him to stand aside. He jogged up to the intoxicated teen and grabbed his shoulder, automatically ducking the wild fist that followed. “You are so freaking lucky that I am a good samaritan, Jackson Whittemore,” he lectured as he steered the other boy away from his Porsche and towards Stiles' own Jeep. “I could leave you to get a ticket, or worse, wrap that fine machine around a pole. But no, just call me 'angel' because apparently I'm your guardian, tonight.”

Jackson shot him an annoyed look, “I think I'll call you 'fucking obnoxious'.”

“You're welcome.” He opened the driver's side door and shoved Jackson in: “Watch your head,” he called cheerfully, “I'd hate for you to lose what few brain cells you have left.”

“Whatever,” the jock muttered, wriggling around to sprawl with his back against the door and his legs haphazardly draped across the two seats. “I'm totally fine to drive, you idiot. Or I could just hitch a ride from someone else, it's not your duty to look after me, Stilinski.”

“I've already told you, Jackson,” Stiles said cheerily as he slipped into his own seat, “You're too -”

“Pretty to hitch, yeah, I remember.”

Something about the other teen's tone made Stiles pause. He glanced to one side and did a double-take at the picture Jackson presented. Sprawled lazily in the seat, pupils blown, cheeks flushed, and lips swollen, he looked like a – like a... well, like something you'd see on one of those sites that Stiles does not go to. Nosirree.

Jackson smiled slowly under Stiles' scrutiny, “See something you like?”

“Drunken douche-jocks aren't really my speed,” he muttered, turning his eyes back to the road to navigate the driveway (crowded with poorly-parked vehicles and stupid drunks) and then the road (hopefully not too busy at this time of night). He jolted when he felt a hand gently patting his thigh.

“S'ok, you can admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you want me. Everyone does.”

Stiles snorted a laugh, “I do not want you. And whoa, is this car big enough for your ego?”

If he'd looked over he would have seen an arresting sight: Jackson pouting. Then Jackson plotting, eyes sparkling and teeth gleaming in an anticipatory smile. Unfortunately, Stiles underestimated the sheer stubbornness of one Jackson Whittemore, and the drunken wantonness.

The next thing Stiles knew, he had a lapful of lacrosse jock. Or octopus. It was hard to tell the difference while he was driving. “What the hell, man?! What are you doing?” he squeaked, feeling a hand sliding down his pants while another worked the button and zipper.

Jackson snaked a hand around Stiles' dick, squeezing gently and then pumping twice to get the blood going. “Proving you wrong, Stilinski. See, I think you do want me. I think that you think about my lips, and what they'd feel like wrapped around your cock. I think that you're full of shit when you say you don't want me, and I think that I can make you cum so hard you'll see stars.”

Stiles gulped, “I think that you're crazy, and that I'm driving, dumbass.”

Jackson grinned up at him, licking his lips, “So don't crash.”

“This is a really stupid ideeeEEEEEEaaaaahhhhh!” He slammed his head back against the headrest, fighting to keep his eyes open as Jackson's lips and mouth and – oh god – throat sunk down onto his half-hard and rapidly-filling cock.

“Hmmm... yeah, this really feels like the cock of someone who's absolutely disgusted by the thought of my lips wrapped around their junk,” Jackson said scornfully. Even while he spoke his hands were still busy, one slowly pumping up and down Stiles' spit-lubed length, the other reaching down to stroke his balls, gently forcing his legs further apart.

Stiles scowled, “That's just sensation, it doesn't mean that I like your lips, Jackson. Just that I like lips. I might be thinking of Lydia, for all you know – her lips are just as pink and – and puffy as yours!”

Jackson blew a hotly on the tip of Stiles' length, scowling. “You could be, but you're not. You're not thinking about Lydia right now, Stiles. You're thinking about me and my lips and my hands and what they're doing to you. You're thinking about what would happen if your daddy pulled you over right now and came up to the window and saw me, here, in your lap, sucking you down. You're thinking about whether or not I'm gonna ask you in once we get to my house. You're thinking about whether or not I'm gonna ask you to reciprocate. You're thinking about your lips wrapped around my cock and wondering if you'd choke on it, or if it'd go down easy.”

Well, Stiles thought, swallowing hard and trying desperately not to think about what it would feel like to swallow around Jackson's cock, I am NOW! He thought that, but he didn't say it, instead he said: “Reciprocate? That's a big word for you, been studying with Danny?”

He felt Jackson smile against his cock. “I've been studying a lot with Danny. Maybe you'd like that,” he said between licks, “me and Danny both working on you with our tongues and teeth and hands. Maybe you get off on the idea.”

“I – n-no,” Stiles stuttered, hands clenching on the wheel. “No.

“Your cock doesn't lie, Stiles.”

“I – you – what are you... oh! Oh, fuck!

Jackson lifted up (with a popping noise that made Stiles whimper – a manly whimper!) from his latest attempt at swallowing Stiles whole. He pulled himself up with one hand on Stiles' shoulder, keeping the other moving gently up and down the other boy's length, fist just tight enough to keep Stiles on the edge.

“I'm going to go down on you again,” he whispered directly into Stiles' ear, lips and tongue brushing against the sensitive skin with every word, “I'm going to suck you down and then suck you off so hard that you won't be able to look at me without thinking of this, of me, wrapped around your cock. And every time you have to run to a bathroom after seeing me, every time you have to take your little problem in hand, I'm gonna know that it's me you're thinking of and you're gonna wonder, gonna hope that I'll follow you and help you out with what I started. Because you want me Stiles, and after tonight you're always gonna want me, because I'm the best at whatever I do.”

Stiles didn't have time to respond before Jackson's head was in his lap again, mouth and tongue and hot wet heat following through on every word, every promise spoken and implied. He fought with everything he had to keep from cumming, to keep his eyes and full attention on the road, but Jackson's mouth and hands and – god! – his words were - were -

“FuckinghellbitchohgodJacksonJACKSON!” He saw stars, he heard colors, he came so hard that his whole body shook with the force of it. Stiles was still twitching with aftershocks when he managed to pull the car to a stop in front of Jackson's house.

The other teen was sitting up, back in his seat, wiping traces of – holy fuck – Stiles' cum away from the corners of his mouth with his thumb before gently, lasciviously licking it away. “Thanks for the ride, Stiles,” he said, grinning like the cat that got the cre – the canary, damnit!

“You – you're an asshole,” Stiles panted breathlessly.

“Yeah, but you want me,” Jackson returned, smirking like a – like a thing that smirks.

“I hate you.”

“See you around, Stilinski.”

Stiles watched the other teen make his way to his house and then let his head fall back against the headrest. He was fucked. Totally, completely, and unequivocally fucked because Jackson was right, he would think about the other boy's mouth, now. And Jackson wouldknow. Their usual dynamic of hate/annoy was totally screwed now, unless Stiles found some way to tip the balance back in his own favor.

Operation: Cock-sucker had a nice ring to it. He turned the car towards home, he had a lot of googling to do.