Stiles is yanked from the hallway and into the boys’ locker room during class change.
“What—” He is about to ask Scott what's wrong, but then he gets shoved up against the wall. “Uh, you're not Scott.” Or Derek , given the wall slamming.
Jackson sneers. “No shit, idiot.”
He reaches over to turn the lock on the door, and Stiles suddenly has visions of bloody noses and tight spaces. Instead of getting an intimate introduction to his fist though, Stiles watches with confusion as Jackson straightens Stiles' shirt with efficient little tugs on the hem.
"Now that we've established you know who I am, you can answer my question."
Stiles crosses his arms. "Yeah, I don't think so, asshole."
The way Jackson grinds his teeth makes Stiles smirk. When Jackson slaps his hands to the wall either side of his head, Stiles barely even flinches.
"Oh no, I'm so scared." Stiles rolls his eyes. "Sorry, dude. I've been around a lot scarier than you lately. Gonna have to do more than shove me around a little."
Something crosses Jackson's face, a wince almost. He shakes his head once and refocuses on Stiles. "Derek?" When Stiles' eyes bug out at the name, Jackson grimaces. "That's right, I know about Derek. And I'm guessing he has something to do with Scott."
Stiles groans, wiping a hand over his face. As frustrating as it is that Jackson knows there is a common denominator between Scott and Derek, this is not something he has time for.
"Look, stay out of it, and he won't have any reason to mess with you."
Jackson snorts. "It's a little too late for that."
"What are you talking about?" Stiles looks Jackson over, noticing the sweat along his hairline and the fact that he has circles under his eyes. It's unusual for Jackson to look anything but perfect. "Dude—"
Jackson interrupts him by huffing. "None of your business. Tell me where I can find him."
That sounds like the worst idea ever. Stiles may not have any real love for Jackson, but it's not like he wants the guy to get tangled up in all this werewolf business. Jackson hasn't been doing a great job of keeping himself out of things though. Stiles doesn't think they've interacted this much since middle school. Something in his expression must give him away, because Jackson gives him one of those I'm-killing-you-in-my-mind glares.
"Fine." Jackson takes a deep breath. "What if I trade you?"
The flip from murderous rage to smarmy is, frankly, impressive. His posture changes, and instead of leaning in with intimidation tensed in his shoulders, Jackson is sort of slouching in very close proximity to Stiles.
"You give me what I want, and I give you something you want."
Stiles flinches when a hand cups his junk through his jeans. Jackson smirks and grinds the palm of his hand against where Stiles' dick is betraying him.
"But you don't like guys." That's all Stiles can come up with. His brain is kind of busy freaking over the fact that someone is touching him so intimately.
Jackson presses up against Stiles, breath ghosting along the shell of his ear when he asks, "Do we have a deal?"
Stiles isn't proud of the shiver that goes down his spine or the fact that he's fully hard in Jackson's grip now. He's a virgin and sixteen, surely that excuses him for some things. He makes a sound, not exactly coherent, but definitely not negative.
Jackson smirks again, predatory and way hotter than it has any right to be. "Good."
This whole time, THIS IS A TRAP! has been playing in a loop in the back of his mind. The thrill of having Jackson, of all people, rubbing at his dick sends a shot of fear through him that does absolutely nothing to deter the arousal flooding his system. The sight of Jackson going to his knees in front of him nearly makes Stiles white out.
"So you're gonna..." Stiles runs a hand over his scalp, looking down at Jackson.
"Shut up. Stand there. And don't fucking touch my hair." Jackson gets Stiles jeans open and his cock pulled out quickly. He's giving Stiles that murder glare again, so Stiles figures he must be serious.
"Sure." Truthfully, Stiles would agree to just about anything at this point though. His underwear is already damp, and precome glistens on from the slit of his cock..
Jackson holds eye contact for a few more pointed seconds before focusing on the cock in front of his face— seriously? Stiles cannot believe this is happening. The first pass of Jackson's tongue up the shaft has Stiles biting back a whimper.
"God, don't tell me this is your first time." Jackson sits back on his heels, giving Stiles a very unimpressed look. "Of course it is." He answers his own question before threatening, "You better not come without warning me." The fingers gripping Stiles' balls do a lot to underline his demand.
" O-okay." Stiles nods his head, holding his breath as he waits for Jackson to either continue or not. Also, he'd appreciate it if his balls were handled with a little more care.
Does this count as hate fucking?
Thankfully, Jackson lets go of his sac and takes the head of Stiles' cock in his mouth. It's hot and wet, and Stiles never really believed a tongue could feel that good. He sure as hell believes it now. Stiles bites his lip, and pictures gross things like Derek's infected arm, roadkill, and anything else that could distract him enough to keep from blowing his load immediately. The cut of Jackson’s cheekbones when he sucks harder draws another moan from Stiles.
Jackson has one hand around the shaft of Stiles' dick—stroking it in time with the bob of his mouth—and the other on Stiles' hip to keep him pinned against the wall. The reflexive desire and need to rock forward into the warm wetness surrounding his dick is intense, but he does his best to keep still. He has a feeling that if he did one thing Jackson doesn't like, that he'd be pushed back into the hallway with his dick hanging out, no release, and dying from mortification.
Stiles stares at the row of lockers across from him. They have practice after school today, and he's going to have to come in here and see Jackson and not say anything to Scott about it. Will Scott be able to smell it? Will he know Jackson got on his knees for Stiles in exchange for information? Stiles groans and shuts his eyes. He can't seem to catch his breath. He can still hear the sloppy sound of wet suction though, and it’s almost enough to make him come.
The head of his cock keeps bumping the back of Jackson's throat each time he sinks down on it. When Jackson pulls back and takes a deep breath through his nose, Stiles looks down. At first, he thinks Jackson has some other incongruously scathing remark to make, but Jackson is just readjusting his position. He watches Jackson let go of his cock and take both hips in hand. Fingers dig in hard, maybe in warning, and Jackson is looking up at Stiles now.
"Oh shit." Stiles whispers the words, realizing what Jackson is trying—no, not just trying, but definitely succeeding—to do.
He watches Jackson in awe as his cock head slips further and into the tighter grip of his throat. Tears spring up at the corners of Jackson’s eyes. Combined with the flush of his face, Stiles has the weird thought that Jackson looks beautiful like this. He’s pretty .
“Jackson…” Stiles gasps his name out as the pressure in his balls builds. He can feel his cock twitching inside Jackson’s mouth, nudging down the back of Jackson’s throat. And suddenly, he can’t hold is orgasm back any further.
Jackson pushes Stiles’ hips hard against the wall, but doesn’t back off. Stiles cries out as Jackson swallows around spurt after spurt of come. Stiles’ knees buckle.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Once Stiles is finished, Jackson pulls off. His mouth is blood red and shiny. There’s not a trace of come anywhere.
“Get it together, Stilinski. I may be amazing, but it’s just an orgasm.” Jackson stands up, and tucks Stiles’ cock back into his underwear.
Stiles stares at him dumbly. “You’re voice is wrecked.”
Rolling his eyes, Jackson says, “Tell me where to find Derek, shit for brains.”
That is enough to get Stiles back into gear. He does his jeans up. “You’re really killing my afterglow.” He glances up at Jackson. “Look, you really don’t want to get involved with this shit.”
“We had a fucking deal. Now tell me.” Jackson works his jaw.
Stiles shakes his head, and thinks about lying to Jackson. It’s not like he could really do anything to Stiles for it. There’s no blackmail here, not when it was Jackson giving the (spectacular) blowjob. But maybe Derek could scare him off for good.
“He hangs out at the burnt out Hale house in the preserve.”
Jackson stares at him like he’s stupid. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Stiles shrugs. “He’s kind of dramatic like that.” He gives Jackson a pointed look.
Just before Jackson slips out the door, Stiles catches him by the crook of the elbow. “Hey, be careful.”
Jackson gives him an incomprehensible look before pulling away from him and disappearing back into the hallway.
“What the fuck just happened?” Stiles blows out a breath of air, still reeling from the last ten minutes.