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Empty Bottles Are Not Promises

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So they’re wereteens, plus Stiles, Lydia and Allison, who are just humans, but really the most important part of that is they’re all teens. Which means they do stupid shit, and they do fun shit, and half the time it’s the same shit, but they’re young; they’re supposed to. In a bid to take the lighthearted approach to life, since everything in Beacon Hills somehow went preternatural and never looked back, Stiles attempted to get the wereteens intoxicated.

It takes a lot of booze for them to feel anything but the buzz doesn’t last long (stupid shifter metabolism), and Stiles wants this to be a party. Unlike the last time he got drunk with Scott. Which ended up with Stiles being drunk and Scott not being able to.

Stiles, being the general impetus for most things purposefully comedic in their group (the Sourpack Kids, he’d affectionately named them in his head. Which was even funnier because Sourwolf) had procured other ‘goodies’ in the name of Science.

Who knew that the more herbal things actually did work on (with?) shifter metabolisms?

Which is how they ended up on Stiles’ bedroom floor, sitting in a circle, with a bottle in between them. Somehow this had seemed like a good idea at the time.

Lydia looked bored in her designer clothes, Allison looked like a Disney princess, Scott looked baffled, if a little bit glazed, and Stiles was sluggishly wondering how this became his life. In between giggles. He got a bit giggly when he mixed ganja with booze.

The empty bottle of vodka looked at Stiles with an apathy he could only have attributed to its lifelessness. Or maybe it was mocking him and his life choices. He wasn’t sure, but as Jackson stalked towards him, broke their circle (but not their circle of tenuous trust, dear God please no), he wasn’t sure he cared too much.

Jackson was pretty. In a way that blended both masculine and feminine, which were things that Stiles was attracted to, at least in the abstract. He didn’t realise Jackson embodied that balance until the other teen pressed his still slightly wet lips to Stiles’ own. He tasted smoky, dark rum mixed with the scent of ash and burning herbs. He tasted nice.

Which was not something Stiles really had any previous inclination to know.

His mouth parted slightly and Jackson took it as an invitation. In hindsight, Stiles should probably not have done that. Hell, he was a bit drunk and Jackson was a bit high, they had excuses in the morning.

Stiles didn’t expect to enjoy it as much as he did: the slide of their lips, the mildly filthy noises they made as they broke for just enough air not to pass out. Jackson’s tongue. Stiles was enjoying Jackson’s tongue. That one thought sobered him enough to realise he’d ended up on his back with Jackson on top of him, between his legs.

Oh, God. He was never going to live this one down. Another thought dawned on him: OH GOD, THEY COULD PROBABLY SMELL HIS HARD-ON.

But then Jackson twirled his tongue to massage Stiles’s, and most coherent thoughts went out the window as Stiles moved his arms up to bracket the other boy’s face. Fucking lizard tongues, man.

The two boys got lost in the connection, the heat. It felt like hours, but was probably only minutes when Stiles realised that one of Jackson’s hands rested on his chest. Not pressing, not pushing, but solid, burning hot. It was not, however, completely still. It was moving, some sort of glacial pace that Jackson must have thought Stiles wouldn’t notice.

Their mouths still did battle, but Stiles was mostly reciprocating, having shifted his focus to the slow downward movement of Jackson’s fingers.

More heat pooled in Stiles’s gut, right below his stomach and he knew that feeling well. Really well.

Jackson’s nails trailed fire as they passed over Stiles’s abdomen, hovered over that place where arousal gathered, as if Jackson knew exactly where it was, knew Stiles’s body without ever having touched him in a non-violent way. Which made Stiles keen, bowing his back in wanton desire.

It was the exact moment when the tips of Jackson’s fingers slipped right under the waistband of Stiles’s jeans, eliciting a high moan, that the two boys heard the low growl coming from the opened window.

"Jackson,” was the only word Derek spoke. There were no fangs, no blood red eyes (unless you count Jackson’s), but the threat was palpable. Sourwolf was not happy. One more time he said, “Jackson,” with all the ill intent he could put into one name. Jackson scrambled to get off of Stiles, hand accidentally popping his fly open on the way out.

Not ridiculously obvious where his hand was, or where it was going. Not embarrassingly hard or anything, either. Nope.

Stiles just decided to lay there, soak in the disappointment, his oldest friend, and shame, disappointment’s lover. He was just going to lay there until he died.

He looked up to see that Jackson was huddling in a corner, fear evident in his posture. Derek stared at Jackson, the boy’s obvious submission not a good enough apology for whatever the fuck his problem was. Lydia still looked bored, and Scott was reviewing the pictures he’d taken for blackmail purposes.

“You know, I think I’m pretty much good for the rest of the night. You guys can leave whenever,” Stiles slurred from the floor. The shame killed his boner, but Scott kept sniffing the air, like the creeper wolf Stiles knew him to be. But then a look of shock crossed his face.

He looked to Allison, whose cheeks were tinged pink, eyes wide, her mouth open in an ‘o,’ and Scott whispered frantically, “Allison?!” Which snapped her out of her reverie. She looked at Scott, back to Stiles, and ended with her doe eyes on Scott.

“What, Scott?” She asked, incredulity in her hushed tone. “It was... Kinda hot.”

Stiles’s jaw dropped and there was moment of stunned silence before a hand on his shoulder hoisted him up and dragged him towards the window.

“Derek. where are you-?”

“Shut up, Stiles,” he growled before the highschooler could even finish his initial sentence. He wasn’t perturbed.

“Derek this is my house, I can’t-.”

Shut. Up. Stiles.”

 

Stiles figured out what Derek’s problem was that night and elected to fix it for him. Derek obliged but only after Derek made him shower. The way to wolf’s bed is through his nose, he learned.