As tough as Jackson might like to appear now that he’s truly a wolf, once he’s got a he dick in him, he’s as pliant and lax as putty. That’s why Stiles is able to hold him down like this, to fold Jackson almost in half as he pounds into him without any real death threats or injuries besides the nails—still blunt, still human—that claw down his spine. And, fuck, it’s just crazy, all of this. The fact that he’s fucking Jackson and in his house and touching him and biting him and, oh dear god, he’s shoving his cock in Jackson fucking Whittemore of all people, how is this real?
But, the absolute craziest part of all of this is Jackson himself, the things he howls as Stiles fucks him into the mattress.
“Give it to me, Stilinski,” he’s saying, shouting, back arching. “Come on, fuck me harder! Harder! Stilinski,” he starts to whine as his hips start to move, “I want it, Stilinski! I want—fuck—I want your come! I—I want to have your babies, your dumbass, spazzy fucking babies! All of them, all of them, all of them! Oh Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ—”
A chill shoots down Stiles’ spine, his hips stuttering to a stop. “What?”
Jackson positively sobs and fights to rock his hips, keep the friction going. “Don’t stop, you fucking cunt! Don’t—Don’t—Fuck!” He clutches Stiles’ ribs until he’s left aching, fingertip-shaped bruises and, in some cases, small cuts. “Move! Movemovemovemovemovemove—”
“You—” Stiles sputters, his mind still reeling. “You—Did you—You just—You said you want to—”
“I don’t care! Fuck me!” snarls Jackson with teeth bared, spittle and sweat flying.
And, chest heaving, oxygen suddenly rare commodity, Stiles buries his nose into Jackson’s neck, Jackson’s legs falling to the sides. “Work for it,” he mumbles.
Jackson doesn’t hear him. “Stilinski! Stilin—”
“Work for it,” Stiles says louder, curling his arms under Jackson’s back. The words slip away from him before he realizes they’re on his tongue. “Work for my cock, you bitch.”
A strangled noise, equally affronted and needy, bursts from Jackson’s lips. But just when Stiles thinks he’s about to be dropkicked out of bed, those strong legs with tight, quaking thighs wrap around his waist and heels dig into his lower back as leverage. Leverage for powerful, rocking hips that make the bed creak and that rigid cock, oozing unending strings of precum, slap between their stomachs.
“Please,” Jackson begins to cry and, fuck, are his eyes starting to water? “Please, please, please. I want—want—”
“What do you want?” Stiles presses and it takes everything he has not to give into Jackson’s frantic movements, the pleasure of friction lacing up the length of his dick. “Tell me and I’ll give it to you.”
“I—I—Fuck! Please, please!”
“You want me, Jackson? Is that it? Want my come? Want me to fill you up with it?”
“Want it, want it so much …”
Stiles drags Jackson’s ass a little closer, further down on his cock, and goes right back to his tight, clumsy thrusts, relishing that the headboard that hits the wall with sharp knocks can’t seem to keep up with his pace at all. He feels wild, frantic, absolutely dirty dirty, filthy filthy, and it’s the greatest fucking feeling in the entire world. There’s this strange sense of liberation, you know? To just rut into Jackson with no regrets, no concerns but to come like a beast in heat.
It’s so good to lose control. So, so good.
Jackson groans in delight, buries his hands in Stiles’ grown-out hair. “Thank god! Thank you, thank you, thank you, you fucking—”
Oh man, Jackson’s gone. He’s just—just—gone.
Stiles’ smile spreads across Jackson’s neck; he pants, his nose pressed against Jackson’s chin. His lungs burn hot and raw from the exertion with every harsh, rattling breath, but he finds no matter what flags his body raises, he can’t bring himself to stop. His skin just feel so tight, like something is ready to tear him apart by the seams, burst from him, and though he can’t be sure if it’s orgasm or something far more sinister, he still wants to see it, good or bad. His mind stumbles back to what Jackson had howled earlier and squeezes his eyes shut, moans.
He supposes it’s good that Jackson’s completely out of it. He feels pretty gone himself.
“Our kids would be fucking amazing,” Stiles finds himself gasping, his pace becoming frenzied as he gets closer, closer, his balls drawing up, cock ready to deliver its load. “They’d be the prettiest, smartest, greatest fucking kids on the entire planet, Jackson. You want that? Do you really want to have my kids?”
He doesn’t expect a response, not really, so when Jackson starts to nod, bites his lip so hard blood trickles from it, it’s like a shot from heaven itself, right to Stiles’ dick. And, oh shit.
“Jackson,” he wheezes, humping more than thrusting now. “Jackson—fuck—I’m about to—I’m gonna—I’m gonna pump you full of come, oh man. And, I—I want a girl!” Stiles declares just as he starts to come, tight spasms, contractions making him curl into himself, his cock spurting white stickiness inside. Jackson whimpers, twitches. “Oh shit—fuck—you dirty little—Jackson—”
He doesn’t know how long it lasts, has absolutely no fucking clue, but it’s so fucking good, so fucking intense, it’s like there’s a hand reaching into his guts and twisting, twisting, twisting, and normally it would hurt, but here’s it just—just— Oh man, oh man, this has started something, something awful that Stiles knows he won’t be able to fight. He’s going to need this now, to need to dominate Jackson and fuck fuck fuck him until they’re both babbling filthy nonsense.
But, the worst part of it all is that he wants that, he wants the nonsense they just spewed to be true. Some small, sick part of him wants to see Jackson’s belly swollen with their child, their beautiful baby girl. He wants to be a dad and he wants Jackson to be the mom and he wants nothing more than this strange game of House to be reality. It’s probably why he doesn’t pull out, not yet, like some strange, fucked up miracle will happen if he keeps his load inside just a little longer.
Stiles grunts through the rest of his orgasm, spasms and twitches while Jackson murmurs quiet encouragements beneath him. When it tapers off to small tremors, when it ends, Stiles lets himself slump across Jackson’s chest; he barely registers when Jackson begins to jack himself, but there’s no missing Jackson’s shout when he finally comes, hot spunk flying up haphazardly, hitting Stiles’ cheek. He wrings himself tightly, shakes with aftershocks, and Stiles hums contentedly through Jackson’s choking noises.
It feels like a century has passed when Stiles finally says, “Okay. So. That was fucking disgusting.”
“Shut up,” Jackson sighs halfheartedly, spreading his come up his stomach.
Stiles pulls out, soft and sticky in a hot spill of come that leaves them both breathless. “I’m just sayin’. I mean, I know we’re always kinda … yeah. But this? This was really, really gross.”
“Go away, goddammit.”
“Dude, some of the shit you said, too? I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.”
Jackson slaps his forehead. “Ugh, don’t remind—Just shut up, Stilinski!”
A chuckle bubbling from him, Stiles licks a long, salty stripe up Jackson’s neck. “Mm, yeah, alright.” He only manages a minute or two of silence, though, before he can’t hold it in any longer. “So, how long do you think it takes to find out if it’s a girl—”