Jackson agrees to it because it’s Lydia’s 16th birthday and he’s already kind of drunk from dinner – her idea, a picnic on the edge of the woods behind her house. She stole two bottles of wine from her parents’ cellar, a chardonnay and a pinot noir, and the two of them have been pretending that they can tell if either are good. Mostly they sound like snobs – I taste a hint of licorice, and no, earthy, definitely earthy – the way that their parents talk when they have dinner on Friday nights. Jackson pretends that he can hold his liquor, but it’s a cultivated myth, and Lydia knows it. They have about a bottle each, and Jackson hands Lydia his gift – an expensive bracelet she’d been looking at the week before – and she kisses him on the blanket, laughing, and pushes him down.
“This is lovely, thank you,” she says, and slips it onto her wrist. “We should go inside soon, I have something I want to try.”
And Jackson’s been here before, with the things that Lydia wants to try. It’s how she got him to try on her lip-gloss while they were making out. It’s how she got him to put on a pair of her panties. But it’s her birthday, so he just says, “Whatever you want,” and lets the wine keep him from caring so much.
Lydia pulls him inside by the hand, leaving him just enough time to drop the picnic blanket on the floor of the kitchen, and she locks the door to her room behind them. She leans back against the wood, giggling, and Jackson sits on the edge of her bed, pulling off his shoes and socks.
“So what are we doing?” he asks, and pulls off his button-down, hands going to the button of his jeans.
“I got it off the internet,” she says, cryptic, and ballet-steps her way tipsily across the carpet, her toes already bare, somehow. She kneels in front of the bed, just next to Jackson’s calf, and pulls a box out from underneath. It’s pink, like so much of her room is, and she flips the lid open, but Jackson still can’t see into it. “I want to fuck you,” she adds, looking up at him over the edge of the lid with huge, laughing eyes. “I looked up how to do it. I really want to.”
“You – what? What did you buy?” He shucks off his jeans, and leaves them in a pile on the carpet by the end of the bed. He’s not cold in his boxers and t-shirt, Lydia has seen him in less, but he knows that whatever he’s going to do for Lydia tonight is going to make him uncomfortable.
And then Lydia pulls out the strap-on.
“Oh,” he says. And then, “You really want to?” He’s surprised he’s not freaking out more. It’s probably the alcohol.
“I really do.” She climbs up onto the bed next to him, wraps her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, and pulls him in to kiss her. Lydia is a good kisser, and Jackson isn’t going to resist anyway, so he lets himself relax. They kiss, and she pushes him down into the bed, splayed beneath her. He gets his fingers up to unhook her bra, and she has his boxers down to his thighs, and this is going much faster than maybe he’d thought it was going to.
Jackson’s let her finger him before, because – well, it feels good, and it’s not like he’s going to freak out about a little ass play when he knows perfectly well that it’s normal, and even if it weren’t, he’s not exactly 100% straight. No one who thinks about cock as much as he does is 100% straight.
Still, seeing the strap-on lying beside her hip on the bed, and hearing the plastic snap as she opens the lube, he can’t deny that he tenses up.
“Jackson,” she says, with her lips against his neck, and her lube-slick fingers touching his hip, his stomach, light and cool. “C’mon, c’mon, just relax. You’re going to love it.”
She wraps her hand loosely around his cock, and he’s still hard, has been – it’s not that he doesn’t want it, it’s that it scares him how much he does. He lets his head fall back against her pillow and pushes his hips into her hand, wanting firmer pressure around his cock. She shushes him, and when she nudges one of his legs up, he bends his knee, putting his foot flat on the comforter.
Her finger is slick and cold as she runs it between the cheeks of his ass and then presses in, rubbing against his hole. He moans, helplessly, and she chuckles under her breath.
“You like this so much, Jackson,” she says. “You’re going to go out of your mind when I fuck you.” And she pushes her finger in to the first knuckle.
“Lydia,” he says, and tries to roll his hips into it, but she lets go of his cock, and holds him still with her hand. He could overpower her, but the way their relationship works is that Jackson listens when she tells him what to do, and so he holds himself back, letting her work her finger all the way into his ass and pull it out.
Jackson squeezes his eyes shut, as she stretches him open. She’s slow, and thorough, and by the time she slips two fingers into him he’s sweaty all over, panting with it – more the memory of pleasure, the anticipation of what is surely to come than how her fingers feel at this very moment.
Then she crooks her fingers, and they brush against his prostate, and he arches, like a live wire made only of pleasure is running through him.
“Lydia,” he tries again, and she shushes him again, fucking him slow and careful with two fingers. “I need you to – Jesus, I need you to go a little faster, here.”
“Everything in its own time,” she says, and he can hear the shortness of breath, a sure sign that she’s getting off on watching him, but she doesn’t change pace at all.
When she pushes three fingers in, Jackson thinks he’s going to die – he’s so slick that they slide in easily, filling him up, and he thinks about being fucked, fantasizes, sure, but this is actually going to happen. The muscles in his thighs are trembling with the force of keeping them still, and Lydia kisses the inside of his knee. If he were to open his eyes and look down, she’d be watching her fingers disappear inside him, her cheeks flushed pink, mischievous smile on her face. He doesn’t look, because it might make him come.
“I think you’re about ready, don’t you?” she asks, and crooks her fingers up, and Jackson pants, swallows down the noise his body wants to make.
“Will you just –” he starts, and then cuts himself off when she pulls out.
He doesn’t watch, though he wants to, as she shimmies out of her underwear, but he hears the swish of cotton, and the sound of the straps being tightened, and the little breathy noise that Lydia makes. She puts a hand on the inside of his thigh, and pushes, and he finally looks up. She’s naked, hair loose and tangled around her shoulders, breasts exposed, the dildo jutting out from her pelvis like something dangerous, and she’s grinning wide and full of white teeth.
“Don’t think it’s going to take me long to come,” she says, “so you’d better be ready.”
“Oh, god,” he says, feeling lightheaded from the reality of this, or the alcohol, or both, and then, “Get the fuck over here.”
The slide in is like nothing he’s ever felt – he’s never been so full, and the yield of it isn’t anything like human flesh. He hooks one leg around her hips, and spreads the other wide, and she bites her lip, guiding the strap-on into him.
“You’re doing so well,” she says, and Jackson has never been happier that she likes to talk, to make sure that he’s with her, that he’s doing okay. It hurts, like a new ache, but he wants it so much he can feel it in his teeth, so he rolls his hips, and lets her sink into him.
When she’s all the way in, she leans down and kisses him, her breasts pushing against his chest, and he can feel the dildo shift inside him when she moves, like pressure building. He opens his mouth for her, and reaches up to run his hand over her bare shoulder blade, and she laughs something into his mouth. He knows it’s her birthday, that this is for her, but it’s a little bit for him, too.
She pulls away, enough to slide out, just a little, and then push back it – and just like that, she’s fucking him in earnest. He curls his hands into the comforter without meaning to, digging the heel of his foot into the divot just above her ass, and he moans. Every thrust brushes against his prostate, and she’s making these hot, breathy sounds of pleasure.
“Every time I push into you it hits me just right, god,” she pants, and holds into his hips, pulling him into her. Jackson lets her, because it’s what he does, and it’s what he wants, and it feels so fucking good, her moving inside of him.
“S-so close,” he says, and her next thrust pulls a moan out of him, involuntary. Her hair is sticking to her forehead and her neck with sweat, and he watches her breasts move with every thrust. He wraps a hand around his cock, and swiping his thumb through the precome, and watches her reaches down to rub two fingers over her clit. He’s seen her do it enough times to know that’s what she’s doing, but somehow it hits him – she thrusts into him, and he twists his hand on his cock, and she touches herself, and that’s it. He comes in pulses onto his hand and stomach.
“Fuck,” she says, and throws her head back, still pushing into him, and he watches her come. He can’t feel it, it’s weird that he can’t feel it, but he can see the movement of her hips and the pulse of her fingers and the flush rising hectic across her cheeks.
She collapses on top of him, laughing, and he can’t move or breathe or do anything at all, really.
“That’s was –” he starts, but isn’t certain how to finish.
“Pretty fucking awesome,” she says, and slowly pulls out. She unbuckles the straps and lets the strap-on fall onto the floor. They’ll have to clean up at some point, but for now, she curls up against his side, her hair brushing the side of his face, and tucks her head underneath his chin. He feels wrung out and empty and completely blown away.
“Happy birthday,” he says, and she snorts.
“Happy birthday, indeed.”
“C’mon, Jackson, you’re better than this.” Derek’s voice is mostly growl, and Jackson wants to snap with his bared teeth, but he knows that won’t get him anywhere. It’s been raining all day, and Derek’s been drilling him for two hours – long enough for his clothing to have soaked through with rain, t-shirt sticking to his chest, jeans riding down low on his thighs. Derek’s out here being rained on too, but it’s a small comfort when Jackson’s the only one who has to do maneuvers in it.
“Hunters aren’t going to stop because you’re wet and tired and hurt. They’re not going to stop until you’re dead, so pull it together.”
Some part of Jackson knows that this is good for him, that he needs a hard hand, sometimes, the way he needs gentle steering, or a soft touch. Derek may not be good at making friends, but he knows what Jackson needs, and when he needs it.
Jackson skids in the mud, just missing a tree and sliding in a half circle. He has fifteen seconds to get back to the starting point, and he’ll make it if he doesn’t slip. He’s shivering with the cold, and the burst of speed he forces is the last of his energy. When he slides the last ten feet, fingers digging into the wet ground, Derek calls for a halt. Finally.
“Okay, Jackson, good job. You’re still letting outside elements effect you too much, but good job. Get inside and get out of your wet clothes.”
Jackson spends almost as much time in the Hale house as he does with his parents. His parents don’t mind as long as he tells them when he’s going – they think Derek is a new friend, kind of a mentor, which is close enough to be a satisfactory lie. He thinks they should give more of a shit than they do, but he’s not surprised, either. They prefer parenting from the safe distance of ignorance about anything that is going on in his life. He has a couple changes of clothes in the bedroom he uses when he stays over, and when he comes back downstairs in a pair of pajama pants and an old t-shirt, Derek is just getting inside, dripping in the entryway as he sheds his coat.
Jackson could almost sleep right here, but he’s restless, too. Training does that to him, more often than not – where he wants to sleep, but can’t settle down enough for it to actually be possible. Derek always knows, too, and his solution is not something that Jackson has ever been able to admit to wanting, not out loud, but Derek doesn’t need him to. Derek’s the alpha, and Jackson will do what he says without much resistance, especially when it’s something he needs.
“Come here,” Derek says, and Jackson knows that they’re on. Derek drapes his wet jacket over the banister, and toes off his boots, waiting.
“How do you want me?” Jackson asks, stepping close enough for Derek to touch him, if he wants to, but too far away to feel the head of Derek’s body. The first few times, Jackson hadn’t known what to do with his hands. He’d been resistant, unsure, and Derek is not naturally a comforting person. He got over it.
“On your knees.” Derek pulls his wet t-shirt over his head, and drops it into the floor with a wet slap. His hair is dripping water down his neck and the sides of his face. Jackson goes down onto his knees without a thought. “Good boy,” Derek says, and shimmies out of his jeans. He leaves them on top of his t-shirt in a pile of wet, muddy fabric.
Jackson looks up at him, clothed, now, in just his boxers, and thinks about how Derek may not be warm and cuddly, but he knows what Jackson needs. Jackson closes his eyes, relaxes the muscles in his mouth and jaw.
Derek’s hands on his face should startle him, but he’s too zoned out to react much. He hears the snap of elastic, smells the soap and sweat and rainwater on Derek’s skin, and lets Derek push two fingers into his mouth. He sucks, light pressure, and Derek strokes his tongue, humming softly.
“It’s funny how much more easily this comes to you,” Derek says. Jackson doesn’t try to respond, just tongues at the tips of Derek’s fingers, over the calluses there, until Derek pulls them away.
Jackson makes an involuntary noise of loss, and Derek chuckles, shushes him. When Derek’s fingers touch his jaw again, he opens his mouth, and Derek pushes his cock inside. It’s a slow slide, letting Jackson get used to the feel, the heady taste of it, stronger than the taste of Derek’s fingers. Jackson has done this enough times that he could take it either way, but Derek knows the need for a careful build, how Jackson needs to be taken care of.
Jackson runs his tongue flat over the vein on the bottom, trying to get Derek to move, but Derek wraps a hand in his hair and tugs, instead, and Jackson can’t help the low hiss he makes, even around Derek’s cock. He sucks, and Derek gives a short thrust, pushes his dick a little further into Jackson’s mouth.
Jackson knows, by now, to keep his hands to himself, and he fists them into the thighs of his sweatpants, letting Derek hold his head still while he slowly pushes his dick in and pulls it back out, slick with saliva. Jackson swallows around him, but he can’t stop the saliva from painting his lips glossy bright.
He keeps his eyes closed until Derek begins to thrust. He relaxes his throat, lets Derek pull his hair and push into him until his almost choking on it. Jackson feels lightheaded, so hard he fumbles with the ties of his sweatpants trying to get them undone. Derek is taking him, taking what he needs, and Jackson doesn’t have to do anything at all.
Derek is staring down at him, face intense with concentration, and every time he pulls on Jackson’s hair, Jackson has to hold in an indecent moan – until he can’t anymore, and every time Derek pushes in, Jackson can hear the muffled noise stuck in the back of his throat, blocked in by Derek’s cock.
Jackson shoves a hand down his pants just as Derek starts to lose the rhythm, and Jackson sucks his hardest trying to get Derek to lose it. Derek gets three more thrusts in, and then he pushes so far down Jackson’s throat that Jackson’s nose presses against his abdomen. Jackson can feel him coming in pulse after pulse, but it’s not even a choice whether to swallow or not. He breathes through his nose and strips his hand on his cock trying to get off before Derek pulls away.
He doesn’t make it, but it doesn’t much matter. Derek wraps his fingers more securely in Jackson’s hair, and Jackson presses his face to Derek’s naked hip, biting his lip as he jerks of fast and punishingly hard.
“C’mon, Jackson,” Derek says, almost impatient, and Jackson comes in his pants and over his fingers. He rides the waves of it, pushing his hips into his hand, teeth scraping at Derek’s skin.
He stays there for a long moment, just breathing, collecting himself. Derek’s hand in still cradling the back of his head.
“You okay to sleep, now?” Derek asks, a few minutes later.
“Think so,” Jackson says, and lets Derek help him up. He barely makes it upstairs and onto his bed before he’s closing his eyes and drifting off.
“You can’t tell me you’ve never thought about it. You’re a teenage boy, there is nothing we don’t think about. Believe me, I know.” Stiles is raising both eyebrows in challenge, and Jackson just shrugs. They’d smoked the last joint forty minutes ago – Jackson got them from Danny who got them from his boyfriend – but the effects are still present in the room. Scott’s been asleep for almost as long, stretched out on the couch, and Stiles’s eyes are half-lidded, his words tripping out slower than normal. He’s sitting on the floor next to Jackson, cross-legged and earnest. Only Derek hadn’t smoked, and he’s sitting on the only chair, leaning back into the upholstery with a smile on his face. Jackson knows what that look means – he’s feeling proprietary, watching them make fools of themselves. Jackson feels floaty and laid back, like nothing can touch him at all, so he doesn’t care. Besides, Derek is alpha. Jackson wouldn’t win that fight, so why bother.
“Thought about it, done it, you know.” He pauses, rubbing his palm over the material of his jeans. He can’t stop touching them. They’re so soft. “Same thing, really. All the same. Whatever.”
He looks over at Stiles, his open mouth, his flushed cheeks, and blinks.
“You mean to tell me you’ve actually given head and I don’t know about it?” He seems to go over that sentence and repeat it to himself. Jackson can hear Derek snort somewhere to his left, but he doesn’t look over. “Wait, no, you know what I mean. Who did you suck off? I mean, do I know him?”
Now Jackson does look at Derek, who just raises his eyebrows. He hears Stiles sputter somewhere near him, and he coughs. Derek looks more amused than angry, and things with Stiles and Scott and Jackson have been pretty good recently. Kind of tentative, maybe, but Jackson doesn’t trust, if he doesn’t have to. Well, he doesn’t trust when he’s not high. Right about now he’s not feeling very strongly about anything.
“Tell me that look doesn’t mean what I’m thinking it means,” Stiles says, and when Jackson looks back over at him, he’s red all way to his neck. It’s actually a pretty good look for him. He licks his lips, and that’s even better.
“Maybe you should prove it, Jackson,” Derek says, and there’s a challenge in his voice right alongside the laughter, and Jackson may be stoned out of his hormone-flooded brain, but he’s still competitive. And any inhibitions he might otherwise have are conveniently absent.
“Could do that,” Jackson says. “Want me to prove it, Stiles?”
Jackson is already sliding closer, and Stiles doesn’t move away from him, but he does look nervous.
“You’re not serious.”
“Sure, why not?” Jackson could say, I like doing it, and it wouldn’t be a lie, but instead he reaches for Stiles pants, flicking open the button. He’s honestly surprised by his own coordination, but it does make him seem smoother than he might otherwise. Stiles looks over at Derek, anxiety and arousal warring across his face.
“In front of Derek, Jackson? Really?”
“Oh, shut up, Stilinski,” Jackson says, and he’s already pulling down the zipper on Stiles’s jeans. He wonders if they should kiss, but then he doesn’t have to, because Stiles does it for him. Stiles’s mouth is sloppy and demanding and it tastes like pot and smoke and spit. When Jackson gets his hand into Stiles’s pants, he’s already half hard, and Stiles bites into his mouth, sharp and painful. Jackson pulls away, tugging at Stiles’s jeans and boxers until he lifts his hips, and then he leans down and gets his mouth on the head of Stiles’s dick.
He won’t be able to stay in this position for long, but it’s worth it for the noise Stiles makes, like he’s swallowing his tongue, and Jackson sucks, a little, working his mouth around the head of Stiles’s dick like that’s as far as he’s going to go. He likes teasing, when he can get away with it, and Derek doesn’t often let him. Jackson is arched over him, back curved, and it’s going to get really uncomfortable really quickly, but for now he’s enjoying the tentative press of Stiles’s fingers on the back of his neck.
Finally, Jackson just flops down onto his stomach and lets his mouth sink lower onto Stiles’s cock. He can take almost all of it in, and Stiles moans, fingers moving up, tentatively, to card through Jackson’s hair.
Jackson can’t help the noise he makes, a needy whimper, and Stiles’s hips jerk, and his fingers twine into Jackson’s hair, and it’s nearly perfect. Stiles makes a gasping noise, half exhaled air and half exclamation. Jackson isn’t thinking about anything but the dick in his mouth, how it feels, filling his throat, how it tastes.
Stiles is shuddering underneath him, and he says, “Jackson, not going to last long, here,” his voice trembling. Jackson just sucks, and he doesn’t have to pull out all of the stops like he sometimes has to with Derek. Stiles is young and new and from the way his hips are jerking, Jackson’s not sure he’s even gotten head before. The thought makes something curl up through him, past the haze of pot and the base pleasure of sucking cock. Something heady, something real. A little possessive.
Stiles comes apart, then, shaking with it as he spills into Jackson’s mouth, hand pulling hard on Jackson’s hair. Jackson swallows around him until the last of the pulses ebb, and then he sits up, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
He’s hard in his pants, but not expecting to get off until later. Scott is still asleep, and Derek claps slowly from the chair to his left. Jackson isn’t embarrassed, right now, but he might be later. Maybe in school on Monday.
Stiles just pulls him in with a hand on the back of his neck, and kisses him, smeary soft with afterglow. Jackson’s mouth probably tastes salty and bitter, like Stiles’s come, but Stiles doesn’t seem to care.
After practice, Jackson usually waits until almost everyone has left to shower. He’s not modest – he has no reason to be – but he likes to take longer showers, and he doesn’t want to have to socialize while he does so. He gets enough talkback during drills and scrimmages.
He’s rinsing the shampoo out of his hair when he hears the footsteps coming toward the shower room. He’s only mildly surprised to see Stiles turn the corner, his mouth turned down in what could be concentration or displeasure. Jackson can’t always tell. Stiles has been giving him that look all day, like Jackson was some kind of particularly difficult or distasteful puzzle.
They’ve gotten each other off a few times since the marijuana incident, but they haven’t talked about it. Not much to say about quick and dirty handjobs after practice, or the one other time Jackson got onto his knees behind the bleachers. He knows what Stiles’s come tastes like, but not the scope of what is going on between them right now.
Jackson ducks his head back underneath the spray, and when he resurfaces, Stiles has hung up his towel and turned on one of the other showerheads. His back is to Jackson, freckled and pale and tempting, but Jackson stays put, for now. He’s not sure if this is an invitation or not.
He could just leave, he’s nearly finished, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to touch Stiles. Instead, he reaches down to touch himself, getting in two, three strokes before Stiles starts talking. Stiles turns to look at him, and Jackson lets his hand fall away, exposing his half-hard cock, his stomach and chest and thighs, his entire body, for Stiles’s eyes.
“So, I was thinking,” Stiles says, and he didn’t even bring any soap, so he’s not really here to shower. “If we keep doing this, no more Derek.” Stiles sounds rigid, almost angry, the water beating down on his shoulders and back.
“What?” Jackson furrows his brow.
“I mean, if we do this, I want – we do it for real. I don’t want to have to think about you sucking Derek off.”
Jackson thinks about it. “We haven’t – I mean, not for a while. Weeks, maybe.” He’s surprised, thinking back on it. It’s not like they’d talked about it. Derek had just – stopped. He’s always been good at knowing what Jackson needs.
Stiles makes this kind of soft noise and takes a step forward, putting one hand on Jackson’s chest. His thumb brushes Jackson’s left nipple, but Jackson doubts that it’s purposeful. This feels like something else.
“Why?” Stiles asks, but he doesn’t actually wait for an answer, so it can’t be that important a question. He leans forward and kisses Jackson, just as forceful and desperate as ever, but a little more practiced. They’re both naked already, and standing underneath the showerhead, and Jackson is already thinking about the things that he wants.
Stiles’s hand is still on his chest, fingernails digging into his skin, and they kiss for a long time. Stiles pushes Jackson back against the tiled wall, his tongue in Jackson’s mouth, and one knee pushing between Jackson’s thighs. Jackson has long since admitted that he likes being pushed around. He likes meeting expectations, surpassing them.
“What do you want,” he manages between kisses, “me to do?”
Stiles slots their hips together, quick short thrusts so their cocks slide against each other, and Jackson moans. Stiles bites into his jaw, the side of his neck, the meat of his shoulder. Probably leaving little red marks that Jackson would love to admire tomorrow morning in the mirror, if they haven’t healed by then.
“Turn around,” Stiles says, his voice low and steady in an unexpected way that makes something pull taut inside Jackson, makes his chest tighten. He does it without thinking, pressing his chest to the tile and waiting for Stiles to touch him.
One of Stiles’s knees nudges at the inside of his thigh, just underneath the curve of his ass, and Jackson spreads his legs further apart. He hears Stiles reaching for something, hears the pop of the cap, and knows that Stiles has grabbed his shampoo. Oh, he thinks.
“Are you going to fuck me?” he asks, and one of Stiles’s hands touches his left hip, steadying. Stiles’s other hand is spreading the cheeks of his ass, and Stiles chuckles, low, under his breath.
“Oh, I dunno, maybe,” Stiles says. “Just keep your legs apart and stay still.”
Jackson does his best, and when Stiles’s finger, long and thin, presses against his hole, his breath hitches. He thinks about Lydia. No one has done this to him since then. It’s strangely fitting.
Stiles’s shampoo-coated finger pushes in slow and easy and it feels better than Jackson remembers. He bites into his lower lip to keep from making a noise, and part of him still can’t quite believe that Stiles is fingering him in the locker room showers. It’s after school hours, but a janitor could come in at any moment. Jackson doesn’t really give a shit right now, since Stiles is slowly, slowly pulling his finger out and pushing back in, pressing his mouth against Jackson’s shoulder blade, wet and open. The showers are still running, and while they aren’t directly underneath the spray anymore, Jackson can still feel the humidity on his skin.
Stiles slides a second finger into him on the next push in, and Jackson groans.
“Fuck,” he says. “Fuck.” Stiles digs his teeth into Jackson’s shoulder, and Jackson cuts himself off.
“Man, you’re so hot inside,” Stiles murmurs, teeth still scraping at Jackson’s shoulder blade, mouth close enough to whisper and still be heard. “Tight like no one’s ever fucked you before. Has Derek fucked you yet, Jackson?”
Jackson isn’t expecting this from Stiles, even when he knows that Stiles never shuts up, but the words hit him low in the belly, and Stiles crooks his fingers just right, and Jackson whimpers.
“N-no,” Jackson says, and hates himself for the stutter. “Just – just Lydia.”
Stiles laughs, and brushes his fingers, harder, faster, and with more purpose over Jackson’s prostate. Jackson is so hard he can barely think, but the thrust forward only has him rutting against the tile, slippery with condensation.
“Doesn’t surprise me, you letting Lydia fuck you,” Stile says, and pushes three fingers into Jackson. “She’s good at pushing, and you’re good at letting it happen. I wish I’d seen it, that would be so fucking hot.”
Something about Stiles talking about Lydia makes Jackson feel desperate and used and perfect. He moans and gasps, and Stiles fucks him harder, and faster. Three fingers working into him is almost enough, almost deep enough, and Stiles is brushing over his prostate with every thrust, teeth working their way across Jackson’s back and neck, until he’s kissing the side of Jackson’s face. Jackson turns his head enough for them to kiss for real, and Stiles snakes his free hand around, wraps it around Jackson’s cock. It only takes six good strokes for Jackson to come on Stiles’s hand and the wall in from of him. He trembles with it, knees shaking, and Stiles just keeps fucking him, pushing and pushing, until Jackson is overstimulated and weak, unresisting. He lets Stiles’s tongue push into his mouth, and he doesn’t even put up a fight. He doesn’t have a fight left. He doesn’t mind.
Stiles pulls his fingers out and gives him a few minutes to pull himself together, or begin to.
“Close your legs a little,” he says, then, and Jackson remembers that Stiles hasn’t gotten off, yet. He feels a little empty, like Stiles has made a space for himself inside Jackson and then abandoned it.
Then Stiles pushes his dick between Jackson’s thighs, and Jackson stops thinking about it.
“Stiles,” he says, and he sounds wrecked.
Stiles ruts between his legs, makes a needy noise. “Close your legs tighter,” he says, and Jackson does his best. Stiles’s cock is slippery with water and maybe some of Jackson’s shampoo, and it feels fucking odd, especially when the head of Stiles’s dick nudges at his balls. He’s still over-sensitive, but Stiles just keeps fucking him, hands clutching at his hips hard enough that Jackson wonders if he’s bruise, a little.
“Fuck me for real, next time,” Jackson says, and feels Stiles’s cock twitch between his thighs. “Please,” he says, “I mean it.”
Stiles makes a cut-off moan and starts to come. Each pulse eases the way for his next thrust, until Jackson’s thighs are slippery, slick with water and come, Stiles rutting out the last of his orgasm between them. After a few moments, Stiles pulls away with a soft noise.
Jackson turns to face him, takes in Stiles’s red cheeks, his bitten lips. Takes in the haughty look in his eyes, the curve of his smile.
“You are fucking covered in my come,” Stiles says, with a smirk. Jackson has to lean against the wall or collapse completely. When Stiles leans in to kiss him, he doesn’t resist.
Jackson has almost died a lot of times. It comes with being a werewolf, evidently, though he hadn’t known that when he asked to be turned. This is something a little different, however.
“I fucking know it, you self-sacrificing asshole,” Stiles is saying, talking just to distract himself from how distraught he’d been half an hour ago. Jackson can tell by now. Jackson has one arm slung over Stiles’s shoulders as they climb the stairs up to Jackson’s room, even though he can mostly support his own weight, now. He’s not going to make Stiles feel more useless than he already does.
“Sorry,” he says, and he means it, but he doesn’t exactly regret his actions. “It wasn’t poisoned, in the end.”
“You say that like you knew when you pushed me out of the way like a stupid action hero.”
It’s a dumb argument. The only thing that would take out Jackson and leave Stiles vaguely ill is wolfsbane, and the Argents are the only hunters with the lineage to have access to it. In California, anyway.
“It’s an arrow, I’m mostly healed. It’s totally fine.” Jackson might be more worried if he wasn’t also doped up on painkillers, but that’s beside the point. He could also be thinking about how much time he spends altered on substances, but he’s not sure whether to include this or not. Scott’s vet friend had handed them over, and Jackson wasn’t going to ask questions. Not given all the bleeding and pain he’d gone through.
“You’re ridiculous,” Stiles says, and pushes Jackson down onto his bed. It’s still messy from this morning. Stiles starts to angrily untie Jackson’s shoes and pull them off. Jackson thinks about stopping him, but by the time he’s worked his way through the thought, Stiles already has him down to his socks, and then has his socks off, too. “You’re as bad as Scott – worse than Scott, even, because you’re always trying to prove that you’re not useless, when, duh, you’re a werewolf. I think that useless werewolves are an impossibility.”
Jackson’s usually willing to let Stiles rant himself into exhaustion, but he doesn’t seem to actually know what he’s talking about, this time. “I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” he says, and his voice sounds kind of dulled even to his own ears. “I just didn’t want you to get hurt.”
It seems pretty obvious to him, but Stiles’s entire face turns red, his mouth hanging slightly open. Jackson rewinds the words in his head, but can’t find anything wrong with them. It’s possible he wouldn’t have said them that way, exactly, if he weren’t heavily medicated, but the point still stands.
“Are – are you –?” Stiles can’t seem to finish the question.
“You’re pretty great at figuring things out and being smart, but you’re still human, so I’d rather it be me that actually get shot with an arrow than you,” Jackson says. Maybe that’ll clear things up.
Stiles just opens and closes his mouth a few times, and then leans in and kisses Jackson. It’s a dirty kiss, all slick tongue and nipping teeth, Stiles’s body weight pushing Jackson down onto the bed. Jackson likes it – he likes feeling secure underneath Stiles, like Stiles is the one calling the shots. In the months they’ve been fooling around, Jackson has gotten used to this part of him, but right now more than ever it settles something inside of him still rankled from the hunters, and he sighs into Stiles’s mouth, going boneless.
Stiles still seems desperate, though, immediately attacking the button and fly on Jackson’s jeans, pushing his t-shirt up over his abdomen. He can’t seem to keep his mouth off of Jackson’s for very long. Jackson doesn’t know where the desperation is coming from, but he doesn’t mind. He lets Stiles quickly and efficiently strip him of his clothing, and just shifts his hips up to help, trying not to move very much.
Stiles leaves him naked on the bed, sliding off and stripping out of his own clothes. Jackson can only watch, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth. Stiles is pale and freckled and when he swings back up to straddle Jackson’s thighs, there is nothing that Jackson wants more than for Stiles to fuck him.
“Are you going to –” he starts, but Stiles cuts him off with a fierce kiss.
“Shh,” he says. “Yeah, I’m gonna, but you should be quiet now.”
Jackson sighs into Stiles’s mouth, still floating somewhere on the painkillers and the smell of Stiles’s skin, but he hears the snap of the lube cap, and Stiles slides down until he’s between Jackson’s thighs, pushing them apart.
They’ve fucked before, but it’s wasn’t ever like this – Stiles sliding two fingers into him at once, slick and cool with lube, and Jackson just letting him. It burns, a little, but Jackson heals fast, and he wants this enough right now not to care. He loves that Stiles wants it that much.
Stiles’s teeth nip at the inside of his knee, his spread thighs, and after the slow push and pull of Stiles’s fingers inside him, Jackson feels open and stretched. Enough that when Stiles slips a third finger in beside the first two, he just makes a small noise, needy, and spreads his legs as far as they’ll go.
“God, you just love taking it, don’t you, Jackson. It’s fucking filthy. Sometimes all I want to do is bend you over one of the tables in the cafeteria and show everyone how well Jackson Whittemore takes it, and from whom.”
Jackson swallows another noise, and it gets to him, sometimes, the way that Stiles can talk and talk, and how he makes Jackson come undone.
“I’m sorry, god, please, just fuck me already,” Jackson says, panting, and Stiles laughs.
“Getting there,” he says, and pulls his fingers out. Jackson hates that momentary feeling of emptiness more than almost anything. “Let me fuck you without a condom,” Stiles says, and pushes the head of his cock against Jackson’s hole. Jackson feels like the air has been punched out of his lungs.
Jackson was Stiles’s first, he knows, in everything but kissing and hand jobs, so it’s not like there’s any risk, and Jackson – has never done that before.
“Jesus,” he says, “yeah, yes,” and groans as Stiles pushes inside him. In some ways it’s not that different, but it’s hotter, slicker, something new. Stiles settles, letting Jackson get used to the feel of it, but not for long.
He starts the thrusts off slow, but Jackson doesn’t want that – he meets Stiles thrust for thrust, pushing with his hips until Stiles can’t hold back anymore. He folds Jackson enough so that they can kiss, and he fucks Jackson as hard as he can manage, his hands slippery with sweat on Jackson’s hips, his cock brushing Jackson’s prostate on everything thrust.
It doesn’t take long for Jackson to feel his orgasm building, blossoming until he can’t hold it back anymore. He reaches down with shaking hands and strokes his own cock once, twice, three times, and then he’s coming, Stiles’s tongue in his mouth, Stiles’s cock inside him.
Jackson goes boneless, and Stiles makes a satisfied sound, fucking Jackson for just long enough that it starts to feel like too much.
“Come on,” he says. “Please.” And Stiles pulls away, and bites into his shoulder, coming inside him in pulses. Jackson can feel it, the thrusts getting sloppier as Stiles’s come acts like even more lube.
“Jesus,” Stiles says, after a moment, and rolls off. Jackson can feel Stiles’s come sliding out of him, and he’s not expecting it when Stiles pushes two fingers back inside him, the satisfied sound growling out of his throat again. “You’re so wet,” he says. “Full of my come.”
Jackson shivers and arches. He’s all fucked out, but it still feels good. “What brought that on?”
Stiles laughs, and pushes his fingers over Jackson’s prostate, just to hear him gasp. “You like me much more than you pretend you do,” he says.
“Probably,” Jackson says. “I like you a lot.”
“I know,” Stiles says, and smiles.